《宋徽宗御解道德真经》

The Dao is the foundation that all people follow in common; De is the inborn nature that arises naturally within the human heart. The Dao does not decline, from ancient times through all ages. De, filling one’s nature, endures forever. Laozi lived at the end of the Zhou dynasty, when the teaching of the Dao had fallen into decline and people’s virtue was steadily diminishing. He therefore wrote nine works to explain the enduring principles of the Dao and De, calling them the Jing (scriptures). Their language is concise and their meaning profound; those who study them should reflect calmly and examine them deeply.

Chapter One: “The Dao That Can Be Spoken”

The Dao that can be expressed in words is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be defined is not the eternal, unchanging name.

The phrase “beginningless” means that the Dao cannot be expressed in words: once it has been spoken, it is already no longer the Dao itself. Nor should the Dao be fixed with a name. Anything that can be spoken of or named is like particular things and the changing seasons: it appears in response to its time, alternates between flourishing and decline, and is not truly eternal. The truly eternal Dao and name have their source in themselves. They existed before Heaven and Earth took shape and have never changed since ancient times. Fuxi, the legendary ruler of high antiquity, understood them and thus inherited the foundation of the primordial Qi that sustains Heaven and Earth. The Queen Mother of the West, a goddess in Daoist mythology, understood them and dwelt peacefully at Shaoguang, a legendary immortal realm. No one knows where they begin or when they end.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source of the myriad things.

The Dao is eternally nameless, and Heaven and Earth came into being by relying on it. This is what the Zhuangzi calls “generating Heaven and generating Earth.” Before Heaven and Earth appeared, how could the Dao be named? That is why the nameless is called the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Only after Heaven and Earth took shape did the myriad things arise; that is why the named is called their source.

Therefore, remaining constantly in the state of “nonbeing” allows one to observe the Dao’s subtle mysteries; remaining constantly in the state of “being” allows one to observe the limits and manifestations of the myriad things.

The Zhuangzi says, “Take eternal nonbeing and being as your foundation.” To establish no particular thing is called “eternal nonbeing”; to discard no particular thing is called “eternal being.” “Eternal nonbeing” belongs to the realm of principle: it is the state in which the mother of the myriad things has not yet appeared as particular things.

Therefore, one should often contemplate the wonder of the Dao through “nonbeing,” and observe the limits and manifestations of things through “being.”

The Zhuangzi says, “Take constant nonbeing and constant being as your foundation.” To establish nothing as absolute is called “constant nonbeing”; to reject nothing is called “constant being.” “Constant nonbeing” belongs to principle: above, it is clear and unseen, the most subtle realm under Heaven, so one should contemplate its wonder. “Constant being” belongs to phenomena: below, it is concrete and unobscured, the realm of greatest change under Heaven, so one should observe the manifestations and limits of things. Both realms, being and nonbeing, contain the limits of things and the wonder of the Dao. Those of broad wisdom attend to both, and so there is nothing they cannot understand. Even amid the elusive and unfathomable, there are images and actual things. Those of narrow wisdom attend only to their own views and are blinded by partial understanding. They abandon concrete things and cling to emptiness, pursue details and forget the root; thus the arts of the Dao split into many schools that cannot understand one another.

Being and nonbeing come from the same source and differ only in name; both may be called “mystery,” meaning what is profound and subtle.

The Dao has no fixed form. Who can see its wonder completely? The myriad things and the self share the same root; right and wrong, too, arise from the same Qi. Thus both being and nonbeing may be called “mystery.” Those deluded in the world abandon what is real in pursuit of what is illusory, moving ever farther from reality without knowing that being and nonbeing differ only in name.

Within the profound mystery lies a still deeper mystery: it is the gateway to all wonders.

The Suwen says, “The mysterious gives rise to the wondrous.” The Book of Changes says, “The wondrous is that which enables the myriad things to display their marvelous transformations.” What is subtle and minute is called “mystery”; “mystery” also refers to the color of the heavens. The image conveyed by color is evident, but the source that allows color to appear remains unseen. “Mystery upon mystery” refers to this source, which makes everything appear while itself taking no visible form. The principle of mystery exists within all things: Heaven can move, Earth can be stable, people can be perceptive, and the myriad things can flourish, each through its own wonder. All of this comes from the original source, and is therefore called “the gateway to all wonders.” Confucius, in composing the Book of Changes, speaks of the wondrous only in the “Discussion of the Trigrams” chapter, while Laozi places this teaching at the very beginning of his book. The words of the sages echo one another, their beginnings and endings joined together.

Chapter Two: Everyone under Heaven knows…

Everyone knows what is beautiful. Once the idea of beauty is established, ugliness appears alongside it. Everyone knows what is good. Once the idea of goodness is established, what is not good appears alongside it.

The Dao itself has no distinct form. How, then, could there be a distinction between beauty and ugliness? Human nature is originally one. How, then, could there be a distinction between goodness and what is not good? Once beauty is affirmed, ugliness arises in opposition to it; once goodness is affirmed, what is not good arises in opposition to it. Things people regard as wondrous and mysterious will eventually decay; decayed things may in turn become wondrous again. How, then, can beauty and ugliness be divided once and for all? What was considered right in the past may now be considered wrong; what is discarded today may prove useful later. How, then, should goodness and what is not good be chosen between?

The sage understands the principle that what is truly empty is ever-present: the Dao seems empty, yet it gives rise to all things. The sage follows the changes of all things and acts through Wuwei (non-action), without becoming attached to any particular deed. The sage does not deliberately distinguish between or choose among beauty and ugliness, goodness and what is not good, so these ideas cannot become a burden.

Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficulty and ease bring each other about; long and short become apparent through comparison; high and low are set against each other; tone and sound respond to one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Before the Great Change (Taiyi), the state in which Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things had not yet differentiated, had been divided, all things were one undivided whole. Once the Two Modes of Yin and Yang emerged, all things stood in relation to one another. These six pairs of opposites are the source from which changes interweave, countless thoughts arise, and different paths take shape. For this reason, people become confused and find it hard to free themselves.

The formless “nonbeing” stirs into motion and gives rise to “being,” while “being” returns to “nonbeing”; thus being and nonbeing generate one another. Only after encountering hardship and danger do we know how easy it is to travel a level road; thus difficulty and ease take shape in relation to one another. Long and short become apparent only through comparison, as with the difference between longer and shorter measures. High and low are distinguished by contrast, as mountains differ from marshes. A sound is answered by an echo, so tones and sounds respond to one another; when a body moves, its shadow follows, so front and back go along with each other.

The movement of Yin and Yang, the succession of the seasons, and the transformations of the myriad things all take shape in an instant and soon vanish. What is called difficult is like deliberately acting to bring order to the world; what is called easy is like following nature, at ease and content. What is naturally long should not be cut short, and what is naturally short should not be lengthened. Heaven is naturally high and Earth naturally low. Strike the gong note, and the gong note resonates; strike the jue note, and the jue note answers. Spring comes first, followed by summer; the older come first, followed by the younger. Though these phenomena of mutual opposition all embody the Dao, they have already departed from the Dao’s original nature.

Therefore, the sage attends to affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and carries out instruction without relying on words.

“Attending to affairs through non-action” is like what the Zhuangzi calls “non-action while making use of all under Heaven.” “Carrying out instruction without relying on words” is like what the Book of Changes says: “Establishing instruction through the wondrous principle, so that all under Heaven submits.” When one acts, there may be success or failure; when one speaks, one may be apt or mistaken. Both inevitably bring entanglements. How can the sage stand above the myriad things, instruct them, and yet remain free of their entanglements?

All things arise and function, and the Dao does not refuse them. It brings them to life and nurtures them, yet does not claim them as its own. It brings all things to completion, yet does not rely on its achievements. Its work is done, yet it takes no credit. Precisely because it takes no credit, its achievements do not fade away.

All things arise together, and the Dao responds to each according to its resonance, like a mirror reflecting whatever stands before it, revealing both beauty and ugliness; or like a valley echoing sounds, allowing every kind of voice to be heard. Hence the saying, “It brings all things forth and does not refuse them.” All things take shape on their own, change on their own, and grow on their own. Each has its own form and color, develops fully, and fulfills its own nature. Who claims ownership of this? Hence the saying, “It brings all things to life and nurtures them, yet does not claim them as its own.”

The Dao enables all things to grow, yet shows no favoritism toward them. Its beneficence extends through all ages, yet it does not call itself benevolent. It covers and supports Heaven and Earth and shapes the forms of all things, yet does not boast of its skill. Hence the saying, “It acts, yet does not rely on its achievements.” The seasons run their course: when one season is complete, the next begins. This is the way of Heaven. The sage follows the way of Heaven: even when their achievements extend throughout the world, they act as though these did not come from them. To believe that the credit belongs to oneself is confusion. Hence the saying, “When the work is done, take no credit.” Whoever takes credit will eventually lose their reputation; this has been true from ancient times to the present. If one takes no credit, external things cannot alter this. When things come, receive them; when they depart, go along with them. What is there to gain or lose? Hence the saying: precisely because one takes no credit, one’s achievements do not fade away.

Chapter Three: Do Not Honor the Worthy

When those regarded as worthy are not exalted, the people will not compete for fame. When rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not become thieves.

Exalting the worthy encourages disputes and throws the world into turmoil, giving rise to the teachings of the Confucians, Mohists, and others. Prizing material goods increases people’s desires; some may even dig through walls to steal in broad daylight. When worthy reputations are not exalted, people are content with their own place and no longer compete to outdo one another. When material goods are not prized, people are content with their own lives and no longer covet what belongs to others. The Zhuangzi says, “Only when the virtue and renown of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu are diminished, and the teachings of Yang Zhu and Mozi are silenced, can the virtue of all under Heaven return to a profound and unified state.” The Travel Warnings says, “When rare treasures are not cherished and everyday useful things are valued, the people can become prosperous.”

Only by not displaying things that arouse desire can people’s minds be kept undisturbed.

Once people have desires, their dispositions and life instincts contend with one another, leading them to seize, deceive, and do whatever they please. Bo Yi did not value alluring things such as fame, nor did he disdain ordinary necessities; as a result, the people were able to be content.

If people do not pursue things that can stir up desire, their minds will not be disturbed.

Once people have desires, their dispositions and life instincts contend with one another, leading them to seize, deceive, and do whatever they please. Bo Yi prized his reputation and integrity so highly that he starved to death on Mount Shouyang; Zhi the Robber, seeking profit, rampaged freely around Dongling. Their desires sometimes burned like fierce fire and sometimes congealed like ice. Thus their hearts were resentful and chaotic, or arrogant and self-satisfied, and they could not settle and return to the Dao.

The sage neither pursues profit nor deliberately avoids harm. He takes no joy in long life and does not grieve over an early death; he regards neither success and prominence as an honor nor hardship as a disgrace. What, then, is there left to pursue? Desires and thoughts no longer arise, and the inner mind is clear and settled. When things occur, he responds naturally; in stillness, nothing obstructs him, and in action, he does not chase after external things. What could disturb him? At forty, Confucius was no longer confused, and Mencius too said that at forty his resolve was unmoved by external things.

Therefore, when the sage governs the people, he keeps their minds from being led by desire and ensures they have enough to eat. He reduces their ambitions to compete and prevail, while strengthening their bodies. He constantly keeps the people low in clever knowledge and desire.

A valley can respond because it is empty; a mirror can reflect all things because it is empty; a keyhole can receive because it is hollow; the ear can hear sounds because its inner passage is open; the eye can see because it is clear and unobstructed; the nose can smell because it is clear. When the inside is crammed full, the outside is obstructed.

When the sage has no choice but to govern the world, he treats everyone impartially, cares well for those close at hand, and recommends people from far away. He follows the way things are and lets them develop naturally, without private intentions. This is, in broad terms, what happened when Yao recommended Shun and appointed Gun to control the floods.

When the mind is empty and clear, one can hear all sides and observe all circumstances fairly, without preference or aversion. When the belly is full and at ease, one can be calm and content, without greed. Then what is there about an esteemed reputation for virtue that deserves special praise? What wealth is worth cherishing? The sage values keeping people warm, fed, and at ease, and does not pursue sensual pleasures. He is like the belly: it does not pick and choose its food, but can contain all kinds of things.

“Intent” is the direction the mind has settled on; “bones” are the framework that supports the body. When intent is too strong, some people toil endlessly for fame, some pursue wealth without satisfaction, and others boast of their achievements and display their abilities. All of this takes people ever farther from the Dao. When one’s backbone is too weak, one is easily swept along, with no settled direction. One clashes and wears oneself down against external things, eventually becoming so immersed in them that one cannot turn back.

The sage always lowers his aspirations, and others respect him; he always places himself behind others, and they promote him to the lead. He knows the value of strength, yet holds to weakness; he knows honor, yet accepts disgrace. This is called diminishing the urge to contend for victory. By setting himself firmly in the right way, he cannot be changed by the myriad things. By holding fast to the Dao, he is not shaken by the myriad transformations. It is said that Guangchengzi lived to the age of twelve hundred, yet his body showed no signs of aging. This is an example of “strengthening the bones.”

The Zhuangzi says, “When one follows a state of unknowing, De does not scatter; when one accords with desirelessness, this is called simplicity.” By preserving simplicity, the people’s nature can find stability. In governing the world, the sage seeks only to help the people preserve their inborn nature. Too much knowledge damages life’s original endowment; too much desire disturbs life’s original disposition. What is called governance thus in fact creates greater disorder. For this reason, the sage always keeps the people’s cleverness and knowledge, and their greedy desires, to a minimum.

The sage does not allow those who consider themselves knowledgeable to rule the people. The sage wants only for the people to preserve their inborn nature. Too much knowledge harms the endowment inherent in life; too many desires disturb life’s original dispositions. What is called governing in name only grows more disorderly the more it is governed. So the people should have fewer cunning schemes and less craving.

The sage also makes those who consider themselves knowledgeable dare not act recklessly.

Those skilled in argument dare not wield their eloquence at will; the bold dare not flaunt their strength; the capable dare not boast of their abilities; the clever dare not use their quick wits to scrutinize others harshly. Devising clever schemes, engaging in calculations and expedient stratagems, and adding laws to subdue the people—these are all practices the sage should forbid. This is what is meant by making the knowledgeable dare not act recklessly. The Nine Ministers, the officials who in ancient times each oversaw a different area of government, each fulfill their duties and carry them out over time. They do not use cleverness to deliberately embellish the affairs of state; they simply follow the ruler’s commands and relay them to the people.

When things are done through Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left poorly governed.

When the sage governs the world, the sage does not abandon the people or cut off contact with all things, suddenly placing himself in a state of doing nothing. Rather, the sage governs by following what is natural and refraining from forced action. The transformations of the myriad things take place within their particular forms. The sage understands the Dao (the Way) and stands beyond the myriad things, overseeing their coming into being and their fulfillment, and governing them according to their patterns. When things begin to take shape, the sage observes how they return; when things grow, the sage follows their course and lets them mature naturally. How could anything be poorly governed? Thus, when governance is rightly carried out, the sun, moon, and stars in the heavens each follow their proper order, while the birds, beasts, plants, and trees on earth all flourish in keeping with their nature.

“Chapter Four: The Dao’s Emptiness”

The Dao is empty and without form, yet when put to use, it seems never to run dry.

The Dao has a true and unchanging basis, and so it can be put into effect. It is Wuwei (non-action) and formless, and therefore never fills to overflowing. The scripture says, “All things turn their backs on Yin and face Yang; the two Qi (vital energies) mingle to form harmony.” The principle governing all things is this: when Yang Qi is too strong, it tends toward excess; when Yin Qi is too strong, it tends toward deficiency. To be neither excessive nor deficient is called “blending Qi.” “Blending” means balance and harmony—the greatest harmony.

What is high must be brought down, and what is low must be raised up. What is in excess must be reduced, and what is insufficient must be replenished. The Dao’s workings are everywhere, always bringing things into balance. Pour water into it and it does not overflow; draw water from it and it does not run dry. The more it helps others, the more abundant it becomes; the more it gives to others, the richer it grows. The Dao’s essence is like the vast Great Void, boundless and empty, encompassing Heaven, Earth, and the four directions. How could it ever be full?

How profound—the Dao seems to be the source of all things.

The Zhuangzi says, “The deep pool is like an abyss; still water is like an abyss; flowing water is also like an abyss.” Deep, empty, and still, it is unmixed with external things: this is the essence of the Dao. Because it is empty, all things can return to it; because it is still, all movement and change depend on it. It is the root on which the connections among all things rest, and the basis on which their transformations depend. That is why it “seems to be the source of all things.” Yet the Dao itself depends on nothing. All things naturally take the Dao as their root, which is why the text says only that it “seems” to be their source.

Draw in your sharpness and untangle confusion; temper your brightness and do not show it off; mingle with the world and do not claim to stand above it.

Sharpness exposed too far can easily wound others, while confusion left unresolved leads to disorder. Draw in your sharpness, and there will be no conflict; untangle confusion, and there will be no disorder. “Tempering your brightness,” as the Zhuangzi puts it, means having light without dazzling. “Mingling with the world” means adapting to the ways of the world without setting yourself apart from others.

Draw in your sharpness and untangle confusion; temper your brightness and do not show it off; mingle with the world and do not claim to stand above it.

When sharpness is too exposed, it can easily wound others; when things are tangled together, they become disorderly. Sheathe your sharpness, and you will not struggle with others; set tangled things in order, and you will not fall into confusion. “Blend with its brightness” means, as Zhuangzi says, to be bright without dazzling. “Mingle with its dust” means, as Zhuangzi says, to adapt to external things and rise and fall along with all things.

If one’s inner sincerity never wavers, while one’s outward strategies appear clever and dazzling, so that even those present rise to make way, can this be called “blending with its brightness”? To flaunt one’s cleverness and startle the dull, to adorn oneself so as to make others seem sullied, and to shine conspicuously like the sun and moon hanging high in the sky—can this be called “mingling with its dust”?

The sage sheaths his sharpness and dwells among all things without harming them; therefore, all things cannot harm him either. The sage sets tangled things in order without devising plans, so why use clever stratagems? Without embellishment, what need is there to glue things together? No external thing is enough to disturb his heart. Such a person shows neither an arrogant expression nor a haughty bearing. He harmonizes with the crowd without following its currents. He is connected with all things and understands the hearts of people throughout the world; wherever he is, he remains at ease.

How deep and mysterious—it seems as though something is there.

The heart is like ashes after a fire has burned out, and the body like a withered tree branch. In utter stillness and repose, innate spiritual clarity appears of itself. It seems dim, as though it were not there, yet it truly is. Its Qi is abundant and natural. It harmonizes with all things without following their currents; it is connected with all things and understands the hearts of people throughout the world. Wherever it is, it remains at ease.

How deep and mysterious—it seems as though something is there.

The heart is like ashes after a fire has burned out, and the body like a withered tree branch. In utter stillness and repose, innate spiritual clarity appears of itself. It seems dim, as though it were not there, yet it truly is. It flows in abundance, leaves no trace, and yet possesses wondrous efficacy. Is this the Dao?

I do not know where the Dao comes from. I only know that it precedes the visible forms of Heaven and Earth and the spirits that govern all things.

“Form” is the state in which things first become manifest. “The sovereign” refers to the spirits’ response and their function of governing all things. Only after things come into being do they take form; only after the sovereign appears do all things each attain their subtle workings. Form and the sovereign are the beginning of all things, but the Dao in fact precedes them. The Zhuangzi says, “The spirits and ghosts make the sovereign divine; they give birth to Heaven and Earth.” This means that the Dao enables ghosts, spirits, and the Heavenly Sovereign to display their wondrous powers, and brings Heaven and Earth into being. The Dao cannot be seen, heard, or touched. Though it emerges from the formless, no gateway to its emergence can be found. Who, then, could know it completely? Hence the saying: “I do not know where the Dao comes from. I only know that it precedes the visible forms of Heaven and Earth and the spirits that govern all things.”

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth

Heaven and Earth have no particular love or kindness; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage likewise has no particular love or kindness; he treats the people as straw dogs. After the sacrifice, the straw dogs are discarded. This saying explains that Heaven and Earth and the sage do not favor or discriminate against the myriad things and the people according to personal likes and dislikes.

Blessings often arise from calamities, and calamities can also emerge from blessings. Where the Dao’s workings begin and how they manifest cannot be seen by anyone: no one can find its gateway. Who, then, can truly understand them? Hence the saying: “I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it existed long before the Lord of Heaven.”

Heaven and Earth show no partial kindness. They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice: brought forth for the rite, then set aside when it is over. The sage, too, shows no special favor to the people, allowing them to live and flourish naturally and govern themselves.

Blessings may bring calamity, and calamity may turn into blessing. If kindness is bestowed as a favor, calamity may follow. Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things, and the sage treats the people, by simply supporting their natural growth and self-governance. They have no deliberate wish to bestow favors or seek gain. This impartial kindness is therefore hard to name “kindness.” Straw dogs are sacrificial offerings, used only at the proper time and discarded once the rite is over. The myriad things grow of themselves, and the people govern themselves: it is the same principle.

Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows or a wind instrument?

The bellows and wind instrument are empty inside, yet can hold breath. When breath enters, they respond with sound, and their function is never exhausted. If they are stuffed full, everything is obstructed. In speaking of the Dao, this is to favor only one side; in speaking of things, it is to confine oneself to a single corner.

Empty, yet never depleted; when set in motion, its breath wells forth all the more.

Make the heart-mind empty and still, and live at ease: then you can respond broadly to all circumstances and deal with them appropriately. Hence the saying, “Empty, yet never depleted.” Act only when a matter draws near, and your plans and arrangements can continue to meet what arises without end. Hence the saying, “When set in motion, its function becomes ever more apparent.” The sage is like this as well.

The sage makes the heart-mind empty and still, and lives at ease; thus the sage can respond broadly to all circumstances and deal with them appropriately. Hence the saying, “Empty, yet never depleted.” The sage acts only when a matter draws near, and plans and arrangements can continue to meet what arises without end. Hence the saying, “When set in motion, its function becomes ever more apparent.” This is the principle behind the sage’s coming forth to assist the ruler without being entangled in words.

Too much talk often leads quickly to difficulty. Better to hold fast to the heart-mind’s emptiness and stillness.

A wind instrument is hollow, waiting for breath to arrive. When breath comes, it sounds; when there is no breath, it is still. The sage’s words are like this, too. Those skilled in argument are easily bound by their words; the more they speak, the more they are inevitably entangled by them. Better to hold fast to the heart-mind. Guard the inner self carefully, restrain the activity of the outer senses, withdraw the gaze and quiet the hearing, and let the spirit settle into stillness. Then you can perceive the heart of Heaven and Earth’s process of generation and transformation. This is called “holding to the center.”

The spirit of the valley never dies.

Where there is spirit, there is flourishing and decline; where there is a fixed allotment, there is achievement and destruction. When form and allotment are both complete, life and death become distinct. This is the natural order of things. The valley responds to the activity of all things, yet remains forever empty. Spirit brings forth the wondrous manifestations of all things, yet remains forever still. In its true constancy, it is one with the Dao. It does not depend on form or submit to a fixed allotment. It gives life without end, moving ceaselessly from ancient times like the sun and moon, and enduring from ancient times like the Northern Dipper. Thus it is said that it does not die.

This is called the “Mysterious Female”—the deep, life-giving source of all things.

All things receive life from “nonbeing” and take shape in “being.” The valley’s function has no fixed appearance, and the substance of spirit has no fixed location; all things receive life from it. “Mysterious” is the color of Heaven, while “female” belongs to the category of Earth; from these, all things take shape. “Valley Spirit” is a metaphor for the Dao’s constant, unchanging nature, while “Mysterious Female” describes the marvel of creation.

“The Gate of the Mysterious Female” is the source of Heaven and Earth.

The Zhuangzi says, “All things have life, yet no one sees their source; all things emerge from somewhere, yet no one sees their gateway. Whoever can see these must be a sage.” That is why the text states plainly: “The Gate of the Mysterious Female is the source of Heaven and Earth.” Heaven and Earth are the upper and lower spaces in which all things exist. All things and Heaven and Earth are, in their original state, without distinction of before and after. But if we speak according to the Dao’s sequence, Heaven and Earth came first, and all things followed. The source from which Heaven and Earth emerged is the Mysterious Female. But who can see the source that existed before Heaven and Earth?

It extends without end, seeming to exist; when put to use, it is never exhausted.

The Dao already exists. Since ancient times, it has remained firm and enduring, and no one knows where its end lies. This is called seeming to exist and not to exist, yet continuing without interruption. Heaven and Earth came into being naturally, allowing the primal Qi (the original vital energy that forms all things in Heaven and Earth) to move on its own. The Earth suddenly brought forth life, allowing the myriad forms to multiply naturally. Qian Heaven reveals its patterns through simplicity; Kun Earth brings all things to completion through plainness. This does not depend on forceful action, so what is there to drive forward deliberately?

Chapter Seven: Heaven Is Long, Earth Endures

Heaven is long and Earth endures. The reason Heaven and Earth can last so long is that they do not live for themselves; therefore, they can endure.

The vault of Heaven arches above. The sun and moon move within it, the stars are spread across it, and it covers all things. The Earth is thick and lies below. It solidifies into mountains, gathers into rivers, lakes, and marshes, and supports all things. Heaven and Earth cover and support the myriad things, yet do not deliberately interfere with them. Thus Heaven continues its course and Earth bears things in peace, allowing them to endure. If Heaven and Earth intended to nourish and bring forth all things, Heaven would soon become measurable, and the reach of its covering would grow narrow; Earth would soon become measurable, and its capacity to support things would grow weak. Then Heaven and Earth would depend on something else—how could they endure?

Therefore, the sage places himself behind others, yet comes to stand before them. He does not put himself first, yet preserves himself.

Heaven moves above, Earth rests below, and the sage dwells between them. When the three are joined, they are called the “Three Powers” (Heaven, Earth, and humanity), which communicate with one another. Considered separately, they are the “Three Extremes,” each with its own place and form. Considered in their union, they are called the “Three Spirits,” each possessing wondrous powers beyond comprehension. Heaven, Earth, and the sage all receive their being from the Dao. The sage cultivates himself through the Dao and, like Heaven and Earth, follows nature. That is why this chapter first says that Heaven and Earth do not live for their own sake, and then says that the sage does not claim himself as his own possession.

Everyone strives to take the lead, but the sage alone is content to come after, bearing the world’s filth. This is called “putting himself last.” By putting himself last, he does not contend with anything external; thus, there is no one in the world who can contend with him. That is why it is said, “By putting himself last, he comes to the front.” In traveling, he does not contend over the advantages of rough or smooth roads. As the seasons shift between cold and heat, he does not contend over the ease that comes from harmonizing Yin and Yang. Setting life and death aside, and forgetting gain and loss, fortune and misfortune, his spirit is not constrained. This is called “keeping himself apart from affairs, and thereby preserving himself.”

If the sage cultivates himself in this way, how much more so should he treat things beyond himself? When something arises, he responds in keeping with the circumstances and does not resist it. When it has passed, he does not cling to it. He observes his nature and guards his spirit, moving freely amid worldly life. In this way, his form naturally becomes upright, and things and self merge into one. Though he was born before Heaven and Earth, he does not therefore seek to live forever; though he has endured since ancient times, he does not therefore appear old. Perhaps this is the result of such cultivation.

Is it not precisely because he has no selfish aims that he is able to fulfill himself?

Heaven and Earth’s greatest virtue lies in nurturing all things; the sage’s most precious thing is the position he occupies. The Dao enables all things to find their proper place and together fulfill what is just. Heaven and Earth embody the Dao, and so have no selfish aims; having none, they can endure. The sage embodies the Dao, and so has no selfish aims; having none, he can endure. One who only works for personal gain can never truly fulfill himself.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water.

The Book of Changes says, “One Yin and one Yang…”

The Classic of Changes says, “The alternation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; carrying forward the Dao’s transformations is called goodness.” Zhuangzi says, “If one leaves the Dao and singles out goodness on its own, once the name of goodness is established, the substance of the Dao is diminished.” Yet water is born from the One of Heaven and is not far from the Dao. It is deep and empty, still and clear; one may call it the purest thing under Heaven. Thus it is said, “The highest goodness is like water.”

Water excels at nourishing all things, yet does not contend with them. It dwells in the low places that people everywhere disdain, and so is closest to the Dao. “Near” means close. Water becomes rain and dew, nourishing all things; it congeals into frost and snow, helping them reach maturity. It spreads out into rivers and gathers into lakes and marshes. Springs run deep and oceans are vast; they provide water for people to draw and store, making resources abundant. All things grow and multiply with the aid of water, which never runs dry. In this way, water benefits all things and embodies goodness: all receive its generosity and gifts, while water remains soft, yielding, and free of contention. It takes in what is muddy without claiming purity, and does not dwell on this. That is why it is close to the Dao.

In dwelling, goodness chooses the low ground: water flows through the land, moving without pride.

In the heart, goodness is deep: the more deeply one measures water, the deeper it appears; the farther one probes, the more remote and mysterious it seems.

In relationships, goodness is benevolent: water nourishes all things widely, favoring and rejecting none. It gives without choosing its recipients.

In speech, goodness is trustworthy: water avoids obstacles and makes its way to the sea. Even through dangerous places, it does not lose its constant nature, just as words remain true to their promises.

In governance, goodness brings order: water washes away filth and smooths rough terrain. It follows the nature of things and is free of selfish motives; therefore, nothing is beyond its ability to govern.

In affairs, goodness lies in ability: water bends or runs straight according to the terrain, and takes a square or round shape according to its vessel. Though it changes without limit, it always adapts and remains level. Could anyone without ability do this?

In movement, goodness follows the right time: when Yang Qi disperses, water flows with it; when Yin Qi gathers, water freezes. Direct it east, and it flows east; open a channel to the west, and it flows west. Its movement is unrestrained, and so it naturally follows the time.

Precisely because it does not contend, it commits no error.

The sage follows the Dao to cultivate and govern himself, and in this way can make his life endure. Benefiting all things does indeed bring advantages; yet it is more in keeping with the Dao to occupy a position in which one does not compete with all things for supremacy. Zhuangzi said, “To possess something and think it easy to accomplish—is that really so? If you regard it as too easy, Heaven will censure you.” Practicing Wuwei (non-action) and committing few errors is relatively easy; taking action without inviting misfortune is difficult. Since helping all things entails taking action, it is hard to do so without making any mistakes. The highest good is like water: it nourishes all things without choosing whom to help, and it does not contend with them. Nothing therefore has cause to contend with it, and it itself incurs no fault. Thus, nothing under Heaven is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hard and mighty things.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding a vessel and trying to fill it to the brim is not as good as knowing when to stop. Sharpen a blade too much, and it will not stay sharp for long.

When a vessel is full, it spills over; when a blade is too sharp, it is easily damaged. This is how all things change: fullness inevitably gives way to depletion. If you do not know how to yield and preserve fullness through emptiness, but instead become absorbed in seeking perfection, you deepen the danger of collapse. It is better to stop in time. The changes in things are without end, while human wisdom is limited. Anticipating and calculating in advance are the superficial trappings of the Dao and the beginning of foolishness. If you constantly try to read the situation and rush forward, wisdom will eventually reach its limits. How, then, could you preserve anything for long?

No one can keep gold and jade piled high in a hall forever. To grow proud and complacent after becoming rich and honored is to invite misfortune upon oneself.

Gold and jade wealth are not fundamental needs of life’s true nature. They are things outside oneself, and relying on them cannot bring lasting security. If you prize gold and jade, you will be burdened by external things; once burdened by them, how could you avoid losing them? In the end, you cannot hold on to them. Pride and complacency after gaining wealth and rank damage De (Virtue/Power). And once De is damaged, how could you escape calamity? In this way, you bring calamity upon yourself.

The sage does not claim temporary gains as his own, nor does he regard himself as exalted for ruling the world. How, then, could he treat gold and jade as treasures or be burdened by wealth and rank? At the height of his power, the state’s wealth may all gather in his hands, as may its titles; no one is more honored or wealthier. Yet the Dao he upholds does not change.

When your achievements are complete and your reputation is established, withdraw. This is the way of Heaven.

When achievements are complete, prosperity begins to decline; when reputation reaches its peak, it begins to diminish. The sun moves westward at noon, and the moon wanes after becoming full. This is the way things run their course. The sage sees how success and failure transform into one another and understands that fullness and decline each have their appointed measure. Thus he remains detached and at ease, unburdened by external things, and so avoids the calamities brought on by pride and complacency. Who but someone who understands the way of Heaven could do this? Hence the saying: “When your achievements are complete and your reputation is established, withdraw. This is the way of Heaven.” The seasons follow the same pattern: when a season has fulfilled its purpose, it gives way. This is the way of Heaven. If you know only how to advance and not how to retreat, only how to live and not how to die, only how to gain and not how to lose, how could you avoid regret? Yi Yin, the worthy minister of the early Shang dynasty, said: “I do not rely on a ruler’s favor or rewards to rest secure upon achievements already accomplished.”

Chapter Ten: Bearing the Po

The Po belongs to Yin. It is attached to the body and has a fixed resting place; therefore Laozi…

The Po belongs to Yin: it relies on the body and has a place where it dwells. That is why Laozi says the Po “resides” (ying). The Hun belongs to Yang: it entrusts itself to Qi and can go everywhere. That is why the Yijing says the Hun “wanders” (you). The sage uses Shen to govern the body and the Hun to regulate the Po. Thus Shen bears the Po; it is not pulled along by the Hun. This is like a cart carrying various goods, or the four seasons turning and bringing changes of cold and heat. When the mind and spirit can roam freely and the senses connect with one another, they transcend the limits of Heaven and Earth and forget the turmoil of the myriad things. Shen is then untroubled—how could the body hold it in?

Can you hold fast to the “unity of the Dao” without letting it disperse?

Heaven generates the first Qi, which takes shape as water. Within the myriad things, water corresponds to Jing. Earth holds the second place and generates fire. Within the myriad things, fire corresponds to Shen. Spirit arises from the Dao, while the body’s foundation comes from Jing. Guard Jing so that it does not dissipate, and unite Jing and Shen as one: then they can come together without separating. Gather Shen through Jing, direct the body through Shen, and then use the body to protect Shen. Jing and Qi will be abundant and undiminished; Shen’s activity will continue without exhaustion; and the body will grow without decline. This is like the sun and moon, which depend on Heaven, and plants and trees, which depend on the earth: they remain together without separation.

I have explained further: human life takes shape when Jing gathers Shen, and the body’s form is thereby established. Human capacity reaches in all directions, flowing without end. It can extend upward to the heavens and spread downward across the earth, nurturing and transforming the myriad things, yet it cannot be described in any concrete form. This is called “being one with the Emperor”—being in accord with the Dao. But foolish people in the world are driven by external things. They lose their nature amid worldly life and never let Shen remain within them, even for a moment. Instead, they pursue endless desires and exhaust their Jing and Qi. The Hun is then confined by the body, while the body in turn burdens Shen. In the end, they decline along with the myriad things. Is this not delusion?

The sage is different. The sage lets the Po dwell in the body and reach its full potential, embraces the unity of the Dao, and settles the body and mind with Shen, so that the body naturally becomes upright. Shen passes through Mount Tai unchanged and remains unsoaked in a deep pool. Who knows where it begins, or where it ends? That is why it is said that the sage values Jing.

Can you focus your breath and harmonize it, making body and mind supple like an infant?

The Classic of Changes says, “When the Dao of Qian is still, it is single-minded and undivided.” Yang Xiong says, “Peaceful and gentle, it is sufficient to bring all things to rest.” Stillness without mixture is called “single-mindedness”; peace and gentleness without changing one’s nature are called “softness.” When an infant sits quietly, it does not know what it is doing; when it moves, it does not know where it is going. It makes no distinctions between right and wrong, beauty and ugliness. Its breath is therefore single-minded, and it can reach a state of gentleness.

Mencius says that people who stumble and people who run both breathe hurriedly, and this in turn disturbs their minds. If the mind cannot single-mindedly regulate the breath, the breath becomes disordered, actions go astray, and the spirit grows agitated and difficult to restrain. The sage lives with an empty and humble mind, not allowing the strength or weakness of the breath to sway the heart. Still and undivided, harmonious and unagitated, how does the sage differ from an infant? Hence the question: “Can you be like an infant?”

Mencius also says that the vast and steadfast Qi, if cultivated by following the right path and not harmed, can fill the space between Heaven and Earth. Laozi speaks of single-mindedly regulating the breath, yet says one should become gentle. Why is this? The utmost steadfastness is for putting the Dao of righteousness into practice; the utmost gentleness is for returning to one’s original nature. The principles of antiquity are broad and profound, and they are everywhere.

Can you cleanse the dust of thought from your heart and look deeply into the mysterious principle, so that you are without flaw?

The sage uses this method to cleanse the heart, so that in every action there is no clinging and nothing is claimed as one’s own. The sage also withdraws into quiet depths and silently observes the mysterious principle. Such a person’s nature is pure and untroubled by external things; there is no regret over what has been done, and even when an undertaking is fitting, no merit is claimed. What flaw could there be?

In caring for the people and governing the state, can you practice Wuwei (non-action)?

Care for the people with benevolence and govern the state with wisdom. Promote education and regulate the laws, using these means to observe the mysterious principle and silently grasp it. Such a person’s nature is pure and untroubled by external things; there is no regret over what has been done, and even when an undertaking is fitting, no merit is claimed. What flaw could there be?

In caring for the people and governing the state, can you practice Wuwei (non-action)?

To care for the people with benevolence, govern the state with wisdom, promote education, and regulate the laws in order to improve the world makes Wuwei difficult to achieve. The sage bestows kindness for generations to come, yet does not make a show of loving others; the sage’s merit reaches throughout the world, yet seems not to have come from the sage. In this way, the sage can practice Wuwei and still handle the affairs of the world with ease and room to spare.

When the gates of Heaven open and close, can you remain soft like the female?

Know the strong, yet keep to the weak, and you can become the stream valley where all things under Heaven gather. The sage follows the changes of the Way of Heaven: drawing inward when it is time to draw inward, extending outward when it is time to extend, opening when it is time to open, and closing away when it is time to close away. He does not go against the moment. He uses the power of strength and weakness, whether hidden or revealed, as the need arises. He never rushes ahead of others, but always follows them; he never rises above the myriad things, but always humbles himself beneath them. Thus, people throughout the world gladly honor him without tiring of him. The principle of keeping to the weak and placing oneself below is just this.

Can one be clear-sighted and perceptive, yet avoid imagining that one knows everything?

The clever and wise preserve themselves through an attitude of plainness and unknowing. It is the same principle.

Give life to all things and nourish them: let them grow without claiming them as one’s own; act without taking pride in one’s achievements; bring them to maturity without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De,” the deep and subtle Virtue.

The sage gathers his spirit and embodies the Dao. He understands transformation and becomes one with the Dao, so he can accord with the spirits and nourish all things, accomplishing what cannot be done. He gives life to all things, allowing each to follow its nature; he also nurtures them, providing all the nourishment they need. He has no desire to possess or profit, so he lets things grow without claiming them. He does not boast of his achievements, so he acts without taking pride in them. He has no contrived cleverness for controlling all things, so he brings them to maturity without ruling over them. This Virtue is deep and subtle, contrary to the ordinary disposition of things; hence it is called “Mysterious De.” The Way of Heaven reaches the north and there joins with all things. “Mysterious” is the color of Heaven. The sage follows the Way of Heaven and puts it into practice as Virtue; only “Mysterious De” can describe it.

The Chapter of Thirty Spokes (Chapter Thirty)

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub, but it is the empty space inside the hub that makes the wheel useful. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel, but it is the empty space inside the vessel that makes it useful. Doors and windows are cut out to make a house, but it is the empty space of the doors, windows, and rooms that makes the house useful.

Being and nonbeing are one. Only when solid form and empty space work together can they serve their purpose; this is the most wondrous principle. If being and nonbeing are regarded as two different sides, then the hollow within a solid object is what makes a vessel useful; and when doors and windows are cut out to make a house, it is the empty space of the doors, windows, and rooms that makes the house useful.

Being and nonbeing are one in essence. They depend on each other and enable the myriad things to function: this is the Dao in its most subtle and wondrous form. Being and nonbeing refer to two different states. Being is the substance of a thing; nonbeing is the condition that allows it to function. The movement of Yin and Yang is the principle behind the transformations of the myriad things.

A cart serves to travel, a vessel to hold things, and a room to provide an empty space within it. Subtle function arises from utter emptiness, and transformation is concealed in a state free of constraint. It is like a mirror: it has no image of its own, yet reflects whatever appears before it. Those who have attained the Dao and put their mind and spirit to use can often grasp this principle.

Thus, being brings convenience, while nonbeing makes things work.

Being is substantial and therefore has shape, sound, color, and texture. Nonbeing is emptiness, which allows things to move, contain, and respond; its functions have no end. Between Heaven and Earth, the Dao appears through concrete objects, so nonbeing cannot be separated from being. Objects gain their wondrous uses through the Dao, so being ultimately returns to nonbeing.

Wood can bend, water can moisten, fire can give light, metal is hard, and earth is level and widespread, allowing crops to grow. These all belong to “being,” and people benefit from them. But what enables Heaven to move, Earth to remain steady, the seasons to turn, and the myriad things to flourish? And what governs it all? This is “nonbeing.” People in the world cannot see its traces, yet its function never runs dry. Being and nonbeing give rise to each other. Laozi drew on these three things to develop and explain this principle.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the ears.

A person has two eyes, and the ability to see is part of human nature. To see clearly is to become discerning, able to judge the difficult questions of the world. A person has two ears, and the ability to hear is also part of human nature. To hear clearly is to become perceptive and wise, able to understand what is in people’s hearts. Those who comprehend the Great Dao can perceive with spirit in the formless and sense with Qi in the soundless. Their sight and hearing do not depend on their eyes and ears; how could sounds and colors obscure them?

People in the world are bound by external things. Their eyes become absorbed in the five colors and their ears in the five tones, until their natural clarity declines. How is this any different from blindness and deafness?

The five flavors throw the palate off balance; riding at full gallop and hunting wild animals make the mind and spirit run wild.

When the Dao is put into words, it is bland, as though it had no flavor. Sour, sweet, bitter, pungent, and salty are tastes everyone enjoys. But when flavors become too intense, they damage the sense of taste. That is why the five flavors are said to throw the palate off balance. A person’s body may not be large, yet the heart races across the fields in pursuit, and the mind and spirit run wild.

When the Dao is put into words, it is bland, as though it had no flavor. Sour, sweet, bitter, pungent, and salty are tastes everyone enjoys. But flavors that are too intense are in fact harmful, like the toxins in cured meat, and so they damage the sense of taste. A person’s body may not be large, yet the heart can respond to the workings of creation. The sage’s heart, when active, can encompass all directions; when still, it can survey Heaven and Earth. Worldly people lose their innate goodness by losing themselves in hunting and pleasure. Unable to restrain themselves, are they not to be pitied?

Rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct.

Profit can sustain people, and possessions can change them. So people compete for gain and keep watch on one another. The sage does not prize rare and precious goods or treat unusual objects as treasures. Instead, the sage looks lightly on extravagant things, hoping people will be content with their proper place and not compete for possessions. To prize rare and precious goods is to go against one’s nature and damage one’s life, coveting wealth and status. How could such a person keep to the right path? That is why rare and precious goods are said to hinder people’s conduct. Zhong Hui praised Tang of Shang, saying that he “did not accumulate wealth for profit.” Confucius said to Duanmu Ci, known by his courtesy name Zigong: “Ci does not accept Heaven’s mandate; he profits by hoarding goods.” This is how possessions hinder virtue.

Therefore, the sage attends to people’s basic needs and does not chase after outward sensory pleasures, setting aside one in favor of the other.

In the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), Kun symbolizes the belly because it is substantial, bears the weight of things, and contains all beings. Li symbolizes the eyes because it looks outward and distinguishes things. What is substantial and containing can accommodate all kinds of things; what only looks outward and discriminates is bound to miss some. The sage takes all under Heaven as the measure, and so chooses the belly, which can contain, rather than managing and inspecting everything one by one. Thus the sage sets aside the eyes that peer outward. The Zhuangzi says: “Nothing does more harm to virtue than anything else; once the mind takes up distinctions, it is as though eyes have grown within it.” The sage therefore sets aside this discerning eye of the mind.

Both being favored and being disgraced unsettle the mind and spirit. This is what it means to regard great calamity as though it were oneself.

What is meant by “favor”? It means occupying a low position. What is meant by “honor”? It means holding a high position. To take being favored as a source of pride is to invite disgrace through that very pride. If you regard high office as a burden, you will understand that nothing weighs more heavily than calamity. Those who consider wealth and comfort most important cannot bear to give up their salaries; those who consider status and acclaim most important cannot bear to relinquish their reputations. Those who cling to power refuse to hand authority over to others: while they hold it, they live in constant fear; when they let it go, they grieve and cannot bear to part with it. This is why favor and disgrace unsettle us. Grief and pain, ease and pleasure, sometimes affect the body; fear and delight, in turn, tug at the heart. This is what it means to regard great calamity as though it were oneself.

What is meant by favor and disgrace? To be favored is, in itself, to occupy a low position.

The dragon is a creature able to transform freely, beyond human control. To bind it and keep it at one’s side would be to disgrace it. Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao, even when granted high office, would not exchange their integrity for it; even when given generous stipends, they would not change their convictions. Though they held positions of favor, they remained alert to danger; though they enjoyed good fortune, they remained humble. How, then, could they be disgraced? Those who covet office and envy stipends, who know only how to advance and not to withdraw, only how to gain and not to lose, invite contempt. Thus, to accept another’s favor is to occupy a passive, low position.

To feel uneasy when favored and also uneasy when favor is withdrawn is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are equally alarming.”

Official rank and an eminent position are not the foundation of life. They are merely external things that happen to come one’s way. Since they are only temporary possessions, clinging to them invites contempt. Thus, to accept another’s favor is to occupy a passive, low position.

To feel uneasy when something is gained and also uneasy when it is lost is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are equally alarming.”

Ceremonial robes and a carriage, symbols of official rank in ancient times, do not belong to a person’s nature or the Way of life. External things arrive by chance and merely dwell beside a person for a time. There is no need to refuse them when they come, so one who has attained the Dao does not rejoice at gaining them. Nor can they be kept from leaving, so one who has attained the Dao does not grieve at losing them. Today, people are unhappy when they lose office and delighted when they gain it. In this way, gain and loss entangle the mind. How could they not be shaken by fear over what they gain or lose? Liuxia Hui served as a judge, responsible for criminal law, and was dismissed three times without leaving. Zheng Kaofu received appointments to office three times, yet walked with humble deference close to the wall. Their attitudes differed from those who rejoice and grieve over gain and loss.

What does it mean to “regard great calamity as one regards oneself”?

With power, one may control rewards and punishments, dispense favors and command awe, making people throughout the realm fear one as they fear the spirits and revere one as they revere the Supreme Emperor. This may be called exalted. Yet the sage does not let exalted status become a burden, and so can preserve it for a long time without decline. It is like being able to set aside blessings, authority, and power, and no longer cling to the body or one’s cleverness and knowledge: free from the constraints of bodily form and discriminating ingenuity, one reaches a state of great unity in which all things flow together, and can be at ease and content wherever one is. People exchange their nature for external things, and so become burdened by them, unable to forget power and status. They also let the body burden the mind, and so lose their original mind, unable to forget the body. This is a truly great calamity.

The reason I have great calamity is that I have a body. When I no longer cling to the body, what calamity could there be?

The human body consists of its many bones, nine orifices, and six viscera, all of which work together to sustain life. Which part, then, is the “self”—the part one can cherish above all and claim as one’s own? Insisting that any one part is the true self is delusion. Those who understand the Great Dao know this. As Confucius said, “If I hear the Dao in the morning, I can die content in the evening.” Mencius said that whether life is long or short, one’s resolve should remain unshaken. Yan Hui said, “I have reached the point of sitting in forgetfulness.” Sitting in forgetfulness describes a state of cultivation in which, while sitting quietly, one forgets the body and one’s fixed ideas. If even the great matter of life and death cannot alter their hearts, how much less can external circumstances such as gain and loss, calamity and good fortune?

The perfected beings of ancient times who had attained the Dao did not let profit burden the body, or the body burden the mind. They made no distinction between things and themselves, and so had nothing to accept or reject. They understood that their own bodies did not truly belong to them. Above, they roamed with the transformations of creation; below, they befriended those who had transcended life and death and saw beginning and end as one. What, then, could trouble them?

Being favored is something ordinary people value, yet these people regarded it as disgrace. Being honored is something people gladly pursue, yet they regarded it as a source of worry. This is because external things cannot be relied upon; such is their nature. If one can truly possess things without claiming them as one’s own, then favor brings no disgrace and honor brings no worry. Yi Yin, who did not take credit for success on the strength of favor and profit, and Yao, who took no pleasure in the imperial throne, were perhaps such people.

Thus, if someone values their own life more than governing the world, the world can be entrusted to them. If someone cherishes the world as they cherish their own life, the world can be placed in their care.

The world is a great vessel, and the examples of Yi Yin, who did not claim success on the strength of favor and profit, and Yao, who took no pleasure in the imperial throne, do not fully express the point. Therefore it is said: the world can be entrusted to one who values themselves more than the world; it can be placed in the care of one who cherishes it as they cherish themselves.

The world is a great vessel that bears all things; without the Dao, it cannot function. The world is also a wondrous vessel; without the Dao, it cannot be kept in order. The sage understands the Dao, and so governs the world with generosity. The people are glad to uphold him and do not grow weary of him. As for those who know how to value themselves, refusing to demean themselves or be driven by external things, perhaps affairs can be entrusted to them. And those who know how to care for themselves, refusing to demean themselves or be trapped by external things, perhaps affairs can be placed in their hands. Thus the foundation of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself; what remains is used to govern the state; and from there, its reach extends to the world. Yet worldly gentlemen harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things. Is this not sorrowful?

Chapter Fourteen: Look, and It Cannot Be Seen

Look for it, and it cannot be seen: this is called “Yi.” The eyes are responsible for seeing and distinguishing things. “Yi” means level and even, without distinctions. The Dao lies beyond the reach of sight, and so it is called “Yi.” This is like the Great Change (Taiyi), the primordial state before Heaven and Earth had divided and before the myriad things had taken visible form; at that time, there was only Qi.

Listen for it, and it cannot be heard: this is called “Xi.” The ears are responsible for hearing and discerning things. “Xi” means sparse, with wide intervals; its sound is so subtle that hearing cannot grasp it, and so it is called “Xi”—as in “the greatest sound is scarcely heard.”

Reach for it, and it cannot be grasped: this is called “Wei.” When subtlety reaches its utmost, there is no form. Who, then, could touch it? This is like “the greatest image has no form.”

These three cannot be pursued to their end, and so they merge into one. Before the Great Change had divided, how could high and low be distinguished? The greatest sound is silent, so how could clear and turbid be distinguished? The greatest image has no form, so how could large and small be distinguished? The eyes have no way to exercise sight, the ears no way to exercise hearing, and the body nowhere to exhaust its strength. The Dao’s complete substance is contained in this. Pursuing it to its end cannot exhaust it; searching for it cannot find it. Qi, form, and substance are all present, yet have not separated from one another, and so they merge into one. But once it has been called “one,” how can it be left entirely unspoken?

Its upper reaches are mysterious beyond measure, radiant yet subtle and difficult to see clearly. In its lower reaches, Yin and Yang are distinct, and their changes follow discernible traces, so they are not obscure. The Book of Changes says, “The key to what is mysterious yet can be understood lies within the person.”

The Dao (the Way) extends without end and cannot be accurately expressed in a name; ultimately, it returns to a state that seems empty. The Dao’s underlying nature is like the regular course of day and night, though no one can fathom why it is sometimes hidden and sometimes manifest. How could its nature be depicted through external forms, sounds, or colors? Thus it is said to return, in the end, to nothing.

This is “the shape of the shapeless, the image of what has no substance,” called “indistinct and elusive.” Though it seems indistinct, there is something real within it; it seems to contain things, yet also seems to contain nothing. It is like the vastness of space, which holds all things but reveals no trace of their beginnings. It is also like the mind’s numinous nature, which operates freely, though its workings are difficult to investigate. To say it exists is to say it seems not to exist; to say it does not exist is to say it is not entirely absent. It is like the sun and moon, far from us, yet fire can be kindled with a yangsui mirror and water gathered with a fangzhu vessel: water and fire still respond to these implements and appear. Where, then, are water and fire? The shapeless form and insubstantial image are just like this.

Face toward it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. It has no head at its beginning and no tail at its end, so whether you face toward it or follow it, you cannot see it.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since antiquity and use it to govern the myriad things of the present. To know the origin of the myriad things is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

The interaction of Yin and Yang is the Dao. To honor only Yang and neglect Yin may leave one misled by the Dao’s activity and change, relying single-mindedly on strength. To honor only Yin and neglect Yang may lead one to sink into the Dao’s stillness, becoming mired in lifeless quiet. To act only for oneself is to abandon benevolence; to accommodate others without reserve is to abandon what is right. Can this really be the Dao of antiquity?

The Dao of antiquity cannot be grasped by probing and pursuing it to its limits, yet it is not a visible thing that actually exists. It appears elusive and hard to discern, yet it is not nothingness. If one grasps the Dao to govern the affairs of the world, one can respond flexibly to change and make the fullest use of what is beneficial. One can also set all things in motion and transformation, bringing the Dao’s wondrous workings fully to light; thus nothing is beyond one’s ability. The Dao’s enduring fundamental principles cannot be changed. Is this not what is meant by the Dao that has existed continuously since ancient times? Therefore, to know the fundamental principles that have endured since remote antiquity is to grasp the guiding principles of the Dao.

Chapter Fifteen: Those Skilled in the Dao in Antiquity

Those in antiquity who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, deeply penetrating and profound, and difficult for others to fathom.

The educated people of antiquity who truly understood the Dao were unlike those of today, just as those skilled in embodying the Dao were unlike those who were not. Those skilled in embodying it were united with the Dao in the subtlest things and connected with the spirit world in the most refined. They were profound and far-reaching enough to accord with the Way of Heaven, and fully attuned to change enough to manifest the state of the sage. They concealed their inner powers so deeply that they could not be measured.

The Book of Documents says, “The mind of the Dao is subtle.” Here, “subtle” refers to the Dao. The Book of Changes says, “Spirit is the wondrous working of the myriad things.” Here, “wondrous” refers to spirit. The Book of Changes also says, “Heaven is dark and mysterious; Earth is yellow.” Here, “dark and mysterious” describes the color of Heaven. The Zuo Commentary says that one who comprehends everything is called a sage; here, “comprehends” describes the work of a sage.

However deep the water, it can still be measured; however deep the cave, it can still be explored. But those of antiquity who were skilled in embodying the Dao possessed subtlety, wonder, mystery, and comprehension all at once. Neither their reputation nor their outward bearing revealed what they truly were, while their inner faculties could act naturally. They concealed themselves so deeply that they could not be measured or explored.

Lie Yukou lived for forty years in a garden in the state of Zheng, and no one recognized him. Laozi said to Confucius, “A skilled merchant hides his goods away, so that he seems to have nothing. A gentleman of great De appears outwardly dull.” Surely this describes just such a person.

Because people like this are so difficult to recognize, words can only offer an imperfect description of them.

The height of Heaven cannot be measured all at once, nor can the thickness of Earth be gauged in a single attempt. To say that Heaven is round and covers all things, while Earth is square and supports all things, is only to compare them with their outward forms. How, then, could an imperfect description ever reveal the full extent of someone who embodies the Dao?

They are cautious and guarded, like someone crossing a river on foot in winter; hesitant and alert, as if afraid of being watched from every side.

“Yu” means making preparations before anything has happened; “you” means continuing to examine things carefully after they have happened. Those of antiquity who embodied the Dao made inner stillness their foremost practice and took no pleasure in responding to external things. They carried a sense of caution and apprehension, constantly examining themselves, and responded to external things only when they had no choice. As careful as someone crossing a river in winter, they held fast to themselves and did not lose their original mind. They were also as alert as someone keeping watch against the neighbors on every side. This resembles what the Book of Changes says about purification and restraining the mind and body in order to attain inner calm.

His expression is grave and solemn, as if deep in thought. The Analects says that from a distance he appears dignified; the Book of Rites says he is solemn, as though pondering; and the Zhuangzi says that when the myriad things lose the guidance of the Dao, a person can set them right by presenting himself with composure, dispelling the distractions in people’s minds. One whose De is complete inspires respect from afar and does not weary those who spend time with him. His bearing is therefore solemn and upright, yet he does not form factions for private gain.

His expression is relaxed, as if ice were about to melt. Water freezes into ice, and ice melts back into water: they are one and the same. One who clings to a particular view is like water frozen into ice; one who understands that all things are one is like ice that has melted. The Book of Changes says that “Dispersion” means separation. To forget external things and remain unentangled in human affairs is to be “dispersed.”

How sincere, like uncarved wood. “Sincere” means solid and substantial to the utmost degree. Human nature is originally deeply sincere, like wood that has not been worked or made into an implement.

How openhearted, like an empty valley. Open to the utmost, the heart has no bounds, like a hollow valley that can hold all things and respond to whatever arises.

How unformed and simple, like something murky. He does not deliberately adorn himself in pursuit of perfection, nor does he put on an affected manner or act intensely to appear different. He is simply natural and uncontrived, and so seems murky. This differs from deliberately cultivating oneself and distinguishing what is impure.

Who can make the murky still and let it slowly clear? Who can set the settled state in motion and let it slowly come to life?

A person who possesses the Dao can remain inwardly calm while acting, unfold with the times, and still discern where things return. At rest, they can respond to change. Reaching the state of emptiness, they can meet the needs of external things. Thus stillness gradually grows clear, and nothing can cloud it; activity gradually brings things forth, and nothing can halt it. The Book of Changes says, “It comes slowly.” Here, “slowly” means proceeding steadily and unhurriedly, unfolding naturally of its own accord.

When those who have attained the Dao use their mind and spirit, they do not regard stillness as something good in itself, nor do they deliberately pursue quietude. They do not take credit for bringing forth the myriad things, nor do they intentionally urge their growth. They follow the inherent state of things and let them be as they are, without urgency or alarm and without the distress of haste and toil. This is why it is called “slow”: composed and unhurried. When the mind grows still, it gradually becomes clear. Nothing can reflect it as a mirror does—so what could cloud it? When action is unhurried, vitality gradually appears. Nothing can bind their thoughts—so what could make them stagnate? “At rest” carries the meaning of coming to a stop. If one is bound by things, one will stop; how, then, could one respond to the myriad things without being harmed?

Those who uphold the Great Dao do not seek fullness or self-satisfaction.

Whatever one accumulates will seem insufficient; whoever stores and possesses nothing often feels there is more than enough. Those who have attained the Dao accumulate nothing; they simply remain empty. To uphold the Great Dao yet believe that all the world’s goodness belongs to oneself is a very narrow view. Thus they do not seek fullness or self-satisfaction. The scripture says, “What is most white appears as though stained; those whose De is most abundant appear as though lacking.”

Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they can preserve it for a long time, without deliberately renewing or contriving it.

Things can renew themselves because they decline; what takes shape can be destroyed. The alternation of old and new is like the turning of the four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Formation and destruction depend on each other, just as all things change. Beginning with the Dao, almost everything attached to form and number undergoes such change. Only the Dao has no fixed form. It is empty and unfilled, so it can pass through decline and renewal, formation and destruction, yet remain beyond form and number, never declining or being destroyed.

Thus, precisely because the Dao is unfilled, it can be diminished, renewed, and brought to completion. Trees are lush at first, then wither; fire is bright at first, then goes out. Their renewal is accompanied by decline. The sun begins to set once it reaches its zenith, and the moon wanes after it is full. Completion is accompanied by destruction. Those who embody the Dao, however, are unlike these things.

Chapter Sixteen: Reaching the Utmost Emptiness

Bring the mind to a state of utmost stillness and emptiness, and devote yourself to holding fast to calm.

Emptiness and stillness are most precious and most beneficial; they are the root of all things. When the mind is empty, it can make room for all things; when the mind is still, it can meet every change. “Utmost” means gathering things together and reaching their furthest point; “steadfast” means applying oneself earnestly until one reaches depth. Bring the mind to the utmost emptiness and stillness, and hold to calm until it is deep within. Then, though the myriad things of the world are tangled and diverse, the mind remains clear and open; though their changes differ, the mind remains quiet and still. This is called “Heavenly Joy,” which only those who have realized the Great Dao can understand.

All things grow and change together; from among them, I observe how they return.

The changes of all things are the Dao’s outermost expressions; those who have realized the Great Dao stand beyond them. Everything that grows has a beginning in its sprouting, and everything ultimately has a place to which it returns. As all things grow and change together, I observe how they return to their root.

The transformations of the myriad things are merely the lesser branches of the Dao (the Way). One who truly embodies the Dao rests at ease above the myriad things. All things grow, each beginning to sprout in its time and ultimately reaching its end. When all things arise together and move outward, I observe that everything active eventually becomes still, and everything that grows outward eventually returns. In this, we can see the underlying principle of how Heaven and Earth operate. One who embodies the Dao encounters the myriad things without changing along with them. This is called “observing their return”: observing the pattern by which all things return.

The myriad things flourish in profusion, yet in the end each returns to its root.

“Profusion” describes the scene of the myriad things stirring and growing. They sprout in the Zhen position, one of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), which symbolizes spring and the beginning of growth; then they appear in the Li position, which symbolizes summer and manifestation. Together they grow, their finest qualities shining outward. In the Dui position, which symbolizes autumn, they ripen in gladness. In the Kan position, which symbolizes winter, they rest from their labors and are stored away. Thus they relinquish their outward splendor and return to the place where their nature resides. “Life” is the root of “nature,” and “nature” is the root of all things. Jing (essence) is the mother of Shen (spirit), and Shen is the outcome of Jing. When Jing and Qi (vital energy) are abundant, the spirit is vigorous; by fully realizing one’s nature, one can reach the root of life.

Returning to the root is called “stillness”; becoming still is called “returning to one’s life.”

The movement of Qi gives rise to the myriad things. Once formed, they acquire patterns, which are called “form.” Each form preserves its own spirit and follows its corresponding principles; this is called “nature.” Things that have not yet manifested in physical form each have their allotted portion, which should not be arbitrarily distinguished; this is called “life.” Life extends through past and present and remains constant, while nature changes with form without changing in essence. If people wish to preserve their form and life, can they really abandon wisdom? By returning to quiet and stability, they can know that life is within them, just as spring and summer naturally give way to autumn and winter. Observing one’s nature, keeping one’s spirit, and examining oneself with a centered and balanced mind: this is called “returning to one’s life.”

Returning to life is called “constancy.”

“Constancy” is understood in relation to change. One who returns to life will not be shaken by the myriad transformations. This continuity never ceases; it becomes one with the Dao, encompasses Heaven and Earth, and receives the primal mother Qi from which all things are born.

Knowing the constant Dao is called “clarity.”

Understanding the constancy of the Dao means that life is no longer pulled along by the transformations of the myriad things. Then the six senses can be brought into mutual connection, making it possible to perceive Heaven and Earth and illuminate the myriad things.

If one does not know the constant Dao—the unchanging order—one acts recklessly and brings danger upon oneself.

The sage understands the constant order of the Dao, and so acts in accord with reason and often encounters good fortune. Those who do not understand this constant order are carried along by changes in external things, bringing trouble upon themselves at every turn. They presume to judge what is beautiful and ugly, and so go against the Dao; they presume to form opinions about right and wrong, and so depart from the Dao. Such people cannot preserve their lives, and therefore face danger. The Book of Changes says, “Return to the right path, and you will not act recklessly.” To lose one’s way and not know how to return is to act recklessly.

Those who understand the constant Dao can embrace all things.

They do not keep judgments of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, in their minds, and so there is nothing they cannot embrace.

Only those who can embrace all things can be impartial and selfless.

With no partiality in their hearts, they do not love only their own relatives or cherish only their own children; instead, they devote themselves wholly to the public good.

Only the impartial and selfless can become rulers of all under Heaven.

When the Great Dao is put into practice, all under Heaven belongs to everyone. Thus, people gladly choose such a ruler and do not grow weary of him.

A ruler who accords with the Way of Heaven accords with the Dao.

One who connects Heaven, Earth, and humanity, stands between Heaven and Earth, and governs all under Heaven is a ruler. That which encompasses all things, dwells above them, and covers them is Heaven. The Dao is what Heaven, Earth, and all things follow. When a person attains complete goodness, they can accord with Heaven; when they understand and put Heaven into practice, they can accord with the Dao.

The Dao endures without change. A person who follows it throughout life will not encounter danger.

The Dao has passed through ten thousand generations without becoming harmful; all things flourish by receiving it. It has passed through successive generations of sages without being exhausted, and it covers Heaven and Earth without ever ceasing. Thus, a person who follows the Dao throughout life will not fall into danger. Danger approaches misfortune, while subtle opportunities approach good fortune. Those who do not fall into danger will not bring misfortune upon themselves through reckless action. Only those who understand the constant Dao can achieve this.

Chapter Seventeen: The Supreme One

The best ruler is one whose existence the people know about, and little else.

He governs all under Heaven so that each thing finds its place, yet lives among the people with an unassuming reserve. He does not display delight, and the people neither feel especially close to him nor praise him. He does not display distress, and the people neither fear nor slight him. He does not try to control things, yet all things move naturally according to their own course. Thus, the people know only that such a ruler exists.

The ruler of the next rank is one whom the people feel close to and praise.

The ruler who stands in the lowest place governs an entire age with simplicity and plainness. The people feel neither joy and excitement nor any closeness or praise toward him; they suffer no hardship or resentment, and neither fear nor slight him. The ruler takes no deliberate action, yet all things follow their natural course. The people simply know that such a ruler exists.

A ruler of the next rank is one whom the people feel close to and praise.

His kindness reaches the people, and his laws and institutions endure for later generations. Everyone under Heaven cherishes him as they would their parents, and so they feel close to him. His noble reputation shines like the sun and moon, and so they praise him. This is the realm of imperial rule. As closeness and praise become more pronounced, the Way of Great Unity—the ideal order in which all are equal and the world belongs to everyone—begins to diminish. The Zhuangzi says that Shun had a virtue people admired, and so they rejoiced in him. The Book of Songs describes the Spirit Tower, built by King Wen of Zhou, and tells how the people of Wen first began to rally to him.

A ruler of a still lower rank is one whom the people fear and slight.

He guides the people with decrees and restrains them with punishments, so they fear him. Even if all the rewards in the world were offered, they could not make good people strive harder; even if all the punishments in the world were imposed, they could not make evil people mend their ways. Among the feudal lords were those like the ruler of Chu, who asked about the size and weight of the Nine Tripods of the Zhou royal house and coveted its sovereignty. Among the ministers were those like Yang Hu, who stole precious jade and a great bow. These are the customs of a declining age, and so people slight their ruler.

Thus, when a ruler lacks sincerity, the people will not trust him.

People do not come together through the bonding of glue and lacquer, nor do they keep their agreements by being bound with ropes. That is the highest sincerity. When the Shang began making oaths, the people began to turn away; when the Zhou established sworn alliances, the people began to grow doubtful. Both arose from a lack of sincerity. Under the best ruler, the people simply know that he exists. They live together in harmony, without feeling that he has deliberately established trust among them. Under the next ruler, people fear and slight him. They then recognize that deceit, flattery, and cunning have taken root, and distrust follows.

A ruler should be careful with his words and not speak lightly.

From the perspective of the Dao, the position of the ruler under Heaven is rightly established; how could his words be careless? He should therefore be cautious and dare not speak indiscriminately. The ruler’s words can serve as a standard for all under Heaven, generation after generation. When his words arise naturally, all under Heaven is transformed along with them.

When affairs are completed and achievements accomplished, the people all say, “We did this naturally, of our own accord.”

The achievements of emperors are merely things accomplished along the way when sages govern the world. Let the people eat their fill, dress comfortably, live contentedly according to their customs, and take pleasure in their livelihoods, and the emperors’ achievements will naturally follow. Yet if those who govern say that all this has happened of its own accord, the people will ask, “What part did the emperor play in my life?” This is the highest form of governance.

Chapter Eighteen: When the Great Dao Declines

Only after the Great Dao has declined do benevolence and righteousness appear.

Only after losing the Dao do people speak of De; only after losing De do they speak of benevolence; only after losing benevolence do they speak of righteousness. Benevolence seeks to fulfill others, while righteousness seeks to distinguish oneself. In this way, people move ever farther from the Dao. Han Yu failed to examine what the sages originally meant when they spoke of Dao and De. He treated benevolence and righteousness as definite categories, while dismissing Dao and De as vague ideas. He also believed Laozi’s view that benevolence and righteousness should be set aside showed narrow understanding. Zhuangzi called people like this “those blinded by delusion”—people whose judgment is obscured and who cannot see the truth.

When cleverness and artifice become conspicuous, serious hypocrisy arises.

When the people’s knowledge and abilities have been exhausted, hypocrisy is used to fill the gap.

Only when families fall into discord do people speak of filial children and loving parents; only when the state falls into disorder do they speak of loyal ministers.

These labels arise because people lack the corresponding virtues. Zhuangzi said, “A filial child does not flatter their parents, and a loyal minister does not fawn upon their ruler.” This is what it means for the virtue of ministers and children to be full.

Chapter Nineteen: Discarding Sageliness and Abandoning Wisdom

Set aside the deliberate display of sageliness and abandon clever schemes, and the people will gain a hundredfold.

The Dao endows all things with their nature, so that each remains pure and distinct. To turn away from the Dao and seek a reputation for De is to be called sagely and wise. Once sagely wisdom is established as an ideal, the world begins to fill with affectation, deceit, and calculated displays. The dull are made to seem remarkable, and the corrupt to seem pure; Yao is praised while Jie is condemned. Seen this way, sagely wisdom brings little benefit to the world and much harm. Abandon these artificial displays and become one with the Dao, and all things can each abide in the natural state of their own nature and life. The benefits will then be far-reaching.

Set aside the deliberate display of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover their natural filial devotion and compassion.

Filial devotion and compassion are part of human nature. Deliberately polishing and forcing displays of benevolence and righteousness takes people farther from the natural Dao. Become one with the Dao, and all things can each abide in the natural state of their own nature and life. The benefits will then be far-reaching.

Honoring one’s parents and caring for one’s children are part of human nature. Deliberately turning benevolence and ritual propriety into a set of rules may instead lead people away from their nature. If people let go of the deliberate pursuit of benevolence and righteousness, they can return to their natural dispositions and original state. Everyone will then naturally honor their own kin and care for their children. Why emphasize filial devotion and parental care separately?

Let go of clever schemes and the desire for profit, and thieves will not arise.

Those who delight in clever transformations disregard shame; those who harbor a craving for profit disregard what is right. Both kinds of people belong among thieves.

Teaching the people only these three precepts—“Reject sagehood and abandon cleverness; reject benevolence and abandon righteousness; reject cunning and abandon profit”—is not complete. We must also point out where they belong and what their roots are: that is, tell them what state they should return to.

The ancient kings governed the world according to the way of humanity. By the Zhou dynasty, ritual systems had grown increasingly elaborate. When their drawbacks appeared, formalities began to outweigh what was genuine: there was an excess of ritual display and a lack of simplicity. People throughout the world lost their unadorned nature and gradually sank into selfish desires. Laozi lived in the declining years of the Zhou. He sought to eliminate these ills and lead people back to their roots. That is why he advocated abandoning benevolence, righteousness, and ritual learning, and letting go even of the names “sage” and “wise.” Did he truly think that benevolence, righteousness, and sage wisdom were inadequate for governing the world? No. The way of the former kings moves in cycles. To remedy an excess of elaborate form, the best course is to restore simplicity. Thus, when this passage speaks of where people should return, it means: “Reveal the unadorned and hold fast to simplicity; lessen selfishness and reduce desire.”

“To reveal the unadorned” means to let one’s original qualities show. The Analects says, “In painting, the colors are applied after the plain ground.” This means that a painting is colored over a plain base. Before the plain ground is colored, revealing its natural quality means that it is pure and unmixed.

“To hold fast to simplicity” means to preserve what is unadorned. The Dao De Jing says, “When the uncarved block is broken apart, it becomes vessels.” The nature of simplicity has not been severed; by preserving it, one can remain calm and focused without changing. The Zhuangzi says that joining with desirelessness is called simplicity. When people preserve their simplicity, the people’s natural dispositions can be kept intact.

“To lessen selfishness and reduce desire” means to diminish self-interest and keep desires in check. Looking only to one’s own affairs is selfishness. To nurture one’s nature, nothing is better than reducing desire. With little selfishness and few desires, one can distinguish inner from outer and discern what is genuine from what is false. One’s De can then be made whole and one’s nature restored, without clinging to the titles of sage or wise.

Chapter Twenty: “Abandon Learning, Be Free of Worry”

Let go of the compulsion to pursue learning, and there will be no worry.

Learning is a way to investigate the principles of things. If we keep studying and investigating those principles, while continually reflecting on how to lessen selfishness and desire, we can distinguish our inner nature from external things and discern what is real from what is illusory. Our De (Virtue/Power) then becomes whole, and our nature returns to its source. At that point, titles such as “sage” and “wise” no longer matter.

Chapter Twenty: Having Done Away with Learning, There Is No Worry

When one truly transcends the distinctions made through learning, there is no worry.

If we keep learning simply to exhaustively investigate principles, repeatedly weighing whether things are good or bad and examining whether the world is well governed or in chaos, how could we be free of worry? But if learning is meant to understand the way of governing, and thereby to see the Dao and transcend the distinctions made through learning, we can keep reducing until we arrive at Wuwei (non-action), through which nothing is left undone. Then we can follow the natural course of our nature and life, at ease wherever we may be, and so be free of worry.

How great is the difference between a respectful reply and a casual one? How far apart are good and evil?

“Wei” and “a” are both sounds of assent; good and evil, too, arise from the same nature. Those of limited understanding, driven by selfish concerns, divide things into opposing sides, good and evil. Those who see clearly take things as a whole and know that at their root there is no difference. When the sage governs worldly affairs, his words and conduct vary across different settings, such as the ancestral temple and the court, where he meets the high officials; yet he still restrains evil and promotes good, fearing that he has not done enough. For what people fear cannot simply be left unfearred.

What people fear cannot simply be left unfearred.

The Dao sets all things in motion, yet does not worry over worldly affairs as the sage does. Good fortune, misfortune, disaster, and blessing befall people, and these are things they fear; therefore they cannot help but remain wary.

What people fear cannot simply be left unfearred.

The Dao sets all things in motion but does not share the sage’s worries. People undergo good fortune, misfortune, disaster, and blessing as worldly affairs unfold because they are caught up in particular matters. Those who realize the Great Dao have no worries; those entangled in affairs have things to fear. When faced with what people fear, if they do not take it as a warning, few can avoid decline. Thus the exemplary person cultivates himself through reverence and self-examination. The Book of Odes says: “Stand in awe of Heaven’s majesty.”

Worldly affairs are manifold and vast, seemingly without end.

The countless changes of the world intersect in confusion. They are difficult to govern and impossible to exhaust; it is unclear when they will ever come to an end. Good and evil, as they are called, are not always fixed. Only those who see clearly know that, at the root, all things can be gathered into one.

The crowd is lively and bustling, as if attending a lavish feast or climbing a high terrace to admire the view on a spring day.

When things meet Yang energy, they spread out and flourish; when they meet Yin energy, they contract and coalesce. “Bustling” describes the way things unfold outward and display their abundance. Having lost the stillness of their original nature, people turn their attention outward and chase after things, like those who crave delicious food to satisfy their appetites or climb to high places to admire splendid scenery and delight their minds. Those who sink into pleasure drift ever farther from the Dao.

I alone am cautious, as though nothing has yet shown any sign, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.

The scripture says to return to the state of an infant. Zhuangzi also said, “Before an infant begins to smile, who can know what is in its heart?” An infant’s desires and thoughts have not yet arisen, and distinctions between those near and far from it are not yet clear. To lose this state is to drift farther and farther from the Dao.

I alone am cautious, as though nothing has yet shown any sign, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.

The scripture says to return to the state of an infant. Zhuangzi also said, “Before an infant begins to smile, who can know what is in its heart?” An infant’s desires and thoughts have not yet arisen; it regards those near and far from it alike. Caution, quiet, harmony, and ease gather within, while talent and brilliance do not show outwardly. Thus it is like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.

I follow the current of events, yet seem to have no fixed destination.

The Book of Changes says, “Respond to the time and harness the six dragons to govern the Way of Heaven.” The phrase “riding the current” means responding to the time and following the grain of things, without clinging to one side. Thus one appears to have no fixed destination.

Everyone else seems to have more than enough.

Someone asked whom “everyone” refers to. Those who pursue wealth and status and prize gain have strong impulses toward extravagance and indulgence, and little inclination toward restraint and frugality. They therefore always feel they do not possess enough. Daoists call this “surplus food and burdensome conduct.”

I alone seem to have nothing at all.

Though my achievements surpass all others, they seem not to be my own.

My mind is truly like that of a fool: simple and sincere.

Confucius said, “I spoke with Yan Hui for an entire day, and he never raised an objection; he seemed like a fool.” Such simplicity and sincerity arise because one’s inner nature does not flaunt itself, but silently accords with the Dao. This is what is called great wisdom.

People of the world seem clear-sighted; I alone seem dim. People of the world are sharp and discerning; I alone seem dull.

If one drifts along with the ways of the world, one takes showy cleverness for wisdom and constant calculation for intelligence. But such cleverness is shallow, and such wisdom lapses into contrivance. If one can let go of external things and is not led by worldly conventions, one may seem muddled yet hold to one’s own understanding, dull yet inwardly clear. How could worldly people see through such a person?

The mind is detached, deep and still like the sea, and the nature is settled. This is the complete expression of the Dao.

It is also like the wind, flowing and changing, as if it had no fixed place to remain. This is how the Dao works.

Everyone has something to rely on and something to put to use; I alone seem dull and unadorned.

The bark of the cassia tree can be eaten, so it is cut down; the sap of the lacquer tree can be used, so it is tapped. People know the benefits of what is useful, but do not know that what is useless also has its benefits. Everyone has something to rely on: this is the usefulness of useful things. I alone seem dull and unadorned: this is the usefulness of what is useless. The Commentary says, “When the mind does not follow the standards of virtue and righteousness, it is called stubborn.” In ancient times, people called cities refined and the countryside rustic. To be stubborn is not to make a show of cleverness; to be rustic is not to display splendor. For this reason, the spirit person does not seek to become useful material.

I alone differ from others: what I cherish is seeking nourishment from the mother.

An infant looks to its mother; a foal or calf follows its dam. What I seek is simply the Dao (the Way). The Dao gives rise to all things, sustains them, makes them grow, and nurtures them. All things depend on it, and this is what “mother” means. I seek only the Dao, and so differ from those who have lost their nature in worldly life.

The bearing of a person of profound De (Virtue/Power) nourishes all things. This is what “mother” means. I seek only the Dao, and so differ from those who have lost their nature in worldly life.

The Bearing of Profound De, Chapter 21

The bearing of a person of profound De follows only the Dao.

The alternating movement of Yin-Yang is called the Dao. When all things receive the Dao and come into being, this is called De. The Dao is eternally nameless; how could it be described by a particular form? De therefore makes the Dao’s workings visible. De takes on a particular form, and all things receive it from the Dao. By cultivating one’s nature and returning to De, one brings De to its utmost and becomes the same as the original state. That is why it is said to follow only the Dao.

The Dao, as something that exists, is indistinct and elusive.

The substance of the Dao is utterly empty, while its workings are subtle. All things take shape through it, so none are without the Dao within them. “Indistinct” suggests that there seems to be an image to compare it with; “elusive” suggests that there seems to be a quantity to infer. Yet what is called “something” is close to “nothing,” which is why it is said, “The Dao, as something that exists.”

Indistinct and elusive, and within it there seems to be an image; indistinct and elusive, and within it there seems to be a real thing.

When we speak of the Dao (the Way) as a thing, there is still nothing among the myriad things that does not come from it. “Vague” suggests that an image might just be discerned; “elusive” suggests that a trace might just be inferred. Yet what seems visible or inferable also appears close to being without form or trace. That is why the Dao is described as an existence so difficult to grasp.

Amid vagueness and elusiveness, images seem to appear; amid vagueness and elusiveness, concrete things seem to take shape. What appears is called an “image”; what has form is called a “thing.” In the Dao’s vague and elusive state, both images and things are already present. It is like thunder, lightning, and wind arising in the vast emptiness, or water and fire emerging from the earth. From these come the transformations of the myriad things and the movements of spirits and gods. This is the Dao’s mystery.

In the depths of obscurity, subtle Qi (vital energy) is contained. “Deep” means sunk to the furthest depths; “dark” means that light lies hidden within. In this deep state, the source of utmost Yin is concealed, and “Heaven’s One”—the root from which the Qi of water arises—is nurtured. From it, what is subtle and real comes forth.

This subtle Qi is real and not illusory; within it are reliable patterns. Its name has never vanished, from ancient times to the present. “Essence” is the state in which Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power) reaches its fullness: it is upright and free of falsehood, which is why it is called “most real.” It is single-minded and unchanging, which is why it contains “trustworthiness.” It has never ceased, and so its name endures.

By what can we examine the origins and transformations of the myriad things? How do I know why they are as they are? By means of this subtle, unchanging Dao.

The myriad things transform without cease, passing away day after day; the subtle and real Dao, however, remains forever and does not perish. Sages prize the subtle Dao, and so can observe the transformations of the myriad things and understand their causes. They do not rely on deliberate thought; they know the myriad things through this Dao.

The myriad things change day after day without end, while the subtle and real Dao remains forever and does not perish. Sages prize the subtle Dao, and so can observe the transformations of the myriad things and understand their causes. They do not think deliberately, yet remain still; they do not act deliberately, yet are undisturbed by external things. Once they respond to something, however, they can grasp the patterns of all things under Heaven. Thus thought and action begin, and their achievements become manifest. If not for the most subtle Dao under Heaven, who could do this?

Chapter 22: “Bent, Yet Whole”

To bend is, in the end, to remain whole.

By following the changes of external things and rising and falling along with others, one can preserve one’s body and life from harm. The Zhuangzi says, “Those who are outwardly accommodating can get along with others.”

To be humbled is, in the end, to become upright.

One does not resent being cast aside or grieve over hardship. The heart can therefore remain upright and true. The Book of Changes says, “The inchworm first bends its body so that it can stretch forward.”

To remain in a low place is, in the end, to be filled.

If you do not deliberately hoard things, you will have a surplus; when the old breaks down, the new can arise.

If things are not securely stored away in winter, growth will not flourish in spring.

Taking little can bring gain, while greed for more can lead to confusion. The essentials of the Dao (the Way) are simple and clear. It is better to gather what you have heard and seen, and grasp its key points. If you mistake the details for the foundation, you will never understand, even over a lifetime. This is called great delusion.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the One—that is, to single-mindedness and the Dao—and makes it the standard for all under Heaven. The Dao’s essence makes no distinctions, yet its power to generate the myriad things is unfathomable. Only the most subtle Dao can become the most wondrous power in all the world. The sage holds fast to the One and does not let the mind and spirit waver; thus, his words can serve as a standard for all under Heaven, and his actions as an example.

By not deliberately displaying himself, he can see clearly; by not being blinded by personal preconceptions, he can perceive things as they are.

By not insisting that he is right, he can make his merit shine. By not clinging to his own judgments, but following what is right and proper, he can accomplish great deeds and make his reputation known, winning the trust of all under Heaven.

By not boasting of his achievements, he can establish them. The Book of Documents says, “If you do not boast of your achievements, no one under Heaven can contend with you for merit.”

By not priding himself on his abilities, he can endure. The Book of Documents says, “If you do not rely on your abilities, no one under Heaven can contend with you in ability.”

Precisely because he does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with him. While others rush to the front, he alone is content to remain behind. This is called bearing the world’s disgrace. If he consistently takes a place where there is no contention, who could contend with him?

Were the ancients’ words “By yielding, one can remain whole” empty talk? Indeed, in the end, one will be kept whole.

The actions of a sage are like water: they accord with the circumstances of things without compromising their own integrity. His responses unfold along the lines of principle, like a carpenter’s ink line, without straying from the right path. He understands that low places can hold abundance, and so is not troubled by pride or self-satisfaction. He also understands that what has grown old and worn can be renewed, and so makes no show of boasting. He acts in accord with his nature, as though unaware that he is doing anything at all. It is enough to grasp the subtle turns in things. Thus he preserves himself and reaches the end of his allotted years, without feeling that he has deliberately sought longevity. Is this not what it means to be a person of perfected De (Virtue/Power)?

Chapter Twenty-Three: “Sparse Words Accord with Nature”

Few words accord with the Dao (the Way) of nature.

“Sparse” refers to a state that stands apart from all things and is not set in opposition to them. The “solitary in doubt” spoken of by Liezi also refers to this state. It means casting aside clever schemes and artificial contrivances, following the principles of Heaven, and not seeking outwardly to make things happen. Hence it is called natural.

A gale cannot blow for a whole morning, and a downpour cannot last an entire day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the power of Heaven and Earth cannot sustain a gale or downpour for long, how could a person do so?

Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things. The wind scatters them, allowing their many forms to change naturally; the rain nourishes them, enabling them to grow on their own. Thus Heaven and Earth do not deliberately add to life or hasten the growth of the myriad things. They develop naturally between Heaven and Earth and endure for a long time. Gales and downpours, by contrast, are signs that Yin-Yang is out of balance and its workings disrupted. Some force must drive them to arise, and the myriad things suffer harm as a result. That is why they cannot last.

Therefore, those who follow the Dao become one with the Dao; those who follow De become one with De; and those who stray from the right path become one with straying from the Dao. When one becomes one with the Dao, the Dao receives them; when one becomes one with De, De receives them; when one becomes one with straying from the Dao, straying from the Dao also receives them.

When one reaches the state of “the rarefied” (xī), with nothing deliberately done, there is no need to make anything happen. It appears in silence. Through awakening to one’s own nature, one becomes one with the Dao and is not entangled with external things. How could such a state be named “De,” or be burdened by losing anything? Only those who do not understand that all things change of themselves find the Dao difficult to understand and practice, as though it were as distant as the heavens. So some begin to pursue the Dao with great effort, exhausting both mind and body. Some cling to one side, while others confine themselves to a narrow corner. As a result, the arts of the Dao split apart and scattered throughout the world.

Those who accord with the Dao return to the Dao; those who accord with De return to De. Those who have lost Dao and De each return to their own loss. If one cannot calmly recognize what one has received, might that very gain become the cause of one’s loss?

When trust is insufficient, others will not believe.

One who truly believes makes no reckless distinctions. Once such distinctions are made, the Dao is treated as real and external things as illusory. This shows that one’s trust is not firm enough, and so distrust arises in its place. People like Hui Shi and Han Fei began with reasoned principles but later strayed far from them; the cause was insufficient faith.

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Lame Cannot Stand on Tiptoe

Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who take oversized strides cannot walk far.

Standing on tiptoe to appear taller and taking great strides to move quickly both go against the body’s natural way and forcefully seek ease. They are very difficult to sustain. Acting in accord with De is like moving at nature’s own pace: anyone with feet can reach the destination.

Those who show themselves off cannot see clearly; those who insist they are right cannot make themselves known. Those who boast have no merit, and those who are arrogant cannot endure. By the principles of the Dao, these acts are like leftover food and needless exertion.

When people think they see clearly, their wisdom is not enough to know all things fully, so they cannot be called truly wise. When people think they are right in every situation, their benevolence is not enough to bring them into accord with others, so their reputation cannot flourish. When people think they have done good, they lose what is truly good and so gain no merit. When they rely on their own abilities, they undermine their achievements and so cannot endure.

The Dao (the Way) takes depth and distance as its foundation and simplicity as its guiding principle. How could a haughty bearing and an unrestrained will accord with the Dao? Such things are excess in eating and a burden in conduct. All things may well detest them, so one who follows the Dao does not act this way.

When one’s nature is indulged too far, it leads to fullness. Fullness is what Heaven seeks to diminish, what Earth seeks to alter, and what people detest. Therefore, one who follows the Dao does not act this way.

Chapter Twenty-Five: “There Was a Being, Formed in Wholeness”

There was a being, whole and undivided, that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape.

It was made up of Qi (vital energy), form, and substance, yet these had not yet separated from one another. It was called “the undifferentiated whole.” Within this whole, nothing was diminished. This is what the Book of Changes calls the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). Heaven and Earth also took shape by relying on it, so it is said to have been born before them. Yet although it can bring forth and transform the myriad things, it is not the mysterious source that itself is “unborn”; hence it is called a “being.”

Still and empty,

It is still and empty, with no movement and no contact with external things; it simply exists in clear and tranquil stillness.

Standing alone, it never changes,

It preserves itself through profound stillness and does not change with external things. This describes the Dao’s essence.

Circulating and flowing, it never ceases,

It exerts its function, coming and going without end. This describes the Dao’s operation.

It can become the source of all things under Heaven.

All things depend on it for their existence.

I do not know what it was originally called, so I call it “Dao.” If I must give it another name, I call it “Great.”

Only after things come into being do they take on form; once they have form, they multiply and change; and after multiplying and changing, they can be counted. Names arise from concrete things, and each concrete thing has its own number. “Designation” simply refers to things according to how they multiply and change. The Dao ordinarily has no name, so it is called “Great.” “Great” is a name in contrast to “small”: the Dao’s mystery is minute and hidden, but when the Dao manifests within it, it is vast and conspicuous.

“Great” does refer to something. The word “name” merely serves to explain and extend its meaning. The Dao has no fixed name, so the word “Great” is used to name it. “Great” is relative to “small,” and so the Dao can be named in this way. The Dao’s wondrous subtlety is deep and fine, so it is called “small”; its fundamental substance is vast and manifest, so it is called “great.”

When greatness reaches its utmost, it moves without ceasing and flows on without end.

Moving without ceasing and flowing on without end, it appears distant and vast.

Though distant and vast, it eventually returns.

Returning to the root is called “stillness.” In stillness, it returns to its original nature; this is called “returning.” It is only when speaking of the Dao’s fundamental substance that we call it “great”: it extends everywhere, covers and contains the myriad things, and undergoes no change. To call it “distant” is to say that its movement has no bounds. Movement returns to stillness, activity gives way to rest, and the cycle returns again and again to the Dao without departing from its nature. This is like what the Yijing says: seen from nearby, it is quiet and upright.

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great.

The Dao covers and supports Heaven and Earth. Heaven covers everything; Earth bears everything. The king stands between Heaven and Earth, alongside them, and is therefore also called great.

Within the cosmos there are four great things, and the king is one of them.

From the Dao downward, specific directions and forms come into being; this is why it is called “within the realm.” By remaining still, one becomes a sage; by acting, one becomes a king. One who can comprehend the ways of Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—can become a king. Thus the king shares the Dao’s substance and the efficacy of Heaven and Earth; all are called “great.”

Humanity models itself on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on what is natural.

Here, “humanity” refers to the king. Heaven does not produce things deliberately, yet the myriad things arise of themselves. Earth does not make things grow deliberately, yet the myriad things are nourished. The emperor governs through Wuwei (non-action), yet the affairs of the world are accomplished. The king performs the same function as Heaven and Earth, and models himself only on the Dao’s naturalness.

Humanity models itself on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on what is natural.

Here, “humanity” refers to the king. Heaven does not produce things deliberately, yet the myriad things arise of themselves. Earth does not make things grow deliberately, yet the myriad things are nourished. The emperor governs through Wuwei (non-action), yet the affairs of the world are accomplished. The king models himself only on the Dao’s naturalness. The Dao models itself on what is natural because it responds in accord with the myriad things. Naturalness is not the whole of the Dao; it is when the Dao manifests and responds to the myriad things that it becomes something to be modeled.

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Heavy Is the Root of the Light

The heavy is the root of the light; stillness is the master of agitation. Therefore, the noble person, even when traveling all day, does not leave the carriage carrying the baggage.

Weightiness keeps one from being easily shaken or carried off; it is the foundation of lightness. A tranquil mind does not act recklessly and knows restraint, so it governs agitation. By holding to oneself through calm and steadiness, one makes few mistakes. A gentleman, traveling all day, never leaves his baggage cart; thus, even on a dangerous road, he meets with no harm.

Even when splendid sights appear before him, he is not shaken and does not abandon his integrity; this is the foundation of lightness. A tranquil mind does not act recklessly and knows restraint, so it governs agitation. By holding to oneself through calm and steadiness, one makes few mistakes. A gentleman, traveling all day, never leaves his baggage cart; thus, even on a dangerous road, he meets with no harm.

Even amid splendid sights, he remains at ease and dwells in contented detachment.

Splendid sights belong to external things, while dwelling at ease concerns oneself. Only when one’s own person is settled can one truly enjoy external things.

As ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots, how can one treat the world lightly?

The world is a matter of great importance. Those who bear such a weighty responsibility must be as cautious as if they were driving six horses with a rotten rope. They cannot treat the world lightly.

Lightness makes one lose the support of one’s ministers; agitation makes one lose the authority befitting a ruler.

Without steadiness, one has no dignity and so loses the ministers’ support. To demand that others follow without first taking the lead is to exceed one’s proper station, and so one loses the position of ruler.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Skillful Conduct

One skilled at walking leaves no wheel tracks or footprints.

What he leaves behind is the Dao’s mysterious workings; wherever he passes, things transform of themselves, and so he leaves no trace.

One skilled at speaking leaves no grounds for blame or reproach.

His words accord with the natural limits of things and unfold in step with their changes, so there is nothing to criticize. The subtlety of words and deeds begins with thought and planning, yet ultimately brings about transformation. Only a sage is skilled in words and deeds, able to let them nourish and transform all things; thus, no trace is left.

One skilled at speaking leaves no grounds for blame or reproach.

His words accord with the natural limits of things and unfold in step with their changes, so there is nothing to criticize. The subtlety of words and deeds begins with thought and planning, yet ultimately brings about transformation. Only a sage can be skilled in words and deeds and bring about their wondrous effects. Thus, his actions leave no trace to follow, and his words contain no fault that can ensnare him.

One skilled at planning uses no counting rods or calculations.

When one understands the unity of the Dao, all things become clear; how much more so when the Dao itself does not depend on counting? Thus, without calculation, one can see the myriad transformations as clearly as counting one and two.

One skilled at closing a gate uses no bar or lock, yet no one can open it.

He closes off the outer passages, guards the spirit, and withdraws into a deep and hidden place.

One skilled at tying knots uses no rope to bind, yet no one can untie them.

It is secure only because it is bound with ropes; in truth, this damages things’ original nature. Some people can bring calm and harmony to others without speaking. Simply standing and living alongside them, they can influence others naturally. In this way, nothing needs to be restrained, yet everything remains at peace. Who, then, could make it fall apart?

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is cast aside. The sage is always skilled at treating things well, and so nothing is cast aside.

“Goodness” is a continuation of the Dao (the Way). When one is wholly in accord with the Dao, there is no “goodness” to name. Once goodness is given a name, the Dao becomes manifest, and goodness is used to teach and transform the world. The sage understands the Great Dao and uses it to aid all under Heaven. Thus the sage practices these five kinds of goodness, so that neither people nor things are cast aside. Yet the sage cherishes people and benefits all things, allowing each thing to live out its life and people to enjoy their original nature, not through deliberate arrangements, but by returning to simplicity, ceasing to act willfully, and following things as they are.

When the world loses the Dao, people everywhere lose their original nature of calm, quiet, and constancy, and gradually sink into sorrow and hardship. If not the sage, who could help them? The sage simply follows things as they are. This is called “adhering to the light”: without displaying sound or color, one naturally gives forth light; though the light is present, it does not dazzle.

Thus, the good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is also a lesson for the good person. “A lesson” means there is something in it worth learning: it is precisely because what is not good exists that people recognize the value of goodness.

If teachers are not respected and lessons are not treasured, people under Heaven may know that goodness should be treated as good, but distinctions and attachments have already arisen. If both goodness and its opposite are forgotten, and the mind holds no preference, what is there to revere or treasure? This is the state in which the sage is completely at one with all things.

Even the clever may appear lost. This is the essential, subtle principle.

“Knowing the Masculine,” Chapter Twenty-Eight: Know the strong side, yet remain with the weak, and you can become the gathering place of all under Heaven. As the gathering place of all under Heaven, constant De (Virtue/Power) will never depart, and you will return to the childlike state of simplicity.

The strong are capable because they overcome all things; the weak are simply gentle and quiet. The sage is wise and knows how to overcome all things, yet remains gentle and quiet. All things come to the sage and depend on him as they grow, yet he does not hinder them. He remains in the childlike state of simplicity.

The masculine is firm and strong, overcoming all things through its power; the feminine is yielding and still, and that is all. The sage understands how to overcome all things, yet willingly takes the place of yielding stillness. All things turn toward him and receive nourishment from him without being exhausted, so he is like a streambed beneath heaven. The streambed lies low, and the waters flow together there. The sage does not rely on strength to uphold himself, but holds himself in humility. Thus De and one’s original nature remain joined and are never separated; this is called “complete De.” So it is said: when constant De is never lost, one can return to the state of an infant. An infant’s breathing is calm and unagitated, and its nature is simple and still undispersed. Mencius said, “The truly great person does not lose the heart of an infant.”

Understand what is manifest, yet hold to what is hidden: then you can become a model for all under heaven. As a model for all under heaven, constant De will not assert itself, and in the end you return to the Non-Polar (the state without boundaries or fixed limits).

“White” is used as a metaphor for De brought into view; “black” is used as a metaphor for returning to the Dao. The sage makes his luminous De visible while silently aligning himself with the Dao, without the slightest flaw, and so people throughout the world take him as their standard. They gladly follow and honor him without tiring of him, so he becomes a model for all under heaven. He is upright and does not act recklessly; his trustworthiness is like the turning of the four seasons and never errs. Such a person cannot be exhausted or brought to an end. Thus it is said: constant De does not assert itself, but returns to the Non-Polar. The Book of Documents, in “The Great Plan,” discusses the kingly way and says “return to the Established Limit”; Laozi, speaking of becoming a model for all under heaven, says “return to the Non-Polar.” Here, “limit” means a standard or measure. “Established Limit” refers to De expressed in concrete affairs, with centrality and correctness as the highest standard. “Non-Polar” refers to De returning to the Dao, which cannot be attained or exhausted by any finite standard.

Understand what is glorious, yet hold to the place of disgrace: then you can become the valley of all under heaven. As the valley of all under heaven, constant De is fulfilled, and in the end you return to the Uncarved (the original state, untouched by carving).

Apart from people’s innate nature and life, everything else is an external thing. People in the world regard gaining as honor and losing as shame; they regard abundance and ease as honor, and poverty and frugality as shame. Only the sage sees honor and shame as equal, without a mind that chooses one and rejects the other. Yet if one is intent on avoiding extravagance and takes frugality as one’s rule, one has only achieved inner emptiness and stillness. This is why one can be like the valley of the world.

The valley is empty and can contain all things. It responds to them, yet does not claim them as its own. When De reaches this state, it is already complete and nothing can add to it. Thus it is said, “Constant De is sufficient.” “The uncarved block” refers to the complete substance of the Dao; only by returning to the uncarved block can one possess the Dao in its completeness. “Orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy” are names people consider bad, yet lords and princes use them to refer to themselves. If they can hold fast to simplicity, the people of the world will rally to them.

When the uncarved block is broken apart, it becomes the various vessels.

What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel. Vessels have definite shapes and names, each with its own function and limits. The Dao, by contrast, is whole and undivided: Heaven and humanity are united as one. Vessels, however, are differentiated, and through them Heaven and humanity become two separate sides.

The sage uses the Dao in its wholeness to cultivate himself, and uses the particular things into which the Dao has differentiated to govern the world. Things have discernible forms and each has its own function to uphold. The sage therefore assigns responsibilities and directs those under him, bringing order to the world. This is what is meant by “officials and their chiefs.” The Book of Changes says, “To know what is hidden and what is manifest, what is yielding and what is firm, is to be looked up to by the many.” Its meaning is the same as this.

Therefore, one who is skilled at governing the world does not divide things apart.

The sage adapts to change to regulate things, shaping the forms of the myriad beings without priding himself on artifice.

“When One Seeks to…” (Chapter 29)

One who seeks to take possession of the world and deliberately govern it—I see that, in the end, he cannot succeed.

The world is a vast thing. One who possesses such a vast thing should not simply display his skill.

“When One Seeks to…” (Chapter 29)

One who seeks to take possession of the world and deliberately govern it—I see that, in the end, he cannot succeed.

The world is the greatest of all things. One who possesses the world must not treat himself as an ordinary thing. Only by accommodating all things without being ruled by them can he govern them. One who understands that governing all things means remaining unconfined by them, and who neither claims the world as his own nor forces his will upon it, may be entrusted with the world. If one tries to obtain the world through personal will, one will rely on clever schemes and strength, and end up far from success. Thus the sage lets the Great Dao nurture and transform all things, and does not prize cleverness or force. The Qin dynasty lost the world by showing off its strength; perhaps this is just the sort of case meant here.

The world is a vessel of mysterious, unfathomable power.

The world is constrained by form and the course of Qi, limited by direction and shape, and held between Heaven and Earth, which cover and support it. In this sense, it is still a “vessel.” Yet it also stands in a realm beyond knowing, and its movement has no fixed bounds. Those who force their actions will fail; those who insist on holding it will lose it. That is why it is called the “mysterious vessel.”

One must not force action.

To govern all things and direct the people, one must be someone who is not confined by external things; only then can the world be brought to peace and harmony. Thus, those in positions of authority must practice Wuwei (non-action) in order to govern the world.

Intentional action leads to failure.

If one knows only how to act and not how to practice Wuwei, one’s ingenuity will be limited. Zhuangzi said, “Excessive knowledge brings failure.”

Insisting on holding on leads to loss.

The Dao values responding to the right moment. If one clings to what is fixed and unchanging, refusing to adapt to changing circumstances, one will miss the time to act. This is a departure from the Dao.

Thus, among all things, some advance and some follow; some exhale and some inhale; some grow strong and some decline; some rise and some fall.

The transformations of all things are like the sun and moon coming and going, the seasons turning, the waxing and waning of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and the growth and withering of plants and trees. All things are governed by circumstances and the course of Qi, and cannot avoid being entangled by them. Only the sage is not constrained by external things and can stand above all things. Coming and going alone, free from constraint—this is called “being alone.” One who reaches this state is the most exalted of all. Thus, he can use the world, this mysterious vessel, with ease and composure. The states of all things differ, but his heart remains settled and constant.

Therefore, the sage dispenses with extremes, extravagance, and excess.

The sage sees that all things are constantly changing and understands that complacency and vanity bring many burdens. So the sage does not deliberately seek the benefits of preserving life, indulge the nature, or crave the utmost, but rests at ease within proper bounds. How, then, could there be reckless acts leading to failure, or clinging that brings loss? For this reason, elaborate ornament and outward embellishment do not help govern.

Those who assist a ruler in governing the world should likewise understand that complacency and vanity bring many burdens. So they do not deliberately seek the benefits of preserving life, indulge the nature, or crave the utmost, but act within proper bounds. How, then, could reckless acts lead to failure, or clinging bring loss? For this reason, elaborate ornament and outward embellishment do not help govern.

Assisting the Ruler with the Dao (Chapter 30)

Those who assist a ruler with the Dao (the Way) do not use military force to dominate the world.

The use of armies and weapons is a lesser means of governing through De (Virtue/Power). It is called lesser because, although the ancients sometimes used military force, they did not make it their first resort. Those who assist a ruler with the Dao focus on what is fundamental; therefore, they do not use force to dominate the world.

The consequences of war often come back upon those who start it.

This is like what Mencius said: how you treat others is how they will treat you in return.

Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow thick; after a great war, years of famine inevitably follow.

This is because war takes the people’s labor, leaving fields overgrown with brambles. Rulers who go against the seasons thereby bring famine upon themselves. The Book of Odes says, “May the lands of the world be at peace, and may the harvest be abundant year after year.” When the world is at peace, people live in harmony; when people’s hearts are harmonious, the harmony of Heaven and Earth responds in turn.

Therefore, those skilled in warfare seek only to achieve what is necessary and dare not use force to show their strength.

They strive to act appropriately and to bring their work to completion, achieving much with little effort. This is the way the sage acts. Overcoming others through brute force is an inauspicious expression of De. Whether an army can win depends on whether it has the people’s support, not on the size of its forces. It seeks only to achieve what is necessary and dares not use force to show its strength.

They achieve results without boasting, without showing off, and without becoming arrogant. They act only when there is no alternative, and once they have achieved their aim, they do not use their power to dominate.

A case such as “green through necessity” reflects the principles by which the sage follows the Dao: he handles affairs by means of the balanced and upright Way, and so meets with good fortune and commits no errors. He responds only when there is no other choice, seeking only to bring matters to completion. One who boasts of himself cannot endure; one who boasts of his achievements has no merit; and one who considers himself superior has nothing worthy of praise. By understanding these four points, one can achieve results without forcing them.

When things reach the height of their strength, they turn toward decline. This can be seen in the changing seasons: summer brings growth, while autumn brings death and withering.

This is called being contrary to the Dao. The Dao has neither end nor beginning, and does not change along with the transformations of the myriad things. Once one departs from the Dao, distinct stages arise in which strength gives way to decline; therefore, one cannot endure.

Chapter Thirty: On the Use of Arms

Excellent weapons are inauspicious instruments, often loathed by the myriad things. Therefore, one who has the Dao does not make them a customary possession.

Auspicious things bring good omens, but weapons are instruments of ill fortune, and so are called inauspicious. Armies are kept in check in ordinary times and set in motion only when circumstances require it. One who has the Dao gives prominence to De, rather than displaying military force, and so does not make the use of arms a customary practice.

Therefore, when a gentleman is at peace, he honors the left; when he commands troops, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a gentleman values.

The left belongs to Yang and governs life; the right belongs to Yin and governs death. Yang symbolizes De, while Yin symbolizes punishment and killing. A gentleman values De and regards punishment with caution. That is why weapons are not instruments he values.

When there is no choice but to use arms, the best course is to remain calm and detached. Thus, using arms is not a fine thing. If one regards it as fine, one will delight in using arms; to delight in using arms is to delight in killing people.

Those who delight in killing people cannot achieve their wish to govern the world.

If a ruler cherishes benevolence, the world will not fall into disorder. Only when circumstances leave no alternative should he deploy troops. With no desire to win or subdue all things, and by remaining calm and detached, he will not treat the use of arms as a pleasure, nor regard it as a fine thing. Those who delight in killing people cannot achieve their wish to govern the world.

When a ruler honors benevolence and virtue, nothing in the world can stand against him. But if he takes danger for safety, disaster for benefit, and delights in what will bring about his downfall, resentment will gather around him and calamities will follow.

In auspicious matters, the left is honored; in funerals and mourning, the right is honored. Thus the deputy general stands on the left, and the supreme general on the right. This means that one who holds the position of commander should regard warfare as a funeral rite. When many people have been killed, one must mourn them in grief; even victory should be treated as a funeral.

The Book of Changes (the Zhouyi) compares warfare to something that brings poison upon the world. Even when a battle is won, some people suffer harm as a result. Therefore, holding the position of commander or winning a war should both be approached with the solemnity of mourning.

Chapter 32: The Dao Is Ever Nameless

The Dao is ever without a fixed name.

The Dao is the beginning of Heaven and Earth and of all things. How could a name define it?

The “uncarved block”—an unworked piece of wood, used as a metaphor for the Dao in its original wholeness—may seem insignificant, yet nothing in the world can make it submit. The uncarved block represents the Dao’s complete essence. Once the Dao appears in a concrete form and acquires a name, the great can rule the small; yet the Dao’s essence has not departed from the nature of things. Though things are small and distinct from one another, as Zhuangzi says, within each of the myriad things there is a true master.

If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will naturally come to them. The Dao is sufficient to be master of all things, and they will willingly submit to it. Zhuangzi says that when simplicity is preserved, the people’s nature can be at peace. Governing all things without resorting to force or punishment is more or less what this means.

When the Yin-Yang Qi of Heaven and Earth commingles, sweet dew descends. No one commands it to do so, yet it spreads evenly of its own accord.

Holding to the Dao of simplicity without losing it is only one aspect of the myriad things’ natural return. The Dao reaches upward to Heaven and spreads downward across the Earth; it is in accord with the movements of Heaven and Earth, harmonizes the Yin-Yang, and nourishes all things. Sweet dew forms when the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth condenses. The Commentary says: “When an emperor’s virtue reaches upward to the Great Clarity, the lofty and lucid realm of Heaven, and downward to the tranquil places of Earth, and resonates with the spirits of the myriad kinds, sweet dew descends.”

When things begin to take shape, names arise along with them. Once names have arisen, one must know when to stop. Knowing where to stop makes it possible to avoid danger.

The Dao’s course unfolds through five transformations before forms and names are established. Once a form can be named, the Dao begins to decline, and simplicity and natural integrity fade with it. Those who know where to stop will not fall into danger.

The Dao’s course unfolds through five transformations before forms and names are established. Once a form can be named, the Dao begins to decline, and simplicity and natural integrity gradually fade away, with no one able to stop it. Some people in the world worry about the troubles of the age, yet their vision is dim and unclear. Others, unkind by nature, turn away from their innate nature and the truth of life, blindly craving wealth and status. The sage is not like this. Even when institutions of rank and distinction are first established, the sage is not shaken by changes in external things. Calm and detached within, self-sufficient and steadfast, who could lead such a person into danger? Thus it is said: those who know where to stop will not be in danger.

It is like the Dao moving through the world: just as rivers and streams from every place flow into the great sea.

All things under Heaven share the same nature. The Dao moves through the world because all things accord with it through their own nature. This is like rivers and streams flowing together into the great sea: they are all gathered water. Things that are alike fit together, and things of the same kind respond to one another. What more does the sage do in governing the world? Only follow the nature of all things.

Chapter 33: Knowing Others Is Wisdom

Those who understand other people are wise.

The Commentary says: Wisdom is like the eye. It can see things a hundred paces away, yet cannot see its own eyelashes. Discerning what is right and wrong in others, as clearly as distinguishing black from white, is the wisdom of understanding other people.

Those who understand themselves are truly clear-sighted.

The Changes (Zhouyi) says that the meaning of the Return hexagram is to return and then know oneself. The Commentary says that looking inward at oneself is called “clarity.” Using wisdom to understand others makes it easy to become entangled with the outside world, and the mind grows increasingly troubled. Turning back to know oneself means becoming still, returning to one’s source, and seeing oneself directly. This is like the mirror of Heaven and Earth, which reflects all things.

To overcome others is to have strength; to conquer oneself is to be truly powerful.

One who has truly attained the realm of the Dao honors De (Virtue/Power) rather than force. He devotes himself to overcoming himself and does not seek to surpass others. The clever pretend to be dull, and the brave appear timid: these are ways of surpassing others, and they rely on strength. Overcoming one’s selfish desires, cultivating body and mind with an upright heart, and suffering no harm—this is overcoming oneself. In public service, one stands firm and unafraid; in private life, one adapts to the course of events without becoming troubled. Wherever one may be, one does not lose one’s place. This is what it means to be strong.

Those who know contentment are wealthy.

All things differ from one another, and so the world is called abundant. Those who know contentment turn their attention inward and find fulfillment within themselves. They believe that the principles of all things are already present in them, including the wealth of the state.

Those who persevere and continually strengthen themselves have resolve.

To strengthen oneself without ceasing is to set one’s resolve on the Dao.

Those who do not lose their foundation can endure.

They establish themselves firmly and do not change their principles, so they can remain on the Dao for the long term. Those who change with the times and are carried along by external things can last only for a while.

Only those whose spirit does not perish when the body dies can be called long-lived.

Life has a source from which it emerges, and death has a place to which it returns. By tracing the beginning and end of things, one can understand the principle of life and death. The sage understands the pattern of day giving way to night and knows that death and life are, in their essence, no different. So although the body changes, the spirit does not perish. It endures alongside Heaven and Earth, and no one knows its ultimate end. How could this not be called long life?

This chapter begins with understanding other people, then proceeds to probe the principles of things. It takes contentment as its middle stage and goes on to fulfill one’s nature. Finally, it speaks of the spirit’s imperishability, through which one comprehends Heaven’s mandate. In this way, the workings of creation are brought within one’s own grasp. Who could accomplish this without rising beyond the past and present and entering a realm beyond birth and death?

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Great Dao Flows Everywhere

The Great Dao flows broadly, reaching through every place on the left and the right.

The Great Dao is boundless and has no fixed constraints. Thus, whether in motion or at rest, it never departs from its constant course; its circulation has no end. Whether to the left or to the right, it is applicable everywhere.

All things depend on the Dao for their life, yet the Dao does not refuse them. When their work is complete, it does not claim ownership of their achievements.

Those in the past received help from the Dao, and those who seek it can also be fulfilled by the Dao. The myriad things form and change naturally, each exercising its own wisdom and power; the Dao, however, takes no credit. It is like the four seasons: once they have brought the myriad things to fruition, they withdraw.

The Dao nurtures the myriad things but does not rule over them. It is therefore often free of private desire and may be said to seem small. The myriad things all return to the Dao, yet do not know who rules over them; in this sense, it may be said to seem vast.

When the Dao belongs to what is deep and hidden, it seems small and distinct from particular things. When it appears amid endless change, it seems vast and interacts with the myriad things. Because the Dao is distinct from particular things, it always reveals an aspect of stillness and freedom from desire. Because it interacts with the myriad things, they all return to it. The Dao covers and nourishes the myriad things without displaying its merit in ruling them, and so it does not act as their ruler. It sets the myriad things in motion, yet no one can see where they ultimately return; thus the myriad things, too, do not know who rules over them. The Dao itself cannot be named as either small or great. What we call small or great is simply how the Dao appears as it acts upon the myriad things.

Therefore, the sage never regards himself as great, and for that very reason is able to accomplish true greatness.