《宋徽宗道德真经解义(章安)》

I have heard that principle cannot be made clear without words, and words cannot carry principle unless they are set down in a classic. The Great Dao cannot spread because the classic has not been circulated; the classic cannot be understood because its central meaning has not been clarified.

In the final years of the Zhou dynasty, the Great Dao declined, and De (Virtue/Power) grew correspondingly thin. The various masters arose in succession, each clinging to a different doctrine and founding a school of their own. Their words were clever and their arguments abstruse, yet they often fell short of probing the truth of things. They praised one another, gradually drifting into falsehood. Some claimed that floating stones sink while wooden logs do not, recklessly promoting heterodox teachings. They caused people to lose their innate nature and life, leaving them immersed in confusion and unable to recover.

Laozi set down five thousand words to illuminate the constant Dao and De. His aim was to lead people to abandon ornate learning, return to simplicity, restore Wuwei (non-action), and maintain stillness and purity. This is the classic that carries the Great Dao. Yet the words of the Daodejing are concise and its meaning profound: the more one investigates it, the more far-reaching it seems; the more one tries to fathom it, the more unfathomable it becomes. Without an understanding that penetrates the mysteries, it may be difficult to explain its essential meaning. For this reason, the classic is difficult to make clear.

The emperor was born with exceptional wisdom and received from Heaven a sacred endowment. He did not stop at understanding profound and subtle teachings and principles, but truly put them into practice. He set down his insights in writings composed by the emperor and compiled them into a work. Although a thousand years separated him from Laozi, the emperor’s words accorded with Laozi’s and clearly expounded the wondrous Dao, constant and true. Thus this Jing was able to be passed down, its central teaching made clear, and the Dao put into practice.

Your servant was fortunate to encounter this auspicious occasion. I reverently observed purification, cleansed my mind of distractions, and focused my spirit as I respectfully read the emperor’s writings and considered their principles in depth. I had been ignorant and unclear, but after reading them I suddenly saw the light, as though I had grasped something. Unable to restrain myself, I used my limited understanding to expound upon them in accordance with the emperor’s instruction, compiling my explanations in ten scrolls under the title Explanatory Commentary.

My understanding is as narrow and lowly as a frog’s in a well, unable to comprehend lofty realms; it is also like the faint light of a candle, quite incapable of adding to the radiance of the sun and moon. Yet the Dao’s transformative teaching spreads far and wide. Even someone as insignificant as I can thereby describe the wondrous way Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things, illuminate the fundamental achievements of sagely governance, and reveal the vast reach of Dao’s transformative power. If even one part in ten thousand of my work should be adopted, that would be my good fortune. It would also let people in the world and generations to come know that, in an age of peace and prosperity, words are not discarded because their speaker holds a low position. They would see how the classics are transmitted and how the Dao is put into practice. Is this not a fine thing?

Your servant Zhang An respectfully writes this preface.

Explanatory Commentary on the Dao De Jing by Emperor Huizong of Song, Volume One

Explanatory commentary written by Zhang An, a Court Gentleman for Service (an official rank)

Dao Section

The imperial commentary says: “The Dao (the Way) is the fundamental principle that all people follow in common; De (Virtue) is the quality that people naturally experience inwardly and uphold. The Dao endures through the ages without decline, while De is a virtue that fills human nature and remains constant.

Laojun (Laozi) lived at the end of the Zhou dynasty, when the influence of the Dao had waned and De was gradually fading. He therefore wrote ninety-nine chapters to explain the enduring principles of the Dao and De, and called the work a Jing (classic). Its words are concise and its meaning profound; its value does not fade as times change. Those who study it should reflect on it attentively and investigate its principles in depth.”

I, your subject, believe that at the beginning of all things there was a “Nothing” that belonged neither to what exists nor to the nameless. We can only reluctantly call it the Dao. Before the “One” had taken visible form, all things had already received life from it; this is called De. The Dao has no name of its own. It is called “Dao” only because it is the root that all people follow together. De is something attained naturally. It is called “De” because all beings endowed with awareness receive it together.

The Dao is vast and boundless, empty, still, and clear, and it exists forever. It has no fixed form, yet is subtle and real. It transcends the distinctions between existence and nonexistence and dissolves the boundaries between one thing and another. Wherever it takes form, there is its substance; wherever it acts, there is its function. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, neither lies beyond the Dao’s reach. Even a fine autumn hair depends on the Dao to take shape. The ending and beginning, arising and vanishing of all things all come from the Dao; hence it is called the Dao.

When people examine their own nature, they see that it borrows nothing from external things and is not changed by them. Deeply still and settled, it is not moved by anything outside. Their nature has never been obscured or diminished, and it does not chase after external things. When mind and nature are fully joined, untroubled by gain or loss, this is called De. The Dao has no fixed form and is therefore untouched by change; it does not decline through the ages. De abides within oneself and so depends on nothing external. It fills a person’s nature and enables it to endure.

After the Zhou dynasty declined and the excesses of ornamentation took hold, people throughout the realm pursued trivialities, flaunted their cleverness, and pushed benevolence and righteousness to extremes. Their originally simple nature was gradually carved and polished, leaving them unable to see clearly and perceive what was true on their own. They sank into honor and disgrace and wavered between likes and dislikes. They even harmed their nature with artificial judgments and damaged their life nature with man-made customs. How, then, could they speak of the Dao and De?

Thus the Old Lord, Laozi, wrote nine chapters, urging people to abandon shallow learning and return to simplicity, restore the root of the Dao, deepen their foundation, and return to the distant Great Beginning—the state from which all things first arose. He used “Dao” to explain the constant root and discuss the source of Heaven, Earth, and all things. He also examined the constant principles of “being” and “nonbeing” to observe the subtlest mysteries within change. To return to one’s life nature is to perceive the spirit; to understand how to bring things into harmony is to preserve and nourish essence and vital energy. The Dao is constant and returns to namelessness; De is constant and returns to simplicity. All this explains the constancy of the Dao and De.

What is constant and unchanging is called a “Jing” (classic); what runs across and through, moving back and forth, is called a “Wei”—the principles of change. A Jing has a settled root and carries the sense of what is constant and enduring. Words express meaning, while the central intent is conveyed through those words. This text records teachings about the Dao, so its wording is concise and precise; it conveys the intent of the Dao, so its meaning is far-reaching and clear.

The Dao cannot be transmitted through words alone, nor explained through intent alone. Those who seek it only in written characters and spoken phrases will never truly attain it. Yet if words are set aside altogether, the Dao cannot be described. Only those who deeply accord with the Dao can grasp what lies beyond words and intent, unite with the beginning, and return to what is real and constant. Thus it is said that one must understand in silence and penetrate deeply. The Dao is not something that those who seek it deliberately can distance themselves from, nor something that those without intention can draw near to. To understand in silence and penetrate deeply is to be in union with the Dao.

The “Dao” that can be spoken is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the “name” that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name.

The Imperial Commentary says: “The Dao has existed since before any beginning and cannot be explained in words. Once spoken, it is no longer the Dao itself. Nor should the Dao be named. Things that can be described and named, like the myriad things and the four seasons, change with the times: they rise and decline, and are not constant. The truly constant Dao and name are rooted in themselves. They existed before Heaven and Earth took shape and have never ceased, from ancient times to the present. Fuxi, the legendary ruler of high antiquity, attained the Dao and thereby received the source from which the myriad things come into being and change. The Queen Mother of the West, an immortal in Daoist legend, attained the Dao and sat peacefully in the land of Shaoguang. The Dao has no known beginning and no known end.”

Minister Yi’s explanation says: The Dao is utterly empty, yet contains all the real things under Heaven without revealing distinctions among them; for this reason, it cannot be described by any concrete form. The Dao is utterly still. Though all things under Heaven are in motion, it is not drawn along by their disorder; for this reason, it cannot be defined by a fixed direction or name. The Dao cannot be spoken of; what language and sound can convey is only a rough remnant of it. The Dao cannot be named; what falls within the bounds of concrete forms and objects is only a means or clue for knowing it.

Whatever can be described and named belongs to the realm of concrete existence. Like the myriad things, such things continually replace the old with the new and rise and decline without end. Like the four seasons, they cycle and change without cease. They shift with circumstances and principles, each serving its own purpose. How could any of them be truly constant?

The subtle, constant Dao does not decline before Heaven and Earth, nor is it exhausted after them. It is deep and mysterious, and can only be understood inwardly. How could it be expressed in sound? Fuxi attained the Dao and received the source from which the myriad things come into being and change. We may say that he recognized the things brought forth by the Dao while holding fast to their source; thus he grasped the Dao’s essence. This is the constant Dao. The Queen Mother of the West attained the Dao and sat peacefully in Shaoguang. We may say that she mastered the Dao’s source and understood the myriad things it manifests; thus she accorded with the Dao’s function. This is the constant name. The constant Dao and name are rooted in themselves and existed before Heaven and Earth appeared. Since this is so, how could they be measured by the old and the new, or by beginning and end? Hence it is said that no one knows when the Dao will end.

“Nameless” describes the state in which Heaven and Earth first began to take shape; “having a name” is the source from which the myriad things grow.

The Imperial Commentary says that the Dao has never had a fixed name, and that Heaven and Earth came into being by relying on the Dao. This is what Zhuangzi means by saying, “The Dao gave birth to Heaven and gave birth to Earth.” Before Heaven and Earth appeared, who could have named them? Hence “nameless” is called the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Only after Heaven and Earth took shape could the myriad things gradually grow, so “having a name” is the mother of the myriad things.

The Minister’s Commentary explains that at the time of the Great Beginning there was “nothing”: no concrete things and no names. Thus “nameless” refers to the beginning of Qi, and because Heaven and Earth came into being by relying on the Dao, it is called their beginning. Once “One” appeared, names and categories came into being. From One came Two, from Two came Three, and from Three the myriad things were born. Thus “having a name” is the beginning of number. The myriad things took shape by relying on the Dao, so it is called their mother. In terms of Qi’s beginning, it is called “beginning”; in terms of its ceaseless generation of the myriad things, it is called “mother.”

To remain constantly in the state of “nothing” is to observe the Dao’s subtle essence; to remain constantly in the state of “being” is to observe the boundaries and signs through which things appear.

The Imperial Commentary quotes Zhuangzi’s phrase, “Take constant nothing and being as your foundation.” To establish no particular thing is called “constant nothing”; to discard no thing is called “constant being.” “Constant nothing” belongs to the realm of principle,

In his imperial commentary, Emperor Huizong of the Song quotes the Zhuangzi: “Constant nonbeing” and “constant being” can serve as the basis for discussion. To establish nothing as fixed is called “constant nonbeing”; to discard nothing is called “constant being.” “Constant nonbeing” points to the principle behind things. Its depths are not constrained by outward traces; it is the most subtle essence under Heaven, and through it one can observe the mystery of the hidden and subtle. “Constant being” takes shape in particular things. Its manifestations are clear, and it is the aspect of the world that undergoes the most change; through it one can observe the traces of things. Being and nonbeing are two realms, within which both the hidden and the traces are present. A person of great wisdom can observe both sides and so nothing is beyond their understanding. Even amid the elusive and indistinct, images and things are still contained. Those of lesser wisdom are confined by personal biases: they see only one side, reject being and cling to emptiness, pursue the minutiae and forget the root. Thus the arts of the Dao split into opposing doctrines.

Zhang’an explains: to dwell in “being” while discerning “nonbeing” is called “constant nonbeing.” This does not mean extinguishing everything into emptiness; it means seeing nonbeing within being. Since nothing among the myriad things has a fixed, unchanging self-nature, this is called “establishing no thing.” This is true constant nonbeing. When being becomes manifest from nonbeing, it is called “constant being.” This does not refer to the being of concrete forms; it means seeing being within nonbeing. Since the myriad things continue to exist in their own ways, this is called “discarding no thing.” This is true constant being.

“Constant nonbeing” accords with the principle by which the myriad things are one. It contains the most subtle essence under Heaven and can bring right and wrong into accord and unite past and present. Though called nonbeing, it does not fall into emptiness, and so it can be used to observe the mystery of the hidden and subtle. “Constant being,” in turn, responds to the many things about to occur and faces the myriad changes under Heaven: things begin and end, forms and implements continually change, and their intricate variety is endless and never the same. Though called being, it does not become fixed in being, and so it can be used to observe outward traces.

Being and nonbeing are two realms; the hidden and the traces are ways of observing them. Yet the hidden and the traces cannot exhaust being and nonbeing. Here, one simply uses “constant nonbeing” and “constant being” as means of observation. Great wisdom can view being and nonbeing, root and branch, as a whole, and ultimately transcend distinctions made through words, returning to what cannot be spoken. This is the subtle essence.

“These two arise together, though their names differ; both may be called the mysterious.” Emperor Huizong’s imperial commentary says: The Dao manifests as constant nonbeing and constant being, through which people observe. Great wisdom can view being and nonbeing, root and branch, as a whole, and ultimately transcend distinctions made through words. This is the subtle essence.

“Both of these” come from the Dao, yet have different names. They can both be called “mysterious” (xuan): profound and subtle, beyond description.

The Imperial Commentary says: The Dao originally has no form. How, then, can we clearly explain its manifest aspect and its hidden, subtle aspect? The myriad things and I share one source, and right and wrong alike arise through transformations of the same primordial Qi. Thus both are called “mysterious.” Those in the world who are deluded abandon what is false in pursuit of what is true, only to move ever farther from the truth. They do not know that “being” and “nonbeing” differ only in name.

The minister’s commentary says: The Dao takes “constant nonbeing” as its substance and “wondrous being” as its function. If we treasure the Dao formless and without appearance, how can we distinguish and observe its manifest and hidden aspects? The myriad things and I return to the source of creation, while right and wrong alike dissolve into the empty, subtle Qi. Once form and cleverness are forgotten, being and nonbeing both disappear; thus both are called “mysterious.” The Dao contains being within nonbeing, and in being returns to nonbeing: this is what is meant by “both come from the same source.” Being and nonbeing generate one another, and their distinctions appear in relation to each other: this is what is meant by “they come from the same source yet have different names.” The color called xuan is a mixture of red and black; in terms of direction, the north belongs to xuan. These are all ways of expressing the union of the two. Only when one understands being and nonbeing and knows that they return to unity can one speak of the Dao.

“Mysterious upon mysterious: the gateway from which the many wonders emerge.”

The Imperial Commentary says: The Suwen says, “The mysterious gives birth to spirit.” The Yijing says that “spirit” refers to the power that brings forth the wondrous transformations of all things. What is wondrous and subtle is called xuan; xuan is also the color of Heaven. The visible color has already appeared, but the source that makes color what it is has never appeared. “Mysterious upon mysterious” refers to this invisible source. The wondrous principle of the Dao exists within all things: Heaven moves in its course, Earth rests in its place, human beings possess spiritual awareness, and the myriad things flourish. All of these are wondrous functions, and all arise from the mysterious; hence it is called “the gateway of all wonders.” Confucius, in composing the Yijing, speaks of the wondrous only in the Discussion of the Trigrams. Laozi, by contrast, discusses this principle at the very beginning of the Dao De Jing. The words of these two sages echo one another and are mutually connected.

In my view, Heaven begins with “One” in the north. This expresses the unity of the Mysterious (Xuan) and the Same. Earth joins as “Two” in the south, and from this the wondrous workings of spirit become manifest. Spirit arises from the Mysterious, while the Mysterious is made wondrous through spirit. The Mysterious brings being and nonbeing together as one, without any division; this is what is meant by “the Mysterious.” When its mystery reaches its utmost, spirit emerges and its numinous subtlety shines forth. It enables each of the myriad things to reveal its own wondrous qualities, yet has no fixed form or location. This is the origin of the divine luminosity of Heaven and Earth, and the reason the sage can follow nature, seeming to act without action while still accomplishing things.

Human spiritual awareness and the flourishing of the myriad things likewise each fully reveal their wondrous qualities. Since these workings all arise from the Mysterious, it is called “the gateway to the many wonders.” Confucius composed the Changes, using hexagrams and numbers to reveal the principles of spiritual wonder; accordingly, the discussion of the wondrous appears only in the “Discussion of the Trigrams” chapter. Laozi, by contrast, reveals the Mysterious by bringing being and nonbeing together, and so speaks of it from the very beginning. Spirit arises from the Mysterious, which is also the source of the many wondrous workings; this is why the book is arranged in this order, from beginning to end.

Chapter Two: All Under Heaven Knows

When everyone under Heaven knows beauty as beauty, ugliness appears. When everyone knows goodness as goodness, what is not good appears.

Emperor Huizong explained, “The Dao has no fixed, unchanging form. How, then, could there be absolute beauty or ugliness? Human nature is the same at its root. How, then, could there be absolute good or evil? Once we speak of ‘beauty,’ ‘ugliness’ appears as its counterpart. Thus, when people throughout the world recognize what is beautiful, its opposite—ugliness—arises as well. Once we speak of ‘goodness,’ ‘not good’ appears as its counterpart. Thus, when people throughout the world recognize what is good, what is not good is distinguished as well.

What people regard as marvelous and beautiful may later decay into something loathsome; what has decayed may, in turn, change back into something marvelous and beautiful. If so, how can beauty and ugliness be distinguished? What was once considered right may now be considered wrong; what is rejected today may later be taken up again. Since judgments change with time, how can one choose between good and what is not good?

The sage has grasped the truth of ‘Nothingness’ and ‘Being’: abiding always in emptiness, yet able to bring forth the myriad things; skillfully making use of the myriad things, yet keeping the heart-mind rooted in quiet emptiness. Faced with distinctions between beauty and ugliness, good and evil, the sage seeks a fixed standard but finds none. If so, what ugliness, evil, or lack of goodness could entangle the sage?”

My minister explained: The Dao (the Way) has no fixed form to begin with, so how could it have different appearances? Differences in appearance emerge only when things are divided into beautiful and ugly. Human nature is originally subtle and the same in everyone, so how could there be two different destinations? Only when people incline toward good or bad do their paths diverge.

The ancients returned to the Dao’s original state. They followed their nature and lived naturally, each content with what they had received. Without deliberately arranging their actions, they all acted as was fitting. Why was this so? Because, over time, simplicity gradually faded and original purity dispersed. People turned away from the Dao and toward external things, abandoning their nature to follow private desires. They used the mind to understand things, then relied on emotion to choose among them. They did not trust the principles of life and nature they were born with, but let private desires run unchecked. Thus beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness, took turns opposing one another. Where could such arguments ever end?

Whether the things of the world are regarded as marvelous or foul depends only on how society views beauty and ugliness. Things change and are replaced; whatever suits the needs of the time is valued. How, then, can beauty and ugliness be distinguished with certainty? Whether a principle is judged right or wrong, adopted or rejected, also depends on how society views goodness and badness. If whatever suits the time is considered appropriate, why insist on distinguishing good from bad?

People’s emotions differ, and so do their understandings. Each person looks only to their own position and draws a line between “self” and “other,” so distinctions between beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness go on without end. The sage, however, sees self and other as one undivided whole. The distinction between being and nonbeing dissolves; no longer trapped by opposites, the sage returns to the Dao’s solitary, tranquil realm, where even words are unnecessary.

Ji Xian, the shaman skilled in reading faces, seemed to possess supernatural powers, yet could not see through Huzi, the Dao cultivator in the Zhuangzi. How, then, could beauty and ugliness, good and evil, bind him? When the dark pearl of the parable was lost, sending a wise man to search for it did not help. This shows why one need not cling to cleverness.

Nonbeing and being appear through one another; difficulty and ease bring one another about; long and short take shape through comparison; high and low stand in relation to each other; tones and sounds answer one another; what comes before is followed by what comes after.

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

The Emperor’s commentary says: “Handling affairs through non-action” is what the Zhuangzi means by “being non-active while putting the whole world to use.” “Carrying out teachings without words” is what the Yijing means by “using the way of spiritual illumination to teach, so that the world will submit.” If one acts with deliberate intent, there will be success and failure, gain and loss. If one speaks, one cannot avoid saying what is fitting or unfitting, and so becoming entangled. The sage stands above all things, teaches them, yet is not entangled by them. How could he be caught up in such entanglements as ordinary people are?

A minister’s commentary explains: When affairs come before the sage, he must respond; he cannot simply do nothing in every case. But if he clings to deliberate action, affairs will have their successes and failures. When things come before him, they also need to be examined; he cannot refrain from speaking altogether. But if he clings to speech, he cannot avoid sometimes saying what is fitting and sometimes what is not. As long as one is caught up in deliberate action and deliberate speech, who can avoid becoming entangled?

The sage stands above all things, handles affairs well, and puts teachings into practice, enabling the people of the world to return to the constant Dao and recover their unspoiled simplicity. He accords with the mysterious Dao, without clinging to distinctions between right and wrong or to judgments of beauty and ugliness, good and evil. In this way, oppositions such as success and failure, gain and loss, right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, and good and evil cannot disturb him. He is therefore not entangled by speech or action.

The sage does not obstruct the growth and transformation of the myriad things. He lets them grow without claiming them as his own; he acts without relying on his achievements; when things are accomplished, he takes no credit. This is “being non-active while putting the whole world to use.” Hence it is said, “handling affairs through non-action.”

Not honoring those deemed worthy, not valuing rare goods, and not deliberately displaying things that can stir desire: this is to teach through the way of spiritual illumination, so that the world will submit. Hence it is said, “carrying out teachings without words.”

The myriad things arise, and he does not obstruct them. He lets them grow without possessing them, acts without relying on his achievements, and takes no credit when things are accomplished. Precisely because he takes no credit, his achievements do not depart.

All things arise together and respond in their own ways when they encounter different influences. It is like a mirror reflecting forms: the beautiful and the ugly alike appear. It is also like an empty valley echoing sounds: pleasing and unpleasant sounds alike resound. Neither the mirror nor the valley rejects anything. Thus, when all things arise, the Dao neither refuses them nor interferes.

All things reveal their forms, undergo change, receive life and color, and develop to the full extent suited to each of them, fulfilling their own nature. But who can say that they created and possess all this themselves? Thus, the Dao gives life to and nurtures all things, yet does not claim them as its own.

The Dao brings all things into their proper order without violating their nature. Its benevolence 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. Thus, it acts, yet does not rely on its achievements.

The seasons move in turn: when one has completed its work, it gives way to the next. This is the Way of Heaven. The sage follows this example. His achievements extend throughout the world, yet seem not to come from him. To regard them as his own and claim them for himself is to be deluded. Thus, when the work is done, he does not take credit for it. If one takes credit, there will come a day when it is lost; this is a constant principle from ancient times to the present. When the heart does not cling to achievement, external things cannot unsettle it. When something arrives, he responds to the moment; when it departs, he lets it go. Why should this add or subtract anything? Thus, precisely because he does not take credit, his achievements are not lost.

The minister’s commentary says: The sage acts only after circumstances have moved him, and takes action only when there is no alternative; he does not pursue affairs of his own accord. When matters arise, he responds to them. His response does not exhaust him, nor does he become entangled in the affairs of the moment or cling to what has already passed. He follows the occasion and the order of things, adjusting as circumstances change. It is like Heaven’s passage through cold and heat: he lets things follow their natural course, storing up in his heart neither resentment nor delusion.

All things arise in their own way: they arise of themselves, so what is there to refuse? When they encounter an influence, they respond; what need is there for deliberate thought? It is like a mirror reflecting forms: it does not go out to meet them or deliberately send them away. It reflects, yet does not retain their images. It is also like an empty valley echoing sounds: it does not deliberately raise or lower them. Whether a sound is loud or faint, it can be heard. Thus, when all things arise, the Dao does not refuse them.

The movement of all things is driven by Qi (vital energy) and follows the natural Great Way of Heaven and Earth. The birth of each thing has its order, and each beginning and end has its pattern. Movement or stillness, speech or silence—all are governed by the workings of Heaven, the principles of natural operation. The spirit and the mind, too, arise from the movements of Qi. Heaven and Earth give form to all things, dividing them into myriad different shapes. Their transformations differ, their forms of life vary, and their bodies and colors are not alike. Each develops to the extent it can reach, following its natural course, yet no one knows why things are as they are. If the life of all things were claimed as one’s own achievement, who could truly create and sustain life? Thus, the Dao gives life to and nurtures all things, yet does not claim them as its own.

To act in accordance with nature: even when one acts, what is there to rely on or boast of? Achievement is brought about by the Way of Heaven; even when the work is complete, what is there to claim as one’s own? When the heart holds to an “I,” it will want to possess the achievement. If one does not cling to taking credit, external things cannot unsettle one. If one clings to achievement, one will be in constant flux. Thus, one acts without self-reliance, and when the work is done, one takes no credit. If one takes credit and claims the achievement as one’s own, the people of the world will not acknowledge it. If one takes no credit and lets the achievement belong to the world, the people of the world cannot make it disappear. Thus, precisely because one does not take credit, the achievement is not lost.

If those whom the world calls virtuous and capable are not exalted, the people will not compete with one another. If rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not steal. It is said that “when nothing is claimed as one’s own, the world will not abandon it.” Thus: “Precisely because one does not possess, one does not lose.”

Chapter Three: Do Not Exalt the Worthy

Not exalting the worthy can keep the people from competing for fame and profit; not valuing rare and precious goods can keep them from stealing.

The imperial commentary says: Exalting the worthy leads people to pursue reputation and sharpen their cleverness, stirring the world and giving rise to many competing schools of thought. Valuing precious goods fuels desire, until some people steal in broad daylight. If the worthy are not exalted, the people each keep to their proper place and no longer boast of themselves or compare themselves with others, so they do not fight. If precious goods are not valued, the people can be content with their own lives and will not develop unreasonable desires, so they do not steal.

The Zhuangzi says: “Remove the displays of virtue associated with Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, and seal the mouths of disputants such as Yang Zhu and Mo Di; then the virtue of all under Heaven can return to a deep and unified state.” The Lümei says: “If unusual objects are not prized and ordinary useful things are not despised, the people will be content.”

The minister’s commentary says: When the sage governs the world, he dispels people’s intent to harm one another and nurtures each person’s inborn nature. In this way, human nature is set aright, and the virtue of all under Heaven can return to unity. The sage keeps people from straying from their nature in pursuit of external things, and from letting their desires run unchecked. When people rest in their own nature, they draw near to the Dao; when they restrain their desires, they accord with the workings of Heaven’s Dao. Thus they can be at ease and live joyfully in a state free from disturbance.

After the Three Dynasties, virtue was no longer strong enough to overcome desire, and tranquility no longer sufficient to restrain agitation. People schemed over fame and gain, and pursued extravagance in appearance and material pleasures. Gentlemen clung to names for the Dao and fixated on particular things, imagining they could seize a reputation for worthiness; they envied others and forgot themselves. Lesser people turned away from what is right, traded in precious goods, and pursued profit at the cost of losing themselves.

When someone sees another person honored, they may resent being less esteemed; when they surpass someone else, they may grow angry that the other person falls short. This is how rivalry begins. Seeing another person possess precious goods can stir envy and a desire to claim them as one’s own. This is how theft begins. Fame is therefore the beginning of rivalry, and profit the cause of theft. Those who pursue fame become wholly intent on pleasing external things; those who are absorbed in profit lose what is fundamental while chasing what is trivial.

If the worthy are not exalted, the people will not boast or compare themselves with one another. If precious goods are not valued, the people will not give rise to covetous desires. Once the impulse to compare disappears, where could rivalry arise? Once the desire to covet subsides, where could theft arise? Remove the displays of virtue associated with Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, and quiet the disputation associated with Yang Zhu and Mo Di: then displays in word and deed will no longer stand, disputes over right and wrong will also fade away, and human virtue can return to its original state.

If unusual objects are not prized, the people will not lose the constant Dao; if ordinary useful things are not despised, they will not turn away from what is fundamental, and so they can be content. When the people are content, they will not steal. This is the meaning of “not valuing rare and precious goods can keep the people from stealing.”

Once people have desires, they struggle over their lives and their innate nature, resorting to plunder, deception, and every kind of wrongdoing. Bo Yi believed that fame was worth pursuing and ultimately starved to death at the foot of Mount Shouyang. Robber Zhi believed that profit was worth pursuing and ran rampant around Dongling, committing crimes. Their feelings at times burned like a fierce fire, at times froze like ice. Their emotions were disordered and arrogant, so they could not accord with the Dao.

Sages neither chase after profit nor flee from misfortune. They do not rejoice in long life or grieve over an early death; they do not regard high status as an honor or poverty as a disgrace. In that case, what could they regard as something they must obtain? When desires and calculations do not arise in the heart, the mind becomes clear and calm. It can respond to whatever occurs, remain free of obstruction in stillness, and act without being pulled along by external things. What could disturb it?

At forty, Confucius reached the state of being “free from perplexity,” and Mencius likewise said that after forty his resolve no longer wavered. Chen Yi explains: the mind is still and does not change, returning to the deep, undivided De and aligning with the Great Beginning—the primal state before Heaven and Earth had separated. The spirit settles in the Great Void, the vast and empty realm, while the breath is nurtured in balanced harmony. Looking upon all things under Heaven, nothing is enough to shake the world within; the mind remains at ease, open, and untroubled.

The ignorant, by contrast, are pulled about by the turmoil of the five senses, while personal likes and dislikes stir their emotions. The six openings of the mind—the channels through which it perceives external things—contend with one another, and thoughts of pursuit and rejection become false. The eyes look recklessly, and the mind gives rise to desires without restraint. Every day, people struggle amid their encounters and entanglements with external things. Their hearts grow confused, and the natural order recedes.

Bo Yi and Robber Zhi ended their lives in opposite ways—one starving to death, the other living violently—because each regarded fame or profit as worth pursuing. Chasing gain and fearing loss makes people burn as though scorched by fire or freeze as though trapped in ice; their spirits become confused because desire has taken control. Confucius was free from perplexity and Mencius’s heart did not waver because they understood that no external thing was worth clinging to or pursuing. So they were neither perplexed nor shaken, and nothing could disturb them.

Therefore, when the sage governs the people, he empties and stills their minds while providing for their needs. He weakens their ambitions to outdo one another and strengthens the foundations on which they sustain their lives. He continually keeps the people from being burdened by clever knowledge and excessive desires.

The Imperial Commentary says: A valley can answer an echo because it is empty; a mirror can reflect things because it is empty; a flute or key can receive breath because it is hollow; and the ears, eyes, and nose can hear, see, and smell because their interiors are empty. When they are filled, these functions are obstructed. The sage governs the world only when he has no choice. He treats people impartially, caring for those close to him and appointing those from far away. He follows the way things are and lets them develop naturally, without putting his personal likes and dislikes first. This is perhaps why Yao appointed Shun and also employed Gun.

When the mind is empty, one can listen and observe impartially, without being swayed by personal likes and dislikes. When the belly is full, one can live in sufficiency and stability, with no further craving. Why, then, revere worthy reputations or prize wealth? The sage gives priority to providing people with enough to live on, rather than indulging the eyes’ desires. The belly accepts food without choosing among it, so “working for the belly” is used as a metaphor for meeting fundamental needs.

“Ambition” is the direction toward which the mind inclines; “bones” are the foundation that allows the body to stand. When ambition becomes excessive, some people chase after fame, some pursue wealth without satisfaction, and others boast of their achievements and display their abilities. All of this takes people farther from the Dao. When the backbone is weak, people drift with the current, let external things control them, and become entangled in struggles with the myriad things, sinking into them without turning back. The sage always lowers his ambition, and others esteem him; he always takes the place behind others, and they put him first. He understands the value of strength yet holds to weakness; he knows that honor is desirable yet accepts disgrace. This is what it means to “weaken ambition.”

When one disciplines oneself by the right way, the myriad things cannot change one. When one firmly maintains one’s original nature, no amount of change can overturn one. The legendary Guangchengzi is said to have kept his body from aging and lived for twelve hundred years; this is called “strengthening the bones.”

The Zhuangzi says, “When one is like those who know nothing, one’s De does not disperse; when one is like those who desire nothing, this is called simplicity.” When the people preserve their simplicity, their inborn nature remains whole. The sage governs only to help the people preserve their nature. Too much knowledge damages the proper course of life, and too many desires disturb its inborn nature. If this is called good governance, what could be more disorderly? Therefore, the sage continually keeps the people from being burdened by knowledge and desire.

The minister Yi explains: The Dao is hidden in what has no form or substance, and so emptiness and stillness accord with the Dao. The myriad things are constrained by what exists, and attachment to what exists accumulates burdens. Once people open their minds to cleverness, external things seize the opportunity to stir up desire. Those with bodies are made to serve external things, while those with minds are in turn governed by their bodies. When private desires gain the upper hand within, external things seize the mind from without. Yin-Yang falls out of balance, and the innate harmony of Qi is lost. The mind should be like a spacious, luminous dwelling; when it is blocked by stray thoughts, it cannot respond smoothly to events.

The mind governs the five senses and is the root of every good action. It responds to external things without retaining them within; the key lies in emptiness and stillness. Through emptiness and stillness, one returns to nothingness and joins with the beginningless. This is called “embracing simplicity”; maintaining this state is called “holding to the One.” Yan Hui’s cultivation came close to this state. The Zhuangzi says to gather the spirit and return to oneness, then proceed from oneness to emptiness and stillness. Enter the realm of the mind until one no longer clings to the distinction between “I” and “Hui,” and one can fulfill one’s nature without letting likes and dislikes linger in the heart. To follow the way things are and let them develop naturally is precisely a matter of an empty and still mind. When Yao appointed Shun and employed Gun, he had no private intentions; he simply responded with an empty and still mind. What burden of personal likes and dislikes could there have been?

The belly can receive without choosing and accept without becoming full. The movement of breath and the transformation that gives rise to the myriad things are all connected with the belly. Coming and going, beginning and ending, never cease, and there is no true point of satisfaction. When people suffer from insufficiency, they cannot help seeking something; when seeking never stops, they fall into danger. Therefore, the belly must be filled. When life is sufficient, there is no need to seek outside oneself. When the impulse to seek is cut off, the blessing of peace and well-being arrives. What thoughts of profit or craving could remain? When the burdens of likes and dislikes disappear, one no longer blindly reveres worthy reputations; when thoughts of profit and desire fade, one no longer prizes wealth.

When the mind inclines toward something, this is called “ambition.” If ambition runs in every direction, people become busy pursuing their aims, exhausting their spirit and burdening their thoughts as they chase fame and profit and boast of their achievements and abilities without end. Therefore, ambition should be softened: turning from agitation toward stillness, and from attachment to form toward emptiness. Hold to weakness and return to Wuwei (non-action); accept disgrace and keep to one’s proper place. Do not put oneself above others or compete to be first. Seek to return to the Dao: this is called “weakening ambition.”

The body stands by means of its bones. When the backbone is weak, one loses oneself before external things and is carried from place to place by change. When others advance or retreat, one advances or retreats with them; when others approve or dislike something, one makes the same choice. One struggles against external things without realizing this is wrong, and sinks into them without knowing to turn back. Unable to stand on one’s own, one reaches this condition. Therefore, the bones must be strong. Strong bones make it possible to stand independently and firmly, with constancy: external things cannot change one, and other people cannot make one lose one’s nature. One acts without slackening, steps forward with strength, and continues to cultivate De and the Dao. This is called “strengthening the bones.”

The sage cultivates his own mind, making it empty and still, without clinging to distinctions. He provides sufficiency in life, leaving nothing to seek; softens ambition, so it does not compete outwardly; and strengthens the backbone, so it is not moved by external things. Thus the people are not burdened by clever knowledge or trapped by fame; they are not driven by desire or bound by profit. They preserve the freedom to wander and the state that accords with nature, returning to simplicity.

With abundant knowledge, the mind is easily made to serve external things, so excessive knowledge damages the proper course of life. With abundant desire, the emotions are easily stirred by external things, so excessive desire disturbs the inborn nature of life. Let the mind return to not-knowing, so it does not act recklessly through clever knowledge; let it return to desirelessness, so it is not lured by desirable things. The key is to maintain this state continually. This is what is meant by “continually keeping the people free of knowledge and desire.”

This makes even the wise dare not act recklessly.

The Imperial Commentary says: Those skilled in speech dare not show off their eloquence; the brave dare not flaunt their courage in a moment of impulse; the capable dare not boast of their abilities; and the clever dare not rely on their own discernment. The sages put an end to these practices: they no longer display cleverness or flaunt contrivances, nor do they add laws and regulations to suppress the people. This is what “making even the wise dare not act recklessly” means. The nine ministers, each responsible for a different area of government, perform their own duties, and the worthy and capable each occupy their proper positions. Must governance depend on cleverness and reckless action? They need only carry out the ruler’s commands and put his policies into practice among the people.

The Minister Yi says: In governing the world, the sage acts according to Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. Above, the sage embraces the world through the Dao; below, the sage transforms and nurtures the people through the Dao. In this way, the people turn from excessive thought and worry back to their proper place, and from abundant desires back to desirelessness. When governance reaches its utmost, society returns to the simplicity of the most ancient times. This may be called the highest state. Even if there are clever people, what use would their eloquence, courage, abilities, and discernment be? If they claim to be wise, how could they dare act recklessly? Reckless action leads to failure and leaves no firm footing. That is why it says, “They dare not act.”

When affairs are handled according to Wuwei, nothing is left poorly governed.

The Imperial Commentary says: When sages govern the world, do they abandon human affairs, cut themselves off from the outside world, and hide away where nothing needs doing? They simply act according to Wuwei. The transformations of the myriad things belong to the realm below form—that is, to concrete, visible things and phenomena. The sages comprehend the Dao and stand above the myriad things, bringing their principles together in order to govern them. When things arise, the sages respond to them and observe how they return; when things grow, the sages guide them in accordance with their circumstances so that they may come to fruition. How could anything be poorly governed? Thus, when governance above is in order, the sun, moon, and stars move in their proper courses; when governance below is in order, birds, beasts, plants, and trees follow their natures.

The commentary of Minister Yi says: When sages came into the human world to assist rulers, they stood above worldly affairs and guided the people, cultivating good customs so that people might recover their original nature and return to simplicity. Could they simply do nothing at all? The sages’ actions arose from Wuwei (non-action); they were not entirely without action. They followed the natural patterns of all things, allowing each to grow and fulfill itself, preserving its nature in every way and sparing it the calamities of premature death, obstruction, or constraints on its life. In this way, nothing was left unwell-governed.

The sun, moon, and stars each follow their proper courses: this is governance above. Birds, beasts, plants, and trees each flourish according to their nature: this is governance below. When both above and below are properly governed, the people reach a state free of knowledge and desire, and even those skilled in schemes dare not act recklessly. This is the highest form of governance.

Chapter Four: The Way Is Empty

The Dao is empty in its essence, yet in use it seems never to be exhausted.

The Imperial Commentary says: The Dao has inner reality and reliability, and so it can function; it is without action or form, and so it cannot be filled up. The Daode Jing says: “All things turn their backs on Yin and embrace Yang; the two vital energies mingle and bring about harmony.” The principle of all things is this: to incline toward Yang is to become excessive, while to incline toward Yin is to fall short. When there is no inclination, excess, or deficiency, this is called “blended Qi.” “Blended” means centered; it is also called Great Harmony, the state of utmost balance.

It lowers what is high and raises what is low; it takes from what is abundant and supplies what is lacking. The Dao’s function is everywhere, always bringing things back to proper balance. Pouring water into it does not make it full; drawing from it does not make it run dry. The Dao gives itself to others and thereby becomes more abundant; the more it gives, the more it gains. In essence, the Dao is like the Great Void, vast and boundless, encompassing Heaven, Earth, and all four directions. How could it ever be filled?

The Dao (the Way) existed before “Great Change” (Taiyi), when Heaven and Earth had not yet separated and the myriad things had not yet appeared. From the perspective of Qi (vital energy), it could not yet be seen; from the perspective of form, the myriad things had not yet taken distinct shapes; from the perspective of matter, things had not yet differentiated. At that time, how could one speak of concrete entities? And without concrete entities, how could one speak of their function?

Once the pivot of the Dao began to turn, the generative workings of Heaven and Earth unfolded. Yin-Yang, through Qi, exerted its subtle influence in a realm without shape or image, while the myriad things, through their forms, appeared in the visible world. From their coming into being to their passing away, from emergence to return, all things display function, yet no one knows why they do so. This is the function of the Dao: it fills the space between Heaven and Earth without boundary. Its responses follow no fixed pattern. It nourishes the myriad things, yet is never exhausted by anything with form.

The Dao’s function does not fill to the point of becoming obstructed or one-sided. It has real qualities and reliable effects, yet does not depart from the mind. It is called “function” because some power makes it effective. The Dao takes no-mind as its mind, responding to the real qualities and effects of things. It functions through its own activity, and so is called the “function of the Dao.” It is non-action and formless, and does not fall within any particular kind of existence. It is said to be “not full” because it does not attach itself to any particular vessel. The Dao takes subtle “being” as its being: although the myriad things have form, the Dao is not confined by form. It manifests as the inherent nature of things, and so is said not to be full.

Qi spread through “Great Beginning” (Taishi), the stage when Heaven and Earth first separated and Qi began to circulate, and from this it divided into Yin and Yang. Qi is therefore the means by which the Dao turns, while the myriad things take shape through the transformations of Qi. Whatever is governed by the patterns of Yin and Yang cannot escape their changes; whatever is limited by form cannot escape their creative transformation. Thus Yin and Yang bear and sustain the myriad things, never separated from them.

To favor Yang is to go to excess and become rigid; to favor Yin is to fall short and become yielding. When excessive rigidity is put into practice, hardness must break; when excessive weakness is put into practice, softness too falls into danger. “Emptiness” (Chong) is the state in which the Dao appears through Qi: Qi is evenly harmonized, Yin and Yang meet to form harmony, and all are gathered and condensed into one. The effects of hardness and softness go neither too far nor fall short, and their movements and changes do not clash. Yin and Yang are blended into one, perfectly aligned with Great Harmony (the most peaceful and balanced state), and wherever they reach, they accord with the center and what is right.

The function of “Emptiness” is like the Great Void: it fills the four directions between Heaven and Earth and embraces Heaven and Earth; its movement never ceases, and its responses never stop. It reaches so high that there is nothing higher, extends so far that it cannot be measured, and goes so deep that there is nothing deeper; its depth cannot be fathomed. In view of this, how could it ever be said to be full?

Profound and still, it is like the root of all things.

The Imperial Commentary cites the Zhuangzi: deep pools, still water, and flowing water can all be called “abysses.” An abyss is empty and still, unmixed with external things; this is precisely the substance of the Dao. Because it is empty, all things turn toward it; because it is still, the activity of all things depends on it. All things are connected to it, and their transformations also arise from it. Thus it is said to be “like the root of all things.” Yet the Dao does not originally belong to any particular thing. Rather, all things naturally take the Dao as their root, which is why it is only said to be “like” their root.

The subject’s interpretation explains: An “abyss” is both still and focused, and able to flow and return; it is both empty and focused, and inwardly profound. In returning, it does not mix with external things; its profundity, too, lies beyond the measure of external things. It exists before all things and is identical with the Great Void—the vast, formless emptiness. This is the substance of the Dao. All things are born from the Dao, so the Dao is their root. All things that have substance return to ultimate emptiness, and all activity returns to ultimate stillness. Because the Dao is empty and still, it can govern all things and make the transformations between Heaven and Earth appear wondrous. All things take the Dao as their root, but the Dao never claims to be their root. Rather, all things naturally return to their source in the Dao, which is why it is said to be “like” their root.

“Blunt the sharpness and resolve the turmoil; temper the radiance and mingle with the dust of the world.” This means to soften one’s edge and calm disorder, without flaunting one’s brilliance or withdrawing from the common world.

Sharpness can easily hurt others, while disorder can easily lead to confusion. Sheathe your sharp edges, and you will not struggle with others; set disorder in order, and you will not fall into confusion. “Blend with its radiance,” Zhuangzi said, means that one’s light is bright without dazzling. “Mingle with its dust,” he said, means adapting to all things and flowing along with their transformations.

If one is stubbornly attached to oneself inwardly, while deliberately making oneself shine outwardly so that others rise to move aside, can this be called “blending with its radiance”? If one uses contrived cleverness to startle the ignorant, embellishes oneself to expose the faults of others, and stands out conspicuously like the sun and moon, can this be called “mingling with its dust”?

The sage sheaths his sharp edges and dwells among all things without harming them; therefore, all things cannot harm him. The sage sets disorder in order without having to seek wisdom through schemes or force things together through decisive action. Nothing can disturb his heart—is this the state meant here? Thus the sage shows no sign of self-satisfaction and no air of arrogance. He harmonizes with all things without being swept along by the current. By joining with all things, he understands the hearts and minds of people everywhere, and wherever he may be, he is at ease.

The Explanatory Commentary by the Minister says: “Sharp” refers to the keen edge of a thing; “disorder” refers to matters that are tangled together. If the sharp edge is not sheathed, what is useful can hurt others; if disorder is not set in order, entanglement becomes confusion. Injury gives rise to struggle, and confusion leads to chaos. Therefore, sheathing one’s sharp edges allows one to remain whole and follow one’s nature; setting disorder in order allows one to observe in stillness the root to which all things return.

Deliberately planning one’s outward image and embellishing oneself to expose the faults of others shows that one has not yet forgotten the self. To establish an “I” is to become burdened, and so to distance oneself from the Dao. To be bright without dazzling is to let one’s radiance harmonize with all things without opposing them. To adapt to all things and flow along with them is to be one with them without setting oneself apart. In this state, feelings and attachments dissolve; things and self become wholly one. One no longer clings to distinctions between self and other, and so remains at ease whatever circumstances one enters.

Deep and still, it seems to exist and yet seems unseen.

The Imperial Commentary says: The mind is like dead ashes, and the body like the branches of a withered tree. In settled stillness, the light of Heaven appears of itself. It is silent, as though it were nothing, yet it truly exists; it arises naturally, yet leaves no trace, while working in a wondrous way. Is this what is meant by the Dao?

I do not understand the profound depths of the Great Dao, yet I do not try to display them. I conceal the subtle workings of De, allowing them no rash movement. In stillness and quiet, the light bestowed by Heaven appears of itself. It seems to vanish, yet truly exists; it leaves no trace, yet works in wondrous ways. Perhaps this is the Dao?

I do not understand the profound depths of the Great Dao, yet I do not try to display them. I conceal the subtle workings of De and do not let them stir. Thus I return to Wuwei (non-action) and roam at the beginning, before anything in the world had come into being. My mind is like dead ashes, my body like a withered tree; body and mind merge with the Great Void, that vast and empty realm, becoming still, clear, and settled, and returning to undivided unity. In its deep, indistinct depths, all things seem to arise from it. Wen Boxuezi, a legendary person of ancient times who attained the Dao, experienced this state at the very moment he saw the Dao with his own eyes. The Dao seems to vanish, yet truly exists; it leaves no trace, yet works in wondrous ways. Sages grasp the Great Dao through spiritual insight, but it cannot be expressed in words. This is what those who study the Dao must learn, and what those who teach it pass on.

I do not know who gave birth to the Dao; it came before the sovereign of Heaven and Earth and all things.

“Image” is the form in which all things first begin to appear; “Sovereign” is the numinous power by which the spirit responds to all things. Things take on form only after they come into being, and only after the spirit manifests can things exercise their wondrous functions. “Image and Sovereign” refers to the beginning of all things, but the Dao in fact precedes them. As the Zhuangzi says, ghosts, spirits, and divine sovereigns are born from the Dao, as are Heaven and Earth.

The Dao cannot be seen, heard, or touched. It seems to exist, yet no one can see where it comes from. Who, then, can know it? Hence the saying: “I do not know who gave birth to the Dao; it came before the sovereign of Heaven and Earth and all things.”

Whatever passes from nonbeing into being depends on concrete things; therefore all things are born from the Dao. Whatever passes from being back into nonbeing returns to the Dao; therefore the Dao is the source of all things. The Dao is rooted in nonbeing—where, then, did it arise? Hence the saying, “I do not know who gave birth to it.” All things belong to the realm of being and are born from the Dao, so the Dao is said to come before “Image and Sovereign.” When things take on visible form, this is called “Image”; thus “Image” is the appearance of things as they begin to come into being. When the spirit responds to all things, this is called “Sovereign”; thus “Sovereign” is the spirit’s first response to them. Though Image and Sovereign mark the beginning of all things, their source is the Dao. That is why the Dao is said to come before “Image and Sovereign.”

Heaven and Earth show no favoritism, treating the myriad things like straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage, too, shows no favoritism, treating the people like straw dogs.

The Imperial Commentary of Huizong says: Kindness can sometimes bring harm, and harm may also arise from kindness. When benevolence is imposed as a favor, harm often follows. Heaven and Earth respond to the myriad things according to their natural qualities, and the sage responds to the people in the same way. Neither shows favoritism or seeks personal gain, so this kind of benevolence is difficult to call “benevolence.” Straw dogs are used during the sacrifice and discarded once it is over. The myriad things each grow in their own way, and the people each govern themselves. Why would Heaven and Earth or the sage deliberately arrange anything?

Zhang’an explains: Truly great benevolence does not mean a lack of care; it means not imposing care as a favor. Cling to the idea of bestowing kindness, and that kindness becomes shallow, with harm possibly following in its wake. In an age when the Great Dao prevails, the myriad things grow naturally and each finds its proper place. Why deliberately make a point of benevolence? Heaven and Earth do not favor the myriad things, yet each thing rests in its place and thrives in its own way. The sage does not favor the people, yet they live at ease and adapt to their circumstances, without binding one another through private attachments. This is what it means for Heaven and Earth and the sage to regard the myriad things and the people as straw dogs.

Heaven and Earth do not leave the myriad things entirely to themselves, nor do they arrange things out of self-interest. They let the myriad things grow according to their nature and the people live and govern themselves according to their circumstances. When a response is called for, they act in keeping with the moment; when the matter is done, they let it go, without lingering or clinging. In all this, they follow what is natural.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows?

The Imperial Commentary says: The bellows is hollow, which enables it to hold things. Once it holds them, it can respond to external forces, and so its function is inexhaustible. If it were stuffed full, it would be obstructed everywhere. As a metaphor for the Dao, this is a fixation on one extreme; as a metaphor for things, it is clinging to one side.

The Minister’s Commentary says: Between Heaven and Earth, Qi moves and breathes, opening and closing, entering and leaving, stirring and stilling. No beginning or end, no old or new, can be discerned. It is like a bellows. Because the bellows is empty, it can hold what comes without refusing it; because it is empty, it can respond accordingly, and its function is inexhaustible. If it were stuffed full, its usefulness would cease. Do Heaven and Earth set all things in motion intentionally? Things move of themselves within utmost emptiness, and Heaven and Earth let them be. The sage treats the people in the same way, following the way things naturally are and remaining unencumbered. That is why the bellows serves as a metaphor.

Empty, yet never exhausted; when set in motion, its function becomes all the more apparent.

The Imperial Commentary says: By emptying oneself while engaging with the world, one can respond broadly to every circumstance and adapt appropriately. Hence the phrase “empty, yet never exhausted.” One acts only when prompted; in this way, use and expression never run short. Hence the phrase “set in motion, it gives forth more.” The sage emerges to attend to the affairs of rulers, yet is not encumbered by words or deeds. This is the meaning.

The Minister’s Commentary says: Qi resides within the bellows and drives all things in their movement. It is precisely because the bellows is empty that it can hold and respond. When still, it is empty: Qi returns to nothing, yet is never exhausted. When active, it remains empty: Qi responds to the myriad things, yet is never spent. The sage empties himself and responds broadly to worldly affairs, adapting appropriately to all things; thus his Dao is never exhausted. He acts and changes in response to the times, and his use and expression never run short; thus his Dao gives forth ever more. How, then, could he be encumbered by words?

Too many words often lead to difficulty. Better to hold fast to inner emptiness, stillness, and centeredness.

The imperial commentary says: Because a key is hollow inside, it can await the flow of air. When the air arrives, the key sounds; when it does not, the key stays quiet. The words of a sage are like this. Those fond of debate are trapped in language: they speak at length, yet cannot escape being burdened by words. Better to keep the mind inwardly empty and still. Guard the inner self with care, shut out external disturbances, gather the gaze and listen with focused attention, and return to the heart. Then one can discern the original nature of Heaven and Earth. This is called “guarding the center.”

The minister’s explanation says: Sages have no need to speak; they speak only when they have no choice. Their words accord with the moment and are precisely apt, serving only to respond to the other person, like a hollow key sounding when stirred by a flow of air. When speech follows the pattern of things, it does not run out. The words of those fond of debate, however, are always taken up with arguing over right and wrong. Though they speak at length, their words must eventually come to an end. Only by forgetting distinctions between good and evil and avoiding attachment to right and wrong can the mind become empty and still, free of entanglements. Free of entanglements, one will not be biased; free of bias, one can attain the center. Guarding the Middle Way, with a spacious mind that clings to nothing, allows one to return to the original state of the Dao of Heaven and thereby discern the original nature of Heaven and Earth.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit

The Valley Spirit never dies.

The imperial commentary says: Things with form undergo cycles of flourishing and decline; things governed by fixed measures meet with success, failure, and destruction. Once form and fixed measures are present, life and death are distinguished in turn. This is the constant pattern of the myriad things. A mountain valley can contain the movements and stillness of all things while remaining empty; the wondrous Dao gives rise to all things while remaining still. It is constant and unchanging, united with the Dao. Unconfined by form and untouched by fixed measures, it generates life without end and is inexhaustible—like the sun and moon, which have moved without pause since ancient times, and like the Northern Dipper, whose course has never deviated since ancient times. Hence the saying: “The Valley Spirit never dies.”

Commentary by the minister: Things governed by the changes of Yin and Yang show signs of flourishing and decline; things driven by change have their measure of success and failure. Since all must undergo changes in form, flourishing and decline, success and failure, how can life endure securely for long?

The valley is often empty, yet it can respond to the impressions of all things. The wondrous nature of spirit is always still, yet it can manifest its subtle workings above all things. Being constantly empty, it is not burdened by form; being constantly still, it is not constrained by fate. The valley’s emptiness and the spirit’s wondrous workings belong to the same realm and unite with the Dao as one. Thus they bring forth life without end, respond without limit, and change beyond measure. They are like the sun, moon, and Northern Dipper, whose courses have continued without pause since ancient times: they may wax and wane, yet never cease. This is why they are called “deathless.” The deathless do not die because they were not brought forth by anything. The wondrous nature of spirit has reached its utmost, yet it is deliberately called the “Valley Spirit” because Qi joins with emptiness, and spirit lies hidden within Qi. The spirit’s responses are like echoes: it can contain and answer, remain empty and still, and yet be full, without end. That is why it is compared to a valley.

This is called the “Mysterious Female” (the subtle mother, referring to the source from which all things arise).

The Imperial Commentary says: All things receive life from “nonbeing,” then take on form in “being.” The valley’s function has no fixed shape, and the spirit’s essence has no fixed location; from them all things receive life. “Mysterious” is the color of Heaven; “female” belongs to the category of Earth. From them all things take on form. The “Valley Spirit” is a metaphor for the constant, unchanging nature of the Great Dao; the “Mysterious Female” describes its subtle power to bring all things into being.

Commentary by the minister: The Valley Spirit gives life to all things in the state of “nonbeing,” while Heaven and Earth give them form in the state of “being.” The text says “Mysterious Female” rather than “Heaven and Earth” to express this through their color and category. Color and category have their roots in Qi, so “Mysterious Female” refers to Qi’s power to bring all things into being. Like a mother nurturing all things and allowing life to continue without end, this is the subtle wonder of creation.

“The Gate of the Mysterious Female” is the source of Heaven and Earth and all things. Here, “Mysterious Female” refers to the profound power that gives birth to and nurtures all things. “Gate” suggests opening and closing, as well as birth and emergence, while “root” refers to the source of life and generation.

Emperor Huizong of the Song explained that the Zhuangzi says all things are alive, yet their source cannot be seen; all things come into being, yet where they come from cannot be seen. Only a sage can perceive these sources. The phrase “Gate of the Mysterious Female” points to the foundation of Heaven and Earth, which encompass all things above and below. In the sequence of generation by the Great Dao, Heaven and Earth come first, and all things follow. Yet Heaven and Earth themselves are born from the Mysterious Female. Who, then, could see with their own eyes the source that existed before Heaven and Earth?

A court commentator explained that the Mysterious Female is the root from which all things arise, and the mother through which Yin and Yang interact and transform to give birth to them. When the Qi of the Mysterious Female opens, it appears as Yang, and things associated with Yang come forth; when it closes, it appears as Yin, and things associated with Yin take shape. “Heaven and Earth” here represent the largest forms within Yin and Yang. Heaven and Earth and all things emerge from this Gate, yet no one can see it; hence it is called the “Gate of the Mysterious Female.”

“Continuous, as though it were present; in its use, never exhausted” means that it extends without end, seeming both present and absent. Its function unfolds without effort and is never depleted.

Emperor Huizong of the Song said that this source is its own foundation. It has remained firm since ancient times and seems to have no end; this is what “continuous, as though it were present” means. Heaven and Earth arise naturally, allowing a single Qi to move of itself. The Earth nurtures all things, letting forms grow naturally. Qian (Heaven) makes change easy to understand, while Kun (Earth) accomplishes things through simplicity. Neither acts through exertion, so how could either become weary?

A court commentator explained that all things depend on Qi for life and on Shen (spirit) for awareness. Qi is therefore the root of Shen, while Shen is the expression that arises from Qi. When Qi is stable, Shen is whole; when Qi is disturbed, Shen is unsettled; when Qi disperses, Shen departs. “Continuous” describes this function as unceasing: it unfolds and brings things to completion naturally, without being forced or controlled, and so there is no question of weariness.

All things grow by relying on Qi (vital energy), and display their spiritual nature by relying on Shen (spirit). Thus Qi is the mother of Shen, and Shen is the child of Qi. When Qi remains steady, Shen is whole; when Qi is disturbed, Shen becomes clouded; when Qi disperses, Shen also departs.

“Continuous” means that the breath stretches on without interruption, carrying on without end. It existed before Heaven and Earth, and remains boundless after them. It is faint and profound, seeming to exist; hence it is said to be “as if present.” Heaven and Earth came into being vast and unknowing, letting Qi move of itself, yet no one knows the reason behind it. The earth suddenly brought forth life, letting forms reproduce of themselves, yet no one knows where they came from. Heaven and Earth act through Wuwei (non-action). This cannot be accomplished through human schemes or strength, which is why it is said that “its use is not strenuous.”

Chapter Seven: Heaven and Earth Endure

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

The Imperial Commentary says: The vault of Heaven rises high above. The sun and moon travel along their courses, while the stars are arrayed across the sky, covering all things. Earth is vast and solid, lying below. It congeals into mountains and gathers into rivers, streams, and lakes, bearing all things. Though Heaven and Earth cover and support all things, they do not set out to rule them. Thus Heaven steadfastly moves without rest, while Earth quietly remains still and unmoving. This is why they can endure.

If Heaven and Earth intended to nourish all things, Heaven could soon be measured, and the expanse it covers would become narrow; Earth could soon be surveyed, and its capacity to bear all things would become limited. In that case, Heaven and Earth would depend on something else. How, then, could they endure?

I understand this passage to mean: When one returns to a state without form or substance, who can prescribe its shape? When one joins with the original source that has no beginning, who can say that it was born? When all things first receive life, they are like the Great Void, empty and without form. Later, they gather into the shape of my body, just as water freezes into ice. Once people have a body, they assume that it belongs to them; once they know they are alive, they believe their life can remain theirs forever. Yet the body wastes away and loses its wholeness; life departs and cannot be held. In an instant it vanishes, like a white colt darting past an opening in a wall.

People do not understand that Heaven and Earth endure because they are not attached to their own existence. Heaven stands high above, yet has no intention of covering the myriad things; Earth lies deep below, yet has no intention of bearing them. They take shape as Heaven and Earth and perform the functions of covering and bearing, but do not know why they do so, nor give it any thought. Precisely because they do not keep their own existence in mind, Heaven and Earth can endure. Those who do not deliberately seek life are not attached to it; even while living in a world of life, they are not burdened by being alive, and so can endure.

Therefore, the sage puts himself last and comes to stand before others; he sets himself aside and is able to preserve himself.

Heaven moves above, and Earth rests below. The sage dwells between Heaven and Earth. Heaven, Earth, and humanity together are called the “Three Powers,” and they communicate with and serve one another. Considered separately, each occupies its own place among the “Three Extremes” of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. When they respond to one another, they become the “Three Spirits,” revealing a wondrous power that is present everywhere. Heaven, Earth, and the sage have all attained the Dao. In cultivating himself, the sage should therefore take Heaven and Earth as his model. This chapter first explains that Heaven and Earth do not act for their own sake, then that the sage does not claim himself as his own possession.

Everyone strives to be first, but the sage is willing to come last and bear the world’s filth. This is what it means to place himself behind others. Because he does not contend with anything outside himself, no one in the world can contend with him; thus, he is able to be first. In traveling, he does not compete for the advantages of easy or difficult roads. As the seasons shift between cold and heat, he does not contend for the comfort of a balance between Yin and Yang. He transcends life and death and forgets calamity and good fortune, so his spirit is never confined. He places himself outside himself, yet thereby preserves himself. If the sage cultivates himself in this way, how much more so should he treat things beyond himself? When he encounters something, he does not resist it; when it has passed, he does not cling to it. He preserves his nature and nourishes his spirit, moving freely through worldly life. His form is naturally upright, and external things and the self merge into one. He existed before Heaven and Earth, yet does not concern himself with longevity; he has endured since remote antiquity, yet does not feel old. This is perhaps the result of cultivating oneself to such a state.

Chen Yi says: If you establish yourself by striving always to be ahead of external things, they will become your adversaries and overcome you in turn; you may not truly get ahead. If you cling to the self and hope to preserve yourself through possession, external things will instead constrain and overturn you; you may not truly preserve yourself. This is inevitable.

The sage dwells between Heaven and Earth and fulfills his De. He can join Heaven and Earth to form the “Three Powers,” stand apart among the “Three Extremes,” and respond with them as the “Three Spirits.” Blended without any separation, they embody the Dao together, and there is no difference in the state they ultimately attain. Thus, the chapter first says that Heaven and Earth endure because they do not act for their own sake; it then says that the sage is willing to come last and place himself outside himself, and so can be first and preserve himself. The sage has no wish to be first, and so is willing to come last; yet no one in the world can surpass him in taking precedence. He has no wish to preserve himself, and so places himself outside himself; yet no one in the world can preserve himself more securely. His precedence and his preservation of self transcend the burdens of both self and external things, as though he had never clung to himself.

The highest virtue is like water. Water nourishes all things without claiming credit, and always settles in places people are unwilling to occupy. For this reason, it is closest to the Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle by which all things operate. The deepest virtue between Heaven and Earth is to bring all things to life; what the sage values most is the position from which to govern the world. The Dao is rooted in impartiality. Heaven and Earth follow the Dao and so show no favoritism; for this reason, they endure. The sage follows the Dao and does not put himself first; for this reason, he can last.

Here, “self-interest” means valuing oneself too highly and acting only for one’s own sake. Deliberately pursuing private gain makes it harder to truly fulfill oneself. Heaven and Earth do not seek their own survival, and so they continue giving life without end. The sage does not put his own interests first, and so he endures. Precisely because he is selfless, he fulfills himself.

The Yi says, “The changes of Yin and Yang are the Dao; what receives and carries on the Dao is goodness.” The Zhuangzi says, “If one leaves the Dao and deliberately practices goodness, then once the name ‘goodness’ has been established, the substance of the Dao is diminished.”

Heaven One gives birth to water (the ancients took “Heaven One” as the number that generates water). Water is still close to the Dao. Deep and empty, still and clear, it may be called the most subtle thing under Heaven. Thus it is said, “The highest goodness is like water.”

The imperial commentary explains: What is still and unmoving, returning to the mysterious and constant state, is the Dao. What responds to external things and carries on from the Dao is goodness. When one returns to the ultimate Dao, goodness is no longer given a separate name; this is what is called “highest goodness.” If one clings to the name “goodness,” one has already deviated from the Dao, for once a name is established, the substance of the Dao is diminished.

Water arises from Heaven One, just as the Dao manifests. Water is very close to the Dao, scarcely distant from it: it emerges from emptiness and flows through what is substantial, just as things arise from the Dao. Water is deep and empty, and its depths can commune with the Dao; it is still and clear, and its purity can bring one back to the Dao. Thus, although water manifests from the Dao, it remains close to it. Hence it is said, “The highest goodness is like water.”

Water is good at nourishing all things, yet does not contend with them. It stays in low places that people all despise, and so is close to the Dao. The imperial commentary says: Water becomes rain and dew to nourish all things; it congeals as frost and snow to bring them to completion. Though its functions differ, it remains close to the Dao.

Rain and dew fall, nourishing the myriad things; when they congeal into frost and snow, they help them mature. Water spreads out to become rivers and gathers to become ponds. Springs run deep, and oceans stretch wide: water can be drawn up and stored, and it can make supplies abundant. Water enables the myriad things to grow and multiply; they all draw nourishment from it, so its source does not run dry. What could nourish the myriad things better than water? Water is skilled at nourishing them. They receive its gifts, yet water always remains in a soft and yielding, noncompetitive position. It takes in filth and bears dust without disliking itself for this or giving it thought. Thus water is close to the Dao. “Ji” means “close.”

Minister Yi explains: The functions of the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—are vast, and water is their foundation. The myriad kinds of things are numerous and flourish abundantly, and their growth all depends on water. Water benefits the myriad things, yet those it nourishes do not know how it gives; they receive its gifts without knowing where those gifts extend. Water occupies a noncompetitive position, yet nourishes the myriad things far and wide, and they do not know why it does so. The grime carried by water from all places and the filth on all things are loathed by those who scheme. Water, however, takes in filth and bears dust, occupying the place everyone shuns without giving it thought. It neither knows itself to be good because it is loathed, nor knows itself to be bad because it is loathed. Thus it is close to the Dao.

Dwelling, it is skilled in choosing a fitting place.

The Imperial Commentary says: Water flows through the earth, running without swelling or flooding. Minister Yi explains: Water moves beneath the ground; this is its nature. It follows the terrain toward lower places, yet does not overflow because of this. Thus it is said that water is skilled at finding its place. If people can be skilled at finding their place as water is, they too can dwell where it is fitting.

In mind, it is skilled at remaining deep.

The Imperial Commentary says: Probe it, and it proves ever more profound; pursue it to the end, and it proves ever more remote. Minister Yi explains: The mind is empty, still, and deep, beyond measure. Its subtle shifts between obscurity and clarity are inexhaustible. A mind as deep as water is what is meant by “in mind, it is skilled at remaining deep.”

In giving, it is skilled at expressing benevolence.

The Imperial Commentary says: It cares for all without selfishness and gives without choosing. Minister Yi explains: To care for all without selfishness is to love widely; to give without choosing recipients is to bestow benefits broadly. When love is both wide and far-reaching, benevolence reaches its utmost. Water gives to others in just this way, expressing benevolence.

In speech, it is skilled at keeping faith.

Water avoids obstacles and flows toward the sea from every direction. Even when it passes through perilous places, it never loses its course. Its giving is boundless, and its benevolence reaches the utmost degree. This is how water excels at practicing benevolence.

Excelling at Keeping Faith

The Imperial Commentary says: Water avoids obstacles and flows into the sea from every direction; even as it passes through dangerous places, it does not lose its faithfulness.

The Minister’s Commentary says: Water avoids obstacles and passes through dangerous places, winding and turning countless times along the way. It flows through low-lying terrain and eventually joins the sea. This shows that water excels at keeping faith.

Excelling at Governance

The Imperial Commentary says: Water washes away filth and smooths out steep, dangerous places. It follows the nature of all things and harbors no selfish intent; therefore, there is nothing it cannot govern well.

The Minister’s Commentary says: Water washes away filth and makes it clear; it smooths out dangerous places and makes them level. It follows the natural order and does not force things. This is how water excels at governance. Those who govern should also be skilled at governing in this way.

Excelling at Making Use of Things

The Imperial Commentary says: Water bends or runs straight according to the lay of the land, and takes a square or round shape according to its container. It adapts continually to change, yet always remains steady. Can the incapable be like water?

The Minister’s Commentary says: Water can bend or run straight, and can be round or square. It takes different forms as circumstances change, always adapting appropriately and remaining steady. This is how water excels at making use of things. In carrying out affairs, one should likewise adapt to circumstances and act appropriately.

Excelling at Seizing the Moment

The Imperial Commentary says: Yang energy melts water and sets it flowing; Yin energy freezes it into ice. When water is in the east, it flows east; when it is in the west, it flows west. It moves with the current of events and is unrestrained, so it always accords with the times.

The Minister’s Commentary says: When the moment is right, water flows; when circumstances are obstructed, it comes to a halt. When Yang energy arrives, it melts; when Yin energy arrives, it freezes. Water moves with the current of events and acts without constraint. This is how water excels at seizing the moment.

Precisely because water does not contend with the myriad things for precedence, it commits no error.

The imperial commentary says: The sage takes the Dao as a model in governing himself and seeks only to endure. When he extends his care to all people, he can benefit all things and rest in a position free of contention. The Zhuangzi says, “Is it easy to act? If you regard it as easy, Heaven will not approve.” It is easier to do nothing and make few mistakes; it is difficult to act without making mistakes. To benefit all things while actively doing things, yet remain entirely free of fault, is harder still.

The highest good is like water: it benefits all things. Though water nourishes all things, it does not choose whom to nourish. It does not contend with them, and nothing can contend with it, so it is without fault. Thus it is said: Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet nothing is better than water at overcoming what is hard and strong.

The minister’s commentary says: Water possesses every kind of excellence but does not claim those excellences as its own. Thus it acts without contrivance and comes close to the Dao. If people possess every kind of excellence but do not claim those excellences as their own, they will not compete and so will be without fault.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

If you hold a vessel and fill it too full, it is better to stop in time. If you sharpen something too keenly, it will be hard to keep it sharp for long.

The imperial commentary says: What is full will overflow; what is sharp to the utmost will be damaged. The way of things is that whatever reaches its fullness must decline. If you do not know how to take a lower position and remain humble in the face of fullness, but lose yourself in the pursuit of perfection, you will increase the danger of a fall. So it is better to stop in time. The changes in things are limitless, while human wisdom is limited. To anticipate things too soon is merely a superficial expression of the Dao, and the beginning of folly. If you try to gauge the situation and press single-mindedly ahead, your wisdom will eventually be stymied. How could you possibly preserve yourself for long?

The minister’s commentary says: Those skilled at maintaining fullness do not let themselves become overfull, because excess brings the danger of a fall. Those skilled at gauging things do not pursue sharpness without limit, because excessive sharpness is easily blunted. If you cannot let go of your attachment to “having” and devote yourself to maintaining fullness, then even if you do not fall for a time, the danger of overflow and collapse will remain. If you cannot let go of your fixation and instead devote yourself to calculating and scheming, then even if you succeed repeatedly for a time and seem to make no mistakes, your wisdom will eventually be stymied and you will become inept. Insisting on staying full and pursuing sharpness both arise from attachment to the self. When the self occupies the heart, you treat external things as opponents. As one thing after another comes along, you always want to overcome it by your own effort, and in the end this is extremely dangerous.

No one can guard a house piled high with gold and jade forever. Pride and complacency after gaining wealth and status invite calamity. When the mind clings to “I,” it sees external things as opposed to itself. If things from the outside keep coming one after another, trying to overcome them all by one’s own strength is dangerous.

No one can guard a house piled high with gold and jade forever. Pride and complacency after gaining wealth and status bring calamity upon oneself.

The Imperial Commentary says: Gold, jade, and riches are not what human nature and life depend on; they are all external things, and cannot truly be relied upon or possessed. Cherish gold and jade, and you will be burdened by external things. How could you avoid losing them once they burden you? That is why it is said that no one can guard a house full of gold and jade. Pride and complacency after gaining wealth and status damage De. How could calamity be avoided once De is damaged? That is why it is said that calamity is brought upon oneself. The sages do not claim passing gains as their own, nor do they treat ruling the world as proof of their own eminence. How could they regard gold and jade as treasures, or be burdened by riches and status? Thus, the richest can possess the wealth of the whole state, and the most honored can hold its highest ranks. Though none can surpass them in honor or wealth, they do not thereby depart from the Dao.

The minister Zhang’an explains: External things are merely what happens to come one’s way. People claim and possess them for a time, but in the end they often perish along with them. Wealth, status, and fame belong to the external; one’s nature, life, and De belong to oneself. To forget what one has within and pursue external things is to lose one’s innate nature and fall into delusion. Such a person is simply deluded. Gold and jade are prized by the world, but they are not originally one’s own. Relying on gold and jade and imagining one can possess them only leaves one burdened by external things. How could one avoid losing them once they become a burden? Wealth and status are desired by the world, but they too are not originally one’s own. Pride and complacency after gaining wealth and status only damage De. How could calamity fail to follow once De is damaged? The sages are not burdened by “I”: though they rule the world, they do not make eminence their final destination. They are not burdened by external things: though they enjoy passing gains, they do not claim those gains as their own. This is because they understand and practice the Dao, and so their Dao does not change.

When the work is done and one’s name is established, one should withdraw and retire. This accords with the Way of Heaven.

The Imperial Commentary says: When achievements reach their height, one should stop; when fame reaches its height, it begins to suffer. The sun starts to decline once it reaches noon, and the moon wanes once it is full. This is the way things run their course. Seeing the signs of success and failure, the Sage understands that fullness and lack each have their appointed measure. Thus the Sage remains detached and at ease, unburdened by external things and free from the troubles of pride and complacency. Who could do this without understanding the Dao of Heaven? Hence the saying: “When the work is done and the name established, withdraw.” This is the Dao of Heaven. The seasons turn, and once things have fulfilled their function, they recede. This is the Dao of Heaven. If one knows only how to advance and not how to retreat, only how to preserve and not how to perish, only how to gain and not how to lose, how could one avoid regret? Yi Yin said: “I do not use a ruler’s favor and rewards to hold on to a position won through success.”

The Minister’s Commentary says: Yin and Yang alternate in their movement; cold and heat take turns. Where there is advance, there is retreat; where there is completion, there is decline. The Dao of Heaven bestows its efficacy on the myriad things, then, once they have fulfilled their purpose, causes them to withdraw and be concealed. This is the natural order. If one treats fame and achievement as one’s own concern and presses ever onward without knowing how to yield, then even if one is skilled at preserving fullness and knows how to restrain one’s brilliance, how could one avoid regret? Seeing the principles behind change in success and failure, the Sage understands the pattern of waxing and waning, knows that creation and transformation are constantly at work unseen, and sees how good and ill fortune depend on and transform into one another. Thus the Sage is not burdened by achievement and fame. The Sage understands advance and retreat, preservation and perishing, yet does not depart from the right path. This is what it means to follow the Dao of Heaven.

“Carrying the Corporeal and Ethereal Souls” Chapter, Ten

Carrying the corporeal and ethereal souls…

The Imperial Commentary says: The Po belongs to Yin. It depends on the body and has a fixed dwelling, which is why Laozi says the Po “resides”—that is, it has somewhere to remain. The Hun belongs to Yang. It lodges in Qi and can move freely back and forth, which is why the Book of Changes says the Hun “wanders.” The sage uses Shen to govern the body and the Hun to restrain the Po. Thus Shen is always carried along with the Hun, but does not lodge in the Po. This is like a cart carrying various goods, or like the passage of the four seasons bringing changes of cold and heat. The mind’s spirit roams through the natural realm, and the senses flow into one another. With Heaven and Earth placed outside the self, and all things forgotten, the spirit is never troubled. How, then, could it remain bound to the Po?

The Minister’s Explanation says: The Hun lodges in Qi, while Shen moves freely back and forth; these belong to Yang. The Po depends on the body and has a fixed dwelling; this belongs to Yin. When Shen carries the Hun, life is vital. When one submits to the Po’s restraint, one moves toward death. The sage’s primordial Qi is abundant and secure, and the spirit is complete. The sage enters, departs, and transforms without being burdened by the body, overcoming Yin with Yang and governing the Po through the Hun. Thus Shen is always carried along with the Hun and does not lodge in the Po.

As for placing Heaven and Earth outside the self, forgetting all things, moving freely alone, and responding to endless changes while the spirit remains untroubled, this is precisely because Shen does not lodge in the Po. “Reside” means to lodge, remain, or gather; it refers to the Po’s dwelling. “Carry” means to bear along and move; it refers to Shen’s roaming. Therefore, “carry” is used for the Hun, and “reside” for the Po.

Can you hold fast to unity and keep it from departing from you?

The Imperial Commentary says: The heavenly numbers begin with one, which gives rise to water. Among the myriad things, water corresponds to Jing (essence). The earthly numbers begin with two, which gives rise to fire. Among the myriad things, fire corresponds to Shen (spirit). The human spirit is born of the Dao (the Way), while the body takes Jing as its root. Guard Jing and Shen so that they do not dissipate, and unite body and spirit as one; then Jing and Shen can join and never part.

Use Jing to gather Shen, let Shen direct the body, and in turn rely on the body to nurture the spirit. Jing and Qi (vital energy) will be abundant and undiminished, Shen will act without becoming exhausted, and the body will grow without decaying. It is like the sun and moon attached to Heaven, or plants growing in the soil: they never separate from their source.

I have explained further: A person is born when Jing gathers and gives form to the spirit, thereby bringing the body into being. The spirit’s activity extends in every direction and flows without end; there is nowhere it cannot reach. It connects with Heaven above, spreads throughout the earth below, and transforms and nourishes the myriad things, yet cannot be described in any concrete image. This state is called “being one with the Sovereign”—that is, being united with the Dao.

Yet foolish people in the world are driven by external things. They lose their original nature amid worldly habits and never let their spirit rest within, even for a moment. They indulge endless desires and dissipate the Jing and Qi within them. So the Hun (ethereal soul) is pulled along by the Po (corporeal soul), the body in turn wears down the spirit, and in the end they change and perish along with the myriad things. Is this not delusion?

The sages are different. They bring the Hun and Po into accord and nurture themselves through “Embracing the One”—maintaining a state in which spirit and Dao are united. They quiet the spirit, and the body naturally becomes upright. Their spirit passes through heights as lofty as Mount Tai without changing, and dwells in depths like an abyss without being stained. Who can know where they begin or where they end? Thus it is said: the sages treasure Jing.

I explained: “‘The Dao gives birth to the One.’ Here, ‘One’ is the generative number of Water. Jing arises from it, so the Water of Heavenly One is called Jing. ‘The One gives birth to the Two.’ Here, ‘Two’ is the generative number of Fire. Shen emerges from it, so the Fire of Earthly Two is called Shen.

Primordial Qi blends within the Great Void. Qi has no form in its original state, and Jing arises from it. When Jing holds fast to the One and Shen gathers, life can become whole. When Jing and Shen unite, the function of Shen does not run dry. When Shen governs the body, the body can grow without decline. Jing is therefore the foundation of life, and One is the number associated with Jing. When Jing is stable and unwavering, it can return to the One; when one holds to the One without straying, Jing can become abundant. When Jing is abundant, Shen is whole; when Shen is whole, it can adapt to the transformations of all things and roam with the workings of creation. In stillness, it embodies the Great Dao; in action, it accords with the principles of things. Who can fathom its beginning and end?

Those who give themselves over to excessive desires and ceaselessly engage with external things deplete their Jing-Qi and lose their clarity. Shen is burdened by the body, the hun is governed by the po, and they sink into darkness, becoming dull and confused until the principles of Heaven are extinguished within them. Only those who hold to the One without straying can remain whole in Shen and return to the One, even amid the myriad changes.

“By concentrating Qi and bringing the body and mind to softness, can you become like an infant?” “Concentrating Qi and attaining softness” means devoting oneself to nourishing Qi and making it supple. The infant is often used as a metaphor for a state of simple, gentle purity, undisturbed by desire.

The Book of Changes says, “When the Way of Qian—the Way by which Heaven moves—is at rest, it is undivided.” Yang Xiong says, “Gentleness and compliance are enough to bring all things to rest.” Quietness without distraction is called “undivided”; gentleness without impatience is called “soft.” When infants sit quietly, they do not know what they are doing; when they move, they do not know where they are going. They do not harbor judgments of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, so their Qi is undivided and they can attain a gentle state.

Mencius says, “Stumbling and hurrying are both movements of Qi, yet they in turn unsettle the heart.” If the heart cannot keep Qi undivided, Qi becomes unsteady, stumbling or hurried, while the heart grows resentful and arrogant, and is hard to rein in. The sage lets go of the self and moves with ease through the world, not allowing the heart to drive Qi into hardness. In this way, the sage is quiet and undivided, gentle and unhurried. How is this different from being an infant? Hence the saying: “Can you be like an infant?”

Mencius also says, “This Qi is vast and strong. If you nourish it with uprightness and do it no harm, it will fill the space between Heaven and Earth.” Laozi speaks of “concentrating Qi,” yet says one should attain gentleness. Why? Great strength is for putting the Way of right conduct into practice; reaching softness is for returning to one’s nature. The ancient art of the Dao embraced both strength and softness.

I believe that Qi (vital energy) is what the Dao (the Way) relies on as it operates, and that all things are formed through the transformation of Qi. Qi moves back and forth between Heaven and Earth, and all things grow and perish through it. Qi is therefore the root of all things, and people in particular should be skilled at nourishing it.

The Mencius says that whether a person stumbles or runs, Qi has been stirred and has in turn moved the heart. Yang Xiong says that Qi is like a horse that can carry a person toward good or evil. This shows that the key to nourishing Qi is singleness of purpose: remain calm without rash change, and keep the mind undistracted. Only then can Qi be cultivated. It will no longer agitate the heart through restless movement, and the course toward good or evil will not be lost. When Qi is concentrated, one can be still and settled, enduring, even-tempered, and free of violence. By becoming gentle and preserving one’s original nature, body and mind accord with the Dao, like those of an infant. By contrast, when desire burns fiercely within, Qi grows restless like a wild horse, and violent impulses prevail. One’s pure, even-tempered De (Virtue/Power) then fades. When joy and anger become excessive, and the senses are continually stirred by sights and sounds, a person may fall into reckless action, invite disaster, and fail to turn back.

Can one cleanse the heart and perceive what is hidden and subtle without any flaw?

The Imperial Commentary says: The sage uses this method to cleanse the heart, bringing every action to purity and freedom from attachment. The sage then withdraws into deep quiet, observes the subtle principles of the mysterious, and apprehends them in silence. Such a person is naturally simple and unburdened by external things; when they make a mistake, they do not dwell on regret, and when they act appropriately, they do not congratulate themselves. What flaw could remain?

I believe that when the heart returns to emptiness, desires recede and defilements are cleared away; when the mind opens into free communion, attachment to bodily form is released. Thus one cleanses everything without possessing anything. Once one has merged silently with the Dao, one can forget self and others, transcend external things, and clearly perceive the unique Dao. By cleansing the heart and perceiving what is hidden and subtle, one reaches a state in which self and things merge. Where, then, could any flaw remain?

Can one care for the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)?

The imperial commentary says: To care for the people through benevolence, govern the state through wisdom, carry out instruction, and revise the laws, all in the hope of bringing order to the world through good deeds—this makes Wuwei difficult to attain. The sage bestows benefits on the world for generations, yet does not think of himself as caring for anyone. His achievements extend throughout the world, yet they seem not to have come from him. Thus he is able to practice Wuwei, and has ample capacity to govern the world.

A minister explains: To care for the people through benevolence means that once benevolence is put into practice, the mind still acts with intention. To govern the state through wisdom means that the use of wisdom still involves discrimination and deliberation. Being stirred by schemes and cleverness, and wearied by deliberate action—that is the result. When one does not deliberately set out to love, love can extend to all the people; when one does not deliberately set out to govern, the state’s order can instead be made complete.

“Can you keep to the feminine when Heaven’s Gate opens and closes?” This asks whether, amid the opening and closing transformations of Heaven and Earth, one can remain gentle and still, and take the lower position.

The imperial commentary says: The Dao De Jing states, “Know the masculine, keep to the feminine, and become the stream of the world.” The sage follows the transformations of the Dao: sometimes contracting and sometimes extending, sometimes opening and sometimes closing, without ever going against the moment. He is gentle when gentleness is called for, firm when firmness is called for, hidden when concealment is called for, and manifest when it is called for, using each quality only as needed. He never rushes ahead of others, but always follows them; he never places himself above the myriad things, but always stays beneath them. Thus the people of the world are glad to raise him up and do not reject him. This is what it means to keep to the feminine.

A minister explains: Heaven’s Gate opening and closing refers to the movement of Yang Qi. Yang Qi arises naturally, yet always remains beneath the myriad things. Thus the people of the world are glad to raise it up and do not reject it. This is what it means to keep to the feminine.

Another minister explains: It is called “Heaven’s Gate” because the Dao enters and exits through it. Heaven’s Gate opening and closing refers to the movement of Yang Qi. Yang Qi arises naturally, and the sage, too, acts without deliberate intention. He simply follows the moment and changes with it, responding to things without clinging to the mysterious. This is what it means to keep to the feminine.

“Can you understand all things clearly and remain free of cleverness?” This asks whether one can see in every direction and understand everything without taking pride in one’s cleverness.

The imperial commentary says: To be wise and discerning, yet hold fast to simplicity—this means the same thing.

A minister explains: The hanging strands on the crowns of ancient emperors and the ornaments that screened their ears were meant to restrain sight and hearing. To hold fast to simplicity is to avoid using cleverness recklessly. One who is truly clear-sighted and understanding does not rely on cleverness to act; only then can one be called wise and discerning.

To give life to and nurture the myriad things, letting them grow without claiming them as one’s own; to help them without taking pride in one’s achievements; to guide them as they develop without ruling over them—this is called Mysterious De (profound and subtle Virtue).

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The sage nurtures the spirit and understands transformation, becoming one with the Dao. Thus the sage can accord with the divine and nourish all things, with nothing beyond reach. The sage allows all things to grow and fully express their nature, then cares for them so they receive ample nourishment. With no preference or expectation of reward, the sage gives life to all things without possessing them. With no self-praise or claim to merit, the sage acts without relying on achievement. Without contrived skill to control or shape things, the sage lets all things grow without ruling them. Such a person’s De is deep and far-reaching, contrary to the common way of seeing things; this is called “Mysterious De,” profound and subtle virtue. When the Way of Heaven moves to the north, it reveals a character distinct from that of the myriad things. “Mysterious” is the color of Heaven. The sage receives the Way of Heaven and puts it into practice as De; only the word “mysterious” can describe it.

A subordinate does not rule over the myriad things as they grow. Such a person’s De is deep and far-reaching, contrary to the common way of seeing things; this is called “Mysterious De.” When the Way of Heaven moves to the north, it reveals a character distinct from that of the myriad things. “Mysterious” is the color of Heaven. The sage receives the Way of Heaven and puts it into practice as De; only the word “mysterious” can describe it.

A subordinate’s explanation says: The sage holds fast to the One, the root of the Dao, and gathers Jing and Qi with undivided focus, reaching a state of subtle insight; in this way, self-cultivation reaches its utmost. From taking the lower position through Wuwei and responding to things with gentleness, to not forcing all things through discriminating knowledge, the capacity to respond to external things also reaches its utmost. The sage does not cling to the self, nor cling to things when facing the myriad things, and so becomes one with the Dao. From this we can understand that each thing grows from its own nature, and each is nourished according to its own natural conditions. The Dao gives life to and nourishes all things, but who would claim them as their own or deliberately act upon them? If one acts through Wuwei from the start, why praise oneself, rely on one’s achievements, or claim to rule the world? Without contrived cleverness to shape or control the myriad things, one leaves them to nature. Hence the words, “does not rule.” In this way, the people do not feel that anyone governs them, and the myriad things do not lose sight of their own nature. This is called “Mysterious De.”

Chapter Thirty-One: Thirty Spokes

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel. Because the hub’s center is empty, the wheel can turn. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel. Because the vessel’s center is empty, it can hold things. Doors and windows are cut to make a house. Because the inside of the house is empty, it can be lived in.

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: Being and nonbeing are connected from the outset; their practical function appears through their interaction. This is the wondrous function at its highest. Being and nonbeing seem different in form: being is the shape of things, while nonbeing is the condition that allows things to function. This is the function at work in the movement of Yin-Yang and in the formation of the myriad things.

Emperor Huizong of the Song dynasty comments: Being and nonbeing are originally one. Being gives things form; nonbeing enables them to function. This is the most subtle principle. Being and nonbeing appear distinct: being is the form of things, while nonbeing is their function. The movement of Yin-Yang and the patterns of the myriad things work in the same way. A cart is useful because it can move; a vessel because it can hold things; a house because of its empty space. Subtle function arises from “nonbeing,” and change is hidden where nothing is constrained. A mirror, for example, contains no images of its own, yet reflects whatever appears before it. Those who attain a high level of cultivation are often able to grasp this principle.

A minister’s commentary says: In their depths, being and nonbeing return to unity. This is the complete substance of the Dao (the Way), and the culmination of its mystery. From nonbeing comes being; through being, one comes to understand nonbeing. Thus being and nonbeing appear to be distinct. Nonbeing depends on being to take the form of things, while being depends on nonbeing to function. This is the principle of all things. A cart can move, a vessel can hold things, and a house can provide shelter because of the emptiness within them; the cart, vessel, and house themselves are forms of being. Those who cling to outward forms and take what is before their eyes to be everything will ultimately decay along with those forms. This is the view of the unenlightened. To understand that nonbeing can function is to grasp the pivot of change, comprehend subtle functions, respond to transformations without end, and apprehend them through spiritual insight.

Thus it is said: being brings practical benefit, while nonbeing makes function possible.

Emperor Huizong of the Song dynasty comments: Being is substantial; nonbeing is empty. Substantial things have shape, image, sound, color, and texture. Emptiness enables things to operate, contain, and respond, so their functions are inexhaustible. Between Heaven and Earth, the Dao manifests through concrete things, so being cannot be set aside. Yet things reveal their subtlety through the Dao, and being ultimately returns to nonbeing. Wood can bend and remain supple; water can moisten; fire can dry things; metal is hard; and level ground can be sown so that crops grow. These are all instances of being, through which people obtain practical benefit. But what enables Heaven to move, Earth to remain stable, the seasons to turn, and the myriad things to flourish? And what governs them? This is nonbeing. People cannot see how it functions, and so its function is inexhaustible. Here Laozi uses these three examples to explain the principle that being and nonbeing give rise to each other.

My minister explains: Physical form manifests as “being,” and vessels are useful to people. Emptiness manifests as “nonbeing,” and from it the function of vessels also arises. “Being” and “nonbeing” depend on one another; only together can they enable vessels to serve their purpose. The wheel, the vessel, and the house are familiar examples, so Laozi uses them to explain the distinct functions of “being” and “nonbeing.”

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

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

The Imperial Commentary says: Each of a person’s two eyes has its own nature. When the eyes can discern things clearly and fully, this is called “vision.” By discerning how things stand, one can judge the world’s difficulties. The ears, too, have their own nature. When they can hear and distinguish sounds clearly and fully, this is called “hearing.” By understanding how things stand, one can grasp the thoughts of people throughout the world. One who has realized the Dao can perceive the formless through Shen, and hear the soundless through Qi. Such a person senses without relying on ears and eyes—how, then, could sounds and colors obscure perception? People in the world are burdened by external things and become absorbed in the five colors and five tones. Their discernment consequently declines; how is this any different from being blind and deaf?

My minister explains: To perceive things clearly in the formless is to see through Shen; to hear harmony in the soundless is to listen through Qi. Seeing does not depend on the eyes, so it can discern with complete clarity. Hearing does not depend on the ears, so it can perceive with complete acuity. Discernment of this degree is sufficient for planning and judgment. When the ears and eyes can go beyond ordinary experience, how could they be burdened by sounds and colors? When desires alter a person’s nature, external things come to govern them. Becoming absorbed in sounds and colors and tiring the ears and eyes with constant seeing and hearing depletes the spirit and diminishes discernment. Thus it is said: “The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the hearing.”

The five flavors spoil the palate; racing horses and hunting in the fields unsettle the mind.

The Imperial Commentary says: The flavor in which the Dao manifests is bland and without taste. Becoming absorbed in sounds and colors and tiring the ears and eyes with constant seeing and hearing depletes the spirit and diminishes discernment. Thus it is said: “The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the hearing.” The five flavors spoil the palate; racing horses and hunting in the fields unsettle the mind.

When spoken aloud, the Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle of all things in the universe, sounds plain and tasteless. Everyone enjoys the five flavors—sour, sweet, bitter, pungent, and salty. But flavors that are too strong can damage the sense of taste; in this way, they throw the palate out of balance.

The human body is only a little over ten feet tall, yet the heart can connect with the transformations of Heaven and Earth. When active, the heart of a sage can plan and govern all affairs under Heaven; when still, it can see through Heaven and Earth. People in the world are engrossed in hunting, their spirits chasing after external things, and so they lose the goodness already within them. Unable even to restrain themselves, are they not in a state of great sorrow?

The great broth, made without seasoning, and the dark wine, which in ancient ritual stood for pure water, both return to tastelessness; this is how the Dao is embodied. The Dao, when spoken, is plain and tasteless; this is how it is described. Hold fast to emptiness, stillness, and balance, and preserve your unspoiled nature: the true flavor lies within. Chase worldly pleasures and crave the five strong flavors, and you lose your original sense of taste. This is why it is said that they “make the mouth lose its proper taste.”

The spirit of the heart can roam in the realm before all things began and connect with the transformations of Heaven and Earth. When the heart stirs into action, it can plan all affairs; when it grows still, it can see through Heaven and Earth. This is possible because the heart returns to a state of no-mind, free of attachment. But if one becomes absorbed in hunting, the spirit races outward, unable to settle and gather itself. Qi and blood are depleted by exertion, and the spirit grows frantic. To lose one’s nature in this way is truly tragic.

Hard-to-obtain goods hinder people’s conduct.

Goods can be used to sustain people, but people are also affected by goods. Thus, people exchange benefits and provide for one another. The sage does not prize rare goods or unusual objects, and makes little of unnecessary implements, hoping that people will keep to their proper place and not compete with one another. If rare things are treated as precious, people will violate their nature in pursuit of wealth and status. How could they then remain on the right path? This is why it is said that such goods hinder people’s conduct.

Zhong Hui, an aide to King Tang of Shang, praised Tang, saying, “He did not amass goods for profit.” Confucius, speaking of Zigong, said, “Ci (Zigong) did not accept the Mandate of Heaven, but traded in goods and amassed wealth.” This is precisely how goods hinder people’s conduct.

A commentator says: When people understand the proper place of status and destiny, they know that wealth and honor each have their allotted share. If they know their limits and accept them peacefully, what cause remains for the distress of competing, demanding more, or envying others? People prize goods that are hard to obtain. Such goods may have no real use, yet their rarity leads people to value them recklessly. When they prize rare things, even going against their nature and harming their lives in a single-minded effort to acquire them, their conduct is damaged. That is why Laozi says, “conduct is obstructed”: this kind of behavior harms the person who engages in it.

Therefore, the sage seeks only to enrich the inner self and does not chase outward desires for sights and sounds. The sage thus sets aside one course and chooses the other.

The imperial commentary says: In the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), Kun symbolizes the belly because it is substantial and bearing, able to contain all things. Li symbolizes the eyes because they look outward and can distinguish things. The substantial, capacious belly has nothing it cannot contain; the eyes, though bright in their outward gaze, have things they cannot see or see in their entirety. The sage takes all under Heaven as the measure, and so chooses to be like the belly, containing all things, rather than governing everything and inspecting every detail. The sage therefore sets aside the outward scrutiny represented by the eyes. The Zhuangzi says, “Nothing is worse than damaging one’s De: when the mind clings to something, it is as though eyes have grown upon it.” The sage therefore seeks to remove this kind of attachment.

The commentator adds: Taking things without selection and containing them all are qualities of the belly; looking at things and thereby making distinctions are qualities of the eyes. Thus Kun symbolizes the belly through its substantial bearing and capacity to contain, while Li symbolizes the eyes through their outward gaze and discernment. To contain is to receive everything, in keeping with the very nature of the Dao; to scrutinize clearly is always to leave something unseen and to bring one’s own will into one’s actions. The sage therefore sets aside outward scrutiny and distinction, and chooses inward receptivity.

Sounds, appetites, and desires for gain can all lead people away from their nature. When they are moved and changed by external things, they become burdened and governed by emotions. The eyes readily give rise to excessive desire, which is why the scripture speaks of them first. When the eyes are not blind, the ears not deaf, the mouth remains true to its nature, the mind is not disordered, and conduct is not obstructed, one can forget desires, preserve Jing (essence), and enrich the inner self. Hence the passage concludes: “Attend to the belly, not the eyes.”

The end of Volume Two of Emperor Huizong of Song’s Explanation of the Meaning of the True Scripture of the Dao De Jing; Volume Three begins.

An explanation of the text written by the court official Zhang An, Gentleman of Service.

Dao Jing: “Favor and Disgrace,” Chapter Thirteen

Being favored or disgraced is like being startled. To regard honor as precious is to regard a great calamity as precious as one’s own life.

The imperial commentary says: The favored person occupies a low position, while the honored person stands above. If one takes favor as a source of glory, it will bring disgrace; if one takes high rank as an advantage, it will bring still greater calamity. Those who think wealth is good cannot bear to give up their stipends. Those who think distinction is good cannot bear to relinquish their reputations. Those attached to power will not hand their authority to anyone else. While clutching power, they are anxious and uneasy; when they lose it, they grieve bitterly. This is why favor and disgrace cause alarm. Painful illness and feelings of comfort arise in the body from time to time; urgent fear and joy, worry and dread, take turns disturbing the heart. This is why one regards a great calamity as one’s own self.

Your servant Zhang An explains: When others favor you, your heart takes it as an honor. What could be more humiliating than that? When you hold an honored position, you take it as an advantage. What could be a greater calamity? Favor and disgrace both arise from gain and loss; when gain or loss comes, the heart is disturbed. Thus the scripture says that favor and disgrace are like being startled. If you take another person’s honor as your own advantage and cling to it, you burden your heart and fall into the calamities brought on by striving, with no way to escape.

What does “favor and disgrace” mean? To be favored is, by its very nature, to occupy a low position.

The imperial commentary says: A dragon can transform freely and cannot be controlled or tamed by people. If it can be kept in an enclosure, it can only be raised as a creature in captivity; this is what it means to be disgraced. Those of old who were skilled in cultivating the Dao would not alter their principles even when they held the rank of the Three Dukes, nor change their convictions even when they received generous stipends. If, when favored, they remain mindful of danger, and, amid good fortune, maintain humility and restraint, they will suffer no disgrace. But if they crave the high rank bestowed by Heaven and envy the stipends granted by Heaven, knowing only how to advance and not how to withdraw, and only how to gain and not how to lose, people will look down on them. Thus, accepting another’s favor places one in a subordinate position.

The “Minister Yi” interpretation says: If you regard the favor bestowed by others as an honor, then being favored will bring humiliation in its wake. This is the conduct of someone in a subordinate position. What is more, if you know only how to advance and not how to withdraw, only how to gain and not how to lose, you will meet with troubles, invite disaster, and earn people’s contempt. How could this not be a subordinate position?

The Dao De Jing says: “When favored, be as though startled; when disfavored, be as though startled.” This is called “favor and disgrace both bring alarm.”

The Imperial Commentary says: High office and generous emoluments worn upon one’s person are not part of the innate principle of life. External things happen to come one’s way; they are only temporary guests. When they arrive, there is no way to refuse them, so the perfected person does not rejoice at gaining them. When they depart, there is no way to stop them, so the perfected person does not grieve at losing them. If one is unhappy when external things leave and delighted when they arrive, one has allowed gain and loss to entangle the heart. How could one not be alarmed? When Liu Xiahui served as a judge, he remained in office even after being dismissed three times. Zheng Kaofu, a senior official of the state of Song during the Spring and Autumn period, bowed his head and hurried along the foot of the wall each time he was appointed to a higher post, even after his third promotion. Their attitudes were different from this.

The “Minister Yi” interpretation says: Favor and disgrace arise from gain and loss. When gain and loss arrive, the heart becomes entangled and the spirit is stirred; this is how favor and disgrace arise from gain and loss. If nothing is gained, there is nothing to lose; if one does not take favor to heart, there is no humiliation. Once gain and loss are forgotten, what is there in the heart to cause alarm? Without alarm, there can be neither favor nor disgrace.

The Dao De Jing also asks: “What does it mean to regard great trouble as seriously as one regards oneself?” The Imperial Commentary says: Relying on benefits and power, one monopolizes rewards and punishments, dispensing favors and wielding authority…

People throughout the realm hold him in awe as they do the spirits, and honor him as they do God. This may be called the highest honor. Yet the sage does not let honor become a burden, and so can enjoy wealth and distinction for a long time without disaster.

It is like being able to set aside the sensations of the limbs, discard distinctions of hearing and sight, and forget the body and cleverness, returning to a state of communion with the Great Dao. Then, wherever one may be, one can remain at ease and content. People of the world let external things alter their nature, and so are entangled by material desires and cannot forget power and status. They also let the body burden the mind, causing them to lose their original nature; yet they still cannot let go of the body. Their troubles run deep.

The Minister says: “To ‘obtain’ means to acquire. People of the world let external things alter their nature, and so are entangled by material desires and cannot let go of power and status. They also let the body burden the mind, causing them to lose their original nature; yet they still cannot let go of the body. Their troubles are indeed great.”

Minister Yi explains: Those who make honor a burden to themselves have forgotten the dignity they inherently possess and become attached instead to honor bestowed from outside. How could they escape disaster? Only the sage has no attachment to self. Though occupying the highest position, he is never burdened by honor; thus he can preserve his distinction for a long time without suffering the calamities of the human world. Once one becomes attached to oneself, one worries over oneself. When the mind pursues honor, it is ruled by it. When the body is glorified by honor, it is also bound by it. This is a great calamity.

The reason I have great troubles is that I have this body. Once I no longer cling to the body, what troubles could I have?

The Imperial Commentary says: The human body is made up of the hundred bones, nine openings, and five organs and six bowels; only when these are joined together does a person come into being. Which part of them, then, should I cherish? To regard the body as…

Every idea that clings to “being” is delusion. Those who truly realize the Great Dao can release these attachments. As Confucius said, “If I hear the Dao in the morning, it is worth dying that evening.” Mencius said, “Whether life is long or short, the will remains unchanged.” Yan Hui said, “I have attained the state of sitting in forgetfulness.” Sitting in forgetfulness means forgetting the distinction between body and mind, and no longer being burdened by external things.

Death and life are great matters in human existence, yet those who embody the Dao can keep their hearts unchanged in the face of them. How much more so with external circumstances such as gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? The perfected people of antiquity did not let profit burden the body, nor let the body burden the mind. Seeing all things and themselves as one, they no longer chose between them. If they did not even regard their own bodies as their possession, why would they care about gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? Above, they roamed with the Creator—the natural force that brings all things into being. Below, they befriended those who transcended life and death and saw beginnings and endings as one. What troubles could they have?

Being favored is something ordinary people take pride in, but those who embody the Dao see it as something that may bring humiliation. Holding high office is something people are eager to pursue, yet they know it can also harbor trouble. This is because external things cannot be relied upon; such is the nature of things. If one can possess everything without treating it as one’s own, then favor brings no humiliation, and prominence brings no anxiety. Yi Yin did not claim credit for being favored or rewarded, and Yao did not take pleasure in holding the throne. They were close to this state.

A commentator explains: Because there is an “I,” there is a body; once there is a body, there is trouble. Without a body, there is no “I” to speak of. And if one does not even possess an “I,” what troubles could there be? When the body is not burdened by external things, it ultimately returns to formlessness. When the mind is not burdened by the body, it ultimately returns to mindlessness. Thus, when one roams above with the Creator, one is no longer attached to the body; when one befriends below those who transcend life and death and see beginnings and endings as one, what troubles could there be? To regard favor as humiliation and to recognize the troubles hidden in high office is to see that affection and honor are external things. What, then, is there to rely on?

Only those who value the world more than their own bodies can be entrusted with the world. Only those who care for the world more than themselves can have the world placed in their care.

The emperor’s commentary says: The world is a great vessel. Without the Dao, it cannot be set in motion; the world is also a sacred vessel, and without the Dao, it cannot be protected. The sage follows the Great Dao in governing the world, and so enables it to endure in peace. The people of the world are glad to choose him and do not grow weary of him. Those of the next rank understand how to honor themselves through the Dao. They do not demean themselves by submitting to the service of external things, and so may perhaps be entrusted with great responsibilities. They understand how to cherish themselves and do not demean themselves by becoming trapped by external things, and so may perhaps be entrusted with affairs. Thus, the root of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself; its remaining portion can be used to govern the state; and only its lesser function is used to govern the world. Yet those whom the world calls gentlemen do not hesitate to harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things. Is this not lamentable?

The minister’s explanation says: The sage follows the Great Dao in governing the world. In stillness, he uses the Dao to protect the world; in action, he uses the Dao to set the world in motion. Why, then, would he need to take the affairs of the world upon himself and treat them as a burden? The people of the world are glad to choose him and do not grow weary of him. What, then, has he to worry about? If someone has not yet reached the sage’s level, but understands how to honor himself through the Dao and does not lose himself through servile humiliation, then he understands how to value himself; he can therefore be entrusted with the great responsibilities of the world. If he understands how to cherish himself through the Dao and does not abandon himself for the sake of external things, then he understands how to love himself; he can therefore…