《老子翼(焦竑)》Vol. 1

If the Dao can be fully expressed in words, it is not the constant Dao. If a name can precisely define a thing, it is not a constant name. “The nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “the named” is the source from which the myriad things grow. Thus, by remaining free of desire, one can observe the Dao’s subtlety; by remaining in a state of desire, one can observe the boundaries and destinations of things. These two, Nonbeing and Being, arise from the same source, though they have different names. Both may be called profound and mysterious. Mystery upon mystery: the gateway to all subtleties.

The commentary explains that the “Dao” in “can be spoken of” may be understood as the “way” mentioned in ritual, rather than the constant Great Dao meant here. “Mother” means that the myriad things come forth from it. “Desire” may refer to a person’s thoughts or emotions. “Jiao” is interchangeable with “qiao”: it can mean an opening through which things enter and leave, or their boundaries and destinations. Chen Jingyuan, however, interprets it as a small path beside the Great Dao.

Ding Yidong points out that “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things” can be punctuated in different ways. Some take “the nameless” and “the named” as separate phrases; others understand “Nonbeing” and “Being” separately. Ding argues that Laozi’s statement, “The Dao is constantly nameless; when it first takes form, it is given a name,” seems to support reading “Nonbeing” and “Being” separately. There are also two ways to punctuate “By remaining free of desire, one observes its subtlety; by remaining in a state of desire, one observes its boundaries”: one reads it as “constant Nonbeing, constant Being,” and the other as “without desire, with desire.” The Zhuangzi contains the phrase “established through constant Nonbeing and Being,” which seems to support the first reading. But Laozi also says, “Constantly without desire, it may be called small.” So the reading should not be decided on the basis of the Zhuangzi alone; it should be judged from the wording of the Laozi itself.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: There is nothing that is not the Dao. But the Dao that can be spoken of and explained cannot remain eternally unchanged; only the Dao that cannot be spoken of is constant. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom all belong to the Dao that can be spoken of. Yet benevolence cannot take the place of righteousness, nor propriety the place of wisdom. This shows that any principle that can be distinguished and named has its own limits and cannot remain eternally unchanged. Only the Dao that cannot be spoken of can appear as benevolence within benevolence, as righteousness within righteousness, and likewise as propriety and wisdom within each of their own domains. Its manifestations differ, but the Dao itself remains unchanged.

Since the Dao cannot be spoken of, how can it be named? No name is sufficient to express the Dao fully. Once names are established, things take on different forms—round, square, curved, straight. Each particular form changes and cannot remain eternally unchanged. The Dao, by contrast, remains unchanged. The Dao manifests from the nameless and gives rise to Heaven and Earth. As Heaven and Earth settle into their respective places, names begin to arise. Heaven and Earth then unfold from the realm of the named, bringing forth the myriad things. As the myriad things multiply, their names become countless. Thus, the nameless is the substance of the Dao, while the named is its function.

The sage follows the substance of the Dao in responding to the myriad affairs of the world. Though dwelling among particular things, the sage’s mind remains empty and still, observing the Dao’s subtlety. The sage experiences the Dao in its utmost emptiness while also recognizing how it functions in reality, thereby observing the limits and destinations of things. To act only within the limits and appearances of things, without understanding their subtle source, is to become shallow and lose one’s spiritual insight. To remain only in what is subtle and remote, without understanding how it takes shape in things, is to become overly refined and hollow, unable to adapt to changing circumstances.

In terms of form, being and nonbeing seem to be two different things. But how do we know that nonbeing moves and becomes being, and that being returns to nonbeing—that they have never been separate? Their names differ, but their root is one and the same. To understand that the root of all things is one is to understand the Mysterious. Whatever is profound beyond limit is often described as “mysterious,” so Laozi often uses “mysterious” to evoke the ultimate reach of the Dao. To speak of the Mysterious is already profound, yet the mind may still retain the concept of “the Mysterious.” To say “the Mysterious upon the Mysterious” is to transcend even that concept, leaving nothing further to add. This is the source from which the many subtle things arise.

The Bicheng explains: “Jiao” is pronounced like the “jiao” in bianjiao (“frontier boundary”) and refers to the limit or boundary of a thing. Yan Zi says that “jiao” is the point where De (Virtue/Power) comes to rest, beyond which nothing can be added.

“Jiào” is read as in jiāojìng, “borderland,” and refers to the end of a thing. Yan Zi said, “The jiào is where De (Virtue/Power) comes to rest.” Liezi said, “Death is the limit of De.” Both statements explain jiào as an endpoint.

“Nonbeing” simply means nonbeing; there is no need to explain it further. When people desire something, they always cling to what they seek as if it truly exists. Yet whatever one desires must, in the end, reach its limit. At that limit, with no further path to follow, one returns to nonbeing. How does this differ from the wondrous? Thus it is said, “These two are called the same: the dark and mysterious.” But Laozi speaks this way only because he has no choice, explaining it to those who have not yet understood. He is not actually telling people to combine being and nonbeing in order to obtain nonbeing. If one casts aside being to pursue nonbeing, then there must be something else outside being; how, then, could nonbeing still count as nonbeing? When things appear as being, they have never in fact departed from nonbeing. This is true nonbeing. So there is no need to destroy forms in order to seek emptiness, for form itself is emptiness; nor is there any need to abandon worldly affairs in order to seek emptiness, for worldly affairs themselves are emptiness. Otherwise, what is called “nonbeing” is merely nonbeing in relation to being, and what is called “being” is merely being in relation to nonbeing. How, then, can either be called enduring nonbeing or enduring being? Ah, where can one find someone who truly understands what is enduring, with whom to discuss this teaching?

Everyone under Heaven knows what is beautiful, and so ugliness appears; everyone knows what is good, and so what is not good appears. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficult and easy complete one another; long and short set each other in contrast; high and low reveal their differences; notes answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after. For this reason, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. The myriad things arise, and the sage does not interfere; he nurtures them without claiming them as his own, acts without relying on his abilities, and completes his work without taking credit. Because he takes no credit, his achievements do not depart.

“Qing” means uneven. The commentator holds that “arising, completing, taking form, becoming uneven, answering, and following” all illustrate how beauty and ugliness, good and not good, stand in contrast and reveal one another. “Chu” is read with the rising tone; “fu” is pronounced like “fu” in fú.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: People in the world judge beauty and ugliness, goodness and evil by outward forms and names. But are the things they call beautiful and good truly beautiful and good in any absolute sense? They do not understand that being and nonbeing, long and short, difficult and easy, high and low, loud and soft sounds, front and back—all depend on one another and can turn into one another. None is a fixed standard. Someone who thinks he is tall will seem short when someone taller appears; someone who thinks he is ahead will fall behind when another walks in front of him. If we simply take what everyone praises as beautiful and good, we will be far from the truth.

The sage does what must be done without any intention of deliberate action. He guides people without relying on forceful words. In this way, he goes beyond measures of length and is not bound by the order of before and after. He clings neither to beauty nor ugliness, neither to goodness nor its opposite. How, then, could the people of the world understand him by such standards alone?

As all things arise and develop, the sage lets them follow their own course and does not shirk the work that is his to do. He nurtures all things and brings them to completion, yet does not claim them as his own or take pride in his achievements. Even when his work succeeds, he does not credit himself. This is the result of Wuwei (non-action) and teaching without words. The sage does not even regard this as something beautiful or good worthy of praise, much less invite its opposite, ugliness or evil. In poverty and low status, he is not troubled by them; in wealth and honor, he is not burdened by them. This is what it means not to possess or lay claim to anything. If the sage himself does not claim fame or merit, how could others take these things away from him? This is what it truly means to abide in peace.

When the worthy are not held up for admiration, people will not compete for fame and profit. When rare and valuable goods are not prized, people will not steal. When things that stir up desire are not put on display, people’s hearts will not be disturbed. Thus the sage governs the world by keeping people’s minds simple and settled, while ensuring that their lives are well provided for.

When worthy people are not held up for admiration, the people will not compete with one another. When rare and precious goods are not valued, the people will not steal. When things that stir desire are not displayed, people’s hearts will not be disturbed.

Thus, in governing the world, the sage seeks to lessen the people’s scheming and distracting thoughts while ensuring that they have enough food and clothing. The sage weakens their ambitions to outdo one another and strengthens their bodies. The people are kept free of excessive cunning and desire, so that even those who think themselves clever dare not act recklessly. Govern by following the principle of Wuwei (non-action), and nothing in the world will be left poorly governed.

The “ignorance” spoken of here means reducing cunning calculation, not making people ignorant of everything. Wang Fusi explains: when the mind is full of clever schemes, the belly is empty of food. So cleverness should be reduced while the people’s food and clothing are made sufficient. Bones themselves have no cunning, yet they support the body; therefore, the body should be strengthened. Ambitions readily give rise to conflict and trouble, so they should be weakened.

Su Zhe explains: If the capable are exalted, making people feel inferior to others, this will provoke rivalry. If rare goods are treated as precious, people may grieve because they cannot obtain them and turn to theft. If alluring things are put on display, people may become troubled when they desire them but cannot have them, and may fall into disorder.

Yet even though everyone in the world knows that these three practices bring harm, that does not mean the worthy, precious goods, and desirable things should all be discarded. The Sage does not refuse to employ the capable; he simply does not exalt them deliberately. He does not throw away precious goods; he simply does not treat them as exceptionally valuable. He does not eliminate everything people might long for; he simply does not put such things on display. Thus the capable can be employed without people competing, and even when precious goods and desirable things are right before them, theft and disorder do not arise.

Is this not a way to keep people’s minds quiet and empty without depriving their bodies of what they need, and to lessen their drive to outdo one another without weakening the strength they need to make their way in life? If the capable are promoted and deliberately honored, precious goods are revered as treasures, and alluring things are displayed for all to see, people’s minds and desires will be filled. But if all these things are discarded, people’s resolve and their strength to stand on their own will also be weakened. When minds and desires are filled, people compete to seize things; when resolve and strength are weakened, they can scarcely stand on their own.

When these things are not put on display, people do not know what to pursue, and so remain calm, unassuming, and free of desire. Even if someone is clever, there is no opportunity to put that cleverness to use. This is to follow the natural course of things without deliberately exalting, valuing, or displaying them. It is what is called “practicing Wuwei” (acting without forcing things through contrivance).

The Dao, the underlying principle by which all things operate, is empty and formless, yet in use it seems never to run dry. It is so deep and far-reaching that it seems to be the source of all things. It draws in its sharpness, resolves confusion, tempers its radiance, and blends with the dust of the world. Still and profound, it seems to exist and yet not to exist. I do not know where it came from, but it appears to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

“Chong” is written as “zhong” in some versions, referring to the hollow interior of a vessel. Li Yue says: “‘The Lord’ is the being who governs the growth of all things. The changes of all things come after the Dao; only the Dao stands alone before them. ‘Seem’ means ‘resemble.’ The nature of the Dao is humble, so we do not say that it definitely stands before all things, but that it ‘seems’ to come first.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao is utterly empty, almost as if it were nothing, yet it moves through all things. However vast heaven and earth, however far-reaching the mountains and rivers, there is nowhere it cannot reach. Since it has no form, it appears not to be full. It is deep and subtle. I know it is the root of all things, but I dare not state this categorically, so I say only that it “seems to be the root of all things.”

Everyone possesses the Dao, but a sage can embody it fully. The sage restrains his sharpness for fear that his words might become empty and unfounded; he brings order to confusion for fear of coming into conflict with things outside himself. He does not fall into reckless speech or quarrel with external things. Once troubles from outside have subsided, inner clarity can arise. He then lives in harmony with all things, avoiding the appearance of being at odds with them. His radiance is pure, yet he can dwell among worldly dust without rejecting the things of the world. In this way, he preserves the Dao, allowing it to endure in clear and still serenity. Though the Dao endures, people find it difficult to perceive, so we say that it “seems to exist.” Though the Dao is everlasting, no name can define it completely; yet neither can we say that it does not exist. Hence the question: Could it be the ancestor of the Lord of Heaven? Since it came before the Lord of Heaven, nothing came earlier than it.

Heaven and earth show no partial love: they treat all things as straw dogs used in ritual. The sage, too, shows no partial love: he treats the people as straw dogs. Is not the space between heaven and earth like a bellows? It is hollow, yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more air it produces without end. Too many words often lead to repeated frustration. Better to keep the mind empty, still, and even.

“Tuo” is pronounced “tuo.” The tuoyue is a device used to blow air during smelting and casting. The tuo is the outer casing, which houses the moving parts of the bellows; the yue is the inner part that moves to produce the airflow.

“Bellows” refers to the device used for forging and casting. The outer casing holds the inner tube, which pumps air through the bellows. “Constricted” means knotted up or repressed, unable to unfold. The character for “often” is pronounced shuò and means repeatedly or frequently.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Heaven and Earth show no favoritism; they simply follow the natural course of the myriad things. So things grow of themselves and die of themselves. Their death does not mean Heaven and Earth are cruel, just as their growth does not mean Heaven and Earth are benevolent. This is like a grass dog made for a ritual: during the ceremony it is carefully adorned and respectfully presented, not because it is cherished, but because the occasion calls for it. When the ceremony is over, it is cast aside by the road and left to be trampled, not because it is despised, but because its purpose has passed. The sage treats the people in the same way: the sage does not harm them, allowing them to preserve their own nature. As for life and death, gain and loss, the sage does not interfere. Even if this cannot be called an active practice of benevolence, it is already good.

As for the bellows, once they are worked, the moving air can set things in motion wherever it reaches. Those who do not understand may imagine that some ingenious mechanism is hidden inside. But what does the bellows actually do? It is simply hollow and unobstructed; the more it is worked, the more air continues to flow out. The way Heaven and Earth bring forth and dissolve the myriad things, shaping their forms, is no different. People see things constantly changing and coming into being, but do not realize that it all comes from the inner emptiness and stillness of Heaven and Earth. So rather than speaking at length and repeatedly reaching an end, it is better to hold fast to inner stillness and emptiness, and thereby avoid exhaustion.

The “Valley Spirit,” empty and still like a valley yet able to give life to the myriad things, does not die. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” a hidden, deep-seated mother that gives birth. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the source of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. It continues without end, seeming to exist and yet not quite there; when put to use, it is never exhausted.

The valley is used as a metaphor for the Dao because it is empty and can accommodate all things, yet does not claim them as its own. Its subtle depths are difficult to fathom, so it is called the “Valley Spirit.” The female can bring life to birth, like the “Mother” mentioned in the previous chapter. Calling it the “Mysterious Female” also conveys its profound and mysterious nature, which is difficult to fathom.

Nan Junzhai says: The Laozi often varies its wording, and its prose frequently rhymes, so one should not insist that a word has only one fixed meaning. For example, in the phrase “Mysterious Female,” the word “female” can be read as “bi,” rhyming with the preceding line. “The gate of the Mysterious Female” is an expanded phrase, added to fit the line that follows. To explain each line strictly according to its literal wording, treating the “Mysterious Female” as a concrete thing and a particular place as “the gate of the Mysterious Female,” is to misunderstand the passage.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Although a valley is extremely empty, it still has form; the “Valley Spirit,” by contrast, is empty and formless. What is empty and formless has not yet come into being—how, then, could it die? Calling it the “Valley Spirit” speaks of its Virtue; calling it the “Mysterious Female” speaks of its function. The female gives birth to the myriad things, yet is called “mysterious” because we see the myriad things come forth from it but cannot see how they are produced. “The gate of the Mysterious Female” means that the myriad things emerge from here; “the root of Heaven and Earth” means that Heaven and Earth arise from here. “Continuous” means subtle yet unbroken; “as if it were there” means that it seems to exist, though no form or trace can be seen.

One who can put the Dao to use in this way can use it all day without becoming weary.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They endure because they do not live for themselves; for this reason, they are able to last. So the sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore; he sets himself aside, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfishness? Precisely because he has no selfishness, he is able to fulfill himself.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Although Heaven and Earth are vast, they remain subject to the limits of form and measure. They endure because they do not live for themselves, and so are able to last. Thus the sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore; he sets himself aside, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfishness? Precisely because he has no selfishness, he is able to fulfill himself.

Although Heaven and Earth are vast, they still belong to the realm of physical form and quantity, so their lifespan likely has an end. Laozi says that Heaven and Earth endure for a long time in relation to things people can see. The true limit of endurance is what is called “the beginning of Heaven and Earth”—the foundation that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things, yet do not do so for their own sake. They stand beyond the myriad things and are therefore able to endure. The sage puts himself last and others first; he does not prize himself, yet benefits others. By remaining behind everyone else, he is able to come first and preserve himself. If Heaven and Earth struggled with the myriad things to survive, or the sage competed with everyone for advantage, then Heaven and Earth would be no more than one thing among others, and the sage no more than one person. How could either stand above the rest? The sage is impartial, but not in order to secure private gain. Precisely because he has no selfish intent, he attains a state that accords with the Dao. This is simply how things are.

The highest goodness is like water. Water nourishes the myriad things without competing with them. It settles in places everyone dislikes, and so comes closest to the Dao. In dwelling, goodness lies in choosing low places; in the heart, in remaining deep and broad; in relating to others, in being sincere and kind; in speech, in keeping one’s word; in governing, in bringing order to public affairs; in one’s work, in making the most of one’s strengths; and in action, in choosing the right time. Precisely because it does not contend, it incurs no fault.

“Dwelling” is pronounced with a rising tone; “dislike” with a falling tone; “near” with a level tone; “govern” with a falling tone; and “indeed” is pronounced like “fu.” “Fault” means a mistake or failing.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Book of Changes states, “The alternation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; what carries the Dao forward and brings forth life is goodness; what gives form to the myriad things is their nature.” It also says, “Heaven gives rise to water through a single Qi.” When the Dao operates, it appears as goodness, just as Qi operates and gives rise to water. Hence the saying, “The highest goodness is like water.” The Dao and water both begin without form and gradually take shape, so their principles are connected. The Dao is everywhere and benefits all things; water is the same. But since water has already taken form, it is somewhat removed from the Dao. That is why water is said to be “nearly” like the Dao. Yet among things that can be called good, nothing surpasses water, and so it is called “supreme goodness.”

Water avoids high places and flows toward low ground, never going against the lay of the land: this is goodness in dwelling. It is spacious and still, deep beyond measure: this is goodness in stillness. It nourishes the myriad things, giving without seeking anything in return: this is goodness in benevolence. It turns where things are round, bends where they are square, stops when obstructed, and flows out when a channel breaks: this is goodness in keeping faith. It washes away filth and brings high and low toward balance: this is goodness in governance. It follows the shape of things without being confined to any one form: this is goodness in putting its capacities to use. It freezes in winter and thaws in spring; whether its waters run low or overflow, it keeps to its seasons: this is goodness in responding to the time. Good conduct can still invite criticism when it involves contention. Water never contends, and so it possesses all seven kinds of goodness without fault.

Holding on to something until it is full is not as good as stopping at the right point. Repeatedly hammering something until its edge is too sharp makes it hard to keep for long. When gold and jade fill a hall, no one can guard them forever. Pride after attaining wealth and rank only brings calamity upon oneself. Once achievements are complete and one’s name is established, one should withdraw. This accords with the way of Heaven.

“Chi” and “chui” are pronounced “chu-wei-fan” and “wei-ji-fan,” respectively. “Holding it and filling it” means continuing to hold and maintain something even after it is full. “Hammering it and sharpening it” means making something sharp by hammering it, then continuing to hone it. Classical texts often reverse word order. Supporting something from both sides for fear it will overflow is called “holding”; controlling its measure and working on it for fear it will break is called “hammering.”

Su Shi’s commentary also says: Knowing that something full will inevitably overflow, yet supporting it with external force, cannot truly preserve it. “Hammering it and sharpening it” likewise means honing an edge repeatedly after making it too sharp. Classical texts often use inverted word order. Supporting something from both sides for fear it will overflow is called “holding”; controlling its measure and working on it for fear it will break is called “hammering.”

Can you let the hun and po (soul and corporeal soul) find support without clinging to them, and keep mind and spirit united, never letting them separate? Can you concentrate your Jing and Qi (essence and vital energy), soften body and mind, and become like an infant? Can you wash away stray thoughts from your heart and leave the inward gaze clear of every flaw? Can you care for the people and govern the state without deliberate striving? Can you let the opening and closing movements of the mind follow nature, leaning neither toward weakness nor force? Can you see clearly in all directions and understand how things work without relying on your own cleverness?

Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish the myriad beings, and the sage, too, brings them forth and cares for them: helping them grow without claiming them, acting without relying on achievement, and guiding their growth without ruling them. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and subtle Virtue).

The commentary explains that “carry” means to ride upon or bear. Though the hun and po may easily become attached to the body, one should bear them without clinging to them. Interpreting “nourish” as soul, protection, or stillness does not fit the passage well. The hun and po must be united to accord with the principle of “embracing the One.” The commentary compares washing with water to cleansing away stray thoughts, and removing filth to eliminating flaws within the heart. “Heaven’s Gate” refers to the human heart, while “opening and closing” refers to the movements and changes of thought. “Nourish” means to bring up; “rule” means to direct and control.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: The difference between po and hun is that po belongs to the body, while hun belongs to the spirit. The Book of Changes says, “Jing and Qi congeal to become physical forms; wandering hun transform into ghosts and spirits.” Thus people can understand the nature of ghosts and spirits. Since po belongs to the body, it is manifold and has a place where it rests; since hun belongs to the spirit, it is concentrated and can transform. “Nurturing the po” means giving the po a place to reside.

The Dao is everywhere. In human beings, it takes the form of their nature, and the most subtle aspect of that nature is the spirit. When nature is pure and undivided, it is called “the One”; when the myriad things are numerous but have not yet dispersed, they are called “the Uncarved Block.” In the end, these expressions all point to the Dao, each speaking from a different aspect of actual experience.

The sage’s nature is settled and the spirit gathered, so external things do not pull it along. Although hun and po are united, whenever the spirit wishes to act, the po follows; thus the spirit governs the body. Ordinary people, by contrast, let external things tug at their nature. Their spirit grows confused and cannot govern itself, so it obeys the body’s desires: the ears and eyes are troubled by sounds and sights, while the nose and mouth are worn down by smells and tastes. Whatever the body wants to do, the spirit follows. Thus the body governs the spirit. To teach people to “embrace the spirit and carry the po” is to have spirit and body depend on each other without separating. This is the essential principle by which the sage cultivates himself. The ancient Perfected Ones—those who had succeeded in cultivating the Dao—used a similar principle to strengthen their roots and nourish their bodies, attaining long life and enduring vision.

When the spirit is unsettled, Qi becomes disordered: the forceful become combative, while the timid become fearful, without knowing why. When the spirit is settled, Qi does not stir recklessly, and joy and anger each follow their proper course. This is called “concentrating the Qi.” When the spirit reaches utmost emptiness, Qi begins to be full. Emptiness at its utmost becomes softness; fullness at its utmost becomes strength. To make one’s nature pure and keep it from being governed by Qi is called “attaining softness.” An infant does not yet know what it likes or dislikes, so its nature remains whole. When nature is whole, Qi is fine; when Qi is fine, the body is soft. To concentrate oneself in nourishing Qi and attain gentleness is, at the extreme, to be like an infant.

The sage is not governed outwardly by bodily desires and is not ruled inwardly by Qi, and so can thoroughly wash away all dust and defilement. The spirit then becomes open and clear, able to perceive things deeply and know that all things arise from nature. It regards purity and impurity alike, seeing no flaw in either. The sage first uses this principle to cultivate himself, then extends it to others. Even in caring for the people and governing the state, he responds without partiality. Deliberately setting out to love the people may instead harm them; deliberately seeking to govern the state may instead bring disorder.

The “Gate of Heaven” is the key from which order and disorder, prosperity and decline arise. The sage takes the affairs of the world upon himself. When circumstances open and close, and changes converge, people prize what they may gain and fear what they may lose, so they rush to act in pursuit of good fortune. The sage, however, follows the course of events and understands Heaven’s mandate, responding only after circumstances have begun to unfold. The Book of Changes says, “Act before Heaven’s time, and Heaven will not oppose you; act after Heaven’s time, and you can follow Heaven’s time.” This does not mean that one truly acts ahead of Heaven’s intent or falls behind it. It means that the timing of one’s actions can always accord with Heaven’s mandate. Otherwise, acting first would be too early and acting later too late, both missing the moment. Thus to “be able to act as the feminine” simply means not to miss the right time.

Inwardly cultivating oneself, outwardly governing the state, and responding to change: none of these can be separated from the Dao. Is this not possible only for someone whose mind is clear and reaches in every direction? “Clear and reaching everywhere” describes the mind: it knows everything, yet never clings to the thought, “I am knowing.” The mind is originally one. If there were another mind to know what it knows, there would be two minds. Once the One divides into two, obscuration arises, and folly begins.

A mirror faces things, and when they appear, it reflects them. That is all. Why would it need something else to “know that it is reflecting”? To add such a thing through intention, when it did not exist in the first place, is the source of deluded thought. The Dao gives rise to and nurtures the myriad things, yet does not claim them as its own, take pride in its accomplishments, or rule over them. Though its De is immense, the myriad things do not know what it has done for them. This is called “mysterious De,” a profound and hidden Virtue.

The ancients sometimes spoke of hun and po together. For example, the Zuo Tradition says, “The finest clarity of the heart is called hun and po,” using the two terms together. At other times, it explains them separately: “At the beginning of human life, it is called po; once the po has taken shape, the Yang energy is called hun.” Master Da says that when clear and empty, the po is the hun; when attached and congealed, the hun is the po. This is like water freezing into ice and ice melting back into water: in essence, they are one and the same.

The po is always busy chasing after concrete things, gradually tending toward “being.” The word “bear” here is meant to help people understand that the seven emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, dislike, and desire—have no fixed substance, and that the four great elements of the human body—earth, water, fire, and wind—are also empty by nature. A person riding in a cart or floating in a boat on water relies on it only temporarily; neither offers a fixed resting place. In this way, the mind attached to “being” can be transformed into nonbeing, and desire can be washed away so that one returns to one’s original nature. Most people divide body and mind into opposing sides, but I bring them together as one. What could accord more closely with the essentials of entering the Dao?

“To concentrate Qi and bring about softness” means to keep one’s Qi undivided and steady, bringing body and mind to a state of gentleness. Laozi says, “Use the mind to direct Qi, and you will become hard.” Zhuangzi says, “Do not listen with the mind; listen with Qi. Qi is empty and still, able to wait and receive what comes from outside.” The mind readily distinguishes right from wrong, but Qi makes no such distinctions. Directing Qi with the mind makes one hard; concentrating on Qi without letting the mind’s distinctions interfere makes one gentle. This is what is called “guarding pure Qi.” Can only an infant do this?

“Mysterious vision” means profound observation, and “blemish” means a fault. Ordinary people’s faults are obvious and easy to remove; the faults of those who study and cultivate the Dao are subtle and therefore harder to dispel. Why? Because the faults the Dao warns against are often precisely what students have grown accustomed to and regard as their own distinctive insights. Gold dust may be fine, but if it gets into the eye, it still obscures sight. If we make awakening an obstacle and understanding a bond, could these not become afflictions? They, too, must be cleansed away.

Laozi’s teaching is already thorough. Yet the wise remove attachment from within without abandoning the tasks that ought to be done; the foolish abandon outward affairs without removing their inward attachments. If the earlier words are misunderstood, so that doing nothing at all and indulging every impulse are taken as cultivation of the Dao, then few truly understand Laozi’s teachings. That is why the text explains further: “bearing the hun and po” does not mean sitting with folded arms and doing nothing. It means that even while caring for the people and governing the state, one can practice Wuwei (non-action)—that is, “acting with an attitude of non-action.”

“Concentrating Qi and bringing about softness” does not mean shutting oneself away from the world. Even when body and mind meet external things and the gates open and close, one can remain soft and receptive. This is what it means to “keep to the strong, yet dwell in the yielding feminine.” Nor does “cleansing the mysterious vision” mean being dim-witted or unaware. Even when seeing clearly and understanding far-reaching matters, one can refrain from thinking oneself all-knowing. This is what it means to “know that there are things one does not know.”

Caring for the people and governing the state, responding to external things with body and mind, and seeing matters clearly are not abandoned. Yet one can still practice Wuwei, remain soft, and refrain from claiming to know everything. In other words, one can nourish the myriad things without owning them, act without relying on one’s achievements, and guide the myriad things without ruling over them. Is this not “Mystic De”—profound and natural Virtue?

Guan Yin says, “When the self does not cling to a fixed position, the forms of external things appear of themselves.” Zhuangzi says that Laozi regarded emptiness and not harming any thing as the true. The meaning is already clear. Yet critics of Laozi still claim that he abandons the practical affairs of human life and venerates nothingness. They have not examined the original text, but have already decided to distort it. Is that not absurd?

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub, and the hub is hollow at its center. It is precisely because of this empty space that the cart can turn. Clay is mixed with water and shaped into a vessel; the vessel can hold things because its center is empty. Doors and windows are opened to build a house, and the space inside allows people to live there. Thus, solid things provide convenience, while empty space makes their practical use possible.

The “hub” here is the central part of the wheel where the spokes meet. “Kneading clay” means mixing earth with water and then firing it to make pottery. “Door” refers to the entrance, and “window” to the opening in the wall. Su Shi explained that people work hard to make objects, yet those objects often serve their purpose through the empty space within them. Solid things and empty space depend on each other: without an object, empty space has no function; without empty space, an object cannot fulfill its purpose. The sage observes both the subtlety revealed by “nonbeing” and the boundaries expressed by “being.” Understanding that the two depend on each other and cannot be separated, the sage attains profound insight.

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the hearing; the five flavors distort the sense of taste. Indulging in fast horses and hunting throws the mind into disorder, while rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct. Therefore, the sage attends to the body’s basic needs and does not become absorbed in sensory pleasures. The sage lets go of external temptations and chooses inner fulfillment.

“Five colors,” “five tones,” and “five flavors” here refer broadly to the many colors, sounds, and tastes that stimulate the senses. “Provide for the belly, not the eyes” means attending to practical needs instead of chasing after what the eyes desire. Li Yue explained that the eyes are never satisfied, and the sage does not indulge their desires. Once the belly is full, it is content, so the sage gives priority to it. “That” refers to sensory desires that seek outward gratification; “this” refers to inner, practical needs.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Seeing colors, hearing sounds, and tasting flavors are all sensory activities that originally arise from human nature. Before they encounter external things, while they are still simply expressions of nature, they are in their purest state. But when the eyes chase after every color, the ears after every sound, and the mouth after every flavor, people are drawn along by what they pursue and forget their nature. Then they seem to see, yet are as if blind; seem to hear, yet are as if deaf; seem to taste, yet lose their true sense of taste.

The sage sees colors, hears sounds, and tastes flavors just as ordinary people do. Even riding out to hunt is not something the sage never takes part in, and rare, precious things are not things the sage never uses. Yet ordinary people regard these things as sources of trouble, while the sage can turn them into blessings. Why? The sage gives priority to meeting the body’s basic needs, while the crowd pursues sensory pleasure. The eyes crave without limit and can never be satisfied; the belly receives food without craving as the eyes do. External things come from outside, while human nature is gathered within.

What does “Favor and disgrace bring alarm; great calamity is treated as one’s own person” mean? Receiving favor already places one in a passive position: one is alarmed when favored and alarmed when favor is withdrawn. This is what “favor and disgrace bring alarm” means. What does “great calamity is treated as one’s own person” mean? I have great calamity because I have a body. If I had no body, what troubles could I have? Therefore, one who can cherish the world as one cherishes oneself may be entrusted with the world; one who can care for the world as one cares for oneself may be given charge of governing it.

Jiao Hong’s note: In “for me,” the character wei is read with the falling tone, the fourth tone. “Great calamity is treated as one’s own person” should be put the other way around as “one treats one’s person as a great calamity,” meaning “one regards oneself as important in the same way as a great calamity.” Ancient speech often used this kind of inverted expression.

The people of ancient times who understood the Dao regarded favor and disgrace alike as things that could startle them, for they knew that favor often foreshadows disgrace. They regarded the self as a great calamity, for they knew that attachment to the self is the root of misfortune. Thus, when they relinquished favor, disgrace had no way to befall them; when they forgot the self, misfortune could no longer entangle them.

Favor and disgrace are not two entirely separate things. Disgrace arises from favor, but people have failed to understand this: they treat favor as good and disgrace as bad. Once they know that disgrace comes from favor, they will understand that favor itself is not worth esteeming. Thus, the people of ancient times who understood the Dao were as if startled when they received favor, and as if startled when they lost it. They never rested comfortably in favor, waiting for disgrace to arrive. To be “as if startled” does not mean to be truly alarmed; it means only to appear as though one were startled. Here, “esteem” also carries the sense of valuing and worrying over something.

Having a body is the source of great calamity. People would rather endure calamity than let go of their attachment to the body; they fear disgrace but do not think their attachment to the self is something to worry about. Su’s commentary therefore says that the sage works with people’s fear of suffering misfortune, teaching them to see that having a body in itself brings worry. Once they understand this, the great calamity is dispelled.

A person’s nature is not increased at birth or diminished at death. In its vastness, it can fill Heaven and Earth; in its subtlety, it can pass through water and fire and enter metal and stone. Nothing can harm it. Yet people throughout the world are constantly anxious about losing their nature and value only their bodies. Their love of the body is so deep that external things can seize the opportunity to harm them. Birth, death, and illness trouble them from within; favor, disgrace, gain, and loss entangle them from without. All of these are sources of worry.

Only those who understand the Dao know that nature cannot be destroyed and understand that the body is not a true, unchanging refuge. When they suddenly forget the self, all the world’s worries dissolve. Only then can they live in the world without being burdened by it. People chase power and profit and lose themselves in wealth and status, even risking their lives without regret, all in hopes of improving their lot. But if someone were now given the world’s revenues and charged with the heavy responsibility of bearing the world, that person would set the self aside. Once someone has reached this degree of self-forgetting, even if the whole world were entrusted to them, its vastness could not become a source of misfortune.

The Bicheng says: People generally think that receiving favor is an honor and suffering disgrace is shameful. They do not understand that disgrace does not arise from nowhere; it comes from favor. Since favor can bring humiliation, favor itself occupies a lowly position. Thus, whether one receives favor or loses it, both are like being startled. To be “startled” means that the heart has been moved by something external but has no settled ground to rely on. When the matter passes, the heart is left empty.

“Esteem” carries the meanings of valuing and worrying over something. People generally value their own bodies and so fear calamity. They do not understand that calamity does not arise from nowhere; it comes from having a body. If one does not cling to oneself, these calamities will not arise. In this light, the world regards receiving favor as an honor, when favor is in fact the root of humiliation. If favor and disgrace are both things that cause alarm, what humiliation is there to speak of? To have a body is to have a great calamity. If cherishing the body and worrying about calamity are regarded as one and the same, what calamity is there to fear?

If one does not treat the body merely as something to cherish, but sees it as the place that bears great calamity, one is no longer attached to oneself; in this way, one can be free of calamity. This is what is meant by “putting oneself last, yet coming first; setting oneself aside, yet preserving oneself.” For example, one who does not lightly risk his own life to govern the world may be entrusted with the world. One who cherishes himself and places the world first may likewise be entrusted with it. This shows that by not clinging to possession of oneself, one can preserve oneself all the more.

The Zhuangzi records: Three successive rulers of Yue were killed, so Prince Sou became anxious and fled to Danxian. The people of Yue smoked him with mugwort and carried him in the royal carriage. Prince Sou grasped the carriage ropes and climbed aboard, crying out to the sky, “My lord, my lord, could you not leave me alone?” Prince Sou did not hate being ruler; he hated the calamities that came with being ruler. Yet the people of Yue insisted on making him ruler. The more Prince Sou refused the throne, the more urgently they pressed him to accept it. This shows that by not clinging to oneself, one can preserve oneself all the more. What is there to doubt?

Look at it, but it cannot be seen; this is called “Yi.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard; this is called “Xi.” Reach out to touch it, but it cannot be grasped; this is called “Wei.” These three states cannot be pursued to their ultimate end, so together they form the undifferentiated whole called the Dao. Above, it does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dark. It continues without interruption and is difficult to name, yet ultimately returns to formlessness and emptiness. This is called “the shape of the shapeless, the image of the imageless”—a hazy, elusive state. Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times, and you can master the things of the present. To know the original source of all things is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

“Bo” is read as “tuan” and means to hold or grasp. “Jie” is pronounced like “qiji” and means to question or investigate. “Jiao” is pronounced like “jixiao” and means bright.

What the eyes can see is color, but the source that enables people to see color cannot be seen by the eyes. What the ears can hear is sound, but the source that enables people to hear sound cannot be heard by the ears. What the hands can feel by touch is tactile sensation, but the source that enables people to feel it cannot itself be touched by the hands. Even intelligent people find these three difficult to explain clearly. The key is to bring them together and return them to “the One.” The One spoken of here is human nature; seeing, hearing, and touching are functions arising from that nature.

At first, people have only their nature. Later, through contact with external things, their nature becomes dispersed, expressing itself as sight, hearing, and touch. People use these senses every day without knowing how to return to their source. If they cannot gather them back into the One, they move ever farther from that source. The same principle applies more broadly to the Buddhist teaching of the “six entrances”—the six channels of perception: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind. The Shurangama Sutra says: “Turn back the mind-consciousness that flows outward, and bring the six functions into complete unity; then the functions of the six senses will no longer be dispersed.” This is the principle being described.

Everything with physical form is subject to Yin-Yang, so what is exposed is bright and what is hidden is dark. This cannot be avoided. The Dao is above, yet it is not bright; it is below, yet it is not dim. It cannot be inferred through form or quantity. The Dao moves on without interruption, never ceasing. Seeing it move without end, people assume it is some real, existing thing, unaware that in the end it returns to nothingness.

“Form” refers to a distinct, visible shape; “image” refers to an elusive, difficult-to-discern appearance. “Form without form, image without image” does not mean that nothing exists. Rather, it is difficult to name in terms of either existence or nonexistence, so it is called “the elusive”—vague and hard to grasp. The Dao is everywhere, and therefore cannot be seen to have a front or a back. “Antiquity” is the source from which all things came into being; “existence” is the state in which all things appear now. Grasp the source from which things come into being, and you can govern for yourself the pace and direction of advance and retreat.

In ancient times, those skilled in embodying the Dao were subtle and mysterious, in communion with the Dao, and so deep that others could scarcely fathom them. Because they were so hard to fathom, one can only try to describe what they were like: cautious and hesitant, as if crossing a river in winter; alert and wary, as if guarding against neighbors on every side; dignified, like a guest who dares not behave carelessly; relaxed and yielding, like ice about to melt; honest and plain, like uncarved wood; open and spacious, like a valley; and indistinct, like something turbid.

Who can still the turbid and let it slowly clear? Who can keep something settled in motion for a long time, allowing it gradually to come alive? Those who hold to the Dao are like this too: cautious and hesitant, guarded and self-possessed, dignified and modest, relaxed and natural, honest and plain, open-hearted as a valley, and outwardly indistinct. They do not seek fullness or perfection. Precisely because they do not seek to be full, they can endure like an old object: without deliberate renewal, they can still bring things to completion.

Here, “yu” and “you” are both names of animals. “Yu” belongs to the elephant kind; according to legend, elephants could foresee what lay ahead, so they moved slowly and hesitantly. “You” is a kind of dog that would walk ahead and then turn back. Thus, “hesitation” came to describe indecision. The commentary also says that “able to be worn and not made new” may be understood this way: by not seeking fullness, one can endure wear and age, and still serve one’s purpose without being remade. Another reading takes “able” to mean “durable”: it lasts a long time, growing old without falling apart.

Su Shi’s commentary says: When what is coarse has run its course, what is subtle becomes evident. From the subtle one reaches the wondrous; when the wondrous reaches its utmost, it becomes the mysterious. In the realm of mystery, nothing is inaccessible, yet it is so profound that it cannot be fathomed.

Before acting, first reflect with caution, then proceed. This is called “anticipation” (yu). Even when doing something you wish to do, respond with the care of someone compelled by necessity: as if crossing a river on foot in winter or setting out on a distant inspection, wary at every turn and acting as though you had no choice.

When in doubt, do not act hastily. This is called “hesitation” (you). When faced with something you do not wish to do, treat it with hesitation and care, as if afraid a neighbor might see you.

Treat others as honored guests, showing respect in every situation and never growing lax. Be like ice in spring, about to melt: understand that all things arise from illusion and cling to nothing. Be like uncarved wood: cast off artificial embellishment and return to one’s original nature. Be like a valley, empty and able to hold all things. Be like turbid water: draw in your radiance, blend with the dust of the world, and make no distinction between yourself and external things.

People of the world let external things disturb their original nature, leaving their minds clouded and unable to become clear again. Those who pursue utter stillness suppress their nature through meditative quiet; once quiet, it can no longer bring forth life. Now, understanding that turbidity disturbs one’s nature, let the mind grow still, and in time it will naturally become clear. Understanding that suppressing one’s nature is not the right way, let it move, and in time it will naturally regain its vitality. The Book of Changes says: “In stillness and non-action, there is no movement; once stirred by response, one can understand all things under Heaven.” The “movement” spoken of here means the same thing.

Excess begins when something reaches its extreme: to be turbid and unable to become clear, or still and unable to bring forth life, is to be excessive. All things decline; only by seeking no excess can decline recede of its own accord, without waiting for something new to appear.

Empty the mind to the utmost and hold fast to stillness with single-minded depth. All things arise and change together; from this, I observe how they return to their source. Though all things flourish in great variety, each ultimately returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to life’s original state; returning to the original state is called constancy. To know constancy is to be wise. Not knowing constancy, and acting recklessly, brings misfortune.

One who knows constancy can embrace all things. Only by embracing them can one be impartial; only by being impartial can one become the ruler of all things. Becoming their ruler accords with the Way of Heaven; according with the Way of Heaven is to be in accord with the Dao. Being in accord with the Dao, one can endure. In this way, one remains free from danger throughout life.

Though all things flourish in great variety, each ultimately returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to life’s original state; returning to the original state is called constancy. To know constancy is to be wise. Not knowing constancy, and acting recklessly, brings misfortune. One who knows constancy can embrace all things. Only by embracing them can one be impartial; only by being impartial can one become the ruler of all things. Becoming their ruler accords with the Way of Heaven; according with the Way of Heaven is to be in accord with the Dao. Being in accord with the Dao, one can endure and remain free from danger throughout life.

The Kaiyuan Commentary explains: “‘Bring to its utmost’ means ensuring that government orders invariably issue from oneself. ‘Work’ means to set in motion and bring forth, as in the ‘work’ that begins when the sun rises and people start their labor. ‘Flourishing in great variety’ describes the way all things grow and move about. ‘Constancy’ is the constant Way. Because the Dao governs the myriad forms, it is called ‘king’; because the Dao is the fundamental root of all things, it is called ‘Heaven.’”

Su Shi’s commentary says: Only by extending the emptiness in the heart to its utmost can not even a trace remain; only by holding fast to stillness until it is firmly established can not even a trace of agitation remain. Even if the hills have been moved away but the fine dust has not yet been cleared, emptiness has not reached its utmost and stillness has not become firmly established. If the mind is still thinking of preserving emptiness, it has not escaped “being”; if one deliberately holds to stillness, one is still caught in mental activity. How much more so with other methods? When emptiness and stillness have not yet reached their utmost, trying to make use of them is difficult.

Only when emptiness has reached its utmost and stillness is firmly established can one observe the changes of the myriad things without being disturbed by them. Know that everything that arises returns to its source. If you are changing along with the myriad things, you cannot see this. All things emerge from their nature and, in the end, return to it, like flowers and leaves growing from the roots and eventually returning to them, or waves surging from water and ultimately returning to water. If one cannot return to one’s nature, then even stopping one’s actions and quieting one’s thoughts in pursuit of stillness is not true stillness. Only returning to the root is true stillness.

“Life” (ming) is the mystery of one’s nature. Nature can still be explained in words, but the level of “life” is difficult to speak of. The Book of Changes (Yijing) says, “Investigate the principles of things, fully understand one’s nature, and thereby reach the Mandate of Heaven.” Sages who study the Dao must first investigate principles, then fully understand their nature, and finally return to the Mandate of Heaven.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are the standards sages use to meet the affairs of the world. Yet there must be a reason behind putting them into practice. To follow them without understanding that reason is the way of ordinary people; to understand the principles and then put them into practice is the way of the noble person. This is what “investigating principles” means. But one must apply the mind to investigating them in order to understand; if one does not seek, one will not attain.

If things and affairs appear one after another before you, and each must be deliberately investigated before you can respond, the process will be laborious and its results limited. Sages are not troubled by external things. Their nature is clear and still; without deliberate effort, they accord with the proper measure, and without reflection, they understand. When things come before them, they respond naturally. This is called “fulfilling one’s nature.” Yet if one still regards this nature as “something I possess,” setting oneself apart from external things, one is close to delusion.

The Mandate bestowed upon a ruler is called “life,” and the mission conferred by Heaven is also called “life.” To respond to the myriad things through one’s nature without clinging to the idea “I am the one doing this” is to entrust oneself to life. This is called “returning to the Mandate.”

Once things have arisen, even such vast things as Heaven and Earth, mountains and rivers, all undergo change and decay. Only by returning to one’s nature can one become clear and still, constant and unchanging. If returning to one’s nature is not recognized as true wisdom, then what is called cleverness is only worldly wisdom; even if one believes oneself to understand, it is not true understanding. Those who do not know how to return to their nature are moved by external things, and whatever they do may bring misfortune. Even if they gain something for a time, in the long run they will lose more.

When people are lost in delusion, they assume they are right and blame others at every turn, treating external things as enemies. How could they make room for others? If they understand that these distinctions are all delusive, then even when facing an enemy they will feel compassion for him. What, then, could they not accept? When the heart contains all things, feelings of opposition between self and other disappear. What could one still favor? If one acts without partiality, people throughout the world will naturally turn to one. If the heart contains everything, what could even Heaven surpass in this state? Heaven still has form; the Dao is the ultimate. Even the Dao cannot go beyond this state.

To reach the state of “emptiness,” if one still does not know that what is “full” is originally “empty,” then emptiness has not yet reached its furthest point. To remain “still,” if one still does not know that what is “moving” is originally “still,” then stillness is not yet deep enough. This is because one observes emptiness only in what is “nonbeing,” but does not observe it in what is “being.”

Try observing the myriad things: as they all grow together, they seem to be moving and to truly exist, yet in fact there is not the slightest fixed, unchanging movement or reality among them. To observe them in this way is called “contemplating return”—observing the myriad things as they return to their root. “Return” means going back to the original root.

If one cannot observe the myriad things returning to their root, but merely stops moving and deliberately seeks stillness, the more one tries to be still, the more agitation arises. The myriad things grow in profusion, then ultimately return to their root; by the same reasoning, every thought should also fall silent in the present moment. There is no need to seek stillness deliberately: stillness arises naturally, and this is true stillness. Once still, one can return to “life” (Ming), the deep, ineffable root of things.

The text speaks here of “life” rather than “nature” because “nature” can still be discussed, whereas “life” cannot be explained in words. The Book of Changes (Yi Jing) says, “Exhaust the principles of things, fathom one’s nature, and thereby reach life.” The principles of things and their nature are already exceedingly subtle, yet there is an even deeper mystery within them. Even if one brings forth, encompasses, and exhausts the principles of things and their nature, one still cannot grasp that depth completely. Only when one reaches this point is it called “reaching life.” This shows that “life” is not simply some particular aspect of “nature.”

The myriad things come into being and undergo change. After returning to life, they still come into being, yet it is as though they had not come into being. This is called “true constancy,” the state that is real and enduring. Only those who understand can grasp this principle. Understanding the constant Dao brings peace of mind and good fortune; failing to understand it leads to reckless action and danger. When deluded by false thoughts, one always believes oneself right and others wrong, and is therefore bound to be unable to accept others. Understanding the constant Dao allows one to forget the distinctions between good and evil; right and wrong no longer come to the fore, and so there is nothing one cannot accept. To accept all things is to be impartial; impartiality makes one fit to be a ruler; a ruler accords with the Way of Heaven; and the Way of Heaven is life. At this point, the Dao is complete. To endure and avoid danger are simply consequences of this.

The highest ruler is one whose existence the people scarcely notice. Next comes one whom they draw close to and praise; after that, one whom they fear; and below these, one whom they scorn. When a ruler lacks trustworthiness, the people cease to trust him. He is cautious and composed, and treasures his words, never issuing commands lightly. When things are done and the work accomplished, the people all say, “We did it ourselves, naturally.”

The line “The highest ruler is one whose existence is scarcely known” appears in some versions as “The people know that he exists.” This translation follows the Wu Youqing edition.

Su’s commentary says: The highest form of governance follows the Great Dao, allowing all under Heaven to live in peace and ease without governing by deliberate effort. The people do not know why things are this way; they simply know that such a ruler exists. The next best approach is to govern through benevolence and righteousness. The people feel the ruler’s kindness and see the results of his work, so they grow close to him and praise him. Though such praise sounds fine, distinctions in people’s affections begin to emerge.

Next comes bringing order to the people through laws and commands. The people do not fail to fear the laws; they simply treat them lightly wherever their force cannot reach. Rather than doubting that following the Dao is enough to govern and then adding benevolence and righteousness, only to rely further on punishments and laws until the people begin to lose trust, it is better to truly trust that the Dao is sufficient to govern all under Heaven. The sage has full confidence in the Dao he follows, and so speaks carefully and sparingly. The people, in turn, trust him. When the work is done and governance is complete, the people grow better and turn away from wrongdoing day by day, without knowing how it happened.

Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear. Only after cunning and cleverness arose did widespread deceit appear. Only after family members ceased to live in harmony did filial devotion and kindness become evident. Only after the state fell into disorder did loyal ministers appear.

Wang Bi takes “the six family relationships” to mean father and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife. “Filial devotion and kindness” refers to devoted children and loving elders.

Su’s commentary says: When the Great Dao flourished, benevolence and righteousness were already practiced within it, but the people did not notice. After the Great Dao declined, benevolence and righteousness stood out. People do not understand that the Dao is enough to nourish and satisfy all things. They insist on intervening with cunning and cleverness, and the people respond with deceit. When the six family relationships are harmonious, who is not devoted and kind? When the state is at peace, who is not a loyal minister? Yao was not unfilial; it was because Shun’s father, Gusou, was unworthy that Shun’s filial devotion was singled out for praise. Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal; it was because there were tyrants like Jie and Zhou that Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan were singled out for praise. When ponds and marshes dry up, fish breathe moisture onto one another to keep each other alive. Better for them to live freely in rivers and lakes, forgetting one another.

When people cease to exalt sagacity and wisdom and abandon clever schemes, the people can gain many benefits. When people stop making a show of benevolence and righteousness, they return to their natural filial devotion to their parents and affection for their children. When people stop pursuing clever techniques and private gain, thieves no longer arise. Decorative forms of instruction alone cannot put these three principles into practice, so people must also be given something to follow. The most fundamental approach is to reveal one’s unadorned nature, hold fast to a simple heart, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

Su Shi’s commentary says: It is not that sagacity and wisdom themselves cannot lead people to know the Dao (the Way). If a sagacious and wise person governed the world by the Dao, would they not know how to guide the myriad things in accordance with it? But people often fail to see the foundation of sagacity and wisdom; they see only its surface and assume that cleverness can give them mastery over all things. So they compete to pursue what is secondary, and the people suffer greatly as a result. Thus it is said that when people cease to exalt sagacity and wisdom, the people benefit a hundredfold.

No one who truly speaks of benevolence abandons their family, and no one who truly speaks of righteousness disregards their ruler. Benevolence and righteousness are originally the foundation of filial devotion and parental care. But when the world declines, some people use the reputation of benevolence and righteousness to pursue private gain. Then children defy their fathers, and fathers mistreat their children. This happens when benevolence and righteousness become mere formalities. So when people stop using them as tools for seeking fame and profit, the people can instead recover their filial devotion and affection.

Clever techniques are meant to make tasks easier, and profit is meant to support the myriad things. Neither is inherently meant to breed thieves. But if thieves find no opportunity to exploit, they can hardly commit their crimes. So when people stop pursuing clever techniques and profit single-mindedly, thieves have no means to arise.

People value sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit. They believe that disorder in the world stems from insufficiently elaborate instruction, so they entrust governance to these things. Yet the world grows still more unsettled. Why not return to the root? If people reveal their nature, hold fast to simplicity, and reduce selfishness and desire, everyone in the world will return to their own nature. Even if benevolence and righteousness, cleverness and profit still exist, there will be no need to misuse them. This is what is meant by: “When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves naturally; when I love stillness, the people set themselves right naturally; when I do not trouble them, the people become prosperous naturally; when I have no greed, the people become simple naturally.”

Some people argue that Confucius governed the world through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Laozi advocated abandoning them, and therefore their teachings differ. The Book of Changes says, “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel.” Here, “Dao” means the fundamental principle, while “vessel” refers to concrete things and institutions. Su Shi believes that Confucius was deeply concerned for later generations. He showed people concrete rules of ritual and law while keeping the fundamental Dao implicit within them. People of ordinary ability could follow these rules and become exemplary persons; those with keen insight could use them to reach the Great Dao. Laozi was different: he aspired to illuminate the Great Dao and was eager to open people’s minds, so he emphasized the Dao and gave less weight to concrete rules of ritual. He feared that if people knew only the forms of ritual, they would fail to see the Dao within them. That is why he proposed abandoning benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music, and other outward norms, in order to make the Great Dao clear.

The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words; whatever is said can only approximate it. Those who understand can recognize what is real through such approximations. Those who do not understand, however, cling to appearances and fall into falsity. In later generations, some clung to Laozi’s words and thereby threw the world into disorder; those who studied Confucius rarely made serious mistakes as a result. On the other hand, many have grasped the Great Dao through Laozi’s words, while those who study by following Confucius’s way often struggle to find an entrance. The two sages, Confucius and Laozi, taught as they did because they had no choice: one explained some matters comprehensively, while the other left some matters unspoken.

The character “ling” is read with a level tone. The character “shu” is read “zhi yu qie” and means “to entrust” or “to assign something a place.”

This concludes Volume One of Wings to the Laozi.

The textual notes record differences among editions and explain that the readings of the Wanli edition have been adopted here. For example, at one passage, the original text reads “my subtlety,” while the reading “taking shape” follows the Wanli edition. The other notes likewise concern variant readings and textual emendations.

Volume Two of Wings to the Laozi begins.

Set aside worldly learning and cleverness, and there will be no troubles. “Wei” and “a” are both sounds of response: “wei” sounds respectful, while “a” sounds dismissive. How great is the difference between them? How great is the difference between good and evil? What people fear must be treated with caution. The distinctions and anxieties of the world stretch far and wide without end.

Everyone is exuberant, as if attending a lavish sacrifice or climbing a high terrace on a spring day to admire the view. I alone am quiet and detached, my thoughts not yet stirring, like an infant who has not learned to smile, adrift as though with nowhere to return. Everyone seems well supplied and content; I alone seem to have lost something. How truly foolish my heart is—confused and murky, unable to discern the clever devices of the world.

Worldly people are sharp and dazzling; I alone seem dull. They are keen-eyed and exacting; I alone seem sluggish. I am indistinct, as though in darkness, and still, as though I had nothing to rely on. Everyone has something to depend upon and some ability of their own; I alone am dull and stubborn, like an uncouth person. I differ from everyone else: what I prize is the “Nourishing Mother.” Like a child who depends on a wet nurse, I depend on the source that nourishes all things.

The notes explain that “zhao” refers to the faint signs revealed by cracks in a turtle shell, used here as a metaphor for a thought just beginning to arise. “Pa” is used in place of “bo,” meaning tranquil. “Chengcheng” describes being bewildered, with nowhere to return and no place to cling or settle. In “Nourishing Mother,” “mother” means a nurturer; here the wet nurse serves as a metaphor for the source on which one depends.

Su Shi’s commentary says, “In pursuing learning, knowledge increases day by day; in pursuing the Dao, distinctions and attachments diminish day by day.” If one does not understand the proper path of nature and life, but tries only to accumulate more knowledge through study—taking in whatever one hears without bringing it together through a single guiding principle—the mind becomes confused and unsettled. It is like using a circle to damage a square, or using a straight edge to damage a curve. Laozi feared that scholars would fall into this predicament, so he said, “Cut off learning, and there will be no worries.” But the sage is not someone who never learns. Rather, the Dao is his foundation: he lacks nothing when he does not study, and is not confused by studying a great deal. His mind is open and free of worry. Why, then, would such a person need to cut off learning?

Learners who are led about by things they have heard, unable to bring them together, may regard the reply “Yes” as respectful and the reply “Ah” as disrespectful, thinking the two are entirely different. They make still sharper distinctions between things that seem opposed, such as good and evil. The sage knows that all things share the same nature, but appear different because of deluded thoughts. A painted ox or horse, or a carved tiger or beast, is not the thing itself. If these distinctions are not real, how can one determine the extent of the difference between right and wrong, or sameness and difference? Understanding this, one sees that all things grow together without harming one another, and that many ways of understanding proceed side by side without coming into conflict. There is nothing strange about this.

The sage regards self and other as equal, and differences as one, without clinging inwardly to either side. This does not mean that he dismisses the rules of the world or freely violates social roles and moral relationships. He reveres what others revere and does what others do. He lives within the relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, and follows ritual and music, punishments and government orders. People everywhere can see nothing unusual about him. He is not burdened by external things simply because he does not cling to them inwardly.

People cling to what they know, and so cautiously refuse to venture beyond their established bounds. The sage, by contrast, understands both being and nonbeing. He can respond freely to whatever situation he enters, with a depth and breadth that seem to have no end. People become absorbed in their own preferences. They find fine food as delightful as a splendid sacrificial feast, and take pleasure as if they were climbing a terrace on a spring day to gaze into the distance. They eagerly pursue these delights, unaware of the delusion in doing so. The sage knows that such pursuits arise from deluded thoughts. When he encounters them, he remains unmoved, like an infant who has not yet learned to laugh. He follows the patterns of all things without seeking gain for himself, and so seems to have nowhere to turn.

People each cling to what they know and believe they already understand a great deal. The sage embraces all things without being fixed on any particular view, and so appears detached, as though he had let everything go. He is muddled and seems dull, yet he is not truly dull. The world takes making distinctions and judgments as a sign of intelligence. The sage knows that a welter of deluded views is not worth arguing over one by one. So outwardly he seems dim, and inwardly he seems burdened; then suddenly he is as vast as the sea, with no visible shore, drifting without a fixed course or place of rest.

Everyone has a particular skill, so there is a use for everyone in the world. The sage’s De (Virtue/Power) is complete, yet he seems to have nothing to put to use, and so appears stubborn and uncultivated. The Dao is the source of all things. People pursue external things and forget the Dao, while the sage lets go of attachment to all things and takes the Dao as his foundation, like an infant who eats no mixed foods and depends entirely on its mother for nourishment.

People who study often worry that they have not yet learned goodness. If I could set learning aside, what would I have to worry about? Yet this does not mean forcing myself not to study. It means understanding that our nature is originally beyond good and evil. Forgetting human-made distinctions, the sage rises above the myriad things and takes the Dao (the Way) as the root. It is like an infant who eats no other food and lives only on its mother’s milk.

People who study often worry that they have not yet learned goodness. If I could set learning aside, what would I have to worry about? But this does not mean forcing myself to stop learning. It means understanding that our nature has no distinction between good and evil from the beginning. Though those who study differ from those who do evil, they are alike in having departed from their nature; the difference is as slight as that between answering “yes” with “wei” and answering with “a.”

Good and evil have no fundamental difference, yet the sage does not abandon goodness. This is because people have things they fear, and the sage must take those fears into account. This is what it means to share with the people the fortunes and misfortunes, calamities and blessings of the world. As for the sage, whose spirit roams in the realm where nature begins, that place is vast and boundless. How unlike good deeds, which have limits and can be measured!

So others take pleasure in doing good, like enjoying a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a terrace on a spring day to gaze into the distance. I alone am calm and unassuming, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile, with no signs by which to be recognized. “Riding, riding” describes having no reliance and nowhere to moor. Others find something to depend on in attaining goodness, while I seem to have lost everything, like a muddled fool who knows nothing. Others are sharp and discerning, as though they have grounds for everything they do; I alone am dim and dull, adrift like the sea, wandering without a place to settle.

Does this mean the sage is truly foolish and base? It is only that everyone else pursues particular things, like branches and leaves, while I alone cherish the “mother” that is their root. That is why I cannot help differing from everyone else. Nature has no good or evil; good and evil, along with the myriad things, all arise from nature. That is why nature is called the “mother” and likened to a wet nurse who nourishes an infant.

The form of great De follows only the Dao. As a presence, the Dao seems elusive and hard to grasp. In its shifting indistinctness, there are images; in its dim obscurity, there are real things. Within the deep darkness lies subtle Qi (vital energy). This subtle Qi is real and not illusory, and within it are signs that can be verified. From ancient times to the present, the name “Dao” has been passed down, and people have used it to investigate the source of the myriad things. How do I know what the source of the myriad things is like? By relying on the Dao.

Kong means “great.” You is pronounced “wu liao fan.” “Huanghu” and “yaoming” both describe what is difficult to see and grasp. Deng Qi holds that “huanghu” is itself a thing, rather than something else existing within indistinctness—just as the scripture says, “the form of the formless, the image of the imageless.” “Yaoming” is itself Jing (essence), rather than some other essence existing within the darkness. Zhang Pingshu says that what is deep and unfathomable is precisely true Jing. Xin means a sign that can be verified.

Yue originally meant to inspect things one by one as they passed through a gate. Here, the Dao is likened to a gate through which all things emerge; yue can also mean to experience or pass through. Fu can mean what is beautiful, or what is beginning.

The Dao originally has no form. But when it operates and appears as De (the Way’s function and expression in all things), it takes on a form that can be perceived. De, then, is the Dao as it manifests. Extending this idea, the forms that things take on are all expressions of the Dao in particular things.

The Dao cannot simply be called either “being” or “nonbeing,” so it is described as “mysterious and indistinct.” Yet everything that later takes shape and appears as a concrete thing arises from this formless mystery. Before a thing’s being and nonbeing have become distinct, it is dim and indistinct, beyond sight. When being and nonbeing meet, a deep and subtle state comes into view. Though a thing has not yet taken form, it already contains a subtle, real inner essence. Once it has assumed a concrete form, truth and falsehood become mixed together. While the subtle essence remains, there is no room for falsehood. But once truth and falsehood intermingle, the One divides into two, the two into three, and then things appear in tangled profusion, making it difficult to judge them on that basis.

When things possess a subtle essence, they do not deceive me. Though past and present differ, the Dao has never departed; hence it is called “that which does not depart.” Because the Dao has never left, it can run through and observe the changes of all things. “Fu” means beauty; however beautiful things may be, they cannot escape change. Sages understand why all things are as they are because they can realize the Great Dao and remain with it without ever departing.

The Bicheng says: “The Dao has no fixed form and cannot be described by form. Whatever can be described already belongs to the realm of De. Yet by understanding the manifestations of De, one can come to know the Dao—as in the scripture’s words ‘indistinct’ and ‘dark and obscure,’ describing a state that is faint, profound, and difficult to grasp.”

When people study the Dao, they often like to make things happen through their own efforts. When they encounter states such as indistinctness and obscurity, they feel adrift in boundlessness, unable to draw near. They do not understand that in indistinctness, the absence of a particular form is itself form; in obscurity, the absence of anything visible is itself the source of the myriad things; and in profound darkness, the absence of anything subtle that can be grasped is itself subtlety. A Buddhist scripture says, “If you see that all appearances are not fixed appearances, then you see the Tathāgata.” This means that when one sees that appearances have no fixed reality, one can apprehend the true meaning of the Tathāgata. What appears temporarily may be called false; what remains constant and unchanging is true. Indistinctness and obscurity do not exist because of “being,” nor do they disappear because of “nonbeing.” Who can truly believe this? Thus, from antiquity to the present, their name has never vanished.

Those of shallow understanding, however, think that some actual thing is hidden within indistinctness and obscurity. In truth, these mean that there are no boundaries between inner and outer. Where, then, could a particular thing take hold? Moreover, whatever comes to rest somewhere must also depart from there—so how could it exist continuously from antiquity to the present?

What, then, does “surveying the beginnings of all things” mean? “Beginning” means “start.” People cling to the view that all existing things are real, and cannot apprehend the Dao amid subtle mystery, because they have never surveyed the beginnings of those things. Survey the beginnings of all things, and you will understand: if you pursue them back to their origin, no fixed “beginning” can be found. The myriad things thus all appear mysterious, and their indistinctness and obscurity are one. Only by apprehending this can one know that the being of the myriad things is true emptiness.

Buddhism often guides people toward awakening through contemplation; understanding Laozi’s words is no different. Survey the beginnings of all things, and you will know that the starting point of the past cannot be grasped. Observe the limits at which things appear, and you will know that the endpoint of the future cannot be grasped. When the myriad things arise together, observe their return, and you will know that the present, too, cannot be grasped. With a single thought of returning to the root, one can cut off attachment to the temporal boundaries of past and future. The key to understanding this is to contemplate and investigate it for yourself. Those who seek to know the constancy of the Dao should indeed begin here.

Bending allows things to remain whole; being pressed down allows them to straighten; occupying a low place allows them to fill up; what is old and worn can be renewed. Taking little brings gain, while taking too much leads to confusion. Therefore, the sage holds to the “unity of the Dao,” the unifying principle of the Great Dao, and uses it as the standard for all under Heaven.

The sage does not deliberately display himself, and so sees clearly; does not insist that he is right, and so becomes evident; does not boast of his achievements, and so achieves merit; does not exalt himself, and so endures. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

The ancients said, “Bending allows things to remain whole.” Could this be empty talk? Indeed, it is true: things can ultimately be preserved and return to the Great Dao.

The character “wa” is pronounced “wuguaqie”; here, “fu” is pronounced “fu.”

Su Shi’s commentary says: The sage’s conduct always follows the patterns of things. Where those patterns lie, they may sometimes appear direct and sometimes winding; what matters is reaching through to them. When one reaches through, one does not clash with external things; without such clashes, one can remain whole. If something goes against the patterns of things, then even if it appears direct, it is not truly upright. To follow those patterns, even if one is temporarily bent, is to be truly upright under Heaven.

People gather toward low places. Thus, by dwelling in a low position, one gains their allegiance; even if one does not wish to be filled, one cannot prevent it from happening. Deliberately pursuing sharpness and precision is not in accord with the Dao. What appears dim and obscure, as though old and declining, is precisely the source of continual renewal.

The Dao is one alone. Once one has obtained this root, there is nothing one cannot obtain. To learn a great deal without returning to unity leads to confusion. Holding to the “unity of the Dao” means returning to one’s original nature. Bending and remaining whole, being pressed down and straightening, dwelling low and becoming full, renewing what is old, and gaining by taking little are all results of holding to the “unity of the Dao.” That is why the chapter concludes with “holding to the One.”

The eyes cannot see themselves, and so can see external things; a mirror does not reflect itself, and so can reflect external things. If one is always looking at and reflecting on oneself, one becomes preoccupied with oneself and has no time for external things. “Not displaying oneself, not insisting on being right, not boasting, and not exalting oneself” are all expressions of non-contention. That is why the passage concludes with “not contending.”

People in the world consider being upright worthy and being bent unworthy. Yet if one wishes to follow the patterns of things in one’s conduct in the world, one may sometimes have no choice but to bend. Therefore, the chapter ends by emphasizing: “Could this be empty talk? Indeed, one can remain whole and return to the Great Dao.” Remaining whole means not only preserving oneself, but also preserving all things beyond oneself. When both self and things are preserved and return to their original nature, that is a greater form of uprightness.

What is bent can be preserved; what is humbled can be made straight; what is low can be filled; what is worn out can be renewed. These all illustrate the same point: by taking less, one can gain more. “The One” is the utmost in fewness. Hold fast to the One, making it the principle all under Heaven follows, and the gains will be greater. Thus, if three dukes in one state each issue their own commands, people will not know whose orders to follow. And if ten sheep have nine shepherds, how could the sheep be tended well or enough forage gathered for them? People lose their lives because they pursue too many paths; sheep go astray because there are too many forks in the road.

Few words accord with nature. A gale cannot blow all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the winds and rains brought forth by Heaven and Earth cannot last long, how much less can human undertakings endure? Therefore, those who devote themselves to the Dao (the Way) become one with the Dao; those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) become one with De; and those who turn away from Dao and De become one with their estrangement from the Way. Those who become one with the Dao are gladly received by the Dao; those who become one with De are gladly received by De; those who become one with estrangement from the Way are gladly received by it. When a person’s own trustworthiness is insufficient, others naturally will not trust them.

“Whirling wind” means a gale, and “sudden rain” means a downpour. “All morning” refers to the time from dawn until near midday; “all day” refers to the time from morning until evening. Winds and rains are fierce and changeable, so they cannot last long. Qi Bo’s saying, “When excess reaches its height, it causes harm; then what follows takes control,” means that when something develops to excess, it causes harm, after which another force takes it up and restrains it. In the commentary, “gladly” is read with the entering tone.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Speech should arise from nature.

Su Shi’s commentary says: When words follow the natural course, they are concise and hit the point. When they do not, and are forced out, they become tedious and hard to believe. Thus it is said that when the Dao is expressed, it is plain and without flavor; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard, yet its use is inexhaustible. This is what is meant by “rare speech”: speaking little, and speaking in accordance with Wuwei (non-action).

When Yin and Yang do not contend with each other, wind and rain come in their proper seasons, neither too early nor too late, and cease when their natural force has run its course. But if Yang Qi rises in excess above while Yin Qi stagnates below, Heaven and Earth become blocked and the flow of Qi cannot pass through. Violent winds and torrential rain then arise, seeming unstoppable. Yet even this fury cannot last a whole day.

The words of the sages of antiquity were few, and their conduct was measured; they followed the natural course, and so endured without decline. People sometimes disdain this way, thinking it less pleasing than clever argument and less likely to astonish the world than strange behavior. They do not realize that such dazzling displays cannot last.

Confucius said, “If one sets one’s heart on benevolence, one will do no wrong.” Thus, when a benevolent person makes a mistake, it is easy to correct. If this is so for someone who sets their heart on benevolence, how much more so for someone who sets their heart on the Dao?

If someone truly devotes themselves to cultivating the Dao, then conduct in accord with the Dao brings insight, and conduct in accord with De (Virtue/Power) brings attainment. Even if they make a mistake through misfortune, and fail to accomplish what they set out to do, they will surely still gain something from it in relation to the Dao and De. Those who do not understand the Dao have too little faith in it: at the first mistake, they doubt the Dao and believe in it even less. Only those who truly understand the Dao do not let temporary gains or losses make them doubt it.

The Dao reaches its highest expression in acting naturally, yet few people in the world speak this way, because people like to make things happen. Whatever is deliberately contrived must eventually come to an end—how could it last? The same principle can be seen in how a violent wind or rainstorm cannot continue for long.

Those who cultivate the Dao are different. They follow the Dao, and things then unfold naturally. In this natural unfolding, there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Since nothing is gained or lost, when facing the gains and losses of the world—whether gaining virtue or suffering a loss—they trust that things will develop toward where they belong. They harbor no preference, and so can regard nothing as different. When they can regard everything alike, they find nothing that does not bring ease and contentment. This is the principle at work.

One who can regard everything alike has no need to cling even to “faith,” much less to “lack of faith.” If one departs from the Dao and deliberately pursues virtue, one cannot regard loss of virtue as equal to virtue. If one departs from virtue and falls into its loss, one cannot regard virtue as equal to its loss. Unable to regard virtue and its loss alike, one still wishes to unite with the Dao: this is impossible. The saying, “When sincerity is insufficient, there will be people who do not believe,” describes circumstances that cannot last, like a violent wind or rainstorm.

Someone asked: The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says that things arise neither from causes and conditions nor from nature. Laozi, however, takes nature as his guiding principle. Do the two differ?

I replied: They do not differ. The kind of “nature” people reject is the view that things are as they are because they have some origin, or the belief that they must necessarily be so. To say that things have a fixed origin and must necessarily be so is to make “nature” depend on a conception of existence. To place it above all things and then claim it does not belong among the things below is what Buddhism criticizes.

Laozi already understood true nature. Did he not say, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth”? To understand “the nameless” is to know that its beginning has no fixed beginning. Without a fixed beginning, there can be no state of being necessarily so. With neither a fixed origin nor an inherent nature that must be so, how could causes and conditions constrain it? Thus, the subtle awakened nature and wondrously luminous principle arise neither from causes and conditions nor from nature. They transcend all forms and yet do not depart from any dharma. Perhaps this is the constant Dao that cannot be put into words.

Tiptoe to make yourself taller, and you become less steady; take too long a stride, and you make slower progress. Those who focus only on displaying themselves cannot see things clearly. Those who assume they are always right cannot make themselves known. Those who boast of themselves have no merit. Those who exalt themselves cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, such practices are like leftover food or needless growths on the body. Everyone detests them, so those who have the Dao do not act this way.

“Qí” is interchangeable with “qǐ” and refers to rising onto one’s toes; “kuà” means taking an overly large step. Trying to stand taller by tiptoeing only makes one unsteady; trying to walk faster with a longer stride only makes one walk poorly. “Zhuì” means a needless growth. Commentators say that “xíng” here should be read as “xíng,” meaning the body’s form. “Leftover food” means uneaten scraps, while “needless bodily growths” are excess growths on the body. Both are repulsive.

There is a presence, whole and undivided, that existed before Heaven and Earth came into being. Silent and vast, it stands alone and does not change; it moves in cycles without ceasing and can be the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I call it the Dao. Forced to give it a name, I call it “Great.” The Great moves and flows; flowing, it extends far away, and having reached the distance, it returns to its source.

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. There are four great things in the world, and the king is one of them. Humans take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao takes what is natural as its model.

“Natural” here refers to the Dao’s own way of being, without human arrangement. “Hùn” and “hún” are interchangeable, describing something whole and undivided. Commentators explain that the Dao is profound and constant, and so it is called “a presence”; the Dao of all things has not yet differentiated, and so it is called “formed as one.” “Stands alone” means it is vast and without equal; “does not change” means it is the same in past and present; “moves in cycles” means it is everywhere; and “without ceasing” means its movement flows freely and never stops.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low. It neither comes nor goes, and is neither good nor evil; it is a seamless whole. Vast and without equal, it is called “independent.” Consistent from ancient times to the present, it is called “unchanging.” Present everywhere, it is called “all-pervading.” It moves among the myriad things without obstruction, so it is called “unfailing”—that is, it never falters or comes to a standstill.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low. It neither comes nor goes, and is neither good nor evil; it is a seamless whole. In a person, the Dao is that person’s nature, which is why the text says, “There is something formed in confusion.” No one knows what gave rise to it, for it is deep, still, and enduring; Heaven and Earth come into being within it. It is silent and empty, without form, independent and without equal, and never changes. It moves among the myriad things and never falters. It gives life to the myriad things from below, so they all regard it as their mother.

The Dao originally has no name. Seeing that nothing among the myriad things does not come from it, the sage gave it the courtesy name “Dao.” Seeing that nothing can surpass it, the sage reluctantly called it “great.” Yet in truth, the Dao cannot be measured by names or categories. If we follow the idea of “great” to its furthest point, the Dao seems remote and beyond reach; if we pursue it along its course, it still seems far away. Though it appears distant, turn inward and examine it, and one heart is enough to grasp it. By the measure of the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the ruler cannot be considered truly great. Yet people are familiar with the greatness of these three—Heaven, Earth, and the ruler—and do not believe that the Dao is greater still. So the text explains through concrete things: people are inferior to Earth, Earth to Heaven, Heaven to the Dao, and the Dao to Nature—the way things are of themselves. But if people can one day return to their original nature, they too can embody within themselves the principles of these three.

Heaviness is the root of lightness; stillness is the ruler of restlessness. Thus, the sage travels all day without leaving the baggage cart—an image of acting from a firm foundation and remaining steady. Even amid splendid sights, the sage stays at ease and is not moved by external things. As the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots, how can one treat the affairs of the realm lightly? Lightness means losing one’s root; restlessness means losing one’s mastery.

The root is what is fundamental. “Restless” means excessive activity and agitation. “Ruler” means that which governs. Han Fei says that keeping control in one’s own hands is called “weight,” while never leaving one’s proper place is called “stillness.” Weight allows one to master levity; stillness allows one to control agitation. Thus weight is the root of levity, and stillness is the ruler of agitation. Guan Zi says that reckless movement causes one to lose one’s proper place, while settling into stillness allows one to find contentment.

In ordinary times, people traveled in common carriages; when troops went to war, they rode in chariots. Behind the convoy came supply carts carrying clothing, food, and equipment. These carts were heavy, so they were called “heavy baggage.” “Splendid sights” refers to scenes of great magnificence and abundance. The Gongyang Commentary says that ordinary things are called “seeing,” while the extraordinary are called “viewing.” “Dwelling at ease” means living quietly in a settled place; “detached” means free from entanglement.

Levity and agitation are both undesirable. Travel may be light, but one must not do without supplies; magnificent sights may be pleasing, but one must also have a quiet place to dwell. This is why weight and stillness must not be discarded. A ruler takes responsibility for the affairs of all under Heaven. If he treats himself lightly, he cannot shoulder that responsibility. When a ruler is frivolous, his ministers know he is not worth relying on; when ministers act rashly, the ruler knows they are bent on private gain. Thus levity loses the trust of ministers, while rashness loses the ruler’s confidence.

Skilled action leaves no tracks; skilled speech makes no mistakes; skilled calculation needs no counting rods. A well-secured door needs no bolt, yet no one can open it; a well-tied knot needs no rope, yet no one can untie it.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is cast aside. The sage is always skilled at making use of things, and so nothing is wasted. This is called quietly inheriting and putting the good Way into practice.

The good person is a teacher to the person who is not good; the person who is not good can also serve as a lesson for the good person. If one does not respect one’s teacher or value one’s lesson, then even someone who considers themselves wise will fall into confusion. This is the essential and subtle principle.

Commentary: “Leaves no tracks” and “needs no bolt” are metaphors for acting skillfully without leaving obvious traces. “Counting rods” refers to the bamboo implements used in ancient times for calculation. A “bolt” here is a horizontal wooden bar; the other term for a bolt refers to a vertical wooden bar. “Inheriting the good” can be understood as carrying on the good Way and putting it quietly into practice. Fu Yi held that the twenty characters beginning “Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people” appear only in the Heshang Gong recension and not in the ancient text. Su Shi’s commentary also notes that “inherit” can mean receiving and passing something down, though some interpret it as putting something into practice quietly.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Acting in accordance with the way things are leaves no trace of human contrivance. Speaking only when the time is right means that, even when one’s words spread throughout the world, they contain no error. The circumstances of all things are plainly before us; they can be understood without calculation. What need is there for planning?

A person whose De is complete treats all things as a mother treats her children. Even when she lets them grow naturally, they do not leave her. Thus, a door can be made to close without a bar, and people can be made to keep their promises without cords. Those who calculate with counting rods, build checkpoints for defense, or tie knots in cords can achieve only so much.

The sage treats the people not only with forbearance, but also with skill in guiding and helping them. I abandon no one; how, then, could people fail to turn toward me? Saving someone in danger is not the deepest kind of help. People pass through the cycle of life and death, their vision clouded by external things. The sage shares clear wisdom with them, enabling those who were obscured to understand. It is like passing a lamp from one flame to another: the light continues without end. This is what it means to be skilled at saving people.

The sage does not set out to impose instruction, and so does not prize the resources used to support it. People under Heaven do not set out to seek learning, and so do not hold teachers in high esteem. The sage not only forgets the world, but can also help the people forget the sage. Even the wise cannot fully understand the sage’s mystery; this is why it is called “the essential mystery”—that is, what is profound and subtle.

Know what is strong, yet remain with what is yielding, and you can become the streambed of the world. As the streambed of the world, your enduring De will never depart, and you will return at last to the innocence of an infant. Know what is bright, yet remain with what is dim, and you can become the standard of the world. As the standard of the world, your enduring De will not stray, and you will return at last to the boundless. Know what is honored, yet remain with what is lowly, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your enduring De will be complete, and you will return at last to your original simplicity.

When original simplicity is divided, it forms the various instruments and things. The sage makes use of them and can thus become the leader of the officials. Therefore, the highest form of governance does not divide things apart.

Here, “remain with” means to preserve and hold fast. “Return” means to go back. Both “streambed” and “valley” refer to places where waters gather; here they serve as images of humility and receptiveness. “The world” emphasizes the breadth of the scope. “Standard” means a rule or model; “stray” means to err; “complete” means whole. “Leader” is pronounced with the rising tone and means chief. “Govern” means to regulate and administer, while “divide” means to split apart.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: The masculine aspect tends toward activity, while the feminine aspect tends toward stillness; the masculine is strong, while the feminine is yielding; the masculine initiates, while the feminine responds. Understand the function of masculine strength, yet hold to the attitude of feminine softness. Then you can remain deep and still, steadfast in gentleness, responding without striving to lead or command. In this way, you can become the stream of the world.

A stream receives water from the valleys and carries it onward to the rivers and seas. It accepts without refusing and flows out without storing up, so all things can pass through it without obstruction. When the Way is open and unobstructed, constant De (enduring virtue) is never lost. At birth, a person’s constant De is fully preserved within, untouched by external things. Later, as the person is drawn by external things, constant De gradually slips away. Only by keeping deeply to stillness, attaining softness, and responding without rushing to take the lead can one preserve constant De and return to the state of an infant.

White readily takes on other colors. In relation to the myriad things, it symbolizes brightness; among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), it corresponds to Metal, and its number is four. Black is not easily stained. In relation to the myriad things, it symbolizes darkness; among the Five Phases, it corresponds to Water, and its number is one. Understand the function of brightness, yet hold to darkness, remaining unstained by the myriad things. Like dark water, you will ultimately return to embracing the One (holding fast to one’s original nature and being unified with the Dao). One who embraces the One can bend and yield, stretch and adapt; one can also occupy low places and remain hidden. Thus one can become a model for the world. As a model for the world, one never departs from the One, wherever one may be, and constant De will not go astray.

“Never depart” means only that one has not left one’s original place; “not go astray” means making no mistake. An infant gathers and nourishes Jing (essence) with undivided focus, attaining softness and maintaining inner harmony in the body. But to speak of returning to the limitless (the boundless, undifferentiated Dao), “infant” alone is not an adequate description.

When plants and trees flourish, they are called prosperous; when they wither, they are called diminished. What people call prosperity and decline is no more than the flourishing and waning of plants and trees. Understand the condition of honor and prominence, yet hold to a low and humble position. Cast off outward splendor and return to the root. Even if you bear what the world most despises, you will not be burdened by it; thus you can become the valley of the world. A valley is empty, yet can contain fullness. It responds to the myriad things without claiming them for itself, and it is also the source of rivers and seas. To become the valley of the world is to return to the source of the myriad things. Thus, when constant De is complete, one does more than simply avoid going astray: one can also return to the uncarved simplicity (the original nature, whole and untouched by refinement).

Uncarved simplicity is the state in which original nature remains whole and the myriad things are undivided. Because it is undifferentiated and has not yet been fashioned into specific implements, it can be large or small, bent or straight, short or long, round or square; there is nowhere it cannot be put to use. Even “the limitless” is not enough to describe it. Given this, it should be enough to hold to the feminine, the dark, and the humble. Why, then, must one also understand the masculine, the bright, and the honored? Because holding to these qualities is fundamental, like the mother; understanding them is the function that arises from this foundation, like the child. Holding is the constant principle, while understanding is the way to respond to change.

Once uncarved simplicity is divided, it becomes a specific implement. An implement has a fixed form: if it can be large, it cannot be small; if it can be bent, it cannot be straight; if it can be short, it cannot be long; if it can be round, it cannot be square. Therefore, the sage uses specific implements only as tools for governing affairs. As for governing the world through uncarved simplicity, the sage views its patterns as a butcher does an ox: he does not see a whole ox, but follows the grain of its body, cutting where there is no resistance. With such room to maneuver, why force a division? Hence the saying: “The greatest craft does not cut.”

If one wants to acquire the realm and govern it, I think this idea will ultimately fail. The realm is a mysterious thing that cannot be manipulated by force or governed according to subjective will. Forcing action will ruin things; clinging to control will make them lose their way. Among the myriad things, some advance and some follow; some breathe gently and some blow fiercely; some are strong and some are weak; some bear things up and some collapse. Therefore, the sage sets aside excess, extravagance, and overreach.

Here, “acquire” means to obtain or take possession, as in the Zuo Tradition, which says, “He took my fields and made them part of his own,” and in the Records of the Grand Historian, which describes Gaozu changing the existing restrictions. “Act” means to govern. Sima Guang held that forcing action harms things’ natural state, while clinging to control goes against the principle of adapting to circumstances. “Xu” is pronounced “xu,” though some read it as “xu”; “lei” is pronounced “liwei”; “bear” can mean to begin or to carry; and “destroy” is pronounced “xugui.”

Lu Nongshi explained: “Setting aside excess” means practicing compassion; “setting aside extravagance” means valuing frugality; and “setting aside overreach” means not daring to lead the realm. The sage governs the realm by means of these three principles. Su Shi likewise said that the sage comes to possess the realm not by seizing it, but by accepting it only when the myriad things have turned toward him and there is no alternative. In governing the realm, the sage must then set aside excess, extravagance, and overreach.

As Su Zhe explains, a sage possesses the world not by seizing it, but because all things turn toward him and he accepts it only when he has no choice. A sage governs the world not by deliberately imposing his will, but by following the natural changes of all things and removing what brings harm. It is impossible to seize and govern the world according to one’s own wishes.

Nothing can be arranged by force. Even if only a hundred people gather together, acting recklessly without following their nature will surely meet with resistance and dissent. How much more so in a world so vast? With a small matter and few people, one might perhaps seize by force and control through schemes. But the world is governed by spirits: unless one waits for it to turn to him of its own accord, the people will rebel. Unless one lets the world be governed according to its own nature, society will fall into disorder.

Yin and Yang stir against one another; high and low transform into one another; large and small act upon one another. Some move ahead, while others follow behind. Some breathe warmth into things, while others blow coolness upon them. Some make things grow and flourish, while others diminish and weaken them. Some support and bring things to fruition, while others destroy and undo them. These are all results of the natural changes of things, and are unavoidable as circumstances develop.

Foolish people in the world think only of themselves and busy themselves with taking what they want. They insist on resisting and going against these changes, and end up either brought down or frustrated. Only the sage understands that one must not act against nature, and so follows change and waits quietly for things to come to fruition. By removing excess, extravagance, and arrogance, the sage prevents things from going too far and harming all beings, leaving the world free of calamity. This is the highest achievement of “not acting recklessly.”

When Yao faced floods and Tang faced drought, neither could wholly avert disaster, yet in the end neither was ruined by it. This was precisely because they understood this principle. The Classic of Changes, in the “Tai” hexagram, says: “The ruler should shape the patterns of Heaven and Earth’s movement, assist in bringing to fruition what is fitting in their transformation and nurture of the myriad things, and thereby help the people.” In the Tai hexagram, the three Yang lines are inside and the three Yin lines outside; Yin and Yang are joined in harmony, and all things have reached the height of their flourishing. The sage fears that things at their peak may harm the vitality of life, and so regulates and assists them, preventing them from going to extremes. This is what is meant by “removing excess, removing extravagance, and removing arrogance.”

Those who assist rulers through the Dao do not rely on military force to assert their strength or conquer the world, because such conduct can quickly bring retribution. Where armies have been stationed, thorns often grow thick; after a great war, years of famine inevitably follow.

When people of the Dao use force, they seek only what is necessary and do not dare to use it to assert their strength. Once the task is accomplished, they do not boast, flaunt their military achievements, or act arrogantly. They use force only when there is no other choice, and stop once their aim is reached, without pressing on to expand their gains. When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline. This is called being out of accord with the Dao, and what is out of accord with the Dao cannot endure.

The commentary explains: “Good” is read with the falling tone. “Return” is interchangeable with “turn back” and refers to retribution returning swiftly. “Army” means troops, and “stationed” is read with the rising tone. “Those who are good” means people of the Dao. “When there is no other choice” indicates that force is used only when it is difficult to avoid. Zhuangzi likewise says that one acts only after being compelled by necessity. He also says to dwell in necessity and use it to cultivate the inner life. Both sayings accord with Laozi’s meaning.

In phrases such as “achieve the result, but do not be proud,” the character “but” should be read as “in accordance with”: others insist on a particular course, while I hold to what is appropriate. “Proud” means self-assured; “boast” means to flaunt one’s achievements; and “arrogant” means to act with abandon. “Stop” means to cease, while “soon to stop” means that the end will come quickly.

Su Shi’s commentary says that sages use force only when there is no other choice. If they are not compelled by necessity yet seek to dominate the world through military strength, disaster will surely come back upon them, even if they win for a time. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, the First Emperor of Qin, and Emperor Wu of Han (the original note reads “Filial Emperor of Han”) are all examples of this.

Su Shi’s commentary says: When sages use military force, they do so only because they have no choice. If they are not truly compelled, yet seek to establish supremacy over all under Heaven by force, then even if they win for a time, calamity will surely return to afflict them. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han—some lost their lives as a result, while others brought disaster upon their descendants. No one can escape retribution for acts hated by the people and rejected by spirits and gods. Wherever an army goes, people’s work and daily lives fall into ruin, leaving fields uncultivated. After military campaigns, the energy of slaughter prevails, and harvests fail. This is what happens whenever armies are deployed. How much more so when one seeks to dominate all under Heaven by force?

“Guo” means resolute action. Only when De cannot bring people peace and government orders cannot make them comply, and there is no other recourse, should military force be used. Do not boast, do not glorify your achievements, and do not act arrogantly; together with using force only when compelled, these four things show that one is not exalting strength. When strength reaches its extreme, it must eventually decline; nothing in the world is exempt. Only a person who follows the Dao can accomplish things as though something were still lacking, and be full and complete as though empty. Such a person never exalts their strength and so never declines or perishes. If one establishes supremacy over all under Heaven by force, strength has already reached its extreme. How could one avoid decline and destruction?

Fine weapons are inauspicious objects, and people generally detest them, so a person who follows the Dao does not treat them as everyday possessions. In ordinary life, a gentleman honors the left; in warfare, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious objects, not tools for a gentleman to use. He employs them only when compelled, and then should remain calm and detached. Victory in battle is not something to celebrate. To regard victory as admirable is to take pleasure in killing. One who delights in killing cannot fulfill the aim of governing the world.

For joyful occasions, the left is honored; for funerals, the right. In the army, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme general on the right. This means that one who holds the position of supreme commander should treat warfare according to the rites for funerals. When many people have been killed, one should mourn them in grief; even victory should be treated as a funeral.

“Fine weapons” means regarding weapons as excellent and precious. Sima Guang says: The more weapons are regarded as excellent and precious, the greater the harm caused by killing people. Thus, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme general on the right: one who holds the position of supreme commander should treat warfare according to funeral rites. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even victory should be treated as a funeral.

“Fine” refers to regarding weapons as excellent. Sima Guang said, “The more excellent the weapons, the more people they injure.” Here, “ill” is read with the falling tone, and “place” with the rising tone; the same applies below. “Left” symbolizes Yang and life; “right” symbolizes Yin and death. “Tranquil and calm” means peaceful and composed. “Beautiful” means the same as “fine.” Chunfu said, “The chapter beginning with ‘Weapons are inauspicious instruments’ seems to contain an interpolation from an ancient commentary explaining the meaning of the classic. A close examination of the text makes this clear.”

Su Shi’s commentary says: Using weapons is only for responding to danger, not treating it as a normal state. This is called “not abiding”—that is, not making military affairs the norm.

The Dao is ever-present, yet has no fixed name. The uncarved block, though small, cannot be made to submit by anything under Heaven. If lords and kings can hold fast to the uncarved block, all things will naturally come to them and submit. When the Yin-Yang Qi of Heaven and Earth joins in harmony, sweet dew descends. No one commands it to do so, yet it is naturally distributed evenly. Once things begin to be made, they acquire names. Once names have appeared, one should know when to stop. Knowing when to stop makes it possible to avoid danger. The Dao in the world is like the water of streams and valleys flowing into rivers and seas.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The uncarved block is one’s original nature. The Dao is ever-present and nameless, so original nature cannot be confined by names. The Dao therefore extends outward to be everywhere, yet contracts inward until it is smaller than a hair’s breadth. Though minute, it cannot be made to submit. If an ordinary person of low station can hold fast to the Dao, even dust and chaff are enough to shape a sage ruler like Yao or Shun. If lords and kings, despite their high station, cannot hold fast to the Dao, all things will not submit to them.

The harmonizing Qi of Yin and Yang rises, falls, and mingles, transforming into sweet dew that nourishes all things without exception. The sage upholds the highest Dao in responding to the many things of the world, reaching everywhere like the sweet dew, and so can bring all things to submit. When sages disperse the uncarved block into vessels and then establish names according to those vessels, are they pursuing names and forgetting the uncarved block, abandoning the root for the branches? They also know to return to original nature, and so can respond to the myriad transformations without falling into danger.

Rivers and seas are where water gathers; streams and valleys are where it branches out and spreads. The Dao is the root of all things, and all things are its branches. Since they all belong to water, the waters of streams and valleys flow into rivers and seas, where water gathers. Since all things also originate in the Dao, they submit to the root to which they all belong.

“Constant Dao” is the “constant Dao” spoken of in the opening chapter. The “Nameless” is the fundamental source and sovereign of all things. All things are the Dao’s outermost branches, just as water eventually gathers in rivers and seas. Since all things also emerge from the Dao, they ultimately return to it.

“Constant Dao” means the constant Dao, and the “Nameless” is the namelessness spoken of in the opening chapter. The Dao has not yet been carved or worked, so it is called the “uncarved block,” its natural state before adornment. It is hidden and difficult to perceive, so it is called “small.” Few can see this subtle source and hold fast to it. If rulers can hold fast to it, they can discern what is minute and see clearly; they understand how to hold to the child and thereby preserve the mother, the root of all things.

In this way, stillness governs movement, while movement is subordinate to stillness. “The One” governs all things, and all things return to “the One.” What could rank above this uncarved source? “Beginning” is the “beginning” in “the Nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” “Making” means dividing the uncarved simplicity and causing it to differentiate. At first there were no names; once things were divided, names arose. If people chase after names without knowing when to stop, the One gives rise to Two, Two to Three, and names proliferate beyond counting. People then treat all these forms and names as real things, entangling themselves with one another through countless generations without awakening. What could bring greater turmoil than the changes of Yin-Yang? This is what is meant by “not knowing constancy, and acting recklessly brings misfortune.”

If you truly understand that nonbeing can lead to being, you will also know that being can return to nonbeing. That is why it is important to value “stopping.” To “stop” is to settle yourself through the nameless uncarved block. When you know how to stop, you will not be carried along by changes in external things; your heart will be calm, unattached, and content, and calamity will have little chance to arise. This is not achieved through forced effort. All things arise from the Dao and also pass away in accordance with it; they are all brought forth by the Dao and ultimately return to it. A person’s nature rests within themself. If you return to your own nature, what could be difficult? Rivers and seas are where water comes to rest, while streams and valleys are its tributaries. Though the tributaries differ, they all eventually flow into the rivers and seas. The names of things may differ, but at their root they are all governed by the Dao.

To understand others is wisdom; to understand yourself is true insight. To overcome others is strength; to conquer yourself is true fortitude. To know what is enough is to be rich; to strive to put it into practice is to have resolve. If you do not lose your own root, you can endure. When the body dies but the spirit or the Dao does not perish, this is called longevity.

To remain true to one’s own nature is like what the Book of Changes says: “Rest securely in your place.” Kumarajiva said: When alive, not being bound by ideas of life and death is called “long-lasting”; facing death without being bound by ideas of life and death is called “longevity.”

Su Shi’s commentary says: To judge things through distinctions is “cleverness”; only when the mind that makes distinctions has been completely cleared away is there “clarity.” Since the mind of distinction has not yet been removed, one can know others but not oneself. When that mind is exhausted and one no longer clings to distinctions, one can know oneself and, through this, understand others. Strength can overcome others, but it cannot overcome oneself. The ability to restrain selfish desires and return to one’s nature does not depend on external strength, and is therefore called “power.” Those who are content find enough in whatever they encounter, and are always abundant; even if they possess all under Heaven, those who still feel inwardly that it is not enough will never feel abundant. Without contending for external things, they continue to strive within themselves, so external things cannot take their resolve away. Though the myriad things change without end, the mind never loses its original nature: this is “long-lasting.” The changes of life and death are especially momentous, yet human nature remains clear and settled, and does not perish. The “perfected ones” of antiquity were precisely those who could remain free of the bonds of life and death.

The great Dao is vast and boundless, and can flow everywhere. The myriad things depend on it to grow, yet it does not turn them away. When its work is accomplished, it does not claim the credit. It loves and nurtures the myriad things, yet does not rule over them; because it is constantly without desire, it may be called small. The myriad things all turn toward it, yet do not know that it governs them; for this reason, it may also be called great. Thus the sage never regards himself as great, and thereby accomplishes greatness.

“Floating” means being free of ties and attachment.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: The Dao is vast and boundless. Nothing is absolutely possible, and nothing is absolutely impossible; it can therefore pass above and below, to the left and to the right, reaching everywhere. Those who possess something but refuse to relinquish it will surely call it their own. Those who possess something yet shrink from it and refuse to claim it will surely reject all things, even disregarding their own lives. Only the Dao gives life to and nurtures all things without reservation, and brings them to completion without claiming ownership of them. If you insist on considering yourself great, you become small.

The Bicheng says: The Dao may be called small, but cannot truly be called small; it may be called great, but cannot truly be called great. To say that it can be on the left or on the right shows that it is not confined to either smallness or greatness. Precisely because it is confined to neither, it achieves its vastness.

Grasp the Great Image—the formless Dao that encompasses all things—and all under Heaven will come to it. When all things come to it and suffer no harm, there is peace, harmony, and ease. Music and fine food can make passersby stop; the Dao, spoken aloud, is bland and tasteless. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; use it, and it is never exhausted.

Lin Xiyi says: The “Great Image” is the image of the formless. “All under Heaven will come” means to grasp such a Dao and put it into practice throughout the world. “Exhausted” means used up, or brought to an end.

Su Shi’s commentary explains: The Dao belongs neither to existence nor to nonexistence, so it is called the “Great Image.” Though the Great Dao has no form, it can reveal the fundamental patterns underlying all things. If it appeared clearly in a particular shape, there would be similarities and differences: people would favor what was similar and dislike what was different. They would draw near to what they liked and distance themselves from what they disliked, making it impossible for everyone under Heaven to turn toward it. Once people have likes and dislikes, they gain some things and suffer losses in others. When both likes and dislikes have been dispelled, nothing among the myriad things can cause them harm. Those who reach this state can remain calm, peaceful, and at ease wherever they are.

Music and a spread of food can entertain passersby and keep them there for a while. But when the music stops and the food is gone, they leave. If one presents the “Great Image” to the world, people will not know how they are supposed to like it—so how could they dislike it? It has no scent, taste, shape, color, or sound to please people, yet its effects are inexhaustible.

To gather something in, first let it spread fully. To weaken something, first let it grow strong for a time. To abolish something, first let it arise. To take something away, first give it. This is called “subtle insight”: discerning patterns through minute changes. The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong; the small and feeble can defeat the great and powerful. Fish cannot leave the depths of the water. Nor should a state’s advantageous instruments and methods of political maneuvering be displayed casually to others.

“Xi” is pronounced like “xi” in “inhale” and means to gather or draw together; “zhang” means to spread out or expand. The original text has “deep pool” written as “pool” and “state” written as “country”; the wording here follows the version found in the Han Feizi.

Su Shi’s commentary says: If you are quick to seize something before you have truly benefited the other person, the momentum has not yet reached its peak, and your case does not seem sufficiently justified. When the momentum has not peaked, it is hard to take what you seek; when the case is not sufficiently justified, the other person will not submit. Yet this approach already comes close to the use of strategy, and is no different from the methods of Guan Zhong and Sun Wu.

The conduct of sages and ordinary people may look similar on the surface. Sages follow the way things are; ordinary people make calculated plans. Following the way things are is like a doctor or musician who knows how to respond to an illness or a need. Making calculated plans is like a merchant who knows how to seize an opportunity for profit.

Sages understand that strength is not something to rely on, so they remain in weakness. When the strong contend and struggle with one another throughout the world, I do not compete with them. I simply wait in stillness for them to bring about their own downfall. This is what is called victory. But do sages deliberately act this way in order to defeat others? They simply understand that the situation is as it is, and so naturally remain in weakness.

A fish has no sharp claws or teeth with which to overcome other creatures by force. Yet it dwells in the depths, where even a strong person cannot catch it. Once it leaves the depths and reaches dry land, it is merely a clumsy, powerless fish. What can it accomplish then? When sages remain in weakness, the strong cannot harm them; more than that, sages can hold the situation in their hands over the long term. Is this not the most useful principle under Heaven? A fish can be subdued only after it leaves the depths. Sages remain in weakness without growing weary of it, and in the end they are able to bring the world into accord with them. Is this a state that just anyone can attain?

The Great Dao, the fundamental principle by which nature operates, always follows its own course and makes no deliberate effort, yet nothing is left undone. If rulers can hold to this principle, the myriad things will transform of themselves. If desire and reckless action arise amid that transformation, I will settle them with the nameless simplicity of the uncarved block. This nameless simplicity will also cause desire to fade. When desire fades, people’s minds can become still, and the world will naturally return to order.

The Dao is constant…