《老子翼(焦竑)》Vol. 2

This passage concerns the constant principle of the Dao. Wang Anshi says: "Speaking of the root of the Dao, it is said that the myriad things will naturally submit to it. Speaking of its transformations, it is said that the myriad things will naturally change." Here "zuo" (to arise, to set in motion) means something beginning to stir, and "zhen" (to press down, to settle) means holding it steady so that it no longer moves.

Kumarajiva says: when the mind reaches emptiness and stillness, one's daily needs are not lost. The myriad spirits change accordingly, and evil also returns to rectitude.

Su Shi explains that "the constant Dao" means the Dao accomplishes everything yet does not deliberately act. The sage transforms the myriad things through Wuwei (non-action), and at first the myriad things also accord with Wuwei. Later they gradually develop contrivance, just as an infant grows up and human cleverness and artifice steadily increase. When the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties declined, changes in human feeling grew ever more severe. When the people first began to contrive, rulers and everyone under heaven moved along with them, so that changes arose endlessly and could not be fully described. If the sage is not moved when things are about to rise, and ultimately uses the nameless, formless "pu" (uncarved block, natural original nature) to settle them, then perhaps they can be brought to rest.

The sage has no thought within of deliberately embracing simplicity, and no outward show of deliberately displaying it. Therefore simplicity remains whole, and its function becomes vast. If one still harbors the thought "I must hold on to simplicity," one has already strayed very far from the Dao.

Superior De (Virtue/Power, de) does not deliberately display its own virtue, and so it truly possesses De. Inferior De is always anxious not to lose the reputation for De, and so it does not truly possess it. Superior De acts naturally and does not set out to accomplish anything. Inferior De takes action because it holds a clear purpose in mind.

Superior benevolence (ren) acts, but not in order to reach some goal. Superior righteousness (yi) also acts, but it carries a deliberate intention. When ritual propriety (li) comes into play and others do not respond, its practitioners roll up their sleeves and forcibly demand compliance. Li refers to the external norms of ritual observance.

Thus, only after the Dao (the Way) is lost does one speak of De; only after De is lost does one speak of ren; only after ren is lost does one speak of yi; and only after yi is lost does one speak of li. Li is the sign that loyalty and trustworthiness have thinned, and it is also the beginning of disorder. What is called "foreknowledge" (qianshi) is the display of one's insight in advance and the pursuit of superficial cleverness. It is merely the flowery surface of the Dao, and it is the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person establishes themselves on solid sincerity and does not dwell in shallowness. They value inner truth and do not chase outward ornament. They discard the latter and choose the former.

The sage acts in accord with an original heart-mind, yet does not overstep the standards that ought to be kept. They do not deliberately pursue De (Virtue), but their De is naturally abundant. Those on a lower level recognize the importance of De and strive to maintain their conduct, but they merely preserve themselves with effort. How could they be said to truly possess De?

If one appears to practice wuwei (non-action) outwardly while inwardly intending to accomplish something, it still counts as youwei (purposive action). Only one who both refrains from acting and harbors no deliberate aim may be called truly non-acting. Those on a still lower level believe nothing can be accomplished without action, yet they act with purpose; they are not without means or acting at random. Ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness) also cannot avoid some form of doing. The difference is that ren prizes action that is not contrived, while yi takes deliberate application as its merit.

De has higher and lower grades, yet ren and yi have only higher levels and no lower ones. Why is this? A lesser De lies between ren and yi, and the declines below yi are no longer worth discussing.

From De down to li (the ritual system that regulates conduct) is the limit of what the sage can employ to govern the people. If the promotion of ritual norms still meets no response, it escalates to rolling up one's sleeves and forcing the people to comply. If coercion still fails, punishments and warfare arise. This is merely forceful action without any proper means.

When people have loyal and sincere hearts but no li, their loyalty and sincerity cannot manifest. Once ritual institutions are established, the virtue of loyalty and sincerity can fully reveal itself. Between ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife, and friends, outward ritual forms may be clearly displayed while the inner heart holds little real substance. Therefore, compliance with ritual norms brings stability, and violating them brings disorder. The distance between order and chaos is extremely small, so it is said that li is the beginning of disorder.

The sage observes all things with a deep and clear mind, what the text calls xuanlan (profound, quiet observation). Right and wrong, gain and loss all appear before the eyes, like a mirror reflecting form, seeing everything without exception. Why would such a mind need to distinguish before and after? Ordinary people, however, are bound by their eyes, ears, and thoughts. They grope blindly among things and exhaust their minds seeking knowledge. Occasionally they make a discovery and consider themselves clear-sighted, not realizing that from the very beginning they have been dwelling in ignorance.

Shallow worldly people are content with obtaining lesser things and forget the higher realm. Therefore they love the superficial and abandon the profound, pluck the flowers and lose the root. Without the spirit of a true great person, who could abandon these outward appearances and turn toward what truly matters?

"Shou luan shi yu" (the first disorder begins with foolishness) is a strong statement of the harm that comes when ritual propriety (li) and knowledge (zhi) are pushed to their extremes. Zhuangzi quotes this line from Laozi to ask: now that people have become part of the many external things around them, is it not very difficult to return to the root? Perhaps only the great person (daren), one of lofty virtue who can fully penetrate the Dao, would find it easy to do so. Yet once one has returned to the root, who counts as an external thing, and who does not?

For this reason it is also said: that which must be dealt with even while one remains hidden is affairs (shi); that which must be dealt with even while one stands apart from others is righteousness (yi); that which keeps widening one's care even while one draws close to others is benevolence (ren); that which must keep accumulating practice even while one exercises restraint is ritual propriety (li); that which must keep rising even while one abides in the center is De (Virtue); that which returns to oneness yet cannot hold fast to any fixed form is the Dao. Although these differ in rank and sequence, when the sage (shengren) makes use of them, all can be brought back to the Dao. The sage's thoughts may be many, yet they reach the same destination by different paths. Opposing extremes are also dissolved, so how could the sage still cling to distinguishing and choosing?

In antiquity, those who attained "One," the fundamental principle of the Dao, were such that Heaven became clear, Earth became stable, Shen (spirit) became efficacious, the valleys became full, the myriad things grew, and the lords and kings became the rightful rulers of the realm. They could be thus because they had obtained "One." If Heaven could not be clear, it would likely crack; if Earth could not be stable, it would likely quake; if Shen could not be efficacious, it would likely perish; if the valleys could not be full, they would likely run dry; if the myriad things could not grow, they would likely be extinguished; if the lords and kings could not hold to what is correct and instead dwelt in exalted position, they would likely topple.

Therefore, nobility takes the lowly as its root, and high station takes the humble as its foundation. When the lords and kings call themselves "gu" ("orphan"), "gua" ("solitary one"), and "bu gu" (meaning one who lacks virtue and is not good), are they not taking lowliness as their root? Is this not so? Thus, even piling up many carts cannot produce a true cart, because the whole cannot simply be equated with the sum of its parts. One should not cling to being showy and precious like fine jade, nor deliberately pose as lofty and hard like stone.

The commentary explains: "lie" means to break apart and ruin; "fa" means to burst forth or stir up; "xie" means to perish; "jie" means to be exhausted; "jue" means to stumble or fall over. "Shu" is read in the third tone and means to count or add up.

Su's commentary says: "One" is the Dao. The reason the myriad things can become what they are is that they possess the Dao, yet people of the world see only concrete things and forget the Dao on which those things depend. Heaven knows only that it is clear, Earth knows only that it is stable, Shen knows only that it...

Su Zhe's commentary says: "One" is the Dao. The reason all things can be the things they are is that they have the Dao. People in the world see the myriad things but forget the Dao within them. Heaven knows only that it is clear, Earth knows only that it is stable, spirit knows only that it is efficacious, the valleys know only that they are full, the myriad things know only that they grow, and the lords and kings know only that they are the masters of all under heaven, yet they do not know that what causes them to obtain these qualities is the Dao.

"Zhi" (to reach the utmost) means to reach the limit. If heaven loses the One, it will eventually crack; if Earth loses the One, it will eventually tremble; if spirit loses the One, it will eventually lose its efficacy; if the myriad things lose the One, they will eventually perish; if the lords and kings lose the One, they will eventually be ruined. That heaven and earth are vast and that the lords and kings are noble are both results of the One being carried to its utmost.

So what, then, is the One? It cannot be seen or grasped, and therefore it is the most subtle and fine existence between heaven and earth. This is what is meant by "low and humble," and yet it is the root of the myriad things. The ancients called themselves "orphan," "lonely one," and "I who lack virtue" (terms rulers used when speaking humbly of themselves). This too is a way of pointing to one's root and setting aside outward nobility.

A cart is assembled from the wheel, spokes, canopy, rim, crossbar, yoke, hub, and the ends of the axle. Each part can be counted one by one, yet the whole cart cannot be equated with any single part. From this we understand that the cart's function arises from the whole formed by its parts, and also from the invisible, intangible emptiness within them. This is the principle by which "non-being" (wu) is able to function.

Do heaven and earth become heaven and earth merely through their vastness? Do the lords and kings become lords and kings merely through their nobility? Within vastness and nobility alike there is the One. This is the root by which heaven and earth and the lords and kings are established, though people often fail to notice it. Therefore the One dwells within nobility yet does not regard nobility as noble; when it dwells in lowliness, it is not made base by it. It is unlike jade, which can appear precious but cannot appear base, nor like stone, which can appear base but cannot appear precious.

"Return" (fan) is the way the Dao moves, and "weakness" (ruo) is the way the Dao exerts its function. The myriad things are born from "being" (you), and "being" is born from "non-being" (wu).

"Return" carries the sense of coming back and cycling. Huan Han said: "What is called 'return' means that when things reach the extreme of their movement, they inevitably turn back." That is to say, only because things are in motion does return occur; without motion, there is no such thing as return.

Su Shi's commentary says: when one restores one's original nature, the mind becomes quiet. Yet although the mind is still and does not move, once it receives a stimulus it can comprehend the principles of all things under heaven. This is also the root from which action arises. The Dao (the Way) has no shape and no sound, and it is the most yielding thing under heaven. Yet nothing under heaven is stronger than the Dao, and therefore the Dao is able to make use of the myriad things. Worldly people do not understand that movement is contained within stillness and that strength is contained within softness, so one must tell them the source from which the myriad things arise. Among all things under heaven, we have heard of a mother governing her son, but we have never heard of a son governing his mother.

The Bi Cheng (Notes from the Brush) says: the myriad things under heaven arise from Being (you), and this is what is meant by "Named, it is the mother of the myriad things." Being in turn arises from Non-being (wu), and this is what is meant by "Nameless, it is the beginning of heaven and earth." Non-being necessarily gives rise to Being, and so what is precious is returning to Non-being. What is called "returning" is precisely going back to Non-being. Being arises out of Non-being, and so what is precious is yielding, for yielding resembles Non-being.

Those of the highest capacity, on hearing the Dao, diligently put it into practice. Those of middling capacity, on hearing the Dao, seem to remember it and seem to forget it. Those of the lowest capacity, on hearing the Dao, burst out laughing. If the Dao were not laughed at, it would not be enough to be the Dao. Therefore the ancients who established teachings said: the bright Dao appears dim, the advancing Dao appears to recede, and the level Dao appears uneven. The highest De (Virtue/Power) appears as empty as a valley, great whiteness appears to have stains, and abundant De seems insufficient. Vigorous De appears lax, and genuine substance appears to be changing. The greatest squareness has no corners, the greatest vessel is completed last, and the greatest sound is heard as faint. The greatest image has no form; the Dao is hidden and unmanifest, and has no fixed name. Only the Dao is skilled at bestowing on the myriad things and bringing them to completion.

Jian means to establish or to accomplish. Tou means to get by carelessly or to make do under compulsion. Yu, read as yang zhu fan, means to change. Fu Yi's Yinyi (Phonetic and Semantic Glosses) notes that an older edition wrote this character as shu, and the Guangya glosses shu as ignorance. Some editions write it as yu, and Dong Yu's edition writes it as yao. Here the text follows the Wang Bi and Fu Yi editions and adopts the character yu.

Help given to others in an emergency, which is later reclaimed, is called dai (lending). Zhao Zhijian says that dai means lending for a time rather than giving on a permanent basis, and that qie (expediency) means accomplishing something by temporary means rather than establishing it firmly and permanently. The purpose of this is that the one who receives help should not depend on borrowing over the long term, and that what has been accomplished should not linger indefinitely. Having been aided and having taken up what has been accomplished, people should be moved to return to the Dao (the Way) as quickly as possible.

Su's commentary says: "The Dao has no form, so it cannot be seen; it has no sound, so it cannot be heard."

Su Shi's commentary says: Dao (the Way) has no form, so it cannot be seen, and no sound, so it cannot be heard. If one does not first understand that all things are illusory, and so attain an open mind with nothing to obscure it, so that one truly perceives that Dao exists, one will inevitably still harbor doubt.

Thus, when inferior scholars hear of Dao, they find it absurd and remote and laugh at it. Middling scholars hear of it and alternately believe and doubt, their attitude wavering. Only those who truly understand Dao practice it diligently, keep it in mind, and do not slacken. Confucius said: "When the principle is explained to them and they still do not slacken, perhaps only Yan Hui could manage this?" Such people are what is called superior scholars.

"Jian (to establish)" means to set up. Ancient writers who established teachings had this saying, which Laozi quoted, and what follows lists these sayings.

Dao illuminates everything, yet it does not deliberately scrutinize. Dao appears still and does not rush forward, yet nothing is faster than it. It gently accords with the myriad things, so wherever it reaches, things naturally become level and upright, and it never corrects them by cutting or trimming.

"Shang de bu de" (the highest De, or Virtue/Power, does not regard itself as De) means that the highest De does not think itself virtuous, and is empty-hearted like a valley. "Da bai ruo ru" (great whiteness seems soiled) means that true great whiteness looks as if it has been stained. If one single-mindedly pursues purity and refuses to be touched by dust, that is merely the conduct of aloof and isolated scholars, not the Way of the sage. "Guang de ruo bu zu" (broad De seems insufficient) means that if one thinks one's virtue has reached a breadth beyond which nothing more is possible, one stops at the level already attained, and so is not truly broad. "Jian de ruo tou" (established De seems furtive) means that one accords with the natural state of things and does not deliberately set up deeds. Outwardly it seems slack, but inwardly one's De is firm. "Zhi zhen ruo yu" (genuine substance seems to change) means that inwardly one keeps the sage's realm of embodying Dao and accords with the transformations of things without losing one's genuineness, though outwardly it appears as if one has changed.

"Da fang wu yu" (the greatest square has no corners) means that a truly vast square has no sharp edges and does not deliberately display small points. "Da qi wan cheng" (the great vessel is completed late) means that the vessel of Dao is vast and cannot be used for small immediate purposes. "Da yin xi sheng" (the greatest sound is faint) means that the greatest sound cannot be heard by the ears, and "da xiang wu xing" (the greatest image has no shape) means that the greatest image cannot be seen by the eyes.

Dao dwells within all things and is present everywhere. The twelve sayings above are all manifestations of Dao in particular things, but complete Dao itself remains hidden in namelessness. Dao accords with the needs of the myriad things and supplements their lack with its own surplus, and things are accomplished by relying on it.

The Dao (the Way) itself is neither one nor two. Yet when it stands in relation to the myriad things, it may be called "One" (yi), while the myriad things each differ. Thus "One" is used to name the Dao, but the Dao itself is not merely a particular "one." When "one" stands against "one," they become "two"; adding another "one" yields "three," and from there the myriad things are endlessly produced. Though the myriad things differ greatly, they all turn their backs on Yin and face toward Yang, and the Yin and Yang Qi (vital energy) blend and reach harmony. This is because the myriad things arise from "three," and "three" arises from "one," which is the natural principle. Ordinary people do not know where the myriad things come from, so they tend to look down on what is few and small and to honor what is many and great. Yet the wanggong guiren (kings, dukes, and nobles) call themselves "gu" (orphan), "gua" (lonely one), and "bu gu" (one whose virtue is insufficient, a term of humility). This shows that the ancient people of penetrating understanding had long grasped this principle.

The softest thing under heaven can ride roaming over the hardest thing under heaven, and what has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this I know that Wuwei (non-action, acting in accordance with nature without forcing) is beneficial. Teaching without words, and the benefits of Wuwei, are rarely achieved by people in the world.

Here, "chicheng" (galloping freely) means to control and command. "Jian" (hard, firm) is close in meaning to "gangqiang" (strong and unyielding), and the word "jian" was chosen deliberately to vary the wording and harmonize the rhythm. "Wujian" (without gaps) means having no gap and no inner space. These two sentences use metaphor to illustrate the benefits of Wuwei. Nothing under heaven surpasses the hardest thing, yet the utmost softness can control it. Nothing under heaven can split what has no gap, yet the formless can enter it.

Su Shi's commentary says: to meet hardness with hardness leads either to breaking or to shattering, while to meet hardness with softness means the soft thing is not worn down and the hard thing is not harmed. Among natural things, water has this quality. When a material object enters another material object, the two conflict and cannot merge. When a formless thing enters a material object, the formless side expends no effort and the material side does not perceive it. Among natural things, the guishen (spirits and ghosts) work in this way. Therefore, when the sage is able to practice Wuwei, they can master all mighty forces and move freely in and out among the myriad things.

Which is closer to us, fame or life? Which is more precious, life or wealth? Which is more harmful, gaining or losing? Excessive craving will certainly incur a great cost, and hoarding too much will certainly bring heavy losses. Those who know contentment will not be humiliated, and those who know when to stop will not fall into danger. In this way, they can endure long.

"Knowing contentment" means being satisfied with what one already has and seeking nothing more. Since one seeks nothing, what could there be to be humiliated by? "Knowing when to stop" means understanding that advancement should stop at the appropriate point, and recognizing the signs of change in things, so that one does not bring harm by pressing on recklessly. If one understands these things, what danger could there be?

The greatest accomplishment may seem to be lacking, yet its function never wears out. The greatest fullness may seem empty, yet its function is never exhausted. The most upright figure may seem somewhat bent, the most skillful craft may appear clumsy, and the most eloquent speaker may seem inarticulate. Restlessness can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Clear stillness and non-action (wúwéi, Wuwei), this is the correct Way (dào, Dao) of the world.

Su Shi's commentary says: People regard the absence of any flaw as accomplishment, and so such accomplishment often decays. They regard the absence of any emptiness as fullness, and so such fullness will eventually be drained. The sage pursues great accomplishment without minding that it seems to have flaws, and pursues great fullness without rejecting the appearance of emptiness. Therefore accomplishment does not decay, and fullness is never exhausted.

To pursue straightness single-mindedly is to risk breaking; to follow the principles of things is to remain upright even when one appears crooked. To pursue skill single-mindedly is to wear oneself out; to let things follow their natural course is to reveal skill even when one appears clumsy. To argue relentlessly may end in having no words left; to speak according to the principles of things is to make one's meaning clear even when one seems not to speak well.

If one clings to completeness and refuses any flaw, to fullness and refuses any emptiness, to straightness and refuses any bend, to skill and refuses any clumsiness, or to eloquence and refuses any hesitation, this is like knowing only restlessness or only stillness: both are fixation on a single extreme. Restlessness can resist cold but cannot dispel heat; stillness can dispel heat but cannot resist cold. Each has its limits. Only when the mind is calm and tranquil, unattached to any one extreme, and not clinging to completeness or flaw, fullness or emptiness, straightness or bending, skill or clumsiness, eloquence or silence, can one respond to every situation and become the correct Way of the world.

When the world is clear and orderly and the Dao (dào) prevails, warhorses can be retired and put to plowing the fields. When the world is in disorder and the Dao is absent, warhorses breed on the borderlands where battles are fought, showing that warfare never ends.

Nothing brings transgression more readily than objects that stir desire, nothing brings calamity more readily than failing to know contentment, and nothing brings fault more readily than constantly seeking to obtain more. Therefore, one who knows contentment is the one who is often content.

Here, "què" means to withdraw or set aside, and "fèn" refers to using the land for tilling. "Róngmǎ" means warhorses, and "jiāo" refers to the border zone between two states. Warhorses appearing in the outlying borderlands signifies that military conflict has continued for a long time without cease. Human nature originally lacks nothing and needs no addition; if one can rest in this, one will find satisfaction everywhere. Su Shì (Su Shi) comments that when all people within the realm keep to their proper stations, they do not contend, and governance proceeds naturally, so warhorses can be retired to till the fields. To display enticing objects before people is already to invite transgression; to desire without knowing contentment brings greater calamity; to insist on obtaining what one wants brings the greatest fault. When ordinary people act this way, misfortune arrives, and when feudal lords and rulers act this way, warfare arises from it. Only one who knows contentment is self-sufficient wherever they dwell.

One who does not leave the household can know the principles of the world, and one who does not peer out through the window can understand the Dao of Heaven (tiāndào). The farther one travels, the less one knows. Therefore the sage (shèngrén) knows without going out, discerns things without looking at them, and accomplishes without acting deliberately.

Su Shi's commentary says that human original nature (benxing) fills the entire cosmos and is not limited by distance or by past and present. The ancient sages could know all things without leaving their doors, simply because their original nature was complete and unobscured. Ordinary people are blinded by external things. Their original nature is confined by the limits of the ears and eyes, and their minds are further disturbed by bodily and mental distractions. Moreover, mountains and rivers separate them, so they cannot see beyond their sight or hear beyond their hearing. Even a small obstruction such as a doorway is enough to block their understanding. People do not realize that the sage needs only to restore original nature, and that this is sufficient. Instead, they go outside to pursue things, so the farther they go, the less they obtain. What original nature can reach is not only knowing things and naming them. It can also accord with the natural state of things and bring affairs to completion without effort.

Deliberately striving to act in pursuit of things leads one to go farther and farther and gain less and less. What original nature can reach is not only knowing and naming things. It can also accord with the natural state of things and bring affairs to completion without effort.

In learning, knowledge increases day by day. In cultivating the Dao (Dao), one must decrease day by day. Keep subtracting, subtract again, until one reaches wuwei (non-action, not forcing and following what is natural). Once one attains wuwei, nothing cannot be accomplished. Therefore, in governing the world, one must always take wushi (no-affairs) as the principle. Once one deliberately acts, it is not enough to govern the world.

The character qu, the commentary of the Kaiyuan era explains, here means shehua, which is to gather and transform, that is, to unify and teach the world. Wushi means wuwei. When non-action is practiced, the world transforms itself naturally. When one is quiet, the world naturally returns to correctness. Therefore it is said that governing the world must always rest on wushi. Reckless action brings ruin, and obstinate grasping brings loss. Therefore it is said that deliberate action is not enough to govern the world.

Su Shi's commentary says: those who do not understand the Dao yet pursue learning single-mindedly find that what they hear and see grows greater each day, but without one overarching principle to thread it together, it inevitably becomes a burden. Confucius said, "Hear much, select what is good and follow it; observe much, and record it. This is knowledge of the second order." Once one truly understands the Dao (the Way) and looks back at the myriad things of the world, one finds that none of them is free of illusion. To remove illusion and seek to restore one's original nature is what is called sun (diminishing), that is, subtracting partiality and deluded thoughts.

Confucius said to his disciple Zigong, "Do you think I came to understand the Dao by learning widely and memorizing much?" Zigong replied, "Is it not so?" Confucius said, "No. I penetrate everything with one fundamental principle." Removing illusion and restoring one's original nature may be called diminishing. Yet if the mind still holds the thought "I must remove illusion," one has not fully let go. Only when even this thought is forgotten, so that the original nature shines forth pure and free of miscellaneous thoughts, can one act in every way without violating wuwei (non-action, accord with nature and not forcing things).

Everyone desires to seize the realm, and so they deliberately scheme and strive for it. When such an intention shows outwardly, the myriad things grow averse to the one who holds it, and in the end he cannot obtain the realm. The sage accords with nature and does not act deliberately, so he also does not stir up trouble. His intention is revealed, yet the myriad things are able to rest at ease in accepting him. Though such a person does not seize the realm, the realm turns toward him of its own accord.

The sage has no fixed, unchanging preconceptions. He takes the hearts of the common people as his own heart. Those who are good, he treats well; those who are not good, he also treats well, so that everyone receives good treatment and his De (Virtue/Power) appears rich and sincere. Those who are trustworthy, he trusts; those who are not trustworthy, he also trusts, so that everyone is trusted and good faith is brought to completion. The sage dwells within the realm and is always cautious and anxious about its affairs, causing the minds of the people to return to undivided simplicity. The common people all attentively watch and listen to the sage, yet the sage regards them as children.

"Wu chang xin" (no constant mind) means that there is no fixed opinion held within the heart. The character read as "xie" (xié) here refers to cautious anxiety. "Wei" is read in the departing tone. "Hun" is read as "hu ben qie," meaning to return the mind to undivided simplicity.

In commenting on the line "hun qi xin, bai xing jie zhu qi er mu, sheng ren jie hai zhi" (he makes their minds undivided, the common people all fix their ears and eyes upon him, and the sage treats them all as infants), Su Shi said: "Wu chang xin" means that there is no fixed opinion held within the heart. The character read as "xie" is pronounced xié, "wei" is read in the departing tone, and "hun" is read as "hu ben qie."

Su Shi's commentary observes that emptiness has no fixed form. It takes on the shape of whatever it contains, becoming square in square things and round in round things. If emptiness had a fixed shape of its own, how could it hold the shapes of all things?

The sage likewise holds no rigid opinions but follows the hearts of the common people, treating their hearts as his own. He treats those who are good and those who are not good with equal kindness, and he trusts those who are trustworthy and those who are not with equal faith. Others may differ in their goodness, but his manner of treating them does not change, and this may be called virtuous goodness (De Shan). Others may differ in their trustworthiness, but his trust does not change, and this may be called virtuous trustworthiness (De Xin). Otherwise, if one favored only the good and abandoned the not-good, or trusted only the trustworthy and withheld trust from everyone else, how could one be said to be ever skilled at saving people and to abandon no one?

People throughout the world judge good and bad, true and false, and in doing so they blame and harm one another, yet they do not know what standard to rely upon. The sage is troubled by this and carefully guides the hearts of the people back to simplicity. He clings neither to good nor to bad, nor to true nor to false, but regards all things equally. People watch closely to see how the sage rewards or punishes, yet he treats them as one would treat infants. He is not especially pleased by good deeds, nor especially repelled by bad ones. Thus those who do good do not boast, and those who do evil do not resent. People gradually let go of their distinctions and are transformed, and so the world finds peace.

Of all who are born and go on to die, about three in ten live long, about three in ten die early, and another three in ten, though they could have lived, move toward death through improper conduct. Why is this? Because they crave and indulge their own lives to excess.

I have heard that one who is skilled at nourishing life does not meet rhinoceroses or tigers when traveling through the mountains and wilds, and does not evade weapons when entering battle. The rhinoceros has nowhere to use its horns, the tiger has nowhere to set its claws, and weapons cannot wound him. Why is this? Because he does not enter the ground of death.

The character chu refers to life emerging from a formless state into visible form, and ru refers to returning from visible form to formlessness. The Zhuangzi says that all things arise from ji, the germinal source, and return to it. It also says that when life departs one does not rejoice, and when it returns one is not alarmed. The saying "there is chu and there is ru" likewise treats chu as birth and ru as death.

In shesheng (nurturing life), the she carries the same sense as in shili zhengwu (temporarily administering government affairs) and sheguan (temporarily holding an office). It means looking after life for a time without treating that life as one's own possession. Yu means meeting by chance, without any prior arrangement.

The character si is pronounced like si, as in the homophone for "resemble." The Classic of Mountains and Seas records that the si is found south of the Xiang River and is dark blue-black in color. The Erya dictionary says it resembles a wild ox, with a single horn on its head, and that it can weigh a thousand jin.

Su Shi's commentary observes that human nature has no division between life and death: when it manifests, it is called life, and when it returns to hidden stillness, it is called death. One who knows how to draw on the essence of external things to nourish the self walks the path of nurturing life, while one who indulges in sound, color, scent, and flavor, and so harms the self, walks the path toward death. These two conditions already distinguish the paths of life and death.

Furthermore, Su Shi notes that one who is constantly active but does not know how to rest, who knows how to speak but not how to keep silent, and who knows how to think but not how to let go, will eventually become exhausted. This is ceaseless agitation, which likewise leads onto the path of death. If the course of human life is divided into ten parts, three parts belong to life and three to death. The paths of life and death together account for nine parts, and the remaining part is the path of neither life nor death.

What is meant by neither life nor death is what the Yi (Classic of Changes) calls "quiescent and unmoving" (jiran bu dong), the state in which the myriad things have not yet stirred and have returned to tranquility. Laozi speaks only of the nine parts concerning life and death and does not explicitly name the one part beyond them, leaving the reader to realize it personally and so to experience the profound mystery of being without thought and without action.

Where there is life, there is death, so even one who nourishes life still belongs to the path of life and death. The more a person depends on and craves the things of life, the more readily they walk toward death, which is why the path of death often occupies nine of the ten parts. The sage constantly dwells in the realm of neither life nor death, having no footing even within life. How, then, could there be a place for death?

The Bi Cheng holds that of every ten people, three cling to life, training the body and seeking to prolong their stay in the world. Three more chase their desires and forget their lives. Another three, through improper action, walk toward a deadly end and sever the very root of their lives. Most people fall within these nine groups: those who overvalue life and endlessly pursue nourishment.

Whatever has life will eventually die, so life itself carries the possibility of death. Where could one hide from the si (a legendary rhinoceros-like beast), the tiger, or weapons? One who is skilled at nourishing life, however, reaches a state of attaching to nothing in life. Thus the horns of the si find nothing to strike, the tiger's claws find nothing to grasp, and weapons cannot harm him, because he offers nothing for harm to hold onto.

Nine in ten people value life, and only one reaches the state of wusheng (non-life, or being beyond the grasp of life and death). Laozi left one category of these ten unnamed and placed himself within it, and the implication is profound. Yet the sage's attainment of wusheng does not come from deliberately despising life. He simply has no attachment to life to begin with. The ancients said: those who cherish life are easily killed; those who cherish purity are easily defiled; those who cherish honor are easily humiliated; those who cling to wholeness are easily broken. If one is fundamentally unattached to life, who can kill him? If one is fundamentally unattached to purity, who can defile him? If one is fundamentally unattached to honor, who can disgrace him? If one is fundamentally unattached to wholeness, who can destroy him? Understanding this allows one to move in and out of the processes of creation and to be at ease between life and death.

The Dao (dào) gives birth to and nourishes all things, and the De (dé) nurtures them. Each of the myriad things forms its own body and grows according to its own conditions and circumstances. For this reason, all things revere the Dao and treasure the De. That the Dao is revered and the De is treasured is not because anyone conferred titles upon them; it is simply how things naturally are. The Dao brings things into being, nourishes them, lets them grow and develop, brings them to maturity and flourishing, and then sustains and shelters them. This is what is meant by producing and raising all things without claiming them as one's own, acting without relying on oneself, and promoting growth without exercising control. This is called xuande (xuán dé, profound virtue), a power that is deep and natural.

The first character, meaning "to rear" or "to nourish," is read xù, following the traditional fanqie spelling xu liu qie. The second character, meaning "husband," is read fú. The third character, meaning "long" or "elder," is read in the rising tone (shǎng shēng).

Dao (the Way) is the root of all things, and so all things come into being through Dao. Dao moves and appears as De (Virtue/Power), and De nourishes the myriad things without tiring, so all things are sustained through De. Yet Dao and De cannot manifest on their own; they must be seen through the myriad things. The myriad things, in turn, cannot accomplish anything alone. They depend on one another, near and far, and the hard and the soft interact, gathering into definite configurations of circumstance (shi). Only then do changes such as rise and fall, order and chaos, appear. Although the myriad things become visible through their physical forms, and affairs are accomplished through their circumstances, without Dao nothing could come into being, and without De nothing could be nourished. For this reason, people honor Dao and value De. Honoring Dao is like revering one's father and elder brother, and valuing De is like esteeming a feudal lord or king. Dao holds no rank, yet De holds a proper standing (míngfèn). If one is respected only for rank, that is not true nobility.

All things under heaven have a beginning, and this beginning is the root of all things under heaven. To understand the root is to recognize the myriad things that arise from it, and having recognized them, to still hold fast to the root is to be free of danger for a lifetime. Block the passages through which the senses and desires of the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose rush outward, and shut the gates through which the spirit (shen) chases after external things, and one will be free of toil for a lifetime. If one indulges the senses and busies oneself with affairs, one will find no remedy for a lifetime. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity (míng), and to keep hold of softness is called strength (qiáng). To make use of outer brightness and then return to inner discernment, leaving no calamity for oneself, is called secretly inheriting the constant Dao (chángdào).

Here, duì refers to the mouth, and mén means the gate or doorway. Both serve as metaphors for the passages through which things enter and leave. Blocking these passages and gathering external things inward is the method of guarding the root. The Cantong Qi (Kinship of the Three) says: "The ears and eyes are one's own treasures; hold them in and guard them, and do not reveal them outwardly. Do not speak carelessly with the mouth; remain silent and still, and only then can you accord with the vast Dao." This carries the same meaning as the present passage. "Small" refers to not letting others directly glimpse it with the eyes, and "soft" refers to not obtaining it through force. "Inheriting the constant" is close in meaning to the earlier "inheriting the bright," describing the quiet reception of the constant Dao so that it does not show itself. The Book of Rites says that to conceal something and fill its interior is called xí (inheriting).

Su Shi's commentary says: "The Nameless (wúmíng) is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, and the Named (yǒumíng) is the mother of the myriad things."

Su Zhe's commentary explains that the "nameless" (wuming) is the beginning of heaven and earth, and the "named" (youming) is the mother of the myriad things. When the Dao (the Way) is in its nameless state, it is the root from which all things begin; when it appears in its named state, it is the source from which all things grow. Therefore it is called the "beginning," and it is also called the "mother," the one that gives birth to the myriad things.

The sage comprehends the great Dao and responds to the myriad things through it, just as a mother knows her children, seeing each of them clearly. Although his wisdom is sufficient to penetrate all things, he does not become absorbed in external things and forget the Dao, and so he always holds fast to the root. All people originally possess this Dao, yet they often chase external things because they have forgotten it. The eyes covet colors and the ears covet sounds. Once a person releases the heart to pursue these desires and keeps satisfying them, he will be immersed in them for his whole life and be unable to extricate himself.

The sage lives without toil throughout his life because he shuts away the heart that chases desire and never indulges himself in pursuing external things. The harm caused by desire is small at first but gradually grows. To recognize that a small desire will expand and to halt it in time is what counts as wisdom. To know full well that chasing desire leads to immersion and yet press on regardless, considering oneself brave and strong, is in truth not strength. Only one who, upon seeing temptation, knows to be wary and cautious deserves to be called strong.

Worldly people indulge their desires and let themselves follow external things, and once they set off, it is hard to turn back. The sage restrains and constrains himself, not to cut off contact with the myriad things, but to respond to them with his spirit, using only the luminous perception of the senses without letting himself fall into pursuit. The ears can hear, the eyes can see, the nose can smell, the mouth can taste, the body can feel, and the heart can think. These are what is called "light," that is, the capacity to perceive external things. When perception meets external things, the inner clarity is not harmed even after those things pass away. Therefore the sage can respond to ten thousand changes without exhaustion, misfortune does not fall upon him, and his tranquil, constant nature can continue unbroken.

"Were I to have even a little clear insight and walk upon the great Dao, what I would most fear is straying from the proper way." The great Dao is level and broad, yet people are fond of taking side paths. The court is neglected and in disarray, the fields lie waste, and the granaries are empty, yet people wear splendid clothing, carry sharp swords, eat and drink to excess, and hoard surplus wealth. This is called "daoyu" (those who, like bandits, act with arrogant authority). How could this accord with the Dao?

"Merely having a little cleverness and knowledge will give rise to fear and scheming. The great Dao (dào) is level and broad, yet the common people prefer to take narrow shortcuts. The palaces and halls of the court are repaired to a brilliant polish while the fields lie waste and the granaries stand empty. People wear splendid robes, hang sharp swords at their waists, and eat and drink to excess while still having goods to spare. This is like the music of bandits, and it does not accord with the Dao."

"'Merely having a little cleverness and knowledge' means having slight ingenuity. Yi (yí) means level, and jing (jìng) means a narrow, convenient path. Xiu (xiū) means to repair. Wencai (wéncǎi) refers to brilliant colors and silk fabrics. Some editions write zihuo (zīhuò) as caihuo (cáihuò), meaning wealth and goods. Some editions mistakenly write daokua (dàokuā) for daoyu (dàoyú), the bandit's pipe music. Here we follow the version quoted by Han Feizi (Hán Fēizǐ)."

Su Zhe (Sū Zhé) comments that one who embodies the Dao does not act through cleverness or deliberate contrivance, and so the myriad things transform in their natural way. If a person thinks they possess some insight and keeps arranging matters and establishing institutions upon the Dao, they will go against nature, and this is why it causes fear. The Dao is smooth and free of obstacles, yet people mistakenly think it is distant and difficult, and so they love to take shortcuts in pursuit of speed. Whenever one abandons what is natural and acts deliberately, one is merely impatient for results. The people of the world appear clever and quick, while I alone seem dim and slow. The people of the world are shrewd and exacting, while I alone appear simple and easygoing. How could one decorate the branches, abandon the root, treat deliberate action as the essential task, and even boast and show off, teaching people to chase profit like thieves?

"Those who are good at establishing a foundation will not be easily uprooted, and those who are good at holding fast will not easily let go, so their descendants can continue the sacrifices. When the Dao is cultivated in oneself, one's De (dé) becomes genuine. When it is cultivated in the family, one's De becomes abundant. When it is cultivated in the village, one's De endures. When it is cultivated in the state, one's De flourishes. When it is cultivated in the world, one's De becomes universal. Therefore, one may observe the self through the self, the family through the family, the village through the village, the state through the state, and the world through the world. How do I know the condition of the world? By this principle."

"'Bang' (bāng) appears in some editions as 'guo' (guó). Because of the taboo on the personal name of Emperor Gaozu of Han, Liu Bang, the Han dynasty used 'guo' instead. However, that does not fit the original rhyme, so here we follow the version 'bang' quoted by Han Feizi."

Where in the world is there anything truly established that cannot be uprooted, or firmly held that cannot slip away? One comes to know a state by observing a state, and comes to know the world by observing the world. How do I know the condition of the world? By means of this principle.

The word "bang" (state) is written "guo" in some editions. In the Han dynasty, scholars changed "bang" to "guo" to avoid the personal name of Han Gaozu, Liu Bang. But "guo" does not rhyme with the surrounding text, so this translation follows the "bang" of the Han Feizi edition.

Su Shi's commentary says: Where in the world is there anything that, once established, cannot be uprooted, or that, once held, cannot slip away? Only the sage understands the true nature of what is real, and also sees clearly the illusoriness of external things. Therefore he sets external things aside and cultivates himself. His De (virtue) accumulates and fills out. Outwardly he seems to have deliberately established nothing, yet he has built a foundation that cannot be uprooted. He clings to nothing, yet he possesses a hold that will not slip. For this reason, even down to his descendants, the sacrifices continue without interruption.

Once one has cultivated oneself, one extends the surplus De outward, and then even governing the world can be accomplished. Matters beyond heaven and earth are not visible to ordinary people, yet one can still infer them through principle. A person who has reached the utmost in self-cultivation observes himself through himself, observes the family through the family, observes the village through the village, and observes the state through the state. These are all things we can understand. How, then, do we know that the sage observes the world through the world just as we observe ourselves through ourselves? Can the self be observed from the self while the world cannot be observed from the world? Therefore it is said: "How do I know the condition of the world? By means of this principle." That is to say, a person likewise knows the world by means of himself.

A person of deep De is like a newborn infant. Poisonous insects do not sting him, fierce beasts do not pounce on him, and birds of prey do not seize him. His bones are soft and his sinews pliant, yet his grip is firm. He does not yet know of union between male and female, yet his genitals become erect, because his Jing (essence) is abundant to the utmost. He cries all day, yet his voice does not go hoarse, because his Qi (vital energy) is harmonized to the utmost. Knowing harmony is called "chang" (constancy), and knowing constancy is called "ming" (clarity). Those who crave long life and overindulge in nourishing life invite calamity. To let the mind command the breath is to force things. When things develop to the point of vigor and flourishing, they proceed toward decline. This is called not according with the Dao (the Way), and what does not accord with the Dao perishes early.

"Poisonous insect" (du chong) refers to bees, scorpions, and similar creatures that release a poisonous sting from the tail. "Shi" means to sting. "Fierce beast" refers to tigers, leopards, and similar animals that press down upon and seize their prey with claws. "Jue" means to seize with claws.

"Bo" refers to birds striking or touching with their wings and claws, as birds of prey such as the eagle and the osprey do. Zhao Zhijian explains that "woguo" (grasping and holding firm) is the gesture of closing the four fingers over the thumb. The missing character in this passage is read "zi chui qie," and the Shuowen Jiezi (Explaining Simple Characters and Analyzing Compound Ones) says it refers to an infant's genitals. "Hao" is read in the level tone. "Sha" is read "suo jia qie" and refers to a hoarse voice. It can also mean crying until no sound comes out. Another edition reads "yi bu sha" instead. Huang Maocai notes that early editions lack the character "yi," and that "yi bu sha" is wording from the Zhuangzi that later readers added. "Xiang" refers to omens of good or ill fortune.

Su Shi's commentary says that when Laozi speaks of Dao De, he often uses the infant as a metaphor, and that these passages describe only the Daoti (the body of the Dao) without yet reaching the Dao zhi yong (the function or application of the Dao). The infant is calm and tranquil, free of desire, and this state manifests the highest degree of the Dao's body. But when external things arrive, the infant does not yet know how to respond, so it cannot yet be said to have manifested the function of the Dao.

Su Shi's commentary says: when Laozi speaks of the Dao and De, he often uses the infant as a metaphor. This explains their fundamental substance, not yet their function. The infant is tranquil and without desire, his nature pure and whole; yet when external things arrive, he does not yet know how to respond, and so one cannot yet say that he has embodied their "function" (yong).

The Dao has no form, so the myriad things cannot see it, and how could anything harm it? A person has a physical form because of mental intention (xin nian). When there is intention, a form takes shape; once there is form, there is opposition and conflict, and once opposition arises, harm follows. For one without intention, external things cannot stand against him, so where could harm come from? The infant can maintain this state only because there is no attachment (zhi nian) in his heart.

The infant does not deliberately grasp, yet his hand closes of its own accord; no desire drives him, yet his body moves naturally. This shows that his jing (essence) and qi (vital energy) are abundant and do not depend on the mind to direct them. When the mind stirs, the qi is injured; once the qi is injured, the crying becomes hoarse. That the infant can cry all day without his voice going hoarse shows that his heart has not been disturbed and his breath remains harmonious. What is meant by "harmony" (he) is not allowing external things to harm what is within.

"Returning to the constant is called 'the constant'" means that when encountering things, one knows to return to the root of life. "Knowing harmony is called 'the constant'" means that one knows how to harmonize, and though one may obtain things, one does not turn them into private possession. These two statements actually express the same principle, which is why both are called "constant" (chang).

Life cannot be augmented through artifice, and to force an increase is to depart from its normal state. Qi abhors agitation, and if one further drives it with the mind, it becomes excessively rigid. To deliberately enhance life or forcibly circulate qi is to fail to follow what is natural; gradually one falls into rigidity, aging follows, and in the end one loses the infant's original nature.

Those who understand the Dao do not speak of it lightly, and those who love grand discourse are not necessarily the ones who understand it. The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, yet it has no fundamental disconnection from them. Those who cultivate the Dao quiet the senses and shut the gates of external desire. They blunt their sharpness, dissolve entanglements, and keep their radiance hidden. They dwell among the mundane world without setting themselves apart. This is called xuantong (union with the profound and subtle Dao).

Such a person does not seem approachable, nor does seem distant. Others do not regard them as profitable, nor as harmful. They are not considered noble, nor are they considered lowly, and so they become the most precious person under heaven. Su's commentary explains: if one can be drawn near, one may also be pushed away; if one can bring benefit, one may also cause harm; if one is honored as noble, one may also be cast down as base. Those who truly embody the Dao protect all things equally, without distinguishing between near and far. They treat favorable and adverse circumstances alike and do not calculate gain or loss. They do not cling to glory or disgrace, and so they do not fall into the distinctions of noble and base. Worldly calculation cannot reach this state, which is why such a person is the most precious.

Govern the state with correct means, direct warfare with flexible tactics, and rule the world without disturbing the people. How do I know that the world is governed in this way? The more prohibitions and taboos there are in the realm, the poorer the people become. The more sharp tools there are among the populace, the more chaotic the state becomes. The more people delight in cleverness, the more strange and curious things appear. The more dense the laws, the more thieves and robbers there are.

Therefore the sage says: when I practice wuwei (non-action), the people transform and nourish themselves naturally. When I favor stillness, the people become upright of their own accord. When I do not burden them with affairs, the people grow prosperous naturally. When I have no excessive desires, the people return naturally to simplicity.

Su's commentary says that the ancient sages pacified distant peoples and drew near to those close at hand through gentleness, and did not wish to employ armies. They went to war only when they had no choice. Governing the state is therefore the constant norm, while deploying troops and using force is an expedient measure. Even so, such measures are still not enough to win the world (tianxia). The world is a spiritual vessel that cannot be forced into action, since forcing action brings failure and clinging to it brings loss. Only one who embodies the Dao (the Way) is broad and unhurried, does not act recklessly, and so, even without contending for the world, has the world return to him.

Rulers often set up many prohibitions, which block the feelings of the people from rising upward, so the common people grow impoverished and have no means of appeal. The "sharp instruments" (liqi) refer to schemes and stratagems. An enlightened ruler above should keep the people few in cunning calculations and few in desires. If the people are full of schemes, those above will be deceived and thrown into confusion. When people neglect their fundamental occupations and chase minor crafts, all kinds of useless things arise. A ruler who fears being deceived by the people keeps adding laws to suppress them. The result is that the people are left at a loss and gradually fall into banditry.

When government is loose and not harsh, the people are simple and honest. When government is strict and scrutinizing, the people become deficient and disappointed. Misfortune often rests upon good fortune, and good fortune conceals misfortune within it. Who can know where these changes will finally lead? Is there not a constant standard within them? The normal turns into the abnormal, and the good may turn into the monstrous. People have been lost in this process of change for a long time. Therefore the sage is upright but does not injure others, has sharp corners but does not pierce others, is straight but does not indulge, and is bright but does not dazzle.

The commentary explains that the first character, pronounced men, describes government that is loose and not scrutinizing. The character que means lacking or incomplete, and some editions write shiwang (disappointment) instead. When government appears so clear and thorough that nothing escapes it, people expect no disappointment, yet in the end they are disappointed. Ji means the endpoint, and qi means deviation from the norm. Lian refers to corners or edges, and the character gui, meaning to cut or wound, is read here as gui. In all these cases, the point is that sharp edges harm others.

Su Shi's commentary observes that the movement of Heaven and Earth is vast, and that worldly eyes, easily confused by what lies before them, cannot grasp its principle. Fortune leans upon misfortune, and misfortune hides fortune within it, just as old age and youth, and life and death, follow one another without pause. Only the deluded fail to notice this.

The sage transcends the limits of the myriad things and can grasp their changes from beginning to end. He comprehends the whole of the Great Dao (Dao, the Way) and does not cling to trivial details. He may seem muddled, as if he understands nothing, yet the common people thereby keep their simplicity and each preserves their own nature. Ordinary people do not grasp the full picture of the Dao. They take what the ears and eyes perceive to be the highest understanding. What they consider fortune now, they do not realize hides misfortune behind it, and what they consider good, they do not realize may give rise to calamity. They cling to minute scrutiny and mistake it for clear sight. As a result, excessive observation harms things, and they do not recognize that their own methods are mistaken. This is truly lamentable.

The sage knows that minute observation cannot exhaust the myriad things. Therefore, even when he has the capacity to make things upright, incorruptible, straight, and bright, he does not readily exercise these abilities. He fears falling into partiality and being unable to return to the Dao. This is what the world calls "menmen," meaning dim or unassuming: one does not appear clever or pursue close inspection.

Governing the people and serving Heaven by following the Dao is nothing better than thrift and restraint. To be able to practice thrift and restraint is called early submission to the Dao, and early submission to the Dao means continually accumulating De (Virtue, Power). When De is deeply accumulated, nothing cannot be overcome, and when nothing cannot be overcome, no one can fathom its limits. Only one who has reached this state may bear the responsibility of governing the state. One who grasps the fundamental principles of governance allows the state to endure long. This is the principle of deep roots and lasting survival.

In some editions, "fu," meaning to submit, is written as "fu," meaning to return. In some editions, "di," meaning root, is written as "di," which refers to the part where the calyx joins the flower. Here it serves as a metaphor for the root.

All things have edges and corners that can wound people. If they are too sharp, they are apt to pierce; if they are too forthright, they are apt to become unrestrained; if they shine too brightly, they are apt to dazzle. Only the sage has edges and corners without wounding, sharpness without piercing, uprightness without excess, and radiance without display. This is what is meant by “cherishing”: conserving and restraining one’s strength rather than using it lightly.

To cherish is to possess strength without using it readily. People often worry that they have no way to make others obey. But if they truly have strength and can keep their sharpness in check, then even without ever contending with anyone, others will understand that this is not weakness and will naturally submit early on. Once people have submitted, one can put one’s strength away and refrain from using it lightly for the rest of one’s life. In this way, De (Virtue/Power) continues to accumulate and deepen. When De has built up deeply, there is nothing in the world that is too strong to overcome; others, therefore, cannot measure one’s strength. Only by reaching this point can one govern a state.

Petty people in the world use whatever small measure of authority they hold carelessly. If they try to make people obey and fail, everyone will see how far their power extends and rise up to defy them. At that point, even if they wish to preserve the state, they will be unable to do so. Thus I know that only by restraining one’s strength can one govern a state; and by governing a state, one holds the key to its lasting survival. Mencius said, “Preserving the heart and nourishing one’s nature is how one serves Heaven’s decree.” Govern people according to the principle of cherishing, and one can govern a state; serve the Dao according to this principle, and one can make the foundations deep and the roots firm. The sages of old safeguarded the life’s original state, preventing external things from depleting the inner self. Thus their roots ran deep and were hard to uproot, and their foundations were secure and hard to shake. In this way, even the pursuit of long life and enduring vision could be fulfilled. Though governing people and serving the Dao according to the principle of cherishing differ as inner and outer matters, their fundamental principle is the same.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: it should not be turned over too often. When the world is governed through the Dao, ghosts and spirits cannot produce strange disturbances. This does not mean that they have lost their efficacy; rather, even when they manifest, they do not harm people. They do not harm people, and the sage does not harm them. Since neither side harms the other, their De flows together.

“Li” is read as though the syllables “li” and “zhi” were joined, giving the pronunciation lì. The sage likewise does not harm the people. Some versions read “harm people” instead of “harm them.” From the phrase “their De converges and returns,” it is clear that “them” here refers to the spirits.

Su Shi’s commentary says: “When cooking a small fish, one must not stir it repeatedly. In governing a great state, one must not issue cumbersome commands. Cumbersome commands burden the people; stirring a small fish breaks its flesh. The sage follows nature and does not interfere recklessly, allowing the people each to be at ease in their own way of life. With no disturbance from outside and no fear within, external things cannot harm them; even spirits have no way to exercise their power. This is not because the spirits lack power. Though they possess it, they do not harm people. The spirits cannot cause harm because the sage has never harmed the people. People and spirits can avoid harming one another because a sage governs above them, and so the De of all parties converges here.”

A great state is like the lower reaches of a river, where the waters of the realm converge; it is also like the female of the world. The female often prevails over the male through stillness, and through stillness takes the lower position. Thus, when a great state humbles itself before a small state, the small state will attach itself to it; when a small state humbles itself before a great state, the great state will accept it. The great state humbles itself in order to win the small state’s allegiance; the small state humbles itself in order to be accepted by the great state. The great state’s desire is simply to unite and care for the people, while the small state’s desire is simply to enter the great state’s service. Both can obtain what they seek, so the great state in particular should take the humble position.

Su Shi’s commentary says: “The people of the world attach themselves to a great state as waters flow toward low ground. The many moving things incline toward a place of stillness, just as the many high places converge on the low. When a great state can humble itself, small states will rely on it; when a small state can humble itself, a great state will accept it. The great state humbles itself to win the allegiance of other states; the small state humbles itself to gain acceptance by the great state.”

The third scroll of The Laozi’s Wings is complete.

1. The character “jian” originally read “yi”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Wanli edition.

2. “Wei wen” originally read “fu ze”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Wanli edition.

3. “Rong” originally read “wo”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Wanli edition.

4. “Jiao” originally read “xi”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Wanli edition.

5. The character “xia” was missing after “tianxia” in the original; it has been restored on the basis of the Wanli edition.

6. “Da” originally read “jian”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Wanli edition.

The fourth scroll of The Laozi’s Wings

The Dao is the hidden storehouse of all things—the foundation on which they come into being and find their place. It is also the treasure of good people. For those who are not good, it is still something they can rely on and use to preserve themselves. Fine words can win approval, and noble conduct can influence others. If people have faults, what reason is there to cast them aside?

Therefore, when appointing the Son of Heaven and selecting the Three Dukes, even if someone first presents paired jade discs and a chariot drawn by four horses, this is no match for sitting down and offering the Great Dao. Why did the ancients esteem the Great Dao? Was it not precisely because those who sought it could obtain it, and those who had committed offenses could use it to be absolved? That is why the Great Dao is the most honored thing under Heaven.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Everything that appears outwardly is like a doorway or hall belonging to the Dao.

The Dao exists within all things, like a mystery hidden deep inside them. All things possess it; people simply cannot see it. Only the wise truly understand and hold fast to the Great Dao. That is why the Dao is a treasure for good people. Though foolish people cannot truly possess the Dao, they cannot do without it: without it, they would have no way to establish themselves and live their lives. That is why the Dao is also a refuge for those who are not good. The Dao itself is never far from people; people are the ones who distance themselves from it.

If someone is skilled at speaking about the Dao, their words can become a precious treasure in the world. If someone honors and practices the Dao, they can use it to guide others. Suppose a person acts unjustly in the morning, then hears the Dao by evening, and their deluded thoughts vanish and their innate nature is restored. Even if someone then wanted to accuse them of being bad, they would have no grounds for doing so. How, then, could that person be cast aside? The original purpose of establishing an emperor and appointing the Three Dukes, high officials who assist the emperor, was to use the Dao to help the people. Even offering precious ceremonial jade discs large enough to encircle in one’s arms and fine horses would be less beneficial than passing the Dao on to others. The Dao is already within each person; the only concern is that they may not seek it. Once they do seek it, they can find it. The Dao itself neither records merit nor pronounces guilt. The only concern is that people may not understand it. Once they do, their many transgressions can no longer defile their nature.

When you wish to act, follow the principle of Wuwei (non-action). When you attend to affairs, do so without forcing things or acting recklessly. When you wish to savor something, savor the meaning contained in what is plain and tasteless. Treat great matters as small and the few as many; repay resentment with kindness. When planning for a difficult undertaking, begin with what is easy. To accomplish a great work, begin with what is small. The difficult things in the world surely arise from what is easy; the great things in the world surely begin with what is small. Thus, the sage never claims to be undertaking great things, and for that very reason is able to accomplish them. Careless promises are often hard to keep, and treating matters as too easy often brings more difficulties. The sage therefore always approaches things with care, and in the end has no problems that cannot be resolved.

Here, “acting” means deliberate contrivance and forced, reckless behavior. Chunfu says: Everyone acts, and the sage is human too. Can it be that the sage does nothing at all? The difference is that ordinary people engage in deliberate contrivance, while the sage follows the Dao of Wuwei, which accords with nature. “Affairs” refers to the specific matters that need attention; “flavor” refers to the principles and meaning within them. “Arise” means to come into being.

Su’s Commentary: The sage acts through Wuwei (non-action), so there is nothing that cannot be accomplished. The sage handles affairs without acting rashly, so no matter is left unattended. The sage experiences things without clinging to their flavors, so every flavor can be appreciated. In matters of great and small, many and few, the sage follows the Great Dao and regards them as equal. What is hardest for people to forget is often resentment. Yet when feelings of love and hatred have faded, even repaying a grievance is like repaying a kindness, without resentment attached. People in the world fear what is great and scorn what is small; they put off what seems difficult and give importance only to what is plentiful. They always wait until a matter becomes difficult before making plans, and until it becomes large before beginning work. As a result, things often go unfinished. The sage sees great and small as one and many and few as equal, approaches both great and small with care, and takes both difficulty and ease seriously. How, then, could anything remain unaccomplished?

Brush Notes: When affairs involve particular forms, they differ in size; when they involve quantities, they differ in number. Resentment arises from these distinctions. Only the Dao transcends form and quantity. The sage becomes one with the Dao, making Wuwei the way of acting, non-doing the way of handling affairs, and flavorlessness the way of experiencing the myriad things. Deluded thoughts of love and hatred fall away, as do the distinctions between the ordinary and the sage; the sage dwells peacefully within their own nature. One with the Dao, the sage regards great and small, many and few, as equal. What grievance could there be to avenge? The sage need only treat all things with the forbearance of De (Virtue/Power).

Yet Wuwei, non-doing, and flavorlessness may seem easy to attain, but in fact they cannot be won through forceful striving. They may seem subtle and traceless, but they cannot be seen directly with the eyes. The most difficult and the easiest things are resolved through them; the most subtle and the greatest achievements are accomplished through them. How could we ignore them because they seem easy and slight? Those who study the Dao sometimes glimpse this, yet their minds are then carried away by the urge to pursue greatness, and so “easy” and “subtle” do not take lasting root in them.

Only the sage holds to Wuwei, non-doing, and flavorlessness from beginning to end, allowing no worldly notion of “great affairs” to distract the mind. Thus, when the most difficult and greatest matters arise, the sage responds in stillness, without obstruction. In this way the Great Dao is made whole, and truly great affairs are accomplished. Alas, unless one is a person of resolve, understanding, and steadfast purpose, it is difficult to believe and uphold this principle. How, then, could it be explained to those who promise lightly and regard every matter as far too easy?

When circumstances are stable, they are easy to maintain; when a problem has yet to show signs, it is easy to plan for. Things are easy to break apart while they are still fragile, and easy to disperse when only the slightest sign has appeared. Therefore, deal with things before they arise, and bring order before disorder takes shape.

A great tree that takes two arms to encircle began as a tender shoot; a towering platform is built up from basketfuls of earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet. Deliberately forcing things often ends up ruining them; stubbornly holding on often ends up making them slip away. The sage follows the natural changes of things and does not act rashly, so does not bring failure upon himself. He does not cling to possession, so does not lose what he has.

People often fail at their undertakings just as they are about to succeed. If they could persevere to the end with the same care they showed at the beginning, they would not ruin their work. Thus, the sage seeks what ordinary people do not seek and does not prize rare goods; he learns what ordinary people do not learn and turns back to correct the mistakes everyone commonly makes. He follows the natural state of all things and does not dare to impose his own actions upon them.

Here, “not yet arisen” refers to the time before a thought has come into being; “not yet in disorder” refers to the time before the mind has been touched and disturbed by external things. “Turn back” means to return and correct. Some editions write “support” in place of “rely on,” but the commentator considers this unsuitable: since the text says to follow nature, assisting it would mean it was no longer natural. The reading “rely on” from the Han Feizi recension is therefore adopted.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Before something has happened, it is enough to watch attentively and make plans. When it is about to happen, it must be broken up and brought to an end, though this is still better than allowing it to cause consequences. So the highest wisdom is to address things before they arise; the next best is to govern a situation before it falls into disorder. Timber, an earthen platform, and a long journey all take shape through the gradual accumulation of small things. The arrival of order or disorder, good fortune or calamity, also takes shape gradually, just like these three.

The sage responds to things through Wuwei (non-action that follows their nature without imposing needless interference) and guards them through non-attachment (not clinging or trying to control them). Thus good fortune can grow on its own, and calamities can dissipate of themselves. It is like planting seedlings: if you till the soil deeply and weed diligently, they will flourish by autumn. Or, when thieves appear, if you sit calmly and observe with composure, they may retreat on their own.

People do not understand that all things have their own patterns. They assume that nothing can succeed unless they make it happen, and that nothing can be kept unless they hold on tightly. So they are always trying to overcome calamities and seize good fortune. When calamity comes, they cannot avert it; when good fortune comes, they cannot bring it to fruition. This is simply how things work. The sage understands the harm of forcing things and does not impose human will on nature. From beginning to end, the sage follows the way things are, and so nothing remains unaccomplished.

People are preoccupied with gain and loss. When something is just beginning to take shape, they may not notice it and let it develop on its own. But once they see it nearing success, they worry about losing it and end up making it fail. Hence the saying: “Treat the end with the same care as the beginning, and you will not spoil the work.”

People often follow their desires and thereby damage things. They also trust too blindly in what they have learned, and so go against the way things are. The sage is not without desire, but has desires without being led by them; therefore, personal wants do not cause harm to the myriad things. Nor is the sage without learning, but does not cling rigidly to what has been learned; therefore, learning does not obstruct the natural course of things. In this way, the mind is open and clear, inwardly and outwardly. Without imposing needless action, the sage helps the myriad things follow their own nature and waits for them to come to completion on their own.

The people of ancient times who were skilled in putting the Dao to use did not try to make the people clever, but sought to keep them simple and free of excessive desires. The people are difficult to govern because they are too full of schemes and calculations. Governing a state through cleverness only brings disaster upon it; governing without cleverness brings it good fortune. Understanding the difference between these two approaches provides a guiding principle. To understand and abide by this principle is to possess Profound De (deep-reaching virtue in accord with the Great Dao). Profound De is deep and far-reaching. Though it runs counter to what the world values, it ultimately reaches a state in accord with the Dao.

“Model” means an example to follow; “rule” means a standard. “Deep” means reaching downward, while “far-reaching” means extending in every direction. Though this approach seems contrary on the surface, its results accord with the Dao. Sima says: People of the world all prize cleverness, but only those who possess Profound De look down on it. Though this way runs counter to worldly values, it accords with the Dao.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The wise people spoken of by the ancients could grasp the Dao as a whole and see how all things change from beginning to end. This is why their wisdom is worthy of esteem. Ordinary people may not understand such matters; they often become absorbed in petty cleverness and mistake close attention to details for wisdom. The harm caused by schemes and cunning is therefore considerable. So when the sages govern the people through the Dao, they do not try to make them clever, but seek to keep them simple and free of excessive desires. If the people are not drawn along by schemes and desires, and follow the rule of those above them, then even when mistakes occur, the harm they cause will be limited. But if people are controlled through cleverness, they will respond with cleverness of their own, and those above and below will scheme against and harm one another. The sages value De; the world values cleverness. De and cleverness are fundamentally opposed, but cleverness accords with only a narrow range, while De accords with a vast one.

The rivers and seas become the places where all streams converge because they are good at staying low; that is why they can contain all the streams. When sages wish to stand above the people, they speak with humility; when they wish to lead the people, they place themselves behind them in their actions. Thus, when sages occupy high positions, the people do not feel oppressed; when they lead, no one can harm them. For this reason, people throughout the world are glad to promote them and do not grow tired of them. Because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them.

A “king” is someone to whom all under Heaven turn and whom they support. The character chu in “occupies” is read with the third tone, while le is read with the entering tone and means “gladly” or “willingly.” Because he does not contend with others, everyone under Heaven is glad to put him forward and does not reject him. Since he does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The sage does not wish to place himself above everyone else, nor to get ahead of them. He is simply willing to stay below and fall behind. Yet by following this way, he has no choice but to take the highest place and lead the way.

Everyone under Heaven says, “My Dao is vast,” yet it seems unlike any particular thing. It is precisely because it is vast that nothing resembles it. If it resembled something, it would already have become small.

I have three treasures that I have always cherished and guarded. The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not daring to get ahead of everyone under Heaven. Through compassion, one can be brave; through frugality, one can be generous; by not daring to lead, one can become the chief among all. Now, if one abandons compassion in pursuit of bravery, abandons frugality in pursuit of generosity, and abandons holding back in order to fight for the lead, one will meet with defeat. If you fight with compassion, you will win; if you use it to defend, you will be secure. When Heaven wishes to protect someone, it shields them with compassion.

“Xiao” means “to resemble.” “Fu” is pronounced like “fú.” “Chang” and “she” are both read with the third tone. “Wei” means to guard or defend.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao is vast and boundless, without form or fixed name. It fills all things, yet resembles no particular thing; this is precisely why it is vast. If it resembled something, it would be just one thing among many—how could it be called vast? “Dao” is pronounced like “dǎo”; “wei” means to protect.

The Dao is vast, formless, and impossible to name. It extends throughout all things, yet nothing resembles it. That is why it can be called “great.” If it resembled some particular thing, it would be just one thing among others—how could it be called great?

When the Dao operates and takes shape as De, it too appears deep and reserved: it treats slowness as a strength and yielding as a way forward, and so it runs counter to worldly custom. The world prizes boldness and decisiveness, exalts grand displays, and boasts of pressing ahead with determination. What I cherish instead is compassion and forbearance, simplicity and frugality, humility and noncontention. To the world, all three seem like signs of uselessness.

People think that only boldness and decisiveness count as virtue, and that compassion and forbearance get in the way. They do not understand that bold resolve is easily thwarted, while compassion and forbearance are hard to overcome; in the end, they can bring about true courage. People think that only a grand display can surpass all things, and that simplicity and frugality are shabby. They do not understand that lavish grandeur is easily exhausted, while simplicity and frugality readily bring contentment; in the end, they too can lead to abundance. People think that only striving to be first shows ability, and consider it shameful not to seize the lead. They do not understand that those who always strive to be first invite resentment. Those who do not put themselves ahead of others are more readily chosen by all, and in the end become their leaders.

Once the uncarved block—the original state before shaping—has been divided, it becomes all kinds of implements. When the sage makes use of them, he can become the leader of all. The transformation of the uncarved block into implements gives rise to the distinction between subordinates and superiors. Boldness, grand display, and striving to be first are three ways of acting that people generally dislike. Those who incur the dislike of all often come close to danger. When someone cares for and protects all things with compassion, they love him as they would a parent; they do not refuse even to risk their lives in his service. Thus he can both fight and defend.

When Heaven wishes to aid such a person, it opens his heart and mind, making him compassionate in all things. When compassion fills his heart, all things will protect him.

Those skilled at leading armies do not flaunt their strength or worship force. Those skilled in battle do not give way to anger. Those skilled at defeating an enemy do not engage in hard contention. Those skilled at employing people can open their hearts and minds, making them compassionate in all things. When everyone is compassionate, all things will protect them.

A skilled commander does not flaunt courage or indulge in aggression. A skilled fighter is not quick to anger. One who is skilled at overcoming the enemy does not compete for superiority. One who is skilled at employing others knows how to place themselves below them. This is called the virtue of “not contending,” and it is also called making good use of everyone’s strength. It accords with the Way of Heaven and follows the highest principle passed down since ancient times.

In ancient times, warfare relied chiefly on chariots. Each chariot carried three armored warriors: the man on the left held a bow, the man on the right carried a spear, and the man in the middle drove the chariot and was in charge of the banners and drums. All were expected to be brave and strong. On foot, each chariot was accompanied by seventy-two soldiers. Since warfare is the fiercest form of contest, it is used here to explain the principle of “not contending.” Kumarajiva said, “When mind and body are both empty and still, who could contend with someone who has no self and nothing at all?”

Su Shi’s commentary says: A commander is supposed to make force the foundation of his work, yet should put it into practice with caution and an attitude of restraint. If he relies on force alone and acts arrogantly, he will bring about his own death. The sage fights only when there is no alternative. To send troops out of anger is to kill for one’s own sake. Whoever kills for their own sake will surely incur Heaven’s misfortune. Precisely because I do not contend, I can overcome those who compete for superiority. If everyone acted from a desire to contend, victory would by no means be assured. People all wish to outdo one another, so they cannot work together. If one can truly place oneself below others, then everyone under Heaven can be put to use.

On the use of military force, the ancients had this saying: “I dare not take the initiative in attack, but would rather take the defensive; I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.” This is called acting without forming an attacking posture, raising one’s hand without making a striking gesture, confronting the enemy without contending, and holding a weapon without showing off its power. No calamity is greater than underestimating the enemy; underestimating the enemy nearly makes me lose what I hold most precious. When two armies meet and their forces are evenly matched, the side that fights with grief in its heart and a sense of necessity can prevail.

An ancient saying from the military strategists goes: “When marching, the commanding general should take the guest’s position—the position that responds to the enemy—rather than the host’s position, which initiates trouble. In marching, one should yield a step rather than press forward. In this way, it is as though there were no arm to swing, no enemy to use for leverage, and no weapon to wield.”

The “five weapons” mentioned here are weapons such as the dagger-axe, spear, staff, halberd, and shield. “Holding a weapon in both hands is called a weapon” explains the phrase “the five weapons.” The character ji is read with a level tone; sang means “to lose,” and kang means “to raise.”

Lin Xiyi says this chapter uses warfare to explain the Dao. This also shows that other chapters in the Laozi that use events as metaphors can be understood in the same way.

Su Shi’s commentary says: “‘Host’ means the side that initiates an action; ‘guest’ means the side that responds. Those who attack first have the desire to win; those who yield have no wish to contend. Without a desire to contend, even in the midst of an army one will not act as though one had an arm to swing, treat the enemy as someone to exploit for advantage, or take up weapons to fight. How, then, could one commit the errors of warfare?”

The sage regards compassion as a treasure. To slight the enemy makes it easy to rush into war; rushing into war makes it easy to kill recklessly, and so compassion is lost. When two armies clash, if we truly have no choice but to fight, we should still feel pity in our hearts. When that pity is made manifest, we receive the support of Heaven, Earth, and the people. Even so, we must not casually assume that we will prevail.

“My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven understands them or puts them into practice. Words have their source; actions have their governing principle. Because people do not understand this source, they do not understand me. Those who understand me are few, and so I am esteemed. For this reason, the sage wears coarse cloth, yet keeps jade hidden in his breast.”

“Ancestral source” is the ultimate origin of a clan; the Dao is the ultimate root of all things.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao is vast because restoring one’s original nature is already complete in itself; the subtlety of nature, meanwhile, appears in the routines of daily life, including eating and drinking. When the sages point this out to enlighten the world, is it not easy to understand? If people could respond to things in accordance with their nature, would that not be easy to do? Yet people often put the Dao to use in everyday life without knowing it. If they cannot even recognize it, how much less can they put it into practice?

Words are only tools for expressing the Dao, and events are only traces of its appearance. If the Dao could be fully expressed in words, then understanding the words would be enough; if it could be clearly seen in events, then examining events would be enough. But words cannot exhaust it, nor can the Dao be fully revealed through events. So one must go beyond words to seek the source, and beyond the surface of events to find what governs them, before one can gain any understanding. The ancient sages did not deliberately think or act, yet they attained a state that was deep, wholly natural, and beyond even their own awareness. This state lies beyond the reach of thought, so in the end no one could truly understand them. If everyone could understand them easily, they would not be worthy of such esteem. The phrase “wearing coarse cloth and carrying jade within” means that the sages appear outwardly like ordinary people, yet possess an inward Virtue unlike theirs. “Coarse cloth” refers to rough clothing; “jade” is a metaphor for precious Virtue.

To know without clinging to one’s knowledge is insight; not knowing yet believing that one knows is a failing. Only by recognizing this failing as a failing can one avoid being troubled by it. The sages are free of this failing precisely because they know that clinging to “I understand” is itself a failing.

Su Shi’s commentary says: The Dao cannot be fully grasped by thought, so one cannot claim to have understood it completely. Yet before a person has gained insight, they must still begin with knowledge. Once they have gained some understanding, however, holding fast to “I already know” becomes a failing. Thus, to know without clinging to knowledge is insight; not knowing yet believing that one knows is a failing. The Dao cannot be left entirely unrecognized, but neither can recognition be treated as the destination. Only by seeing that clinging to “knowing” is itself a failing can this failing gradually fade over time.

The Bicheng says: To attain the Dao, one must begin with “knowing” and ultimately reach the transformed state of “not knowing.” “Knowing” here is like the Buddhist teaching that all things are without inherent nature; “not knowing” is like non-discriminating awareness. First, use “knowing that things are empty” to undo attachment to what exists; then use “not knowing” to undo attachment to knowing. All phenomena return to emptiness, but emptiness itself should not be grasped as something real. Is this not the highest state?

If someone conjures up ideas out of thin air, or suddenly sees mountains and rivers in a state of purity, it is like seeing phantom flowers when the eyes are irritated, or losing one’s head and mistaking a shadow for oneself. This is illness. Clinging to knowing is delusion, and delusion is illness. Yet students take these experiences for profound insight, cherish them, and refuse to let them go. How can the illness be cured?

The sage, like an ordinary person, cannot be entirely without “knowing.” But his knowing does not become an illness, because he understands that attachment to knowing is itself an illness. Once he recognizes it as illness, no separate remedy is needed for it to heal. “Knowing without clinging to knowing” is the highest attainment: one is alive without clinging to life, and one’s true nature remains clear and still. By contrast, failing to recognize attachment to knowing as an illness is to claim there is no birth while still clinging to life; karmic consequences remain unmistakable. Precisely because one can recognize illness as illness, one is not trapped by it. This is what it means to “recognize an illusion and thereby leave it”; no other method need be devised.

When the people do not fear what they ought to fear, a greater threat will come upon them. Do not make your dwelling cramped, and do not grow weary of your life. Because you do not grow weary of life, you will not invite weariness upon yourself. Thus the sage understands himself but does not make a show of himself; he cherishes himself but does not exalt his own worth. So he lets go of the latter and chooses the former.

In ancient texts, “might” and “fear” can be written with the same character. If people do not fear what they ought to fear, more fearsome consequences will follow. The statements below all concern things that ought to be feared. The character “narrow” is read “hú jiā qiè”; some editions write “intimate.” The character “weary” is read “yú yàn qiè.”

Su Shi’s commentary says: Human nature possesses its own majestic radiance. It is exalted and expansive, and shines so manifestly that all things revere it.

Su’s commentary says: Human nature already possesses a kind of power. It is lofty and bright, vast and full, and shines with such brilliance that nothing can surpass it. This is what is called “great power.” People are often confused by the multitude of things. They fear life and death without reason, and worry about gain and loss. The forces of external things press in from every side, keeping people anxious and unsettled throughout their lives, occupied with worry and fear. Though their nature holds this great power, they do not know it is there.

If people truly understand this, they can regard life and death as one, treat gain and loss as the same, and remain calm and unafraid. Then the great power of their nature will shine forth. Human nature is vast enough to contain Heaven and Earth. Those who do not understand this take their four limbs and nine openings—the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other bodily apertures—to be themselves. They cling to this body and are never satisfied, so they cannot see beyond the limits of sight or hear beyond the limits of hearing. Their outlook is truly narrow. Thus Laozi teaches people not to regard the place where they dwell as cramped.

Those who understand that their nature is vast while the form of their individual life is small may grieve over and reject it, wishing to escape it but finding they cannot. They do not realize that rejection and longing alike leave people constrained by external things. Thus Laozi teaches people not to reject the life in which they find themselves. Only the sage neither considers life small nor rejects it. The sage lives as other people do, yet accords with the Dao, making no distinction between vastness and narrowness, purity and defilement. Only by not rejecting life can one understand that life is, in its nature, nothing to reject.

Although the sage understands this, they do not make a point of displaying themselves. Although they cherish themselves, they do not exalt themselves or show off to others, fearing this might stir in others a desire to reject life or a longing to escape beyond it. So long as rejection and longing remain, fear remains as well. When fear subsides, the great power of one’s nature will appear.

Those who dare to force their strength are easily killed; those who dare to restrain themselves and avoid rash action can preserve their lives. These two kinds of courage have different outcomes: one brings benefit, the other calamity. What Heaven’s Way abhors—who can know why? For this reason, even the sage treats the matter with caution.

Heaven’s Way does not contend with the myriad things, yet excels at overcoming them. It issues no commands, yet excels at responding. It does not summon things, yet they return of their own accord. It seems unhurried and at ease, yet excels at arranging and planning. Heaven’s Way does not contend, yet excels at bringing all things to fulfillment. It is like a vast net: its meshes seem wide apart, yet nothing slips through.

“Benefit” means survival, while “harm” means death. Here, “evil” is pronounced with a falling tone. The word “chan” means calm and unhurried. Some write it as “tan,” while others write it as “mo.” Of these, “chan” is the better choice, since it conveys calm ease. “Mo” emphasizes silence, while “tan” comes closer to non-contention.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Those who are bold enough to act recklessly often invite death; those who are bold enough to exercise restraint and avoid rash action can preserve their lives. This is the usual pattern of things. Yet sometimes the reckless survive, while the cautious and yielding meet their deaths. People then pin their hopes on such exceptions and overlook the usual pattern.

The Way of Heaven—the laws by which nature operates—is profound and difficult to fathom. Even when some outcome happens by chance, people may not know why. The sage therefore takes the ordinary pattern as a guide and remains wary of reckless risk-taking. The Liezi says, “Rather than speculate about Heaven’s intentions and calculate gains and losses, it is better to stop here.” It is precisely because the Way of Heaven is hard to see through that this principle must be explained again and again: there is no need to contend over a momentary win or loss; it is enough to prevail in the end.

Heaven does not speak, yet the seasons turn and all things grow. People make requests, and often receive a response. When spirits descend, their coming is impossible to predict—how could one compel them to appear? Who could summon them? The Way of Heaven seems calm and effortless, revealing no plans or arrangements, yet its workings lie beyond the reach of human intelligence.

People judge the Way of Heaven only through what they see and hear, and so perceive only fragments, never the whole. Sometimes the virtuous suffer misfortune while the wicked prosper. People then suspect that the Way of Heaven is like a net with wide gaps, often letting due retribution slip through. Only by seeing the full course of events and all their changes can one understand that the Way of Heaven is vast and boundless: its mesh may seem wide, yet nothing truly escapes it.

The people often do not fear death. How, then, can rulers use the death penalty to intimidate them? If the people all feared death, then when someone behaved strangely and stirred up disorder, I could seize and execute him. Who would still dare to rebel? But the true authority over life and death belongs to Heaven. If, in a time of peace throughout the realm, someone still acts recklessly and causes disorder, that person is one Heaven intends to abandon. When I execute him, I am acting in accord with Heaven’s will. If Heaven does not intend someone to be executed, but I kill him on my own authority, I am taking the place of the one who governs life and death. Few who presume to take a master carpenter’s place in cutting and shaping wood avoid injuring their own hands. Presuming to exercise the power over life and death will likewise bring misfortune upon oneself.

The term “zhuo” is pronounced “zhi jiao fan” and means to cut and shape.

The people go hungry because the taxes imposed by their rulers are too heavy; that is why they starve. The people are difficult to govern because their rulers issue too many orders and force things into action; that is why they are difficult to govern. The people take death lightly because their rulers place excessive value on living and encourage them to pursue their livelihoods; as a result, people come to fear death less. Only those who do not place too much emphasis on managing and pursuing life can surpass those who value life above all else.

The phrase “not making a livelihood one’s aim” means not deliberately pursuing and managing one’s life. Su Zhe argues that when rulers guide the people through various undertakings, the people compete to imitate them, making affairs complicated and difficult to govern. When rulers lead by pursuing profit and desire, the people compete to seek a life of abundance, and may refuse to stop even at the cost of their lives. Valuing life too much may ultimately lead people to take death lightly; by not deliberately pursuing a livelihood, life can instead be preserved.

While alive, the human body is soft; after death, it becomes stiff. Plants and trees are tender as they grow, but dry and hard once they wither and die. Thus, hardness and strength belong to death, while softness and weakness belong to life. An army that exalts its strength will struggle to win; a tree that grows thick and hard is easily cut down. What is strong and mighty is placed below, while what is soft and weak is placed above.

Here, “embrace” means bringing both arms together, describing a trunk thick enough to encircle with one’s arms. “A handspan around” likewise refers to a tree that has grown thick enough to be encircled by one’s hands.

The operation of Heaven’s Dao is like drawing a bow: the high end is pressed down, and the low end is raised up. What is in excess is reduced; what is insufficient is replenished. Heaven’s Dao reduces what is in excess and adds to what is insufficient. Human ways, by contrast, often do the opposite: they take from those who lack and provide for those who have plenty. Who can use their own surplus to provide for all under Heaven? Only one who has attained the Dao.

Thus, the sage takes action without relying on his own actions. He accomplishes things without claiming them as his own. He acts this way because he does not wish to display his own excellence.

“Pressing down” and “raising up” refer to drawing a bow; “diminishing what is excessive” and “making up what is lacking” refer to the Dao of Heaven.

When a bow is relaxed, its body curves downward, with the grip—the middle of the bow—above and the tips at either end below. When the bow is drawn and raised, the grip points downward and the tips upward. This is like pressing down what is high and raising up what is low. The Dao of Heaven diminishes what is excessive, as if pressing down the upper part of the bow, and makes up what is lacking, as if raising the bow’s ends. Here, “see” is read as “appear,” meaning to become manifest.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: When a bow is drawn, its string is above; when it is relaxed, its horns are above. Thus the bow serves as a metaphor for the Dao of Heaven pressing down what is high and lifting up what is low. The Dao of Heaven has no partiality, and so it brings all things into balance. People often act from private motives, and so they cannot bring things into balance. A person who has the Dao nourishes all things without holding back. By giving to others, they become more abundant themselves; by giving things away, they become richer. Those without the Dao cannot bear to act this way. If you claim credit for what you have done and lay claim to the results once the work is complete, your abilities will become visible to the world. When your abilities are displayed to the world, you are keeping your surplus for your own enjoyment.

Nothing under Heaven is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hard and powerful things, for nothing else can take its place. Thus no one under Heaven is unaware that the soft overcomes the hard and the weak overcomes the strong, yet no one can truly put this into practice. So the sage says, “One who can bear a state’s humiliation is fit to be its ruler; one who can bear a state’s calamities is fit to be the king of all under Heaven.” Words that accord with the right way often sound as though they mean the opposite.

Su Zhe’s commentary says: Words that accord with the Dao often run counter to worldly ideas. The world regards bearing humiliation as disgraceful and bearing calamity as misfortune; that is why these words seem to mean the opposite.

How can it be considered truly proper to resolve deep resentment if traces of anger remain? Thus, the sage holds the left half of a tally—a token used in ancient times to verify a claim—but does not use it to demand anything from others. A person of high virtue keeps faith as if holding a tally, without pressing others to repay what they owe. A person lacking virtue, by contrast, pursues every claim according to the rules. Heaven’s Dao shows no favoritism; it consistently supports the good.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Resentment arises from deluded thoughts, and deluded thoughts come from losing sight of one’s nature. Those who truly know their nature are not obscured by deluded thoughts, and so have no resentment. If one does not dispel deluded thoughts at their root and only tries to smooth over outward conflict, the parties may be reconciled on the surface while resentment remains in their hearts.

A tally has two halves, originally used to establish trust and settle disputes. Sages and ordinary people share the same nature, but people often take deluded thoughts to be normal, busily competing for advantage without realizing that their nature has never truly been altered by those thoughts. The sage uses their own nature to awaken others, helping them dispel deluded thoughts and return to their nature. When delusion has faded and nature is restored, people suddenly understand, like two halves of a tally naturally joining together. There is no need to press them or demand an explanation; they will be convinced from within. Thus even deep resentment dissolves like ice and snow. Once people understand that resentment has no root, there is no need to deliberately reconcile it. Those lacking virtue, however, try to settle every matter completely, but their efforts come to nothing. Here, “pursue” means to proceed item by item and demand repayment. Heaven’s Dao is impartial and helps only the good; the tally’s function of establishing trust is impartial as well.

Make the state small and its people few. Even if they possess various tools, do not use them. Let the people value their lives and not move to distant places. Though there are boats and carts, there is no need to ride in them; though there are weapons and armor, do not display or use them. Let the people return to keeping records by tying knots in cords. They find their food delicious, their clothing pleasing, their homes comfortable, and their customs delightful. Neighboring states can see one another, and the sounds of chickens and dogs can be heard across the border, yet the people grow old and die without visiting one another.

The Book of Han records an edict forbidding officials from keeping “communal equipment” in their residences. Yan Shigu explained that five people formed a wu, and ten formed a shi; objects used in common by the members of a wu or shi were called “communal goods.” Here the term broadly refers to items shared by the members of these groups. “If they are not used” means that, without such equipment, there would be no need for people to come and go, and matters such as storing supplies, providing provisions, and performing corvée labor could also be avoided. Boats, carts, armor, and weapons are examples of more important items. The character le is read with the falling tone, and wang with the level tone. “Within sight and hearing of one another” means that people live very close together, while “until old age and death” indicates a long span of time. People live nearby yet do not visit one another even until old age and death because each is already content: when they are self-sufficient in understanding, they have no need to seek instruction from others; when they are self-sufficient in material goods, they need not borrow from anyone.

Su Shi’s commentary says: Laozi lived during the declining years of the Zhou dynasty, when society prized elaborate ornamentation and customs were steadily deteriorating. He hoped to remedy this situation through Wuwei (non-action). At the end of the Laozi, he therefore stated his aspiration: he hoped for a small state with a small population, where he could put these ideas into practice, but he never had the opportunity. When the people each attend to their proper place, even those with ability will not be eager to enter official service in search of employment. “Equipment for ten or a hundred people” refers to someone whose abilities would qualify them to lead ten or a hundred people. When affairs are few and the people’s customs are simple, keeping records with knotted cords is enough. A fulfilled heart does not envy things beyond itself; people are content with what they have and at ease where they live, without seeking anything outside. Even when the people and goods are abundant, they do not seek things from one another because each side is already satisfied.

Truthful words are not necessarily pleasing to the ear, and pleasing words are not necessarily true. Those skilled in speaking do not rely on argument to prevail, and those fond of argument are not necessarily skilled in speaking. The truly wise do not boast of extensive knowledge, and those with extensive knowledge are not necessarily truly wise. The sage does not hoard for himself: the more he helps others, the more he has; the more he gives to others, the richer he becomes. The Way of Heaven benefits all things and does not harm them. The sage’s way is to act, yet not contend with others for victory. Here, “acting for others” means doing things on their behalf; wei is read with the falling tone.

Su Shi’s commentary says: What is genuine is real; there is no need to make a deliberate show of goodness. Goodness is only an outward impression and is not necessarily genuine. If one makes doing good the priority, there is no need to argue; if one makes argument the priority, one may not be following the good Dao. Grasp one fundamental principle and use it to make sense of all things, and there is no need to pursue learning without end. Those who continually increase their knowledge do not necessarily truly understand the Dao. The sage holds fast to this fundamental principle and accumulates nothing else.

Still, the sage uses what they can do to help others and shares what they have with them. What people possess is ultimately limited, while the fundamental principle is inexhaustible. Only by understanding this can one know the value of holding fast to that principle.

Power can be used to benefit others or to harm them; strength can accomplish things, but it can also give rise to conflict. The sage has the power to benefit or harm others, yet never harms anyone; has the strength to act or compete, yet never competes. This is why Heaven and the sage surpass ordinary people and become worthy of the reverence of all things.

These points, in broad terms, explain the purpose for which Laozi wrote this book and expounded the Dao. That is why they are discussed again at the very end.

Some say that the book Laozi lets people accept its teachings and reflect on them again and again; its principles approach the beautiful. It probes the principles of all things and reaches everywhere, approaching eloquence. It sees through the changes of all affairs and embraces them all, approaching breadth of learning. Yet people do not know that the Laozi also reaches another level: its principles are true and trustworthy, but it does not prevail through eloquence; its insight is exceptional, but it does not show off in argument; its wisdom is profound, but it does not pursue wide learning and forceful memorization. Why is this so? Because all that is expressed in the Laozi’s five thousand words concerns not accumulating and not clinging.

“Not accumulating” means that the mind clings to nothing. Even when something has been accumulated, one does not claim it as one’s own. This is to speak as though one had not spoken. To speak as though one had not spoken does not mean refusing to teach others; it means following the principle of nonattachment. Not accumulating means that the mind clings to nothing. To accumulate without claiming what one has gathered as one’s own is to speak without speaking. Speaking without speaking does not mean failing to consider others, nor does it mean refusing to give to them. It means giving without feeling that one’s own store has diminished, and sharing without feeling that one’s abundance has suffered a loss. What, then, is there to dislike about eloquence and broad learning?

If one does not understand the principle of nonattachment, but instead clings to one’s own views and argues with everyone under Heaven, one will end up among those who talk at length only to meet repeated frustration. This does not accord with the Dao of Heaven. The Dao of Heaven benefits all things and harms none; the way of the sage acts without contending with others. If scholars can open their minds in this way and let go of their fixations, they will already have understood most of the Laozi.

So one may teach others without thinking of oneself as a teacher. Why, then, must one keep silent like Vimalakīrti of Vaiśālī? One may speak without clinging to words, and so, like Laozi, the Archivist at the Pillar, naturally come to understand the Great Dao in stillness. Readers should strive to grasp the thought of Lao Dan.

End of Volume Four of The Wings of the Laozi

Notes on textual collation: Note 1 says that the original reads “especially,” which has been changed to “first” on the basis of the Wanli edition. Note 2 says that the original reads “different,” which has been changed to “true” on the basis of the Wanli edition. Note 3 suggests that the three characters “to show others” have been omitted after “does not display himself.” Note 4 suggests that the sentence “The Dao of Heaven does not contend and is skilled at planning” is extraneous. Note 5 says that the two characters “relaxed and easy” were missing from the original and have been supplied from the Wanli edition.

Volume Five of The Wings of the Laozi

Appendix

The “Biography of Laozi” in the Records of the Grand Historian says: Laozi was from Quren village in Lixiang, Ku County, in the state of Chu. His surname was Li and his personal name was Er.

Laozi was a native of Quren Village, Lixiang, in Ku County of the state of Chu. His surname was Li, his personal name Er, and his courtesy name Boyang; his posthumous title was Dan. He once served in the Zhou court as Keeper of the Archives, responsible for managing its books and records. When Confucius went to Zhou, he intended to ask Laozi about ritual. Laozi said to him, “The ancient people you speak of have bodies and bones that have long since decayed. Only their words remain. When the time is right, a gentleman takes office and acts; when it is not, he drifts like tumbleweed on the wind. I have heard that a skilled merchant hides his goods away so that he appears to have nothing. A gentleman of deep virtue looks dull on the outside. Set aside your pride and excessive desires, and rein in your outward bearing and overweening ambitions. None of these things will do you any good. This is all I can tell you.”

After Confucius left, he said to his disciples, “Birds—I know they can fly. Fish—I know they can swim. Beasts—I know they can run. Those that run can be caught in nets; those that swim can be caught on fishing lines; those that fly can be brought down with arrows. As for the dragon, I do not know how to understand it. It rides the wind and clouds and rises into the sky. The Laozi I met today must be something like a dragon.”

Laozi studied the learning of the Dao and De, and made a practice of concealing himself and avoiding fame. He lived in Zhou for a long time. Seeing that the Zhou court was steadily declining, he left. When he reached the Hangu Pass, the pass official Yin Xi said to him, “You are about to go into seclusion. Please write a book for me.” Laozi then composed two chapters, more than five thousand words in all, setting out the meaning of the Dao and De. Afterward he departed, and no one knew where he eventually went.

Some say that Lao Laizi was also from Chu and lived at the same time as Confucius. He wrote fifteen works discussing the practical application of Daoist teachings. Some say Laozi lived for more than 160 years; others say he lived for more than 200, believing this was due to his practice of the Dao and cultivation of life.

One hundred and twenty-nine years after Confucius died, the Grand Historian Dan of Zhou, an official in charge of historical records and calendrical astronomy, visited Duke Xian of Qin and said, “At first, Qin and Zhou were united and then separated. Five hundred years after their separation, they will unite again. Seventy years after that union, a ruler who claims kingship and supremacy will arise.” Some say Grand Historian Dan was Laozi; others say he was not. No one in the world can be certain.

Laozi was a gentleman who lived in seclusion and never took office. His son was named Zong. Zong became a general of Wei and was enfeoffed at Duangan. Zong’s son was named Zhu, and Zhu’s son was named Gong. Gong’s great-great-grandson was named Jia, who held office during the reign of Emperor Wen of Han. Jia’s son, Jie, became tutor to the King of Jiaoxi, and the family then moved to Qi.

Those who study Laozi’s teachings in the world often reject Confucian learning, while those who study Confucianism reject Laozi’s teachings. Is this what is meant by “When the Dao is different, there can be no common counsel”? Li Er advocated Wuwei (non-action), allowing the myriad things to transform naturally, and using stillness and clarity to set oneself aright.

At the beginning of the world’s formation, Taiji, the original source before the cosmos divided, began to move. The Qi of the Upper Origin brought Heaven and Earth into being. The sun and moon hung in the sky between Heaven and Earth, while mountains and rivers stretched across the land. Yin and Yang Qi waxed and waned and transformed, giving rise to the vitality of all things and to the seasons and climate. Heaven and Earth nurtured the many forms of life, allowing all things to grow. Thus the people came into being, along with their rulers.

In ancient times, people lived in trees during summer and in caves during winter. They quietly nourished their spirit and learned wisdom, living simply and freely. The great rites of that age accorded with the rhythms of Heaven and Earth; they needed no ritual vessels to distinguish right from wrong. The great music resonated with the harmony of Heaven and Earth—what need was there to strike bells and drums?

Later, people gradually lost the Dao, then lost De, and, after that, even their benevolence declined. Rulers of successive dynasties governed in different ways, and the people’s customs changed from honest and simple to shallow and corrupt. The schools of Confucianism and Mohism then rose in fierce contention, while doctrines concerned with social distinctions and penal law also flourished. Though the rites and regulations numbered three hundred, they could not restrain human nature; though the laws numbered three thousand provisions, they could not put an end to treachery and wrongdoing. To set the later growth straight, one must first clear the source; to make the branches straight, one must first correct the root. Only the Dao can reach the source and the root.

The Venerable Lord (Laozi) was born in response to the stars, though no one can fathom the circumstances by which he received Qi and entered the womb. He pointed to a plum tree and took “Li,” meaning “plum,” as his surname. The marvels said to have accompanied his birth are not reliably known. It is said that he remained in the womb for more than seventy years and was already white-haired when he was born, so he called himself “Laozi,” or “Old Master.” His appearance bore unusual features, including three gates and twin pillars, and his hands and feet were shaped unlike those of ordinary people.

From Fuxi through the Zhou dynasty, the Venerable Lord lived through many eras, changing his appearance and name along the way. During the reigns of King Wen and King Wu of Zhou, he held offices such as Keeper of the Archives and Keeper of the Pillar. Though he migrated south many times, his appearance never changed. Confucius once met him and marveled that his De was unfathomable, like that of a dragon. From afar, Yin Xi, the legendary keeper of Hangu Pass, recognized that this realized person was about to withdraw from the world.

The Venerable Lord expounded many mysterious principles and composed two books that follow one’s nature and return to the Dao, taking Wuwei (non-action) as their guiding principle. Their wording is concise, yet their meaning is profound.

However subtle the changes in the hexagrams of the Book of Changes, they cannot compare with the refined principles expounded in the Laozi. Nor can Confucius, using the Spring and Autumn Annals to praise and censure through the brush of history, be compared with the Laozi’s subtle and far-reaching meanings. Applied to self-cultivation, the principles of the Laozi can clear the spirit and still the will; applied to governing the state, they can restore simplicity and honesty.

With further cultivation, one may transcend the mundane world in body and vanish from the realm of ordinary life. Clad in garments like colored clouds, one rides a crane to and fro among the Purple Mansions, the palaces where immortals dwell. Drinking golden nectar and jade liquid, one feasts at ease in the Clear Capital, the realm of immortals, sharing the radiance of the sun and moon and enduring as long as Heaven and Earth. Those who follow this path can leave the noisy world behind; those who grasp its gateway seem to soar amid clouds and mist. The flourishing and decline of the great Chun tree lie beyond the understanding of a mayfly with its brief life. How could the depth of the sea be measured by Fengyi, the river spirit? This principle is truly vast, beyond the measure of ordinary virtue.

Zhuang Zhou said, “After Lao Dan died, Qin Yi went to mourn him. He cried three times, then left.” This means that Lao Dan followed the Way of Heaven and was not bound by worldly notions of life and death. Though this may be no more than a parable by Zhuangzi, it also holds the subtle suggestion that cultivators of the Way cast off their bodily forms like cicadas shedding their shells and transcend the world.

The emperor was naturally gifted and perceptive, wise and discerning. He inherited the imperial line and followed Heaven’s mandate. At his birth, red light shone over Chunling and purple clouds rose above Mang Mountain. His forehead bore the marks of a pearl balance and a moon-shaped horn; his natural bearing surpassed that of all rulers of past ages. His discernment was clear as a mirror, his virtue broad as a wine vessel, and his sagely excellence had gathered over a thousand years.

At the end of the Zhou dynasty, the realm was beset by troubles. The Nine Tripods seemed to drift away with the waters of the sea, and the two rulers, like the Luo River, came one after another to an end. Around Tianqi and the Earth Axis, powerful foes surged like snakes swallowing whales. Around Tongling and Yulei, rebels lurked like wolves and made their lairs like owls. Huang Yan’s treachery stirred up disorder; Zheng relied on military force and brought calamity. Poisonous harm spread widely, nearly engulfing the Central Plain. In court, the emperor deliberated and made decisions; beyond it, he struck swiftly with divine martial power. He responded to the calamities revealed by celestial signs, quelled the rebellions, and led armies bearing banners and battle axes against his enemies.

After Gonggong was cut down, the order of Heaven and Earth was restored. After Chiyou was executed, wind and rain returned to harmony. The emperor governed the realm with achievements like those of creation itself; the people received his beneficence and could live in peace and security. The people of the four directions supported him, and the inhabitants of the nine provinces sang his praises. His accession answered the will of Heaven and the hearts of the people, and he reverently accepted the abdication. He then ascended the Tai Altar to sacrifice to the Lord on High and took his seat in the Bright Hall to receive the homage of the feudal lords.

In former times, Xuanyuan and Zhuanxu established their capitals in different places; the territories of Dahu and Shaohao also differed. Shun changed the site of Yao’s capital, and the Xia dynasty moved to a place that had once belonged to Shun. Rulers of successive ages chose new institutions according to the circumstances of their times, with the aim of opening a new chapter.

They took care to preserve the accumulated wealth of every household and to value the people’s labor. When construction began on the emperor’s residence, the capital was not moved, nor was the state’s foundation shifted. The palace followed the plan of the imperial capital, with the realm itself remaining the basis of rule. Its roofs and beams were kept plain and modest. The arrangement of buildings on either side of the palace strictly followed established rules. Morning and evening, the emperor attended to affairs of state in the main hall; he built no separate Hall of Mandarin Ducks and Phoenixes. He ascended the Observatory, the high terrace for viewing the heavens, without building a separate Tower of Magpies within the palace grounds. Concerned with the duties of government and attentive to the people’s care and welfare, he kept these matters constantly in mind, even in sleep.

The court showed special mercy to prisoners. The Thorn Grove and the Lung Stone were ancient places where people could appeal against injustice and seek a judgment. The emperor followed the ancient examples of releasing animals from nets and weeping for the innocent, governing with a generous and restrained hand. Criminals who wore hats tied with straw cord knew shame and repented; even those dressed in garments marked with the signs of punishment felt remorse. No longer did ominous stars foretell calamity through imprisonment, nor did earthly signs suggest that prisons would multiply.

The court collected and organized books in the Extension Library and the Expansive Repository, and discussed and promoted Confucian learning at the Stone Canal Pavilion and Biyong, the ancient imperial academy. It repaired the Five Rites, the five systems of ritual that were falling into disuse, and restored the Six Musics, the ancient system of ceremonial music that had fallen into ruin. In the Zongzhang Palace, music that might lead people astray rang out, while the Grand Musician sang of the achievements of peace throughout the realm. The crown prince cultivated his De in the Chenghua Palace, assisting with the government as heir to the Eastern Palace. He upheld the proper order of the feudal lords beyond the court and promoted the Three Goods within it, each ruler, father, and son fulfilling their own goodness. Ruler and ministers shone together like the sun and moon, making the state’s fortunes enduring and secure, and its blessings ever more abundant.

The imperial clan also stood firm as a rocky bulwark. Its members were gifted in many arts, worthy ministers skilled in both letters and arms. They guarded the royal domain and helped make the state’s teachings shine. They guided worldly customs onto a broad and level road, and led the people into a life of long years and peace. The star Mao appeared in the heavens, and disturbances arose even in the remote northern wilderness. The Xun and Xian peoples had long threatened the borders. In the past, no sound strategy had been found to bring them under control; only inferior measures were used, and so they were difficult to bring into submission. Since this dynasty established its fortunes, it has displayed virtue and halted warfare, transforming distant peoples through benevolence and righteousness. They then declared themselves vassals and asked to observe the dynasty’s calendar, bowing their heads as they came to the frontier and respectfully submitted. Ke Yelang, and lands as far away as the northwestern frontier where the sun sets, were reached by the court’s moral influence and brought within its domain. Minyue and Gouwu sent tribute at the appointed times, while Fuyu and Sushen continued to dispatch envoys to the capital with offerings.

Fame spread far and wide, bringing blessings to people everywhere, while the institutions and customs of the realm gradually grew more uniform. After the final years of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, the Six Kingdoms fought one another in relentless campaigns. The Qin emperors’ claim to the throne was deemed illegitimate, and the Han approach to governance was mixed with disorderly elements. The Cao Wei regime ruled with cruelty and oppression, gravely harming the Central Plains; under the Jin, customs and moral instruction gradually took on the ways of the frontier peoples. Thereafter, purity and corruption were mingled, and the achievements of emperors and the moral influence of dynasties fell silent for a thousand years. Now, sagely virtue accords with Heaven’s mandate, and the divine Way has entered a time of flourishing. The vision and understanding of countless people are being transformed, and the political order is being restored to the scale of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors.

The spirits between Heaven and Earth have all come to assist, and auspicious signs have appeared in striking abundance. A numinous tortoise, a thousand years old, revealed its innate spiritual nature as an omen of confirmation. A three-legged divine crow responded to the sun’s vital essence and showed itself in visible form. In spring, a spring as sweet as wine welled up in the capital; in autumn, dew gathered and fell sweetly among the bamboo and reeds. Starlight shone bright as the moon, and clouds drifted like smoke. Farming followed the calls of the bronze sparrow, while the movements of the five planets accorded with the celestial degrees recorded in the Pearl Bag. These auspicious signs surely warranted the emperor’s riding in his phoenix carriage and setting out on a grand progress to receive the eastern lords in audience. They also warranted a great Fengshan ceremony on Mount Tai, where sacrificial texts would be sealed with jade tablets and golden cords.

Yet the emperor remained modest and self-restrained. Though he took action, he did not claim credit or presume to rule as master. He continued to set aside Sima Xiangru’s treatise on the Fengshan ceremony and did not accept Liang Song’s petition. When holding court on a mat of green rushes, he was ever as cautious as one riding at speed on a swift horse; even on the imperial throne, he did not forget to keep watch over himself at night. Although he had already offered the blue bi disc and yellow cong tube in sacrifice to Heaven and Earth, and appointed officials such as the Southern and Fire Rectifiers to oversee rites to the spirits, he still feared that the sacrificial system was not fully in order and that the officials responsible for ritual had neglected its rules.

For a long time, he had yearned for a realm of benevolence and admired the mysterious Dao. The spirit seats in the Longevity Palace had fallen into disrepair, with deer wandering there; the felt altar, shaped like a canopy, had also been worn down by wind and frost and was crumbling with age. The emperor therefore ordered Yuan Zhou, who held the rank of Kaifu Yitong Sansi, served as governor of Bozhou, and bore the title Duke of Wuling, to investigate the old site and build a shrine.

The emperor had once gained experience in this region and had commanded the tribes of the area. It was also where Emperor Guangwu of Han had served as Colonel Director of Retainers, and an old seat of Cao Cao’s administration of Yan Province. The shrine faced the two cities of Kuxiang and was bordered by three rivers, including the Wo and Gu. To the north, fields of spirit fungi and willow-lined roads led toward the Liang Garden; fertile plains stretched eastward to the state of Qiao. People set markers by the water, measured the sun’s shadow, and surveyed the terrain to determine the shrine’s location.

First measure the water level and erect a marker, then determine the directions from the shadows of the sun and the positions of the stars. Following the model of Xuanpu, the fabled garden of the immortals, the foundation was laid out; the Celestial Capital, the heavenly palace of Daoist tradition, was planned across the site, and halls were built. The pillars were finely carved, and the bracket sets painted in bright colors, joined tier upon tier and supporting one another. Square and round coffered ceilings alternated in harmonious patterns. The divine images stood solemn and dignified, while immortal attendants stood in orderly silence. The shrine was still and spacious; fragrant liquid dripped and gathered into streams, as if flowing toward the dwelling place of the gods.

Those who purified their hearts and conduct, and cultivators who preserved the spirit and guarded the One—focusing the mind to hold fast to their nature—came from every direction. Their steady stream reached from as far away as a thousand miles. With reverence, they believed the gods were present before them and solemnly performed the Jiao sacrifice, a Daoist ritual offering. The gods made their benevolence manifest and assisted the ruler; in the unseen realm, they also bestowed blessings upon the people. This may truly be called the vastness of the Dao of Heaven, beyond human fathoming.

Without recording their deeds and words, there would be no way to open the path to the hidden terrace of the netherworld. Without displaying images and ritual objects, the workings of subtle things would remain obscure. Thus, to proclaim an honored name and spread its renown, to render it in pictures and engrave it on metal and stone—these are all indispensable. That is their significance.

The year was Dunqiang, corresponding to the Horse in the cyclical calendar, and the seasonal pitch was Guxian, one of the ancient twelve pitch standards. In the sixth year of the Great Sui dynasty’s rule over the realm, the emperor issued an edict commanding me to erect a stele and compose an ode. The ode reads:

From ancient times, the source has flowed far and long; the emperors of remote antiquity lie in a distant age. The four quarters uphold the earth, while eight pillars support the heavens. All things gather and come to life in their kinds, amid broad valleys and great rivers spread across the land. The Supreme Dao transforms the myriad things, and its wondrous workings arise naturally. The vital essences of the Five Phases respond to one another, while the qi of the Three Subtleties continues its course. Thus rulers were established to govern the people, holding the tokens that signify authority. The achievements of emperors could not equal those of the sage sovereigns, nor could the way of kings match that of emperors. The virtues of high antiquity gradually receded, and the ways of simplicity slowly declined. The age turned away from quietude, and customs no longer accorded with peace. People prized reputation and flaunted cunning, hanging nets of law and setting traps. Within, they concerned themselves with the rites of feasting; beyond, they took up arms. Fish were terrorized by the close mesh of the nets, and birds scattered in panic before the many bows and arrows.

A perfected one appeared in the world, as the essence of the stars descended from the Northern Dipper. He embodied the virtue of the dragon, his white hair hanging over his head. He resolved disputes and sheathed his sharpness, cast off shallowness and returned to sincerity. His bearing shone like the sun and moon, and his virtue endured like Heaven and Earth. He deemed the Five Sacred Peaks too small and the Nine Provinces too narrow, and resolved to leave the dusty world, journeying far beyond it in lofty freedom. The green ox was already harnessed, and purple qi appeared ahead. The Mysterious Gate, the portal to the realm of the Dao, stood open, and the power of wondrous transformation quietly flowed forth.

Lai Township was his home; the Wo River, the trace he left behind. From ancient times to the present, the ages have continually changed.

The temple had fallen into ruin, and the grounds where sacrifices were once offered stood empty and deserted. Paulownia trees had sprung up beside the nine wells, while the paired steles had crumbled into stone.

The emperor had received the Mandate of Heaven; he was both sacred and wise. The bells rang on earth, and a mirror-bright radiance descended from the heavens. All between heaven and earth opened up in clarity, and baleful forces were swept away. The sun, moon, and stars were all honored, and the laws were set in order by taking the gods as a model. From the lands beyond the flowing sands and the banks of the winding rivers, from the caves where phoenixes dwelled and the woods where sacred turtles appeared, peoples of every kind came to submit. The hearts of people throughout the realm turned toward the court. The Court of State Ceremonial received gifts offered from every quarter, and the princes presented treasures when they gathered. Blue clouds towered a thousand ren above, while the gentle southern breeze blended with the music of the qin. Through instruction, the state was brought to order, and the people embraced the custom of yielding precedence to one another.

Whenever I speak of Laozi, the Archivist beneath the Pillar, I still feel that I fall short of the Most High Lord Lao. So a quiet temple was built, and the forms of the spirits were painted. The temple stood on a high, open site, overlooking fields and waterside pavilions in the distance. Its beams were made of plum wood and its rafters of cinnamon wood; rows of pillars stood between curving balustrades. Mists and rosy clouds unfurled and gathered again, while the wind sounded cool and clear. The celestial officials took their places, and Daoist practitioners came into the courtyard. With solemn dignity, they performed the rites and prayed for the gods to bestow blessings.

The highest spirits are beyond our power to fathom, yet their principles can still be conveyed through images. The greatest sound seems like silence, yet it resounds when the time is right. People both near and far sing their praises; the netherworld and the human realm alike depend on the gods’ protection. Therefore, these events were reverently engraved on metal and stone, so they might endure forever between heaven and earth.

Jingshu studied under Zhongni (Confucius). Zhongni said to him, “I have heard that Lao Dan is learned in the ways of past and present, understands the foundations of ritual and music, and knows where the Way and Virtue lead. He is my teacher.” Jingshu said to the ruler of Lu, “Kong Qiu is descended from a sage and is destined for distinction. By command of my late lord, I have heard that Lao Dan is learned in the ways of past and present, understands the foundations of ritual and music, and knows where the Way and Virtue lead. Kong Qiu must therefore go and study under him. Now Confucius is about to travel to Zhou to examine the institutions handed down by the former kings and investigate the highest principles of ritual and music. This is a momentous undertaking. Why not provide him with a carriage? I ask to accompany him.”

The ruler of Lu gave Confucius a carriage, two horses, and two attendants. Jingshu accompanied him to Zhou. Confucius sought instruction from Lao Dan on ritual, from Chang Hong on music, and also visited the sites of the suburban and land sacrifices, examined the layout of the Bright Hall, and observed the ceremonies of the court.

When viewing the pond by the four gates of the Bright Hall, one could see images of Yao, Shun, Jie, and Zhou, each showing a different face of goodness or evil and offering a warning about the rise and fall of states. There was also an image of the Duke of Zhou assisting King Cheng: he held the young king in his arms, stood with an axe-shaped screen behind him, and faced south to receive the court audience of the feudal lords. After seeing it, he exclaimed, “Only now do I understand the Duke of Zhou’s good and evil deeds, and the warning about the rise and fall of states.” He exclaimed again, “Only now do I understand why the Duke of Zhou was so sagely, and how the Zhou dynasty came to rule all under Heaven.”

As the Duke of Zhou was about to leave Zhou, Laozi went to see him off and said, “When the wealthy see someone off, they give them material gifts; when the humane see someone off, they give them words. I have presumed to call myself humane, so let me offer you a few words. People of this age who are clever and sharp, with penetrating insight, face danger and even death because they enjoy discussing other people’s faults. Those who are widely learned, skilled in argument, and broad-minded bring danger upon themselves because they enjoy exposing other people’s wrongs. A minister should not think only of himself, and neither should a son.”

After the Duke of Zhou returned from Zhou, the rites of Lu came to be held in still greater esteem. Some three thousand disciples came from distant places to study them. Confucius remarked, “It was only after Nan Gong Jingshu took me on a journey by carriage that my teachings were able to spread widely. Without that, my teachings would nearly have been lost.”

The passages cited in the Book of Rites that begin with words such as “I once heard Lao Dan say” are all key points about ritual that Confucius learned by seeking Laozi’s guidance.

Wang Ziji’s Record of Lost Writings says that the Lord Lao lived on Mount Jingshi, cut off from contact with ordinary people. Only five elders would visit him. Sometimes they rode calling immortal cranes; sometimes they wore feathered robes. Together they discussed the principles governing Heaven and Earth. The scriptures they composed totaled nearly one hundred thousand words. There was…