《道德真经义解(李嘉谋)》

The Dao (Way) that can be expressed in words is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be assigned is not the eternal, unchanging name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source from which the myriad things arise.

Only by continually keeping the mind free of desire can one observe the Dao’s subtle and profound aspect. With desire in the mind, one can observe the boundaries and signs through which the Dao appears. The nameless and the named both arise from the Dao; they differ only in name, and both may be called mysterious. Within mystery lies a deeper mystery: the gateway to all wonders.

“Constancy” means what is eternal and unchanging. All things change, but the Dao does not. The changes of all things happen swiftly: each thought shifts and fades away, without a moment’s pause even between one glance and the next. The Dao, by contrast, has neither beginning nor end. Heaven and earth will eventually reach their limit, but the Dao is without limit. This is what is meant by “constancy.”

The Dao as “constancy” cannot be reached through action or obtained by naming it in words. If it could be reached by some method, it would not be the eternal Dao; if it could be fully indicated by a name, it would not be the constant name. Before heaven and earth appeared, the principle of the eternal and unchanging was already present in the nameless. Thus it is said that “the nameless” is the beginning of heaven and earth. Once heaven and earth differentiated, the names of the myriad things came into being, and the myriad things flourished through them. Thus the “named,” which can be spoken of as “being,” is the source of the myriad things.

The sage understands the constant Dao and can move freely between “being” and “nonbeing.” “Mystery” refers to the Great Dao—that is, to “nonbeing.” “Manifestation” refers to the particular, lesser ways—that is, to “being.” To observe mystery, one joins with mystery and returns to nonbeing; to observe manifestation, one joins with manifestation and appears in being. Mystery and manifestation, being and nonbeing, are connected: their basis is the same, though their outward forms differ. For this reason, both are called “profound.”

More than this, when one reaches the state of “profound upon profound,” every manifestation can reveal mystery. This is “the gateway to all wonders.” In other words, within the deep mystery of being and nonbeing, there is no difference: everything can reveal the wondrous principle.

Chapter Two: All Under Heaven Know

When people everywhere agree on what is beautiful, the distinction between beauty and ugliness arises. When they agree on what is good, the distinction between good and bad follows. Thus being and nonbeing depend on each other for their formation; difficult and easy reveal themselves in contrast; long and short become clear through comparison; high and low set each other off; musical tones and voices harmonize with each other; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. When the myriad things arise, he does not turn them away. He nourishes them without claiming ownership, acts without relying on his achievements, and completes his work without taking credit. Because he does not take credit, his achievements do not fade.

The five thousand characters of the Laozi can reach upward to subtle and profound principles and serve, in practical terms, to handle worldly affairs. Use it to seek the Dao, and you can attain the Dao; use it to govern a state, and the state can be governed well; use it to cultivate yourself, and body and mind can find peace. Its teachings run through all three, which may be why they are so subtle and far-reaching, and so difficult to understand.

This chapter says that our original nature contains no distinctions. How, then, could there be such things as beauty and ugliness, or goodness and its opposite? Once life appears and things take shape, names and distinctions are established. People know that what is beautiful is called beautiful, but do not realize that the name “ugly” arises along with “beautiful.” They know that what is good is called good, but do not realize that the name “not good” arises along with “good.”

Nothing in the world exists without its counterpart: being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy complement each other; long and short define each other; high and low depend on each other; tones and sounds harmonize with each other; what comes before and what comes after follow one another. Wherever one side exists, its opposite exists too.

The sage understands this and therefore always takes his stand before distinctions appear, following the natural course of things. He acts in keeping with nature and does not force things; he guides people without relying on verbal instruction. He does not deliberately elevate what is called good or deliberately reject what is called evil. He does not cling to any particular position, yet does not depart from the unity inherent in all things. He works all day, yet seems to do nothing deliberately; he speaks all day, yet seems to say nothing deliberately.

Thus, when the myriad things arise together, the sage lets them develop in their own way. As they grow, he lets them grow. He brings things to life but does not claim them as his own. Though he appears to act, he does not act from personal will; he simply follows the myriad things. So he acts without presuming upon his actions. When things come to fruition, he does not take credit, but simply follows their course. Thus, when the work is done, he does not claim the achievement.

Precisely because he does not claim credit, the sage can stand at the forefront of the myriad things. That place cannot be taken from him, and so the myriad things cannot make him leave it.

“Do Not Elevate the Worthy,” Chapter Three (The title means not deliberately promoting those regarded as worthy.)

If the names of the worthy are not revered, the people will not contend for fame and profit. If rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not steal. If things that stir up desire are not displayed, people’s hearts will not be disturbed. Therefore, when the Sage governs the world, the people’s hearts are kept simple, their clothing and food are made sufficient, their urge to compete and prevail is weakened, and their physical strength is increased. The people are often kept free of cunning schemes and greed, and those who pride themselves on being clever are not allowed to act recklessly. Govern according to the principle of Wuwei (non-action), and nothing will be left unguided.

To boast of oneself and flaunt one’s achievements is to exalt worthy names; to favor and possess goods is to prize what is rare; to see something and become attached to it is to display what is desirable. If we compare this to the human body, the heart is its ruler, while the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, hands, feet, and other parts are like the people. When those above have a particular preference, those below often pursue it all the more. If I first flaunt my achievements before the people, each will boast of their own abilities. If boasting continues without end, it will inevitably lead to conflict. If I take the lead in greedily seizing things, the people will compete to acquire them too. If acquisition goes unchecked, it will eventually turn into theft. If I let the heart chase after desirable things, the pursuit will never cease: whatever appears before the eyes and catches their gaze will be wanted for oneself, and in the end the mind and spirit will surely be thrown into disorder.

Therefore, the Sage does not let the heart become stuffed with desires and weakens the urge to compete, while keeping the body strong and clothing and food sufficient. The heart and intentions belong to the human-made side; bones and belly symbolize the natural side. The Sage follows nature rather than relying entirely on human contrivance. Ordinary people, by contrast, attend only to human contrivance and forget to follow nature. To follow nature is to regard the heart as one regards the belly: the belly is easily satisfied, but the heart is difficult to satisfy. An old text says, “May the small person’s belly become the noble person’s heart.” This refers to the difference between being content and never being content.

The Sage follows nature, becoming inwardly full as a well-fed belly and firm as strong bones. This fullness and strength are not deliberately sought; they arise naturally. When the inner self is both full and firm, the heart naturally avoids being clogged with distracting thoughts, and the intentions naturally refrain from striving to prevail. Ordinary people are different: they act entirely on the basis of human-made desires, competing, grasping, and rejecting, while their hearts and intentions continue to swell. When the heart is restless, it keeps reaching for more; the more it takes, the less sufficient things seem. This shows that the belly is not truly full. When the intentions become complacent, they grow slack; once slack, they cannot endure. This shows that the bones are not truly strong.

The Sage keeps the heart upright and clear, so that external things cannot disturb it. This is how the people are kept free of cunning schemes and greed. When people gain knowledge, their thoughts can easily become tangled; when they ponder things, they may stray from the right path. These are failings that people cannot entirely avoid. The Sage, however, can keep understanding free of confusion and thought free of deviation. He understands all kinds of knowledge but does not let knowledge take control of him. This is called having knowledge without acting recklessly. When what one knows is true, one’s actions are not disorderly; understanding is then not driven by distracting thoughts, and one’s actions do not become reckless. Apply this principle to governing the state and cultivating oneself, and nothing will be left unguided.

The sage understands that perception is free from prejudice and thought does not stray into distortion. I can perceive, and I also know that the things perceived cannot serve as the master. This is called “the one who knows does not act.” When what is perceived is true, actions will not become disorderly. Thus, though there is perception, one does not cling to it; though one acts, one does not cling to action. Govern a state and cultivate oneself by this principle, and nothing will be beyond good governance.

Chapter Four: The Dao Is Empty

The Great Dao is empty and formless, yet in use it seems never to be exhausted. It is deep and subtle, like the source of all things. It draws in its sharpness, untangles confusion, softens its radiance, and blends with the world of dust. It is deep and still, seeming almost to exist and almost not to exist. I do not know where it comes from; it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven.

The Great Dao is empty and subtle. Draw near to it and try to grasp it, and it is as though nothing can be obtained. Hence it seems never to be exhausted. Yet the more it is used, the wider and deeper it appears, without end. All things come into being by following the Great Dao, yet the Dao never becomes any one particular thing. Hence it seems to be the source of all things.

Those of old who sought the Dao never held to the intention that they must make progress or accomplish something. “Drawing in its sharpness” means not acting deliberately; they did not refrain from all action out of fear. “Untangling confusion” means there is nothing they absolutely refuse to do; they did not make a show of pursuing good deeds as a way to display their virtue. “Softening its radiance” means not making a point of proclaiming goodness; “blending with the world of dust” means not rejecting what is regarded as bad. They remained clear and still, yet did not cling to that clarity and stillness. Thus the Dao seems almost to exist and almost not to exist.

I do not know how the Dao began, so I do not know from whom it came. I do not know what came before it; hence it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

Heaven and Earth show no partiality. They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice: treated with reverence before the ceremony, then discarded afterward. The sage, too, shows no partiality, regarding the people as straw dogs.

Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty within, yet never exhausted; the more it is worked, the more air continues to pour out. Too many words often lead quickly to exhaustion. Better to keep the heart empty and still, and hold to the center.

Great benevolence does not deliberately draw close to only a few people. It may seem to favor no one, yet its kindness reaches everywhere. Lesser benevolence favors those who are close: it may seem deeply devoted to family, but its kindness has limits.

Heaven and Earth treat all things, and sages treat the people, without drawing close to each thing or caring for each person individually. They regard all things like the straw dogs used in sacrifice: these are used when needed, then discarded when the rite is over, without special treatment based on their worth. Heaven and Earth and the sages treat all things this way, and they treat themselves like a bellows. The bellows is hollow inside, yet does not run dry; the more it is worked, the more air it produces. The bellows does not know that it produces air, and the air does not know that it comes from the bellows. Thus, the more it works, the more inexhaustible the air it produces.

If one insists on approaching all things with the partial kindness of personal affection, that kindness cannot reach everywhere. If one cannot respond to things with an empty, still mind, one cannot respond to them fully. Even when relying only on words to pursue more words, one worries that words will run out. How much more so when trying to observe all things with one’s own limited perspective? Better to keep the mind empty and still, hold fast to one’s true nature, and speak when the moment is right. Because one is not attached to speaking, one can speak to all the world without saying anything inappropriate.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The Valley Spirit—the wondrous power that, like a mountain valley, is empty and still yet nurtures life—never dies. This is called the Mysterious Female, the source from which Heaven and Earth bring forth all things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It endures without end, seeming to exist yet remaining difficult to perceive; its function never runs dry.

The spirit is stored within the body, just as a valley is hidden within a mountain. Thus the Valley Spirit takes emptiness as its substance and fullness as its function. It has no fixed form, yet dwells within the formed body without perishing, as though nourished by the Mysterious Female. “Mysterious” refers to Heaven and corresponds to the nose in the human body; “female” refers to Earth and corresponds to the mouth. The nose receives the vital essence of Heaven through its emptiness, while the mouth draws in the vital essence of Earth through its emptiness. The gate of the Mysterious Female allows vital essence to enter and leave. People can endure because their roots are connected with Heaven and Earth.

If one understands restraint, follows nature, and puts this into practice through Wuwei (non-action), allowing it to endure without end and remain as though present, empty and still like a valley, then the spirit and vital energy can be set in motion, and the Way of Heaven will respond in turn; nothing will fail to resonate.

Chapter Seven: Heaven and Earth Endure Forever

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They endure because they continue without interruption, seeming both to exist and not to exist, empty like a valley. For this reason, the spirit and vital energy flow, and the Way of Heaven moves with them; nothing fails to receive a response.

Chapter Seven: Heaven Is Long-Lived and Earth Enduring

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They endure because they do not live for themselves, and so they are able to last. Thus the sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore; he sets himself aside, yet is able to preserve himself. Is this not precisely because he has no selfish thoughts? In this way, he is able to fulfill himself.

Heaven gives to all things, and Earth enables them to grow. Heaven’s giving and Earth’s nurturing have never ceased for even a single day. They give without end, and the myriad things they bring forth are beyond counting. Heaven never begrudges its gifts, and Earth never stops nurturing. This is called “not living for oneself.” Because Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves, all things depend on them to grow, and so Heaven and Earth endure for a long time.

The sage is the same. He understands that his original nature does not change or perish. His heart is filled with vast, noble Qi, in harmony with the workings of all things under Heaven and Earth. Therefore, he does not regard himself as so precious that he must protect himself at every turn. The sage acts with undivided attention, knowing that nothing which ought to be done should be left undone. Everything he does benefits others. He does not take the benefits he receives as belonging only to himself; instead, he makes freedom from attachment to himself the true foundation of his life. Thus, no one under Heaven can preserve himself as well as he can. This is called “putting himself last, yet coming to the fore; setting himself aside, yet being able to preserve himself.”

People cannot bring all things to fulfillment because they are selfish. The sage has no selfish thoughts, and so he can fulfill the interests of others. All things attain their own fulfillment, and the sage gains from this as well. This is called a gain for both sides.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water is skilled at nourishing all things without contending with them. It dwells in the low places that everyone despises, and so it is closest to the Dao (the Way).

In choosing where to live, be skilled at finding a fitting place; in the heart, be skilled at remaining deep and still; in relationships, be skilled at drawing close to the kindhearted; in speech, be skilled at keeping your word; in governing, be skilled at bringing order; in your work, be skilled at making use of your abilities; in action, be skilled at seizing the right moment. Simply because it does not contend, there is no fault.

The highest good benefits all things without choosing where to be. Wherever things exist, I respond to them; in this way, such goodness is like water. Water becomes rain and dew in high places and gathers into rivers in low places. It does not choose where to dwell or whom to benefit. It reaches even filthy places and rests where people find it repulsive; for this reason, it is close to the Dao (the Way).

The sage benefits all things in the same way. The sage does not choose a direction in which to dwell, so every place they reach can become a good place. Their heart holds no private thoughts, so their depth of feeling is like an abyss. They give without choosing recipients, offering benevolence to all things. Their words are free of embellishment, so what they say is true and trustworthy. The sage acts in accordance with how things are, and so acts with integrity and governs well. With nothing to cling to in their heart, nothing is beyond their ability to accomplish, and so they handle affairs well. They do not act rashly in ordinary times, and when they do act, they respond to the right moment, and so they seize opportunities well. What people pursue is often what the sage lets go of; what the sage possesses is often what people lack. The sage never follows the same path as all things. So I never contend with others, and they have nothing to blame me for.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding a vessel and continuing to fill it is not as good as stopping in time. Hammering metal to make it sharp cannot keep its edge forever. No one can guard a hall filled with gold and jade forever. After becoming wealthy and honored, pride and complacency invite misfortune. When achievement is complete and one’s name is renowned, to withdraw from public life accords with the natural Dao.

Knowing that one is already full yet trying to remain so is worse than never reaching fullness. Knowing that one’s edge is exposed yet deliberately sharpening it is worse than never displaying one’s edge. To know that one is full yet cling to fullness, or know that one is sharp yet keep sharpening, is already unwise. How much worse, then, to be full without knowing when to draw back, or sharp without knowing restraint? Those who are full grow ever more grasping; those who flaunt their edge grow ever more arrogant. Their houses brim with gold and jade, yet they know no contentment. After gaining wealth and status, they become arrogant and domineering. Before they have managed to make others submit, they have already lost command of themselves. This is to invite calamity. The seasons turn, and when all things have fulfilled their work, they withdraw. If even Heaven’s Dao is so, how much more so for human beings?

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Soul and Spirit

Can one hold the hun and po (the spiritual and bodily aspects of a person) together as one without letting them part? Can one focus the mind and harmonize the breath until it is soft, like that of an infant? Can one cleanse the hidden depths of the heart’s inner vision until it is free of flaw? Can one care for the people and govern the state by following nature and refraining from contrived action? When Heaven’s Gate (the point where body and mind communicate, and Qi enters and leaves) opens and closes, can one remain soft and still, taking the yielding position? Once clear understanding is attained, can one refrain from relying on cleverness? Let all things grow and nurture them without claiming possession; act without taking pride in one’s achievements; guide all things as they develop without ruling over them. This is profound De.

“Carry” suggests beginning, while “nurture” suggests shaping. The chapter goes on to explain the meaning of the hun and po through phrases such as “Heaven’s Gate opens and closes,” setting out requirements for cultivating oneself and engaging with the world: hold to unity, regulate Qi, maintain a clear and pure inner vision, and nurture all things through softness and stillness, without self-reliance or domination.

“Bear” means to begin; “nourish” means to foster and bring into being. The Hun is a person’s Yang energy, and the Po is a person’s Yin energy. In the first formation of Yin and Yang, the Po embraces the Hun. Can the Hun and Po embrace one another, joining as one without separating?

An infant’s Yang energy has not dispersed, and body and mind are inwardly harmonious and supple. The infant does not achieve this by deliberate effort; it comes from tending the breath with single-minded attention. Without striving for it, the infant arrives at it naturally. Can you focus wholly on Qi and bring body and mind into harmony, free of distraction, as an infant does?

A mind that stands apart, clear and perceptive, is not in itself a fault. But as long as the mind still intends to seek clarity, it is not yet ready to speak of the Dao. Can you cleanse this deep inward scrutiny so that the mind is free of flaw?

When people are cared for with loving concern, that love can easily become partial. When a state is governed through political measures, it can become difficult to bring it to peace. Govern people with stillness and Wuwei (non-action), and they will transform of themselves and return to the right way. Can you practice Wuwei?

Yang energy stirs and opens; Yin energy is still and closes. From this opening and closing, change arises. But ceaseless activity reaches its limit. One should therefore know how to draw back when stirred, hold to stillness, and nurture the source of life. Can you, like the female, remain on the side of softness and stillness?

Clarity within and without, and an open heart, do not prevent you from being burdened by dusty thoughts that arise in stillness, even when you take no part in affairs. You must first understand that you are not naturally free of obstruction; only then can you learn not to let these thoughts become obstacles. Can you refrain from deliberate knowing?

To all things, the sage is like a parent who brings them to life and like one who raises children and grandchildren. Yet the sage does not claim their birth and nurture as a possession, does not rely on action and take credit for it, and does not consider themself their master merely because they stand above them. Only by embodying “Mysterious De” (profound virtue that claims no credit) can one do this.

Chapter Eleven: The Thirty Spokes

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub, but it is the empty space at the hub’s center that lets the wheel serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel, but it is the empty space inside that lets the vessel hold things. Doors and windows are cut to make a house, but it is the empty space within that makes the house fit to live in. Thus, what has form provides convenience; it is the formless emptiness that lets it serve its purpose.

The body is a tangible presence, while Shen (spirit) is intangible. Shen resides within the body, using emptiness to put tangible things to work. If the ear had no hollow space, it could not hear; if the eye had no opening, it could not see. The nose, mouth, and body also need space in order to smell, taste, and feel. Thus, though the usefulness of things lies in their substance, their function is brought forth by what is empty.

For example, thirty spokes form a wheel, but without the empty space at its hub, the wheel cannot turn. Clay is shaped into a vessel, but without empty space, the vessel cannot hold anything. Doors and windows are made in a house, but without openings, the house cannot admit light. The ears, eyes, nose, and mouth come together to form the body, yet the sense organs need space in order to function, and Shen needs space in order to dwell in peace. The uses of emptiness are truly vast.

Chapter Twelve: “The Five Colors Dazzle the Eyes”

Brilliant colors dazzle the eyes, a profusion of sounds dulls the hearing, and excessive flavors overwhelm the sense of taste. Indulging in horseback riding and hunting makes the mind run wild; rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct.

Therefore, the sage values nourishing body and mind, and does not pursue sensory pleasures. The sage sets aside outward temptations and chooses inner fulfillment.

The eyes can see colors, but if one becomes absorbed in them, it is as though one were blind. The ears can hear sounds, but if one becomes absorbed in them, it is as though one were deaf. The mouth can taste flavors, but if one becomes absorbed in them, it loses its normal sensitivity. Hunting, galloping on horseback, and insatiably pursuing wealth all arise because the mind is always seeking to acquire something. Yet these pursuits can also cause one to lose one’s original nature.

A person’s spirit is originally held within. The ears, eyes, mind, and mouth are simply different ways it functions: to see, hear, taste, and know. If, in seeing, one is led only by colors, then colors have clouded vision. If, in hearing, one is led only by sounds, then sounds have clouded hearing. If, in tasting, one remains fixed on flavor, then flavor has clouded the mouth’s natural capacity. If the mind thinks only of acquiring things, then the desire to possess has clouded the mind. When all four are constrained by external things, the eyes are as if blind, the ears as if deaf, the mouth loses its normal ability to distinguish flavors, and the mind becomes confused.

It is better to return to one’s original nature: when seeing, do not be led by colors, but let seeing return to vision itself; when hearing, do not be led by sounds, but let hearing return to hearing itself; when tasting, do not be led by flavors, but let tasting return to the mouth’s natural capacity; when knowing, do not be led by selfish desires, but let knowing return to the mind’s original state.

Thus the sage “acts for the belly, not for the eyes”: valuing inner nourishment rather than pursuing what the eyes crave. The belly symbolizes receiving without coveting, and containing without clinging. In this way, it is easy to be content and not be stirred by desire. The eyes, however, are never satisfied: the more they see, the more they feel they lack. The gaze is always chasing outward, while the belly rests in what is within. The sage focuses on the inner and does not cling to external things, so lets go of the former and chooses the latter.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace Bring Alarm

Favor and disgrace alike are like being startled; regard great troubles as you regard your own person.

What does it mean to say that favor and disgrace alike are like being startled? To be disgraced means to occupy a low position. When favored, one is anxious; when favor is lost, one is anxious as well. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace bring alarm.”

What does it mean to regard great troubles as you regard your own person? I have great troubles because I have this body. If I had no body, what troubles could I have?

Therefore, only one who values the world as one values oneself can be entrusted with the world; only one who cherishes the world as one cherishes oneself can be entrusted with its care.

“What does it mean to treat favor and disgrace as though both were startling?” The Doctrine of the Mean says: “The noble person acts in accordance with the position they occupy and does not covet anything beyond their proper place. In a position of wealth and honor, they act as befits someone who is wealthy and honored; in a position of poverty and low status, they act as befits someone who is poor and of low status. Only then can the world be entrusted to them.”

Whatever their circumstances, the noble person remains at ease. Neither favor nor disgrace is theirs by nature. To be alarmed when favored is to fear that disgrace will soon follow; to be alarmed when disgraced is to fear that favor may follow in turn. So one should treat favor with the same caution as disgrace, and remain as wary when favored as when disgraced. This is the meaning of “disgrace is to be beneath”: favor and disgrace both come from outside, and are not worth taking too seriously.

What does it mean to “regard great trouble as seriously as one’s own self”? The Mencius says that a state often perishes when, within its borders, it has neither law-abiding ministers nor worthy people who dare to offer remonstrance, and, beyond its borders, has neither rival states nor external threats. Trouble can become a source of trouble because we have a self; without a self, what trouble could there be? Still, this does not mean that people should stop thinking. Failure to reflect invites great trouble. If we consider how to avoid the troubles that can be avoided, we can preserve ourselves. Only by regarding great trouble as seriously as one’s own safety can one escape calamity.

More than that, only someone who cherishes the world as they cherish themselves can be entrusted with the world; only someone who cares for the world as they care for themselves can be given charge of it. By treating great trouble as a danger to oneself, one can preserve oneself; by treating the troubles of the world as one’s own, one can preserve the state.

Chapter Fourteen of “Seen Yet Not Seen”

“Only by treating the troubles of the world as one’s own can someone be entrusted with the world. For only by regarding great trouble as a danger to oneself can one preserve oneself; only by regarding the troubles of the world as one’s own can one preserve the state.”

Chapter Fourteen of “Seen Yet Not Seen”

When you look for it, you cannot see it; this is called “Yi.” When you listen for it, you cannot hear it; this is called “Xi.” When you try to touch it, you cannot grasp it; this is called “Wei.” These three states cannot be pursued to a clear conclusion, so together they form a single, undifferentiated whole. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It extends without end and cannot be named, yet ultimately returns to a state without form or substance. This is called the form of the formless, the image of no particular thing—in other words, “the elusive and indistinct.” Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. By governing things in the present with the Dao that has existed since ancient times, you can know the beginnings of the distant past. This is called grasping the guiding thread of the Dao.

It cannot be seen because it cannot be sought through color or appearance; it cannot be heard because it cannot be grasped through sound; it cannot be touched because it cannot be examined through concrete form. It is not confined by color, form, or objects. What is called “Primordial Brightness,” the subtle and wondrous source, is one undivided whole and cannot be known through color, sound, or form. Before it disperses, it is blended into oneness. Though it is present within brightness, it cannot simply be called bright; hence it is said that above, it does not shine. Though it cannot be called bright, neither can it be called dark; hence it is said that below, it is not dim. It has never ceased, and cannot be divided or abandoned; hence it is said to extend without end and to be nameless. Though it returns to nothing, it cannot be said to be wholly nonexistent. Thus it is called “the form of the formless, the image of no thing”—in other words, “the elusive and indistinct.” Within this elusive indistinctness, it enters, departs, and changes, with no fixed, unchanging ruler; hence it is called the constant Dao.

The Dao has no beginning in its coming, so when you face it, you cannot see its starting point. Its departure has no end, so when you follow it, you cannot see its final point. Try to govern things in the present by means of the Dao that has existed since ancient times, and you will find that today and antiquity are connected. From this, you can also understand that antiquity and the present have no fundamental difference. This is called the guiding thread of the Dao. The guiding thread of the Dao means that the Dao makes no distinction between past and future, antiquity and the present.

This is the chapter on those of ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao.

Those of ancient times who were skilled in practicing the Dao (the Way) had subtle, profound, and penetrating minds, so deep that others could scarcely fathom them. Because they were so difficult to fathom, they can only be described through a few images: cautious, like crossing a river in winter; wary, as though someone might be watching from every side; dignified, like a guest who dares not be discourteous; open and yielding, like ice about to melt; solid and unadorned, like uncarved wood; spacious, like a valley; and deep and indistinct, like muddy water.

Who can still muddy water and let it slowly become clear? Who can preserve a settled state over time, allowing vitality to emerge gradually amid change? Those who hold to the Dao do not seek perfection. Precisely because they are not self-satisfied, they can bring old and damaged things back to life.

“Subtle, profound, and penetrating” means that when they face things, they are cautious, like someone crossing a river in winter, and do not act rashly; they are wary, as though someone might be watching from every side, and do not readily assume they understand; they are dignified like guests, never treating themselves as the host; they are open and yielding like melting ice, without clinging to preconceptions; they are solid and unadorned like uncarved wood, without deliberately displaying refinement; they are spacious like a valley, without imagining themselves to be full; and they are deep and indistinct like muddy water, without considering themselves above others.

To others, they may seem muddied. But if one settles down and observes them, clarity gradually emerges over time. They may seem content to remain still, but if one examines what they do, their vitality gradually becomes apparent. Only sages can nurture clarity within muddiness and activity within stillness. Thus they can remain clear while also responding to change, yet they are never self-satisfied. This shows that they are skilled at cultivating themselves. Such cultivation allows what is worn out and old to become new again, and the constant Dao to reveal itself through change. If one merely treats new things as new, their usefulness will soon be exhausted.

Chapter Sixteen, “Bringing Emptiness to Its Utmost”: This chapter title means “bringing the mind to a state of extreme stillness and emptiness.”

A sentence in the original is repeated, and the text following “bringing emptiness to its utmost” is incomplete. The interpretation above follows the wording that survives.

Reduce the thoughts cluttering the mind to a minimum, and hold fast to stillness. As all things grow and change together, I quietly observe how they return to their source. Though the myriad things are diverse, each returns to its root. Returning to the root is stillness; stillness is a return to one’s original state of life. Returning to one’s original life is the constant Dao. To know the constant Dao is to be wise. Failing to understand the constant Dao and acting recklessly brings misfortune. Knowing the constant Dao allows one to be all-embracing; being all-embracing allows one to act impartially. Through impartiality, one can become the sovereign to whom all people turn. The sovereign accords with Heaven, Heaven accords with the Dao, and the Dao endures. In this way, one will face no danger throughout one’s life.

“Emptiness” is the ultimate state reached by the Dao, while “stillness” is the starting point for observing the Dao. Thus, when speaking of stillness, the emphasis is on holding fast to it; when speaking of emptiness, one must reach its utmost degree. Those who study the Dao should firmly maintain stillness as their foundation. Only by then attaining the utmost emptiness and stillness can they achieve something. As all things flourish in profusion, I do not join in their agitation but calmly observe how they return. The “return” spoken of here means investigating the principles of things and fully understanding one’s nature, thereby fulfilling one’s heavenly mandate.

The human body is formed through the “Four Great Elements”: earth, water, wind, and fire. Earth is solid; water is moist; wind makes the body move; and fire brings warmth. Only through the combination of these four does the body take shape. While alive, people rush about amid the changes of the Four Great Elements and shift along with external things, unaware of how to return to their source. Only when wind and fire disperse and earth and water gradually decay do they understand: what is it that ultimately sustains awareness? Then they realize that once external conditions fall away, awareness returns only to one’s own mind.

The mind is the foundation of the body. As delusive thoughts grow, they cultivate “guest wisdom”—cleverness and ingenuity that depend on external things. This gives rise to the turmoil of worldly life, leaving one unable to remain still and self-possessed. When delusive thoughts are removed, guest wisdom naturally subsides. The substance of my mind is originally clear and calm; this is returning to the source. Returning to the root is stillness, and it is also a return to one’s original life. “Life” here means the nature one has received from Heaven. To know this nature is to know that it does not change or differ. Understanding its constancy is knowing the constant Dao.

People act recklessly because they are carried along by guest wisdom and fail to recognize the ceaseless fluctuations of their own minds; thus they bring misfortune upon themselves. If one uses the mind’s original purity and clarity to observe guest wisdom, no longer clinging to its fluctuations, and recognizes the constant Dao at all times, this is called “clarity.”

When the mind reaches enduring stillness, it is like empty space, which excludes none of the forms of the myriad things. In this way, one can be all-embracing. When all things are allowed to find their proper place, without deliberate rejection or forceful seizure, this is called impartiality. Through impartiality, one becomes the sovereign to whom all people turn, and then accords with Heaven and with the Dao. Accord with the Dao brings endurance: the longer one endures, the more one is revered; the broader one’s reach, the more clearly one shines. Thus, one will face no danger throughout one’s life.

From returning to the root to fulfilling one’s life, nothing can be understood without holding fast to stillness. From all-embracing capacity to endurance, nothing can be achieved without reaching the utmost emptiness and stillness. That is why this chapter begins by discussing these matters.

The more enduring a ruler of the highest order is, the more highly he is revered; the more elevated his vision, the more clearly his brilliance shines. Thus he remains free from danger throughout his life. From returning to the root to restoring one’s destiny, insight is impossible without stillness. And from emptiness and stillness to lasting endurance, only those who reach the utmost emptiness—the state of a clear, peaceful mind—can succeed. That is why this chapter begins by discussing these principles.

Chapter Seventeen: The Highest Ruler

The most accomplished ruler is known to the people only as someone who exists. The next best is one whom the people feel close to and praise. Below that is one whom they fear, and below that, one they scorn. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is lacking, the people will not trust him. He is cautious and sparing with words; when affairs are settled and accomplishments complete, the people all say, “We did it this way ourselves.”

A person of high De (Virtue) governs the people, who know only that he is there, without recognizing his De. At the next level, the people feel close to and praise him, and thus recognize him. If closeness and praise are not enough to sustain the relationship, the people turn to fear; if fear is not enough to sustain it, they go on to scorn him. In general, when people do not feel close, they will fear; when they do not fear, they will scorn. This is the natural course of things.

When the people do not trust their ruler, the fault does not necessarily lie with them. It is the ruler’s own lack of trustworthiness that gives rise to their doubts and leads them not to believe him; this is no surprise. The sage is firm in his own convictions, so he is cautious and speaks little. Once matters succeed and accomplishments are achieved, the people do not know how it all came about—and so cannot help but trust him.

Chapter Eighteen: When the Great Dao Is Abandoned

Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do benevolence and righteousness appear. Only when cleverness and intelligence are displayed does great deceit arise. Only when relations among relatives are discordant do people speak of filial devotion and parental affection. Only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers appear.

As the Great Dao gradually falls away, the ways of the world decline with it, giving rise to all kinds of distortions. Once hypocrisy becomes widespread, people turn around and begin to exalt the Dao. This “decline” marks the beginning of the Dao’s weakening; this “turning around to exalt it” marks decline at its extreme.

When the Dao had not yet fallen away, benevolence and righteousness were naturally contained within it, and could not readily be singled out one by one. But when people began deliberately to display gentleness and compassion, others pursued that gentleness as benevolence. When people began deliberately to display lofty integrity and a commitment to righteousness, others pursued that loftiness as moral principle. If the Dao could be fairly put into practice throughout the world, why would benevolence and righteousness need to be singled out and emphasized? Later, some people who considered themselves clever and excelled at dispensing small favors deliberately advertised benevolence and righteousness as the basis for their conduct. Hypocrisy gradually grew, and disorder began. This is what is meant by “the Dao declines, and distortions arise.”

By the final stages, artificial contrivances have multiplied, and it seems as though everything is wrong. If someone differs even slightly from the crowd, people begin to praise and follow them. Only when harmony fails among family members do compassion and filial devotion become visible; only when households and states fall into disorder do loyal ministers emerge. This is what is meant by “turning around to exalt the Dao.” When the Dao first begins to fall away, people see only some of its outward signs and forget its wholeness. When the Dao has declined almost completely, little remains but outward signs, and people begin to prize them. In this way, the Dao sinks ever deeper into decline.

Chapter 19: Abandon Sageness and Discard Cleverness

Abandon the deliberate display of “sageliness” and clever schemes, and the people will greatly benefit. Abandon the deliberate display of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover filial devotion and compassion. Abandon cunning and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will not appear. These three teachings are not enough if they remain mere words of fine decoration, so people must also be given something to return to and follow: reveal your natural simplicity, preserve your plainness, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

A sage does not consider himself sagely; a wise person does not consider himself wise. If sageliness and cleverness can be deliberately discarded, then they were not true sageliness or wisdom in the first place.

The latter part of the original text does not connect smoothly at “the seven do not consider themselves skilled.” Based on the wording as it stands, it can be understood to mean that when people do not consider themselves skilled and do not deliberately pursue profit, thieves will not appear. The final sentence again emphasizes that these teachings alone are not enough: people must also have something to return to and follow—preserve their natural simplicity, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

The sage does not regard himself as sage, and the wise do not regard themselves as wise. If sagehood and wisdom can be deliberately cast aside, they are not genuine sagehood and wisdom. The benevolent do not consider themselves benevolent, and those who practice righteousness do not consider themselves righteous. If benevolence and righteousness can be deliberately cast aside, they are not genuine benevolence and righteousness. Superior skill does not present itself as skill, and true benefit does not present itself as benefit. If skill and benefit can be deliberately cast aside, they are not genuine skill and benefit.

The sage works with the real nature of things and does not pursue outward ornament. What appears in his conduct bears no trace of contrivance. People, however, secretly imitate these outward appearances and mistake the false for the real. So the sage gives outward conduct a guiding pattern. Action without contrived traces benefits all things, though they are unaware of it; outward conduct that follows a pattern only throws the world into disorder.

The sage detests falsehood that disrupts what is real. He therefore seeks to cut off this tendency at its roots and remedy the harm it has passed down. He wants people throughout the world to stop pursuing private gain and stealing the reputation of sagehood and wisdom; to stop invoking benevolence and righteousness while abandoning the substance of filial devotion and parental care; and to stop using the methods of thieves while rejecting clever and beneficial means. The sage guides the people only with the plain, unadorned principles of the Dao. Seeing that he values simplicity and preserves what is genuine, the people dare not deceive others with ornament. Seeing that he reduces selfishness and desire, they likewise dare not deceive themselves with empty appearances.

End of Volume One of Explanatory Notes on the True Meaning of the Scripture of Dao and De.

Editorial note: In the original text, “gu wei er bu shi” (“therefore act without serving”) probably has a mistaken character: “shi” may have been intended as “shi” (“rely on”). In “you ren wo,” the character “wo” may have been intended as “yi” (“righteousness”).

Explanatory Notes on the True Meaning of the Scripture of Dao and De, Volume Two, explained by the Daoist Master Xizhai.

Lower Section of the Dao Scripture: “Cutting Off Learning, No More Worries,” Chapter Twenty.

By setting aside worldly distinctions in knowledge and clever artifice, one can be free from worry. “Wei” and “A” are both sounds of assent. How great is the difference between respect and disrespect? How far apart, really, are the good and evil people judge? What the world fears must, in some measure, be treated with reverence. This vast, tangled state of things seems to have no end.

Everyone is cheerful, as if attending a lavish feast or climbing a springtime terrace to admire the view. I alone am quiet and cautious, my intentions not yet revealed, like an infant who has not learned to smile. I have nothing to rely on, as though drifting with nowhere to return. Everyone has a surplus; I alone seem to lack something. My mind is truly like that of a fool, simple and indistinct. The people of the world all seem clever and clear-minded; I alone seem dull. They are keen and perceptive; I alone am still and slow. My thoughts are hazy and far-reaching, like the sea, and I seem to drift with the waves without ever coming to rest. Everyone has something they do; I alone seem stubborn and crude. I am unlike the people of the world: I value only drawing nourishment from the “Mother,” the source of all things—the Dao.

Learning that does not reach Wuwei (non-action) and nonattachment is not yet the “learning to abandon” spoken of here. The people of the world are keen and perceptive; I alone am still and slow. My thoughts are hazy and far-reaching, like the sea, and I seem to drift without end. Everyone has something they do; I alone seem stubborn and crude. I am unlike the people of the world: I value only drawing nourishment from the Dao, the source of all things.

Learning that does not reach “unlearning”—a state beyond all distinctions and attachments—does not yet count as genuine learning. The Dao (the Way) takes having nothing to attain as attainment; genuine learning likewise takes having nothing to learn as learning. If the Dao could be obtained directly through some method, it would be no more than doctrines such as benevolence and righteousness. If learning could be fixed and mastered, it would be no more than labels and rules. Thus, sages regard having nothing to attain as attaining the Dao, and having nothing to learn as true learning. Hence the saying: “Put an end to attachment to learning, and there will be no worries.”

Until one reaches the state of unlearning, the world’s learning can never be exhausted. Gain one kind and another will be missed; make a gain here and suffer a loss there. One then delights in what has been gained and grieves over what has been lost, without end.

At its root and source, the Dao is such that all things are originally the same. If we fail to examine the root and compare only their details, their differences will keep growing. For example, “wei” is a respectful reply, while “e” is a dismissive one. At the moment these two replies first diverge, how great can the difference be? But once they become respect and disrespect, the distance between them is vast. To act in accord with principle is good; to turn away from it is evil. At the first hint of moving toward or away from principle, the difference is still slight. Once the distinction becomes one between good and evil, however, the distance is vast. Sages observe things at their beginnings and know that they are the same at their root, so they can turn them around: turning disrespect into respect, evil into good, takes only an instant. If one understands that respect and disrespect, good and evil, share the same source, reaching “ending learning”—a state of learning beyond distinctions and attachments—is not difficult.

Yet when sages enter the world and deal with its affairs, how could they easily change the desires of an entire age and make everyone follow their own desires? How could they change everyone’s views and make them all agree with their own? Sages delight in what people delight in and fear what people fear. But here they differ from ordinary people: people become absorbed in the pleasures of sights and sounds, exulting without end. Their joy is like climbing a terrace on a spring day to gaze into the distance, beautiful as a lavish sacrificial feast. Their spirits shine, and they feel that no one can surpass them. Their minds are sharp and subtle, and they feel that no one can outdo them. They truly take these things to be joyful, beautiful, wise, and clever, yet they are blind to their own nature. They recognize only what is tangibly visible before them, and so cannot see in their hearts the root that lies beyond things.

The sage’s spirit, by contrast, roams in the Dao. In responding to external things, it does not cling to their outward reality. Thus the sage is quiet and gives no clear signs, like an infant who has not yet learned to laugh. The sage is indistinct and seems to have no destination, as deep and unsettled as the sea, seemingly without a place to rest. Everyone else seems to have something to spare; I alone seem to be lacking. Everyone else considers themselves capable; I alone appear slow and clumsy. Could this really be the mind of a fool? It is simply that I differ from others: I can recognize the root and understand the source, without being led astray by details. This is called “valuing the mother”—cherishing and following the source of all things, which is the Dao.

Great De expresses itself by following only the Dao. The Dao as a presence is indistinct and elusive. In a haze, there are images; in a blur, there are things. In deep obscurity, it holds a subtle essence. This subtle essence is real and true, and within it lies a trustworthy foundation. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared, so we can examine the origin of all things. How do I know that the origin of all things is so indistinct and hard to grasp? Through the Dao.

“Great” means vast. A person of great De has an inner presence that is also vast. The Dao has no fixed form, and the expression of great De follows the Dao. All things arise from the Dao, though I do not know how they begin. All things return to the Dao and perish, though I do not know how they end. The Dao is deep and indistinct, impossible to grasp in any fixed form. Yet amid its indistinctness there are images and things, and in its depths there is a subtle essence. This shows that the formless is not simply nothing.

People usually take what they can see as truly real, without knowing that this visible existence is not fundamental and may, on the surface, return to nothingness. They find it hard to perceive the presence contained in the formless, without knowing that the formless holds a true foundation. Visible “being” is only a relatively coarse form of existence; only the presence contained in the formless is truly real. It is genuine and does not depend on appearing as being in order to exist, nor does it disappear when it returns to formlessness. This is called “trustworthy”—that is, truly reliable. From ancient times to the present, it has remained unchanged, and the Dao’s subtle essence has never departed.

Sages can observe the beginnings of all things and understand where they come from because they embody the Dao of utmost emptiness; thus they can see the source of the myriad things.

Chapter 22, “Bending, One Is Preserved”: Bending can, paradoxically, preserve.

When things bend, they can be preserved; when they are pressed down, they can spring back; when they lie in low places, they can fill up; after becoming worn and broken, they can be renewed. Having less makes it easier to gain; craving too much makes it easier to become confused. Thus the sage holds fast to “Oneness with the Dao,” the fundamental principle of being united with the Dao, and makes it the standard for all under Heaven.

The sage does not make a point of displaying himself, and so becomes clear-sighted; he does not insist that he is right, and so his understanding becomes evident. He does not boast of his achievements, and so achieves merit; he does not rely on self-praise, and so endures. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him. So when it is said, “Bending allows things to be preserved,” can this be empty talk? Indeed, in the end, things return to wholeness.

Things cannot remain bent forever, so after bending they can be preserved; nor can they remain pressed down forever, so after being pressed they can spring back. Low places will eventually fill, and what is worn out will eventually be renewed. Having little makes it easier to gain, while having too much makes it easier to become confused: this is the fundamental principle behind the changing of fullness and emptiness. The sages of antiquity became objects of reverence for all things because they held fast to Oneness with the Dao. To hold fast to Oneness is to remain in constant accord with the Dao: rather than display oneself, one follows others’ understanding; rather than insist on being right, one follows the actual circumstances of things; rather than claim credit, one gives credit to others; rather than praise one’s own strengths, one recognizes the strengths of others.

The sage stands among all things yet does not contend with them, and so no one under Heaven can contend with him. The sage acts in accord with the principles of things. Though as yielding as water, nothing can prevent him from being preserved. He is always able to preserve himself, and by yielding and adapting, he nurtures himself; thus he is preserved completely. This is called truly returning to wholeness.

Nature’s sounds are few: a violent gale does not last through the morning, and a sudden downpour does not last all day. What brings these winds and rains about? Heaven and Earth. If even the powers of Heaven and Earth cannot make them last long, how much less can human beings?

Those who follow the Dao (the Way) accord with the Dao; those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) accord with De; those who lose the Dao and De accord with loss. Those who accord with the Dao are gladly received by the Dao; those who accord with De are gladly received by De; those who accord with loss are gladly received by loss. When one’s own trustworthiness is insufficient, others naturally will not trust one.

Speaking only when it is time to speak, so that others scarcely notice what one has said—this is called speaking little and being in accord with nature. To speak forcefully by design is like a gale and a downpour: though its force is fierce for a time, it cannot last. Even the powers of Heaven and Earth change unpredictably; their violent upheavals do not continue for long. How much less can this be expected of human beings?

Those who follow the Dao never deliberately pursue gain or loss. Their hearts follow what is natural, and they understand that gain and loss have no fixed meaning. Though they experience both as events unfold in the world, they trust that everything comes in its proper course and do not dwell on gain or loss. Thus, one may accord with the Dao, accord with De, or even be in a state of loss. Those who accord with the Dao are content to abide by the Dao; those who accord with De are content to abide by De; those in a state of loss calmly accept their misfortune. Whatever they gain, they do not cling to it; whatever they lose, they do not cling to that either.

This shows that when the heart values the Dao, trust naturally arises. If one lacks confidence in oneself, one’s mind becomes tangled in calculations of gain and loss: one gains something and loses something, yet cannot even resolve one’s own self-doubt. How, then, could one expect others to trust oneself?

Chapter 24: Those Who Stand on Tiptoe Do Not Stand Firm

Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who take oversized strides cannot walk far. Those who show themselves off cannot see clearly; those who assume they are right cannot make themselves known.

Forcefully trying to stand on tiptoe, one cannot stand steadily; taking strides that are too large, one cannot walk far. Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who insist they are right cannot gain recognition; those who boast have no merit; those who exalt themselves cannot endure. Viewed by the principles of the Dao, these are like leftover food and cumbersome actions. All things tend to detest them, so a person who has the Dao does not act this way.

Stones have no feet yet can stand securely; the wind has no feet yet can keep moving. This is because, as they stand and move, they do not know that they are standing or moving. When the heel lifts off the ground, this is called “standing on tiptoe”; when a stride exceeds its usual length, this is called “overstriding.” One who stands on tiptoe cannot do so for long; one who overstrides cannot walk far. Those in ancient times who studied the Dao surely followed their whole nature. When they encountered things and responded to them, they did not first engage in deliberate thought. Their hands, feet, ears, and eyes naturally followed the heart’s response, without anyone standing by to direct them. If the hands, feet, ears, and eyes all had to think first and act afterward, a person would be at a loss how to behave.

Thus those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who insist they are right cannot gain recognition; those who boast have no merit; and those who exalt themselves cannot endure. This is because their hearts cling to the self. To study the Dao while clinging to the self is like eating more after one is full, or performing an unnecessary action. We eat to fill the belly, and act to get things done. Once we are full, if delicious food is still piled before us, we will only want someone to take it away. If an action does not meet the needs of the matter at hand, then even if one is as scrupulously honest as Zhongzi or as true to one’s word as Weisheng, it will still provoke annoyance. Thus all things tend to detest leftover food and cumbersome actions. A person who has the Dao simply follows the inherent course of things, and so leaves behind neither leftover food nor cumbersome actions.

Chapter Twenty-Five: There Was a Thing Formed in Chaos

There was a single, undivided existence that was already present before Heaven and Earth appeared. It was silent and empty, existing alone, never changing, and moving in a cycle without end. It may be regarded as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I call it “Dao.” For lack of a better name, I call it “Great.” The Great moves without ceasing; moving without ceasing, it extends far; extending far, it returns to its source.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is great. There are four great things in the cosmos, and the king is one of them. People take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao follows what is naturally so.

“Something” means that it truly exists, yet cannot be named with precision. “Formed in a blend” means that it is whole and undivided, untouched by human artifice. It came into being before Heaven and Earth, but no one can see its beginning. Since its beginning cannot be seen, neither can its end be known. Without beginning or end, it exists independently for all time and does not change. Yet though it exists on its own, it is not cut off from the myriad things: it moves everywhere, enters into all things, and is present wherever it goes without coming to harm. All things under Heaven arise from it and continue to be born without end, so it may be called the source of all things under Heaven.

Yet to say it is “independent” does not mean it is isolated; to say it “moves everywhere” does not mean it moves like something with a physical form; and to call it “the mother of all things under Heaven” does not mean it is a physical mother. I do not know its original name, so I provisionally call it the Dao (the Way), and, for want of a better word, call it “great.” To call it “great” is not to say its vastness can take visible form. It is vast and ceaselessly changing, so it is called “passing on.” Though called “passing on,” it does not actually depart; it is everywhere, so it is called “far-reaching.” Though called “far-reaching,” it is fully present in a single thought, so it is called “returning”—that is, going back and coming around again.

The Dao is vast, changing and flowing; it is everywhere and can return to its source. It therefore cannot be defined by size or distance, nor given a precise name. This is what is meant by “Dao.”

When the Dao transforms and gives birth to the myriad things, and Heaven and Earth divide, there come to be the “Four Greats.” In ordinary terms, the greatness of the king is no match for Heaven and Earth, and the greatness of Heaven and Earth is no match for the Dao. Yet here it says, “Among the Four Greats, the king is one,” as though placing the king on a level with the Dao. If a person can regulate joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure within their own body, they can already accord with Heaven and Earth and nurture the myriad things. How much more so the ruler? If the ruler turns to emulate the fundamental principles of the myriad things and puts into practice “people model themselves on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao,” then there is no difficulty in saying that the ruler can be paired with the Dao.

Chapter 26: The Root of Taking Heaviness as Light.

Steadiness is the foundation of haste, and stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, the sage travels all day without leaving his baggage train—the carts carrying his provisions, which also stand for the foundation on which he acts. Even when surrounded by splendid sights, he can dwell among them at ease and remain detached. Why should the ruler of a great state rush about over the affairs of the world? Haste makes him lose the support of his ministers; agitation makes him lose the composure and mastery proper to a ruler.

Haste must in the end return to steadiness, and agitation must in the end return to stillness. Hence it is said that steadiness is the foundation of haste, and stillness is the master of agitation. The sage travels all day without leaving his baggage train. He can go everywhere without forgetting his foundation; he can dwell amid splendid sights and remain detached. He can handle all kinds of affairs without ever forcing things or acting recklessly.

Why does the ruler of a great state fail to grasp the weight of his position and instead busy himself with the world’s petty affairs? Once entangled in trivial matters, he can be held back by any one of them. How, then, can he govern the world? Both haste and agitation become faults, but agitation is especially harmful. Haste has only a shallow hold on the mind and spirit; agitation holds them more deeply. The fault of haste is to treat some things too lightly; the fault of agitation is to unsettle the heart and lose stillness. Thus haste makes the ruler lose the support of his ministers, while agitation makes him lose the mastery proper to a ruler.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Skillful Action Leaves No Trace

Those skilled at walking leave no wheel ruts or footprints. Those skilled at speaking make no slip in their words. Those skilled at planning need no counting rods. Those skilled at closing shut without a bolt, yet no one can open what they have closed. Those skilled at tying need no rope, yet no one can untie what they have bound.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is abandoned. He is always skilled at making use of things, and so nothing is discarded. This is called “embracing the light”—taking up and applying wisdom hidden deep within. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good can also serve as a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor the teacher or value the lesson, then even if one thinks oneself clever, one remains deeply confused. This is the subtle key to the Dao (the Way).

When people act, they leave traces; when they speak, they are bound to make mistakes; when they plan, they cannot do without calculation. When they close something, there must be a bolt and lock; when they tie something, they must use rope. All these leave traces that can be followed, and all can be undone.

Only those who have attained the Dao act without leaving footprints, so they leave no tracks like the ruts of a cart. Their words do not depend on the tongue, so they have no faults. Their plans do not arise from selfish intent, so they require no calculation. They close things without relying on bolts and locks, so nothing can be opened; they bind things without using rope, so nothing can be untied. This is because they take the eternal, unchanging Constant Dao as their foundation and, in applying it, follow its constancy. Thus, there is nothing they cannot handle well.

The Constant Dao belongs to everyone, and all things each receive it in their own way. Since it is called “constant,” there is no more of it in human beings or less of it in the myriad things. Yet although people and things alike possess the Constant Dao, they can lose its original truth. Thus, sages always use “true constancy” to help them. Helping people through true constancy, they abandon no one; treating things through true constancy, they abandon nothing.

Can this be something only sages can do? In fact, people and things alike possess this clear awareness. Sages merely bring forth the clear awareness already within themselves, thereby allowing people to see true constancy. This is why it is called “inheriting illumination” (taking up and bringing forth the awareness one inherently possesses). By attaining this inheriting illumination, one can regard all things equally and return to unity.

People are not inherently and absolutely good or absolutely bad. Thus, a good person can be a teacher to someone who is not good—that is, someone who is not good can also become good. Someone who is not good can also serve as a guide and support to a good person—that is, those who are not good and those who are good share the same innate root of goodness. If one does not respect one’s teacher or learn from the good, and does not value what can serve as a guide, but instead willingly does evil, then however clever one may be, one will only become more lost. Returning to the root and going back to the origin is called the pivotal mystery.

“Knowing the Male” (Chapter Twenty-Eight).

Know what is strong, yet remain steadfast in what is gentle: then you can become the streambed into which all the world’s currents flow. Like a streambed, you stay low and welcome all things. Your constant De will not be lost, and you can return to the pure gentleness of an infant.

Know what is bright and evident, yet remain steadfast in what is dark: then you can become a model for all under Heaven. As such a model, your constant De will not go astray, and you can return to the limitless, undivided source.

Know what is honored, yet remain steadfast in what is disgraced: then you can become the valley of the world. Like a valley, you stay humble and receptive. Your constant De will be abundant, and you can return to uncarved simplicity.

When the uncarved source is divided, it gives rise to all kinds of vessels and things. The sage makes use of them and thereby becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, the greatest making and governing do not fragment the whole.

The firm and active side takes action, while the yielding and still side quietly holds its place. After action, one must return to stillness; the firm ultimately returns to the yielding. Thus one can be empty and receptive like the valley of the world. What is manifest makes people want to know; what is hidden makes them want not to know. Those who know prize not knowing. To know what is manifest yet hold to what is hidden is wisdom; in this way, one can become a model for the world.

Glory is something I give to others; humiliation is something others impose on me. When I give others glory, they can receive it, and they are the ones who benefit. When others humiliate me, I can bear it, and I am the one who benefits. Thus one can be receptive like the valley of the world. Yet where, in the constant nature of the Dao, are there truly distinctions such as firm and yielding, manifest and hidden, glory and humiliation? Neither “knowing” nor “holding to” is constant De.

When the Dao disperses and appears as De, those who cling to De and take up the firm, manifest, and glorious side lose constant De. If they take up the yielding side, constant De will not leave them, and they can return to the childlike state of innocence. If they take up the hidden side, constant De will not deviate, and they can return to the limitless, undifferentiated state. If they accept humiliation, constant De can become complete, and they can return to the uncarved state of original nature. The child, the limitless, and the uncarved all refer to the constant, true Dao. Constant Dao cannot be attained through knowing or holding to it. One must let what can be known and held return to constancy; only then does it accord with the Dao.

When the uncarved disperses, it becomes the various implements. The sage governs and uses these implements through the Dao, without losing the Dao. In this way, they can be used to govern officials. To govern officials means to manage the world as a shared public trust, rather than claiming it as one’s own property. Thus, to hold office without seeking private gain, and to lead without dominating others, is the great way of governing without harming the whole.

Chapter 29: Seeking to Take the World

If one seeks to take the world and govern it, I see that this cannot ultimately be done. The world is a numinous vessel; it cannot be forced into action. Forcing it will ruin it, and insisting on holding it will make it slip away. Among the myriad things, some go ahead and some follow; some breathe gently and others blow forcefully; some are strong and others weak; some carry and others overturn. Therefore, the sage casts aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

The sage takes the Dao as the root. Only when compelled does the sage appear between Heaven and Earth and care for the self. Since the world cannot be at peace without a sage, the sage reluctantly accepts the responsibility of governing it. Yet the sage regards the body as a temporary dwelling and the world as a place entrusted to them for a time. Since it is only held in trust, how could the sage force things to become what they are not, thereby losing the constant Dao?

Those who do not understand the Dao regard the world as something fixed and substantial, and so set about governing it as rulers. They disturb the myriad things through deliberate action and control them with their own will, unaware that their actions may destroy things and their control may harm them.

The myriad things in the world each have their own distinct nature: some are suited to going ahead, others only to following; some can be warmed by blowing on them, while others must be cooled by blowing the heat away; some are strong and robust, others weak and frail; some can bear heavy loads, while others are fragile and easily broken. These differences are inherent in the nature of things. If one insists on forcibly changing and controlling them—making those suited to go ahead follow, those suited to warmth become cool, the strong become weak, and those able to bear weight become fragile—even Heaven could not do so, much less a human being.

The sage follows the natural condition of the myriad things and understands what each can bear. Since their inherent natures cannot be changed at will, the sage does only this: remove what is excessive, extravagant, and extreme. Those able to go ahead, be warm, be strong, or bear weight are kept from excess; those suited to following, coolness, weakness, or fragility are kept from deficiency. This is called using one’s own natural way to help the myriad things preserve their natural condition.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not rely on military force to impose their will or dominate the world, for the use of arms often brings retribution. Where armies have been stationed, thornbushes grow thick; after a great war, famine is sure to follow.

Those skilled in warfare seek only to accomplish what must be accomplished. They dare not use it to assert their strength. Once they have achieved their aim, they do not boast, claim credit, or grow arrogant. They resort to arms only when there is no other choice; they never use them to flaunt their power or pursue victory for its own sake.

When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline into old age. This is called being contrary to the Dao. What is contrary to the Dao will soon perish.

If one kills another’s father, others will come to kill one’s own father; if one kills another’s elder brother, others will come to kill one’s own elder brother. This is the retribution brought on by the use of arms. The harms caused by war are too many to enumerate. Even if one happens to win, the consequences of the killing spirit cannot be undone by the earth’s power to nourish all things or by Heaven’s power to bring harmony to the world. That is why thornbushes cover the places where battles are fought, and famine follows in the wake of armies. We can see from this that even victory in war inevitably brings calamity.

Therefore, those skilled in warfare fight only when they have no other choice. Once they have accomplished what a campaign requires, they stop; they do not use victory to assert their strength. “Accomplish” means that an undertaking does not drag on or continue. Inwardly, they hold to the principle of acting only when there is no other choice; outwardly, their actions are limited to that single campaign. That is why they neither boast nor grow arrogant, show off, or flaunt their strength: they use arms only when forced to.

If one could stop but does not, a prolonged campaign will exhaust the troops and weaken their morale. This is like a person who, after reaching the height of strength, must inevitably grow old: it is contrary to the Dao. If a person who is contrary to the Dao dies before reaching the end of their natural lifespan, how much more so will an army that grows exhausted and declines through prolonged warfare?

“On Fine Weapons,” Chapter 31.

Fine weapons are inauspicious instruments. All things seem to detest them, so a person who has the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; when leading troops, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a gentleman delights in using. He uses them only when there is no other choice. In warfare, calm detachment is best. Even after winning, one should not regard victory as admirable. To celebrate victory is to take pleasure in killing. Anyone who takes pleasure in killing cannot fulfill the aim of bringing peace to the world.

Ceremonies for joyful occasions honor the left, while rites for mourning honor the right. The deputy general stands on the left and the supreme commander on the right, showing that war is treated in the army as a funeral rite. When many people have been killed, one should mourn and lament them; even after victory, the dead should be treated according to the rites of mourning.

Weapons do not deserve praise, yet to praise them is like killing someone who should not be killed. Only those who take no pleasure in killing are fit to speak of warfare. Sun Wu and Wu Qi discussed the art of war, carefully examining the real and the apparent, distinguishing the unusual from the conventional, and explaining these matters in great detail. Yet they may not have understood the underlying principle behind such distinctions. Laozi says, “Calm detachment is best; victory is not to be admired.” At first, speaking of warfare in terms of calm detachment may seem incongruous. But without understanding calm detachment, the mind cannot be still. Stillness is the root of victory; agitation and reckless action are the roots of defeat.

King Xiang of Liang once asked Mencius, “How can the world be brought to peace?” Mencius replied, “When the world is united, it will be at peace.” King Xiang then asked, “Who can unite it?” Mencius said, “One who takes no pleasure in killing can unite the world.” Sadly, King Xiang did not fully grasp the point. If one could truly refrain from taking pleasure in killing, pacifying the world would not be difficult. Since ancient times, those who do not delight in killing have always prospered, while those who delight in it have always fallen. A killer may gain power for a time, but none has held it for long. Thus, even after victory, the gentleman treats the dead according to the rites of mourning. Weapons are inauspicious things, and a person who has the Dao does not rely on them as a means.

“Dao Is Constant and Nameless,” Chapter Thirty-Two.

The Dao originally has no fixed name. The Uncarved Block—untouched by carving and preserving its natural, original state—seems small, yet nothing under heaven dares to take it lightly. If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth join, sweet dew descends. No one commands it to do so, yet it is naturally and evenly distributed.

When things begin to be distinguished and defined, they acquire names. Once names arise, people can recognize these things. But recognizing them does not mean that they only began to exist at that point. The Dao in the world is like the relationship between rivers and streams and the great rivers and seas.

This chapter describes how the Dao and particular things are connected and cycle back and forth. The Dao is constant and nameless; it cannot be seen or touched, yet ordinary people can also experience it. The Uncarved Block may seem small, but nothing under heaven dares to slight it, because those who understand the Dao know that nothing is more worthy of reverence. Though lords and kings hold exalted positions, all things will not submit to them if they cannot hold fast to the Dao. Whether all things submit depends on whether the Dao is upheld, not on the status of those who uphold it.

Heaven and Earth each have their place, and though they differ in height, they can join and bring down sweet dew. No one commands this from behind the scenes; it happens naturally and evenly. This shows that Heaven and Earth are not isolated from one another. The Dao may seem small, but should not be taken lightly; lords and kings may be exalted, but that does not make them more precious; and though Heaven and Earth are distinct, they are not cut off from one another.

The Dao disperses and transforms into all things, each of which has its own name, yet Heaven does not abandon them. All things can stand between Heaven and Earth without declining because Heaven continues to nourish them. Thus, the Dao is not diminished when it disperses and transforms into all things, nor does it dissipate by bringing them into being. It is like the Qi of streams and valleys transforming into clouds and rain, while the waters of rivers and seas nourish the four directions: the Qi of streams and valleys remains connected with that of rivers and seas, and the Qi of rivers and seas remains connected with that of streams and valleys. From the perspective of the Dao, they are in constant cycles of return; viewed only as particular things, however, water and land have different boundaries.

To understand others is cleverness; to know oneself is true wisdom. To overcome others is strength; to restrain oneself is true power. To know contentment is to be rich; to persist in practice is to have resolve. Only by never losing one’s roots can one endure. To die without one’s spirit perishing is what may be called longevity.

Here, “knowing” and “overcoming” mean cleverness and strength when directed toward external things, but wisdom and power when turned inward to examine oneself. Cleverness and strength can easily become empty displays focused on the outside; wisdom and self-cultivation are genuine inner practice. This is also the way into the Dao. People cannot enter the Dao because they cannot see themselves clearly and are instead held in thrall by external things. When the heart is clear, one does not relentlessly pursue what lies outside. When external things no longer disturb the mind, one can gradually restrain their pull. With steady practice over time, one naturally enters the Dao.

People often feel they lack something because they do not know that they are already complete in themselves. The principles of all things are contained within us. To turn the light inward, observe the heart, and understand that what one seeks can be found within oneself is to be rich. Once one knows contentment, one gradually lets go of attachment to external things. If one’s strength is still insufficient and one’s understanding has yet to take root in practice, one must set a firm resolve and strive to put it into action. Seeing the pure root, one gradually returns to the Dao. When the heart is empty and still and one experiences what is real, what one has gained will not waver. It is untouched by the changes of past and present and endures in peace: this is what it means not to lose one’s roots. To regard life and death as the alternation of morning and evening, to live without claiming life as one’s possession, and after death not to believe that all things have vanished—this is called longevity.

The Great Dao flows broadly and is everywhere, reaching through all directions. All things depend on it to grow, yet it refuses nothing and claims nothing as its own. When things are accomplished, it takes no credit. It cherishes and nurtures all things without setting itself up as their ruler. It is ever without desire or seeking, and so may seem small. Yet all things return to it, and because it does not rule them, it may also be called great. The sage never claims greatness for himself; that is why he can accomplish true greatness.

The great Dao flows everywhere, filling heaven, earth, and the four directions. Yet when put into practice, it seems close at hand. Without the Dao, the myriad things could not grow, but the Dao never boasts of this ability. Without the Dao, the myriad things could not come to completion, but the Dao never claims credit for their achievements. Without the Dao, the myriad things could not be nourished, but the Dao never sets itself up as their ruler.

When the Dao is subtle, people cannot discern its beginnings. When it is vast and boundless, it still does not rule the myriad things, though they all turn toward it. The sage is the same: he never considers himself great, yet nothing among the myriad things can surpass him. Precisely because he does not exalt himself, he is able to accomplish true greatness.

Grasp the fundamental principles of the great Dao, and the people of the world will turn toward it. Once they have turned toward it, they will suffer no harm, and the world can be calm, peaceful, and at ease. Pleasant music and tasty food can make travelers stop along the way. But when the Dao reveals itself, it is bland and without flavor. Look for it and you cannot see it; listen for it and you cannot hear it. Yet in its use, it is never exhausted.

When the Dao descends and appears as “forms” (the shapes and signs through which the Dao manifests), the myriad things follow. The foolish follow after things and in the end forget to return to the Great Dao. The wise interact with the myriad things without being harmed by them. The former have lost the Dao and know only to pursue external things; the latter remain at all times in company with the Dao.

Those who walk with the Dao never leave it, wherever they go. Their hearts are therefore calm, peaceful, and open. They become one with the Dao, until the heart is no longer aware of the Dao, and the Dao is no longer separate from the heart. But if one deliberately thinks, “I am knowing the Dao and practicing the Dao,” this instead gives rise to unease, unrest, and a lack of openness.

The sage regards the body and material things as a traveler regards an inn: stopping there for a time, then leaving, without ever becoming attached. If the traveler is tempted by desire and pleasure, they will linger and refuse to go; this can only bring trouble. Thus, though the sage dwells among forms and material things, they grasp the “Great Form” (the fundamental form of the Great Dao) and follow it. Even when engaging with the myriad things, their heart walks with the Dao. They savor the flavorless, see the colorless, hear the soundless, and make use of what is useless. In this way, they can fully bring the Dao’s power to bear within forms and material things. This is why they are calm, peaceful, and open.

Chapter 36: When You Would Draw Something In

If you would draw something in, you must first let it spread open. If you would weaken it, you must first let it grow strong. If you would bring it to ruin, you must first let it flourish. If you would take something from it, you must first give to it. This is called “subtle insight”: seeing the principles of change in things through what is minute. The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong.

Fish cannot leave the deep pool. The state’s instruments of power—its important powers and means of governance—should not be revealed lightly to others.

This is the method by which the sage restrains thoughts and weakens desires. Thoughts come and go without fixed times, and no one knows where they will settle. Trying to suppress them through stillness only makes them more active. The sage knows that thoughts cannot be subdued by force. So, when wishing to make them contract, he first lets them expand; when wishing to weaken them, he first lets them grow stronger; when wishing to put an end to them, he first lets them arise; and when wishing to take away their desires, he first gives them some satisfaction.

Trying to stop restlessness through stillness often fails to bring true calm. One must first follow its course, then eventually bring it back. Seeking stillness through activity means seeing deluded thoughts clearly as they move. When their movement reaches its end, they subside, and true nature appears, returning naturally to quiet. After this, even if one wishes to produce another thought, the mind will not stir. When thoughts no longer arise, the deliberate wish to seek stillness also ceases. This is the sage’s method of gathering in thoughts, weakening the will, and putting an end to desires by first following them and then bringing them back. It is subtle and difficult to perceive, and is therefore called “subtle discernment”—the hidden principle that sees clearly.

This subtle discernment is gentle and weak, yet it can overcome the world’s strongest desires, because it never departs from the “mother of the Dao,” the root of the Dao. To depart from the root of the Dao is like a fish leaving the deep waters. A fish cannot leave the deep waters, and the essential principles by which the Daoist governs the state cannot be displayed indiscriminately to others. If they are shown to people, some may not believe them. Most interpreters of this chapter have failed to follow its original meaning, often mixing in the military strategies of Sunzi and Wu Qi. This is just the sort of fault described in the Book of Odes and the Book of Rites: digging up tombs and stealing their books.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Dao Always Acts Without Action

The Dao always follows its own nature and does not act contrarily, yet nothing is left undone. If rulers can abide by the Dao, the myriad things will transform of themselves. If desire and restlessness arise amid this transformation, I will use the “uncarved block without a name”—the Dao’s original state, unshaped by human artifice and beyond naming—to settle them. The uncarved block without a name will also prevent people from giving rise to further desires. As desires fade and the heart grows quiet, the world will naturally return to order.

The Dao moves from “nonbeing” into “being.” Beginning with the first stirrings of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure, it gradually develops until ritual, music, punishments, and government orders are all in place. If things develop to their utmost without returning to their source, they will keep changing and drift ever farther from the Dao. So when the sage sees that circumstances are about to veer in this direction, they use simplicity to restore stability.

Even when simplicity is used to restore stability, simplicity itself has no fixed name. Yet even the sage, in adopting this nameless simplicity, may gradually begin to take some action, until ritual, music, punishments, and government orders are once again fully established. If things develop to their utmost without returning to their source, change will continue without end, and they will drift ever farther from the Dao. Therefore, when circumstances are about to veer off course, the sage again uses simplicity to restore stability.

Simplicity itself has no name. Even when adopting this nameless simplicity, one should act as though making no deliberate effort. If the mind holds an intention to use simplicity, it is no longer truly simple. Do not engage in deliberate, misguided action; remain still, and the people will naturally come into order.

End of Explanations of the True Meaning of the Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue, Scroll Two

Note: In “Do not be startled by external things, and you will gradually be able to master them,” the character translated as “startled” may be a mistaken form of “preoccupied.”

Explanations of the True Meaning of the Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue, Scroll Three

Explained by the Daoist of Xizhai

Upper Section of the Classic of De

Chapter 38: “The Highest De Does Not Display De”

The highest De (Virtue/Power) does not deliberately display itself as De; for this reason, it truly has De. Lower De is always concerned with not losing De, and so it lacks true De.

The highest De follows its nature and has no aim of deliberate action. Lower De takes action with a clear purpose. The highest benevolence takes action without the deliberate aim of gaining something. The highest righteousness takes action with a clear purpose. The highest ritual takes action, but when it receives no response, it rolls up its sleeves and forcibly demands compliance.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost is De discussed; only after De is lost is benevolence discussed; only after benevolence is lost is righteousness discussed; and only after righteousness is lost is ritual discussed. Ritual means that loyalty and trust have already grown faint, and it is the root from which disorder begins. What is called “foreknowledge”—the clever anticipation and calculation of things—is merely the Dao’s outward splendor, and the beginning of foolishness.

Therefore, the great person grounds themself in what is substantial, not in what is shallow; they value what is real and do not pursue outward splendor. Thus, they set aside the latter and choose the former.

The highest form of De (Virtue) does not deliberately display itself as virtuous. So when benevolence is called for, it acts benevolently of its own accord; when righteousness is called for, it acts righteously of its own accord. It responds to what each situation requires and never clings to a particular way of acting. The lower form of De, by contrast, is always mindful of its own virtue. Benevolence can no longer arise naturally as righteousness, nor righteousness as ritual propriety. Once these are practiced deliberately, they can no longer adapt to changing circumstances.

Thus, the highest De never departs from the Dao (the Way). The Dao usually follows what is natural: it does not act deliberately, nor does it form an intention to do anything in particular. The lower De, however, never departs from De itself. It acts with purpose and leaves traces of deliberate action. The statement that the highest De acts through Wuwei (non-action) refers to benevolence. Benevolence is close to the Dao, which is why it is said, “The human is benevolence” (benevolence is the root of human nature). When benevolence and the Dao are spoken of together, they are called the Dao. Because benevolence is close to the Dao, it too acts without deliberate purpose.

At the next level comes righteousness. Righteousness means what is fitting; when it is used to judge things, action becomes intentional. So long as what is done remains fitting, that action has not gone astray. At the next level comes ritual propriety. Ritual propriety is order, used to regulate things. If others do not respond, but I still insist on regulating them, someone will roll up their sleeves and force the matter. At that point, it can no longer be called the Dao.

In a person, the Dao appears as De; De appears as benevolence; what accords with what is fitting in a given situation is called righteousness; and using righteousness to regulate things is called ritual propriety. Thus, the decline from the Dao to De, from De to benevolence, from benevolence to righteousness, and from righteousness to ritual propriety follows a natural downward progression. Once things have descended step by step from the Dao to ritual propriety, there is little left to praise. Ritual propriety was established only after disorder arose: people differ in age and rank, and without ritual propriety they would fall into disorder, so it was devised as a remedy. But when ritual propriety becomes forced intervention, it too is lost. In this way, ritual propriety can become the beginning of disorder.

Abundant knowledge is not enough to constitute the Dao, because an excess of knowledge unsettles one’s original nature. Knowledge that departs from what is genuine is often superficial and empty. So too much knowledge is the beginning of ignorance. Ritual propriety is what remains after loyalty and trust have weakened; discernment based on what one has seen and heard is merely an outward display by those who seek the Dao. The sage rests in what is deep and substantial and does not pursue what is shallow. The sage values substance and does not demand outward polish, and so never loses the root of the Dao.

In ancient times, each of the myriad things received a portion of the Dao (the Way), their common root, and so each took on its own character: Heaven gained the Dao and became clear and bright; Earth gained the Dao and became still; spirits gained the Dao and became efficacious; valleys gained the Dao and became full; the myriad things gained the Dao and grew; and the lords and kings gained the Dao and became the rightful rulers of all under Heaven. The source of each of these states was the attainment of the Dao.

If Heaven could not remain clear and bright, it would likely collapse; if Earth could not remain still, it would likely quake. If spirits lost their efficacy, they would likely fade away; if valleys were no longer full, they would likely dry up; if the myriad things could not grow, they would likely perish; and if lords and kings lost their honored station, they would likely fall. Honor has lowliness as its root, and high rank rests on a low foundation. That is why lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—all terms of self-effacement. Is this not a way of taking lowliness as their root?

Thus, though many chariots are joined together, they cannot be called a single chariot. A person should not display their brilliance everywhere like a fine jade, nor stand apart, hard and aloof, like a stone.

Confucius said, “My teaching is bound together from beginning to end by a single principle.” What is this “One”? Heaven moves through clarity and purity; Earth bears things through stillness; spirits work through their subtle efficacy; valleys fill through emptiness; all things grow through their vital energy; and lords and kings govern the world through uprightness. When traced to their roots, these principles do not differ. Understand why Heaven is clear and pure, and you will understand why Earth is still. Understand why spirits are subtle and efficacious, and you will understand why valleys are full. Understand why all things grow, and you will understand how lords and kings can govern uprightly.

The Yijing (Classic of Changes) says, “Though people under Heaven take different roads, they ultimately arrive at the same place; though their thoughts are many, the underlying principle is one.” What is there left under Heaven to ponder? This means that the myriad things have never departed from this fundamental One. If you do not understand the One, you separate yourself from the myriad things. Once you take yourself to be different from them, you sever your ties with them. Lords and kings become estranged from the people, and the people, in turn, become estranged from their rulers.

Thus, nobility takes lowliness as its root, and high position rests on what is below. Lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”—all terms of humility. Does this not show that they understand nobility has its roots in lowliness?

A carriage is assembled from parts such as its wheels, canopy, spokes, and axle. Each part has its own name, but the whole carriage cannot be reduced to the name of any one part. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom come together to form the Dao; benevolence and righteousness can each be named, but no single name can express the Dao in its entirety. Rewards and punishments, laws, and decrees come together to form governance; each can be named, but governance itself cannot be summed up in any one name. If one clings to a particular thing and makes its outward form conspicuous, then precious things like jade and cheap things like stone can both be identified and named—and people begin to distinguish between what is noble and what is low.

Chapter 40: Returning Is the Dao’s Movement

Returning to the root is the Dao’s way of moving; weakness and softness are the Dao’s way of acting. All things under Heaven arise from Being, and Being arises from Nonbeing.

Once formed, all things under Heaven appear as Being. But to understand the Dao, one must look back from Being to Nonbeing. Thus, returning to the root is called the Dao’s movement. Everything that exists under Heaven arises from Nonbeing. Things with form tend toward strength and abundance; if they can turn from strength toward weakness, they can gradually draw near to the Dao. Thus, weakness and softness are called the Dao’s way of acting. “Returning” means going from formed things back to Nonbeing; “weakness” means moving from emptiness and softness toward the Dao.

Chapter 41: When the Highest Kind of Person Hears the Dao

Those of the highest capacities hear of the Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle governing the universe, and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling capacities hear of it and seem to remember, yet seem to forget. Those of the lowest capacities hear of it and burst out laughing. If it were not laughed at in this way, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus the ancient masters who set forth teachings said: The bright Dao seems dim; the advancing Dao seems to retreat; the level Dao seems rough. The highest De (Virtue/Power) is humble like a valley. What is most pure white seems stained; abundant De seems insufficient; vigorous De seems indolent; what is most genuine seems to change. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel takes the longest to complete; the loudest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image has no fixed form.

The Dao is hidden and does not show itself, and it has no fixed name. Only the Dao can nourish all things and help them come to fulfillment.

People of the highest capacity hear of the Dao and, even when mocked and disparaged by everyone around them, do not stop diligently seeking it. Those of middling capacity hear of the Dao and, though they cannot wholly refrain from believing in it, cannot dispel their doubts. Those of the lowest capacity hear of the Dao and, even if a sage were to appear again, could not be made to stop laughing. Most people in the world cling to what exists, taking what they can see and touch to be real. Yet now they are told that what exists is not real, and that nonbeing is real. Who could hear this without doubting or laughing? That so few hear of the Dao without laughing is precisely what reveals its extraordinary nature. This is only to be expected; there is no need to find it strange.

The diligence of those of the highest capacity does not come from forcing themselves to be diligent; they are diligent because they have understood something. The laughter of those of the lowest capacity is not deliberate mockery; they laugh because they have understood nothing. Those between the two have not reached the point of diligently seeking the Dao, yet do not go so far as to laugh. They have views of their own, but cannot be sure that what they see is true. So even if one wishes to free them from doubt, it cannot be done.

The ancients used certain sayings to explain the Great Dao. Those who understand the Dao understand it inwardly; their understanding is not an intelligence displayed on the outside. Others cannot see that they understand, so it is said, “Bright Dao seems dim”: one who truly understands the Dao appears not to understand. Those who advance toward the Dao move from within themselves toward it; they are not driven forward by an external force. Others cannot see their progress, so it is said, “Advancing in Dao seems like retreat”: they appear to be falling behind.

The level Great Way is level everywhere. What people each regard as level is only level from their own point of view. So it is said, “The level Way seems ordinary”: the level Great Way appears unremarkable, like ordinary things. The De (Virtue/Power) of the highest kind can contain everything. Even when faced with strange and uncanny things, it regards them all equally. So it is said, “The highest De is like a valley”: it is as broad and open as an empty valley.

True whiteness does not harm one’s nature. As long as one’s nature remains unstained, it is possible to live amid the dust of the world and accord with worldly ways. So it is said, “Great whiteness seems sullied”: purity appears covered in dust. Vast De must be accompanied by expansive understanding. Once understanding is expansive, it cannot be brought to rest, even if one wishes it to be. So it is said, “Vast De seems insufficient”: it appears to be lacking.

“Establishing De” means establishing one’s nature inwardly. Once one’s nature is established, dealings with external things become simple. So it is said, “Established De seems lax”: it appears to be idle. “Unadorned truth” means not being constrained by external things. When one is not ruled by them, one can act in accordance with one’s own heart. So it is said, “Unadorned truth seems to change”: simplicity and truth appear to undergo change.

“The greatest square has no corners”: the greatest squareness has no corner that can be examined. “The greatest vessel is completed late”: the greatest vessel cannot be fully described as either “already complete” or “not yet complete.” “The greatest sound is scarcely heard”: the greatest sound is not one that ordinary hearing can recognize. “The greatest image has no form”: the greatest image cannot be grasped as a concrete shape.

Those of middling and lowest capacity cling to what they see before them. They take the various signs through which the Dao appears and argue about them, treating “seems dim,” “seems like retreat,” “seems ordinary,” “seems sullied,” “seems lax,” and “seems to change” as actual dimness, decline, mediocrity, disgrace, idleness, and alteration. As a result, few refrain from mocking and slighting the Dao.

The Great Dao is nameless by nature, hidden and unseen. Through the generation and transformation of the myriad things, it enables each thing to come to fulfillment. These visible workings are only a small aspect of the Great Dao, not its essential nature. Those of the highest capacity know that the Great Dao is nameless. They do not cling to the various ways it manifests in generating the myriad things, but grasp its vastness; nor do they use those manifestations to discuss the names and appearances of the Dao. Those of middling and lowest capacity seize on the Dao’s visible workings and results, then judge the whole by a part. This is why the more they argue, the farther they stray from the Dao.

The Dao (Way) gives rise to One; One gives rise to Two; Two gives rise to Three; and Three brings forth the myriad things. The myriad things bear Yin (yin) on their backs and embrace Yang (yang); the two currents of Qi (vital energy) converge and blend in harmony.

People dislike the titles “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy one,” yet rulers and nobles use these titles to refer to themselves. Thus, sometimes a thing is diminished and thereby gains; sometimes it is increased and thereby suffers loss.

What others have taught, I too teach to others: those who force their strength and act arrogantly do not meet a good end. I will take this as the foundation of my teaching.

The Dao gives rise to “One.” But in the original state called the Dao, “One” has not yet come into being. Since “One” has not yet arisen, where could there be “Two”? Without “Two,” there can be no division of “One”; this is called “non-duality,” meaning that even “One” has not yet appeared.

Once there is “One,” there is also “Two”; where there is Yang, there is Yin. Yin and Yang coexist and interact, so from “Two” there arises “Three.” With “Three,” all things come into being. All things contain Yang Qi and bear Yin Qi, and through the interaction of Yin and Yang they form a harmonizing Qi. This is what is meant by “Three.” There is nothing that does not contain these three. Yet if we trace them back to their origin, they all ultimately return to the Dao. The Dao is the source in which “One” has not yet arisen. Although all things are born from the Dao, even at the end of their development they have not lost it.

Thus, in the world, sometimes a reduction brings benefit, while an increase brings harm. “Lonely,” “bereft,” and “unworthy”—humble titles that rulers use to refer to themselves, suggesting solitude or a lack of virtue—show that accepting a loss can bring benefit. Things that act arrogantly and flaunt their strength often meet a bad end; this shows that continual increase and expansion bring harm. Loss and gain come from the same source, so diminishing oneself may bring benefit, while constantly adding to oneself may instead bring harm.

The sage never seeks to add to himself, yet refers to himself as “lonely,” “bereft,” or “unworthy.” Perhaps he does so to help people understand that those who act arrogantly and flaunt their strength do not meet a good end. This is what is meant by “What others teach, I teach too.” Perhaps this is also the way the sage responds to worldly affairs: he has no choice but to act in this way.

Chapter 43: The Softest Thing in the World

The softest thing in the world can pass through what is hardest in the world. What has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this I understand that Wuwei (non-action) truly brings benefit. The teaching that uses no words and the benefits brought by Wuwei—few in the world are able to embody them.

The nature of the myriad things is not a real, fixed substance. Hard things are only forms that take shape temporarily; however hard they may become, in the end they must return to nothingness. Now, the softest thing under Heaven can already pass through the hardest things under Heaven. How much more, then, can the formless “Real” dispel the unreality of formed things? Thus, what has no form can enter places without a gap.

What is called “without a gap” means that even when Jing and Qi enter water and fire, or pass into metal and stone, they are not destroyed. Acting without Wuwei means following the Dao; teaching without relying on words means transforming others in accordance with the principles of nature. Nothing can compare with this.

Chapter 44: Which Is Closer, Fame or Life?

Which is closer to you, fame or life? Which is more precious, life or wealth? Which is more harmful, gain or loss? Excessive love is sure to exact a great price; excessive hoarding is sure to bring heavy losses. Know what is enough, and you will not be disgraced; know when to stop, and you will not face danger. In this way, you can endure.

Fame is not as precious as life, and wealth is not as important as life. What one gains often cannot make up for the harm caused by what one loses. Yet people in the world constantly pursue fame, lose themselves in wealth, and cling to what they have gained, because they cannot see the truth of the matter. The more a person loves external things, the more they exhaust themselves; the more they gather around themselves, the more they toil. Such attachment brings shame in small matters and danger in great ones, and may even leave behind endless regret.

The noble person is not like this. They know that the root of the myriad things is already within themselves, and that they can be content by reflecting inward and seeking within, so they do not seek outside. Even if someone tries to disgrace them, they cannot succeed. They know where they should stop: at the Supreme Dao, the highest principle. They therefore do nothing contrary to the Dao, and even if someone tries to force them to do so, they cannot succeed. By consistently keeping to this principle, they can endure.

Chapter 45: Great Perfection Seems Incomplete

The greatest achievement appears to have deficiencies, yet its function never fades. The greatest fullness appears empty, yet its function has no end. The straightest seems crooked, the most skillful seems clumsy, and the most eloquent seems slow of speech. Restlessness can overcome cold; stillness can overcome heat. Clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) are the standard for all under Heaven.

Achievement and deficiency, fullness and emptiness, straightness and crookedness, skill and clumsiness, eloquence and silence are all appearances of things’ external forms. The Dao has no fixed name; if one seeks it only through appearances, it cannot be found. Thus, the great achievement seems deficient, the great fullness seems empty, the straight seems crooked, the skillful seems clumsy, and the eloquent seems slow. This is because the Dao’s achievement does not depend on outward form, its fullness does not depend on a vessel, its straightness does not rely on outward rigidity, its skill does not rely on cunning, and its eloquence does not rely on verbal talent. If people judge the Dao only by outward appearances, they cannot know it.

Those who speak of the Dao in the world often see only one side. Restlessness can overcome cold, but not heat; stillness can overcome heat, but not cold. Each has its limits. Only clarity, stillness, and Wuwei, though they do not deliberately contend with the myriad things, cannot be overcome by anything. Therefore, stillness is the standard for all under Heaven.

Chapter 46: Without Leaving the Doorway

Without leaving the doorway, one can understand all under Heaven; without looking out the window, one can comprehend the Dao of Heaven—the patterns by which Heaven and Earth move. The farther one travels, the less one knows. Therefore, the sage knows without traveling, understands the principles behind things’ names without seeing them firsthand, and brings things to completion without deliberate action.

To go far in search of Heaven and Earth is merely to pursue their outward forms. Their forms cannot be exhausted, but their underlying principles can be understood. Thus, the farther one travels, the less one knows. If one understands that the principles are close at hand, one can remain indoors. The sage knows that principle does not lie in outward forms, so there is no need to travel far; that the principles behind names do not lie in appearances, so there is no need to see them firsthand; and that accomplishment does not depend solely on specific tasks, so there is no need for deliberate action.

Chapter 47: When the World Has the Dao

When the world has the Dao, warhorses are retired and put to work plowing the fields. When the world lacks the Dao, warhorses breed in the suburbs, preparing for battle.

When the world is clear and peaceful, warhorses are sent back to plow fields and carry manure. When the world is in chaos and has lost the Dao, warhorses are born and raised in the countryside, ready at any moment to be sent into battle.

There is no greater fault than stirring up greed, no greater calamity than not knowing when enough is enough, and no greater mistake than being intent on possession. Those who know what is enough and are content with enough will always feel satisfied.

When the world follows the Dao, it can put the armies to work serving the people. When the world has lost the Dao, the people are conscripted into military service. Those who understand the Dao can let form and appearance return to emptiness; those who do not understand it make emptiness appear as material things. Here, “form” refers to things that have shape and can be seen, while “emptiness” means stillness and formlessness.

“Desirable” means giving rise to attachment and grasping; “not knowing what is enough” means covetousness; and “seeking to possess” means being determined to own things. Admiration gives rise to greed and grasping, and greed and grasping give rise to possession. As the desire to possess keeps growing, it brings endless faults. To understand that what one seeks need not be obtained from external things is to know what is enough. Those who know what is enough do not feel that anything is lacking.

Chapter 48: Pursuing Learning Brings Daily Increase

In pursuing learning, one should add something each day; in cultivating the Dao, one should let go of something each day. Keep letting go until reaching Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei is knowing what is enough; those who know what is enough do not feel that anything is lacking.

Learning aims to increase knowledge, hence “daily increase.” Cultivating the Dao aims to remove delusion, hence “daily decrease.” Unless knowledge is fully developed, deluded thoughts cannot be thoroughly removed. Thus, increasing learning is precisely a way of gradually diminishing deluded thoughts. Keep letting go until delusion is dispelled and one’s original nature is revealed: this is reaching Wuwei. Once Wuwei is reached, all actions can accord with nature; they can no longer be measured simply as increase or decrease.

At the level of Wuwei, even gaining the world is like doing nothing deliberately. If one tries to gain the world through deliberate action, one may not even obtain a single thing, much less the world.

Chapter 49: The Sage Has No Fixed Mind

The sage has no fixed, self-serving mind, but takes the people’s minds as their own. When the people are kind, the sage treats them with kindness. When the people are unkind, the sage still treats them with kindness; in this way, Virtue becomes wholly good. When the people are trustworthy, the sage trusts them. When the people are untrustworthy, the sage still treats them with sincerity.

The sage has no fixed opinions of his own, but takes the people’s intentions as his own. He treats the good with kindness, and treats the not good with kindness as well. This is using De to guide people toward goodness. He trusts those who are trustworthy, and trusts those who are not trustworthy as well. This is using De to guide people toward trustworthiness. Among all under Heaven, the sage acts with cautious unease, helping people bring their minds back to an uncarved simplicity. The people focus on what they see and hear; the sage cares for them as one would care for children.

The harm the mind brings to all under Heaven is immense. Zhuangzi says, “No harm is greater than De becoming divided by distinctions, while the mind gives rise to bias.” The mind can enter Heaven and accord with Heaven, enter Earth and accord with Earth; there is nowhere it cannot reach. Yet people take discriminating thought and calculation alone to be the mind. Once this discriminating mind arises, they begin to perceive all manner of things falsely, and so lose their complete nature. This is the harm Zhuang Zhou speaks of.

The sage’s mind is always in accord with the Dao. The Dao is everywhere, and so the sage’s mind is everywhere too; thus it has no fixed thoughts. When the sage engages with the affairs of the world, he knows that people often follow one another in delusion, and therefore gives rise to no preferences or rejections. When others act well, he responds by treating them with kindness; when they do not act well, he responds in the same way. He treats no one under Heaven without kindness. This is called “the goodness of De.” He responds with trust toward those who are trustworthy, and responds with trust toward those who are not. He distrusts no one under Heaven. This is called “the trustworthiness of De.”

The sage is always cautious and concerned, fearing that people under Heaven will be trapped by discriminating thought and bias, insisting on contriving distinctions and making choices, and thereby failing to see things as a whole. So he constantly helps people bring their minds back to an uncarved simplicity. The people take what reaches their eyes and ears to be clear and reliable, not knowing that it may not be genuine clarity. The sage raises and cares for them as one would care for children, so they are not disturbed by this supposed clarity that is in fact mistaken. Could the “lack of clarity” mentioned here be what Buddhism calls “ignorance”?

Chapter Fifty, “At Birth One Enters Life; at Death One Enters Death.”

Life moves from birth toward death. Roughly three tenths belong to the category of life, three tenths to the category of death, and another three tenths are alive yet continually moving toward death. Why is this? Because they pursue the excessive nourishment of life.

It is said that those skilled in nourishing life can walk on land without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter the ranks of an army without being wounded by weapons. The rhinoceros finds nothing to gore, the tiger nowhere to use its claws and teeth, and weapons nowhere to pierce. Why is this? Because such people have not entered a place of death.

Human nature is originally without distinction between life and death. When it appears, it is life; when it draws back and returns, it is death. Whatever is born must die; whatever goes out must come in. This is unavoidable for all things. So when it is said that the rhinoceros finds nothing to gore and weapons nowhere to pierce, why is this? Because that person has not entered a place of death.

Over the course of a person’s life, from youth to adulthood belongs to the category of life; from adulthood to old age, one’s activities gradually move toward death; and from old age until death belongs to the category of death. If life is divided into ten parts, three tenths belong to life, three tenths to death, and another three tenths are alive yet moving toward death. Once people reach adulthood, they are already gradually moving toward death, so only three tenths truly belong to the category of life. From continually moving toward death until entering the category of death, the two together make up six tenths. Why is this? Because they pursue the excessive nourishment of life.

They cherish their own lives alone, without regard for the vitality of all things. They will do anything that can nourish and augment their own lives. The more they excessively nourish life in this way, the faster they move toward death.

Those skilled in nourishing life are different. They know that life has no fixed form. Once they understand this, they do not cling to life, and so there is no death to be attained. Since death cannot be grasped, the rhinoceros has nowhere to gore, the tiger nowhere to use its claws, and weapons nowhere to pierce. Such people are alive, yet do not cling to life; and when they understand not clinging to life, they also understand what “deathlessness” means.

The Dao (the Way) generates all things, and De (Virtue/Power) nourishes them. Through these, all things take on their particular forms and then grow and mature according to their natural momentum. Thus, there is nothing among them that does not honor the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is honored and De cherished not because anyone commands all things to do so, but because it is simply natural.

The Dao generates all things, and De nourishes them, enabling them to grow, develop, and mature while also caring for and protecting them. The Dao and De bring all things into being, yet do not claim them as their own. They act, yet do not rely on their achievements; they guide all things as they grow, yet do not rule them. This is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and formless power of virtue.

Without the Dao, all things could not come into being; without De, they could not be nourished. From taking on form to growing according to their natural momentum, everything has the Dao and De as its foundation. The Dao is honored and De cherished precisely because they reach this state: they do not rely on their own eminence or claim credit for their achievements. They extend their care to all things without intending to control or arrange them. No one commands all things to grow in this way; everything unfolds naturally. All things come into being and are nourished naturally; their growth, development, and maturity, as well as the care and protection they receive, all arise naturally. Therefore, the Dao and De never expect anything in return from all things. They bring all things into being without shirking the effort and give to them without seeking repayment. This is called “Mysterious De.”

Chapter 52: The World Has a Beginning

All things under heaven have a beginning, which may be regarded as the root of the world. Once you know the root, you can understand the things that arise from it. After understanding all things, return to and hold fast to the root; then you will encounter no danger throughout your life.

If you block the openings of the senses and close the gates through which external desires enter, you will not wear yourself out throughout your life. If you indulge your sensory desires and busy yourself chasing after all kinds of affairs, you will be unable to save yourself throughout your life.

To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to weakness is called strength. Use your own light, yet return to inward insight, and leave no opening for misfortune to enter. This is called “Following the Constant,” carrying on and abiding by the enduring Dao.

The Dao is the root of all things, and all things are its offspring. Those in ancient times who attained the Dao could perceive what was subtle and hold fast to weakness. They used their own light, yet returned to inward insight, and brought no misfortune upon themselves. This is called “Following the Constant,” abiding by the enduring Dao.

All things come into being through the Dao, so the Dao is their root; all things are like children born of the Dao. In ancient times, those who had attained the Dao could keep all things from separating from it and experience that the Dao and all things are originally one. All things come from the Dao and have never left it; children are born of their mother and have never left her. Yet people want to abandon all things in search of the Dao, and to abandon the children in search of the mother. By forcing apart what was never separate, they ultimately fail to experience its unity.

If people understand that all things are manifestations of the Dao, and that children come from their mother, and can hold fast to this understanding, they can encounter the source of the Dao wherever they are. This is not difficult. Those who turn away from the Dao and chase only after external things are drawn along by the desires of the senses. “Dui” refers to the apertures; here it means the apertures of the senses. Opening them to satisfy desire unsettles the mind and spirit and depletes Jing and Qi, so that the external things one pursues are lost as well. Therefore, gather in the senses and close the channels through which the mind and spirit race outward. Keep the spirit from being dissipated beyond oneself and let primordial Qi return to its natural state. In this way, child and mother remain together, and the Dao and all things become one.

In ancient times, those who had cultivated themselves to the highest level preserved their own lives and gathered in their senses, keeping the spirit from being dissipated beyond themselves and letting primordial Qi return to its natural state. Thus, they did not separate the Dao from all things. It was by this method that they were able to preserve life.

A person’s vitality depends on not dismissing what is small or neglecting what is subtle. If we value what is small and nurture what is subtle, we can see clearly even the smallest matters, and even the weakest forces can grow strong. Thus it is said: “To see what is subtle is called clarity; to understand the weak is called strength.”

“Clarity” is the root; “radiance” is the function that clarity gives rise to. Primordial clarity is the root. Vision, hearing, perception, and touch, which develop from that root, are all forms of its radiance. The Dao flows from root to branch; learning, by contrast, seeks the root by way of the branches. Thus it is said, “Use its radiance, then return to its clarity.” This is called “inheriting the constant”: receiving and returning to the constant Dao. “The constant” is the root. Clarity naturally gives rise to radiance; now, by returning radiance to clarity, one inherits the constant Dao.

“If I Had Even a Little Understanding” (Chapter 53)

If I had even a little understanding of the Great Dao and walked upon it, my greatest fear would be straying from it. The Great Dao is level and broad, yet the people prefer to take narrow paths. The court and palaces are splendidly maintained, while the fields lie fallow and the granaries stand empty.

If I have gained even a little knowledge that makes me self-important, and set out on the Great Dao, I worry that I may not put the Dao into practice fully enough. The Great Dao is broad and level, yet the people prefer to take shortcuts.

The Dao does not depend on knowledge or cleverness. Clinging to these can easily give rise to misguided thoughts. The true Dao is clear and evident in itself, but this clarity cannot be reached through ordinary knowledge. The Dao’s workings are inexhaustible, so there is no need to worry about putting it into practice fully enough. If one follows the Great Dao with limited knowledge, one becomes anxious: one’s own understanding is limited, while the Dao is boundless, and one fears that one is not doing enough. This is what is meant by “fearing that one has not done enough.”

The Great Dao is level and open, yet the people like to take shortcuts. Their preference for shortcuts shows that they treat knowledge and cleverness as sources of trouble. If one can follow the state of ignorance and Wuwei (non-action), then what one sees and hears can accord with the Dao; the heart and mind become broad and at ease, and life peaceful and contented.

Later generations, however, are different. When the courts are orderly and splendid, it shows that people are busy adorning appearances. When the fields lie neglected, it shows that their inner lives have not been set in order. When the granaries are empty, it shows that their conduct has not been cultivated. People also wear fine clothes to show themselves off, carry sharp swords to intimidate others, and hoard large quantities of food and wealth without restraint. This practice of boasting through luxury and power is called “ostentatious robbery”; it has already strayed far from the Dao.

What is well established at its roots cannot easily be uprooted; what is well guarded cannot easily be lost. Thus the sacrifices made by descendants can continue without interruption. Cultivate the Dao in yourself, and De (Virtue/Power) will become genuine; cultivate it in your family, and De will become abundant; cultivate it in your village, and De will endure; cultivate it in your state, and De will flourish; extend its cultivation throughout the world, and De will prevail everywhere.

Therefore, one can observe oneself through one’s own condition, a family through one family, a village through one village, a state through one state, and the world through the world. How do I know the condition of the world? By means of this way of observing.

Those who achieve success stop once their purpose has been fulfilled; those who devote themselves to pursuing wealth and profit decline and perish when their wealth and profit are exhausted. Only those who establish the Great Dao and embrace De can ensure that their descendants continue to offer sacrifices to them, generation after generation.

The sage cultivates himself through the true Dao, then extends what he has cultivated to his family, his community, his state, and finally all under Heaven. Yet when he observes himself through himself, his concern does not rest on himself alone; when he observes his family through his family, his concern does not rest on one household alone; when he observes his state through his state, his concern does not rest on one state alone; and when he observes all under Heaven through all under Heaven, his concern does not rest on all under Heaven alone. Wherever he is, he observes on the basis of that place.

The Classic of Changes, in the “Guan” hexagram, says: “At the observance of the rite, one first washes one’s hands, but does not yet present the offerings; trustworthiness is thereby made visible.” This means that those in lower positions are transformed when they witness the virtue of those above them. Washing without presenting offerings means that sincerity, rather than offerings, brings about the effect. The transformation ultimately reaches the point described as “those below observe and are transformed.” This is what is meant by “observing all under Heaven through all under Heaven”: the people of the world are transformed, sometimes without any urging, and change can come swiftly.

Chapter 55: Those Who Hold De Deep Within

Those who hold De deep within are like infants. Poisonous insects do not sting them, fierce beasts do not attack them, and birds of prey do not seize them. Their bones are weak and their muscles soft, yet their grip is firm. They know nothing of sexual intercourse, yet their genitals rise naturally: their Jing and Qi are full to the utmost. They can cry all day without making their voices hoarse: Yin and Yang are in perfect harmony. To understand harmony is to understand the constant Dao; to understand the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted. To strive deliberately to increase life instead invites misfortune. To make the mind drive the breath is to force things. When things reach their peak, they grow old; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. To be out of accord with the Dao is to meet an early end.

This chapter says that poisonous insects do not sting, fierce beasts do not attack, and birds of prey do not seize; throughout, it is speaking of infants. Yet people would naturally find it doubtful that these three kinds of animals would not harm an infant. Su Shi once said, “The tiger fears not…” The wording “the tiger fears not” appears incomplete here, so its meaning cannot at present be established with certainty. The chapter ends by saying: “This is called being out of accord with the Dao; to be out of accord with the Dao is to meet an early end.”

Poisonous snakes, fierce beasts, and birds of prey do not harm the newborn child. The passages before and after this one also speak of the newborn child. Yet people naturally find it hard to believe that these three kinds of animals would not harm an infant.

Su Zhe once said that tigers fear those who do not fear them; Su Shi, however, said that he had never seen anyone in the world who was not afraid of tigers. So it is difficult to judge whether this claim is true on that basis alone. There is another story: a woman placed her two children on the sand while she washed clothes by the water. A tiger ran down from the mountain, but the children went on playing freely on the sand. The tiger nudged them with its head, perhaps hoping to frighten them. But the children were too young to understand and saw nothing strange in it, so the tiger eventually went away. Perhaps this is what is meant by saying that fierce beasts do not harm the newborn child.

Why, then, do babies’ hands close naturally even when they are holding nothing? Why does Yang Qi act spontaneously, without being driven by desire? Why can they cry all day without their voices growing hoarse? What brings this about? It is because a baby’s breath is abundant and its Jing is undivided: body and mind are in perfect harmony, and Yang Qi is at its fullest. If people can nourish their Qi until body and mind are in harmony, and preserve that harmony without letting it fade as the body grows strong, this is called “constancy.” Constancy is the way all things are naturally, without human contrivance. To know how to take what is naturally constant as one’s standard is called “clarity.”

Using clarity to recognize and keep to the constant Way makes clarity grow further; this is called “increasing life,” and increasing life is called “good fortune.” When the mind can regulate Qi, and Qi does not in turn control the mind, strength does not depend on anything external to assert itself: this is true strength. Once things become excessively strong, they inevitably grow old and decline. The moment one deliberately sets out to make oneself stronger, one has already lost the state of a newborn child. Mencius said, “A great person is one who does not lose the heart of a newborn child.” To lose that heart is to turn onto a path that goes against the Great Dao. What does not accord with the Dao will quickly decay.

The Chapter on Knowing Oneself and Not Speaking, Chapter Fifty-Six

Those who truly understand the Dao say little; those who speak a great deal often do not truly understand. One must restrain the desires of the senses, close the gates through which the mind and spirit rush outward in pursuit, blunt one’s sharpness, and resolve conflict. Only then can one return to the simple, natural state of a newborn child. Mencius said, “A great person is one who does not lose the heart of a newborn child.” To lose that heart is to go against the Great Dao; what does not accord with the Dao will quickly decay.

Those who understand the great Dao do not say much; those who enjoy grand talk often do not truly understand. Block the openings of the senses, close the gates of desire, blunt the sharp edges, untangle confusion, temper one’s radiance, and become one with the dust of everyday life. This is called “mysterious oneness,” the state of being wholly aligned with the great Dao.

Those who attain mysterious oneness cannot be brought near or kept at a distance; they cannot be made to profit or to suffer harm; they cannot be exalted or debased. For this reason, they become people whom all under Heaven hold in honor.

Everything in the world is like a dream, so few truly understand, and they do not say much: words cannot fully express what they know. Those in darkness, however, take the dream for reality and chatter on endlessly, never leaving the dream. The saying “those who speak much do not know” means that their understanding has not yet reached a deeper level.

“To block the openings” means to be careful with one’s speech and the activity of the senses. “To close the gates” means to quiet the mind and spirit. “To blunt the sharp edges” means to regulate the inner self and draw in one’s sharpness. “To untangle confusion” means to deal with disturbances in the world around us. “To temper one’s radiance” means to draw in one’s own brilliance. “To become one with the dust” means to respond to external things and blend into everyday life. When there is no coming or going, no inner or outer, and no clinging to self or to external things, this is mysterious oneness.

Once one is aligned with all things, one dwells between closeness and distance: one does not rejoice at gain or fear harm, grow proud through honor, or belittle oneself through low status. Ordinary labels cannot fully describe such a person; that is why they become someone whom all under Heaven hold in honor.

Chapter 57: Governing the State with Uprightness

Govern the state by the upright way, command troops through unconventional stratagems, and govern all under Heaven through Wuwei (non-action). How do I know this? From these observations: the more prohibitions there are under Heaven, the poorer the people become; the more weapons people possess, the more disorderly the state becomes; the more people show off their cleverness, the more strange and unusual things arise; the more detailed and explicit the laws and decrees, the more thieves and bandits there are.

Therefore, the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform naturally. When I cherish stillness, the people become upright naturally. When I do not meddle, the people grow prosperous naturally. When I have few desires, the people become simple and genuine naturally.”

I govern the people by the proper way because people naturally have a sense of what is upright; I command armies with unconventional stratagems because warfare depends on adapting to change. If I govern in accord with the world’s natural state of Wuwei (non-action), I can bring peace to the world by leaving things undisturbed. How do I respond to the myriad things? Not by imposing my own subjective will, but simply by following their own circumstances.

The ancient sages could regard the world as a whole and China as a single person because they began by cultivating and ordering their own minds before governing the world. If I impose many prohibitions and taboos, I will inevitably have to build layer upon layer of safeguards. The more safeguards there are, how could the people avoid becoming poor? If I tempt the people with profit, they will compete to pursue it; when everyone chases profit, how could the state avoid falling into disorder? If I flaunt clever techniques before the people, everyone will compete to show off their cleverness, and unusual contrivances will multiply. If I govern the people only through laws and decrees, they will find loopholes in them to advance their own interests. When those above and below deceive one another, how could theft and banditry not increase?

The sage offers the world an example through Wuwei, stillness, leaving things undisturbed, and freedom from desire. The people then respond in their own way. Thus it is said: the people are like grass; when the wind passes over it, the grass naturally bends in the wind’s direction.

“When Government Is Gentle and Restrained,” Chapter 58

When government’s laws and decrees are lenient and understated, the people are simple and sincere. When they are harsh, intricate, and strict, the people instead become more flawed and resentful. Within misfortune, good fortune may lie hidden; within good fortune, misfortune may lie in wait. Who can see where they will ultimately lead? Perhaps it is precisely because government does not interfere too much that change is hard to predict. What is upright may turn strange, and what is good may turn uncanny. People have been lost in this for a long time.

Therefore, the sage is square without wounding others, sharp-edged without harming them, upright without being unrestrained, and bright without showing off.

When government is lenient and does not make excessive demands, the people do not resort to cunning and deceit to deal with those above them, and their customs remain simple and honest. When government is harsh and scrutinizing, as though it seeks to take something from the people at every turn, they try to evade punishment, and their customs become shallow and corrupt.

In the world, calamity and good fortune have always depended on one another and changed into one another. This has long been so. Under lenient rule, rulers do not keep every benefit for themselves, and the people in turn gain something. Under harsh rule, the people suffer losses while rulers imagine themselves to have gained. When one benefits, another is harmed; when one finds good fortune, another meets calamity. This is the natural course of things.

Those who do not understand the Way do not know how to govern rightly. They mistake close scrutiny for wisdom and devote themselves to seeking good fortune by chance. As a result, the right Way turns into clever contrivance, and goodness and good fortune turn into calamity and strange misfortune. People have been caught in confusion for a very long time.