《道德真经传(吕惠卿)》

Your subject, Lü Huiqing, respectfully submits: I have heard that Cook Ding, skillfully wielding his knife as he butchered an ox, came to understand the principles of nourishing life from Lord Wenhui; and that Wheelwright Bian once set down his chisel and spoke to Duke Huan of Qi about reading. When the mind is single and undistracted, the Way may perhaps become clear.

Your subject bows his head in fear. I humbly believe that the Great Way of governing all under Heaven has been damaged by false cleverness, and that living beings have consequently lost their original nature. Thus the Realized Ones—those who have awakened to the Great Way—appeared to clarify the highest teachings. They traced the roots of the Dao and De, grounding their teachings in ancient texts. The Zhuangzi says that Zhuang Zhou traced the ideal society “where the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs can be heard” back to the time before Shennong. The Liezi calls “the Valley Spirit that never dies” a work of the Yellow Emperor. Examined closely, these subtle teachings contain profound principles: they are indistinct and elusive, unseen by the eye and unheard by the ear. They are not confined by past or present—who can know where they begin or where they end?

When people lose the Great Way, they grow ever more distant from it. Treasures may lie hidden deep in the mountains, unknown to people; but when one understands the Great Way, it comes without being summoned. It is like the Yellow Emperor’s search for the Dark Pearl, which was ultimately found by Xiang Wang, a symbol of seeking without clever contrivance. The Yellow Emperor’s journey to the land of Huaxu and Emperor Yao’s ascent of Mount Gushe were both experiences of reaching the highest state and entering tranquility. Their purpose is no different from that of this book.

After learning from Gai Gong, Cao Can governed Qi; Emperor Wen of Han received instruction in the Laozi from the Old Man of the Yellow River and honored this book as the foundation of Han governance. Even understanding only its more accessible teachings brings one close to peace and prosperity. Yet worldly scholars do not understand the true meaning of the Great Way. They see only that the words of this book differ from those of the Book of Odes and the Book of Documents, unaware that it points to the foundations on which the ancient sage kings governed.

Thus, when they hear “do not esteem the worthy,” they think it means casting worthy people out into the wilderness and refusing to employ them. When they hear “do not value goods that are hard to obtain,” they think it means throwing possessions on the ground and making no use of them. When they hear “abandon learning and be free of worry,” they claim it means living like animals, without learning. When they hear “abandon sagehood and discard wisdom,” they assume it means returning to an ancient age with no laws or standards. They do not know that the depths of the human spirit are naturally clear, like a bright eye: even a speck of gold dust in the eye can obscure its radiance. Therefore, one must let go of distinctions between good and evil and attain a state of emptiness, stillness, harmony, and calm. These principles are difficult to measure by ordinary feelings; they are precisely what confound those attached to cleverness and contrivance.

I have therefore included these teachings, which accord with the Way of the sages, among the finest of the various schools of thought. I have explained this subtle learning in the hope that it may accord with the Way of the utmost spirit.

Your Majesty, the emperor, was endowed with a supremely refined true nature and entered the world as sovereign and teacher. You have also put into practice in government the remnants of the Great Way at its root. You have ordered the affairs of state and acted with comprehensive care, removing abuses so that the four quarters now submit in trust. Now you are about to unite your mind in nourishing the spirit and regulating the body, free yourself from the burdens of governing the myriad things and attending only to your own person, and deepen your roots in order to advance toward long life and enduring vision. May all under Heaven enter a realm like Huaxu and behold the spirit beings of Mount Gushe. Your Majesty has penetrated the utmost reaches of the Great Way, and the time is right.

Your subject is dull by nature and has endured many troubles throughout his life. I have often pondered how to attain full awakening and be free of deliberate effort. I have examined widely the myriad forms in which things appear, and have continually reduced my scattered thoughts, hoping to return to undivided wholeness. I studied for many years and still felt that time was too short. In my later years, while reading this book, I suddenly seemed to grasp something: within activity one can return to stillness; the myriad things grow in profusion, yet in the end all return to their root. When the murky becomes clear, one can see light in the depths of darkness. I therefore set down my understanding in writing. Though I find it a comfort to myself, I do not know whether it is sound.

I humbly believe that the still insight of the Perfected One can indeed serve as a standard for scholars. I therefore venture to present this work and ask that its merits and shortcomings be judged. When the dragon disperses among the clouds, it is naturally difficult to know how it ascends to Heaven; the horse, through its single-minded skill, comes to understand the principles of things—this too shows that concentration can help one discern the Great Way. If a single sentence of my writing can benefit the Way of the sages, I would not hesitate to die ten thousand times for it.

Your subject has composed the four-volume Commentary on the Laozi’s Dao De Jing and respectfully presents it with this memorial. Your subject, Lü Huiqing, bows his head in fear and respectfully submits this petition.

In the first month of the first year of Yuanfeng, Lü Huiqing submitted a memorial. He was Academician of the Zizheng Hall, Grand Master for Consultation, Pacification Commissioner for Dingzhou Circuit, Commander-in-Chief of the Foot and Cavalry Forces and concurrently Prefect of Dingzhou, Commissioner for Encouraging Agriculture within the jurisdiction, Senior Commandant of the Light Chariot, and Founding Earl of Dongping County, with an allotment of eight hundred households.

Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De, Volume One. Commentary by Lü Huiqing, Academician of the Zizheng Hall.

Chapter One: The Dao That Can Be Spoken

The Dao that can be explained in words is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be spoken is not the eternal name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named becomes the source from which the myriad things grow. Always remain without desire, and you can perceive the Dao’s subtlety; always have desire, and you can observe its manifestations.

These two states, without desire and with desire, both emerge from the Dao, yet bear different names. Together they may be called profound and mysterious. Within the mysterious lies still more mystery: the gateway to all wonders.

The explanation says: Anything in the world called the “Dao” that can be expressed in words is not the truly constant Dao, because it will decay with time. Anything in the world called a “name” that can be defined in words is not a truly constant name, because it will change and disappear.

All things flourish and grow, then each eventually returns to its root. This is called “stillness.” To become still is to return to one’s nature; this is called “returning to one’s destiny.” Returning to one’s nature is constancy. When cultivation of the Dao reaches the state of constancy, the mind and spirit become settled, the burdens of bodily existence fall away, and even the distinction between oneself and external things is forgotten. How could such a person remain attached to putting the Dao into words or naming things? The constant Dao, then, cannot be spoken of. The Jing says, “The Dao endures; the body is not endangered,” meaning that the Dao can endure and that the cultivator can likewise avoid danger. The constant name cannot be named; thus it is said that it has never vanished, from ancient times to the present. To endure without danger, and to remain unnamed without vanishing: this is the constant Dao.

The constant Dao has no fixed name. The nameless Dao is the source from which Heaven and Earth begin; hence the saying, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” At the beginning of time, even “nonbeing” had not yet come into existence; yet one may still speak of a nameless source. If even “nonbeing” had not taken shape, there could be no talk of “the One”; only with the nameless source does the One begin. At this point, the One exists, but it has no concrete form. Once it is called “the One,” though formless, it already has a name. Calling it “the One” creates one distinction; the one who names it and the thing being named create another. Together these make three, from which the myriad things arise in profusion. Thus, once there are names, they become the mother of the myriad things.

To know the constant Dao is called “illumination”; through illumination, one can see things clearly. Only by grasping constancy, therefore, can one observe the myriad things. When there is no desire, the inner mind is clear and pure, able to discern the subtle without error; through this, one can observe the Dao’s subtlety. Hence the saying, “Constantly without desire, one can perceive the subtle.” When there is desire, the myriad things emerge and flourish; through this, one can observe where things return. All things return to the Dao, yet no one knows what governs it, so the Dao may also be called “great.” Through the “subtle,” one sees what is fine and hidden; through the “great,” one sees vast transformation. These two ways of observing have the same source, though they bear different names. Their names differ, but their substance does not. Whether one follows desire or is free of desire, tracing each back to its origin reveals no different source. Their origin is therefore the same, and is called “mysterious.”

“Mysterious” is like a deep black color, and also conveys the idea that it shares a single root with red. The sky is deep and shadowy; Yin and Yang, too, arise from the One. Names emerge from the mysterious, and desire and freedom from desire also return to the One. Returning to the One is certainly subtle, but seeing only the One does not yet reveal the subtlety of the many things; seeing only oneself does not yet reveal the subtlety of external things. Go further, entering the state of “mystery upon mystery,” and even the idea that all things are “one” is no longer held onto. Once one is no longer attached to sameness, the subtlety of one and many, of self and external things, can all become apparent. The subtlety of the myriad things emerges from here. Hence the saying: “Mystery upon mystery, the gateway to all subtlety.”

When people throughout the world know what beauty is, ugliness appears; when they know what goodness is, what is not good appears alongside it. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy complement each other; long and short reveal their difference through comparison; high and low set each other off; sounds answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. When the myriad things arise, the sage does not interfere. The sage nurtures them without claiming ownership, acts without relying on personal merit, and completes the work without claiming its honor. Precisely because the sage does not claim credit, the achievement does not vanish.

The text says: When people throughout the world know what counts as beautiful, they pursue beauty; when they know what counts as good, they pursue goodness; and when they know what is ugly and bad, they reject it. Yet from the standpoint of deviation from the Dao (the Way), even beauty and goodness have departed from the Dao. From the standpoint that all things emerge from the Dao, even what is ugly and bad lies outside nothing. Since people reject what is ugly and bad, beauty appears in contrast to ugliness, and goodness appears in contrast to badness. Could this be mere empty talk?

All things under Heaven are born from “being,” and “being” is born from “nonbeing.” This is called the mutual arising of being and nonbeing. Difficult tasks begin with what is easy; what is called easy is defined in relation to what is difficult, so there is no difficulty in an absolute sense. This is called the mutual completion of difficulty and ease. Only by taking the crane’s long legs as a point of reference can the rabbit’s short legs be seen as short; only by taking the rabbit’s short legs as a point of reference can the crane’s long legs be seen as long. This is called the mutual comparison of long and short. If the high is held in esteem, then the valleys seem like the source of streams and ditches, and what is high inclines toward what is low. If the low is held in esteem, then rivers and ditches become places where the valleys gather, and what is low inclines toward what is high. This is called the mutual dependence of high and low. When the Yellow Bell, the standard pitch in ancient Chinese music, holds the leading place, the other pitches harmonize with it; when another pitch takes the lead, the Yellow Bell harmonizes with it. This is called the mutual coordination of notes and sounds. Seen from autumn and winter, spring and summer come first, and autumn and winter follow; seen from spring and summer, autumn and winter come first, and spring and summer follow. This is called the mutual following of what comes before and after.

When these six relationships accord with the time and suit the circumstances, people throughout the world call them beautiful and good. When they do not accord with the time or suit the circumstances, people call them ugly and bad. How could people truly know what absolute beauty and goodness are? Beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness, merely alternate and wax and wane. How could they remain fixed forever?

The sage understands this and follows the constant Dao in dealing with things, allowing them to come to completion through Wuwei (non-action). The sage follows the constant Dao in teaching, allowing the teaching to become apparent without relying on words. Acting through Wuwei means being active throughout the day without clinging to the idea that one is acting. Teaching without words means speaking throughout the day without clinging to the idea that one is preaching. Faced with beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness, why would the sage deliberately favor one side?

At this point, one can move freely through the mysteries wherever one may be. When the myriad things arise, the sage does not cling to the idea of who caused them to arise or grow, nor to the idea of who is acting. Though the myriad things arise, the sage does not cling to “arising”; though they grow, the sage does not cling to “growing”; though action takes place, the sage does not cling to “acting.” The sage neither clings to a title nor claims credit, and relies on nothing. This is completing the work without dwelling on it. If one claims the credit as one’s own, there will come a time when it is lost. If one does not claim it inwardly, what is there to lose?

If so-called worthy and capable people are not held up for admiration, the people will not compete to outdo one another. If rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not steal. If things that stir desire are not put on display, people’s hearts will not be disturbed. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, he keeps the people’s minds empty and calm and their food and clothing sufficient, weakens their urge to outdo one another, and strengthens their bodies. He regularly reduces the people’s clever schemes and acquisitive desires, so that even those who think themselves wise dare not act recklessly. Govern by the principle of Wuwei (non-action), and there will be nothing in the world that cannot be governed well.

The Commentary says: The sage understands that whatever is beautiful always has an ugly aspect, and that good is always accompanied by what is not good; so he does not cling to these distinctions in his heart. Even when the world has many noble titles, he appoints people according to circumstances and does not deliberately exalt the worthy. Even when the world’s wealth is gathered together, it is used to provide for those of benevolent virtue; rare goods are not treated as treasures. People struggle with one another because they compete over who is more worthy and capable. Once they understand that the ruler does not especially esteem the worthy and capable, they will not fight. Thus it is said that promoting the worthy only causes people to contend with one another. People steal because they covet gain. Once they understand that the ruler does not prize possessions, they will not steal. Thus it is said that if the ruler himself has no cravings, people will not steal even when goods are placed before them.

The noble person seeks a reputation for worthiness; the petty person seeks material goods. If neither of these things that stir desire is put on display, people’s hearts will not be thrown into disorder. Not honoring the worthy, however, does not mean leaving talented people among the common people without appointing them. Nor does not prizing rare goods mean leaving them on the ground without gathering them up. It simply means not clinging to them inwardly and not outwardly showing signs of pursuing them.

Therefore, when the sage governs the world, he keeps the people’s minds empty and calm and their bellies full, weakens their urge to outdo one another, and strengthens their bodies. According to Daoist practices for nourishing life, the heart stores Shen (spirit), and the abdomen is where the heart’s Shen resides in peace. When the heart is empty and calm, Shen is not depleted, and the abdomen is settled and full. The kidneys store intention, and the bones are nourished by kidney Qi (vital energy). When intention does not stir recklessly, Jing (essence) and Qi do not scatter, and the bones grow strong. When the heart is calm and the abdomen full, the people have fewer clever schemes; when intention does not stir recklessly and the bones are strong, they have fewer acquisitive desires. Clever people understand that the ruler does not especially esteem a reputation for worthiness, and does not prize material goods. They see that reckless action brings no benefit, and so dare not act rashly. In this way, those who govern act through Wuwei, and there is naturally nothing in the world that cannot be governed well.

The Dao (the Way) is empty, yet its workings are inexhaustible. It seems to wear down sharp edges and keep things from overflowing. It is deep and mysterious, as though it were the source of all things. It wears down sharp edges, untangles confusion, softens its radiance, and mingles with the dust of the world. Profound and seemingly inactive, it nevertheless appears to be always present. I do not know where it comes from; its image seems to precede even the heavenly ruler.

All things carry Yin (the receptive, yielding force) on their backs and embrace Yang (the active, firm force); they let the two Qi (vital energies) blend and harmonize. This blending and harmonizing is called “the Receptive.” Yin symbolizes emptiness, while Yang symbolizes fullness. The Dao (the Way) is empty in its essence, though its workings do not always become full. Because its essence is empty, whether there is desire or no desire, both are equally deep and mysterious. Because its workings do not seek fullness, one should keep the heart-mind empty and lessen desire, so that the people remain simple and are not led astray by knowledge and desire.

For this reason, the Dao is deep and far-reaching, as if it were the source of all things. Yet if we ask exactly what source it is, we cannot grasp it with certainty; we can only say that it is “as if” this were so. How, then, can we experience the Great Dao? We should draw in our sharp edges, resolve our entanglements, temper our radiance, and blend with the world. When the heart-mind actively pursues things outwardly, sharp edges arise; we should draw them in and not let them drive us. When external things arrive and meet the heart-mind, entanglements form; we should resolve them and not let the heart-mind be disturbed.

When sharp edges are drawn in and entanglements resolved, the clear insight that apprehends the constant Dao will appear, like the natural radiance of the sky. What is called “radiance” lies beyond the dusty world, yet does not dazzle; so we should harmonize with it without deliberately setting ourselves apart. What is called “dust” lies within the light, yet is not dim; so we should blend with it without deliberately rejecting it. When this is done, the so-called source of all things becomes clear and profound, as if it were there.

“Deep” means far-reaching; “clear” means limpid. “Sometimes it is not full” does not mean that it is fixed in a state of emptiness; “as if it exists” does not mean that it exists in a fixed way. I hold no fixed view about emptiness and fullness, existence and extinction—how, then, could I know where it came from? I see only that it gave rise to Heaven and Earth, the spirits, and the emperors. So I say: “I do not know whose descendant it is; it seems to have preceded the Celestial Emperor.” If one clings to the self, to knowledge, or to the question “who,” the Great Dao disappears. Not knowing “who” means not clinging to the self. This is the true source from which the Dao arises. The Dao showed its signs before Heaven and Earth took shape, and became the beginning before the spirits and emperors; thus we know it precedes all things with form and substance.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Humane

Heaven and Earth have no partial love; they treat all things like straw dogs used in ritual sacrifice. The sage, too, has no partial love; he treats the people like straw dogs. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty, yet never exhausted; the more it is worked, the more air flows out. Too much talk often leads to exhaustion. Better to hold fast to the centered state within.

The Commentary says: “The Dao was deep and unfathomable before the heavenly sovereign and the myriad forms appeared; people do not know where it came from.” Since this is so, how could those who realize and follow the Dao be summed up by the word “benevolence”? Benevolence is merely one expression of the human heart. Heaven and Earth embody the Dao. They need not deliberately practice benevolence, yet they treat all things like straw dogs used in ritual sacrifice. The sage, too, realizes the Dao and need not deliberately practice benevolence, yet treats the people like straw dogs. A straw dog is something that requires no special care or favor. All things are one with Heaven and Earth, just as the people are one with the sage. Heaven and Earth and the sage regard even themselves as straw dogs, and so naturally regard all things and the people in the same way. Yet they still let all things grow and nourish them, and let the people each find their own life. Why, then, would they need to proclaim their benevolence? It is precisely by not deliberately practicing benevolence that they embody the greatest benevolence.

The space between Heaven and Earth is indeed like a bellows. Because it is hollow, the bellows does not run dry; the more it is worked, the more air keeps pouring out. Thus, when one who embodies the Dao speaks, speech arises from silence. To be able to “speak without speaking” is to understand “acting without acting.” Speech takes form in sound, while action takes form in deeds, but the two are in fact one and the same, since both speech and action have the same root. If one does not understand this, speech cannot arise from silence. And once it cannot arise from silence, it is unlike the bellows, whose emptiness allows it to keep working. Then it is no surprise that the more one speaks, the more easily one reaches a dead end.

Confucius said, “Who is there nowadays who sings?” Understand this saying, and one will know that speech should arise from silence. Anyone can do this, yet people often fail because their minds cling either to “being” or to “nonbeing,” either to taking or to rejecting. As a result, they cannot align themselves properly with the Dao. To cling neither to being nor to nonbeing, neither to taking nor to rejecting, is to align oneself with the Dao. This is called “holding to the center”: keeping to a centered, balanced state without leaning to either side. By holding to the center continuously, one can understand why speech arises. Therefore, rather than speaking so much that one reaches a dead end, it is better to devote oneself to holding to the center.

Thus it is said: “The human heart is unsettled; the Dao heart is subtle. Be discerning and single-minded, and truly hold fast to the center.” The human heart is easily shaken, while the Dao heart is subtle and hard to discern. Only through focused sincerity can one truly hold fast to the centered state.

The Valley Spirit never fades or dies; this is called the Mysterious Female, the deep source capable of nurturing all things. The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven, Earth, and all things. It extends without end, seeming to exist; people can draw upon it without becoming weary.

The Commentary explains: “Valley” refers to something with form. Having received the One, the root of the Dao, it can be empty and contain all things. “Spirit” refers to something without form. Having also received the One, it can be still and numinous. If people can keep their inner center and attain the Dao, they can make the body with form empty and still like a valley, and the mind and spirit without form quiet and numinous. When form and formlessness unite in this way, one can become deathless.

The cultivation method spoken of by the ancients is to unite the body with the mind, the mind with Qi, Qi with Shen, and Shen with emptiness. This teaching is correct. Through union one can become deathless; the deathless are no longer bound by the cycle of birth and death. Those who transcend life and death can become the source from which all things continually come to life. This is called the Mysterious Female. “Mysterious” refers to the union of being and nonbeing; “female” refers to the capacity to nurture and give birth. Thus it is said: “The Valley Spirit never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female.” The Dao gives birth to Heaven and Earth through this very source, so it is said: “The gateway of the Mysterious Female is called the root of Heaven and Earth.”

If we say it does not exist, it extends without end and has never been extinguished. If we say it exists, where can we see it? We can only say that it seems to exist. It appears to vanish, yet is not severed; it seems to exist, yet cannot be grasped as a concrete thing. When drawing upon it and keeping to it, one need not apply the mind deliberately; one need only follow it and unite with it. How could one then grow weary?

Chapter Seven: Heaven Endures and Earth Lasts

Heaven endures and Earth lasts. Heaven and Earth can endure and last because they do not live for themselves; therefore, they can continue their course for a long time. For this reason, the sage puts himself last, yet comes to stand before others; sets aside his own interests, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish intent? Thus, in the end, he fulfills himself.

The Commentary explains: Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves, so they can endure and last. The sage puts himself last, yet comes to stand before others; does not place his own interests first, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish intent? Thus, in the end, he fulfills himself.

The commentary explains that “long” and “short” refer to bodily form, while “lasting” and “near” refer to time. Heaven moves according to time, so it is called “long”; Earth operates according to bodily form, so it is called “lasting.” The source of Heaven and Earth comes from the “Mysterious Female” (the wondrous mother), which is founded upon the “deathless Valley Spirit.” The Valley Spirit symbolizes the Dao, empty yet able to give life and nourishment to all things. It does not die or perish, nor does it fall within the ordinary meaning of life and death, yet it enables all things to flourish without end.

Earth can endure because it does not live for itself. Precisely because it does not selfishly manage its own existence, it is able to last—just like the Valley Spirit. Would a sage regard himself as a burden? He follows the course of events when circumstances leave no choice, and no one can stop him. Hence the saying, “By placing himself behind, he comes to the fore.” He establishes himself in a state of nonattachment, so external things cannot harm him. Hence the saying, “By keeping himself apart, he is able to preserve himself.” The body belongs to oneself; by not putting oneself first and not clinging to oneself, one can be impartial and free of selfishness. Precisely because he is selfless, he is able to fulfill himself.

Chapter Eight: Supreme Goodness Is Like Water

The highest goodness is like water. Water nourishes all things without competing with them. It dwells in low places that people all despise, and so it is closest to the Dao (the Way). In choosing a dwelling, it is good at finding low and peaceful places; in the heart, it is good at remaining deep and calm; in relating to others, it is good at showing kindness; in speech, it is good at keeping faith; in governing affairs, it is good at bringing order; in its work, it is good at making full use of its abilities; in action, it is good at seizing the right moment. Because it does not contend, it incurs neither fault nor blame.

The Commentary says: “The alternating movement of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; to continue and accord with this movement is goodness.” The word “continue” implies that one has already become separate from the Dao, so this cannot be considered the Dao itself. “Highest goodness” is the goodness embodied by the Dao. It is not the kind of goodness commonly recognized in the world, where goodness is treated as goodness. For this reason, it is like water.

Water excels at nourishing all things, yet does not contend with them. It settles in low places that people dislike. The highest goodness is like this. To achieve this is not yet to be said to accord fully with the Dao, but it is already close to it. The rivers and seas become gathering places for countless streams because they willingly stay low. Thus, choose low-lying places for your dwelling; let your heart be as deep as an abyss; give generously and without exhaustion; keep your word when you speak; bring order to governance; make the most of your abilities in your work; and act at the right time.

Water flows through dangerous places without losing its nature. Its source runs day and night without stopping. When it meets a hollow, it fills it before flowing onward. In general, water is characterized by not contending, and its willingness to stay low is its foundation. Thus it is said: “Precisely because it does not contend, no one in the world can contend with it, and so it invites no fault.”

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding a vessel until it overflows is not as good as stopping in time. Sharpen a blade too keenly, and it will not stay sharp for long. No one can keep a hall filled with gold and jade for long. Pride after attaining wealth and rank brings misfortune upon oneself. To withdraw in time once one’s achievements are complete and one’s name has become prominent accords with the Way of Heaven.

The commentary explains that one holds something in the hand to keep it from slipping away. But if one also tries to fill it to the brim, it is more likely to overflow. So rather than insisting on filling it completely, it is better to know when to stop. One examines and shapes an object to prevent it from having flaws; if one sharpens it too much, it is more likely to be damaged. To preserve something for a long time, do not pursue perfection without restraint.

Only when vessels are full without overflowing can wealth be preserved for a long time. If one insists on having everything in abundance, no one can keep it safe, even when halls are piled high with gold and jade. Only by holding high rank without falling into danger can one retain honor for a long time. If one hones oneself until one’s edges are exposed, then grows arrogant after becoming wealthy and honored, misfortune will follow.

How, then, can such misfortune be avoided? Simply by following the Dao of Heaven. To withdraw once one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has spread is the Dao of Heaven. This may seem selfless, yet it enables one to fulfill oneself. The border official in the time of Yao urged him to step back and live humbly; perhaps he was speaking of following the Dao of Heaven.

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Soul and Spirit

Can you keep the soul and spirit attached to the body and joined as one, without letting them separate? Can you focus your Qi and make body and mind supple like an infant’s? Can you wash away distracting thoughts and make the depths of your heart clear and unblemished? Can you care for the people and govern the state without interfering recklessly? Can you be yielding and humble, like the female? Can you see clearly in all directions without priding yourself on your intelligence or showing off your knowledge?

To give life to and nourish the myriad things without claiming them, to act and bestow benefits without taking credit, and to let the myriad things grow without ruling over them—this is called “Mysterious De” (profound and hidden Virtue).

The commentary explains that people have long been attached to themselves. It is truly difficult to step back, live humbly, follow the Dao of Heaven, and avoid becoming entangled in fame and achievement. Yet there is a way. From the moment they are born, people grow naturally: they give life and nourish without claiming ownership, act without taking credit, and help things grow without ruling over them. This is “Mysterious De.”

Lü Huiqing explains: A person has been bound to their own body for a long time. It is indeed difficult to let go of attachment to oneself, perceive the Dao of Heaven, and remain free from the burden of fame and achievement. Yet there is a way.

When a person first begins to take shape, the Po (the vital energy associated with the physical body) arises first. The Po joins with Jing and rests in stillness. Once the Po has formed, the Yang energy is called the Hun (the vital energy associated with mental activity). The Hun moves in communion with Shen, while the Po comes and goes alongside the essence-energy. A gap then opens between the Po and Jing: they can no longer remain wholly devoted to one another or unite as before.

“Carrying” means moving in a cycle, again and again; “nourishing” means encompassing everything, with no gaps. Though a person may have fully grown, if they can still keep the Hun and Po settled together, hold fast to oneness, and remain inwardly clear and calm, following things as they naturally unfold, they can return to the state of life’s beginning and cease to be scattered. They will then be single-minded and undivided, gentle and free of resistance, like an infant. Like an infant, they can wash away sorrow, regret, and error, and with a deep, clear mind observe the subtle transformations of all things. They will notice the faintest stirrings as soon as they arise, and so avoid making mistakes.

If one cultivates the mind in this way, then even in caring for the people and governing the state, one can remain single-minded and gentle, without letting affairs of government burden the heart. In this way, one can practice Wuwei (non-action). Inwardly, one can cleanse away distracting thoughts, perceive what is subtle, and avoid error; outwardly, one can care for the people and govern the state in accord with what is natural. Then one can respond to the opening and closing transformations of Heaven’s gate and remain yielding and in a lowly position. Without deliberately welcoming or sending things away, one simply responds to each situation and does not let it linger in the mind. One can thus see clearly and understand fully, yet remain unattached to knowledge produced by human effort. To reach “unknowing” is to have true knowledge. This is the state in which one appears human outwardly but inwardly accords with the Dao of Heaven. How, then, could one be burdened by fame and achievement?

Let all things grow and be nourished without claiming them as one’s own; act without priding oneself on one’s achievements; bring things to maturity without ruling over them. This is what it means to accord with the Dao of Heaven. “Mysterious De” (profound Virtue) means nothing else: it refers to the De of Heaven.

Thirty spokes converge at a single hub. It is the empty space at the hub’s center that allows the wheel to turn. Clay is kneaded into a vessel; it is the empty space inside that allows the vessel to hold things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; it is the space within that makes the house fit to live in. The solid parts of patterns and objects provide convenience, but it is the empty space within them that does the real work.

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel—the hollow center that holds the axle. It is precisely because the hub is hollow that the wheel can serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded into vessels, and it is precisely because they are hollow that they can hold things. Doors and windows are cut into a house, and it is precisely because there is empty space inside that people can live there. Thus, solid forms provide convenience, while empty space makes their practical use possible.

The Commentary explains: a carriage is for riding, a vessel is for use, and a house is for living in. When people ride in a carriage, they see what the carriage can do; when they use a vessel, they see what the vessel can do; when they live in a house, they see what the house can do. These uses always depend on the empty space within. Yet when it comes to themselves, people do not understand what enables them to function. Why is this?

Solid forms, then, provide convenience, while emptiness enables them to serve their purpose. If people value only what is solid and fail to understand the function of emptiness, the convenience they seek will be useless. If they value only emptiness and disregard the existence of concrete things, their function will be obstructed, and they will bring no convenience.

Thus, the sage keeps the mind empty and still, without clinging to external things. This is how the function of emptiness is realized. Yet when engaging with external things, the sage does not lose touch with concrete reality. This is how concrete things are made useful. The Jing says, “Refine the principles and enter into spirit, so as to bring them to practical use.” This means that only by studying principles deeply and observing them in fine detail can one put them into practice. It also says, “Use things well and settle the body, thereby cultivating De.” This means that by making good use of things and securing one’s own well-being, one can increase one’s De.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

Excessive colors dazzle the eyes; a profusion of sounds dulls the hearing; an excess of flavors distorts the palate. Riding and hunting, racing and galloping, throw the mind into turmoil. Rare and valuable goods hinder people’s conduct. Therefore, the sage attends to the body’s basic needs and does not chase sensory stimulation. The sage gives up such temptations and chooses a simple life.

The eyes can see all kinds of colors without being bound by them; this is their true function. If one becomes attached to the five colors, the eyes lose their original function, and one is no different from a blind person. The ears can hear all kinds of sounds without being bound by them; this is their true function. If one becomes attached to the five tones, the ears lose their original function, and one is no different from a deaf person. The mouth can taste all kinds of flavors without being bound by them; this is its true function. If one becomes attached to the five flavors, the mouth loses its original function, and one is no different from someone whose sense of taste is impaired.

Nothing external can disturb the mind. When the mind is thus kept still, it can attain clarity and understanding. If it pursues external things, the mind becomes confused and delusive thoughts arise one after another. This is true of most things, but the most serious case is becoming absorbed in racing and hunting—riding in pursuit and hunting. Knowing when one has enough prevents disgrace; knowing when to stop prevents danger. In this way, one can preserve oneself. Craving external things brings disgrace and danger, and obstructs one’s conduct. This is true of all things, but the gravest case is coveting wealth that is hard to obtain.

The belly does not observe, but the eyes can see. Therefore, the sage values inner composure and does not pursue external sensory pleasures. In other words, the sage gives up pursuits that rely on seeing and hearing and stir desire, choosing instead a state of emptiness and stillness, free of knowledge and desire.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace

Both receiving favor and suffering disgrace unsettle the mind; so does regarding a great calamity as important as one’s own self. What does it mean to be unsettled by both favor and disgrace? Favor itself places one in a low position: one is alarmed when favor is granted and alarmed when it is withdrawn. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace alike bring alarm.”

What does it mean to regard a great calamity as important as one’s own self? We have great calamities because we have this body. If we had no body, what calamities could there be? Therefore, if one can value oneself as one values all under Heaven, all under Heaven can be entrusted to that person. If one can care for all under Heaven as one cares for oneself, all under Heaven can be placed in that person’s hands.

Those who place great importance on favor are often controlled by others; this is a lowly position. If they regard favor as something they are entitled to, they will suffer humiliation. I am humiliated because my heart is troubled by fear: before receiving favor, I fear that I will not receive it; after receiving it, I fear losing it. If my heart held no such fear, what humiliation could there be? This is how favor brings humiliation.

Nobility means having others under one’s command; this is a high position. If one regards nobility as one’s own possession, it invites calamity. My great troubles arise because I have this body. When something fortunate happens, I rejoice because of it; when something dangerous happens, I worry because of it. If I had no body, what would there be to worry about? This is how nobility brings great troubles. Speaking of the body makes clear that fear arises within the heart; speaking of fear makes clear that the body becomes a burden. Without selfishness, there is no fear; without fear, there is no humiliation; without the burden of the body, there is no calamity.

In the past, when Shun was still a commoner, he associated with the Son of Heaven. One might say he received favor, yet he seemed to have had all this from the start and did not cling to favor. What humiliation could there be? He possessed a vast realm, and one might say he was exceedingly noble; yet he did not claim the realm as his own. What trouble could there be?

Therefore, only someone who values their own person more than the realm can be entrusted with the realm. If favor brings them humiliation, that shows they hold themselves in low regard, and they cannot be entrusted with the realm. Only someone who cherishes their own person more than the realm can be entrusted to govern it. If nobility brings them calamity, that shows they endanger themselves, and they cannot be entrusted with the realm. Someone like Shun, who received favor without claiming it as his own and held a noble position without claiming nobility as his own, is truly fit to be entrusted with the realm.

Chapter Fourteen: Seeing It, Yet Not Seeing It

What cannot be seen is called “Yi.” [At this point, the original text repeats the earlier phrase about being noble without claiming nobility as one’s own.]

Looking at it, one cannot see it; this is called “Yi.” Listening for it, one cannot hear it; this is called “Xi.” Reaching for it, one cannot touch it; this is called “Wei.” These three qualities cannot be pursued to their furthest point, so they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It stretches on without interruption, beyond the reach of names, and in the end 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, “Huhuang,” a state that seems both present and absent, difficult to discern. Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao from ancient times and use it to govern the myriad things of the present. To know the ancient source of the myriad things is to hold the “guiding thread of the Dao,” its essential principles and underlying course.

The commentary explains: What “seeing” confronts is the Dao, which has no concrete form, so it cannot be seen. Yet though invisible, it can appear in different states, such as shadowy darkness and pale yellow. So it cannot simply be said to have no color; it is called “Yi.” What “listening” confronts is likewise the Dao, which has no concrete form, so it cannot be heard.

The commentary says: What “seeing” ultimately confronts is formless and without substance, so even when we look at it, we cannot see it. Though it cannot be seen, it can manifest changes such as blue and yellow. We therefore cannot simply say that it has no color; we can only call it “Yi.” What “hearing” ultimately confronts is likewise formless and without substance, so even when we listen for it, we cannot hear it. Though it cannot be heard, it can produce different tones such as gong and shang. We therefore cannot say that it has no sound; we can only call it “Xi.” We cannot touch it with our hands either. Yet it can manifest all kinds of distinctions: Yin and Yang, soft and hard, long and short, round and square, life and death, cold and heat, floating and sinking, appearing and disappearing, sweetness and bitterness, rankness and fragrance. We therefore cannot say that it has no form; we can only call it “Wei.”

Many things in the world that people seek but cannot obtain may still be pursued through questioning and investigation until they are finally understood. But these three—Yi, Xi, and Wei—cannot ultimately be grasped by questioning. Since they cannot be reached through inquiry, we should quiet the acuity of our ears and eyes and let go of our attachment to form and knowledge. Understanding them in this way, we will see that seeing, hearing, and touching are originally one: the eye is like the ear, the ear is like the eye, and the mind, too, is like the ears and eyes.

Those who have lost the Dao see only brightness above and earth below. But the Dao as I understand it is not bright in the ordinary sense above, so it does not shine; nor is it dark in the ordinary sense below, so it is not obscure. It extends without end, harmonious and upright, truly present yet impossible to define by name. Thus we return to the realm of “nothing.” Though it seems to be nothing, it is “the shape of what has no shape, the image of what has no image”; it is not truly an absence of everything.

This is called “Huhuang,” the elusive and indistinct. It is difficult to see clearly: it seems to be nothing, yet it is not entirely absent. It can be faintly sensed, as though something were there, yet it is not any definite, concrete thing. At its beginning there is no traceable starting point, so even facing it we cannot see where it begins. At its end there is no point we can follow, so even following it we cannot see where it ends. With no before or after, it is not bound by the limits of past and present. Though it transcends past and present, it has never been severed from them. It endures from the highest antiquity and does not grow old, and so it can be put to use in everyday life. Thus, grasping the Dao that has existed since ancient times enables us to govern the things of the present.

“Ancient” does not mean different from the present; it means understanding where antiquity began. “Present” does not mean severed from antiquity; it means understanding where the present came from. Truly knowing the beginning of antiquity also enables us to know the origins of the present. If the beginning has no source and the present has no traceable origin, this is called the “guiding thread without an end”—the guiding thread of the Dao. The Dao itself cannot be grasped as something fixed; once we understand it, we can hold it as De. To grasp De is to hold the guiding thread of the Dao.

The people of ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle, mysterious, and far-reaching, with a depth of practice that made them difficult to fathom. Because they were so difficult to fathom, we can only try to describe them through images: cautious, like someone crossing a river on foot in winter; alert, as if wary of being watched from every side; dignified, like a guest; yielding, like ice about to melt; simple, like an uncarved log; open, like a valley; and indistinct, like muddy water.

Who can let the muddy water settle and slowly grow clear? Who can gently stir what is still, allowing life to emerge little by little? Those who hold to the Dao do not seek fullness or self-satisfaction. Because they are never complacent, even when worn down, they can continue to renew themselves.

The commentary says: “The people of ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao did so in order to attain the way of the sage, and…”

Even if such a person has not yet reached the realm of a sage, they have already fully grasped, upon hearing them, the principles needed to attain sagehood and bring the marvelous workings of the spirit to their fullest expression. “Subtle, wondrous, mysterious, and penetrating, so deep they cannot be understood”—this describes the realm of attaining sagehood and bringing the marvelous workings of the spirit to their fullest expression. From the subtle, one advances to the wondrous; from the wondrous, to the mysterious; from the mysterious, to the penetrating, until at last one is unfathomably deep. Since this depth cannot be fathomed, how could words possibly portray it? One can only make a rough attempt to describe it.

Such a person is cautious, like someone wading across a river in winter, acting only when there is no choice. They are alert, as though surrounded by neighboring states, guarding the right path and preserving sincerity; unless something external impels them, they do not readily reveal their intentions. They are composed, like a guest, never taking themselves for the host. They are relaxed, like ice about to melt, eventually reaching a state in which the mind is still, the spirit settled, and the body at ease, as though even flesh and bone had melted away. They are generous and uncarved, like a block of unworked wood, returning to their original state. They are open and vast, like a valley, responding to all things without keeping them in their heart. They are undifferentiated, like muddy water, making no distinctions between right and wrong, self and other.

Everyone wants to appear clear-sighted. Who can remain still and let muddy water slowly settle? When the water gradually clears, it can reflect everything. Everyone competes to be first. Who can be content to stay behind and wait for things to emerge in their own time? As things gradually emerge, they come into view everywhere. In general, to seek stillness, one must bring Qi (vital energy) into harmony; to settle the spirit, one must follow one’s own nature. To act and yet act rightly, one must follow the circumstances that leave no alternative. When Qi is harmonious and the heart follows its nature, things can gradually settle. By following circumstances that leave no alternative, one allows things to emerge in their own time. This is why those who cultivate the Dao can attain the realm of a sage and bring the marvelous workings of the spirit to their fullest expression.

The substance of the Dao is empty and receptive. “Receptive” refers to the harmony of Yin-Yang and to maintaining balance amid the changes between fullness and emptiness. Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness; they preserve emptiness and stillness. Yet Laozi does not say “empty”; he often says “not full,” out of concern that people might become attached to “emptiness.” Once attached to emptiness, it is no longer truly empty. So he says “perhaps not full,” meaning only that one should not seek fullness.

In the world of things, whatever is new will grow old, and whatever grows old will deteriorate; few things escape deterioration. Only those who do not seek fullness remain unconcerned as things are renewed, decline, and fall apart. Thus, even when an object has grown worn, they do not regard it as utterly ruined. Since it has neither deteriorated nor been destroyed, there is no need to cling to whether it has been renewed or brought to completion.

Bring the mind to the utmost stillness, and firmly maintain that quiet. All things grow and change together; from this, I observe how they return to their origin. Though the myriad things flourish in profusion, each eventually returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is a return to one’s original state of life. Returning to one’s original state of life is called constancy; knowing the constant Dao is called wisdom. Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly invites danger.

One who knows the constant Dao can be all-embracing. Being all-embracing, one can act impartially; acting impartially, one can become an example for all under Heaven. Becoming an example for all under Heaven, one accords with the Way of Heaven; in accord with the Way of Heaven, one is joined with the Dao. Joined with the Dao, one’s life can endure, and one remains free from danger throughout one’s life.

The transmitted text says: Those who uphold this Dao do not seek fullness. In governing, remain empty and still, do not go to extremes, and hold to the principle that all things return to their origin. Returning to one’s original state of life is called constancy; knowing the constant Dao is called wisdom. Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly invites danger. One who knows the constant Dao can be all-embracing. Being all-embracing, one can act impartially; acting impartially, one can become an example for all under Heaven. Becoming an example for all under Heaven, one accords with the Way of Heaven; in accord with the Way of Heaven, one is joined with the Dao. Joined with the Dao, one’s life can endure, and one remains free from danger throughout one’s life.

Those who preserve the Great Dao do not pursue fullness. In governing the world, they remain open-minded and avoid extremes; they hold to stillness and purity without becoming rigid. If they cannot do these things, they have not yet attained what it truly means to be “unfilled.”

Ordinary people observe the myriad things only after they have ceased moving, when they then see them begin to grow again; they see things return to their roots only after they have declined. Because I have attained the utmost in emptiness and stillness, I can see how the myriad things arise and flourish. This understanding comes from observing within myself, not from external things. As the myriad things arise, they are already moving toward return; as they flourish, they are already heading back to their roots. Thus, by observing all things arising together, we can see that they will ultimately return: even as each flourishes, it is already on the path back to its root.

“Emptiness” does not mean deliberately making oneself empty. It means not allowing anything to fill the heart, and so it is called emptiness. “Stillness” does not mean deliberately seeking calm. The myriad things grow in abundance and each returns to its root, yet a person neither interferes nor is disturbed by them; the heart is not stirred by external things. This is what is called stillness. Thus, returning to the root is called stillness.

“Life” is the root we receive and depend on in order to exist. Only by becoming still can we return to life’s root and allow the myriad things to rest in their own natures. That is why “stillness” is called “returning to life.” When all things can rest in their own natures, the Dao never departs; that is why “returning to life” is called “constancy.”

From the perspective of constancy, good and ill fortune, regret, and worry can often be discerned when things have only begun to change in the slightest. What could be clearer than this? Understanding constancy is called “clarity.” Those who do not understand constancy and act against it are bound to behave recklessly. If one understands and puts constancy into practice, one can realize that the myriad things and oneself are originally one. This is called “encompassing.”

When the myriad things and I are one, I do not see myself as separate from them, nor do I pursue only my own interests. This is called “impartiality.” To be one with the myriad things and free of selfishness is to be vast; to be vast is to become a sage. With sage virtue within and the ability to govern the world outwardly, one can become a ruler through impartiality. Having reached the state of a sage, one can go further and penetrate the wondrous; that is why “ruling” can accord with Heaven. Heaven’s realm is wondrous, and the Dao enables people to attain sage virtue and fathom the wondrous; that is why “Heaven” returns to the Dao.

When cultivation of the Dao reaches constancy, its principles have been fully understood. Thus the Dao endures, and those who devote themselves to it face no danger. To endure without falling into danger oneself: this is what is meant by constancy.

When someone who has grasped the Great Dao governs the realm, the people know only that such a ruler exists. With the next best ruler, the people feel close to him and praise him. With the one after that, they fear him, and may even slight and mock him. When a ruler lacks trustworthiness, the people do not trust him. To earn their trust, he should value his words and be careful in issuing commands. When the work is done and the achievement complete, the people will say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

A commentary says that whoever holds fast to the “Great Image”—the comprehensive principles of the Dao—will be followed by all under Heaven. For the people are ready to let go of their reliance on such a ruler and even forget what he has done. Who, then, could see his achievements? The people know only that such a ruler exists, without thinking he has done anything. No ruler can surpass him, so he is called the “Supreme” ruler, the highest of all. A ruler whom the people feel close to and praise ranks next; one who makes them afraid, or is even slighted by them, ranks below.

Why is this so? The respect and affection between parent and child are understood without words. But among host and guest, or between friends, expressing respect often requires ritual and speech for the other person to understand. This is because trust between people varies in depth. When the people feel close to and praise a ruler, it already shows that trust is lacking, or even that they distrust him. How much more so when he makes them afraid or is slighted by them?

So what should be done when trust is lacking and the people do not trust their ruler? He should value his words and return to the Dao. To value one’s words is to practice the “teaching without words”—guiding through one’s example and allowing things to unfold naturally, rather than relying on numerous commands and lectures. Practicing the teaching without words means handling affairs through Wuwei (non-action). Once the work is done and the achievement complete, the people believe that everything happened naturally, without knowing who set it in motion. They therefore have no particular reason to feel close to or praise the ruler.

Chapter Eighteen: When the Great Dao Falls into Decline

Only when the Great Dao declines do calls for benevolence and righteousness arise. Only when cleverness and artifice become conspicuous does great hypocrisy appear. Only when family members are at odds do filial devotion and parental affection receive special emphasis. Only when the state is dark and chaotic do loyal ministers emerge.

The Dao De Jing cannot be defined by a name. Once it is called the “Dao,” what is being described is no longer the complete Dao. Only after the Dao was divided did names such as benevolence and righteousness arise. How could these be considered the Dao in its complete state? The emergence of benevolence and righteousness was therefore a sign that the Great Dao was in decline.

The most harmful thing is for virtue to become deliberate and calculating, with distinctions taking shape in the mind. Once people begin to scrutinize themselves and weigh things up, virtue is damaged. Cunning and cleverness then come to the fore, bringing grave hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is precisely a departure from De. After benevolence and righteousness arose, the harm spread until relations among family members fell into discord; only then was filial devotion and compassion especially emphasized. Once hypocrisy became widespread, the harm spread until the state fell into disorder; only then did loyal ministers stand out. Shun’s father Gusou—said to have been foolish and unreasonable—and his younger brother Xiang—said to have been arrogant and discourteous—were deeply wicked, and only afterward did Shun appear. Jie and Zhou were cruel tyrants, and only afterward did Longfeng and Bigan emerge as loyal ministers who suffered for remonstrating frankly. There is no other reason for this: people had simply strayed ever farther from the root.

Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De, Volume One

The True Transmission of the Dao and De, Volume Two

Transmitted by Lü Huiqing, Academician of the Hall of Governance

Chapter Nineteen: “Cut Off Sageliness and Abandon Wisdom”

Abandon the vaunted display of sageliness and clever schemes, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Abandon deliberately proclaimed benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover filial devotion and compassion. Abandon craftiness, deceit, and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will disappear. These three statements are only words and do not yet convey the full meaning, so they must be given a point of return: return to plainness and genuineness, preserve one’s unadorned nature, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

Note: Here, “cut off sageliness and abandon wisdom” means doing away with the deliberate display of sageliness, cleverness, benevolence, righteousness, and the pursuit of profit, so that people can return to a natural, unadorned state.

The commentary says: The sage knows that disorder in the world begins when people lose sight of the root and lose their nature. Only an unadorned nature, without name or form, can bring peace to people’s minds. [Therefore, one should] abandon the vaunted display of sageliness and clever schemes, abandon deliberately proclaimed benevolence and righteousness, and abandon craftiness and the pursuit of profit, giving these teachings a point of return: return to genuineness and plainness, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

The Commentary on the Dao De Jing holds that the sages knew the disorder in the world arose because people had lost sight of their roots and abandoned their nature. Only a return to the “unhewn simplicity without a name”—the original state, untouched by human artifice—could bring this disorder to an end. “Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom; abandon benevolence and discard righteousness; abandon cleverness and discard profit” means restoring this original state.

Cut off the pursuit of sageliness and cleverness, and cast aside the labels of benevolence and righteousness: then notions of beauty and goodness will no longer burden the heart. Cut off cunning and the pursuit of profit, and evil and wrongdoing will no longer burden it either. When the heart is no longer weighed down by these ideas, outward conduct will no longer be shaped to earn the corresponding reputations. The people will then gain twice the benefit, naturally recover their filial devotion and care for one another, and thieves and robbers will disappear. This is simply the natural course of things.

“Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom; abandon benevolence and discard righteousness” carries to its furthest extent the principle of “not esteeming the worthy.” “Abandon cleverness and discard profit” carries to its furthest extent the principle of “not treasuring rare goods.” People already possess the principles embodied in all things, and so have true inner abundance. By cutting off the pursuit of sagacity and wisdom and returning to the original state, they gain twice the benefit.

When the people naturally recover their filial devotion and care for one another, the six relations will be harmonious, yet they will no longer feel a need to make a point of proclaiming “filial devotion and care.” When thieves and robbers disappear, the state will be well governed and clear, and there will be no need to specially praise “loyal ministers.” Not esteeming the worthy keeps the people from competing, and benefits them; their recovery of filial devotion and care brings more than just a reduction in strife. Not treasuring rare goods keeps the people from becoming thieves, and the disappearance of thieves means more than just a reduction in theft.

Sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, cleverness and profit are all external adornments, not the root. They bring insufficiency, not wholeness. They should therefore be cut off and cast aside, so that the heart has somewhere to return. That place of return is “reveal the plain and embrace the uncarved; lessen selfishness and reduce desire.” Revealing the plain makes clear that it is free of artificial adornment; embracing the uncarved makes clear that it has neither been diminished nor made deficient. When the heart is simple and undisturbed by stray thoughts, one can recover one’s nature, avoid being misled by external things, and lessen selfishness and desire. Only after reducing selfishness and desire can one speak of the highest Way of “learning beyond learning”—learning that goes beyond the distinctions of worldly knowledge.

By setting aside worldly learning and the mind that makes distinctions, one can lessen one’s worries. How far apart are “wei” and “a,” the sounds of assent? How great a difference is there between good and evil? Even among the things people fear, there are some that cannot help but be feared. The world’s turmoil is boundless, as if it would never end.

Everyone is cheerful and animated, as though attending a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a springtime terrace to admire the view. I alone am cautious and quiet, my thoughts not yet revealed, like an infant not yet grown, adrift and without a place to return to. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to be lacking. My mind is truly like that of a fool: simple and undivided.

People of the world are all clear-sighted and perceptive; I alone am cautious and reserved, my thoughts unrevealed, like an infant not yet grown, adrift and without a place to return to. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to be lacking. My mind is truly like that of a fool: simple and undivided. People of the world seem lucid and discerning; I alone seem muddled. They are sharp and exacting; I alone am generous and unhurried. I drift in a daze, as if surrounded by darkness; still and empty, as though I had no fixed place to rest. Everyone has something to rely on; I alone am dull, like an uncultivated person. I differ from everyone else: what I prize is keeping and nourishing the source of all things—here, “Mother” refers to the Dao.

The commentary explains that “abandoning learning” means setting aside worldly cleverness, the reputations associated with benevolence and righteousness, and the scheming desire for profit, so that they do not burden the heart. Only then can one attain Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei is wondrous: it can set the myriad things in motion, yet does not suffer the cares and toil over every matter that burden the sages of the world. Hence the saying, “Abandon learning, and there will be no worries.”

A promise and a rebuke both issue from the voice; how far apart are they? Good and evil are both distinctions that depart from the Dao (the Way); how far apart are they, really? Thus, even the wisdom of a sage must set these distinctions aside and not let them disturb the heart. Worry, regret, and fault often arise from subtle distinctions. Knowing how to repent of one’s mistakes makes it possible to avoid harm and blame. What people fear cannot simply be left unf eared. Heaven and Earth are vast and without end. The noble person acts with care, reveres the Dao of right conduct, and takes the Great Dao as a model, thereby following the course of Heaven. To revere what all people fear is to be connected with all people; to recognize that Heaven and Earth are vast and boundless is to be connected with Heaven.

People are full of delight, yet do not know how to draw in their senses and close the gates of the heart. They are like guests at a lavish feast, yet cannot taste the subtle Dao’s plain, flavorless quality. They are like people climbing a terrace on a spring day to gaze into the distance, yet do not know that the Great Dao cannot be seen with the naked eye. I alone am cautious and quiet, as though no signs have yet appeared, like an infant who has not learned to smile. In this way, I draw in my senses and close the gates of the heart, neither coveting what offers no flavor to savor nor pursuing the delights aroused by what I see.

I follow along with the myriad things, yet seem to have no fixed place to return to, for I claim nothing as my own and cling to no place. People are absorbed in feasting and sightseeing, and so feel they possess much. I remain quiet and free of desire, like an infant who has not yet grown, and so seem to lack something. These expressions all speak of setting external things aside and not clinging to bodily form.

I seem like a fool because I do not boast of worldly knowledge; my heart is simple and unadulterated by clever schemes. The people of the world seem perceptive, while I seem dim; they are skilled at making distinctions, while I seem unaware. I am indistinct, as though dwelling in darkness, seeming unable to see anything. When I act, I follow along with the myriad things without a fixed destination; when I am still, I am silent, with nowhere to settle. People believe themselves perceptive and successful, while I seem dull and slow, so that I appear stubborn and uncouth. These words mean that one should set aside clever distinctions and forget the heart’s attachments.

Seeing, hearing, and thought are functions brought forth by the Dao. The Dao is like a mother, while seeing, hearing, and thought are like her children. People pursue external things and use cleverness to satisfy seeing, hearing, and thought; they are merely nurturing these “children.” I set them aside because I place greater importance on nourishing the root, the “mother”—the Dao. Hence the saying: “I alone differ from others, for I value feeding on the Mother.”

If the Old Master is already wondrous, what does he need to nourish? He speaks this way so that those who cultivate the Dao will understand that letting go of external pursuits and returning to the root brings one closer to the Dao. From this, the essential meaning of “abandoning learning” becomes clear. If earlier Confucian scholars believed that without learning people would become like animals, and that having no worries would therefore be meaningless, they had not understood the true meaning of “abandon learning, and there will be no worries.”

The form of great De (Virtue/Power) is complete obedience to the Dao. The Dao’s existence is elusive and hard to grasp. Amid its vagueness, there seems to be an image; between presence and absence, there seems to be a concrete thing. Deep and obscure, it nonetheless contains a subtle essence. This essence is real and not illusory, and within it lies a basis for trust. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has been handed down without interruption, and people use it to observe the source of all things. How do I know what the source of all things is like? I rely on the Dao.

The commentary says: Those who cultivate the Dao cast aside external things and transcend the body, reaching a state in which they seem to have forgotten even themselves. They abandon cleverness and forget selfish desires, appearing almost foolish; this is a sign of profound De. To understand the source of all things, one relies precisely on the Dao.

The commentary says: Abandon external things and free yourself from the body, reaching a state as if even these had been forgotten. Set aside cleverness and forget selfish desires, becoming as if simple and unknowing. This is the profound De that can contain the Great Dao. What else could one follow beyond this? Only the Dao.

The Dao is indistinct and elusive. In its indistinct aspect, it leans toward what is “indistinct” without being dim. What is not dim is clear; in that clarity, something seems to be there, yet there is only an “image” (a form or sign). This “image” seems to be something, but is not a concrete thing. Hence it is called the “image of what is no thing,” and also “the Great Image has no form.” In its elusive aspect, it is not manifest or clear. What is not manifest is dark; in that darkness, it seems there is nothing, yet there truly is a “thing” (something that exists). This “thing” seems not to exist, yet truly does exist. Hence it is called the “form of what has no form,” and also “something exists, formless and complete.”

What is indistinct and elusive is hard to fathom, and what is hard to fathom seems wondrous. “Deep darkness” (a profound, obscure, and elusive state) is a still more wondrous realm. It is both profound and wondrous, and so can condense into something subtle and real. Thus it is said: “Deep and dark! Yet within it there is Jing.” Here, Jing is the pure, unmixed, subtle Qi attained after realizing the Dao.

Among all things under Heaven, nothing is more real and true, more trustworthy and free of deceit, or more constant and unchanging than this. From it, one can investigate the origins of all things. Thus it is said: “Its subtle essence is utterly real; within it lies a trustworthy reality. From ancient times to the present, its name has never vanished; through it, we can investigate the origins of all things.”

Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao neither display themselves outwardly nor sink into obscurity. They hold to the indistinct and elusive state. They do not cling to sight or hearing; they make the mind and spirit upright and let them return to the deep darkness. From the image, one can know that there is something within it; from that thing, one can know that there is Jing within it; from Jing, one can know that there is trustworthiness within it. When cultivation of the Dao reaches the state of “trustworthiness,” the heart-mind joins with the Great Dao, and all things find their proper place.

Those who understand why Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things have become what they are know that they all arise from this Dao. Thus it is said: “How do I know that the origins of the myriad things are so? Through the Dao.”

Chapter Twenty-Two, “The Bent Is Made Whole.”

By recognizing the common source of all things, one can hold fast to the One, the root of the Dao, and keep the mind and nature gentle. Holding fast to the One and remaining gentle makes it possible to bend and yield with the circumstances, to accept a lowly position, and to endure wear and be renewed.

“Bending” means taking a curve that arises naturally; “changing course” means altering one’s direction in response to circumstances. Of all things under Heaven, water is closest to the Dao. It flows east or west, following the lay of the land, yet nothing can easily harm it. This is how bending can preserve. It avoids obstacles, winds its way through countless turns, and still eventually flows eastward. This is how yielding can bring progress. It willingly stays low, and all rivers flow into it. This is how being low can bring abundance. It takes in the filth of the world and yet can cleanse itself. This is how being damaged can bring renewal. Only those who hold fast to the One have the strength to do these things. Hence, “By yielding, one gains.” Ordinary people cannot do so because their resolve is not focused on one thing. Hence, “By grasping at many things, one is confused.”

In setting rules for the use of wealth and resources, and in undertaking construction, there must be guiding principles. When the principles one relies on are simple, they can address a wide range of affairs. The sage holds fast to the One as the guiding principle for all under Heaven, and so can bend and yield, adapt to circumstances, remain low, and endure loss. Wherever the sage goes, they remain true to the Dao and can thus respond to the world’s countless changes.

The sage observes according to what the people of the world see, yet is not attached to personal views; therefore, nothing remains unseen. The sage judges according to what the people of the world recognize, yet does not cling to personal convictions; therefore, no one can obscure the sage’s judgment. The sage credits the world with achievements rather than claiming them as their own, and so accomplishes things. The sage lets the myriad things fulfill their capacities without boasting, and so endures. All of this comes from holding fast to the One: to hold fast to the One is to be without self; to be without self is to be free of contention. When there is no contention, no one under Heaven can contend with the sage.

The ancients said, “Bending brings preservation.” The principle behind this is just what has been described. To understand why bending preserves is also to understand how yielding brings progress, how being low brings abundance, and how being damaged brings renewal. “Not showing oneself is what makes one clear; not insisting on being right is what makes one shine; not boasting is what brings achievement; not exalting oneself is what makes one endure.” These, too, all arise from this principle. Is this not precisely how one preserves one’s nature and ultimately returns to the Dao?

Natural speech sounds as though it were silent. A gale cannot blow all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. Even the winds and rains brought forth by Heaven and Earth cannot last long, let alone the words of a person.

Therefore, those who act in accordance with the Dao (the Way) accord with the Dao; those who act in accordance with De (Virtue/Power) accord with De; and those who depart from Dao and De accord with that very departure. When one accords with the Dao, the Dao comes to dwell with them; when one accords with De, De comes to dwell with them; when one accords with departure, departure comes to dwell with them. If one’s trustworthiness is insufficient, others will not trust them.

The commentary says: “A sound that cannot be heard is called ‘xi’; thus ‘xi yan’ means speech that sounds silent. If one understands where speech comes from, one knows that it arises from what is wordless and sounds as though it were silent. This is why it is called ‘xi yan.’ Xi yan expresses the Dao, so it is said to accord with nature.

“A gale and a downpour are violent and sudden; they do not arise from the ordinary course of nature. So even when brought forth by Heaven and Earth, they cannot last through a whole morning or an entire day. When a person’s words do not arise from nature, they become excessive and cannot endure. Therefore, only those who act in accordance with the Dao can be without self. Being without self allows the Dao, De, and departure all to arise naturally, so that they no longer appear distinct from one another; all manner of strange and aberrant phenomena can also be brought together as one.

“When no distinction can be seen among them, one can accord with them. Even when the other seems different from me, it has never truly left me. Therefore, when one accords with the Dao, the Dao comes to dwell with them; when one accords with De, De comes to dwell with them; when one accords with departure, departure comes to dwell with them. If one’s trustworthiness is insufficient, one sees the Dao, De, and departure as distinct from one another and cannot accord with them. That is why it says, ‘If one’s trustworthiness is insufficient, others will not trust them.’”

Standing on tiptoe makes you unsteady; taking great strides does not carry you far. Those who show off cannot see things clearly; those who think themselves right are not recognized; those who boast have no merit; those who are proud and arrogant cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao (the fundamental principle governing the workings of all things), these practices are like extra food and overgrown limbs: repugnant. Therefore, those who have the Dao do not act this way.

The Commentary explains: Forcing yourself to stand on tiptoe is not a proper way to stand; striding broadly to hurry along is not a proper way to walk. Neither can last. They may appear to be standing or walking, but in fact they are neither steady on their feet nor able to travel far. The Dao has no attachment to itself; without attachment, it does not contend for victory. Showing off, thinking oneself right, boasting, and prideful arrogance are all contrary to the ordinary course of the Dao. From the Dao’s perspective, they are merely extra food and burdensome conduct.

People in the world all enjoy eating, but if they keep craving more, it is like eating extra food. Human nature does not originally include such embellishments, yet people insist on adding them, like growing burdensome extra limbs. Extra food encourages this burdensome conduct, which all things may at times abhor. Those who have the Dao therefore naturally do not adopt these practices.

The Dao often abides in what the multitude rejects: lowliness, emptiness, and weakness. People despise showing off, boasting, and complacency, yet they compete to engage in them. Those who have the Dao do not adopt such practices. The Dao may appear at times to dwell where the multitude will not, and at times to avoid what they eagerly pursue, but both arise from the same root: non-contention.

There is a whole and undivided presence that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. Silent and still, vast and without form, it stands alone and does not change. It moves in cycles and never ceases, and may be regarded as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its name; for now, I call it the Dao (the Way). Forced to give it a title, I call it “the Great.” What is called “the Great” is what moves onward without end and travels far; the farther it travels, the more 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 presences in the world, and the king is one of them. Human beings take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao follows nature itself.

The commentary says: Qi (the vital energy that forms the basis of all things), physical form, and material substance exist, as do the four great presences of Heaven, Earth, humanity, and the king. The king is one of them. Human beings take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao follows nature itself.

The transmitted text says: There is Qi, there are forms, and there is substance. Thus the positions and shapes of Heaven, Earth, and humanity can be heard, seen, and touched; the senses of hearing, sight, and mind can also distinguish these things. But before Qi, form, and substance have appeared, people cannot see them.

When Qi, form, and substance are blended together and have not yet separated from one another, they cannot be seen, heard, or touched, and so their appearance cannot be observed. I do not know what they were originally called, so I can only name them according to their meaning and call them the Dao. To say that I do not know their name means that one must grasp them with the mind; to call them the Dao is to name them according to their meaning.

When the Dao unfolds, it fills the space above and below and in all four directions—the Six Emptinesses, meaning Heaven, Earth, and the four directions. When it contracts and is not in use, no one knows where it goes. Thus even the word “great” is insufficient to describe it; it is only a name given of necessity. The Dao is vast and boundless, moves everywhere, and is present in all places; it does not exist only within us. That is why “great” is also called “moving onward.” “Moving onward” means that it moves without end or limit. Because it moves without end, it seems distant; thus “moving onward” is also called “far-reaching.” It is distant and cannot be stopped, so people cannot find its boundary. Yet it also returns to its root—this, too, is only a way of speaking about it. The Dao is vast and all-pervading, so it is called “moving onward”; it moves without end, so it is called “far-reaching.” Though it seems beyond reach, it returns to the root and has never left our own being. Thus “far-reaching” is also called “returning.”

The Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is great. Beyond the Six Directions, even the word “great” is inadequate; the “Four Greats” refers only to the realm between Heaven and Earth. The ruler enables people to return to their original nature and restore their original life. Understanding the constant Dao makes the heart broad; a broad heart can be impartial, and through impartiality one can become a ruler. Therefore, within Heaven and Earth there are four things that are great, and the king is one of them. The ruler represents the fullest realization of the human way.

People have bodies, yet can accord with the formless Dao; the Earth is the same. The scope of human activity corresponds to the reach of the Earth, which is why it is said, “Humanity models itself on Earth.” The reach of the Earth corresponds to Heaven, which is why it is said, “Earth models itself on Heaven.” Heaven, in turn, follows the Dao, which is why it is said, “Heaven models itself on the Dao.” The Dao takes itself as its own root. It existed before Heaven and Earth took shape and has remained so from antiquity onward. The Dao is not governed by human-made rules; it follows the rule of Wuwei (non-action). To have no rules means to follow what is natural. Thus it is said, “The Dao models itself on the natural.”

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, the noble person travels all day without leaving the baggage cart behind. Even amid splendid scenery, they remain at ease, unmoved by external things.

How could a ruler of ten thousand chariots treat the affairs of the realm lightly? Acting carelessly, they lose the support of their ministers; behaving restlessly, they forfeit the dignity befitting a ruler.

The commentary says: Light things are the first to respond to a stimulus; heavy things respond afterward. A response is prompted by a stimulus, so the heavy is the foundation of the light. The still can govern external things, while the restless are governed by them. Since restlessness is often governed by stillness, stillness is the master of restlessness.

Thus, even when a gentleman travels all day, he may keep his conduct as restrained as in a fast, yet he does not leave behind his baggage train—the vehicles and gear that accompany him. This shows that lightness cannot be without steadiness as its foundation. Even when splendid scenery offers enough to satisfy him, he still needs a detached and tranquil place to dwell. This shows that restlessness must be tempered by stillness.

If this is true even of ordinary travel and viewing scenery, how much more must it be true of the ruler of ten thousand chariots, who bears great responsibilities, travels a long road, and governs all under Heaven? How could he fail to be steady and tranquil? To act only when compelled, respond only when moved, and undertake action only when there is no alternative—this is steadiness. To refrain from acting willfully is stillness.

If a ruler acts whenever he thinks he can take charge, and cannot practice Wuwei (non-action)—refraining from undue interference—he treats his own concerns as more important than the fate of all under Heaven. Lacking steadiness, he becomes restless and cannot remain still. Hence it is said: when those above practice Wuwei, those below do so as well. Their conduct then becomes the same, and those below are no longer subjects. When those below take action and those above do likewise, their ways of acting become the same, and those above lose their authority.

If the ruler is frivolous, he takes on the ministers’ duties and labors in their place. The ministers then do nothing; since they act just like the ruler, they are no longer subjects, and the ruler loses his ministers. If the ruler is restless, he forgets the ease befitting his position and lets himself be pressed into service by the affairs of the realm. By taking action himself and acting like his ministers, he no longer occupies the place of the ruler and loses his authority. Thus it is said: frivolity makes one lose one’s subjects; restlessness makes one lose one’s position as ruler.

“On Good Conduct,” Chapter Twenty-Seven.

One who is skilled at walking leaves no wheel ruts or footprints. One who is skilled at speaking says nothing that can be faulted. One who is skilled at planning needs no counters or calculating tools. One who is skilled at closing a door uses no bolt, yet the door cannot be opened. One who is skilled at tying things up uses no rope, yet they cannot be undone.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is cast aside. The sage is always skilled at making proper use of all things, and so nothing is discarded. This is called inheriting the way of clear discernment. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor one’s teacher or cherish those who offer a lesson, then even if one believes oneself to understand, one is in fact utterly confused. This is the subtle principle at work.

The text says: “After a cart has passed, it leaves no trace.” The sage is always skilled at making proper use of all things, and so nothing is discarded. This is called inheriting the way of clear discernment. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor one’s teacher or cherish those who offer a lesson, then even if one believes oneself to understand, one is in fact deeply mistaken. This is the subtle principle at work.

When a carriage travels, it leaves wheel tracks; when a person walks, they leave footprints. This shows that action naturally leaves traces. If we understand the source from which action arises, we see that it comes forth from Wuwei (non-action). Hence the saying: “One who is skilled at acting leaves no traces.”

Those who understand do not say much; those who say much may not understand. Speech inevitably has its flaws. If we understand the source from which speech arises, we see that it comes forth from silence. Hence the saying: “One who is skilled at speaking makes no mistakes.”

When the One is joined with speech, it becomes two; when two is joined with the One, it becomes three. From there, the sequence keeps extending, until even an expert calculator cannot count it all. Only by grasping the fundamental One while forgetting distinctions made through speech can one exhaust the principles of number. Hence the saying: “One who is skilled at calculating needs no counting rods or other instruments.”

The “Gate of Heaven” refers to the portal through which Heaven and Earth transform, opening and closing. It is inherently formless. Whether it opens or closes depends on whether I take action. If I do not open it, who can make it open? Hence the saying: “One who is skilled at closing needs no bolt or lock; the door cannot be opened.”

All things under Heaven each have their own enduring nature. One skilled at binding restrains things by following their inherent nature, without needing to bind them with rope. Hence the saying: “One who is skilled at binding needs no rope; the knot cannot be undone.”

If action does not follow this principle, it inevitably leaves traces. If speech does not follow it, mistakes inevitably arise. If calculation, closing, and binding do not follow it, then even with instruments calculation will become confused, even with a bolt the door will be opened, and even with rope the bindings will come loose. In that case, one cannot even avoid failings in oneself, so how could one help others and the myriad things?

The sage can observe and follow the Dao, using it to perform these five tasks well. Thus the sage can always help people, abandoning no one, and help all things, abandoning nothing. How is this possible? The principle underlying these five tasks is shared by all things in their nature and life. With wisdom that clearly perceives what endures, the sage offers help through the nature shared by all things. Even when acting, speaking, calculating, closing, or binding, the sage does not reveal how it is done. This wisdom is therefore deep and hidden, difficult to perceive. This is called “cloaked illumination.”

Because the sage is skilled at helping, the good can serve as teachers to those who are not good, and those who are not good can serve as lessons for the good. When we see that another has acted badly, what reason is there to reject them?

Yet those who seek the Dao should forget the mind that divides things into categories. If they regard only the good as worthy teachers and the not good as useful lessons, they are still choosing and rejecting through distinctions. If they do not respect their teachers or value their lessons, many principles will remain beyond their understanding, even if they possess wisdom, and they will stray from the Dao and lose their way. What cannot be grasped through cleverness alone is the Dao’s subtle mystery. Hence the saying: “Even the wise may fall into great confusion; this is the Dao’s essential mystery.”

Understand what is strong and assertive, yet remain gentle and still, and you can be like a stream among all under Heaven, dwelling in a low place. Dwelling low, your constant De (Virtue/Power) will never depart; in the end, you will return to the childlike state of simplicity.

Understand what is bright and evident, yet remain in shadow, and you can become a model for all under Heaven. As a model, your constant De will not go astray; in the end, you will return to the inexhaustible source.

Understand what is honored, yet remain in disgrace, and you can be like a deep valley among all under Heaven, open and receptive. Dwelling low with an open heart, your constant De will become abundant; in the end, you will return to the uncarved “uncarved wood,” the naturally pure and genuine nature.

When “uncarved wood” is divided, it becomes the many particular things and implements. The sage uses these implements and thereby becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, the greatest governance does not divide the whole or forcibly split things apart.

The transmitted text says: the masculine acts while the feminine is still; the masculine is strong while the feminine is yielding; the masculine takes the lead and the feminine follows in response. Understand what is strong and assertive, yet be able to return to the “uncarved wood.” When “uncarved wood” is divided, it becomes implements. The sage uses them and thereby becomes the head of the officials; this is why the greatest governance does not divide the whole.

The masculine takes the initiative, while the feminine is still; the masculine is strong, while the feminine is yielding. The masculine proposes first, and the feminine responds. Understand strength, yet keep to weakness, and you can remain calm and steadfast, gentle and accommodating, without seeking to lead. In this way, you can become the streambed of the world.

A streambed receives water flowing down from the valleys and carries it onward to the rivers and seas. It accepts what comes without refusing, and lets water flow out without storing it up. Thus, all things can pass through it without obstruction. When you are this open and unobstructed, your constant De (Virtue/Power) will not be lost. At birth, a person’s constant De is held complete within the heart and has no ties to external things. Later, influenced by external things, a person strays farther from their original nature day by day. Only by remaining calm and steadfast, gentle, and unwilling to lead can one avoid losing constant De and return to the state of an infant.

White readily takes on other colors. In the realm of things, white symbolizes brightness; it corresponds to Metal among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and to the number four. Black is not easily dyed. In the realm of things, black symbolizes darkness; it corresponds to Water among the Five Phases, and to the number one. Understand brightness, yet keep to darkness, untouched by the myriad things, like dark water, and in the end return to “embracing the One”—holding fast to one’s pure nature. By holding fast to the One, you can yield and bend, accept being lowered and damaged, and thus become a model for the world. As a model for the world, you remain true to the One through every bend and abasement, and your constant De will not falter.

To say “not departing” means only that one has not left one’s original place; it does not necessarily mean one can avoid forcing one’s strength upon others. It is avoiding such force that keeps one from going astray. An infant is single-minded in preserving Qi (vital energy), gentle, able to remain low and bear damage, and thus can become a model for the world. As a model for the world, the infant remains true to the One through every bend and abasement, and constant De will not falter. An infant’s single-minded preservation of Qi and attainment of gentleness, without losing its purity, amount only to harmony of body and mind. To return to the limitless, undifferentiated origin—the Wuji (Limitless)—is beyond what the word “infant” can describe.

When plants flourish, they are called glorious; when they wither, they are called diminished. The glory and disgrace spoken of by people are no more than the flourishing and decline of plants. Understand glory, yet keep to disgrace; cast off outward splendor and return to the root. Then even if you bear what the world most despises, you will not be burdened by it, and can become the valley of the world. A valley is empty, yet able to contain fullness. It follows all things without possessing or storing them, and is also the source of the waters that flow into rivers and seas. To become the valley of the world is to return to the source of all things. Only then can constant De be considered complete; this goes beyond merely avoiding force.

Return to the uncarved simplicity. Simplicity is the state in which original nature is whole, and all things arise and mingle into being. Because it remains undivided, not yet formed into particular implements, it can be great or small, bent or straight, short or long, round or square, and useful wherever it is placed. Even “Wuji” is not enough to describe this state.

If so, why is it enough to keep to weakness, darkness, and disgrace? Why also understand strength, brightness, and glory? Keeping to these principles is a way to grasp the root, like the mother; understanding their opposites is a way to respond to change, like the child. Holding fast is the constant rule; understanding is what enables one to adapt to change.

When simplicity is divided, it becomes particular implements. Implements have limits: they can be great but not small, bent but not straight, short but not long, round but not square. Thus, the sage uses them only as officials for managing affairs; they cannot reach the state of “being able to contain all things and so become public, being able to be impartial and so become king.” If the sage governs the world through simplicity, they regard the world’s principles as Cook Ding, the skilled butcher, regarded an ox: not as a solid whole, but by following its natural grain and working where no force need be applied. The blade then moves with ease, leaving room at every turn. Why strain to cut things apart? Hence it is said: “The greatest making does not depend on cutting things apart.”

Anyone who tries to gain the world through deliberate action, I believe, is bound to fail. The world is a sacred vessel; it cannot be governed by imposing one’s own will. Forceful action brings failure, while stubbornly holding on leads to loss.

Among all things, some move ahead and others follow behind; some are urged onward and others forced to stop. Some grow strong, others weaken; some bear things steadily, while others topple and are destroyed. Therefore, the sage sets aside excess, extravagance, and extremes.

The Commentary says: “The sage governs the world by holding fast to simplicity.” To govern the world, one must respond to things as a whole, rather than forcibly dividing them. To gain the world is to win the hearts of its people so that they do not turn away. Thus, trying to gain the world through deliberate action is precisely not the way to gain it. Seeking it by improper means is bound to fail.

What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel. The world is a sacred vessel among the many vessels. It can be governed only by following the wondrous, spontaneous course of nature. The wondrous Dao does not engage in reckless thought or forceful action. To insist on acting is not to govern in accordance with the Dao, and so one must not do so. Forceful action, meant to secure success, can bring about failure; gripping tightly in the hope of possessing something can bring about its loss.

Yao did not deliberately hand the world over to anyone, nor did he regard it as his own possession. Shun and Yu held the world without claiming it as their own. Such people truly understood how to gain the world: not through forceful action or possessiveness. Among all things, where there is movement forward, there is also following; where one side is pressed onward, another is held back; where there is strength, there is also weakness; and where there is support, there is also collapse. These are effects that things bring about in one another as they develop, and they are difficult to avoid. Given this, how could anyone insist on controlling and forcibly arranging things? Therefore, the sage sets aside excess, extravagance, and extremes, and simply helps all things follow their own nature. How could the sage presume to act recklessly?

Chapter 30: Using the Dao to Assist the Ruler

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not use military force to assert their strength over the world, for this often brings retribution. Where armies have been stationed, brambles and thorns will grow; after a great war, famine is sure to follow. Therefore, those skilled in warfare stop once they have achieved their aim and dare not press further.

Those who assist a ruler by following the Dao do not seek to dominate the world through force, because the consequences of war always return to the one who wages it. Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow; after a great war, years of famine are sure to follow. Thus, those skilled in the use of arms seek only to bring hostilities to an end and do not dare to use force to assert their strength. Even when victorious, they do not boast of their ability, praise their achievements, or grow arrogant. They use force only as a last resort, never as a means of claiming supremacy. When things reach the height of their strength, they grow old: this is called going against the Dao. What goes against the Dao soon comes to an end.

The commentary says: A ruler should practice Wuwei (non-action), while those who assist the ruler must take action. Governing the world cannot be done without any action at all, but if action is ceaseless, its harmful effects will grow until force is used to dominate the world. Even though those who assist the ruler are responsible for taking concrete action, it is wrong for them to act in ways that go against the Dao. How much more, then, should the ruler follow the way of Wuwei? This is because the consequences of force always return to the one who inflicts it. When the world is brought to submission through the Dao, no one dares refuse to submit; when it is subdued by force, people resist. As the saying goes, “What you do to others, others will do to you in return.”

Brambles grow where armies have been stationed, and famine is sure to follow a great war. Since war brings such grave harm to the world, those skilled in the use of arms seek only to defeat the enemy. “Achieving the result” means defeating the enemy. The commentary cites examples of ancient campaigns to show that defeating the enemy does not mean one may use that victory to assert strength. Force should be used only as a last resort, never as a basis for claiming supremacy. After victory, one does not boast of one’s skill, achievements, or power, but continues to regard the use of arms as a last resort. This is the meaning of “achieve the result, but do not become forceful.” To boast, take credit, or grow arrogant after victory is to insist on asserting strength, rather than acting out of necessity.

Things grow from weakness to strength, and after reaching strength they grow old. This is the natural course of their development. The Dao values holding to softness and regards softness as strength; in this way, things can endure without coming to harm. To dominate the world through force is to abandon weakness and choose hardness. Strength will eventually grow old; this is simply following the changes of things toward decline. How could this express the Dao’s power to nurture the myriad things? Thus, when things reach the height of their strength, they grow old: this shows that they are going against the Dao. What goes against the Dao soon comes to an end.

Sharp weapons are inauspicious objects, and people generally dislike them. For this reason, one who follows the Dao does not take them up of their own accord. In ordinary life, a noble person honors the left; when leading troops into battle, the right is honored. Weapons are inauspicious objects, not things a noble person normally values. They are used only when there is no other choice, and then with calm detachment.

Even after winning a battle, one should not treat victory as something to boast about. To take pride in victory is to delight in killing. Someone who delights in killing cannot fulfill their aims under Heaven.

In auspicious affairs, the left is honored; in funerals and other inauspicious affairs, the right is honored. In the army, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme commander on the right, arranging their places according to funeral rites. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep. Even after winning a battle, one should treat it as a funeral.

When civil governance comes to the fore, military force recedes. This is the law by which Heaven and Earth operate and the principle behind the transformations of Yin-Yang. If war and weapons are treated as fine things, they are in fact ill-omened instruments, loathed by all things. Those who possess the Dao therefore do not make a practice of using them. In ordinary life, a gentleman regards the left as the honored side; when leading troops into battle, he regards the right as honored. This change in which side is respected shows that war is ill-omened, and that weapons are not things a gentleman delights in.

War is not something to praise. If it truly cannot be avoided and troops must be used, one should remain calm and composed; even in victory, one should take no pride in it. War is not something to praise. When Heaven seeks to save and protect the people, it shelters them with compassion. Compassion is a principle Heaven gladly puts into practice, never growing weary of it. How could killing people be something to rejoice in? To praise war is to take pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing cannot prevail in the world.

Thus, auspicious occasions honor the left, while occasions of mourning honor the right. The deputy general stands on the left and the supreme commander on the right: this means that the army should be arranged according to the rites of mourning. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even a victory should be treated as a funeral. To treat it as a funeral is to recognize that weapons are ill-omened things and should not be praised. To grieve and weep for the dead is to recognize that killing is no cause for joy. The Old Master’s understanding of ritual learning was this profound. Those who say he wanted to abolish ritual learning entirely—do they truly understand the purpose behind his rejection of ritual conventions?

Chapter 32: The Dao Is Ever Nameless

The Dao is ever nameless. The uncarved “uncut wood,” symbolizing the Dao in its original state, may seem small, yet all under Heaven dare not treat it as a subject. If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. When the Qi of Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth harmonizes, sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet it falls naturally and evenly.

Chapter 32: The Dao Is Ever Nameless

The Dao is ever nameless. The uncarved “uncut wood” may seem small, yet all under Heaven dare not treat it as a subject. If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. When the Qi of Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth harmonizes, sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet it falls naturally and evenly.

Once things are divided and defined, names arise. Once names have appeared, people should know where to stop. Knowing where to stop enables one to avoid danger. The Dao moves through the world as rivers and streams eventually flow into the great rivers and seas.

Lü Huiqing explains: The Dao (the Way) has never had a fixed name. As soon as we call it “Dao,” the name already departs somewhat from the Dao itself. Before the Dao had a name, the myriad things had not yet taken shape. Its source is plain and subtle, yet no one dares treat it as a subject. Why? Because Heaven and Earth begin through it, and the myriad things grow by relying on it. Who would dare treat as a subject the very source on which they depend to begin and grow? This is called the True Sovereign—the inner ruler and source of the myriad things. Every one of the myriad things possesses such a True Sovereign.

If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, they govern the myriad things as True Sovereigns. When the myriad things find their own True Sovereign, how could they fail to submit? Hence it is said: “When the sage appears, the myriad things become manifest.” The Qi of utmost Yin is still and deep; the Qi of utmost Yang is bright and blazing. Yin Qi emerges from Heaven, while Yang Qi rises from Earth. Yin and Yang interact and harmonize, and from this the myriad things are born. It is as though some force within them brings them into balance, yet its form cannot be seen. When Heaven and Earth unite and sweet dew descends, this is the fullest expression of Yin and Yang communicating and harmonizing. The lords and kings hold to the Dao’s guiding principle, bringing the myriad things into submission in just the same way: who can see any trace of how it happens? Thus no one issues commands, yet the myriad things naturally come into balance.

The nameless Uncarved Block—the Dao in its original state, before distinctions are made and names assigned—has no thoughts and takes no action. Once the power that governs the myriad things begins to stir, it starts dividing things and establishing names, and names arise in turn. At this point, if one knows where to stop, it is easy to preserve stability. Before signs have appeared, matters are easy to plan for; while things are still fragile, they are easy to break apart; while they are still minute, they are easy to disperse. Deal with matters before they arise and bring order before disorder takes shape—where, then, would the beginnings of trouble come from? This is how lords and kings hold to the Dao. The Dao in the world is like streams flowing into rivers and seas: how could anything fail to turn toward it?

“Understanding Others Is Wisdom” Chapter, Thirty-Three

To understand others is cleverness; to understand oneself is true insight. To overcome others is strength; to conquer oneself is true resilience. Knowing contentment is true wealth; persisting in practice is having a sense of purpose. One can endure by never losing one’s root. Death and rivers and seas…

Understanding others is wisdom; understanding yourself is true clarity. To overcome others is strength; to overcome yourself is true power. Knowing when you have enough is wealth. Persistently putting the Great Dao into practice is having resolve. Whoever does not lose their roots can endure. Whoever dies in body yet whose Dao and De do not perish may be called long-lived.

The commentary says: Understanding others is called wisdom; understanding yourself is called clarity. Only by understanding yourself first can you truly understand others. Thus, clarity is the root of wisdom. To overcome others is strength; to overcome yourself is true power. Only by overcoming yourself first can you overcome others. Thus, power is the root of strength.

Returning to one’s nature and restoring one’s heavenly mandate is called “constancy”; recognizing constancy is called clarity. If you cannot understand yourself, you cannot recognize constancy. So recognizing constancy is the way to understand yourself. Once clarity reaches the point of self-understanding, what difficulty is there in understanding others?

Keeping to gentleness is what it means to be powerful. If you contend whenever you encounter external things, struggling within your heart day after day, you cannot hold fast to gentleness. Thus, keeping to gentleness is the way to overcome yourself. Once power reaches the point of overcoming yourself, what difficulty is there in attaining the state of a sage?

With the clarity that comes from understanding yourself, you know that the principles of all things are already within you; there is no need to seek outward. That is why it is said, “Whoever knows what is enough is rich.” With the power that comes from overcoming yourself, you need only diligently put the Great Dao into practice; there is nothing else to seek. That is why it is said, “Whoever presses on in practice has resolve.” Knowing that you already have enough within yourself, and firmly putting this understanding into practice, you can hold fast to your roots and remain unchanged by external things. That is why it is said, “Whoever does not lose their place endures.” Whoever can hold fast to their roots has not truly perished, even when the body dies. That is why it is said, “Whoever dies yet does not perish is long-lived.”

The Great Dao flows everywhere, extending through all things and reaching to the left and right. (“The Great Dao” refers to the fundamental principles by which nature operates.) All things depend on it to grow, yet it does not refuse them or claim credit. It nourishes all things, yet does not make itself their ruler. It is always free of desire, so it may be called small. All things turn toward it, yet no one knows what rules them, so it may be called great. Therefore, the sage never presents himself as great, and in this way he is able to accomplish greatness.

The commentary says: If something can move only to the left and not to the right, or only to the right and not to the left—if it is confined to one side—it is not the Great Dao. The Dao is everywhere, so it extends in every direction and can go both left and right.

Ordinarily, once something becomes large enough, it can no longer be called “small”; once it becomes small enough, it can no longer be called “large.” The Dao, however, can go both left and right. All things depend on it to grow, yet it does not refuse them. When things are accomplished, it takes no credit. It nurtures and shelters all things, yet does not rule over them. Because it takes no credit and does not rule, it is often without desire or striving. To be without desire or striving is refinement at its utmost, so the Dao may be called small. All things turn toward it, yet none know who rules them: this is inclusiveness at its utmost, so it may also be called great.

Yet if something is so great that it can be called small, it cannot be said to be truly “great”; and if something is so small that it can be called great, it cannot be said to be truly “small.” It is neither great nor small, and so it disappears into the nameless. Clearly, the Dao’s greatness does not lie in appearing vast. The sage understands and follows the Dao. Does he attain greatness because he considers himself great?

Chapter Thirty-Five: Holding to the Great Image

If one grasps the fundamental principle of the Dao, all things under Heaven will turn toward it. Once they have turned toward it, they will not harm one another, and all under Heaven will be peaceful, harmonious, and at ease.

Music and fine food bring pleasure, and passersby will stop to enjoy them. The Dao, spoken aloud, seems bland and without flavor. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; put it to use, and it is never exhausted.

The commentary says: The Dao exists throughout the world like streams and valleys flowing into rivers and seas. All things turn toward it, yet they do not know it as their ruler; this shows that the Dao has no form and is bland, as if without flavor. It cannot be seen or heard, yet in use it is never exhausted.

Dao exists throughout the world, just as streams eventually flow into rivers and seas. All things return to it, yet do not know it as their ruler. This is because Dao has no form. The formless Dao is the greatest image—who could hold fast to it without straying? Thus it is said: hold fast to the “Great Image,” the formless Great Dao, and all things under heaven will return to it.

If Dao is lost and one tries to make all under heaven return, all things will eventually depart; such a return cannot help but bring harm. When the Great Dao is held fast and all under heaven is brought back, all things dwell with Dao in harmony, forgetting one another, yet never truly leave it. They return without harm, and all under heaven is peaceful, calm, and flourishing. Calm is the utmost of peace, and flourishing is the utmost of calm.

Pleasant things and tasty baits make those who linger there mere passersby. The words of Dao are plain and flavorless, unlike bait that invites indulgence. Look for it and it cannot be seen; listen for it and it cannot be heard. It is unlike music that can delight the senses. Could the Great Dao, used in this way, ever be exhausted? When a passerby stops, a temporary lodging is no more than a thatched hut, unfit for a long stay. The workings of Dao, however, are inexhaustible. The people use them every day without knowing it; hence come the peace, calm, and flourishing of all under heaven. Is Dao merely a place for passersby to stop for a while?

Chapter 36: On Preparing to Rejoice

If something is to be contracted, it must first be expanded; if it is to be weakened, it must first be strengthened; if it is to be cast down, it must first be raised up; if it is to be taken, it must first be given. This is called “subtle illumination,” the principle revealed in what is minute. The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong. Fish cannot leave the deep pool; a state’s sharp instruments and means of power should not be readily displayed to the people.

The commentary says: If something is to be contracted, it must first be expanded; if it is to be weakened, it must first be strengthened; if it is to be cast down, it must first be raised up; if it is to be taken, it must first be given. The workings of Heaven, the transformations of things, and the circumstances of human affairs often follow this pattern. Within expansion, the signs of contraction can already be discerned.

The scripture points out a common tendency in the development of things: to make something contract, first let it expand; to weaken it, first let it grow strong; to discard it, first let it flourish; to take something from it, first give to it. This is a common pattern in the operation of the Dao, the changes of things, and the course of human affairs. Only when one can discern the signs of contraction in expansion, decline in strength, collapse in flourishing, and impending seizure in giving, does one understand the subtle beginnings of change. This is what is meant by “subtle insight”: seeing change in its faintest signs.

The forces that cause things to contract or expand, weaken or grow strong, be discarded or flourish, be taken or given, are formless and yielding. The things affected by these changes are formed and hard. Thus the principle that the yielding overcomes the hard is clear. People cannot be separated from the yielding, just as fish cannot be separated from the depths: a fish that leaves the depths will be caught, and a person who leaves the yielding moves toward death.

The softest force under Heaven can master the hardest things under Heaven; formless force can enter places with no gaps. Its ability to pass through what is hardest and enter the finest, most seamless places is like a sharp instrument. When this sharp instrument is used to govern the realm, plans and changes are carried out invisibly. How could others see where they came from? That is why the instruments of statecraft should not be readily displayed to the people.

Chapter 37: The Dao Always Acts Without Action

The Dao always follows what is natural and does not force things, yet nothing is left undone. If lords and kings can hold to this principle, all things will transform of themselves. If desire and restlessness arise amid these transformations, they should be stilled through “the nameless uncarved simplicity”—a state of plainness untouched by human shaping. Returning to this simplicity, people will gradually lessen their desires. As desire diminishes and the heart grows calm, the realm will naturally settle into peace.

The commentary says: All things have names, but the Dao has never had a fixed name. Anything with a name can occupy only a secondary place in relation to the Dao. Thus, saying that all things will naturally return to the Dao uses “namelessness” to explain this.

Yet this speaks only of Wuwei (non-action). True “non-action, yet nothing left undone” does not mean deliberately remaining in a state of non-action. That is why it says all things will change of themselves. As they change of themselves, both I and all things embody the Dao. Who, then, can distinguish how all things return to the Dao, or what makes them return to it?

Only when all things are about to return of themselves do names begin to be established. Once names have arisen, one should know when to stop. Knowing when to stop means returning to a nameless state of natural simplicity. When things change of themselves, if desires and restless impulses arise again, I use the nameless Dao of simplicity to settle them. If even this Dao of simplicity no longer gives rise to desire, the result is more than non-action: it is freedom from attachment to the state of “non-action” itself.

The movement of all things under Heaven takes the Dao as its fundamental standard. If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao and reach this state, they may be said to be free of desire and at peace. In that case, what in the world could fail to return naturally to its proper order?

Laojun, that is, Laozi, was a realized person. He should not have had to trouble himself by treating all things under Heaven as his own concern. Why, then, did he admonish the lords and kings so earnestly? Because the Dao, when applied to cultivating oneself, brings one to realization; when applied to governing the world, it benefits all under Heaven. If the lords and kings understand and hold fast to the Dao, and use it to govern the world, would that not benefit all under Heaven?

To be unwilling to hoard one’s Dao, but to share it with everyone under Heaven, is benevolence. To hope that everyone under Heaven will do the same, and to begin by urging the lords and kings, is righteousness. Yet some students see only that Laozi speaks of cutting off and abandoning benevolence and righteousness, and conclude that he disparages them. They refuse to accept his teaching. Alas, they have failed to see the purpose behind Laozi’s words; no wonder they refuse to accept them.

Volume Two of the Commentary on the Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue

Volume Three of the Commentary on the Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue

Commentary by Lü Huiqing, Academician of the Hall of Governance and Counsel

The highest form of De—De that arises naturally in accord with the Dao—does not make a show of its virtue, and so truly possesses De. Lower forms of De cling to preserving their virtue and therefore lack true De. The highest form of De acts in accord with what is natural, without pursuing any particular aim. Lower forms of De act deliberately, with a clear intention.

The highest form of benevolence actively does good without seeking any particular result. The next form, righteousness, acts deliberately and with a clear intention. As for ritual, if it is performed and no one responds, its practitioners roll up their sleeves and force others to comply.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual signals that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and is where disorder begins. What is called “foresight” and cleverness is merely the Dao’s surface glitter, and the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person grounds themself in what is substantial and does not linger in what is shallow; they dwell in what is plain and do not chase after what is showy. They set aside the latter and choose the former.

The tradition says, “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao.” If so, how could anyone make the Dao their private possession? The highest form of De takes having nothing as having; precisely because it does not cling to gaining anything, it truly gains something. Hence the saying: “Upper De does not act as De, and so has De.” Lower...

If the Dao can be clearly expressed in words, it is not the eternal, unchanging Dao. How, then, could anyone claim it as their own?

Those of highest De (Virtue or Power in accord with nature) regard having nothing to gain as their gain. Precisely because they do not cling to what they gain, they truly attain something. Hence the saying: “Those of highest De do not display De, and so they possess De.” Those of lower De regard not losing what they have gained as having something. Precisely because they cling to not losing it, though they attain something, it does not count as true De. Hence the saying: “Those of lower De do not lose their De, and so they have no De.”

Those of highest De follow De in its natural state. They do not deliberately try to practice Wuwei (non-action); they simply do nothing of their own accord. Those of lower De do not understand this and act deliberately, so they are always doing something. De is sufficient in itself; add benevolence to it, and it becomes a deliberate pursuit. Those of the highest degree of benevolence practice it without deliberately teaching or arranging matters; benevolence arises naturally. Though they act, they do so without a deliberate aim.

Benevolence cannot be practiced by one side alone, so righteousness is also needed. Even the highest degree of righteousness cannot avoid making judgments and taking action. Benevolence means giving; righteousness means choosing a suitable recipient and manner of giving, without requiring anything in return. Ritual, however, involves both giving and reciprocation: if someone visits you and you do not visit them in return, that is a breach of ritual; if you visit them and they do not come to you, that too is a breach. This expresses the principle that ritual calls for reciprocity. When someone who takes ritual most seriously receives no response after performing a rite, they roll up their sleeves and force the other person to return the courtesy. Even when their rite receives no response, they still treat others according to ritual; that is the principle of ritual. If even the highest degrees of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual are like this, it is easy to imagine what happens at lower levels.

From this, it seems that only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Is this claim without grounds? Ritual demands mutual repayment and reciprocal expectations. Loyalty and trust thus grow faint, and strife and disorder arise; then clever schemes find a use. Ritual is meant to bring order to confusion, yet it becomes the beginning of confusion. Planning ahead and showing off one’s knowledge, with the intention of displaying cleverness, end up opening the way to folly.

Why does this happen? In managing affairs, people should generally begin with simplicity and honesty: these accord with one’s nature, while deliberately seeking to be shallow leads to artifice. Nothing good comes from turning away from one’s nature and pursuing artifice; it always leads to disorder. Human discernment should be grounded in what is real: discernment gives expression to what is real, while cleverness is mere superficiality. Nothing good comes from leaving reality behind and chasing after the superficial; it always leads to folly.

Therefore, the great person is content with simplicity and honesty and does not turn toward shallowness. They stand on what is real and do not chase after the superficial. They forget the names of benevolence and righteousness, cast aside doctrines of ritual and law, and abandon cleverness and intelligence, devoting themselves to the wholeness of the Dao. This is called letting go of one side and choosing the other.

In ancient times, those who attained the Dao (the Way, the fundamental pattern underlying all things in the universe) found that heaven became clear through it, earth became peaceful, spirits became wondrous, valleys became full, all things grew, and lords and kings became rightful rulers under heaven. If we follow this reasoning to its conclusion, when heaven cannot remain clear, it may collapse; when earth cannot remain peaceful, it may quake; when spirits cannot remain wondrous, they may lose their efficacy; when valleys cannot remain full, they may run dry; when all things cannot grow, they may perish; and when lords and kings cannot be rightful rulers under heaven yet still place themselves in exalted positions, they may fall.

Therefore, the noble take the lowly as their root, and the high take the low as their foundation. When lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy”—all humble titles—are they not taking the lowly as their root? Is that not so? So, to receive much praise is, in effect, to receive none. Do not shine like fine jade, nor stand out like hard stone.

The transmitted text says: “The Dao is one. Those who attain the Dao become one with it. The noble take the lowly as their root, and the high take the low as their foundation. When lords and kings call themselves ‘orphan,’ ‘widower,’ or ‘unworthy,’ are they not taking the lowly as their root? Is that not so? So, to receive much praise is, in effect, to receive none. Do not shine like fine jade, nor stand out like hard stone.”

The commentary says: The Dao is one, but if someone who has attained the Dao separates “the self” from the Dao as two things, they have not truly become one. Only when one attains the Dao without thinking one has gained anything is this called “attaining the One.” Since ancient times, everything that has attained the One has been like this.

Look up at the sky: having attained the One, it is clear and bright, and so can cover all things without collapsing. Look down at the earth: having attained the One, it is peaceful and stable, and so can bear all things without sinking. The spirits have no form and are utterly still; through attaining the One, they can manifest their wondrous power in the transformation and growth of all things. Valleys have form, yet are profoundly empty; through attaining the One, they can respond to what comes from outside and receive things in abundance. Though all things have their own forms, they can continue to flourish only through attaining the One. Lords and princes, because they attain the One, can regulate the changes of the realm and bring stability to all under Heaven.

Therefore, holding fast to the One is essential: through it, the sky is clear and bright and the earth is peaceful and stable; through it, the spirits manifest their power in stillness and emptiness becomes abundance; through it, all things grow, and lords and princes become the standard by which the realm is kept stable. If the sky could not be clear and bright, it would split apart; if the earth could not be peaceful and stable, it would shake; if the spirits could not manifest their power, they would fade away; if valleys could not become full, they would dry up; if all things could not grow, they would perish. As for lords and princes, if they cannot serve as the standard that stabilizes the realm and only know how to exalt their own rank, do they not understand that in the end they will lose their footing?

The honored take the lowly as their root. Without the lowly, there is no way for the honored to appear; the lowly are precisely the foundation on which honor rests. High rank rests on what is low: without what is low, there is no way to appear above others. From this we can see that lords and princes can become the standard for all under Heaven without falling only if, though honored, they do not presume on their honor, and though in high office, they do not consider themselves superior to others.

For this reason, lords and princes call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—self-deprecating titles that people regard as undesirable and lowly. Yet they use these as titles of the honored precisely because they understand that their roots lie in what is low. Follow this principle to its furthest point and return to the One, and you will understand that honor does not stand apart from lowliness, nor does lowliness stand apart from high rank; praise, too, can arise from not seeking praise.

When praise is not sought, there is no such thing as praise. Without praise pursued deliberately, there is no way to attain honor; without fixation on blame, there is no such thing as being held in contempt. Jade, because it is prized, is carved and polished; stone, because it is considered lowly, is discarded. If you neither seek to be cherished like jade nor fear being cast aside like stone, the outside world will not divide you into honored and lowly.

Repeated return is the way the Dao moves; softness and weakness are the way it works. The myriad things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.”

The commentary explains: The Dao moves among the myriad things. It does not cease to flow forward, yet its movement always returns. This is like a pivot at the center of a wheel, able to respond to endless changes. The movement between Heaven and Earth is powerful, yet the Dao often appears soft and weak in its workings. The softest thing under Heaven can pass through the hardest; what has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. The myriad things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing”: what has form can give rise to the myriad things, while “nonbeing” can also give rise to “being.” From this we can see that the Dao moves by returning and works through softness and weakness. There is only one way to attain return and softness: remain single-minded and still, bringing yourself to a state of emptiness.

When people of the highest kind hear of the Dao, they diligently put it into practice. When people of the middle kind hear of it, they seem to remember it and yet seem to forget it. When people of the lowest kind hear of it, they laugh loudly. If it were not laughed at, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. An ancient saying puts it this way: The bright Dao seems dim; the forward-moving Dao seems to retreat; the level Dao seems rough. The highest De seems as low as a valley. What is purest white seems stained. Abundant De seems insufficient. Establishing De seems like idleness. What is plain and true seems changeable. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed only at the very end; the greatest sound is barely heard; the greatest image has no form. The Dao is hidden and unseen, and has no fixed name. Only the Dao is skilled at giving to all things and helping them fulfill themselves.

Confucius said, “If I hear the Dao in the morning, I can die content that very evening.” Clearly, for someone who has truly heard the Dao, life and death no longer weigh on the heart. But is hearing the Dao simply a matter of understanding its principles?

Those with the highest capacity hear the Great Dao and truly understand it. Once they understand, they have no further doubts and need only put it into practice. How does one put the Great Dao into action? By reflecting inward each day, bringing the heart into accord with the principles one has heard, and diligently acting in accordance with them.

Those of middling capacity hear the Great Dao but do not yet fully understand it, so their belief and doubt alternate, and their understanding remains uncertain. Because their hearts cannot accord with the principles they have heard, they cannot practice consistently; instead, they waver between acting and not acting.

Those of the lowest capacity hear the Great Dao but do not believe it, and so they laugh. They laugh because they judge the Great Dao by ordinary human feelings and cannot comprehend it. If the Great Dao could truly be grasped through ordinary judgment, they would not laugh. Thus, a teaching that draws no ridicule is not yet worthy of being called the Great Dao. Some sayings put forward by the ancients, too, express the idea that the Great Dao cannot be grasped through ordinary judgment.

To see light alone in the depths of darkness, and to hear harmony alone amid silence: this is called “the bright Dao seems obscure”—truly understanding the Great Dao appears, from the outside, like not understanding it. To reconcile all things through judgments of right and wrong, and to dwell in the “Heavenly Balance,” in accord with nature’s equilibrium, is to recognize that nothing among the myriad things is other than it is, and nothing is unacceptable. This is called “the level Dao seems unusual”—the even, level road appears like an uncommon path.

Those who cultivate the Dao should reduce their attachments day by day. Keep subtracting until they arrive at “nothing.”