《道德真经传(陆希声)》

The Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and De is a four-volume commentary on the Classic of the Dao and De, written by Lu Xisheng during the Tang dynasty. The book does not give titles for its individual chapters. The surviving edition is based on the text included in the Zhengtong Daoist Canon, with reference to the Zhihai edition printed by Qian Xizuo during the Daoguang reign of the Qing dynasty.

The Great Dao had fallen into obscurity, the teachings that shaped society had declined, and the realm was in the midst of great disorder. Whenever an age like this arrives, Heaven must send a sage into the world. The sage, concerned that the people could not live in peace, therefore establishes ways to support what is waning and save a troubled age. The end of the Zhou dynasty was just such a time. Confucius set forth the rites, music, and cultural teachings of the Xia, Shang, Zhou, and other dynasties in an effort to rescue a declining age. Laozi drew on the plain and simple customs of the era of the Three Sovereigns to save the world from disorder. Their purposes were the same.

Confucius’s teaching flourished through cultural instruction, using ritual and refinement to regulate people’s feelings. Laozi’s teaching was grounded in simplicity, restoring people’s nature by returning them to what is simple. The sages’ understanding of human nature and feeling was fundamentally the same. Cultural instruction and simplicity were different approaches suited to different times; they cannot be required to remain the same for all ages. The Book of Changes says, “Manifesting them in benevolence,” meaning that teaching is carried out through cultural instruction. Since matters of culture are manifest, they are plain and clear; and since they are plain and clear, the words used to discuss them are naturally extensive. The Book of Changes also says, “Concealing them in their function,” meaning that teaching is carried out through simplicity. The principles of simple teaching are subtle and obscure, so they are not easy to see through; and since they are not easy to see through, many people make unfounded claims about them.

Laozi’s teaching takes the Dao (the Way) as its foundation and “names” — the distinctions, roles, and functions assigned to things and institutions — as the means of putting it into practice. It speaks of Wuwei (non-action) through which nothing is left undone, and in this way sets out the highest principles of governing the state. Yang Zhu inherited Laozi’s foundation but fell short of it, with the result that he prized the self and treated external things as unimportant. Zhuang Zhou developed Laozi’s practical application but went too far, advocating the abandonment of sages and wisdom. Shen Buhai and Han Fei misunderstood Laozi’s “names” and lapsed into harsh and urgent methods of law and statecraft. Wang Bi and He Yan misunderstood Laozi’s Dao and lapsed into empty talk of nothingness and unrestrained conduct. These six schools can all be said to have distorted Laozi. People consequently came to believe that Laozi’s teachings were at odds with Confucius’s, accusing Laozi’s words of destroying benevolence and righteousness and discarding ritual learning. They also criticized his Dao as concerned only with clarity, stillness, and emptiness, and therefore incapable of governing a state. Alas, people have misunderstood Laozi for a very long time. These are indeed among the reasons that he has suffered misunderstanding for centuries and that his teachings on Dao and De (Virtue/Power) have been difficult to put into practice in his own age.

Laozi traced the origins of Heaven and Earth and explained, step by step, how things have changed from ancient times to the present: first he set forth Dao and De, then discussed benevolence and righteousness, and finally addressed the failings of ritual and music and the severity of punishment and government. He was explaining how social customs had gradually developed into their present state. He grasped the root and focused on the utmost depths of human nature and feeling. His Dao therefore begins with cultivating oneself, extends to the family and the state, and is then put into practice throughout the world; its scope is complete and comprehensive. Yet people still argue endlessly about it. Is this not a grave injustice to Laozi?

Long ago, Fuxi drew the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), symbolizing the myriad things, investigating the principles of nature and life, and aligning with the harmony of Dao and De. Laozi, too, traced the time before Heaven and Earth, examined Yin-Yang, investigated the roots of nature and life, and explored the depths of Dao and De. In this, he shared the same source as Fuxi. King Wen observed the changing lines of nine and six in the Book of Changes, valued strength and transformation, and at the same time took the Middle Way as his destination. Laozi examined the proper positions represented by the lines of seven and eight in the Book of Changes, advocated gentleness and stillness, and used the all encompassing Dao to embrace everything. In this, his purpose was connected to King Wen’s. Confucius revered and explained the Dao of Yao and Shun, took Kings Wen and Wu as his models, and taught the people through benevolence and righteousness. Laozi, too, developed the Dao of Fuxi, connected it with the learning of the Yellow Emperor, and taught the world through Dao and De. In this, he accorded with Confucius’s way of teaching in response to circumstances.

Fuxi, King Wen, and Confucius — these three gentlemen — were all models of sages. Laozi could adapt their principles while returning to their shared foundation, investigate the workings of the most profound transformations, and perceive the most subtle and hidden mysteries. It can be said that he attained a wondrous realm. Yet Wang Bi held that a sage is one with the Dao and that Laozi had not yet truly embodied the Dao. Ruan Ji, too, ranked Laozi as a worthy sage just below the sage, and his view was broadly similar to Wang Bi’s. Was this perhaps because Laozi’s actual conduct in managing worldly affairs fell short of the realm he described? It was not.

When sages live in the world, sometimes they leave their deeds behind; at other times, they leave no trace. When the Dao cannot be put into practice, some humble themselves in worldly affairs, traveling everywhere and taking the troubles of the realm upon themselves. Others conceal their names and withdraw from the world, showing that worldly affairs cannot entangle them. Leaving a trace and leaving none follow different paths, yet lead to the same destination. Both are ways of putting the Dao into practice; they are not simply opposed to one another. Why did Confucius enter public service, while Laozi withdrew? Why did Laozi remain silent, while Confucius spoke? These were perhaps instances of bending and extending, appearing and withdrawing, carried to their fullest expression. How could Wang Bi and Ruan Ji have understood them completely?

Sima Qian, in compiling the teachings of the various schools, placed the Daoists first. It can be said that he understood the relation between root and branch. Ban Gu, in compiling the Biographies of Figures Past and Present, placed Laozi in the third rank. Even if Laozi’s reputation can be criticized, does that mean his principles can be disparaged as well? Alas, Laozi’s teaching was long rejected by his contemporaries; the views of these several schools were responsible for this.

Confucius once met Laozi in person and praised his Dao, saying, “He is like a dragon!” — meaning that Laozi’s Dao was as unfathomable as a dragon. Confucius also sought Laozi’s advice on ritual, as related in the classical records. Later generations could not understand the meaning of these accounts, and so all kinds of claims arose portraying Laozi as a heretic. Those who explained Laozi failed to pursue his teaching to its source, while those who opposed him never truly understood his purpose. Alas, without this commentary, Laozi’s true meaning would nearly have been lost. I have therefore explained his principles in detail and brought their subtle aspects to light, making Laozi’s thought clear and showing how it accords with the intentions of the sages. If someone can grasp his Dao and apply his principles of naming, using the ancient Dao to guide the present, governing the world will be as easy as turning over one’s palm.

Among those who have discussed Laozi’s teaching since ancient times, only the Grand Historian Sima Qian came close to its true meaning. As for those who grasped its principles, even slightly, in governing the state, only Emperor Wen of Han did so. The other one sided and eccentric opinions are not worth accepting.

As transmitted by Lu Xisheng of Wu Commandery.

The Dao that can be explained in words is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; a name that can be clearly defined is not the eternal, unchanging name. “Nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “named” is the source from which the myriad things arise. Thus, by remaining free of desire, one can often observe the Dao’s subtle essence; by dwelling in desire, one can often observe its visible limits and traces. “Nonbeing” and “being” both emerge from the Dao, though they bear different names. Both are profound and subtle; the Dao is subtler still, the gateway to all mysteries.

“Dao” refers to the fundamental nature of all things, while “name” refers to what things are called and how they function. Functions arise from the underlying nature, but that nature does not depend on any particular function. Names are established through the Dao, yet the Dao itself has no fixed name. Because the underlying nature has no fixed function, it can manifest in many different ways; this is why it is said that “the Dao can be spoken of.” But to define the Dao as one specific function accords only with the ordinary patterns of things; it is not the constant Dao that never changes. The Dao has no name in itself, so it can be given many names. Seeking the underlying nature through names is only one way of engaging with changing things, not the constant name that never changes.

The “constant Dao” and “constant name” mentioned at the beginning do not refer to a Dao that can be explained in words or a name that can be assigned to something. The constant Dao and constant name cannot be spoken or named. Only by understanding the relationship between underlying nature and function can one deeply grasp their mystery.

One who embodies the Dao is called an “emperor”: such a person can accord with the nature of things. One who uses distinctions of name and status and manages affairs is called a “sovereign”: such a person can adapt to the changes in things. One who can both accord with their nature and adapt to their changes, and govern the world through this, is called a “king.” Those of the highest order who attain this Dao reach a wondrous state; those of the middle order become sages; those of the lowest order become wise and discerning. Those who attain only a part of it are worthy people; those who attain none of it are ordinary people.

What is called “nameless” is the Dao’s underlying nature, which precedes all movement and stillness. What is called “named” is the Dao’s function, and the source from which good and evil arise. The underlying nature is the source of names, so it is not confined by movement or stillness; tracing it back leads to the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Names are established through function, so they can give rise to good and evil; examining function leads to the mother of all things. Thus the emperor holds to the nameless, while the sovereign puts the named into practice. Holding to the nameless, one practices Wuwei (non-action) and yet nothing is left undone. Putting the named into practice, one acts without clinging to the thought that one is acting.

The emperor accords with the nature of things and follows people’s state of desirelessness, preserving stillness within. Hence it is said, “Always without desire, one observes its subtlety.” Here, “subtlety” means the delicate, profound aspects of things that become perceptible in stillness. The sovereign adapts to changes in things and responds to people’s desires by acting according to appropriate laws and standards. Hence it is said, “Always with desire, one observes its boundaries.” “Boundaries” refers to the limits and signs of specific things as they are observed in action. Though things follow different paths, in the end they return to the same root.

“These two” refers to the “beginning” and the “mother”—that is, to the ways of applying the nameless and the named. Their underlying nature is the same, but their functions differ. “Mystery” means the ability to perceive things and their principles at the same time. Understand the subtle depths of the nameless Dao, and understand that the named Dao, though it follows different paths, returns to the same root, and you can use stillness to govern movement and return from movement to the root. Movement and stillness will no longer be separated from one another, and the principles of things will connect in the depths.

Once their principles are connected, external things can no longer burden you, so you can withdraw and dwell in the depths. In facing good fortune and calamity, you can share the people’s hardships. You can set the world in motion without making the sage bear private anxieties. This is the hidden, unfathomable transformation of the Dao at its utmost spiritual level. When it manifests, it acts through all affairs; when it draws inward and returns to its underlying nature, it appears as subtlety. In either form, it never departs from this Dao.

Everyone knows what beauty is; once the idea of beauty is established, ugliness appears alongside it. Everyone knows what goodness is; then what is not good is distinguished from it. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to one another, difficult and easy complement one another, long and short take shape through comparison, high and low set one another off, notes and tones harmonize with each other, and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. The myriad things arise, and the sage does not interfere. The sage helps them grow but does not claim them as his own; acts without relying on his own ability; and when achievements are complete, takes no credit. Because he takes no credit, his achievements do not depart.

Lu Xisheng says in his commentary that what people call beautiful and ugly appears only in relation to its opposite. The sage handles affairs through Wuwei and teaches without words: letting the myriad things arise without interference, helping them grow without claiming them, acting without relying on his own ability, and completing achievements without taking credit. Because the sage takes no credit, his achievements endure.

What people call beautiful and ugly arises from their own feelings: what accords with their wishes, they consider beautiful; what goes against them, they consider ugly. Judgments of good and bad are the same. Yet what one considers beautiful may not truly be beautiful, and what one considers ugly may not truly be ugly. What one considers good may not truly be good, and what one considers bad may not truly be bad. Why is this? Because feelings influence judgment.

People’s nature is broadly the same, but their feelings differ. Different feelings are stirred by things in the world outside us, so likes and dislikes become mixed, and beauty and ugliness have no fixed standard. What, then, can be used to set them right? The key is to return to one’s nature. Feelings arise from nature, yet they can also obscure it. That is why the sages guide people’s feelings, leading them back to their nature and to a shared, fundamental state.

The scripture’s words “being and nonbeing give rise to one another” are used here to explain how feelings and nature depend on one another, just as difficulty and ease bring each other about. When handling affairs, if feelings are allowed to disrupt nature, matters become hard to accomplish. If feelings are corrected by following nature, matters become easy to accomplish. “Long and short define one another” refers to beauty and ugliness: they are compared with and revealed through each other, just as high and low incline toward one another. “Notes and tones harmonize with one another” refers to good and bad: each affects and contributes to the other, just as what comes before is followed by what comes after.

The world is beset by disorder precisely because these opposing judgments act upon one another in tangled ways. As a result, the world is hard to govern, and the myriad things cannot fulfill their nature. To lead people back to their nature, the sage first guides their feelings. For those who are already good, the sage guides them by building on their good conduct. Those who are not yet good are also guided in keeping with their circumstances, so that they become good. Those who are already trustworthy are guided by building on their trustworthiness; those who are not yet trustworthy are guided so that they become trustworthy. Thus, no object is discarded and no person is abandoned. The myriad things are no longer regarded as loathsome, and everyone can move toward goodness. There can be no case in which this fails to bring peace to the world. The Book of Changes says, “Its Dao is vast and boundless; nothing is cast aside.” This is what it means.

Therefore, the sage understands the nameless, Wuwei Dao and does not act deliberately, so affairs settle of themselves. The sage makes use of distinctions and systems, but does not rely on many words; instruction then spreads of its own accord. The sage lets the myriad things each fulfill their nature, and it seems as though no one is directing them. This is like Heaven and Earth bringing forth the myriad things without claiming their work as their own; like artisans making objects without priding themselves on what they have made; and like the four seasons completing the yearly cycle of growth and change without claiming it for themselves. For this reason, the Dao remains constant and unchanging, and its name does not disappear.

Governing through Wuwei (non-action) begins with not deliberately promoting the worthy and capable, so that people do not compete with one another for fame; not raising the prices of rare and precious goods, so that people are not driven to steal in order to obtain them; and not displaying things that stir desire, so that people’s hearts remain undisturbed. In this way, the Dao (the Way) can endure in its movement, and its name will not disappear.

“Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not contend. Do not prize rare goods, and the people will not steal. Do not display things that excite desire, and people’s hearts will not be thrown into disorder.” The sage governs the people by quieting their inner turmoil and ensuring that their needs are met. He weakens their urge to compete and prevail, and strengthens their bodies. He constantly keeps them from being led by cunning knowledge and excessive desire, so that even those who think themselves clever and want to act recklessly dare not make a rash move. Govern according to the principle of Wuwei, and nothing under heaven will remain unguided.

Lu Xisheng explains: What people admire and value in their hearts prompts them to pursue external things. Pursuit can give rise to deceit, and deceit can in turn breed wickedness. Thus, exalting the worthy may stir a desire to contend, while raising the value of goods may encourage theft. Only by setting desires in order through one’s inherent nature, refraining from displaying things worth coveting and fighting over, and acting in accordance with the Dao can one avoid deceit and hypocrisy.

When the sage governs the people, he redistributes surplus wealth and reduces the impulse to covet and steal. He cultivates neglected fields so that the hungry can be fed. He does not encourage people to compete and show off their abilities, thereby weakening their desire to prevail. Nor does he make them exhaust their strength in forced labor and warfare, allowing their sinews and bones to grow strong. He constantly keeps the people from being ruled by cunning knowledge and excessive desire. Even if someone understands what others admire, they dare not act rashly, because the sage does not allow such contests to arise. “Practicing non-action” means carrying out visible governance while taking the nameless and traceless Dao as its foundation. In this way, all under heaven can come to peace.

The Dao is empty and inexhaustible; in use, it seems never to be filled. It is deep and mysterious, as though it were the source of all things. It softens sharpness, resolves confusion, harmonizes its radiance, and mingles with the dust. Profound and unfathomable, it nevertheless seems always to be present. I do not know whose offspring it is; it seems to have existed even before the divine ruler appeared.

The Dao takes authentic subtlety as its substance and emptiness, stillness, and formlessness as its function. All things under Heaven turn toward it, yet it is never thereby filled; all things take it as their source, yet it is so profound that it cannot be fathomed. To understand how it functions is to wear away the sharp edge of worldly desires and untangle the complications of human affairs. To understand its substance is to join with brightness above without dazzling, and to dwell among the dust of the world below without being clouded. It is deep and remote, beyond our view, yet it continues without end, as though it had always been there. That is why the text first says “perhaps it seems so,” and later “seems perhaps so.” In the end, I cannot know where it began; I only sense that its form seems to have taken shape before Heaven and Earth.

Heaven and Earth show no partiality: they treat the myriad things like straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage, too, shows no partiality: the sage treats the people like straw dogs. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? Empty, yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more the air flows out. Too much talk only brings one to the end sooner. Better to hold fast to the middle way of emptiness, stillness, and calm.

The myriad things depend on Heaven and Earth for their life, yet Heaven and Earth demand nothing from them. The people rely on the sage’s rule, yet the sage does not depend on the people for personal fulfillment. It is like the straw dog made for a sacrificial rite: the spirits have no need of the straw dog itself. Precisely because Heaven and Earth and the sage do not use the myriad things or the people for their own ends, they have no selfish motives. Without selfish motives, they do not deliberately bestow favors. Thus Heaven and Earth seem to show no kindness, yet bring forth great kindness; the sage seems not to extend benevolence, yet brings forth the greatest De. The people need not thank the sage, and the myriad things need not thank Heaven and Earth.

How do I know this is so? Look at the space between Heaven and Earth: it is like a bellows without intention. The bellows has no selfish motives, so when it is worked, it is not exhausted; instead, air keeps flowing out. Heaven and Earth show no partiality, so the myriad things grow and transform without end. Governance, too, need not rely on too many words. When speech is excessive and careless, action easily reaches an impasse. Better to rest in the work of Wuwei (non-action) and put into practice a teaching that relies on no words. This is the practical way of holding fast to the Great Dao and the foundation for preserving life; it is called the art of “holding to the center.” “Bellows” refers to the device that moves air; “Wuwei” means following nature without imposing needless action; “teaching without words” means guiding people through one’s own conduct and practical governance.

The valley symbolizes the substance of the Dao, while the spirit (Shen) symbolizes its function. The substance is real, and its function is mysterious; its responses to the myriad things are inexhaustible. Hence the saying, “The valley spirit never dies.” Because the valley spirit never dies, it fully embodies the substance and function of Heaven and Earth.

“Darkness” refers to the substance of Heaven, while “the mother” refers to the function of Earth. Its nature is deep and hidden, while its function gives life and nurtures like a mother: this is the way the sage models. Hence it is called the “Dark Mother.” The way of the Dark Mother is the principle by which Yin and Yang open and close, changing in ways beyond prediction. Opening and closing are the way of Yin and Yang, and Yin and Yang are the foundation of Qian and Kun (Heaven and Earth). Thus the gate of the Dark Mother is the source of Heaven and Earth. It stretches on without end, as though it had no limit; its substance does not perish, and its function never grows weary. This is the meaning of “The ruler models himself on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao follows what is natural”: the ruler models himself on Earth, Earth on Heaven, Heaven on the Dao, and the Dao accords with nature.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They endure because they do not live solely for themselves, and so they are able to last. The sage puts himself last and thereby comes to stand before others; he sets himself aside and thereby preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish intent? Thus, he ultimately fulfills himself.

Heaven and Earth give life to and nurture the myriad things, yet do not live solely for themselves; therefore, they endure without being destroyed and never cease. The sage cares for the people, yet does not act solely for his own sake, so his teaching lasts, like Heaven and Earth. Thus, the sage does not contend to lead all under Heaven, and people willingly raise him up without tiring of him. He does not cling to himself, and so remains free from danger throughout his life. It is precisely because he does not favor himself that he is able to possess all under Heaven.

A person who truly follows the Dao (the Way) acts in every matter according to what is right and fitting. This is called the highest goodness. Water always flows toward low, muddy places. It does not compete with anything, yet it nourishes all things, and so it is closest to the Dao. A person of highest goodness should be like water: choosing a suitable place to dwell, holding a deep and embracing heart, giving with kindness, speaking truthfully, governing with calm and order, acting with competence, and moving in keeping with the right moment. Precisely because such a person does not compete, they invite no blame.

Water stays in low places, so no one can easily overcome it. It does not contend with the myriad things, and people and things therefore have no cause to contend with it. The Book of Changes says, “Humility is the foundation of virtue.” Water embodies this virtue.

Rather than fill a vessel to the brim, it is better to stop when it is enough. Sharpen a blade too keenly, and it will not stay sharp for long. Even a hall filled with gold and jade cannot be guarded forever. Pride after attaining wealth and honor only brings calamity upon oneself. When one’s work is complete and one’s reputation established, one should withdraw. This is how to follow the course of Heaven.

Better to stop in time than to keep filling a vessel held in one’s hands. When one has risen to a high position and reached the height of one’s power, yielding early is wiser than remaining there in fear of danger. If one pursues power and profit with relentless haste, even success will be hard to hold on to. Hoarding gold and jade and filling one’s home with wealth cannot secure it forever. Pride in high rank brings disaster; pride in great wealth only compounds one’s faults. Pride springs from within, and calamity is brought on by oneself. How can one blame fate or other people?

Thus, a person who follows the Dao completes their work without claiming it as their own, and gains a reputation without clinging to it. At the proper time, they withdraw, preserving themselves and retiring in peace; they relinquish their position to avoid danger. This is like the cycle of the seasons, with cold and heat giving way to one another, so that all things may grow. Such is the law of Heaven.

Can a person unite body and spirit and keep them from separating? Can they remain wholly devoted to purity, stillness, and harmony, softening their intentions until they are like an infant? Can they cleanse the heart and make the mind clear and flawless? Can they care for the people and govern the state without imposing needless interference? Can they follow the changes of nature, remaining supple and still like the female? Can they see clearly in every direction without relying on their own cleverness?

The Dao gives life to and nourishes the myriad things, yet does not claim them as its own. It acts, yet does not rely on its accomplishments. It enables the myriad things to grow, yet does not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and hidden Virtue).

Lu Xisheng explains: “‘Carry’ is a word that introduces the question. The Po is the beginning of life; the One is the root born of the Dao. Guard the root of life and embrace the source of the Dao, and spirit and body will not separate. Remain wholly devoted to the Qi of harmony, and soften the intentions until they are still; then nature and Qi will be as pure and harmonious as an infant. Cleanse the heart without clinging to observation or thought, and the Dao and De will not go astray.

“Care for the people as one cares for an infant. Govern the state as one cooks a small fish, without turning it over too often. Let people each set themselves right, and government can proceed through Wuwei (non-action). Follow the seasons and respond to change, allowing the myriad things to transform and flourish of themselves; thus one can maintain a supple, still, and humble state. The Dao is not obscure, and De naturally spreads far and wide. Though the people turn their eyes and ears toward the sage, the sage does not guide them through clever devices, but lets them remain simple and genuine. In this way, the sage does not rely on knowledge.

“The first three points concern self-cultivation; the last three concern governing the state. Cultivate oneself, and one’s De becomes genuine. Govern the world through the Dao, and its beneficence spreads everywhere. In this way, one can bring forth the myriad things and nourish the people. To give life and nourish without possessing, to act without boasting, and to help the myriad things grow without controlling them: the Dao’s workings extend profoundly throughout all things. This is why it is called ‘Mysterious De.’”

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub. It is the hollow space within the hub that makes the wheel useful. Clay is shaped to make a vessel; it is the hollow space within the vessel that enables it to hold things.

Thirty spokes meet at the wheel hub, the part at the center of the wheel that joins them. It is precisely because the hub is hollow that the wheel is useful. Clay is kneaded into vessels; it is precisely because they are hollow that they can hold things. Doors and windows are cut into a house; it is precisely because the interior is open that the house can serve as a place to live. Thus, solid form brings convenience, while what is empty gives things their use.

Lu Xisheng explains: “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel. The Dao works through nonbeing, while a vessel offers convenience through being. The usefulness of what exists depends on what is empty for it to be realized; the function of what is empty, in turn, depends on what exists to be put into effect. A wheel has spokes and a hub, and a house has doors and windows. The full use of both wheel and house depends on the empty space within them. Is this not like the space between Heaven and Earth, which is like a bellows? Clay is made into a vessel, but water and fire are also needed before its usefulness can be revealed. In the same way, for a sage to become the foremost among vessels, Dao and De must be the foundation before methods of instruction can be put into practice. The pottery vessel can be compared to a person living between Heaven and Earth, illustrating the relationship between the Dao and vessels.”

The five colors dazzle the eyes, the five tones dull the hearing, and the five flavors disrupt the sense of taste. Racing on horseback and hunting make the mind wild; rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct. Therefore, the sage attends to what sustains life and does not become absorbed in sensory pleasures. The sage casts aside what tempts and chooses a simple life.

The eyes cannot see the formless rites, just as if they were blind; the ears cannot hear the soundless music, just as if they were deaf; the mouth cannot taste the flavor of the Great Dao, just as if it had lost its sense of taste. These three afflictions all arise from being confused by the five colors, five tones, and five flavors. When external things confuse us, the heart loses its way, and so the sage regards this as an affliction. The sage is free of these afflictions because he remains alert to them as afflictions.

No desire is more excessive than becoming absorbed in hunting and roaming; once absorbed, the heart becomes like a madman’s. No burden of possessions is heavier than filling a house with things; guarding them obstructs one’s actions. To remove this obstruction, one should keep fewer possessions. To cure the affliction of a deranged heart, one should restrain private desires and devote oneself to cultivation, thereby attaining the sage’s De. When one is content with what the body needs, one knows satisfaction; when one is not led by the eyes, one does not crave desirable things. In this way, one can cast aside what confuses and choose profound De.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled; regard great calamity as you would your own person. What does it mean that favor and disgrace are both startling? Favor itself carries a low status: when granted favor, one is apprehensive, and when favor is withdrawn, one is apprehensive too. This is what it means for favor and disgrace to be startling. What does it mean to regard great calamity as you would your own person? I have great calamity because I have a body. If I had no body, what calamity could I have? Therefore, only one who cherishes the world as dearly as their own person can be entrusted with it; only one who cares for the world as they care for their own person can be given charge of it.

“Favor and disgrace” refer to receiving favor and suffering disgrace, circumstances that commonly arise in times of prosperity and decline. To be “as though startled” means that, when faced with gain or loss, one’s heart is always stirred as if by a shock. When a person’s inner character is firmly grounded, external things cannot shake them. So when favor or disgrace comes, their heart remains unmoved: this is the highest state. If the heart is not settled and is easily affected by external things, one takes favor and disgrace to heart and grows anxious when gain or loss arises. This is a lesser state. The text says “as though startled” because the heart is stirred, though this is not the same as being truly shaken.

What is high must rest on what is low; disgrace, too, has its root in favor. Disgrace follows favor like an echo following a sound. Misfortune lies hidden within good fortune, and the possibility of disgrace accompanies favor: when a sound is made, an echo answers; when favor is bestowed, humiliation may follow. Ordinary people look only at immediate outcomes, so they fear disgrace but not favor. Those whose hearts embody the Dao look to the root and understand that disgrace has its source in favor; for this reason, they are more wary of receiving favor. The phrase “favor is lowly” means that favor is the root of disgrace, and so calls for particular caution. At first, the text says that both favor and disgrace are like shocks, as though placing them on equal footing. It later singles out favor as lowly to show that being wary of favor is the crucial point.

“Great calamity” refers to the troubles brought by good and bad fortune, while “having a self” means possessing and clinging to oneself. Clinging to oneself brings great calamity. To regard oneself as supremely precious is, in effect, to regard great calamity as supremely precious—a profound delusion. Laozi uses this to criticize people for placing excessive value on themselves. What ordinary people call good fortune includes wealth, status, celebrations, and rewards, all of which they fear losing. What they call bad fortune includes poverty, low status, and punishment, which they fear suffering. Anxiety over gaining or losing brings sorrow, so the greatest troubles under heaven are none other than the gains and losses of good and bad fortune. The sage takes the people’s heart as his own and therefore regards the good and bad fortunes that concern them as matters of concern.

Yet the source of all these troubles lies in clinging to oneself. People each place great importance on “I” and cannot become one with external things. They divide into groups, their affections and aversions come into conflict, and good and bad fortune arise, followed by anxiety. One who truly embodies the Dao has no attachment to a private self and can accord with all things. They temper their sharpness, blend with the common world, and bring things to fruition without ruling over them. Thus, though they live among the people, they do not worry over private gains and losses as ordinary people do. If gain and loss stir the heart, it still divides self from external things; favor and disgrace will never be at rest, and good and bad fortune will never cease. How, then, could such a person serve as the standard for all under heaven or occupy an important place among them?

Only one who devotes their strength to all under heaven and cares for all under heaven truly cherishes and protects it, rather than cherishing and protecting only themselves. Such a person does not claim gains and losses for themselves or let troubles settle upon them. Even if an important position could be entrusted to them, they would not dare claim it as their own—how much less would they seize power and treat it as private property? This is what it means for all under heaven to belong to the public when the Great Dao is put into practice.

Seeing it is impossible: this is called “Yi,” the imperceptible. Hearing it is impossible: this is called “Xi,” the inaudible. Touching it is impossible: this is called “Wei,” the intangible. Even so, one would not dare treat it as a ruler, much less claim it as one’s own. The way the Great Dao operates embodies the principle that all under Heaven is held in common.

Seeing it is impossible: this is called “Yi,” the imperceptible. Hearing it is impossible: this is called “Xi,” the inaudible. Touching it is impossible: this is called “Wei,” the intangible. These three cannot be traced to their ultimate source, so they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It extends without end and cannot be named, ultimately returning to a state without form or substance. This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the imageless,” and also “huhuang”—vague, elusive, and hard to grasp. Facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide the myriad things of the present. To know the source of all things is to hold the guiding principle of the Dao.

What can be seen is called “color,” what can be heard is called “sound,” and what can be touched by hand is called “form.” All things between Heaven and Earth have color, sound, and form. Only the Dao runs through them all without belonging to color, sound, or form, so it cannot be grasped by the ears, eyes, or hands and feet.

Though the Dao has no body, it enables all things to take form and color and to produce sounds of every kind. If one must give it a name, it is called “the elusive, the indistinct, and the subtle.” Pursuing what it is brings no certain answer, so these three are joined together and called “the One.”

Above, the Dao shines alongside the sun and moon, yet is not as bright and distinct as they are. Below, it rests in silence alongside tiles and rubble, yet does not thereby lose its radiance. It flows and turns on without end, beyond the reach of names. Though all things undergo countless changes, in the end they return to what has no form or trace. Yet the Dao’s essence is real and subtle; it is not truly nothing. It simply cannot be attained through sight, hearing, or touch. Thus it is said to be “a state without substance, an image without form”: speak of its appearance, and it seems to vanish suddenly; speak of its image, and it seems vaguely to exist.

No one knows where the Dao begins, so even when facing it, one cannot see its beginning. No one knows where it ends, so even when following it, one cannot see its end. Only by grasping the ancient Dao of Wuwei (non-action), while directing the present-day institutions of teaching and affairs that involve deliberate action, can people return to simplicity and recover the state of primordial antiquity. To know the simple nature of that primordial beginning is to grasp the guiding principle of the Great Dao and the essential foundation of teaching.

In ancient times, those who were skilled in embodying the Dao (the Way) and cultivating De (Virtue/Power) possessed virtue so subtle and mysterious, and a Dao so deep and far-reaching, that they were difficult to fathom. Because they were so hard to fathom, one can only describe them by resorting to images: in their actions, they were cautious and hesitant, like someone crossing a river in winter; in their dealings with the world, they were alert and wary, as if afraid of being watched from every side; in their bearing, they were dignified, like guests before a host; in their expression, they were relaxed, like ice about to melt in spring. They were honest and unadorned, like uncarved wood; open-hearted, like a valley; inwardly deep and indistinct, like clear water mingling with a muddy current. These are the qualities of those skilled in embodying the Dao and cultivating De, which is why ordinary people find them difficult to recognize.

Who can still muddy water and let it gradually become clear? Who can stir things from a state of ease and stillness so that vitality gradually emerges? Those able to hold fast to this Dao do not seek to be complete and self-sufficient. Precisely because they are not complacent and do not seek fullness, they can endure wear and decline without rushing to start anew and pursue novelty.

Lu Xisheng explains that those skilled in cultivating the Dao understand that the mysterious Dao undergoes changes of waning and waxing, fullness and decline. They can therefore hold fast to it and follow the natural course of things. They do not let De become overfull or the Dao veer off course; following the signs as things emerge, they help the muddy gradually become clear, and observe from a state of stillness how vitality begins to sprout. In this way, they govern worldly affairs by working with the conditions already at hand. They need not continually seek the new, and things can gradually be brought to completion.

Clear away the mind’s scattered thoughts until they are gone, and hold firmly to a state of deep stillness and single-mindedness. As all things grow and change together, I observe how they return to their source. Though the myriad things flourish in profusion, each in the end returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is a return to one’s heavenly nature. Returning to one’s heavenly nature is the constant Dao. To know the constant Dao is to be wise. Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly brings danger. One who knows the constant Dao can embrace all things. Only by embracing all things can one be impartial; only by being impartial can one become ruler of the world. To become ruler of the world is to be in accord with Heaven; to be in accord with Heaven is to be in accord with the Dao. In accord with the Dao, one endures for a long time and never departs from it throughout life.

When governance is empty, still, profound, and subtle, reaching a deep and refined state, this is the work of the Dao of De. To remain single-minded and steadfast in stillness is the foundation for realizing the Great Dao. The Dao’s workings have no fixed limits, so all things can grow and change. The Dao’s underlying nature is still and clear, allowing us to observe how all things return to their source. The Book of Changes illustrates Heaven and Earth’s return with thunder concealed beneath the earth: movement contained within stillness is the state in which the sage returns to the source. At the time of return, what becomes manifest is the original heart of Heaven and Earth; Heaven and Earth take the sage’s heart as their own.

The myriad things are diverse and abundant, yet upon returning they come back to their root. Affairs are many, yet upon returning they come back to their underlying principle. Principle is the source of affairs; stillness governs action; and nature is the source of feeling. Human beings are innately still and pure: this is the nature bestowed by Heaven. Only when we are stirred by external things and act do human feelings arise. Let feelings return to nature and action return to stillness, and one will accord with the principles of Heaven. The Book of Changes says, “Exhaust the principles of things and fully develop one’s nature, thereby reaching one’s heavenly destiny.” Thus, by exhausting the principles of Heaven, one can fully understand human nature; by fully understanding human nature, one can know one’s heavenly destiny. Hence, returning to the root is stillness, and stillness is a return to one’s heavenly destiny.

From the perspective of heavenly destiny, one can see the nature of each thing. The Doctrine of the Mean says, “What Heaven bestows is called nature.” The hidden depths of nature and destiny are called “the utmost intricacy.” The principles of nature and destiny emerge from these hidden depths. To follow one’s nature is therefore to enter into the understanding of subtle principles; through this, one can understand the principles of things, and understanding those principles is the Dao. Cultivating this Dao enables one to return to one’s nature. When people respond to external things through the Dao, this is called instruction. Hence it is said, “Following one’s nature is called the Dao; cultivating the Great Dao is called instruction.”

The key to inheriting and transmitting this instruction lies in bringing the Dao to fruition; the key to bringing the constant Dao to fruition lies in the fulfillment of nature. The Great Dao is deep and subtle in its essence, and difficult to know. The benevolent and the wise are each limited by what they see, while ordinary people use the Great Dao every day without knowing it. Thus, those who truly embody the Dao are rare. The Book of Changes says, “To inherit it is goodness; to bring it to fruition is nature.” The benevolent see benevolence in it and call it benevolence; the wise see wisdom in it and call it wisdom. Ordinary people use it every day without knowing it. The Great Dao is manifest in benevolence and virtue, yet hidden in the functions of all things. It drives all things to grow, yet does not worry over every affair as a sage does. Such immense virtue and achievement truly reach the utmost. Through these words, Confucius deeply illuminated the mysteries of Dao and De, and the hidden depths of nature and destiny.

The Dao is constant because it responds well to all things without being burdened by them. Only by knowing the constant Dao can one continually help all things well without being constrained by them. The Dao’s workings are subtle, while its principles are clear and evident. Knowing the constant Dao is called “embracing the light”—receiving and discerning the light hidden within. If one does not know how to help all things through the good Dao, but instead recklessly establishes laws and instruction, the people will suffer as a result. One who knows the constant Dao and understands how to treat all things well can, like Heaven and Earth covering and supporting all things, act without partiality toward them. When the people therefore turn to and support such a ruler, the ruler accords with the constant Dao and lives without regret to the end.

The finest rulers are known to their people only by their presence. The next best are loved and praised by the people. Those below them are feared, and even held in contempt. When a ruler lacks integrity, the people will not trust him. So a ruler should speak with care. When affairs are brought to completion, the people say, “We did this naturally, of our own accord.”

In ancient times, virtuous rulers governed by following nature and refraining from contrived action. The people knew only that a ruler stood above them; they did not feel his deliberate influence. They would say, “What has the emperor’s power to do with me?” Later, as De declined, rulers began governing the realm through such ideals as benevolence and righteousness. The people, benefiting from benevolent rule, grew close to their ruler; remembering his righteous deeds, they praised him.

If benevolence and righteousness could not settle the people’s hearts, rulers governed through penal laws, and the people feared them. If penal laws could not restrain the people either, rulers resorted to schemes and deceit, and the people held them in contempt. Alas! What is true and trustworthy within the heart is called sincerity; words that are kept are called trustworthiness. If the heart is insincere and words are not kept, yet one treats speech as though it were weighty, can this be called integrity? Only after the Great Dao and De had vanished did benevolence and righteousness appear; only after benevolence and righteousness ceased to work did penal laws arise. At this point, can esteem for superficial methods still be called following the Dao?

The sage acts differently. He grasps the ancient Dao to govern the present, strips away ornament, and returns things to simplicity. When affairs are completed, he does not claim them as his own; when the work is done, he does not take credit. In governing, he may use methods or refrain from them, acting in accord with the times. In this way, the people can all follow their own nature, and everyone says, “We did this naturally, of our own accord.” Such feelings as closeness, praise, fear, and contempt no longer arise in the world.

Only when the Great Dao was abandoned did people begin to speak of benevolence and righteousness. Only when cleverness became conspicuous did great hypocrisy appear. Only when kinship grew discordant did people emphasize filial devotion and parental love. Only when the state fell into disorder did loyal ministers emerge.

Lu Xisheng explains that Laozi’s central teaching was to govern the present age in accordance with the ancient Dao. He clarified both what must necessarily be true of things and what changing conditions in the world made necessary. Later generations failed to understand him and concluded that Laozi and Confucius disagreed. This passage and those that follow address that question. Alas, Laozi has been misunderstood for a long time. I will now explain what he meant. Does not the Book of Rites say: “When the Great Dao was put into practice, people cared not only for their own kin and cherished not only their own children. They abhorred seeing goods left on the ground, but did not necessarily claim them for themselves; they disliked seeing their strength go unused, but did not necessarily labor only for their own benefit. Thus plots and schemes did not arise, and rebellion and theft did not occur. The outer gates did not need to be closed. This was called the Great Unity.”

In that age, people dug wells for water and tilled fields for food. They worked from sunrise until sunset. Who would have thought the rulers had done them any favors? The people knew only that rulers existed. What need was there to govern them through benevolence and righteousness?

After the Great Dao declined and fell into obscurity, people cared for their own kin and cherished their own children, while goods and labor were devoted to private interests. Society was therefore governed through benevolence and righteousness: the relations between ruler and subject were set in order, fathers and sons were made close, brothers harmonious, and husbands and wives respectful toward one another. The people consequently drew near to their rulers and praised them, and benevolence and righteousness became conspicuous. Seen in this light, was it not only after the Great Dao declined that the undivided Dao dispersed into particular things and benevolence and righteousness appeared?

Confucius, then, lamented the changes of the age, while Laozi explained related principles in the Dao Treatise. Their intentions were in fact the same. The sages’ wisdom extended throughout all things, but they did not use it to embellish their conduct. Their insight benefited all under Heaven, but they did not use it to proclaim their benevolence and righteousness. In that age, people did not yet know what it meant to flaunt their wisdom. But as customs declined and rivalry increased, people used cleverness to practice deceit and intelligence to undermine what was right. From then on, displays of wisdom became visible, while deceitful conduct went into hiding. Does this not mean that once wisdom is displayed, great deceit appears along with it?

Confucius had Shao Zhengmao executed between the watchtowers beside the palace gate, and the Spring and Autumn Annals records the deeds of King Ziqian of Chu. How do these actions differ from Laozi’s meaning? As for the bond between father and son, it is innate. When people follow their nature, harmony and affection arise of themselves; fathers and sons naturally love one another. Why, then, would anyone need to single out benevolence or filial devotion by name? Only when people are enticed by external things does their nature turn into private desire, which is itself influenced by external things; then some begin to depart from their nature. The sages therefore clarified the principles and established teachings to guide everyone under Heaven toward mutual love between fathers and sons. Only then did the names “filial devotion” and “benevolence” become prominent. Thus Laozi said, “Only when the six relationships are in disharmony do filial devotion and benevolence become visible.” Shun’s father and younger brother were unruly, and Shun was therefore known as greatly filial. Zeng Shen’s father, Zeng Xi, was stern, and Zeng Shen became renowned for his skill in caring for his parents. These were inevitable outcomes as circumstances unfolded. Does this mean Laozi opposed filial devotion?

Likewise, when a ruler is wise and worthy ministers are in office, each fulfilling their role, no exceptional virtue needs to be displayed. Only when a ruler is benighted and the people are in turmoil does the resolve to give one’s life for the state become manifest, and only then do words that oppose the ruler’s wishes and offer frank remonstrance arise. Thus Laozi said, “Only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers become visible.” It was under the tyrant Jie of Xia that Guan Longfeng’s loyalty and integrity became clear; it was with the fall of Yin under Zhou that Bi Gan’s loyalty and righteousness became known. These were responses forced by circumstances, adopted because there was no alternative. How could Laozi have opposed them? If scholars grasp the meaning that runs through these examples, they will understand that the teachings of Confucius and Laozi do not conflict.

Sage wisdom is meant to benefit all things. Yet some people are harmed even as they benefit from it, and blame sage wisdom for the harm. Some then propose abandoning it, believing the people will thereby gain a hundredfold. Benevolence and righteousness are meant to bring harmony among the people. Yet some grow resentful because of that very harmony, and blame benevolence and righteousness. Some then propose abandoning them, believing that filial devotion and care will thereby be restored among kin. Clever schemes and material gain can be useful to people. Yet some use them to invite theft, and blame cleverness and profit. So others propose abandoning them, believing that thieves will then disappear.

These three claims are merely superficial and do not get to the heart of the matter. That is why Laozi says such claims must be given a place and a direction. Calamity and good fortune accompany one another, just as the body is followed by its shadow: this is a natural principle that cannot be eliminated. Some people cannot see how society declines or understand how its troubles gradually take shape. They assume that abandoning sage wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit will bring a return to antiquity. This is like someone who hates their shadow, not realizing that it will disappear in the shade, and instead trying to destroy their own body along with it.

Laozi was concerned that people had long been losing their way in the Dao. He therefore presented these extreme claims to show how some, believing that refinement and moral instruction cannot govern the world, want to abolish them altogether. He makes clear that these three proposals are simply such claims; they are not Laozi’s own intent. Sage wisdom is essential to making useful things; benevolence and righteousness are virtues in human relationships; cleverness and profit are strengths in craft and practical affairs. When things are on the verge of ruin, one should respond to the circumstances and set them right. This is what it means for “what is worn out to be renewed,” the art of rescuing things.

The way to set things right comes down to letting what is turbid grow still, so that it can gradually clear, and keeping what is settled at rest, so that vitality can gradually emerge. To follow the circumstances of things and guide them toward gradual change is to “reveal the uncarved and embrace the unhewn”—to let one’s plain nature show and hold to simplicity—and to “reduce selfishness and lessen desires.” Those who reveal the uncarved and embrace the unhewn will be simple and sparing in speech, drawing close to benevolence. Those who reduce selfishness and lessen desires will be plain and upright, and glad to practice righteousness. Once these principles are put into practice step by step, what follows becomes clear. How could Laozi’s teaching contradict Zhongni (Confucius)? Moreover, since the chapter ultimately comes down to reducing selfishness and lessening desires, it is clear that “abolish benevolence and discard righteousness” was not Laozi’s own intent.

Put an end to the pursuit of worldly knowledge, and the heart will have no worries. How great is the difference between the responses “yes” and “ah”? How much difference is there between what people call good and evil? What the world fears cannot simply be left unfearing. The turmoil of the world is vast and boundless, seemingly without end.

Everyone is cheerful, as if attending a lavish feast or climbing a terrace in spring to admire the view. I alone seem quiet and dull, with my intentions still hidden, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. I look weary and weak, as though I lack something or have nowhere to return to. Everyone else seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to have lost something. My mind is like that of a fool: simple and unassuming. The people of the world are sharp and discerning; I alone seem dim. They are meticulous and exacting; I alone seem dull and easygoing.

My state of mind is calm and open, deep and vast like the sea; it also drifts like a gale, with nowhere to settle. Everyone has something to rely on; I alone persist in being plain and unpolished, like an uncouth person. I differ from everyone else because I value “feeding on the Mother”—taking the Dao as my foundation and nourishing life from it.

Lu Xisheng’s commentary says that this chapter’s deeper meaning is much the same as that of the preceding chapter. The Sage’s purpose in learning is to embody the Dao. When the Dao prevails in conduct, the world can be brought into order. The commentary then draws out the meaning of the chapter’s closing lines: everyone has something to rely on, while I alone seem stubborn and unpolished. What sets me apart from everyone else is that I value “feeding on the Mother.”

The deeper principle discussed in this chapter is broadly the same as in the previous one. Sages study in order to seek the Dao; when the Dao is put into practice, society becomes stable. Ordinary people study to pursue profit; when the pursuit of gain prevails, society falls into disorder. Some people, disliking how worldly learning disrupts society, conclude that abolishing it altogether will bring peace of mind. But then those as closed off and ignorant as a wall would lose the chance to know the Dao.

Laozi sets out the central point and weighs its gains and losses. When people respond, saying “wei” sounds respectful, while saying “e” sounds dismissive. Yet if dismissiveness is taken for respect, the difference is only one of wording; that does not mean “e” can be treated as “wei,” or the response would no longer be proper. It is similar to how people in the world all pursue learning: learning the Dao is considered good, while pursuing profit is considered bad. If pursuing profit is treated as the right way, the reversal may seem plausible when considered in the abstract, but that does not make it right to call evil good; doing so would throw society into confusion. The difference between “wei” and “e” is small. How much greater, then, is the distance between good and evil? This principle is easy to understand, yet putting it into practice is extremely difficult, and people cannot simply reverse their course and act accordingly. This is what Laozi laments. He therefore describes, one by one, the failings of ordinary people, to show the state that those who have attained the Dao can reach.

The power of punishment is something people have always feared. How could a person of the Dao be entirely unafraid? It is because social order and moral instruction have already declined, calamity and turmoil are about to arise, and harsh punishments are imposed indiscriminately, so that even the good may suffer. The road ahead seems long and uncertain, truly a cause for concern.

Rank and reward are blessings that people cherish. To receive them is like having the ritual vessels filled and enjoying an abundant offering of sacrificial meat; to see one’s wishes fulfilled is like ascending a high terrace and looking out over the spring landscape. A person of the Dao need not necessarily refuse these things, but receives them without delight, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. Even when settled among them, such a person seems weary and dispirited, like someone with no home to return to.

Ordinary people prize cleverness and strength, always feeling they have more than enough. Those of the Dao return to simplicity and gentleness, seeming somehow deficient. This is not because, like the foolish and stubborn, they know nothing inwardly; rather, their nature is unadorned, and they do not prize cleverness. Ordinary people boast of displaying their intelligence, while those of the Dao would rather seem obscure, making restraint and keeping out of sight their virtue. Ordinary people pride themselves on sharp discernment and exposing deceit, while those of the Dao remain generous and unhurried, taking knowledge of the constant Dao as their foundation. When still, they are calm and deep, as unfathomable as the sea; when moving, they flow freely, like the wind that never comes to rest.

Everyone is busy doing things, as though each action had a clear purpose. Only I act through Wuwei (non-action), appearing dull and plain. Everyone pursues the branches and treats nourishing the children as most important; only I return to the root and consider caring for the mother more precious. Here, “mother” means the Dao, and “children” means the myriad things that arise from the Dao. To care only for the children is to nourish the spirit through desires and cravings; to cherish and care for the “mother” is to return to the Dao through stillness and purity.

The form of great De follows the Dao completely. The Dao as a presence is indistinct and elusive, difficult to grasp. Yet within this indistinctness there are images; within it, too, are real things. It is profound and obscure, yet contains a subtle essence. This subtle essence is utterly real, and within it there is also a basis that can be trusted.

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has been passed down without interruption. Through it, people can observe the origins of all things. How do I know what those origins are like? By relying on this principle.

Only those who follow the true and subtle Dao can remain open and humble, and embrace all things through De. The Dao seems to exist and yet not to exist; it is hard to describe in fixed terms. Why? The Dao is still and formless. We cannot call it a concrete thing, yet it can manifest the myriad forms. It changes in countless ways, and in the end returns to formlessness and emptiness. Though the Dao is elusive and difficult to fathom, and being and nonbeing seem to have no fixed shape, though it is deep and obscure and the transformations of Yin-Yang cannot be predicted, its true, subtle, and unwavering nature remains within.

What is pure and unmixed is called Jing; what follows its own nature is called truth; what is sincere and without deceit is called trust. Thus utmost sincerity is the Dao’s function, and pure subtlety is its substance. When substance and function mysteriously unite, the result is nature itself, which is what is meant by “the Dao follows its own nature.” How do I know that true nature exists within the natural order? From ancient times to the present, the name “Dao” has endured without vanishing, so we can examine the source of all things. “The source of all things” refers to the origin of each thing. How do I know that the names of things can be examined? The names of things are not eternal and unchanging: they shift and disappear with the times. Only the enduring name of the Dao remains unchanged, allowing us to examine the things that can be named. Only those who understand this constant name of the Dao can adapt to the times and deal with affairs. Though things arise and change before my eyes every day, I govern through Wuwei (non-action).

Bend, and you will be kept whole; curve, and you will become straight; lie low, and you will be filled; grow old, and you will be renewed; take little, and you will gain; seek much, and you will be confused. Therefore, the Sage holds fast to “embracing the One”—keeping to the unity and root of the Dao—as the guiding principle for all under Heaven.

Because the Sage does not put himself on display, he becomes clear-sighted; because he does not insist that he is right, he becomes evident; because he does not boast of his accomplishments, he achieves merit; because he is not proud and complacent, he endures. Precisely because he does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with him. The ancients said, “Bend, and you will be kept whole.” How could these words be empty? When this is truly put into practice, all under Heaven will turn toward you.

By yielding, one can bring all things to fulfillment without neglecting a single part; then nothing in the world can contend with one’s success. The ancients said, “Yielding preserves what is whole.” Could these words be empty? When one truly attends to everything, all things naturally return.

By yielding, one can bring all things to fulfillment without neglect; only then can matters reach completion. Setting aside one’s own position to help others succeed allows affairs to proceed smoothly. When desires are reduced, things naturally return to their original state; what is low can thus become full. When turbidity is allowed to settle, matters naturally become clear; old ills can thus be renewed. When things return to principle, taking little can bring gain; when principle runs counter to things, grasping for more leads to confusion.

The sage understands the guiding order of the Dao. One who holds to the Dao uses principle to make sense of particular affairs, and learns about principle through particular affairs. In this way, affairs and principle connect with one another, making one a model for the world. When one does not display oneself or place oneself above others, matters become clear of themselves. When one does not insist on being right or blame others, principle becomes evident of itself. When one does not boast of one’s abilities, things return to what is real, and governance can take effect. When one does not praise one’s own skill, principle finds its proper measure, and the Dao can endure. Only by following principle and refraining from contending with the myriad things can the affairs of the world naturally fall into place. To bring all things to fulfillment through yielding, without neglecting even what is subtle and hidden, is what the ancients meant by “Yielding preserves what is whole.” How could this be mere talk? When one truly brings all things to fulfillment through yielding, the world returns in its entirety.

The Dao is best expressed in few words; this accords with nature. A gale does not last all morning, and a downpour does not last all day. What brings these things about? Heaven and Earth. If even the changes of Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can human actions? Therefore, those who devote themselves to the Dao become one with the Dao; those who cultivate De become one with De; those who lose the Dao become one with the state of having lost it. Whoever becomes one with the Dao is received by the Dao; whoever becomes one with De is joined by De; whoever becomes one with the loss of the Dao has that loss answered in kind. So, when trust is insufficient, people will not trust.

Lu Xisheng says in his commentary: Laozi was about to put nonverbal teaching into practice, in keeping with the principles of nature, and so he gives special emphasis to this idea. The Jing says, “become one with the loss of the Dao,” and then explains: whoever becomes one with the Dao is received by the Dao; whoever becomes one with De is joined by De; whoever becomes one with the loss of the Dao has that loss answered in kind. So, when trust is insufficient, people will not trust.

Laozi will promote the “teaching without words”—teaching through harmony with nature rather than through elaborate speech and commands—in keeping with the principles of nature. That is why he deliberately speaks of “sparse words.” The Dao De Jing says, “To hear something yet not hear it is called ‘sparse.’” “Sparse words,” then, means speaking little, close to saying nothing at all. Confucius said, “What has Heaven ever said? The four seasons proceed as usual, and all things continue to grow.” He also said, “Heaven does not speak, yet its signs are evident.” This is precisely how the Dao of Heaven works naturally.

The principles of nature are the Dao’s enduring patterns. The four seasons follow their course, and Heaven and Earth turn in their regular rhythms; this is why they continue without end, revolving in cycles. Violent winds and torrential rains, by contrast, are not the usual state of Heaven and Earth. They rise fiercely and then stop abruptly. If even vast Heaven and Earth cannot sustain such anomalies for long, how could extraordinary measures in human affairs possibly endure?

Once the Dao and De had faded, benevolence and righteousness became difficult to put into practice, and elaborate rites and punishments were devised out of necessity. The confused do not understand the purpose of ritual systems. They mistake temporary punishments for the foundation of good government. Though the original hope was ultimately to reach a state “without punishment,” they cling to one particular method and believe it can be followed for generations. This is a mistake. Alas, violent winds and torrential rains must eventually cease, while the regular sequence of the seasons has no end. The principles of nature cannot be changed.

To act in accordance with the Dao is to practice the Dao. By following nature and not going against the enduring way, one can accord with the Dao. To act in accordance with De is to put De into practice. Even without fully following the enduring way, one can accord with De so long as one has not lost enduring De. To act in accordance with loss is to have lost both the Dao and De, as well as benevolence and righteousness; in the end, one accords with loss. The Book of Rites says, “Though the ways of doing good differ, they ultimately lead to order; though the ways of doing evil differ, they ultimately lead to disorder.” Perhaps this is what it means.

Alas, it is only when trust is insufficient that people cease to believe. In such circumstances, rites, laws, and punishments are adopted out of necessity. If there is no real need for them, yet they are still applied indiscriminately, that is truly foolish.

Those who are always rising onto their toes to pursue profit cannot stand firmly on the constant Dao. Those who overstep their proper bounds and indulge their desires cannot follow the proper roles and paths. Someone who cannot let go of profit yet claims to be capable of managing things well simply cannot do so.

Thus, those who only seek to display themselves end up obscuring others, making things hard to see clearly. Those who think only they are right and criticize others at every turn prevent truth from coming to light. Those who boast of their abilities achieve nothing in governing. Those who believe themselves exceptionally capable cannot keep to the Dao for long. Like rising onto one’s toes or taking an overlong stride, these four faults obstruct good governance. From the Dao’s perspective, they are like scraps left over from a meal: they cannot fill anyone up. They are also like an extra growth on the body, unsightly and unpleasant. If all things in the world detest them, how could a person who has the Dao be content with them?

There is a being, whole and undivided, that came into existence before Heaven and Earth took shape. Silent and vast, it exists independently and does not change. It moves in cycles without wearing out and can serve as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I shall provisionally call it the Dao. Forced to give it a name, I call it “the Great.”

The Great moves onward and outward; moving onward and outward, it reaches far away; having reached far away, it returns. Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is great. Between Heaven and Earth there are four great powers, and the king is one of them. Humanity takes Earth as its model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao takes what is so of itself as its model.

The Book of Changes says, “Within change there is the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), from which the two forms of Yin and Yang arise.” From this we can understand that the undivided, primordial existence was already there before Heaven and Earth took shape. It is silent and without signs, standing apart from the transformations of the myriad things, its underlying nature ever unchanged. Empty and formless, it nevertheless moves through all things, its activity never ceasing. Thus it can generate the myriad kinds of beings and serve as the root of everything. The Doctrine of the Mean says, “Because it is itself pure and undivided, its power to generate all things is unfathomable.” The Taiji, then, is the starting point for the calculations of the Great Expansion, while the thing formed from primordial unity is the mother of all things under Heaven.

Its underlying nature cannot be grasped by a name, so it is said, “I do not know its name.” Yet its activity cannot be said to have no name at all, and so it is provisionally called the Dao (the Way). A written character is established on the basis of a name, and a name arises from activity. Since it has been given the name “Dao,” it follows that it has a name. Yet when we inquire into that name, we still do not know what it truly is. When we observe its activity, however, we see that it is vast and without limit, and so its activity is provisionally called “great.”

In terms of its activity, it may be called “great”; in terms of its underlying nature, it has already surpassed the reach of names. Are names and reality far apart? The answer is no: what matters is knowing how to return to the root. One must move from names back to reality, and from concrete things to their underlying principles. On a large scale, this applies to governing the family and the state; on a small scale, to cultivating oneself. If one cannot turn inward and examine oneself, the principle of Heaven will be extinguished. The Book of Rites says, “The Dao is not far from people; people themselves move away from the Dao. What is far from people cannot be called the Dao.” It also says, “The Dao cannot be left even for a moment; what can be left is not the Dao.”

Thus, the opening statement, “There is a thing formed in primordial unity, born before Heaven and Earth,” refers to the nameless Dao; while the closing statement, “It passes away and travels far, then returns from afar,” refers to the named Dao. Laozi lists four great things under Heaven and includes the ruler among them to show that the ruler takes part in the Dao by which Heaven and Earth operate, assisting the growth and transformation of all things. The phrase “under Heaven” makes clear that the Dao is not outside the four directions of Heaven and Earth. As the one who governs the people, the ruler should model the stillness of Earth to cultivate himself. Once he can be settled and still, he should then model the movement of Heaven in putting his influence into effect. Once he can act and be still at the proper times, he should go further and model the Dao’s Wuwei (non-action), through which nothing is left undone. By practicing Wuwei, through which nothing is left undone, he can follow nature, allowing all things to proceed of themselves while the people under Heaven do not know why they do so.

All things flourish in profusion, yet in the end they must return to their roots. Thus, what is weighty can serve as the foundation of what is light. The workings of all under Heaven must hold to the same root, so stillness can govern restlessness.

A traveler may press onward all day, yet cannot leave behind the cart carrying his baggage, for it holds his food, clothing, and other necessities. If he casts off his provisions, he will soon fall into hardship along the road. So too, a noble person keeps the Dao as the guiding purpose of the heart. Even amid outward splendor and pleasure, the heart remains at ease, holding fast to simplicity and purity, unmoved by external things. This is to take what is weighty as one’s foundation and stillness as one’s guiding principle.

The “ruler of ten thousand chariots” is a lord who possesses vast lands and many war chariots. The realm matters because he bears responsibility for governing all under Heaven. How could he treat himself carelessly and disregard the realm entirely? That would be like a traveler abandoning his baggage: danger would soon follow.

The people are the foundation of the state. When that foundation is firm, the state can be at peace; this is a constant principle observed by rulers throughout the ages. When a ruler treats the people well, they support him; when he abuses them, they regard him as an enemy. This is human nature. If a ruler acts recklessly and indulges his desires without restraint, while cruelly exploiting the people and neglecting the realm, they will leave him one after another and may even rise up against him.

Thus Laozi, moved by compassion, sighs again and again: those who cultivate themselves lose the state of returning to the root when they become frivolous, and lose the state of preserving unity when they grow impatient. Those who govern the realm lose the foundation of its peace when they act carelessly, and lose the proper standards of rulership when they become restless. Ah, how can a ruler of all under Heaven fail to be steady and calm?

One who is skilled at walking leaves no wheel tracks or footprints. One who is skilled at speaking leaves no openings for error. One who is skilled at calculation needs no counting rods or abacus. One who is skilled at closing doors uses no bolt, yet the door cannot be opened. One who is skilled at tying knots uses no rope, yet what is bound cannot be undone.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at rescuing people and rejects no one; skilled at making use of all things and discards nothing. This is called carrying on and putting wisdom into practice. A good person is the teacher of one who is not good; one who is not good can also serve as a lesson to the good. If you do not honor the teacher or value the lesson, then, though you think yourself wise, you are deeply mistaken. This is the subtle essence of the teaching.

Those who are skilled in practicing the Dao take the Dao as their standard. The Dao is vast and profound, so it has no fixed path to follow. Those who are skilled in speaking use names and terms appropriately. When distinctions are properly set, the true nature of things becomes clear, leaving no obvious fault to reproach. Those skilled in calculation work according to measures. When the measures are clear, calculation is simple: they can make precise estimates without using counting rods. Those skilled in closing a door contain the desires of the senses at their source and keep thoughts from arising; they need no bolt, yet the door will not open. Those skilled in maintaining relationships bind people together through trust, keeping their hearts from scattering; they need no ropes, yet the bond will not come undone.

Thus the ancient texts say: among the tombs, people were not instructed to mourn, yet they grieved naturally; in the altars of the soil and grain gods and in ancestral temples, people were not taught to show reverence, yet they felt reverence naturally. After the Yin people established sworn covenants, the people began to turn away; after the Zhou people convened assemblies to make alliances, the people began to grow suspicious. If the people are not governed with loyalty, trust, and sincerity, then even if they are bound tightly, will they not still drift apart? The five kinds of skill described above are therefore the key means by which sages skillfully rescue and guide people.

What is there in people’s failings that should be cast aside? The Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes, high-ranking officials who assist the ruler, were established precisely to teach and transform the people. I treat the good with goodwill, and I treat the bad with goodwill as well. In this way, teaching excludes no one, and the use of things excludes nothing. This is the method of keeping knowledge of the constant—the Dao’s enduring way—deeply concealed while putting it to flexible use. It is therefore called “hidden illumination,” an inner wisdom that does not show itself.

Why is this so? What people respect most is their teacher; what they cherish most is someone who supports them. The good can serve as teachers to the bad precisely because the bad can serve as a mirror for the good. Without the bad as a mirror, the good would have no way to fulfill the role of teacher. Ah, when people everywhere know to call the good “good,” distinctions arise, and with them what is not good. Only when people everywhere refrain from making a point of naming what is good may true goodness be attained.

Today, some people do not honor teachers because they do not wish to use the good conduct approved by the crowd to reveal the faults of others. Some do not cherish those who support them because they do not wish to use another’s failings to cultivate their own goodness. Though the claim that one should not honor teachers or cherish those who offer support runs sharply against the common view of the age, it is actually a concise and subtle account of how to skillfully rescue everyone.

Know what is strong, yet remain with what is yielding, and you can become the stream that gathers all the waters of the world. As the world’s stream, your constant De (Virtue/Power) will never depart from you, and you will return to the childlike state of innocence.

Know what is bright, yet remain in the dark, and you can become the pattern of the world. As the world’s pattern, your constant De will never stray, and you will return to the boundless state of “Wuji” (the Limitless).

Know what is honored, yet remain with what is lowly and disgraced, and you can become the valley of the world. As the world’s valley, your constant De will be complete, and you will return to the uncarved “Pu” (natural simplicity).

When Pu is divided, it forms the many particular vessels. The sage makes use of these vessels and thereby becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, truly great governance does not divide things.

Lu Xisheng’s transmitted text reads: “As the world’s valley, your constant De will be complete, and you will return to Pu. When Pu is divided, it forms the many vessels. The sage makes use of these vessels and thereby becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, great governance does not divide things.”

Among the things of the world, the strong generally occupy the masculine position, while the weak occupy the feminine one. The masculine acts; the feminine is still. The same is mostly true of high and low, and of what comes first and what comes later. Laozi investigated the patterns of things deeply and, on that basis, established a way of conduct. He knew that the weak overcome the strong, so he made use of weakness; he knew that stillness overcomes agitation, so he made stillness his guiding principle. Thus he placed himself behind others, yet came to stand before them. He held his Dao in humility, and the Dao was honored in turn. So when he stood at the front, the people did not reject him; when he occupied a high position, they did not feel oppressed by him.

Therefore, one who understands that strength cannot endure and guards oneself through weakness can become the streambed of the world. A streambed serves by lying low. Only by being at ease in a low position can constant De remain undiminished. When De is not diminished, one can join with the Dao and return to the state of an infant: calm and at ease, as if unaware. Only by not displaying cleverness can the heart remain clear. Though one understands and sees clearly, by still keeping to a deep and quiet bearing, one can become a model for the world. A model is a standard that others can follow and put into practice. Only by becoming a standard to be followed can constant De remain free of deviation. When one’s De does not deviate, one can join with the Dao, and so return to a state of boundless, unfathomable depth.

Though unfathomably deep, it gradually becomes clear within the darkness, and the Dao is thereby made manifest. Though one knows that the manifest is precious, by still being willing to remain muddied and disgraced, one can become the valley of the world. The valley itself is deep and full, yet its function is empty. Only by being inwardly full without becoming self-satisfied can constant De be complete. When De is complete, one can return to the nameless simplicity of the uncarved block, and one will no longer have desires.

Alas, only after the Great Dao was abandoned did the names of benevolence and righteousness appear; only after the Great Simplicity was broken apart did all manner of shaped vessels emerge. The sage can use these vessels, and so can become the leader of the people. The Dao itself is not confined to the forms of vessels, and can therefore make use of every shaped thing. Great governance does not depend on dividing things apart, and can therefore encompass all things. If one has not yet joined with the Dao, yet seeks to use the vessels of the world; if one is constrained by external things, yet seeks to govern all things under Heaven, I believe this will surely lead to danger.

The Ji says: “Profit and righteousness, strategy and benevolence, are all tools for achieving hegemony.” Can those who use these tools fail to follow this Dao?

If one seeks to govern the world through forceful intervention and arbitrary action, I believe it will ultimately fail. The world is a subtle thing that cannot be controlled by force or made to obey human will. Forceful action brings things to ruin; clinging to control makes one lose them. At times, all things move ahead; at times, they follow behind. At times, they are gentle; at times, urgent. At times, they are strong; at times, weakened. At times, they stand firm and bear weight; at times, they topple and are destroyed. Therefore, the sage casts aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

All under Heaven belongs to the people of the world; it is not the private possession of a sage. Therefore, Yao could not treat All under Heaven as his own property and hand it over to Shun, nor could Yu pass it on to Qi as a private inheritance. It was because the people of the world were willing to turn to Shun and Qi that Yao and Yu yielded to the course of events and handed it over to them. If the people were unwilling to follow someone, I have never seen anyone succeed in taking All under Heaven by force—let alone hold on to it for long.

Why? All under Heaven is like a vast vessel governed by the spirits. It cannot be seized and claimed as one’s own through human cunning or strength. If the people are unwilling to follow, any forced seizure is bound to fail. If they do not support someone, anyone who forcibly claims it is bound to lose it.

Things always bring opposing forces in their wake. When someone moves ahead, someone else follows behind. After warm weather comes cold wind. When strength makes something powerful for a time, another force will arise to overcome it. Some things grow through cultivation; others fall when their foundations are damaged. For this reason, those who seize All under Heaven by force will themselves face others who try to take power from them by force.

The sage understands that All under Heaven cannot be won through cunning or military force, and so governs through Wuwei (non-action) and by troubling the people as little as possible. The sage cultivates the Dao (the Way) and develops De (Virtue/Power); the people naturally turn to them. They gladly support the sage and do not grow weary of doing so. The sage brings peace to All under Heaven by refraining from reckless action. Thus, one must set aside excessive undertakings and avoid seizing by force; set aside extravagance and greedy desire, and avoid insisting on possession; set aside arrogance and pride, and be willing to yield.

The Book of Changes says, “The overreaching dragon will have cause for regret.” To “overreach” is to know only how to advance and not how to yield, only how to live and not how to die, only how to gain and not how to lose. Those who understand the principles of advancing and yielding, survival and decline, and never stray from the right path—perhaps only the sage can do so. This saying points precisely to the sage.

Those who assist a ruler by following the Dao (the Way) do not use force to dominate the world, for such actions readily invite retribution. Wherever armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles tend to grow; after a great war, famine is sure to follow.

Those skilled in the use of arms seek only to achieve what is necessary and do not dare to use force to show their might. Once they have achieved their aim, they remain humble, for resorting to force without restraint readily brings a backlash. Wherever armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles tend to grow; after a great war, famine is sure to follow. Thus, those skilled in the use of arms seek only to achieve what is necessary and do not dare to use force to show their might.

Having achieved their aim, they do not boast, display their accomplishments, or grow proud and complacent. They use arms only when compelled to; this is how one achieves one’s aim without showing force. When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline into old age. This is called being out of accord with the Dao; what is out of accord with the Dao soon perishes.

To assist a ruler through the Dao, one should win people’s willing support through De, rather than use force to dominate the world. Why? Those who are subdued by force will inevitably resent it. When people throughout the world resent it, armies everywhere will rise up to attack. If I subdue others by force, they will in turn defeat me. What begins with oneself eventually returns to oneself, so such actions always bring retribution.

Where armies are stationed, farming inevitably falls into ruin and fields fill with thornbushes. Weaving in towns and villages also comes to a halt. Add to this the killing of ordinary people and the disruption of harmony between Heaven and Earth, and floods and droughts follow one another, with years of famine coming one after the next. This is how things unfold among people, and this is how Heaven’s Dao responds. So can weapons and warfare be abolished altogether? The answer is: Heaven brings forth five materials—Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—and none can be dispensed with. Who, then, can abolish weapons? Since weapons cannot be abolished, their use must accord with the Dao. Those in ancient times who were skilled in warfare sought only to do what was necessary; they did not use it to show off their strength.

What does it mean to do what is necessary? It means not boasting of one’s abilities, not flaunting one’s achievements, and not becoming arrogant or complacent. Even when one has truly observed these three restraints, one must wait until there is no other choice before using force. And even after relieving danger and stopping disorder, if one must continue to use force, one must not take the opportunity to show off one’s strength. This is to achieve one’s aim without acting arrogantly.

Boasting of one’s abilities leads to a taste for war; a taste for war makes it impossible to bring peace to the people. Flaunting one’s achievements invites rivalry; a taste for rivalry makes it impossible to keep people in harmony. Arrogance and complacency stir up trouble where none existed; stirring up trouble makes it impossible to accumulate wealth. If one cannot restrain oneself in these three ways, one will lose all seven virtues. To pursue victory at every turn and rely on force to show off one’s strength is to take the road to ruin.

Alas, when things reach the height of their strength, they grow old and decline; an army that becomes too powerful will also be defeated. This is the natural course of things. How could one fail to be wary? The Dao works through softness and weakness, while armies prevail through strength. This shows that using force to dominate is out of accord with the Dao.

The Book of Changes says: “Having lost the right path and not knowing how to return brings danger and calamity.” It also says: “When troops are sent into battle, defeat will follow in the end; it will bode ill for the ruler of the state, and for ten years he will be unable to set out on campaign.” These words speak of failing to understand when to stop in time.

Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen; warfare, as an undertaking, ultimately brings disastrous defeat. It exposes a ruler to calamity, and may leave the state unable to campaign successfully for many years. This shows a failure to understand that war should be stopped in time.

Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen, and people generally detest them, so a person who follows the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary times, the gentleman gives precedence to the left; in warfare, he gives precedence to the right. Weapons are ill-omened things, not implements a gentleman should use. They should be taken up only when there is no other choice, and then with calm detachment, for valuing martial force is inferior. Even after winning a battle, one should not take pride in it. To treat victory as something worthy of boasting about is to delight in killing. A person who delights in killing cannot prevail under Heaven.

For auspicious occasions, the left is given precedence; for mourning and calamity, the right. In marching and battle, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander in chief on the right: this is treating warfare according to the rites of mourning. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and lament for them. Even after victory, one should conduct matters according to the rites of mourning.

Those who prize military strategy and the use of force do not embody an auspicious and benevolent character or spirit. Even ordinary things sometimes recoil from such intentions; how, then, could a person of the Dao feel at ease pursuing them?

Why is this so? The order by which Heaven and Earth operate places Yang on the left and Yin on the right. Yang governs kindness and growth; Yin governs punishment and killing. Thus, in ordinary life, the gentleman places those of virtue on the left, showing respect for that side. In battle, he places the martial and brave on the right, showing respect for the right. The gentleman regards cherishing life as a virtue, while the warrior counts the number of enemies killed as an achievement. Weapons are therefore inauspicious instruments, not things a gentleman uses in daily life.

If foreign tribes invade the Chinese states, or robbers and bandits run rampant, force may be used only as a last resort. A gentleman never takes the initiative in starting a war. Hence the saying: “Dare not take the role of aggressor; take only the role of defender. Dare not advance an inch; would rather retreat a foot.” One should treat immediate gains and the desire for victory lightly, and regard this as the best course. Bold attacks and a taste for killing should not be esteemed. The truly skillful approach is to make the opponent yield without fighting, rather than to celebrate winning a war.

Why? If a war counts a large number of deaths as victory, then celebrating that victory is to take pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing invite others to take pleasure in killing them. It is not only other people who will kill them: Heaven, too, will bring calamity upon them. For nurturing life is the greatest virtue of Heaven and Earth, and those who delight in killing violate the Way of Heaven. If someone who loves killing were to prevail throughout the world, the people would soon be almost wiped out. Heaven will not aid such a person—how much less will people?

At auspicious ceremonies, one performs the greeting with the left hand above the right. At mourning ceremonies, the right hand is placed above the left. The assistant general is second in command, so he stands on the left; the supreme general commands the troops, so he stands on the right. The commander stands on the right because he occupies the higher position. This arrangement, which honors the right, therefore follows the rites of mourning. Victory in war means that many people have been killed; when many have died, one should grieve and weep. In other words, those who win a battle should treat their victory according to the rites of mourning.

The earlier statement calls weapons inauspicious instruments, and the later one says victory should be marked by mourning rites. These points are repeated to emphasize a profound aversion to killing.

The Dao can endure forever precisely because it has no fixed name. The nameless Dao is also called the “Uncarved Block of the Nameless.” Its essence is extraordinarily subtle, while the Dao itself is supremely honored and vast. It is therefore the source of Heaven and Earth, and nothing under Heaven can control it. If lords and kings can hold fast to this Uncarved Block of the Nameless, all things will naturally turn toward them.

When a mountain rises high, antelope come to it; when a pool is deep and broad, dragons appear in it. If the mountain is not high enough or the water not deep enough, even wondrous beings will not come—how much less ordinary things? When the harmonious breath between Heaven and Earth joins, sweet dew descends upon all things. They are nourished evenly, yet no one commands this to happen. If lords and kings can emulate the harmonious breath of Heaven and Earth, and hold to the Dao, which is empty, still, and able to contain all things, its grace will reach throughout the world. People will not notice why it happens so naturally. This is what is meant by: “If lords and kings can hold to the Dao, all things will naturally turn toward them.”

When the Dao begins to act and brings things into being, names arise. Once names have arisen, one must know when enough is enough. Knowing where to stop makes it possible to avoid danger. The Dao moves through the world like rivers and streams that ultimately flow into the great seas.

Here, “the beginning” refers to “the nameless”—the fundamental state before things are named and distinguished. Precisely because the nameless substance is not confined by particular names, it can encompass all the functions of things that have names. Once names exist, they can be arbitrarily shifted or misused, so one must know when to stop: the names of things should accord with what they actually are, and matters should be handled in keeping with their underlying principles. Knowing where to stop keeps one from danger.

Names must match actual conditions; one can also say that actual conditions should be worthy of their names. So one should check reality against names, then determine names on the basis of reality. When name and reality accord, the state can be stable; when they do not, the state falls into disorder. Names arise from actual conditions, while actual conditions are also defined through names: the two are connected. Thus a ruler who follows the Dao holds to established standards and assesses reality according to each thing’s proper designation.

Names are like a net spread over the world, and a means by which sages distinguish things. When one grasps this net and acts according to the sages’ standards, the true state of things cannot be concealed. Carefully compare names with reality, then correct names on the basis of reality, and right and wrong will become as clear as black and white. Distinguish things that differ, then bring them together according to shared principles; judge right and wrong by name and reality, and dispense rewards and punishments according to right and wrong.

Therefore, observe the signs things present, understand their actual forms, follow their underlying principles, and set their names in order. Once names are established, matters can be clearly arranged: assign responsibilities according to names, then handle affairs in light of actual conditions. When Yao ruled the world, proper designations were in order, and the world was stable. When Jie ruled it, designations were distorted, and the world fell into disorder. This shows how highly the sages valued names. Confucius also said, “Then surely the first thing to do is to set names right!”

When designations are not in order, the ruler is left anxious and exhausted, while offices and affairs fall into confusion. What is white is seen as even blacker, and the harder one searches, the less one finds. When designations are in order, the ruler need not be anxious or exhausted, nor have the ears, eyes, and mind drawn into petty concerns. Each institution can then follow its proper course. The ruler appoints and arranges things according to their inherent conditions, remains unswayed by external things, and governs through Wuwei (non-action). In handling affairs, the ruler is calm and impartial, the spirit reaches freely in all directions under Heaven, and the mind surveys principles without end. This is knowing when to stop, and so avoiding danger.

The rivers and streams gather in the seas; the nameless is the root in which all named things finally find their place. This is how all things under Heaven return to the Dao.

Understanding others is called “wisdom”; understanding oneself is called “clarity.” Overcoming others shows strength; overcoming oneself is true power. Those who know contentment are wealthy; those who persist in practice have resolve. If, in acting, one does not depart from one’s root, life can endure. Even when the body dies, the Dao does not perish: this is true longevity.

Lu Xisheng explains: Understanding things outwardly is called “wisdom,” like the sun and moon, or a flame, shining outward. Turning inward to reflect on oneself is called “clarity,” like metal and water reflecting what lies within. Overcoming others’ aggression through the Dao of softness is the strength of one who has the Dao; holding to gentleness and overcoming one’s own impatience is the power of one who has De. Those who are content with their gains and desires do not lose sight of their fundamental undertaking, and so are called wealthy. Those who persist in practicing benevolence and righteousness attain lofty De, and so are said to have resolve. If one acts without losing the constant root, the body can endure. Though a person dies, the Dao does not vanish; this is why it is called longevity.

The Great Dao flows everywhere, with no fixed direction, and manifests on every side. All things depend on it for their life, yet it does not refuse them; it brings their work to completion, yet claims no ownership of it. It cherishes and nurtures all things, yet does not rule over them. The Dao is always free of desire, and so may be called small. All things return to it, yet it still does not rule over them, and so it may also be called great. The sage never claims greatness for himself, and thus is able to accomplish true greatness.

The great Dao, the fundamental body of the Way, works like the potency of ghosts and spirits, present everywhere: it may be on the left or on the right; vast and boundless, it seems to be above, and also before and behind. The great Dao is the source of all things, and all things depend on it to come into being. It accords with the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth, so its accomplishments require no effort. It nurtures all things so deeply that they need not thank it for its kindness. Its greatness is so complete that it does not claim credit.

The great Dao lovingly nurtures all things and helps them grow, yet does not rule over them. It is always without desire, and so can perceive the subtle nature of things; viewed in its plain, Wuwei (non-action) aspect, it may be called small. All things return to it, yet it does not assume the role of a revered ruler. Just as streams and valleys flow into rivers and seas, which receive them without weariness and so never exalt themselves, all under Heaven turn to the sage. The sage embraces them without tiring and never considers himself great.

The sage holds to the nameless, unadorned Dao and does not regard himself as great. Thus all things turn to him, and in the end he attains greatness.

Hold fast to the great Dao, and the people of the world will turn toward it. Once they have turned toward it, they will come to no harm; then all under Heaven will be peaceful, harmonious, and at ease. Music and fine food can make passersby stop, but the Dao, spoken aloud, is bland, as if it had no taste. Look at it, and there is nothing to see; listen to it, and there is nothing to hear; use it, and it is never exhausted.

To contract something, first allow it to expand fully; to weaken something, first let it grow strong for a time; to discard something, first let it rise for a time; to take something, first give it. This is called “subtle insight”: seeing the direction in which things are developing by observing their smallest signs.

The soft and yielding can overcome the hard and strong. A fish cannot leave the depths; likewise, the key means by which a state is governed must not be revealed lightly.

The profound wisdom of the sages lies most subtly in their understanding of how to adapt to changing circumstances while upholding what is constant. Upholding what is constant takes ordinary principles as its foundation; adapting to circumstances means temporarily acting differently from the usual way in a particular situation. Adaptation remedies what steadfast adherence cannot readily address, while steadfastness ultimately brings adaptation back to the right path. Though the two differ, in the end they are one. Laozi taught people the Way of upholding what is constant, setting forth the principle of “knowing the constant”; he also responded to the affairs of the world through adaptation, speaking in ways that seemed contrary to convention. The Book of Changes says, “It completes all things through bending, leaving none out; it encompasses Heaven and Earth without overstepping.” This describes the principle of adapting to things, bringing all things to fulfillment, and not going beyond their bounds.

To remove tyrannical and violent people, one must go along with their greed and employ the method of “drawing in and expanding” (xi zhang): when their greed is at its height, satisfy them first and let their desires continue to swell. Once they are content and reveal their intentions, then restrain them by guiding them toward the right path. The fourth line of Mingyi in the Book of Changes says, “Entering into the left belly, one obtains the heart of the obscured light; one does not leave the courtyard.” This means gaining a deep understanding of another’s inner thoughts without acting rashly. Satisfying the other person first lets their desire expand fully. When desire swells to its utmost, extravagance and indulgence also grow, eventually provoking the people to put a stop to them. This method is subtle yet clear, and the sage employs it cautiously and discreetly.

At times, weakening someone’s resolve also requires first intensifying their appetites: excessive attachment brings great expense, and when desire reaches its extreme, resolve declines. This principle can be seen in everything from an individual’s body and mind to the governance of the whole world. The ending and beginning of things, giving and taking, overthrow and restoration, are often conditions of one another. This is a natural law: what seems to move in the opposite direction can in fact bring about a harmonious outcome.

The Daodejing says, “Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao.” To use softness and weakness to overcome strength is to apply the power of things in reverse. This kind of adaptation can also restrain power and authority. The Book of Changes says, “Through Xun, one exercises adaptation,” and also, “Xun is measured and concealed.” Xun, one of the Book of Changes’ Eight Trigrams, symbolizes wind. Wind follows the seasons and stirs all things, yet has no visible form. Adaptation, too, can follow the timing of Heaven and respond to changes in the world, while people may not notice how it works. Xun also means compliance and gentleness. By following the momentum of events, one can apply adaptation; when adaptation is properly applied, it can restrain things. Thus softness can overcome strength: the principle is plain, though its application is often hidden from view.

The example of King Wen of Zhou illustrates this. At the time, King Wen already commanded two-thirds of the realm, yet he continued to submit to King Zhou of Shang. He offered King Zhou the lands around the Qi and Ju Rivers and asked him to abolish the punishment of roasting people alive. King Zhou’s greed was then at its height. By offering the land, King Wen satisfied him first and let his desires expand; once King Zhou had received the land and was pleased, King Wen asked him to abolish the cruel punishment, thereby guiding him toward the right path. This was King Wen’s use of adaptation.

King Wu once reviewed his troops at Mengjin, but said that King Zhou’s crimes had not yet reached their peak, and so he led his army back. Only two years later did he launch the Battle of Muye. Withdrawing from Mengjin first allowed King Zhou’s power and arrogance to continue growing; later, by advancing at Muye, King Wu brought about King Zhou’s ultimate punishment by the people. This was King Wu’s use of adaptation.

King Wen acted with generosity and gentleness. Though he pitied the suffering of the people of Yin, he waited until King Zhou had been removed before accepting rule over the realm. This was King Wen upholding what was constant. King Wu, by contrast, was resolute in temperament and grieved that the people of Yin could no longer endure tyranny. He swiftly killed King Zhou and took control of the realm. This was King Wu upholding what was constant.

Boyi and Shuqi supported King Wen’s adherence to what was constant and opposed King Wu’s adaptation. They believed that a minister’s overthrow of his ruler must not become a precedent for later generations. To preserve the moral order for future generations, they both left King Wu and ultimately starved to death on Mount Shouyang. Taigong assisted King Wu in using adaptation, taking a different approach from King Wen. He believed that only by eliminating the violent and unrighteous King Zhou could the realm be brought to peace. To save the people of the time, he therefore supported King Wu and followed him in attacking Shang.

Duke Zhou and Duke Shao carried on the work of King Wen and King Wu. They used adaptation discreetly to quell disorder, while openly bringing stability through the Way of upholding what is constant. They let the oxen and horses rest, laid down their weapons, consulted Jizi about the Hongfan, an ancient text on governing the state, and moved the stubborn people of Yin to Luoyi. They established rites and music, ended warfare, cultivated civil governance, and spread the moral teachings of the “Zhou Nan” and “Shao Nan,” thereby extending the fortunes of the Zhou dynasty. This is a major example of using adaptation to support what is constant. The Book of Changes says, “Closing and opening are called change; coming and going without end are called continuity.” These examples all show how adaptation and steadfastness work together, remaining hidden yet producing results.

The sage uses adaptation to accord with the Great Dao; the petty person twists it to serve treachery. A fish cannot survive for long once it leaves the depths, and adaptation cannot be rightly used once separated from the Way of upholding what is constant. Adaptation is an important instrument of the state and must be kept hidden and used with care. It must not be revealed lightly, lest others seize it and use it to cause disorder. Thus Confucius said, “One may journey with someone toward the Way, yet not be able to establish it together; one may establish it together, yet not be able to exercise adaptation together.”

The fourth line of Qian in the Book of Changes says, “One may leap in the depths; there is no blame.” Confucius explains that occupying a high or low position is not fixed, and is not a matter of doing evil. Advancing or retreating has no set rule, and does not mean abandoning the group. The noble person advances in De (Virtue) and cultivates their work in order to grasp the right moment, and so meets with no calamity. The fourth line of Kun in the Book of Changes says, “A tied-up sack: no blame, no praise.” Confucius explains that when Heaven and Earth transform, plants and trees flourish; when Heaven and Earth close, the worthy withdraw. “A tied-up sack” is like binding the mouth of a bag: it signifies cautious restraint, and so brings no calamity. It speaks of conducting oneself carefully and avoiding harm. From this we can see that the art of adaptation is something even sages find difficult to apply and must handle with exceptional care. How could one fail to treat it with the utmost caution?

The Dao as the constant Way has no name in its original nature, and so appears to be Wuwei (non-action). Yet its workings can be revealed through things that have names, and so it leaves nothing undone. If rulers can hold fast to the Dao’s root and source, the workings of all things will each follow their proper course, and affairs under Heaven will settle of themselves. This is what is meant by “I practice Wuwei, and the people transform themselves naturally.”

When the influence of De (Virtue/Power) has become pure and abundant and the world is at peace, but thoughts of profit and desire begin to stir again, they should be calmed and corrected through the Great Dao’s plain, nameless nature, so that they cannot cause disturbance. High De follows the Dao through Wuwei and harbors no intention to act deliberately, and so accords with the Dao. Low De takes action with a clear intention, and so accords only with De. To gain only De is to lose the Dao. If the mind holds on to the idea of “non-action,” an outward appearance of “non-action” will remain. Later generations may follow only this appearance and forget the root; they may then turn Wuwei into deliberate conduct and fall back into action.

Thus, “the nameless uncarved block will also be without desire” means that neither the inner mind nor outward appearances should be clung to. In this way one can reach the state of “the mysterious and more mysterious”—a profound Daoist realm that is difficult to express in words. When neither mind nor outward appearances are clung to, the principles of things can quietly connect at the subtle level. Then all things under Heaven can each abide by their own nature and allotted destiny, free from entanglement with external things.

This chapter takes Wuwei as its foundation and leaving nothing undone as its function, ultimately returning to the forgetting of both mind and outward appearances. The opening chapter and this one are linked from beginning to end, together giving a complete account of the Dao’s foundation and its function.

Those of highest De do not deliberately display their De, and so they truly possess it. Those of lesser De cling to the effort not to lose their De, and so do not truly possess it. Those of highest De follow their nature and act without pursuing any particular aim. Those of lesser De strive to do things with a clear purpose. Those of highest benevolence act without deliberately seeking anything; those of highest righteousness act with a clear purpose. When the highest form of ritual is performed and no one responds, the person performing it rolls up their sleeves and forcibly compels the other to respond.

Thus, when people lose the Dao, they turn to De; when they lose De, they turn to benevolence; when they lose benevolence, they turn to righteousness; when they lose righteousness, they turn to ritual. Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown faint, and the beginning of disorder. What is called “foreknowledge” is either predicting the future or making clever conjectures. It is merely the Dao’s superficial display, and the beginning of folly. Therefore, the great person takes their stand in what is substantial and does not remain in what is shallow; they are content with simplicity and do not pursue display. They set aside the latter and choose the former.

Those of superior De (Virtue) are in accord with the Dao (the Way). They do not pride themselves on being virtuous or deliberately set out to accomplish anything, and so they preserve their constant De. Those of inferior De have lost the Dao but still make De their goal. Because they seek and strive for something, they cannot preserve constant De. The practice of superior De follows nature and involves no deliberate action, and so it can be Wuwei (non-action). The practice of inferior De takes Wuwei as something to imitate, but still acts with a purpose; in truth, it remains deliberate action.

Ren (benevolence) means caring for people broadly, and inevitably involves actively doing something. Those who do not claim credit for practicing benevolence are on a higher level. Yi (righteousness) means restraining improper conduct and likewise involves active effort. Those who use righteousness to bring benefit to things are truly skillful. Why say this? If one treats acts of benevolence as achievements, one becomes attached to “practicing benevolence.” If one does not use righteousness for gain, one may instead allow conduct that is contrary to righteousness to go unchecked.

The essential purpose of ritual is to distinguish between those above and those below and to settle people’s hearts. Displaying ritual vessels such as jade and silk, and observing the formalities of giving and receiving, are only its minor details. Suppose I bow to someone and they do not return my bow. They have certainly failed in ritual. But if I immediately change my expression, raise my arms, and grab at them, my breach of ritual is even more serious. Ritual is meant to prevent conflict; when its minor details are mishandled, they can instead provoke a quarrel. This is common in the world, because people do not understand the root of ritual. Laozi points out this grave failure of ritual and mocks the way it gives rise to conflict in order to lead people back to ritual’s root, returning them to Taiyi (the undivided, unified state before the myriad things were distinguished).

The Book of Rites says, “If you care for someone but cannot draw close to them, reflect on your benevolence. If you treat someone with ritual but they do not respond, reflect on your respectfulness.” Thus, one should restrain oneself and return to ritual, rather than blame others. The Book of Changes says, “Humility enables ritual to be fulfilled.” It also says, “Humility is the handle of virtue.” If one can hold fast to humility and return to ritual’s beginning, one’s conduct will go smoothly. How could there then be the faults of competing and shoving?

Superior De is Wuwei: by following nature, one is in accord with the Dao. Only after superior De has been lost do people turn to imitating Wuwei; hence the saying, “When the Dao is lost, De follows.” When Wuwei is imitated, the achievements of De become apparent. When deliberate action is taken, the effects of benevolence become apparent. When matters are judged and made beneficial, righteousness becomes apparent. When rules are established to prevent wrongdoing, ritual is instituted. Thus, when De is lost, there is benevolence; when benevolence is lost, there is righteousness; when righteousness is lost, there is ritual. When one thing is lost, another is used to make up for it. This is a common pattern in the world.

When people’s inner loyalty and trust weaken, the seeds of disorder emerge. Ritual is then established to prevent disorder, so ritual stands at the beginning of decline and chaos. When the radiance of the Great Dao shines outward, foolish thoughts may arise alongside it. Ingenuity is then prized to guide the foolish, and so ingenuity becomes the beginning of folly. “Foreknowledge” refers to such ingenuity: anticipating and understanding principles before they have become apparent. From this we can see that benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom are all methods the sages apply in response to their times; their prominence rises and falls with the fortunes of each age.

Therefore, to govern the present by means of the ancient Dao, one should take Dao and De as the root and ritual and wisdom as secondary details. To change the present and return to the ancient Dao, one should begin with ritual institutions and ultimately return to Dao and De. This is what it means to keep reducing until one reaches Wuwei.

Raising pigs and brewing wine were not originally meant to create calamity, but the spread of wine can bring calamity. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom were not originally meant to create a chaotic age, but the shortcomings of systems of governance can also lead to disorder. The deluded do not understand that true disorder comes from the desire for gain, yet they want to blame the wisdom of the sages. They think that if wisdom and the sages’ virtue are discarded, the governance of antiquity can be restored. This goes too far.

Thus, to speak at length about ritual institutions in an age of simplicity is either arrogant or contrary to reason; to abandon ritual in an age of declining customs is foolish or deceitful. One should trace things back to their source and set aside the secondary details, putting ritual and righteousness in order so as to return to benevolence and virtue. If one uses ritual institutions, which have names and forms, while taking the Dao within, which has neither name nor form, as one’s root, it will not be difficult to return to the Way of nature. A true great person is one who can do this decisively, abiding by the root of Dao and De rather than lingering over the secondary details of ritual and wisdom.

Why is this so? Even laws established to govern an orderly age can have shortcomings that lead to disorder. What, then, would happen if laws were established according to the ways of a chaotic age? That is why one should set aside superficial refinement and take solid simplicity as one’s model. This is the deeper meaning of governing the present by means of the ancient Dao.

Ritual also contains this principle. At a sacrifice to Heaven, only one libation of wine is offered, showing esteem for simplicity. Sacrificial vessels are made of pottery and gourds, showing esteem for plainness. At a sacrifice, there is wine, yet water, the dark wine, is revered; there is a soft mat, yet a grass mat is still laid out. These practices all honor the root. How could they be overlooked?

In ancient times, the things that obtained the Dao, or the One—the fundamental power shared by all things—each came to their proper state. Heaven obtained it and became clear; Earth obtained it and became stable; spirits obtained it and became efficacious; valleys obtained it and became full; all things obtained it and grew; rulers obtained it and became rightful leaders of the world. They could each attain their proper state because they had this fundamental power.

If Heaven could not remain clear, it might collapse; if Earth could not remain stable, it might quake; if spirits could not manifest their efficacy, they might fade away; if valleys could not remain full, they might run dry; if all things could not grow, they might perish. If rulers could not hold to the right way and simply placed themselves above others in a position of honor, they might fall.

Thus, honor takes lowliness as its root, and high position rests on what is low. That is why rulers call themselves “orphan,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—humble self-designations that take lowliness as their foundation. Is this not so?

A cart is made by assembling many parts, but once those parts are taken apart one by one, it is no longer a cart. People should not seek to shine with the splendor of fine jade and be held in high regard; they should instead be plain and unassuming, like an ordinary stone.

“One” is the root brought forth by the Dao and the beginning of all things. If one can hold fast to this root and return to the original state of all things, they can each follow the patterns of their own growth. The clarity and mystery embodied by the Way of Heaven, and the peace and abundance embodied by the Way of Earth, likewise arise from attaining “One.” The Book of Changes says, “The workings of all things under Heaven depend on holding to what is right and returning to One.” Thus, if lords and kings attain the Dao, they can become models for all under Heaven. The key to this lies in maintaining unity of purpose. Yet after attaining the Dao, one must not become self-satisfied; they are therefore warned not to treat what they have gained as capital. If they pride themselves on clarity and spiritual subtlety, or on peace and abundance, they will ultimately move toward division, decline, and exhaustion. If all things pride themselves on being alive, the principles of Heaven will perish; if lords and kings pride themselves on their exalted rank, they will inevitably fall. Their exalted rank is singled out to give lords and kings a grave warning.

The text goes on to explain that lords and kings are honored because they take the lowly as their foundation, and occupy high office because they rest upon the people. “Orphan,” “widower,” and “one of little worth” are all humble forms of address. When lords and kings call themselves by these names, they are expressing that they take lowliness as their foundation. How can this principle be made clear? The people work as scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants; only then is there a state. A cart can serve its purpose only when it has wheels, shafts, a body, and an axle. If the cart is taken apart and its components counted one by one, all one finds are wheels, shafts, body, and axle; one does not find a separate, independently existing “cart.” If the state is taken apart, all one finds are scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants; there is no “state” existing apart from the people. Thus the ordinary people who occupy lowly positions—scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants—are the very foundation on which the state endures. Lords and kings should be wary of exalted status and avoid standing out as precious as jade. They should take lowliness as their foundation, like an ordinary, unremarkable stone.

Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the way the Dao acts. All things under Heaven are born from “Being,” and “Being” is born from “Nonbeing.”

Lu Xisheng explained: “Expediency” is the capacity to adapt and respond to changing circumstances. It often works in the opposite direction, yet ultimately accords with the right Way. “Substance” is the actual foundation. It acts through softness and weakness, thereby restraining strength. All things in the world arise from what has form, while what has form must in turn come from the formless. All events in the world begin with signs, while events that have signs arise from what has no signs.

Thus, whoever understands that “reversal” is the movement of the Dao will know that the beginnings of subtle change must be rooted in the quiet, formless principle. The first stirrings of change arise from the fundamental principle and eventually return to it; expedient responses arise from the root and ultimately return to the root as well. All this shows how the Dao sustains and complements itself through change and turning.

When people of the highest caliber hear of the Dao, they diligently put it into practice. Those of middling caliber hear of it and seem to remember, yet seem to forget. Those of the lowest caliber hear of it and burst out laughing. If the Dao did not invite ridicule, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. An ancient saying put it this way: the bright Dao looks dim; the forward-moving Dao seems to retreat; the level Dao appears rough. Those of supreme De (Virtue and Power) are humble as a valley; the whitest thing appears stained. Vast De seems deficient; firm and vigorous De appears slack. Pure substance seems altered. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed only at the end; the greatest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image is unseen. The Dao is concealed in what is subtle and obscure and has no fixed name. The Dao alone is good at giving to all things and helping them fulfill themselves.

The Yi Jing says that the source beyond concrete forms, which cannot be seen directly, is called the Dao; things that take concrete form and can be perceived are called qi (vessels). The Dao extends beyond forms, while qi are confined to particular forms.

People of the highest understanding can discern what is subtle as well as what is evident, and so they grasp the Dao beyond forms. When they hear its principles, they believe them and diligently put them into practice. People of middling understanding stand between the subtle and the evident, and between the Dao and qi. When they hear the principles, they are half convinced and half doubtful: at times they keep them in mind, and at times they forget them. People of the lowest understanding see only what is evident. They do not comprehend what is subtle and are confined to what lies before their eyes. When they hear the principles, they laugh; they not only mock them but reject them as well.

The Dao is inherently subtle, mysterious, far-reaching, and difficult to approach—so profound that it is hard to know. Its depth would not be apparent without the objections and laughter of people of the lowest understanding.