《道德真经口义(林希逸)》

In his introduction to the Oral Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and De, Lin Xiyi says that Laozi’s surname was Li, his given name Er, and his courtesy name Boyang. Because his ears were large and lacked outer rims, he was known as Dan. He was from Ku County in the state of Chu and once served as the Zhou court’s archivist. Confucius was a generation younger than Laozi and once asked him about ritual; the Book of Rites records related remarks several times. Confucius said that he “transmitted but did not create,” and compared himself to Lao Peng. Sima Qian says that Confucius respectfully served Laozi; this is not an exaggerated claim.

One hundred and twenty-nine years after Confucius’s death, the Zhou grand historian Dan visited Duke Xian of Qin and discussed how things separate, unite, and change. Some people believed that Grand Historian Dan was Laozi, but Lin Xiyi considers this a mistaken tradition: Dan and Pin sound alike, and copyists confused the two. Later, as the Zhou dynasty declined, Laozi traveled west and prepared to leave through San Pass. Yin Xi, the official guarding the pass, recognized that he was no ordinary person and asked him to write a book. Laozi then composed two parts totaling more than five thousand characters before departing.

Although Laozi’s original text was divided into upper and lower parts, it had no fixed number of chapters, just as the Appended Statements of the Commentary on the Changes is divided into upper and lower parts. Later, the Lord of the Yellow River divided it into eighty-one chapters, saying that the upper part discusses the Way of Heaven, whose number is odd, and so has thirty-seven chapters; the lower part discusses the Way of Earth, whose number is even, and so has forty-four. Yan Zun divided it into seventy-two chapters, explaining that the Yin Way takes eight and the Yang Way takes nine, and eight times nine equals seventy-two. In his arrangement, the upper part has forty chapters and the lower part thirty-two. None of these divisions reflects the original text’s intended structure. Adding titles to individual chapters later on was also contrary to its original intent. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang designated the upper part as discussing the Dao (the Way) and the lower part as discussing De (Virtue/Power); Lin Xiyi considers this division especially unsuitable. The wording in surviving editions often differs, and sometimes a single character can change the meaning of an entire chapter. It is therefore difficult to determine the original meaning.

Broadly speaking, Laozi’s book often uses concrete things to explain the Dao, and at times draws its comparisons from the customs and ideas of his own era. Readers who do not understand why he speaks in this way can easily misinterpret him. Zhu Xi once criticized Laozi’s language as confused, while Zhen Dexiu thought some of his statements sounded like advice on political maneuvering. Lin Xiyi argues that Daoist scholars revere Laozi’s book as a classic and, in exalting it too greatly, can make its teachings sound fantastic rather than clarify the text. Confucian scholars, meanwhile, often treat it as heterodox, picking out faults to criticize without examining it further. Many commentaries from later generations have been shaped by one or the other of these tendencies.

Lin Xiyi considers Su Zhe, whose courtesy name was Yingbin, to have come closer to Laozi’s original meaning, though many passages in his wording and line of thought remain hard to follow. Lin also rejects the claim that Laozi’s thought accords with Buddhism. Although Zhuangzi revered Laozi, their ideas differed: Zhuangzi gave particular attention to life and death, as can be seen in the “Tianxia” chapter of the Zhuangzi, and his writings consequently bear greater resemblance to Buddhism. Laozi’s statements that “through Wuwei (non-action), things transform of themselves” and “by not contending, one excels at winning” do not conflict with Confucian thought. The main difference is that Laozi sometimes uses language that seems too forceful when correcting the faults of common practice.

Cheng Yi considered the chapter on the “Valley Spirit” Laozi’s finest. Zhen Dexiu also praised statements in the Classic of the Dao and De such as “I am without concerns,” “I cherish stillness,” and “I have three treasures,” considering them profound teachings. Zhu Xi said that Emperor Wen of Han and Cao Can had grasped only the surface of Laozi’s thought, while Wang Dao and Xie An may not have understood its subtleties. Boyi bore some resemblance to Laozi, and although people in the Jin and Song periods often discussed Zhuangzi and Laozi, they may not truly have understood them. This shows that earlier Confucian scholars did not reject Laozi entirely. Rather, they often took his figurative language literally and so disparaged him. Lin Xiyi sees this as a question that has remained unresolved for a long time. If readers examine the text closely and grasp Laozi’s original meaning, they can truly understand him even a thousand years later.

Inscribed by Lin Xiyi of Yongzhai.

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

Lin Xiyi of Yanzhai

Chapter One: “The Dao That Can Be Spoken”

The Dao that can be explained in words is not the eternal Dao. The name that can be used to designate something is not the eternal name. The nameless is the source from which Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things first take shape; the named is the foundation from which the myriad things are generated.

Always abiding in the state of “nonbeing,” one can observe the Dao’s subtlety. Always abiding in the state of “being,” one can observe the boundaries and traces of things. “Nonbeing” and “being” emerge from the same source; they have different names, yet both may be called profound and mysterious. Within the mysterious lies a further mystery: this is the gateway through which all wonders arise.

The passage in the original text from “Always in nonbeing, one may observe its subtlety” through “mysterious upon mysterious, the gateway of the myriad things” appears again. Its meaning is the same as above.

This chapter stands at the beginning of the book and contains its central idea. In broad terms, it says that the Dao cannot be explained in words. Once it is put into words, it is already a secondary account, no longer the Dao in its original form.

“Constant” means eternal and unchanging. Anything that can be spoken of or named changes. Only what cannot be spoken of or named is without change. For example, once benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom have names, benevolence differs from righteousness, and ritual from wisdom. Once spring, summer, autumn, and winter have names, spring cannot be counted as summer, nor autumn as winter. None of these is the eternal, unchanging “Constant Dao” or “Constant Name.”

“The beginning of Heaven and Earth” refers to the time before the Taiji—the source of Heaven, Earth, and all things, before they were differentiated—had divided. Applied to the human mind, it means the mind is still, with no movement or distinctions arising. Before the Taiji divided, how could there be names for spring, summer, autumn, and winter? When the mind is still and quiet, how could there be distinctions between benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom? This is why the text says, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” “Heaven and Earth” here does not refer only to Heaven and Earth; they also serve as a metaphor for the human mind.

Once the names Yin and Yang appear, myriad transformations unfold from them. Once benevolence and righteousness are named, all sorts of distinctions and complications begin. This is why the text says, “The named is the mother of the myriad things.” “Mother” means that the myriad things arise from it.

The phrases “constant nonbeing” and “constant being” describe the method Laozi teaches for investigating the roots of things. In everyday life, we encounter being everywhere, but people may not realize that being originally comes from nonbeing. Yet if they insist that everything is nonbeing, they fall into emptiness and aimlessness, inviting trouble. Those who study the Dao should therefore investigate constantly through nonbeing, experiencing the mystery of the myriad things arising from nonbeing. They should also investigate constantly through being, discerning the first stirrings of the myriad things’ arising from nonbeing. “Traces” means the beginnings or origins of things, like openings in mountains and rivers through which things enter and emerge. The two occurrences of “wish” here carry a deeper meaning: they mean that one should investigate in this way.

Although “being” and “nonbeing” have different names, in reality they come from the same source. By observing constantly from both the perspective of nonbeing and that of being, one sees that both can be called “mysterious.” “Mystery” refers to the wonder of creation and transformation. This shows that Laozi’s teaching does not simply exalt nonbeing. If it advocated nonbeing alone, it would not say that being and nonbeing come from the same source, or that both are equally mysterious.

“Mystery upon mystery, the gateway to all wonders” is like what the Zhuangzi says: there is a beginning, a beginning before beginning, and a state before even that beginning began. These words simply praise the mystery of the Dao; they do not imply anything beyond that. To explain them as meaning that one layer lies above another would miss their original sense. “All wonders,” like the Book of Changes’ phrase “wondrously transforming the myriad things,” refers to the mysteries of the transformations of all things. “Gateway” means that all things emerge from here.

People often understand this chapter only in terms of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things, without realizing that Laozi’s purpose is precisely to lead people back to an understanding grounded in the inner mind. Only by considering Heaven and Earth together with the human mind can one understand the meaning of the whole book.

The phrase “everyone under Heaven knows” means that people often understand this chapter through the changes in Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things, without realizing that Laozi’s purpose is precisely to lead them back to inward reflection. Only by considering both Heaven and Earth and the inner world together can one grasp the complete meaning of this book.

Chapter Two: When everyone under Heaven knows what is beautiful, ugliness becomes apparent; when everyone knows what is good, what is not good becomes apparent. Being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficult and easy take shape in relation to each other; long and short become distinct through comparison; high and low lean against and set off one another; musical notes and sounds harmonize with one another; before and after follow one another.

Therefore, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action), responding to things without imposing needless interference, and teaches without relying on verbal instruction. When the myriad things arise, the sage does not reject them. The sage nurtures them without claiming them, acts without relying on the credit for those acts, and completes things without taking pride in the achievement. Precisely because the sage does not claim credit, the achievement does not depart.

This chapter explains the principle of having an achievement without claiming credit for it. Wherever beauty exists in the world, ugliness appears by contrast; wherever goodness exists, there is also what is not good. If people did not regard beauty as something to boast of, or goodness as something to claim for themselves, distinctions between beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness would not arise. Things under Heaven depend on and bring about one another: being and nonbeing, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, music and sound, before and after—all are like this. The six pairs mentioned earlier likewise illustrate the relationship between beauty and ugliness, and between goodness and what is not good.

Thus the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. This does not mean treating emptiness and stillness as an undertaking, nor does the sage shrink from toil. Rather, once a task is accomplished, the sage does not claim it as a personal achievement. Heaven and Earth bring forth and nurture the myriad things, transforming without end, and never refuse the labor. The myriad things fill Heaven and Earth, yet Heaven and Earth do not claim them as their own. Spring and summer, growth and decline: the workings of creation do not boast of their ability on account of these. Hence the saying: “It gives life to and nurtures the myriad things without possessing them; it accomplishes things without relying on its own strength.” The key is to accomplish something without taking credit for it. So when the myriad things arise, the sage does not refuse to take part in their affairs.

Here, “arise” means to come forth and be generated, as in the Book of Changes (Yijing), which says, “Kun brings things to completion.” This is also what is meant by saying that Shun and Yu ruled the realm under Heaven without making it their own possession. The sages of antiquity all acted this way; Laozi was not the only one to say so. His formulation is simply especially uncompromising, which makes it seem close to heterodoxy.

“Only by not claiming credit does one keep one’s achievement from slipping away.” Those who claim achievements cannot truly retain them; those who do not make achievements their own may keep them for a long time. These words are rich in meaning. The Book of Documents says, “He who claims goodness for himself loses that goodness.” It expresses the same principle. When sounds are arranged into an orderly melody, it is called “music”; hence the saying, “Music and sound harmonize.”

Chapter Three: “Do Not Exalt the Worthy”

Do not exalt people for their worthiness, and the people will not contend for status and recognition.

When worthy people are not exalted or praised for their abilities, the people will not compete for fame and victory. When rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not be tempted to steal. When people are not shown things that can stir desire, their minds will not be disturbed.

Therefore, when the Sage governs the people, he empties their minds of excessive thoughts and keeps their bellies full. He weakens their urge to compete and strengthens their bodies. He keeps the people free of excessive cleverness and desire, so that even those with crafty minds dare not act recklessly. The Sage governs through Wuwei (non-action, acting without imposition and following nature), and so nothing under Heaven is left poorly governed.

“Exalting” means regarding oneself as worthy and taking pride in one’s abilities. If I exalt the worthy, competition will arise throughout the world. Yu the Great said that he did not boast of his own worth, and so no one under Heaven competed with him in ability. This is what the passage means. If I prize precious goods, people will inevitably want to obtain them, and the resulting harm will grow into theft. These two statements introduce the idea of “things that can be desired” in the passage that follows.

When people do not see things that can stir desire, their minds naturally settle. The eight characters, “Do not show things that can be desired, and the mind will not be disturbed,” put it best. “Empty their minds” means not letting their hearts fill with longing; “fill their bellies” means keeping them fed; “weaken their ambitions” means keeping them from pursuing competition; and “strengthen their bones” means sustaining their physical strength.

This passage describes how the Sages of antiquity governed the people: they kept them fed without stirring excessive longing, and made them physically strong without encouraging competition. Thus the people remained simple, with little crafty knowledge or desire. Even if someone among them conceived a crafty idea, that person would not dare to act recklessly on it.

The Sage governs the world in this way and keeps no private interests in worldly affairs. He governs through Wuwei, and so nothing is left poorly governed. “Do not show things that can be desired, and the mind will not be disturbed” describes the Sage’s method of teaching the people; “make” means bringing the people to be this way. The Sage refrains from exalting the worthy and prizing rare goods because these practices might stir people’s desires. These are only two examples of things that can arouse desire. Lin Xiyi argues that Laozi, lamenting the disorder of later times, longed for the uneventful age of antiquity. But his argument is rather one-sided and therefore falls short of the teachings of the Confucian Sages.

The Dao is empty, yet its workings are inexhaustible, as though it could never be filled. It is deep and subtle, as if it were the source of all things. It blunts sharpness and untangles confusion; it dims its radiance and mingles with the dust of the world. It is deep and obscure, seeming both to exist and not to exist. I do not know what gave birth to it; it seems to have existed before the Heavenly Emperor.

“Empty” means void. The Dao’s substance is void, yet its workings have no end. At times it is full, at times not full, changing with the circumstances; hence the scripture says, “sometimes it is not full.” “Deep” means profound and subtle. “As if” is an expression of uncertain praise for the Dao. Calling the Dao the ancestor of all things means that it is their source.

“To blunt its sharpness” means that the Dao wears away sharp edges and shows no angularity. “To untangle its confusion” means that even amid disorder, it brings things into order. “To dim its radiance” means that though it has light, it does not display its brilliance. “To mingle with its dust” means that although it is not stained by worldly dust, it does not set itself apart by making a show of its purity. The scripture’s words, “Deep and obscure, as if it were there,” mean that the Dao is subtle and hard to perceive, seeming both present and absent, like the real thing that remains within the indistinctness described earlier.

“I do not know whose child it is” is a question phrased as praise for the Dao. In “as if it were before the Emperor,” “as if” means “seemingly,” and “Emperor” refers to Heaven. The Dao seems to have existed before Heaven, Earth, and all things came into being. The scripture’s use of expressions such as “as if” and “seemingly” describes the Dao’s mysterious state: it can be sensed but is hard to see, and seems knowable yet cannot be fully known.

“Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent” is the title of the next chapter.

Heaven and Earth show no partiality; they treat all things like straw dogs used in sacrificial rites: brought out for the ceremony, then set aside once it is over. The sage, too, shows no partiality and treats the people like straw dogs. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty, yet never ceases to function; the more it is worked, the more air keeps pouring out. Too much talk often leads again and again to difficulty. Better to remain inwardly empty and still.

Lin Xiyi explains that Heaven and Earth give life to and nurture all things without claiming credit for it. The sage cares for the people without treating this as a favor. Neither deliberately takes credit; each lives naturally with all things or with the people. “Not benevolent” does not mean lacking benevolence. It means not clinging to the belief that one possesses benevolent virtue. Straw dogs are used during the sacrifice and discarded afterward, illustrating aid given without deliberate intent and a relationship free of attachment. This is also the meaning of Zhuangzi’s phrase “great benevolence is not benevolent,” and of the age of utmost virtue, when people cared for one another without knowing that this was called benevolence. To take “regard the people as straw or weeds” as the intended meaning is a mistake.

Lin Xiyi also warns that this way of speaking can easily be misunderstood. The teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi often use startling, unconventional language; readers who fail to understand it precisely may draw serious errors from it. Some have argued that the harsh politics of Shen Buhai and Han Fei’s school arose from the idea of treating the people as straw dogs. Lin Xiyi believes that even Laozi cannot be entirely absolved of responsibility for language that invites this interpretation.

“Key” refers to the opening of the bellows. When the bellows are worked, they produce air. Though the bellows are empty, they do not thereby lose their function; work them, and air keeps pouring out. Heaven and Earth give life to and nurture all things in the same way: neither the bellows in relation to the air nor Heaven and Earth in relation to all things acts with deliberate intent. When the bellows are idle, there is no air; when they are used, air flows. This also suggests that all things arise naturally, changing and circulating.

Here, “shu” means “often” or “again and again.” “Guard the center” means to preserve emptiness and stillness, and to say no more. The Way by which Heaven and Earth operate cannot be fully expressed in words. The more one speaks, the more easily one runs into difficulty; better to fall silent and forget words. This is close in meaning to Confucius’s saying, “I would rather not speak. What does Heaven say? The four seasons run their course, and all things grow.” Yet Confucius’s words are pure and clear, while this book’s expression shifts and winds through its ideas, making it harder to understand. If “too much talk often leads to difficulty” is taken merely as advice to speak less, it will not connect with the meaning of what came before. Only by understanding this can one see how the chapter’s beginning and end cohere, and how its meaning is concise yet profound.

The Valley Spirit—the wondrous function that ceaselessly gives life within emptiness—does not perish. This is called the Mysterious Female, the deep source that can bring forth the myriad things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It stretches on without end, seeming to exist and not to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted.

This chapter can serve as a foundation for self-cultivation, though Laozi’s original intent was not to speak solely about cultivation. Jing (essence) is substantial, while Shen (spirit) is empty and numinous. “Valley” means emptiness; “Valley Spirit” refers to the wondrous function within emptiness. The human spirit arises from emptiness, and so can endure without perishing. It is deep and far-reaching, with no bounds. “Female” refers to emptiness rather than fullness. Here, both “valley” and “female” describe emptiness. Heaven and Earth also arise from this, which is why it is called their “root.” “Continuous” means unbroken; “as if it exists” means seeming to exist and not to exist. It functions within nonbeing, remaining without effort and never exhausting itself. This is also what is meant by “empty, yet never depleted; in motion, it pours forth ever more.”

Zhu Xi of Huian said, “Within the most wondrous principle lies the meaning of ceaseless generation.” This is also a good interpretation, though it still leans toward the preservation of life. This chapter can be applied to life cultivation, but Laozi’s original purpose was not to speak specifically about it.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not live for themselves; therefore, they can endure. The sage likewise puts himself last and so comes to the fore; he sets himself aside and so preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish desires? Precisely for that reason, he ultimately fulfills himself.

This chapter uses Heaven and Earth to illustrate that the sage harbors no self-interest. Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish the myriad things naturally, without deliberately arranging anything; thus, tens of thousands of years seem like just one day. The sage cultivates himself without giving thought to what comes first or last, or what is inside or outside. Nothing can surpass him, and he can endure for a long time. This is precisely because he has no self-interest: in this way, he is able to fulfill himself.

Here, “self-interest” refers to the self; it does not mean the distinction between public and private interests. Reading it in that latter sense would conflict with the idea of “having nothing on which to set the mind.” This passage also reflects Laozi’s intention to encourage people toward goodness. Later, Buddhists drew on this idea and expressed it as “true emptiness and real existence”: true emptiness means harboring no self-interest, while real existence means fulfilling oneself. This formulation, however, raises the idea to a higher level.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water excels at nourishing the myriad things, yet does not contend with them. It dwells in low places that people dislike, and so is closest to the Dao. In choosing where to dwell, seek a suitable place; keep the heart-mind still and deep as water; treat others with kindness; speak with integrity; govern affairs in an orderly way; make the most of your abilities in your work; and act at the right moment. Only by not contending can you avoid blame and resentment.

This chapter again uses water to symbolize having no self-interest. “The highest good” means the greatest goodness. The highest principle of goodness in the world is like the nature of water. Water is considered good because it can nourish the myriad things…

This chapter again uses water to illustrate freedom from the desire to compete. “Supreme goodness” is the highest form of goodness. The highest principle of goodness in the world is like the nature of water: water nourishes all things yet never claims credit; it flows with the current instead of struggling against it; it willingly stays in low places and flows toward damp ground, places others dislike without sharing their aversion. In this way, water’s nature comes close to the Dao (the fundamental principle governing the workings of all things). “Close” means approaching.

“Dwelling well” means settling in a suitable place; “a heart welling deep” means having a deep and settled state of mind; “giving well in kindness” means treating others with compassion when giving to them; “speaking well in truth” means that one’s words accord with the facts; “governing well” means bringing stability to the state through governance; “handling affairs well” means being capable in dealing with matters; and “acting well at the right time” means that one’s actions accord with the moment.

These seven statements describe the good conduct of a person who follows the Dao. Though such people possess these strengths, they do not boast of their abilities. They therefore do not contend with anyone in the world and invite no resentment. This is the meaning of “When you do not contend, no one in the world can contend with you.” Some commentators explain all seven statements as seven virtues of water, forcing the interpretation; this was not Laozi’s original intent.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding a vessel and trying to fill it to the brim is not as good as knowing when to stop. Sharpen something too much, and it cannot stay sharp for long. No one can guard a house piled high with gold and jade forever. After becoming wealthy and honored, acting arrogantly brings misfortune upon oneself. Once your work is done and your name is established, knowing when to withdraw accords with the Way of Heaven.

This chapter says only that pressing forward is inferior to holding back, using the images of keeping a vessel from overflowing and tempering a blade. When a vessel is filled too full, it spills over. It is difficult to keep it perpetually full; better to leave it unfilled, which makes it easier to preserve. “Stopping” means not continuing to fill it. “Tempering” means grinding or honing; “sharp” means keen. An object honed to extreme sharpness will inevitably break. Better not to make it too sharp, so that it can last.

When wealth accumulates until halls are filled with gold and jade, it is ultimately hard to keep for long. If someone in a high position grows arrogant and self-satisfied, showing their edge too plainly, they too invite ruin. Those who know how to preserve their achievements and safeguard their reputation must know when to yield in time; this accords with the Dao (the Way). “Achievement completed, reputation established” means that, whether the achievement is great or small, one can bring it to a timely close and preserve oneself. That is why it is called “completed” and “fulfilled.” If one does not know when to be satisfied, when can anything be called “completed,” and when “fulfilled”? The four words “achievement completed, reputation established” call for careful reflection.

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Spirit and Soul

Can you let the spirit and body depend on and remain with each other, holding fast to a unified, undivided state without separating? Can you concentrate the vital energy, bringing body and mind to a gentle state like that of an infant? Can you cleanse the innermost depths of your awareness until they are without blemish? Can you care for the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)? When Heaven’s gate opens and closes, can you remain supple and still, without forcing your strength? Can you see clearly in all directions and understand everything without relying on cleverness and schemes?

Let all things grow and nurture them. Give life without claiming ownership; act without relying on your own ability; help them mature without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and natural Virtue).

“Camp” refers to the hun, or ethereal soul, and spirit; “corporeal soul” refers to essence and Qi. “Carry” suggests bearing something as a cart bears its load. Laozi places the word “carry” before “camp and corporeal soul,” expressing his meaning obliquely, almost like a riddle: if the corporeal soul carries the ethereal soul, that is the ordinary person; if the ethereal soul carries the corporeal soul, that is the sage. Viewed together, the two souls are one; viewed separately, they are the ethereal soul and the corporeal soul. To “embrace” means to unite them as one. The question here is whether the two souls can be brought together without separating. These lines are obscure in meaning and require personal reflection.

An infant has not yet accumulated much experience, so its breath remains undivided. “Attain” means to reach the utmost, and “soft” means gentle and yielding. If a person can keep the breath undivided and yielding, like an infant, they can embrace the One. That is why Laozi asks, “Can you be like an infant?” The lines that follow pose questions in the same way, asking whether a person can achieve these things.

Washing away the mind’s blemishes and observing profound, mysterious things can easily give rise to distinctions. Here, “without flaw” means free of a discriminating mind. Even while cleansing away blemishes, if one can avoid clinging to the distinction between defilement and purity, one can embrace the One. In governing the state and caring for the people, one can also embrace the One by acting through Wuwei (non-action)—following nature without contrived effort. The opening and closing of Yin-Yang, and the interaction of the female and male, follow their own natural principles; if one does not cling to the idea of their interaction, one can also embrace the One. “Heaven’s gate” refers to the natural principles by which Heaven and Earth operate, and here uses the workings of nature as a metaphor. Lin Xiyi cautions that interpreting such words as instructions for sexual cultivation, or even inventing heretical doctrines on that basis, would mislead people.

“To understand clearly in all directions” means to be unobstructed in every matter. If one can avoid priding oneself on intelligence and remain inwardly clear and open, one can also embrace the One. The transformations of nature give birth to and nourish the myriad things, yet never regard themselves as acting or claim credit for their work. Though they nurture all things, they have no intention of controlling them. This is what is called mysterious De.

The chapter’s general point is that when one follows nature without contrived action, the mind can remain empty. The sage uses spirit to govern essence and Qi, rather than allowing essence and Qi to pull the spirit along; when essence and Qi stir the spirit, one falls into deliberate striving. This is broadly the principle repeated throughout Laozi’s work: to remain empty amid fullness and unattached amid possession—this is the utmost Dao.

Thirty spokes meet at the wheel’s hub, the central part that holds the axle. The hub is hollow, and this is what allows the wheel to turn. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel; its hollow center is what makes it useful for holding things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; the open spaces inside are what make it fit to live in. Thus, the solid parts bring convenience, while the empty spaces allow them to serve their purpose.

Lin Xiyi explains that wheels, vessels, and houses are all tangible things, yet what makes them function as wheels, vessels, and houses is the empty space within them. These three examples show that “nonbeing” also has a use, and express the idea with great subtlety.

Chapter 12: The Five Colors

The five colors dazzle the eyes, the five tones dull the hearing, and the five flavors unsettle the sense of taste. Riding at full speed while hunting makes the mind run wild; rare and valuable goods damage one’s De (Virtue/Power). Therefore, the sage attends to the needs of the inner self and body, and does not pursue pleasures for the outer senses. Thus, the sage lets go of the former and chooses the latter.

“Blindness of the eyes” means that colors dazzle and beguile; “deafness of the ears” means that sounds disrupt hearing; “loss of taste” means losing the ability to distinguish ordinary flavors; “the mind runs wild” means the spirit is unsettled; and “harm to one’s conduct” means damage to one’s De. Lin Xiyi holds that all five are signs of pursuing external things single-mindedly and, in doing so, losing inner cultivation. “Belly” refers to the inner self, and “eyes” to the external world. The sage attends to the inner self rather than pursuing the external, so lets go of the things described above and chooses the Dao (the Way). The pursuit of external things is not limited to these five cases; the same principle can be applied to other similar pursuits.

Chapter 13: Favor and Disgrace

Being honored or disgraced should equally give us no cause for alarm, yet people are often troubled by both. They regard great calamity as important as their own person.

What does it mean to be honored or disgraced? Being favored already places one in a low position. When favored, one fears losing favor; when favor is lost, one feels alarmed. What does it mean to regard great calamity as important as one’s own person? I suffer great calamity because I have this body. If I had no body, what troubles would I have?

Therefore, only someone who values the world as they value their own person can be entrusted with the world. Only someone who cherishes the world as they cherish their own person can have the world entrusted to them.

“Like” means “in the same way as.” Honor and disgrace are, in truth, no different in essence and are not worth dwelling on. Yet people regard disgrace as degrading, and so develop likes and dislikes; whether they gain or lose favor, their minds are disturbed. This is what it means to be anxious about gaining or losing. The body is a burden attached to the “self”; without the body, there would be no such burden. People regard the body as supremely important because they do not understand what is truly precious in the self. If they understood what is truly precious and worthy of love in the self, they would not exchange it for the world, even if they were given the world. Only someone capable of this can be entrusted with the world. The word “entrust” implies that the world is not something they own or control.

This chapter uses “What does it mean?” twice, each time with a different meaning. This is one of the subtleties of classical Chinese expression.

Chapter Fourteen, “Look, and You Cannot See It”

One cannot see it with the eyes, so it is called “Yi”; one cannot hear it with the ears, so it is called “Xi”; one cannot grasp it even by touch, so it is called “Wei.” These three names cannot be distinguished in fine detail. Taken together, they refer to the same thing: the Dao. Above, it does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dark. It stretches on without end and is difficult to name, yet in the end it returns to nothingness. This is called “the shape without shape, the image without image”—something indistinct and elusive. Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to govern the things of the present, and you can know the source from which all things first arose. This is the guiding principle of the Dao.

Lin Xiyi explains that this chapter concerns the Dao’s lack of trace. “Yi” means level; “Xi” and “Wei” both describe what cannot be perceived. The three are not essentially different: all express that the Dao cannot be seen, heard, or touched. “Cannot be examined separately” means that these names cannot each be pursued as distinct things. “Fused together as one” means that they all refer to the Dao. “Not bright” means not shining; “not dark” means not dim. “Above” and “below” need not be taken as directions: they simply mean that wherever one seeks, the Dao cannot be seen. The Dao extends and proliferates, yet cannot be named; in the end it returns to nothingness. Hence it is called “the shape without shape, the image without image,” something indistinct and elusive. The Dao has neither beginning nor end. Grasp the ancient Dao that arose from nothingness and use it to govern what exists in the present, and you can know its origin as the source of all things. “Ji” means guiding principle or overall framework; “the guiding principle of the Dao” is the Dao’s central principle.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao (the Way) were subtle and mysterious, far-reaching in their understanding, and unfathomable in the depths of their minds. Because they were so difficult to understand, we can only try to describe them through these images: cautious, like someone crossing a river in winter; wary, as though alert to danger on every side; solemn, like a guest; relaxed and natural, like ice about to melt; honest and unadorned, like uncarved wood; open and spacious, like a valley; and deep and reserved, like muddy water.

Who can let the muddy water settle and gradually clear? Who can remain steady and hold fast for a long time, allowing vitality to emerge little by little? Those who hold to this Dao do not seek to become full and self-satisfied. Because they are not self-satisfied, they can preserve their old, unpolished simplicity, without rushing to pursue renewal or achievement.

This passage describes those who have attained the Dao and fully understood its subtle depths. Their hearts no longer cling to knowledge or distinctions. Inwardly they are empty and still, and they make no effort to display themselves; their outward expressions and actions therefore arise without intention. This is what is meant by “straining to describe them.” From “Hesitant, as though…” onward, the text depicts in fine detail the characteristic bearing of those who have attained the Dao.

“Yù xī” describes a manner that is unhurried and at ease; “yóu xī” describes one that is hesitant and slow. “Crossing a river in winter” is a metaphor for acting with caution, as if afraid of being watched by those all around and unwilling to make a rash move. “Kè xī” suggests being unable to act freely, restrained like a guest; “yǎn xī” means solemn and steady; “huàn xī” means relaxed and loose, like ice beginning to melt—seeming to disperse, but not yet entirely dissolved. “Dūn xī” means honest and substantial; “pǔ xī” means naturally simple and uncarved; “kuàng xī” means open and unobstructed; “gǔ xī” means empty and vast.

“Hún xī qí ruò zhuó” means that those who have attained the Dao may seem muddied, yet they neither clarify themselves nor grow murkier when stirred. If they can remain still amid the muddiness, the water will gradually clear of its own accord. “At rest for a long time, it slowly comes to life” means that change arises only after a long period of calm and steadfastness. “Who can…” is a question: who can do this? Here, “slowly” carries the sense of unhurried ease. These two lines express how clarity and murkiness coexist, and movement and stillness contain one another: clarity within murkiness, stillness within movement.

“Not seeking fullness” means not trying to become full, but remaining empty. “Worn” means old and decayed. Those who uphold this Dao keep their hearts empty and do not seek fullness; they abide in what is old and do not cling to what is new. This is the “constant Dao” described in the first chapter. To be at ease with the old and not pursue the new is to make a thousand years seem like a single day. Only those who can do this have brought their cultivation of the Great Dao to completion. Thus, “being able to remain worn and not become new” is one phrase, while “completion” is another.

“Attaining the utmost emptiness,” Chapter Sixteen

Push the mind’s state of emptiness and stillness to its utmost, and hold firmly to it. All things grow and change together; through this, I observe how they return to their source. The myriad things flourish in profusion, yet in the end each returns to its own root. Returning to the root is called “stillness.” Stillness is a return to life’s original state; returning to that state is constancy. To know constancy is to be wise. Failing to know constancy and acting recklessly brings misfortune.

Knowing constancy, one’s mind becomes broad. With a broad mind, one can act justly; through justice, one can attain the kingly Way. The kingly Way accords with the principles of Heaven; what accords with the principles of Heaven accords with the Dao, and what accords with the Dao endures. Living this way throughout one’s life, one will not fall into danger.

Here, “bringing emptiness to its utmost” means cultivating emptiness and stillness to the highest degree. “Bringing to its utmost” means reaching or pushing something to its limit. In learning the Dao, one cultivates the mind until emptiness and stillness reach their peak, and holds to stillness with firm resolve. “Firmly” means securely and steadfastly.

To reach “attaining emptiness” is to bring the mind to a state of stillness and openness. Those who study the Dao cultivate this stillness to its utmost; their steadfastness in keeping still then becomes firm and deep. “Steadfast” means firmly rooted. When one is still and open, one can observe the myriad things flourishing and see how, in the end, they return to their source. “Arising” means growing; “returning” means going back to the root and restoring one’s original life—that is, when all things return to their foundation and recover their original state. This is precisely the practice of constantly having no desires in order to observe the Dao’s subtlety, and constantly having desires in order to observe its manifestations.

All things flourish and grow in abundance, yet however varied they may be, each ultimately returns to its root. Once they have returned to the root, movement reaches its limit and turns into stillness. This is an inherent pattern of all things. From there, they begin to return anew, which is why this is called “returning to life.” To perceive this return to life is to grasp the Dao that is constant and unchanging. Only by knowing the constant Dao can one be called wise. This is also the meaning of “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.”

Those who do not understand the constant Dao indulge in reckless thoughts and actions, thereby straying from the right path and inviting danger. Those who understand the constant Dao have a breadth of mind like Heaven and Earth, embracing all things. Because they can embrace all things, they can act fairly in their affairs. Those who govern the world should rule in accordance with this impartial way. To govern the world impartially is to accord with the Way of Heaven. Heaven is the Dao, which is why it is said: “The king is Heaven; Heaven is the Dao.” Here, “lasting” means constant. If a person can grasp the constant Dao, then all they do throughout their life will accord with the Dao. What danger could there be? This applies to everyone, from the Son of Heaven to ordinary people.

Chapter Seventeen: The Highest

The best ruler is one whom the people know exists, but whose deliberate intervention they do not feel. The next best is one whom the people love and praise; below that is one whom they fear; worse still is one whom they despise. Therefore, it is because a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient that the people do not trust him.

The best ruler acts with care and does not issue commands lightly. When matters are settled and the work is complete, the people all say, “We did it this way ourselves.”

“Higher” refers to ancient times, and “below” means the world under Heaven. In ancient times, the people knew only that they had a ruler, yet they lived naturally within the transforming influence of the Great Dao (the Way). Later, they began to feel affection for and praise their ruler; later still, they began to fear him; and eventually they even began to slight and mock him. This shows how the state of the world declined from one generation to the next.

After the highest De (Virtue/Power) had waned, trustworthiness was no longer sufficient, and people throughout the world began to lose faith. Just as the people began to break their promises after covenants were instituted in the Shang dynasty, and began to grow suspicious after assemblies of alliance were held in the Zhou dynasty, the people had already ceased to trust. Yet those who governed the country still calmly attached great importance to words, continually issuing orders and instructions. Would this not make the people even more doubtful? “You” carries the sense of hesitation and calm ease; “you xi” means to be calm and self-possessed.

When ancient rulers brought their affairs to a successful close and completed their achievements, the people throughout the world were quietly blessed, yet did not know it themselves. They all said, “We are simply as we are.” This is the meaning of “What have the emperor’s powers to do with me?” The chapter ends with this line to conclude its criticism of making too much of words, while lamenting the state of the world in the present and recalling ancient times.

Chapter Eighteen: The Decline of the Great Dao

Only when the Great Dao had fallen into decline did people speak of benevolence and righteousness. Only when cleverness and contrivance appeared did great deceit arise. Only when family bonds grew strained did acts of filial devotion and affection become visible. Only when the state fell into disorder did so-called loyal ministers appear.

When the Great Dao is practiced everywhere, benevolence and righteousness are naturally included in it. Once benevolence and righteousness are singled out as ideals, the Dao gradually grows weak. Hence the saying: “Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do benevolence and righteousness appear.” It is like wisdom being praised, after which deception and pretence arise throughout the world; only when harmony breaks down among family members do the names “filial” and “kind” appear; only when a state falls into disorder does the name “loyal minister” appear. These three statements are all analogies that explain the preceding one. The passage from “When the Great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear” to “When harmony breaks down among the six relations, only then do filial devotion and kindness appear” is repeated in the original.

Chapter Nineteen: Abandon Sageliness and Discard Wisdom

Abandon so-called sagacity and clever schemes, and the people will gain a hundredfold. Abandon the display of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to their natural filial devotion and kindness. Abandon cunning and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will not arise. These three proposals are not enough when presented merely as slogans, so their proper grounding and practical direction must also be made clear: preserve one’s natural simplicity, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

As labels such as “sageliness” and “wisdom” appear, troubles arise in the world. It would be better to cast aside these labels and the pursuit of them; then the world could settle of itself. When labels such as “benevolence” and “righteousness” appear, people begin to distinguish and debate who is filial and who is not, who is loving and who is not. It would be better to set aside these distinctions and arguments, and stop clinging to labels. People could then return to their natural state of filial care and affection, without ranking one another.

Once cunning and the pursuit of profit take hold, thieves appear as well. It would be better to cast aside this way of life. As stated earlier, when rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not become thieves.

Sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, cunning and profit: these are all labels formed as social customs grew increasingly elaborate. To those who understand the Dao (the Way), such elaboration is of little use in governing the world. Better to let the people return to simplicity: preserve their unadorned nature and reduce their selfish desires. Then the world will naturally have fewer troubles.

Here, “cause” means “make,” while “gather” means to assemble or summon, as in the Rites of Zhou, where the people are summoned to hear the laws proclaimed. Lin Xiyi understands this passage to mean that the more elaborate the forms of cultivation and government become, the shallower social customs grow. It is better to lead people back to honesty and simplicity, as in ancient times. He also points out that these words express a moment of indignation at the state of society.

Chapter Twenty: “Cutting Off Learning, No Worries”

Set aside contrived learning, and worries will leave the heart. How far apart can the replies “yes” and “ah” really be? How much difference can there be between what is called good and what is called bad? What people fear must, after all, be feared. The world is vast and boundless, as though it had no end.

Everyone is cheerful and excited, as if attending a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a high terrace on a spring day to admire the view. I alone am quiet and unassuming, my thoughts not yet revealed, like an infant who cannot yet smile; bewildered, as though I had nowhere to return. Everyone seems to have enough, while I alone seem to lack something. My heart is truly like that of a fool, muddled and confused.

People of the world are perceptive and clever; I alone seem dull. They are subtle in their distinctions; I alone seem slow and unresponsive. I am calm and expansive, like the sea; adrift and without direction, as though I had no resting place. Everyone believes they can accomplish something; I alone seem stubborn and simple. I differ from everyone else: what I cherish is seeking and relying on the “Mother”—here, the Dao that gives birth to and nurtures all things.

Those who cultivate the Dao should reduce their desires and deliberate actions day by day. Those who pursue learning, by contrast, increase their knowledge day by day. “Learning” and “Dao” here do not mean what they mean in Confucian classics. If one seeks only knowledge, one will depart from the Dao. Set such learning aside and return to emptiness, and there will be no trouble.

“Wei” and “e” are both words of response, differing only in tone. In ordinary learning, people seek to make good prevail over evil. This is like wanting “wei” to prevail over “e.” Better to forget even the labels of good and evil. This is precisely what is meant by “When everyone knows beauty as beauty, ugliness arises.”

Yet those in ancient times who understood the Dao did not treat good and evil as absolute standards, but that does not mean they feared nothing. “What ordinary people fear, I too cannot help but fear.” If nothing is regarded as worthy of fear, disorder will have no end. “Huang” means confusion, and “wei yang” means without end. The Chan Buddhist expression “proclaiming emptiness while dismissing cause and effect” means treating even what people ought to fear as nothing to fear. To indulge in such heedlessness and invite disaster is what is meant by “confusion without end.”

Everyone else is intoxicated by worldly pleasures, as if feasting at a lavish sacrificial banquet or climbing a terrace in spring. I am content with simplicity, my heart free of all manner of thoughts, like a newborn infant who knows nothing yet. “Zhao” means to appear or begin to emerge; when thoughts have not yet stirred, this is called “wei zhao,” before signs arise. “Ying” refers to a newborn, and “hai” to a slightly older child. An infant has little knowledge or capacity for distinctions. “Chengcheng” describes a state that seems to move and yet not to move; “wu suo gui,” “having nowhere to return,” means leaving no fixed trace.

This is what sets me apart from everyone else: they are always seeking something and wanting a surplus, while I seem to have cast all of it aside. Am I so confused and muddled because I am foolish? “Dundun” describes a state of being wholly unaware. The point here is that I do not take having more as a source of joy, but find joy in the Dao. It is not that I am foolish while others are clever.

People of the world are sharp and discerning, while I seem dull and subdued. This, too, is what makes me different. My heart is tranquil and at ease, like a boat drifting on the open sea, moved by the wind, with no fixed place to moor. This is precisely the sense of “chengcheng” and “wu suo gui.” “You yi” means to engage in deliberate action. Everyone is busy doing things, while I am content not to seek anything, and so I appear stubborn and crude. Am I truly stubborn and crude? I differ from everyone else only because the Dao is the flavor my heart savors.

“Having a name, [the Dao] is the mother of the myriad things”: “mother” here refers to the Dao, the source of all things. “Shi” means to taste or experience. To value experiencing the flavor of the Dao is what is meant by “cherishing the nourishment sought from the mother.”

The form of great De takes the Dao as its sole basis. The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp. Within its vagueness, images appear; within its indistinctness, things take shape. In the depths of obscurity lies a subtle essence. This subtle essence is real, not illusory, and within it there is something that can be trusted as proof.

From ancient times to the present, the name “Dao” has been passed down and used to observe the origins of all things. How do I know that the origins of all things are like this? By relying on this principle.

“Great” describes something grand and abundant. Those who understand the Dao follow only the Dao. Its De (Virtue/Power) shows itself outwardly, naturally giving rise to the bearing of deep virtue. “De” also means “to acquire”: what one gains from the Dao is called De. The Dao is invisible, but its De can be seen, so De is said to be the outward expression of the Dao. Mencius’s phrase “every movement and gesture accords with ritual” describes the utmost fullness of virtue; its meaning differs from the one here. When reading the Zhuangzi and Laozi, however, we should understand their words according to Zhuangzi’s and Laozi’s own usage and meaning. If we insist on making them agree with the teachings of Confucius and Mencius, many passages become impossible to explain.

“Vague and elusive” describes the Dao as impossible to see. Though invisible, it is not nothing; hence the text says that within it there are images, things, and subtle, real presences. What seems empty is, in fact, real. The lines “Its subtle reality contains something trustworthy” explain that what appears to contain nothing does indeed contain something real; this is no empty claim. “Trustworthy” here means substantial and real.

The Dao’s name has endured through past and present, and it cannot be left aside for even a day. All the good and beautiful things in the world arise from it. “The many beginnings” means the many good and beautiful things. “To survey” means to experience or pass through. The arising and unfolding of all these things come from the great Dao. Here, “by this” means by means of the Dao. In other words, where do the many good and beautiful things arise from? How do I know this? The answer lies in the Dao. This conclusion also shows the precision of Laozi’s writing.

Chapter 22: Yielding, One Is Preserved

Yield, and you will be preserved; bend, and you will be straightened; lie low, and you will be filled; grow worn, and you will be renewed; take little, and you will gain; grasp at much, and you will be confounded. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao, the fundamental principle, and makes it the standard for all under Heaven.

By not displaying himself, he becomes clear; by not insisting that he is right, he is recognized; by not boasting, he achieves merit; by not exalting himself, he endures. Because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him and prevail.

Were the words of the ancients, “Yield, and you will be preserved,” empty talk? Indeed, those who live by them can preserve themselves in the end and return to the Dao.

Only by accepting bends can one remain whole; only by lowering oneself can one rise; only by staying low can one be filled; only by allowing oneself to be damaged can one be renewed; only by taking little can one gain much. These words all mean that one must first acknowledge one’s own shortcomings before having anything in reserve; one must first reach true emptiness before gaining anything substantial.

Taking little brings gain; grasping for much instead brings confusion. Here, “little brings gain; much brings confusion” is explained in greater detail. “The One” means emptiness, nonbeing, and insufficiency. This is precisely the principle the sage holds to, and so it can serve as a model for all under Heaven. Not displaying oneself, not insisting on being right, not boasting of one’s achievements, and not exalting oneself all mean refusing to claim or flaunt what one possesses. I conduct myself with humility and do not contend with all under Heaven—so what is there to contend over? “Lasting” means that something can endure. Here the author returns to “only by accepting bends can one remain whole” to bring the passage to a close, a deft turn of phrase. There is nothing lacking between Heaven and Earth and me. I need only preserve myself and return to the Dao; what more need I do? “True” means real: it means that this is indeed how things should be. The four phrases “accepting bends, lowering oneself, staying low, and allowing oneself to be damaged” are all metaphors that illustrate the principle that follows.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Few Words Are Natural

Few words accord with the natural way. Thus, a gale does not last through the morning, and a downpour does not last through the day. Who brings these about? Heaven and Earth. If even the winds and rains of Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can human actions endure?

Therefore, those who devote themselves to the Dao become one with the Dao; those who devote themselves to De become one with De; and those who lose the Dao and De become one with their loss. The Dao gladly receives those who become one with it; De gladly receives those who become one with it; and loss gladly receives those who become one with loss. When a person’s own trustworthiness is insufficient, others will not trust them.

Between Heaven and Earth, the two words “naturally so” are enough to express the principles of Heaven and Earth. “Sparse” means few: these words say little, yet already encompass those principles. Although violent winds and torrential rain are also born of Heaven and Earth, they do not last through an entire morning or day. How, then, could a person’s triumphs, setbacks, hardships, and successes remain unchanged forever?

“To engage in the Dao” means to learn the Dao. “Dao” carries the sense of walking or putting something into practice, while “De” means to attain. When it is time to act, I act and follow what comes naturally. When it is time to gain something, I gain it and follow what comes naturally. When it is time to lose something, I lose it and follow what comes naturally. To be “of one accord” is to follow along without resisting. When it is time to act, I gladly act; when it is time to gain something, I gladly gain it; when it is time to stop, I gladly stop. Whether acting or stopping, gaining or losing, I accept it all in peace. This is what it means to understand the Dao.

Yet to do this, one must truly trust in the Dao. If one’s faith is not firm enough, one cannot fully believe that one can follow along in this way. Hence the saying: “When trust is insufficient, there will be distrust.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Those Who Rise on Tiptoe Do Not Stand Firm

Those who rise on tiptoe cannot stand steady; those who take overlong strides cannot travel far. Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who consider themselves right cannot gain recognition. Those who boast of themselves have no merit; those who praise themselves cannot endure. Measured against the Dao, such behavior is like leftover food or an unnecessary burden. All things detest it, so those who have the Dao do not act this way.

To have one’s heels off the ground is called “standing on tiptoe”; standing on tiptoe cannot last long. “Striding” means keeping the legs apart, so they do not meet; this makes it impossible to walk normally. These two statements are metaphors. Self-display, self-righteousness, self-praise, and arrogance all show an attachment to oneself and an inability to understand change.

“Not clear” means that one has obscured oneself; “not distinguished” means that one’s reputation cannot shine forth; “not lasting” means that one cannot endure. The Book of Changes (Yijing) says, “What is full cannot last,” meaning that things cannot endure once they reach fullness. It makes the same point. “Leftover food and extra growths” are like scraps of food and surplus appendages: things that are superfluous and useless. Clinging to them without understanding change turns them into burdens. A person of the Dao does not seek advancement or display. Once there are traces of display, they have become something superfluous.

“Leftover” means what remains; “extra growth” means what is in excess. Here the text draws on the image in the Zhuangzi of “joined toes and extra fingers”: toes and fingers that have grown beyond what is needed. Leftover food is thrown away, and growths on the body are disliked, so a person of the Dao does not take such things as a place to settle. In other words, one does not let outward traces become a burden.

Chapter Twenty-Five: “There Was Something Formed in Wholeness”

There was something formed in wholeness, existing before Heaven and Earth appeared. Silent and still, vast and formless, it stands alone and does not change. It moves everywhere without becoming exhausted and can serve as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I provisionally call it “Dao”; forced to give it a name, I call it “Great.” Greatness in motion is called “passing away”; moving without cease is called “far-reaching”; at the farthest reach, it returns to the source. Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. Between Heaven and Earth there are four great things, and the king is one of them. Human beings take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao takes what is natural as its model.

“There was something formed in wholeness” refers to the Dao. The Dao came into being before Heaven and Earth; that is, Heaven and Earth emerged from the Dao. “The Non-ultimate and then the Supreme Ultimate” is an expression commentators use to explain the Dao: the Dao is boundless, yet it is the root from which all things arise. The “Four Great Things” in the original text are the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the king.

There is an existence that is whole and undivided. This is what is meant by the Dao (the Way). It has no boundaries, yet it is the root of all things. It came into being before Heaven and Earth; in other words, Heaven and Earth were born from it.

It is silent and vast, invisible and intangible. It exists on its own and does not change; it endures without end and is never exhausted. It moves everywhere without stopping. It may be regarded as the mother of all things under Heaven, since everything is born from it.

I do not know what it was originally called, nor can I give it an appropriate name, so I reluctantly call it “Dao.” Even the name “Dao” is not enough to encompass it, so I reluctantly call it “Great.” “Great” is not enough to encompass it either, so I call it “Moving Away,” meaning that it moves continuously and cannot be overtaken. Next I call it “Far,” meaning that it is distant and beyond reach, impossible to approach. Then I call it “Returning,” meaning that it ultimately returns to the root.

Here, “Returning” means going back to the root. Lin Xiyi argues that interpreting it as “turning inward to seek the answer within oneself” is incorrect. He also says that statements such as “there are four great things within the realm” mean that people live between Heaven and Earth and usually know only that the ruler is noble, without knowing that above the ruler stand Heaven, Earth, and the Dao. People take Earth as their model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao takes what is natural as its model. In this sense, what is natural is more fundamental than the Dao, Heaven, and Earth. Lin Xiyi holds that the Dao ultimately returns to what is natural; this interpretation may be called an unusual insight.

Chapter 26: The Heavy Is the Root of the Light

The heavy is the foundation of the light, and stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, the noble person travels all day without leaving the baggage cart, the vehicle carrying provisions and supplies. Even amid splendid and imposing surroundings, they remain composed and undisturbed by external things.

As the ruler of a state possessing ten thousand war chariots, how can one treat the affairs of the world lightly? If one is frivolous, one loses the support of one’s ministers; if one is agitated, one loses the dignity proper to a ruler.

Those skilled at walking leave no wheel tracks or footprints. Those skilled at speaking leave no flaws in their words and nothing to reproach. Those skilled at planning need no counting tokens. Those skilled at closing a door use no bolt, yet it cannot be opened. Those skilled at tying things use no cord, yet what they bind cannot be undone.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, so no one is abandoned. The sage is always skilled at guiding all things, so nothing is cast aside. This is called inheriting and bringing to light the Great Dao. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is also a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor the teacher or value the lesson, then even if one considers oneself wise, one remains deeply deluded. This is the essential and profound principle.

The five expressions “skilled at speaking,” “skilled at acting,” “skilled at planning,” “skilled at closing,” and “skilled at tying” are all metaphors. They mean that when one takes natural non-action as the Dao (the Way), there is no need to force things, and no trace of deliberate contrivance is left behind.

Although the sage differs from ordinary people, he can blend in with them and live among everyone. He never makes a point of showing that he is different, so no trace of contrivance can be seen. The sage’s Dao can help people and all things. His understanding of people and all things is very different from that of ordinary people, yet he has never wished to abandon anyone or anything. He draws in his sharpness, blends into the world, and joins with everyone and everything; this is why it is called “hidden illumination.” “Hidden” means concealed. This “hidden illumination” is close in meaning to what Zhuangzi called “the radiance of blurred uncertainty.”

A good person can serve as a model for the world. Although good people differ from those who are not good, if there were no people who were not good in the world, who would know what makes a good person good? Thus, those who are not good can also serve as a basis through which goodness becomes evident. “Basis” means something on which one depends. These two sentences further explain that the sage abandons no person or thing. To harbor the intention of abandoning people or things is like having a teacher but failing to respect them, or having something to depend on but failing to value it. Though such a person may think himself wise, in truth he is deeply confused. Only by understanding this principle can one be said to have grasped the subtle essence of the Dao.

“Know the Masculine,” Chapter 28.

Understand the strong and vigorous side of things, yet hold to the soft and yielding side. Be like the streams of the world, lying low and gathering all waters. Then constant De will not be lost, and one can return to the simple, unknowing state of an infant.

Understand brightness, yet hold to obscurity, and you can become a model for the world to follow. As a model for the world, constant De will not go astray, and one can return to “the Limitless” (a state without form or distinction). Understand honor, yet willingly remain in disgrace, and be like the deep valley of the world. Then De can be made complete, and one can return to the “uncarved block” (the undifferentiated primal state). When the uncarved block is broken apart, particular things take shape. The sage makes use of them, assigning each its proper role and becoming the steward who governs the myriad things. Thus, the highest form of governance does not divide things.

“Know the masculine, yet hold to the feminine” means not seeking victory through contention; “know the white, yet hold to the black” means not clinging to distinctions; “know honor, yet hold to disgrace” means not coveting glory. Know that you have the capacity to act, yet do not act deliberately. Streams and valleys lie low, and all waters flow toward them. This means that if one can maintain this way of humility, the world will turn toward them. “Model” means a standard for the world to follow; “constant De” means the enduring Way. “Not lost” means uninterrupted; “not go astray” means without deviation; “made complete” means fully sufficient. The “infant” symbolizes a state free of knowledge and desire. “The Limitless” refers to a state without form or bounds. The “uncarved block” is the undifferentiated primal state at the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Only when this primal block is broken apart do particular things take shape: what is abstract and formless is called the Dao, while what has form and substance is called a vessel.

The sage uses the formless Dao to work with formed vessels, giving each of the myriad things of Heaven and Earth its proper role. The sage governs the myriad things by bringing together Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—and can also oversee the responsibilities of all things between Heaven and Earth. Thus, the sage is the steward of all their offices. The Zhuangzi says “govern Heaven and Earth”; this means that the roles undertaken by Heaven and Earth are themselves only duties within the workings of transformation. “Divide” means to separate. Governing the myriad things through the Dao is called “great governance”; true great governance does not divide the Dao from vessels. This expresses the idea of not acting presumptuously, but following things as they are.

Those who wish to govern the world, yet insist on forcing things through their own subjective will, will, I believe, ultimately fail. The world is a mysterious vessel that cannot be handled at will. Forceful action brings failure; clinging to control makes one lose it.

All things in the world are different: some move forward, while others follow; some breathe softly, while others blow forcefully; some are strong, while others are weak; some bear things steadily, while others overturn and destroy them. Therefore, the sage rejects extremes, extravagance, and excess, and lets things follow their own nature.

The world is the most wondrous of vessels. How could it be obtained through human effort alone? When the Dao is deeply practiced and De reaches its utmost, people throughout the world will naturally turn to you. At that point, even if you wish to decline, you cannot; only then may you possess the world. If the thought of seizing the world takes root in your heart, and you deliberately do good in order to gain it, you will ultimately be unable to obtain it. These words are an analogy: they mean that in all matters of the world, one must not harbor a deliberate desire to acquire. Deliberate action brings ruin; clinging to control inevitably leads to loss. These are all the burdens that come from seeking with intention.

Therefore, the person who has the Dao lets the myriad things follow their own course: those meant to advance are allowed to advance; those meant to follow are allowed to follow; those meant to be borne along are allowed to be borne along; those meant to disperse are allowed to disperse; what is strong is allowed to be strong; what is weak is allowed to be weak; what is completed is allowed to be completed; what is destroyed is allowed to be destroyed. All this is simply following what is natural. “Advance” and “follow” refer to what comes first and what comes after; “bear along” means to bring to completion.

“Excess,” “extravagance,” and “indulgence” all mean going beyond what is appropriate. They are the surplus food and surplus action mentioned in the previous chapter. The sage casts these aside because he has no deliberate intentions, is not burdened by attachment, does not act recklessly, and does not pursue things. Lin Xiyi says that the ending of this chapter is crafted with remarkable skill: “excess,” “extravagance,” and “indulgence” have similar meanings, and their repetition gives the prose a varied rhythm while emphasizing that such conduct must never be adopted. The Jing (scripture) uses “mysterious upon mysterious” to describe profound obscurity, and also uses words such as “great,” “passing,” and “far” to express related ideas. If readers do not understand the purpose behind these expressions, they will miss the beauty of the writing and may instead force strained interpretations upon it.

Those who assist a ruler by means of the Dao (the Way) do not use force to dominate the world, because doing so is likely to invite retaliation. Where armies have been stationed, brambles often grow thick; after a great war, years of famine are sure to follow.

So those skilled in the use of arms are satisfied once they have achieved their aim. They do not dare use force to prevail over others. When their task is done, they do not boast, show off, or grow arrogant. Even when they have achieved results, they act with a sense of necessity and do not press their advantage. When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline. This is called being contrary to the Dao. What is contrary to the Dao soon comes to an end.

Those who assist a ruler yet are bent on using a powerful army to dominate others do not truly understand the Dao. Why? Weapons are instruments of ill omen. If I use them to harm others, others will also seek ways to harm me. That is why using force is likely to invite retaliation. Where armies are deployed, farmers cannot cultivate the land, and brambles take root. After war, the harmony between Heaven and Earth is damaged, and famine is sure to follow. These words explain that delighting in war and seeking victory do not bring good fortune to a state.

The scripture next uses several phrases as metaphors: when people do good and act, the results should accrue to themselves; they should not use them to put themselves above others. Hence the phrase, “do not dare use this to prevail over others.” Here, “result” can be understood as decisive action that bears fruit. The Book of Changes says, “Decisive action nurtures De (Virtue/Power),” meaning that resolute action cultivates virtue. When the results remain within oneself and are not displayed outwardly, one avoids a reputation for boasting, showing off, arrogance, or forcefulness. One also approaches every task with a sense of necessity. This is also the meaning of “knowing the strong yet keeping to the yielding”: understanding strength while remaining gentle and humble.

Strength cannot last, nor can arrogance. Just as all things decline after reaching their peak, anyone who fails to understand this and tries to dominate the world through force acts contrary to the Dao. Once we know this is contrary to the Dao, we should stop at once. “Soon” means to stop as early as possible and not act this way again.

Fine weapons are inauspicious instruments, and people generally detest them. For this reason, one who follows the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; when sending troops into battle, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious instruments, not things a gentleman uses routinely. They should be used only when there is no other choice, and then with calm restraint, never taking pride in them. If one treats warfare as a source of glory, one will delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot realize their ambitions under Heaven.

Thus, auspicious occasions honor the left, while funerals honor the right. In battle, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme commander on the right. This arrangement follows the rites of mourning, showing that warfare is regarded as a grave and disastrous affair. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even a victory should be met with the rites of mourning.

This chapter uses military affairs throughout as a metaphor, and also warns against the prevailing customs of its time, which exalted warfare and made a habit of striving for victory.

“Fond of weapons” refers to someone who delights in using military force. Those who regard warfare as a good thing invite ill fortune. To use people who bring ill fortune for an undertaking that brings ill fortune is why weapons are called inauspicious things. All under Heaven abhors war, so a person who follows the Dao does not initiate it.

In ordinary life, a gentleman honors the left, but in the military the right is honored. This shows that the ancients, too, regarded warfare as inauspicious, not as a means a gentleman would willingly employ. Force should be used only when there is no alternative. If war breaks out, one should still follow the principle of calm restraint, without taking pleasure in it. Even after winning a battle, one should not rejoice. To say that warfare is “not good” means it is no good thing. If one treats war as a cause for celebration, one takes pleasure in killing people. How could such a person bring all under Heaven to submit? Mencius said, “Only one who takes no pleasure in killing people can unify all under Heaven.” He was making the same point.

The deputy general’s rank is normally below that of the senior general. Here, however, the senior general is placed on the right and the deputy general on the left. This is because the ancients regarded war as a dire affair and arranged military positions according to the rules of mourning rites. The left is associated with Yang, the right with Yin, and mourning rites esteem Yin. Even when victory is won by good fortune, one should mourn and grieve for the dead as if in a period of mourning. In terms of rank, the lower-ranking officer is placed in the higher position, so the commentator explains this as “occupying the superior position.”

The main point of this chapter is that when people go through life intent on surpassing others, what they bring upon themselves is often disaster, not good fortune.

“Chapter Thirty-Two: The Dao Is Always Nameless” is the title of the next chapter.

The Dao has no fixed name. This nameless “uncarved block”—the natural state before it is carved—may seem small, yet no one under Heaven dares treat it as a subject or look down on it. If lords and kings can hold fast to the Great Dao, all things will naturally come to them.

When the Qi of Heaven and Earth mingle, sweet dew descends. No one commands it to do so, yet it naturally nourishes all things everywhere. Only after things begin to take shape do names and distinctions arise. Once names appear, change continues without end. Therefore, those who understand the Dao should know when enough is enough. They do not pursue names and trivial details. Knowing where to stop keeps them from danger.

The place of the Dao among all things under Heaven is like the water of streams and valleys flowing at last into rivers and seas.

“The Dao is always nameless” means that no fixed name can sum up the Great Dao. Once it is fixed in words, it is no longer an enduring, unchanging name. The nameless uncarved block is the Dao. The Dao may seem small, yet no one under Heaven fails to honor it; hence the words, “no one dares treat it as a subject.”

If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally come to them. Though Heaven is high and distant, it reaches down to meet Earth. The Qi of Heaven descends and the Qi of Earth rises; when their Qi harmonizes, sweet dew falls. People live between Heaven and Earth, naturally growing and finding their proper place. No one deliberately arranges this: it is the work of the natural Dao. If one tries to control it, it is difficult to make everything so evenly balanced.

At first, the Dao had no name. Only after things took shape did the name “Dao” arise. “Making” means producing and forming: the uncarved block disperses and becomes particular things. Once names and distinctions appear, one gives rise to two, two to three, and change and development continue without end. Those who understand the Dao should know from this when to stop and should not follow names in pursuit of trivial branches. Pursuing the branches invites danger; knowing when enough is enough keeps one from danger.

Water in streams and valleys finds its destination when it flows into rivers and seas. All things under Heaven find their final home when they return to the Dao. Thus the Dao’s role among all things under Heaven is like that of the seas, which gather the waters of streams and valleys.

Knowing Others Is Wisdom, Chapter 33

To understand others is wisdom; to understand oneself is true clarity. To overcome others is strength; to overcome oneself is true fortitude. Knowing contentment is wealth; steadfastly carrying out one’s purpose is having resolve. Never departing from one’s roots is to endure. To remain unforgotten after death is to live long.

“Wisdom” refers to the cleverness of self-serving calculation; “clarity” refers to insight within the heart; “strength” means competing with others and exerting force outwardly; “fortitude” is inner resilience. Those who can overcome themselves are truly strong. Overcoming one’s own selfish desires is called “conquering.” Those who know contentment are rich, for when they never feel deprived, there is always room to spare in their hearts.

The saying “those with resolve live long” means that people with steadfast aspirations endure. When resolve surpasses the force of the blood and vital energy, strength does not wane. Those who are content with their proper place can endure without changing; hence the saying, “Those who do not lose their place endure.” Confucius said, “If I hear the Dao in the morning, I can die in the evening.” Though the body dies, the Dao one has realized does not perish; this too may be called longevity. These two sayings cannot be explained through words alone. They must be experienced and understood for oneself.

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Great Dao Flows Everywhere

The Great Dao is vast and pervasive, reaching everywhere, to the left and to the right. All things depend on the Dao for their life, yet it does not refuse them. Once all things have grown and come to completion, the Dao does not claim credit. It nourishes all things without making itself their ruler. Thus the Dao is often without selfish desire, and may seem small. All things return to it, yet they do not know that it governs them; in this sense, it may seem great. The Sage is able to accomplish greatness precisely because he does not regard himself as great—and so he accomplishes greatness.

“The Great Dao flows everywhere; it can reach to the left and to the right” means that the Dao is vast and pervasive, unconfined and unattached. All things are born of the Dao, which never rejects them. Once all things have grown, the Dao does not claim their achievements as its own. “Clothing and covering” means sheltering and nourishing. All things receive the Dao’s beneficence, yet the Dao has no desire to rule; it is still and unassuming, without selfish desire, and so may seem small.

Although the Dao may seem small, all things return to it and depend on it. The Dao itself does not know that it governs all things—is that not greatness? Precisely because it does not claim greatness for itself, it achieves greatness. The Sage does not call himself great, and so is able to accomplish greatness. This is the same meaning as “guard the feminine and become the stream of the world.”

When one grasps the “Great Image”—the formless Dao (the Way)—all under Heaven will turn toward it. When all under Heaven follows the Dao, nothing can harm it, and so there is stability, peace, and ease. Bells and drums play music, food and drink are laid out to welcome guests, but guests stay only for a time; when the feast is over, they leave, for every banquet must eventually end.

Put into words, the Dao sounds plain and flavorless. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. Yet its use is inexhaustible. This means that particular things eventually come to an end, while the Dao’s workings have no end. “The Dao expressed in words” means the Dao appearing through language.

Chapter 36: “When You Would Draw It In”

If you would draw something in, you must first let it expand. If you would weaken it, you must first let it grow strong. If you would discard it, you must first let it rise. If you would take something from it, you must first give to it. This is called “subtle insight”: seeing how things change through the smallest signs. The soft can overcome the hard; the weak can overcome the strong.

A fish cannot leave the deep pool, and a state’s “sharp instruments”—its important powers and means of governance—must not be shown casually to others.

The first eight sentences of this passage are all metaphors. They show that what seems like a gain in the moment can turn out to be a loss in the long run. What contracts will eventually expand; what opens will eventually close. What grows strong will eventually weaken; what rises will eventually fall; what is gained will eventually be lost. “Giving” means gaining, and “taking away” means losing. People often fail to understand this principle: they focus on their immediate pleasure and miss the pattern at work. Though subtle, the pattern is not difficult to see. This is why the text says “subtle clarity.” Here, “subtle” suggests something hidden or obscure: the principle may not be obvious, yet it is easy to verify.

By remaining yielding and weak, one can overcome what is hard and strong. This is also what it means to “keep to the feminine” and “keep to the dark”: to accept a yielding, weak position and remain inconspicuous. The abyss is a metaphor for the Dao, and the fish for people. People cannot separate themselves from the Dao, just as fish cannot leave the abyss. If a state displays its weapons—its power or means of victory—it will invite thieves. The Dao works through itself; if one flaunts it in an effort to prevail over external things, one is like a state displaying its weapons to others. This is the same idea expressed in the previous chapter: “Those skilled at acting stop once they have achieved their aim; they must not use their success to show off their strength.”

Chapter 37: The Dao Is Constantly Non-Acting

The Dao, the fundamental pattern by which all things in the universe operate, constantly follows its own nature and acts without contrivance, yet nothing remains undone. If rulers can follow the Dao, all things will transform of themselves. If excessive desires arise in the course of that transformation, I will use “the uncarved simplicity without a name”—the original state, unadorned by human labels or desires—to settle them. This uncarved simplicity without a name will also lessen people’s desires. When desires diminish, the heart becomes still, and all under Heaven will naturally settle into peace.

Lin Xiyi argues that this chapter has the same rhetorical force as the earlier chapter, “The Dao is ever nameless.” “Act without action, yet leave nothing undone” means following things as they naturally are. If rulers can hold to the Dao of Wuwei, without deliberately demanding that things change, then all things will change of themselves.

When changes arise among the myriad things between Heaven and Earth, I settle them only through the “nameless uncarved simplicity”—a plain, natural state untouched by human shaping. Here, “transformation” refers to the changes of the myriad things. Changes follow one another without pause, but I meet them only with a natural attitude: the world outside changes in tumult, while my mind remains calm and unmoving. That is why the text says “settle”: to calm and hold things steady. The word “transformation” below should not be confused with the same word above, in “the myriad things transform of themselves.”

What is “nameless uncarved simplicity”? It is freedom from desire. Without desire, the mind can be still; when the mind is still, all under Heaven naturally settles into peace. “Not desiring” means being without desire. Here, “not” also carries the sense of “do not,” pointing to a practical method of cultivation: do not let desire lead you.

This concludes the second scroll of Commentary on the Meaning of the True Classic of the Dao and De.

The third scroll is titled “The Highest De Does Not Possess De,” Chapter Thirty-Eight.

The highest De (Virtue) does not deliberately display its virtue, and so is truly virtuous. The lower kind of De clings to preserving its virtue, and so cannot be called truly virtuous. The highest De follows its own nature, acting without contrivance and with no goal in mind. The lower kind of De acts with a definite purpose. The highest kind of benevolence acts without any particular aim; the next kind, righteousness, acts with a clear purpose. The next kind, ritual propriety, acts—and when it receives no response, rolls up its sleeves and forcibly compels others to comply.

Thus, only after the Dao has been lost is De discussed; only after De has been lost is benevolence discussed; only after benevolence has been lost is righteousness discussed; and only after righteousness has been lost is ritual propriety discussed. Ritual propriety marks the thinning of loyalty and trust, and is the beginning of disorder. To claim foresight and cling to judgments made in advance is the superficial gleam of the Dao, and the beginning of folly. Therefore, the great person takes their stand in what is substantial and does not linger in what is shallow; they value what is real and do not pursue outward brilliance. They let go of the latter and choose the former.

A person of “highest De” has virtue yet is unaware of the way that virtue is transforming others. It is precisely because this person can influence others naturally that they may be called virtuous. Someone who “does not lose De” clings to virtue but has not yet reached the state of acting through natural transformation. Since this person remains attached, they cannot be considered truly virtuous, and so are said to be “without De.” “Highest De” and “lower De” continue the levels described in the previous chapter as “the highest” and those below it.

“To act without Wuwei and yet leave nothing undone” means to practice Wuwei (non-action) and yet accomplish everything. “Acting with intent” means doing something deliberately and consciously; “leaving nothing undone” means accomplishing things naturally, without deliberate effort. A person of lower De acts intentionally, with a mind bent on cultivation and contrivance. After discussing highest and lower De, Laozi turns to benevolence and righteousness. Highest benevolence acts, but without a deliberate motive; this is why benevolence is treated as a higher form of De. Highest righteousness also acts, but from deliberate intent, and so righteousness is treated as a lower form of De. Laozi regards ritual as an even more forced means of disciplining people. By comparing benevolence and righteousness first, then moving on to ritual, he shows that ritual occupies the lowest position.

“To act, but meet with no response” means compelling the people to do something, while they refuse to comply. “Draw” means to pull someone along. When the people do not obey, one uses one’s hands to haul them over. “Force” carries the sense of tugging and dragging. These phrases describe the coercion of the people. Thus, “baring one’s arms and dragging them along” means rolling up one’s sleeves and reaching out to pull them.

“Dao” refers to nature; “De” refers to what is acquired and held fast. Those who follow nature can transform others naturally, while those who cling to what they have acquired have not yet achieved such transformation. This is why De is discussed only after Dao has been lost. Benevolence involves a desire to care for and help others, so it ranks below De. Righteousness involves judgment and discernment, so it ranks below benevolence. Ritual carries the implication of compelling the people, so it ranks below righteousness. Lin Xiyi points out that Laozi’s terms “benevolence, righteousness, and ritual” mean something different from what Confucius and Mencius meant by them. They should be understood in the context of the Dao De Jing itself; judging them by their usual meanings would miss Laozi’s intent.

“Ritual is the thinning of loyalty and trust” means that when ritual arises, inner loyalty and trust have already grown faint, and attention shifts to outward refinement, no longer arising naturally from the heart. Laozi therefore treats ritual as the beginning of human contrivance and calls it “the first stirrings of disorder.”

“Foreknowledge” refers to familiarity with the words and actions of people in the past. Treating the recollection of many old teachings as wisdom departs from the reality of the Dao. “Ornament” refers to valuing outward appearances. If this kind of external knowledge is taken for wisdom, it instead makes one foolish; hence it is called “the beginning of folly.” “Substantiality” and “solidity” refer to valuing what is inward. The final phrase, “discard that and choose this,” means to abandon ritual’s outward contrivance and choose the Dao. “This” refers to the Dao.

In ancient times, once they had attained “the One,” the fundamental unity of the Dao, Heaven became clear, Earth became stable, spirits manifested their powers, valleys grew full, all things came to life, and the feudal lords were able to become the rightful rulers of the world. Ultimately, all these effects came from the One.

If Heaven could not remain clear, it might collapse. If Earth could not remain stable, it might shake. If spirits could not manifest their powers, they might lose their efficacy. If valleys could not grow full, they might dry up. If all things could not come to life, they might perish. If feudal lords could not take the One as their standard and maintain their rightful position, but instead insisted on exalting themselves, they might fall.

Thus, the noble take the lowly as their root, and the lofty take the humble as their foundation. When feudal lords call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy,” all terms of self-effacement, are they not making humility their root? Is this not so? A carriage, after all, is made from many parts joined together; it need not shine like fine jade or stand out as rough and hard like stone.

“One” means the Dao. The sky is clear and bright, displaying its celestial patterns; the earth is stable and still, bearing all things; spirits are empty and quiet yet responsive; valleys are hollow yet able to hold abundance—all because of the Dao. All things are able to grow because of the Dao, and rulers are able to abide by the right way and govern the world because of it. To say that it “brings them to this state” means that clarity, tranquility, spiritual responsiveness, abundance, growth, and keeping to the right way all come from the Dao.

“Split” is roughly equivalent to the “severing” spoken of in the Book of Changes; “stir” means to be unsettled and unstable; “fade” means to disperse and perish, losing spiritual responsiveness; and “exhaust” means to be depleted. Only what is empty can hold things. If it is not empty, its capacity will be used up, and eventually it will be unable to contain anything more. “Topple” is close in meaning to “split.” A person in a high and honored position who lacks the Dao will fall as if their foundations had collapsed.

Speaking of being “lowly” and “beneath” expresses the meaning of “gain through having little” in the previous chapter: one is empty, does not exalt oneself, and does not claim things as one’s own. The paired ideas of noble and lowly, high and low, are also metaphors. Without the lowly, how could the noble become apparent? Without what is beneath, how could a high position be attained? Lowliness and being beneath are the foundations of honor and high rank. When rulers call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy”—all terms of self-deprecation—they likewise use self-lowering as a metaphor for being empty and not claiming things as their own.

“Is it not so?” means, “What I say—is it not right?” Zhuangzi’s phrase “Is it not so, and yet Zeng and Shi are right?” uses the words in the same way. The expression “is it not so?” is rather distinctive.

“Count the parts of a cart and there is no cart” serves as a metaphor for not exalting oneself or claiming things as one’s own. Another version reads “count the praises and there is no praise,” but the character “praise” is an error: if that reading is used, it does not connect with the meaning of “like jade, like stone” in the next passage. “Reach” means to attain, so “what it reaches” means “the state it attains.”

“Cart” is the general name for the whole vehicle. If it is taken apart and each component counted separately, there are wheels, hubs, spokes, crossbars, footrests, and other parts. Count them one by one, and there is no single thing called “cart”; “cart” is thus like an empty name. Jade and stone, however, each have a fixed substance: they are either lustrous and clear or plain and solid, and in the end cannot be changed at will. A cart can be present or absent, while jade and stone each have a definite form and substance that is not easily changed. What can be present or absent approaches the Dao, because being empty allows it to change. What is fixed and unchanging cannot change. Zhuangzi’s phrase “remove the days, and there is no year” likewise uses the counting apart of a cart and a stone to show that “cart” is a name formed from its component parts, whereas “stone” has a fixed form and substance.

“Reversal” means returning and restoring. “Reversal is the movement of the Dao” means that the Dao moves in cycles, continually turning back upon itself. “Weakness is the Dao’s function” means that the Dao often acts through gentleness and yielding. The gentle and yielding can become strong and firm, while those who insist on showing off their strength are easily broken. Stillness is the source of movement, and weakness can also serve as a basis for strength.

All things in the world arise from “being”; only because Heaven and Earth exist can the myriad things come into being. But where did Heaven and Earth themselves come from? Their beginning lies in “Great Emptiness,” a state of formless stillness—in other words, they came from “nonbeing.” Through the relationship between movement and stillness, and between strength and weakness, this passage further explains the source of being and nonbeing. Laozi’s teachings generally value emptiness, weakness, and lowliness. His use of being and nonbeing, and movement and stillness in Heaven and Earth, therefore serves to infer how the Dao works; he is not speaking only about Heaven and Earth.

When people of the highest understanding hear the Dao, they diligently put it into practice. Those of middling understanding half understand it: at times they remember it, at times they forget it. Those of the lowest understanding often laugh when they hear it. If they did not laugh, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. Thus, since ancient times, those who have put the teaching into words have said: the bright Dao seems dim; the level Dao seems uneven; the forward-moving Dao seems to retreat. Highest De (Virtue) is low like a valley; the whitest thing seems stained; abundant De seems insufficient; vigorous De seems sluggish; what is truly plain and genuine seems to change. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed only late; the loudest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image has no fixed form. The Dao is hidden and unseen, with no fixed name that can be spoken. Only the Dao can provide all things with what they need and help them come to fulfillment.

Those who practice diligently hear the teachings of the Dao (the Way), trust them, and strive to put them into practice. Those who are only half convinced waver between belief and doubt, thinking at one moment that the Dao exists and at another that it does not. The most unenlightened simply laugh at it. Yet the Dao’s profundity becomes apparent only when even the most unenlightened mock it. When Han Yu discussed writing, he once said that one should be glad when others laugh at one’s work. How much more so when speaking of the Dao?

“Establishing teachings” means putting forward principles and setting down one’s words. Here, the text says that since ancient times, those who set down teachings have spoken the following words. The lines beginning “The bright Dao seems dim” draw on the words of the ancients to explain the principle; the author is not claiming to have invented them.

The bright Dao seems dim. Precisely because it does not show off its brilliance, it is truly bright. This is the same idea expressed earlier in “Those who show themselves are not clear” and “Because they do not show themselves, they are clear.” The forward-moving Dao seems to retreat: by understanding how to yield, one is able to advance. What Yangzi calls “advancing by retreating” means the same thing. The level Dao seems uneven. “Level” means smooth, and “level Dao” refers to the great Way. Because the Dao makes no deliberate distinctions, it may appear no different from ordinary things. This is the meaning of “blending its light and mingling with the dust.”

The highest De (Virtue/Power) seems as empty as a valley because it is humble and does not regard itself as full. What is purest white seems stained because it does not set itself apart by displaying its whiteness. Broad De seems deficient; those who consider themselves complete only narrow their own hearts. “Hidden” here means faint or reserved: one wishes to accomplish something but does not dare to display it. Establishing De is, in itself, an intentional act, but it is precisely because one does not boast of oneself that one can truly establish De.

The true, unadorned nature seems to have changed. It is originally pure and unchanging, yet appears to undergo change. This, too, means that those who are truly full do not consider themselves full. The greatest square is vast emptiness, boundless space. Though there are east, west, north, and south within it, who could see all its corners? The greatest vessel takes a long time to complete: how could a bronze vessel be cast quickly? The greatest sound is rarely heard. The grandest sounds between Heaven and Earth are wind and thunder, but they do not occur all the time. Hence “rare sound” means sound that is seldom heard. The greatest image is Heaven and Earth. The Book of Changes says that no image is greater than Heaven and Earth; who could see the whole of their form?

The Dao is hidden and does not show itself; it has no fixed name, and so no name can define it precisely. Some of the lines above describe things as they are, while others speak through metaphor, but all express the same idea: the Dao can be empty and without form; it does not consider itself complete or display itself.

“Give” means to bestow, and by extension to pass on to others what one has received. Those who possess the Dao can give things to others without claiming them as their own. “Completion” refers to the Dao’s full realization. Only one who brings oneself and all things to completion can be said to have achieved the Great Completion. The later line, “Having given to others, one has even more,” expresses the same idea: by giving to others, one becomes more abundant oneself.

The Dao gives rise to One; One divides into Two; Two interact and unite to form Three; and Three gives rise to all things. All things lean on Yin and embrace Yang, blending the two Qi to achieve harmony. The “One, Two, and Three” here summarize the process by which all things arise from the Dao and come into being through the interaction of Yin and Yang.

People dislike no titles more than “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy.” “Unworthy” was a humble term ancient rulers used to refer to themselves, meaning roughly “a person without De.” Yet princes and lords used these titles for themselves. This shows that what appears to diminish may bring benefit, while what appears to increase may bring loss.

The principle others have taught me is one I teach to others in turn: those who act arrogantly and rely on force often meet an untimely end. I take this as the foundation of my teaching.

The Supreme Ultimate is the root of Heaven, Earth, and all things. “Two” refers to Heaven and Earth; “three” refers to the Three Powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. Here, it is said that all things arise from “nonbeing.” The Dao is the source from which things emerge before they take form, and the natural order by which they unfold. Once Heaven, Earth, and humanity are established, all things grow from them. All things carry the Qi of Yin-Yang, and what enables them to keep growing is the empty, harmonious, and balanced Qi that runs through them. This is why all things can live in harmony.

People dislike being called “orphan,” “widow,” or “one who has nothing,” yet rulers use these titles for themselves. This illustrates that those who follow the Dao are willing to humble themselves. Heaven, Earth, and humanity all come into being from nonbeing; all things take Yin-Yang as their root, and what keeps them thriving without end is empty, harmonious Qi. Those who study the Dao should understand this and recognize the value of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action).

In the world, sometimes the more one tries to diminish something, the more one gains; sometimes the more one tries to increase something, the more one loses. The pattern of gain and loss, waxing and waning, is not fixed. After the moon becomes full, it must begin to wane: increase turns to decline. After it wanes, it gradually becomes full again: decline turns to increase.

The teachings offered by people in the world would probably say, “All that I teach is right and proper.” But they know only how to seek gain and compete to prevail. They do not understand that what is too hard is easily broken, or that what is full to the brim cannot last. Thus, those who press their strength and strive to win often meet an unhappy end.

If I use the Dao to teach people, guiding them to cultivate themselves beyond the ordinary, then even the teachers revered by the world should take me as their teacher. That is why it is said: “I will become their teacher.”

Chapter 43: The Softest Thing in the World

The softest thing in the world can pass through and master the hardest thing in the world. What has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this we can understand that Wuwei is beneficial. Teaching carried out without words, and the benefits brought by Wuwei, are things few in the world can achieve.

Strong things are easily broken, while weak and yielding things often manage to endure. The softest force can pass through the hardest things, just as water can wear a hole through stone. “Without gaps” means having no openings; “without substance” means having no physical form. For example, the channels through which the nutritive Qi and defensive Qi circulate in the human body can be said to be close and gapless, yet the Qi vessels still allow them to flow through. Even places that seem to have no openings can be reached by the light of the sun and moon. These examples show that formless things can enter places with no gaps. These two statements are analogies. From this, we can understand the profound truth that “through Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left undone”: without relying on words, teachings can spread naturally; without deliberate effort, accomplishments can also come about on their own. These are subtle workings of the Great Dao, yet few people in the world can understand them. That is why it says, “Few in the world can put this into practice.” “Benefit” means something that serves a purpose.

Which is closer to you: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or wealth? Which brings greater distress: gain or loss? Those who love reputation too much will surely pay a heavy price; those who amass too much wealth will suffer greatly when they lose it. Knowing contentment keeps one from bringing disgrace upon oneself; knowing when enough is enough keeps one from falling into danger. This is how one can endure.

Reputation and wealth are both external to the self and offer no real benefit to one’s own being. Gaining or losing them is not, in itself, worth distress, yet those who do not understand this often find themselves troubled by such things. When the mind clings to something, it spends its strength pursuing it; the greater the attachment, the greater the drain. Here, the passage is speaking of reputation. If one prizes wealth and stores up a great deal, losing it brings heavy losses. Store up little, and little is lost; store up much, and one is more likely to suffer a major loss. The first two statements explain the principle that follows: only by knowing contentment can one avoid bringing disgrace upon oneself, and only by knowing when to stop can one avoid danger. By living this way, one can endure. These words have long been worthy of repeated reflection and practice.

Chapter 45: The Greatly Complete Seems Incomplete

The most complete things seem to have something missing, yet their function never wears out. The most abundant things seem empty, yet their function has no end. The most upright person seems bent; the most skillful person seems clumsy; the best speaker seems inarticulate. Restlessness can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Serenity is the right standard for all under Heaven.

Whatever achieves something may show signs of inadequacy. True greatness often seems incomplete, and so its function never wears out. Whatever is full may also seem empty. True fullness often seems empty, and so its function has no end. This is the same principle expressed in the previous chapter: low places can be filled, and what is worn out can be renewed. A truly upright person often seems bent; this is what is meant by saying that bending can preserve one. A truly skillful person often seems clumsy because they do not boast of themselves. A truly eloquent person often seems inarticulate, as though there were no need to say much.

When restlessness reaches an extreme, it turns into cold; when stillness reaches an extreme, it turns into heat. Here, “restless” and “still” refer to Yin-Yang Qi: when Qi stagnates at either extreme, it can become an illness. Only the serenity embodied by the Dao takes no side between being and nonbeing, and clings neither to movement nor to stillness. For this reason, it can serve as the right standard for all under Heaven.

Chapter 46: When the Way Prevails in the World

When the Dao prevails in the world, warhorses are sent home to plow and fertilize the fields. When the world is without the Dao, warhorses breed in the countryside. No fault is greater than coveting desirable things; no calamity is greater than failing to know contentment; no error is greater than the single-minded pursuit of more. Therefore, those who know contentment are always content.

Sending swift warhorses home to plow and fertilize the fields expresses the principle of “not placing value on rare and precious goods.” “Warhorses breeding in the countryside” describes the rise of warfare. War begins with greed. Once the desire to covet takes root, when will it ever be satisfied? A single-minded pursuit of more invites fault, calamity, and error. Only those who know contentment, and regard even what they lack as enough, can always be content. This further explains the previous chapter’s teaching that knowing contentment keeps one from disgrace.

Without leaving one’s household, one can understand the affairs of the world; without looking out through the window, one can grasp the Dao of Heaven—the patterns of nature’s unfolding. The farther one travels, the less one can understand. Thus the sage need not travel personally to know; need not see with their own eyes to discern things; and need not act deliberately to bring things to completion.

Though the world is vast, human feelings and the principles of things are connected and much alike. So even without stepping outside, one can infer the state of the world. Though the Dao of Heaven is subtle and obscure, the changes of Yin-Yang have remained the same through the ages. So even without looking out through the window, one can understand them. If one insists on going out to seek knowledge, one’s feet can travel only so far: how much can one learn? The range of one’s sight is also limited: how much can one see? The harder one pursues, the more easily the mind becomes confused. Hence the saying: the farther one travels, the less one knows. This is simply an analogy introducing what follows: the sage knows without traveling, discerns things without deliberately seeking, and brings things to completion without forcing action. This is how the sage’s Dao works. The Yi Jing says, “Without hurrying, one is swift; without walking, one arrives.” It means the same thing.

Chapter 48: Learning Increases Day by Day

Those who pursue learning add to their knowledge each day. Those who pursue the Dao, by contrast, reduce their distracting thoughts and attachments each day. They keep reducing them until they reach Wuwei (non-action: following nature without imposing one’s will). When one has attained Wuwei, nothing remains that cannot be accomplished. Therefore, those who govern the world make doing nothing—the refusal to impose unnecessary policies or disturb the people—their guiding principle. If they interfere forcefully in everything, they cannot govern the world.

Those who cultivate learning think each day about adding to their knowledge; those who cultivate the Dao think each day about lessening their attachments. That is why the earlier passage says, “Leave learning behind, and you will be free of worry”: the Dao does not lie in accumulating what one has heard and seen. The eminent Chan monk Dahui Zonggao said that the more one reads, the more ignorance and vexation one may also accumulate. He meant the same thing. To cast aside clever schemes, release one’s attachment to the body, and remove cunning and preconceptions is to keep reducing. Reduce and reduce again, and one can reach the state of Wuwei (non-action), in which nothing is left undone.

The key to gaining the realm is to handle affairs with a selfless mind; those who harbor private intentions will instead lose it. Did the rulers of the Three Dynasties—Xia, Shang, and Zhou—gain the realm through deliberate scheming? Laozi uses the customs of warfare in his time as a metaphor, which is enough to warn people; expressions of this kind occur often in this book. “Acting without affairs” and “acting with affairs” also mean acting without a self-centered mind and acting with one.

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Sage Has No Fixed Mind

The sage has no fixed, unchanging opinions, but takes the wishes of the people as his own guiding principle. When the people are kind, he treats them kindly; when they are unkind, he still treats them kindly, and in this way he can lead them toward goodness. When the people are trustworthy, he trusts them; when they are not trustworthy, he still trusts them, and in this way he can lead them to become trustworthy. Among the people of the realm, the sage is always cautious and alert. For the sake of the people, he keeps his own mind simple and undivided. The people all watch and listen intently, while the sage treats them like children.

“No fixed mind” means having no settled opinions in one’s heart. To take the people’s mind as one’s own is to hold no personal preconceptions. Goodness and its opposite may appear among the people, but the sage always responds with goodwill and makes no distinctions from the outset. Thus, though the people all watch and listen intently, the sage treats them like children.

An “unchanging heart” means a heart without fixed and unalterable opinions. The sage takes the people’s hearts as his own and therefore holds no prejudices. Among the people, some are good and some are not, yet the sage always treats them with kindness. He makes no distinctions in his heart, and goodness thus remains with him. Because there is goodness in his own heart, he naturally receives goodness in return. That is why it is said, “He obtains goodness.”

Confucius said, “If you set your heart on benevolence, you will do no wrong.” This expresses the same idea.

Among the people, some keep faith and some do not, yet the sage always treats others with sincerity. He harbors no suspicion or distance in his heart, and sincerity thus remains with him. Because there is faithfulness in his own heart, he naturally receives trust in return. That is why it is said, “He obtains trust.”

Confucius said, “Do not assume, without evidence, that others are untrustworthy.” This expresses the same idea. When the sage says, “I too treat them kindly” and “I too trust them,” he is not calling the unkind good or the untrustworthy trustworthy. Rather, he responds to them with a heart free of prejudice.

“Uneasy” describes a heart that is not at rest. The sage does not boast or feel self-satisfied, so he is often uneasy. “Making his heart whole” means keeping his disposition deep and even, without displaying sharpness. With a heart so whole, he does not cling to distinctions between good and bad, or between keeping faith and failing to keep it.

“Fixing their eyes and ears on him” means that people direct their sight and hearing toward the sage. Though everyone watches and listens to him, the sage treats them all like infants. That is why it says, “He treats them all as children.” This expresses that the sage abandons no one.

Chapter Fifty: Birth and Death

People move from birth toward death. Three out of ten belong to the long-lived, and three out of ten to those who die young. Of the common people who could have lived, three out of ten also act in ways that lead them toward death. Why is this? Because they place too much importance on preserving life and become too attached to seeking life.

I have heard that those skilled in caring for life, when walking on land, do not encounter harm from rhinoceroses or tigers; when entering a battle formation, they are not wounded by weapons. The rhinoceros finds nowhere to gore them with its horn, the tiger nowhere to sink its claws, and weapons nowhere to strike with their blades. Why is this? Because they have not entered a place of mortal danger.

“Entering life and entering death”—these four characters state the central theme of this chapter. There is a subtle hinge in the transformation between life and death: to transcend and emerge is life; to lose one’s way and sink into decline is death. Those who can free themselves from this are truly people of the Dao.

Heaven has twelve celestial markers, a year has twelve months, and a day has twelve double-hours. “Twelve” signifies the completeness of a cycle; add one more to twelve, and it becomes thirteen. The “thirteen” mentioned here in fact still points to that “One.” Laozi’s choice to say “thirteen” rather than “One” is a stroke of literary subtlety: it means that both life and death have their root in this single point. The “One” is difficult to express in words. For now, we may regard it as the subtle juncture at which a thought first arises, though even this explanation is not entirely accurate; it must be experienced for oneself. Grasp this juncture and cultivate oneself in accordance with the Dao, and one can live long and see far. Fail to cultivate oneself in the right way, and one will perish along with all things.

The reason people’s actions in the world step by step tend toward death lies in that first instant when a thought arises: once a thought slips beyond one’s control, one’s actions may lead onto the road to death. Here, “moving” does not mean movement as opposed to stillness; it means “at every turn” or “repeatedly.” “To” means to go toward, and the “place of death” is the place where death occurs. Laozi asks twice, “Why is this so?” in a solemn tone, because this concerns the very foundation of the art of nourishing life, from ancient times to the present.

“Life” refers to my being alive; “nourishing life” refers to the various things I do to preserve it. If one carries the effort to preserve life too far, one may instead find oneself repeatedly heading toward death. This is also the principle that by taking the body lightly one can preserve oneself, that emptiness allows one to be filled, and that loss can bring increase.

Since ancient times, those skilled in nourishing life have walked alone in deep mountains without encountering harm from rhinoceroses or tigers, and have been among armies without being wounded by weapons. This is because they have no desire to contend; their minds are empty and still, so external things cannot harm them. Zhuangzi’s words, “Entering water, one does not get wet; entering fire, one does not feel heat,” express the same idea. External things cannot harm a person because one can remain empty and still, diminish and let go of attachment, and so avoid falling into what is called the “place of death.”