《道德真经指归(严遵)》

The Zhigui Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and Its De is also known as the Zhigui Commentary on Laozi. It was written by Yan Zun (style name Junping), a native of Shu Commandery in the Han dynasty, and annotated by Gushenzi. The original work comprised thirteen fascicles; the extant version lacks the first six. The base text is from the Yujue category of the Dongshen section of the Zhengtong Daoist Canon, with reference to the Yilantang Collectanea edition from Chengdu and the Mice Huihan edition. The missing sections have been supplied from Wang Deyou’s punctuated and collated edition of the Zhigui Commentary on Laozi.

In ancient times, Laozi wrote the Dao De Jing, beginning with the human body and breath and extending his discussion to the spirits. He investigated the roots of nature and life, the arising of emotions, and people’s movements, responses, breathing, and bending and stretching. Taking Heaven and Earth as his reference, he examined Yin-Yang and discussed the beginnings and endings of the transformations of all things, as well as the principles by which people can find a secure place in life. He explored what is hidden and subtle in order to understand the natural way. He then distilled the essential points and reasoned through their implications, composing two parts, upper and lower, to clarify Heaven’s intent and reveal the patterns of Earth, and to govern the state, nurture all things, and bring peace to the people.

Each chapter has a surface meaning and an inner meaning, and their order must not be reversed. The chapters complement one another like the roots and trunk of a tree. The wording follows from one passage to the next and cannot be rearranged at will. Dao and De encompass all things, like dragons and qilin. To add a single character would be like growing a superfluous wart; to omit a phrase would be like leaving a scar. The text first sets out the great principles and then explains their details, which is why it is called the “Upper” part. It discusses Dao and De, which is why it is called a “Classic.”

It begins with “The highest De does not claim to have De”: the highest De does not regard itself as possessing De. Its transforming power arises from Dao, and Dao does not treat itself as the ruler. That is why the next passage speaks of “those of old who attained the One.” The way of attaining the One acts in accord with cycles of change. Without a nature suited to it, one cannot understand it; that is why the next passage speaks of “the highest scholars.” The highest scholars have an enlightened nature and far-reaching insight, and can experience the Great Dao on their own. They stand proudly apart from worldly conventions and hold external things in low regard, valuing only Dao. That is why the next passage says, “Dao gives birth to the One.”

Dao gives birth to the One, which abides in a state of utmost emptiness and namelessness. All things receive this deep, undifferentiated Qi; from it, the clear and the turbid take shape, and harmonious Qi comes into being. That is why the next passage speaks of “what is softest under Heaven.” The softest things under Heaven are minute and subtle, without form or trace, yet they can pass through what is hard and reach faraway places. Nothing surpasses them. That is why the next passage speaks of “the body, its name and its goods.” Once people place great value on their reputation and possessions, they grow powerful; power can easily invite calamity. That is why the next passage speaks of “great accomplishment.” True great accomplishment seems empty: it does not seek fame or accumulate goods, and it connects with all things.

The key to having Dao under Heaven lies with the ruler. When the ruler has no private desires, all things can survive and grow. That is why the next passage says, “Without going out the door.” Without leaving his gates, the ruler can understand the people’s lives and natures, and enable them to follow their nature and live in contentment. That is why the next passage speaks of “learning: daily increase.” As learning and knowledge continually grow, ornamentation flourishes and affairs multiply, potentially exhausting the spirit and harming the people. That is why the next passage says, “The sage has no private mind.” The sage does not interfere out of personal motives. He follows the people’s spirit and nature, and leads them back to simplicity and authenticity. That is why the next passage speaks of “entering life and leaving it.”

As people move from birth to death, their actions wear down their spirit. Leaving emptiness to pursue what has form makes it difficult to preserve life for long. That is why the next passage says, “Dao gives birth to them”: Dao nurtures all things from emptiness. It is everywhere, still and unadorned, without acting rashly, yet it enables every thing to find its proper place. All things under Heaven have an origin, and Wuwei is their root. Through it, one can comprehend all affairs and discern all things. That is why the next passage says, “If I had knowledge.” If people rely on their own cleverness and deliberately cultivate Dao through calculated action, they may lose their natural character and bring harm upon their descendants. That is why the next passage speaks of “those who are good at establishing.” With De as one’s foundation, one can connect with all things and pass one’s beneficence down to later generations. That is why the next passage speaks of “those who contain De.”

Those who contain De embody Dao in their conduct and accord with the spirits. Like infants, they show no contrivance or artifice. That is why the next passage says, “Those who know do not speak.” Those who truly understand Dao do not speak at length or act recklessly. Yin-Yang transforms in hidden ways. They first set themselves right, then influence their families, and from their families extend their influence to the people. That is why the next passage speaks of “governing the state.” When a state is governed through uprightness, the people follow without needing strict commands. As for foreign peoples and those with different customs, they are not forcibly controlled, yet they naturally come to submit. That is why the next passage says, “Square, yet not cutting.” When one acts uprightly without harming any thing, all things can be preserved and affairs can proceed smoothly; thus the Way of Heaven becomes manifest. That is why the next passage speaks of “governing a great state.”

Governing a great state should not involve a great deal of activity. Excessive action and constant disturbance only bring disorder and even ruin. That is why the next passage speaks of “a great state.” When a great state is in a suitable position, people throughout the world are willing to come and join it. When those above are still, those below give them their allegiance; when those above are restless, they instead invite the calamities of war. That is why the next passage speaks of “the Dao of things.” Grasp the precise principles by which things operate, and you will be able to move freely. Cherish them and you can preserve them; guard them and you can accord with the deep Dao.

When one acts through Wuwei, one can follow change without leaving traces of deliberate governance, and all things grow naturally. That is why the next passage says, “What is settled is easy to maintain.” Calamities are easiest to deal with before they appear. Those who hold to Dao may seem foolish and make no show of their actions; then the hundred calamities disperse on their own, and good fortune arrives. That is why the next passage speaks of “the ancients who practiced Dao.” The ancients governed through Dao, keeping the people from showing off their cleverness and indulging in artifice, and closing off the paths that stir up the mind. That is why the next passage speaks of “rivers and seas.” Rivers and seas do not compete or make themselves conspicuous. Empty and still, they remain below, and so they can gather all the streams.

People under Heaven say that the Dao I describe is so vast that it seems contrary to reason. Yet this Dao, though it seems “contrary to reason,” alone accords with the heart of Heaven. Raising armies and winning wars cannot depend on one’s own will alone. One must follow the time of Heaven and respond to human feeling, starting from the roots of things. That is why the next passage says, “My words are easy to understand.” My words are easy to understand, yet few truly recognize or comprehend them. To act without striving or recklessness is to let things follow their natural course. That is why the next passage speaks of “knowing that you do not know.” Knowing that there are things one does not know allows one to set aside subjective ideas and scheming. Only by avoiding displays of cleverness can one escape calamity.

If the people no longer fear authority, they will disregard prohibitions and break the law, eventually falling under punishment and losing their lives. That is why the next passage speaks of “daring to act boldly.” Reckless displays of courage stir up ferocity; taking life without reason causes laws and standards to fall into disrepair. That is why the next passage says, “The people do not fear death.” When the people do not fear death, it is often because their desires cannot be restrained and they care only about satisfying their feelings, which ultimately leads them into hardship. That is why the next passage begins, “The people are hungry”: the people go hungry because taxes are heavy and levies frequent. The rulers are preoccupied with extraction, and their stubborn impatience damages the people’s means of livelihood.

At birth, human life is soft, yielding, and respectful; its nature is gentle and unspoiled, delicate yet full of life. As cleverness and artifice increase, body and mind gradually grow hard, and hardness is often bound to death. That is why the next passage speaks of “the Way of Heaven.” The Way of Heaven diminishes what is full and adds to what is empty. It nurtures what is gentle and weak and wears down what is strong and hard. That is why the next passage says, “Nothing under Heaven is softer or weaker than water.” Water seems soft and weak, yet it can penetrate what is hard. By abiding in the subtle and being content with the small, one can preserve oneself amid danger. That is why the next passage speaks of “a small state.”

The ruler of a small state has little power and occupies a humble position; his life and security depend on neighboring states. That is why the next passage speaks of “the trustworthy.” A trustworthy person can gain the people’s support and the backing of ministers and generals. Heaven and Earth protect him, and the Way of De helps bring his endeavors to completion.

Zhuangzi said: In ancient times, Laozi composed this classic to explain the source of the transformations of the myriad things. Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) are the foundation of all things. He placed the Dao Jing first, using Heaven and Earth as its symbols: the upper part corresponds to Heaven, and the lower part to Earth. The Yin Dao takes the number eight, while the Yang Dao takes the number nine. Because the Yin number governs the operation of the Yang number, the whole book is divided into seventy-two chapters. It begins with Yang governing Yin, and so is divided into the upper and lower parts.

The upper part multiplies five by eight, making forty chapters, and moves through a recurring cycle. The lower part multiplies four by eight, making thirty-two chapters, bringing the work to its conclusion. Yang numbers are odd and Yin numbers even, so the upper part comes first, followed by the lower. The Yang Dao is broad and expansive, while the Yin Dao is comparatively small; accordingly, the upper part has more chapters and the lower part fewer. The Yang Dao occupies the left, and the Yin Dao the right: thus the upper part proceeds one way, while the lower part moves in the reverse direction. Their movements alternate and interweave, eventually merging into one within the deep, undifferentiated chaos, with Dao presiding at the center. The text uses corresponding tokens to reveal the beginnings of things. The lower part is like a gate, and the upper part like a door. Those who are wise, seeing the patterns presented in the text, can understand the principles governing Heaven and Earth, the order of Yin-Yang, the union of husband and wife, the affection between father and son, the rites between ruler and minister, and the growth and reproduction of the myriad things.

Yan Junping was from Chengdu in Shu Commandery. His original surname was Zhuang, which is why he was called Zhuangzi. During the Zhanghe era of the Eastern Han, when Ban Gu compiled the Book of Han, he changed “Zhuang” to “Yan” to avoid the taboo on the name of Emperor Ming of Han, Liu Zhuang. In ancient usage, “Zhuang” and “Yan” could also be interchangeable. Yan Junping lived in the middle of the Western Han. After Wang Mang usurped power, he withdrew from public life and lived in seclusion around Yanghe. According to this account, he was probably a realized person of high antiquity.

Guiding Meaning of the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, Volume Seven

Guiding Meaning of the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, Volumes One through Six (missing)

Yan Zun of Shu Commandery, courtesy name Junping. He later withdrew from public life and lived in seclusion around Yanghe; he was probably a realized person of high antiquity.

Guiding Meaning of the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, Volume Seven

Guiding Meaning of the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, Volumes One through Six (missing)

Superior De does not deliberately display itself as virtuous, and so its virtue is deep and subtle. For this very reason, the virtue of those who possess it does not turn into a reputation they use to praise themselves. Inferior De, by contrast, is unwilling to relinquish the title of “virtue,” so its conduct can be seen. It may appear to lack virtue, yet it still claims virtue as its own.

Superior De follows Wuwei (non-action), allowing all things to develop naturally, while leaving nothing undone; its achievements are attributed to the Way of Heaven. Inferior De acts deliberately and exhausts its spirit, and the accomplishments it achieves are credited to the one who acted. Superior benevolence actively bestows kindness and love, yet cannot pass this conduct on to sages as a model. Superior righteousness actively establishes rules and governs the people, leaving institutions for descendants. Ritual, in turn, sets out rules and ceremonies for conducting affairs. When people do not respond, it loses their confidence, and those who promote ritual have no choice but to roll up their sleeves and force harmony and closeness into being.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does “De” come to be upheld; only after De is lost does benevolence appear; only after benevolence is lost is righteousness distinguished and responsibilities defined; only after righteousness is lost do ritual practices and exchanges of jade and silk become widespread. Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown weak and genuine virtue has declined. It is the beginning of disorder and the gateway to cunning, deceit, and pretence. Responsibilities and ceremonies arranged in advance can reconcile relationships only on the surface. They do not arise from the Dao’s natural transformation of things. To treat them as fundamental is the beginning of ignorance and confusion, and the source of disorder.

Therefore, the great man—the person who follows the Dao—should understand and follow the Dao, stand firm in simplicity and sincerity, and hold fast to loyalty and trust. He should not rest on what is shallow or be bound by ritual forms. He should stand by what is genuine and act with sound grounds; he should not pursue outward display or presume to know better through clever foresight. He sets aside outward show, chooses simplicity and sincerity, and begins with himself.

All things under Heaven come from the Dao. The Dao is their source, De their beginning, the spirits their foundation, and Great Harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are balanced and all things live in accord—their ancestral origin. The Dao has depths and degrees of visibility; De has varying degrees of fullness; the spirits may be pure or turbid; and harmonious Qi may be higher or lower. Pure Qi rises to become Heaven, while turbid Qi condenses to become Earth. Yang Qi forms men, and Yin Qi forms women. People and other beings receive these kinds of Qi in different proportions. Thus human nature may be refined or coarse, lifespans may be long or short, emotions may be admirable or ugly, and aspirations may be great or small. Some become petty people, others noble ones. As things change and divide, many different kinds emerge, including people of the Dao, people of De, people of benevolence, people of righteousness, and people of ritual.

Someone asked, “What differences in their conduct give rise to these different names?” Zhuangzi said, “Those who are empty and still, practice Wuwei (non-action), and open pathways to guide all things are called people of the Dao. Those who are tranquil and follow things as they are, yet can act without being constrained, are called people of De. Those who cherish every form of life and extend kindness widely are called people of benevolence. Those who distinguish names and roles, put things in order, and act appropriately are called people of righteousness. Those who are humble and yielding, respectful and harmonious, are called people of ritual.”

All five kinds of people value long life, honor abundant De, prize a good name, and handle their own nature and emotions with care. Each puts their intelligence and abilities to use, acts according to their particular strengths, and is content with their place. Yet their aims differ, and their actions may be right or wrong. Their transformations take different forms, giving rise to many names. De may be higher or lower; the age may flourish or decline; customs vary, and ordinary people differ in their endowments and fortunes. Some realms are profound and distant, beyond naming; some are vast and undifferentiated, and are called “august”; some are expansive without limit, and are called “imperial”; some are open and radiant, and are called “kingly”; and some see far and act with flexibility, and are called “hegemonic.” These are only names that can be spoken with some effort. In truth, a hegemon is not truly a hegemon, a king is not truly a king, and “emperor” and “august one” are not fixed ranks. What exists is not absolutely existent, and what does not exist is not absolutely nonexistent. Change takes ten thousand forms, beyond counting and beyond naming one by one.

How do we know this? It is said that in ancient times there were seventy-two occasions when rulers changed their family names, took the title of king, performed the Feng sacrifice on Mount Tai, and offered an earth sacrifice on Mount Liangfu. As for conditions that leave only faint traces and signs, too obscure to distinguish, they are impossible to describe one by one. Is this because people differ in their nature, allotted lifespan, and achievements? It is not.

A ruler of the highest De takes the Dao as his foundation and acts from it. His spirit accords with the transformations of nature, and his De works in the depths, without form. All under Heaven support him, yet no one notices what he has done. His De nourishes all things, and the people feel that everything is simply as it is, natural in itself. This is what is meant by “Highest De does not count itself as De”: the highest De does not claim to be De, and so it is one with the Dao.

A ruler of lesser De takes virtuous conduct as his foundation. His spirit follows change, and his De can match Heaven. All under Heaven support him; some see him, and some hear of him. His De spreads among all things, and the people therefore submit to him. This is what is meant by “Lesser De does not lose De”: he deliberately holds to De, and so his practice of De remains conscious and intentional.

Why is this so? A ruler of the highest De receives the subtle essence of the Dao and derives his allotted life from the refined essence of the One—the fundamental unity of the Dao. His nature and life follow what is natural; his feelings accord with the spirits; his actions fit Great Harmony; and his choices follow the principles of Heaven. His spirit has no deliberations, and his mind has no anxieties. His intelligence is far-reaching, and his heart is still and clear. His actions seem to leave no trace, and in stillness he seems not yet to have been born. His achievements arise as naturally as Heaven and Earth, while he acts like an infant, without revealing calculation. He forgets his body, gathers in his mind, and joins with the Dao. Dwelling in a deep, undifferentiated mystery, he goes unnoticed by all under Heaven. He moves beyond the world of ordinary life and roams in the farthest reaches. Yin and Yang heed his direction, and the spirits follow his arrangements. He transforms with the Dao, advancing, withdrawing, rising, and descending without end, always moving with change.

Thus he is calm and free from desire, practicing Wuwei, while his De fills the hidden and mysterious realm. He is quiet and makes no sound, yet his teaching spreads without end. His kindness cannot be measured, and its depth cannot be fathomed; it embraces all things and nourishes the ten thousand lands. His teaching cannot be measured by knowledge, and words cannot guide the customs of the people. The people under Heaven respond with joy and are nourished by his teaching and harmonious Qi. Such a person is almost impossible to trace. His work is done, yet no one knows who did it. This is what is meant by “The highest De practices Wuwei and has no purpose in acting”: the highest De works naturally, without acting with intention.

A ruler of lesser De receives the Dao’s upright Qi and derives his allotted life from the centered, balanced Qi of the One. His nature and life come close to what is natural; his feelings approach the spirits; his actions approach Great Harmony; and his choices embody the highest De. He places his spirit in the Great Void and hides his foundation in the realm of dark mystery. His actions are yielding, his stillness peaceful; he acts according to established measures, and his heart is clear as a mirror. His transformations are hard to fathom, and he responds to things without leaving a trace. His realm is subtle and elusive, almost without a name. He follows the Earth, moves with the Dao of Heaven, and travels with change. His De flourishes, and his kindness spreads in every direction.

In an age of such flourishing, beautiful De has not yet become conspicuous. The people under Heaven are simple and unknowing; the four seas are united, and society is peaceful and still. Ruler and people live together in mutual ease. The Great Dao has not yet divided, and the fullness of De has not been cut apart; it is as though each person under Heaven lives alone. They seek to reduce, not increase; they cultivate themselves without contrivance, do little, and hold to simplicity. The people are plain and trustworthy. The age is harmonious and cautious, tranquil and unadorned. People store water plants for food, wear coarse cloth and animal skins for their finest clothing, use great trees as halls, and live in caves. The ruler is like Heaven and Earth, the people like grasses and trees; all receive the Dao and accord with De, calm and free from desire. Yin and Yang are harmonious, and all things flourish. There are no burdensome laws, and all under Heaven submit naturally. According to legend, auspicious crops and red stalks grow of their own accord, dragons and phoenixes live at ease among people, sweet dew falls, and auspicious winds blow continually.

At that time, benevolence and righteousness are not deliberately practiced, yet all under Heaven live in harmony like relatives. There are no elaborate rituals or sacrifices, yet people throughout the four seas are as close as brothers. They are close without manufacturing harmony, respectful without being bound by ceremony. Heaven and Earth, people and things, all exist in a state of natural accord, undivided and interconnected. This is the state of a ruler of lesser De: he acts, but without striving or coercion.

A ruler of the highest benevolence is naturally sincere and clear-minded, broad in outlook and open to all. His mind is empty and still, his spirit harmonious; he governs Heaven, Earth, and all things, leaving nothing outside his care. He sees what is subtle and grasps what is essential. From visible things before him, he understands principles that have no form. He cultivates life and rests in De, cherishing the people as if they were his children. He sees things clearly and responds to change as promptly as a shadow follows a body or an echo answers a sound. He understands the seasons and the lay of the land, distinguishes what suits each person and thing, and opens pathways for knowledge and practical affairs. He encourages production and draws blessings near, benefiting the people. He manages internal affairs while attending to what lies beyond, teaching the people to care for one another. He thinks deeply, plans ahead, and accumulates kindness to draw people from afar.

His laws are peaceful, his commands generous and gentle, and his measures suited to their time, so that all under Heaven rejoice. Thunder and lightning do not strike violently, and wind and rain do not break out suddenly. Plants do not wither, and the people do not suffer untimely deaths. Every creature that walks or breathes lives in peace and comfort; flying insects and crawling creatures each find their proper place. Old people and children play together, while adults farm and raise silkworms. People live long lives, and when the old lose their teeth, new ones grow in their place. The ruler is like a parent, and the people like infants. His De spreads throughout the four seas; though he holds power, he does not claim it as private property. This is what is meant by “The highest benevolence acts, yet has no purpose in acting”: he acts, but does not impose his private will.

A ruler of the highest righteousness is naturally even-tempered and upright, understands human affairs, sees clearly what benefits and harms people, and is intelligent and discerning. His mind is as fair as a compass and square; his intent is as impartial as a ruler and scales. He is calm as water and straight as a plumb line. He delights in building great achievements and attaining a distinguished name, hoping to be the source of good fortune and avoiding becoming the cause of disaster. He holds authority, responds to change, and weighs the times. He upholds benevolence and righteousness to govern the people. Following the principles of Heaven and Earth, he arranges things so that each finds its proper place. He serves his parents as if they were spirits and treats the people with the caution of someone approaching a deep abyss.

He listens widely to all sides and judges by an impartial standard. He is authoritative without being cruel, kind without being excessive, solemn without being harsh, and discerning without being exacting. He traces matters back to their beginnings and judges their final outcomes, establishing institutions to govern the people. He advances and withdraws with the times, bends and extends in step with change. Affairs and measures adapt to circumstances, and rituals and customs change accordingly. His commands are clear and reliable, and the distinctions set by his institutions are plain. His legal net is close-knit but not too harsh, and his standards are upright without going too far. He assigns his ministers to manage the various affairs, while keeping power in his own hands. He orders the court and carefully upholds the Dao, praises good conduct and exposes wrongdoing. He establishes the Five Punishments, even imposing penalties that injure the body. He honors what is fundamental and gives weight to beginnings, always attending to names and ranks, judging according to institutions and acting in line with the nature of things. He establishes authority and extends his influence, so that his reputation resounds throughout the four seas. He can guide circumstances to benefit the people without harassing them; he censures even minor faults and praises even small acts of goodness. Within the court he practices virtuous governance, and beyond it he benefits the people. Taking up corrupt practices, he adapts and makes them workable; he preserves what is near collapse, continues what has been cut off, supports what is declining, and nurtures the young and weak, allowing benevolence to flourish again. The state retains its territory and its lineage, and the descendants continue. This is what is meant by “The highest righteousness acts and acts with purpose”: he acts with clear aims and means of governance.

A ruler of the highest ritual is gentle and yielding by nature, with a spacious mind full of aspirations. His conduct accords with Yin and Yang, and his commands follow the four seasons. He establishes a range of regulations to draw people together. He exalts ruler and father, placing subject and child in subordinate positions. He orders the relations between those above and below, clarifies distinctions of rank and status, arranges the order of elders and young, distinguishes the roles of husband and wife, coordinates human relationships, and regulates dealings among friends. Everything must be done according to written rules, and different affairs are assigned different ranks. Those who observe the rules are praised; those who resist restraint are censured. He restrains the strong with composure, accommodates and orders customs, and guides people along the middle and upright path. He lets them follow their nature and satisfy their desires, while also keeping them within bounds. He suppresses excessive feelings, prevents desires from taking root, restrains people, and maintains customs so that conduct does not go astray.

Ritual forcibly requires people to do what is beyond their capacity and makes them struggle to perform what they cannot. It exhausts the mind and damages their nature; affairs multiply, becoming cumbersome and wasteful. Society may be governed by these means for a time, and danger may temporarily turn to safety, but simplicity and sincerity gradually disappear. The Great Dao is extinguished, benevolence no longer flourishes, Heaven’s intentions are hard to harmonize with, and the four seasons fall out of order. Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain become irregular, and all things are harmed and cut short. Parents and children suffer bereavement, yet people under Heaven do not thereby grow closer. People mourn day and night, yet customs do not thereby change. Bells and stone chimes sound, yet customs do not thereby transform. The songs of refined music are repeated, yet social ways do not thereby shift. People yield and step aside, yet those under Heaven do not trust them; they remain soft and yielding, yet those under Heaven do not feel close to them. Titles and rewards are displayed, yet the worthy do not come forward. Sleeves are drawn back and jade tablets held up in show, yet noble people do not wish to join them. This is what is meant by “The highest ritual acts, but no one responds”: ritual is forcibly imposed, yet it receives no response. Why is this so? Because words are abundant and appearances attractive, but the heart is without sincerity.

Thus the foundation of rule by emperors and kings is the Dao, and the Dao is the beginning of all things. Only when the Dao is lost do people turn to De; when De is lost, they turn to benevolence; when benevolence is lost, they turn to righteousness; when righteousness is lost, they turn to ritual; and when ritual is lost, disorder follows. These five originally belong to one whole. Some rulers of the world excel in one of them, while others fall short. People often do not do what they truly wish to do, nor obtain what they truly seek, because they do not strive to follow what is natural and instead become caught up in shallow pursuits.

The problem with ritual is that outward appearance and inner reality diverge: the exterior grows splendid while the substance is damaged; minor details become more prominent as the foundation grows weaker. Ritual is shallower than loyalty, power lighter than moral authority, trust less than righteous conduct, and De inferior to benevolence. Ritual is the last of the means of governance, and it may also become a source of disorder, giving rise to deception and pretense, anger and strife. That is why people devised ritual and music, altered the calendar and the colors of official dress, prescribed movements and behavior, set fixed rules for action, and tried to predict the future and distinguish gain from loss.

Yet these are only outward embellishments of the Dao and lesser details of De: measures devised for a particular age and a particular purpose. They cannot meet the needs of ages whose changes are endless, nor can they apply across the customs of different places. This is often how disorder begins and confusion takes root. To claim foreknowledge of the future is only an outward embellishment of the Dao and the beginning of folly.

Zhuangzi said, “Heaven and Earth respond to things according to the circumstances, and things respond in turn according to change. Change has no fixed time, so affairs cannot be set in advance, and transformations cannot be planned beforehand. Pain cannot be massaged before it occurs, nor can an itch be scratched in advance. The Five Flavors cannot be balanced using measures of bushels and pecks alone, and zithers and lutes cannot be tuned using a ruler alone. Ritual applies only to a particular age. When the age changes, ritual should change too. To bind endlessly changing customs with the ritual of a single age is like gluing a string to a zither, carving a mark to locate a sunken boat, or tuning a zither with a ruler. It cannot be followed for long.

“The most subtle truths are too subtle to be spoken; the deepest mysteries cannot be passed on. Perfect loyalty and trust cannot be adorned by ritual display, and the ability to respond to the moment and grasp what comes before and after cannot be preserved by fixed rules. Some people are intelligent, learned, and full of thought. They can see the framework of Yin and Yang, grasp the patterns of Yang Qi, understand the ways of spirits, and know the principles of all things. Looking upward, they see the inner workings of the heavens; looking down, they see the foundations of the Earth. They never stop teaching the people, and they never stop intervening when affairs arise. But achieving peace through such ceaseless action is not the way approved by the ancients. This means that reliance on human knowledge and constant intervention cannot bring true peace to all under Heaven.

“All things depend on the ruler, just as the spirits dwell in the human body, and as water rests in a courtyard well. Water cannot be made clear by stirring it, and the spirit cannot be made peaceful by constant thought. All things between Heaven and Earth arise at once; they cannot be brought to rest through ceaseless interference.

“Therefore, when a great person puts teaching into practice, he should embody the Dao and hold to De, embracing the Great Void and moving freely without obstruction. When his work is done, he seems to have fallen short; though he possesses things, he does not seem to claim them. In stillness he leaves no trace; in action he makes no display. He is loyal and trustworthy, earnest and generous, yet does not put himself first. He is calm and simple, deep and inconspicuous, putting plainness first and content with fullness and substance. He diminishes selfishness and abandons clever devices. He does not show off his authority or act with contrivance. Like a dragon or snake, he appears and disappears as the time requires. He abandons elaborate ritual and contrived righteousness, returning to doing nothing. He follows the times and responds to change without setting everything in advance. He grasps subtle essentials and moves with the times; he bends when it is time to bend and extends when it is time to extend, enduring along with change. He looks within himself for the causes of disorder and calamity, and does not impose good fortune and blessings out of personal feeling. This is what is meant by ‘discard that and take this’: abandon contrivance and follow what is natural and Wuwei.”

In ancient times, those who attained “the One”—the essence and source of the Dao—were able to live through it. Heaven attained the One and became clear, strong, and beneficial to all things. Earth attained the One and became tranquil, yielding, and stable. The spirits attained the One and became numinous, able to transform and move freely. Valleys attained the One and became full and embracing, vast without end. Lords and kings attained the One and were able to set the world in order and bring harmony to its prevailing ways.

These things can maintain their natural state because they have attained the One. If heaven could not remain clear, it would be unable to harmonize Yin-Yang and might collapse. If earth could not remain tranquil, it would be unable to harmonize firmness and softness and might quake and break apart. If the spirits could not remain numinous, they would be unable to bring forth transformations of contraction and expansion and might fall still. If valleys could not remain full, they would be unable to hold both fullness and emptiness and might dry up. If lords and kings could not set the world in order, but instead grew proud, greedy, and self-satisfied, placing themselves above the people because of their rank, they might fall from power and bring their ancestral temples to ruin.

Thus, the honored take the lowly as their root, and disgrace and glory arise together. The high rests on the low; rank is established through lowliness. When lords and kings restrain their desires by calling themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—humble titles for rulers—are they not taking lowliness as their root and keeping it within themselves? Or is it otherwise? There is more than one way to explain the matter.

The same is true of a cart: its capacity to carry and its usefulness depend on the parts that lie low and bear the weight; disgrace and glory arise together. The high rests on the low; rank is established through lowliness. When lords and kings restrain their desires by calling themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy,” are they not taking lowliness as their root and keeping it within themselves? Or is it otherwise? A cart is useful because of the empty space in what has no substance: the gaps between its wheels and the hollow inside its body. Things are like this too. Do not make yourself shine like jade, rare and prized, keeping yourself apart; be plain and unadorned like a stone, plentiful and in plain sight.

The Dao De Jing says that returning is the Dao’s movement, and that transformation arises from it; weakness is the Dao’s way of acting, and harmony is its constant course. All things between heaven and earth that have form are born from “being.” “Being” comes forth through conditions coming together in harmony, and it in turn originates in “nonbeing”—the empty, still, and mysterious beginning.

The “One” is the root from which the Dao arises, the mother of the spirits, the source of Great Harmony, and the ancestor of Heaven and Earth. To the spirits, it is close to nonbeing; to the Dao, it is being. It is vast yet subtle, real within emptiness and present within nonbeing. It is round without having a fixed round shape, square without having a fixed square shape. It stretches on in a haze, without beginning or trace; it neither floats nor sinks, neither moves nor stops. It acts without showing action and gives without appearing to give. It contains and brings forth the myriad things, dividing them into distinct forms, each with its own order.

It is the “nonbeing within nonbeing,” the “beginning before the beginning.” It has no distinction between inside and outside; it is boundless and vast, and can be on the left or on the right. Emptiness is its constant state, and stillness and purity are its guiding principles. It reaches throughout the myriad heavens and moves across vast regions. The myriad things arise from it, yet leave no visible trace. It exists alone, mysterious and profound, close-knit without a gap, simple and unchanging; deep and vast, it contains everything. It molds the spirits but is not the same as them; it creates Heaven and Earth but does not dwell within them.

The myriad things receive life from it, yet it is not diminished; they return to it, yet it does not accumulate. It is neither crooked nor rigid, neither ahead nor behind. Its height has no limit, and its depth cannot be measured. Its upper and lower reaches cannot be explored, nor can its spread in the four directions be gauged. It is expansive and open, bright and ceaselessly generative. It brings the myriad things into being but does not change along with them; when they change, it does not share in their arising and passing away. It does not itself come to life, yet the myriad things grow of their own accord; it does not act deliberately, yet the myriad things accomplish their own ends.

From beyond Heaven and Earth down to the tiniest things, each receives Qi differently and takes on a different form and kind. Yet all receive life from the One and take shape through its transformations. Thus the One is the root on which the myriad things depend for growth, and the crucial pivot of change. It is the rule followed throughout the world and the measure by which transformations are judged. “One” is its name; De is its title. It dwells in being and nonbeing, acts through Wuwei (non-action), takes the formless as its standard, return as its fundamental law, harmony as its destination, and softness and weakness as its function.

Those who know how to hold fast to the One can respond to endless transformations without being exhausted, and keep their root amid myriad changes. Those who do not know how to hold fast to the One meet with good fortune at one time and misfortune at another. Rulers who govern a state will lose it; those who seek to preserve themselves will lose their lives.

Since ancient times, all who attained the One followed their nature and destiny. Heaven attained the One and became clear, though it did not deliberately seek clarity. With no intention or desire, no action or undertaking, it follows its nature and preserves itself through stillness and Wuwei. Yin and Yang then move of themselves, and transformations naturally fall into order. The celestial bodies move with strength; clear Qi rises, becoming bright and open, harmonious, upright, and pure, unmixed with the myriad things. Heaven’s light shines down, and the myriad things begin to grow. Clouds gather and rain falls; the myriad things take shape, and Heaven covers all life. Heaven attained the One and became clear.

Earth attained the One and became settled, though it did not deliberately seek stability. Without knowledge or awareness, without action or undertaking, it follows its nature and preserves itself without calculation or pursuit of gain. Mountains and rivers then form of themselves, and firmness and softness each find their proper place. Earth receives and yields with gentleness; it is square and even, boundless in breadth, deep and still. The myriad things grow upon it, and it bears them all. Earth attained the One and became settled.

The spirits attained the One and became numinous, though they do not deliberately display their numinous power. Without thought or worry, without action or undertaking, they follow their nature and preserve themselves without planning or calculation. Increase and decrease then occur of themselves, and life and death change of themselves. The aged may recover the strength of youth, the dead may live again, the blocked may find a way through, and the discarded may flourish again. Transformations have no end, and the cycle never ceases; the myriad things depend on this and do not lose their root. The spirits attained the One and became numinous.

The valley, symbolizing emptiness that receives and nourishes the myriad things, attained the One and became full, though it does not deliberately seek fullness. Without desire or pursuit, without action or undertaking, it follows its nature, preserving itself without invoking the name of benevolence and righteousness or deliberately giving. Emptiness and fullness, abundance and decline, then come into balance of themselves. The vapors of mountains and marshes rise and flow, forming a virtue that reaches everywhere. Water streams on in an unbroken flow, stretching far and wide, then gathers in rivers and seas, deep and vast beyond measure. The valley attained the One and became full.

The rulers and lords attained the One and became upright, though they do not achieve uprightness through deliberate action. They set aside private desires and will, refrain from reckless action, and follow their nature. They do not rely on the sharpness of their eyes and ears, but respond to things with emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei, thereby preserving themselves. All under Heaven then becomes peaceful of its own accord, and the myriad things each return to their proper place. The rulers and lords embody Dao and De, take Heaven as their model, embrace the spirits and put harmony into practice. They contain the myriad things, teach the four quarters, and extend their De throughout Heaven and Earth. Their light shines like the sun and moon; they govern the common world and bring all under Heaven into unity. When rulers and lords attain the One, they can become the standard for all under Heaven.

These five, by attaining the One and putting it into practice, can flourish without decline, achieve their ends without being impaired, endure without coming to an end, and shine without being extinguished. Why? Because they follow their nature and destiny, and ground every action in the One.

If Heaven acted deliberately and moved contrary to the One, its height would turn to lowliness and its clarity would break apart. Yin and Yang would fall into disorder, the guiding principles would slacken, and harmonious Qi would be blocked. The sun, moon, and stars would lose their brightness; thunder would strike wildly, and the myriad things would lose their normal course. If Heaven could not remain clear, it would surely collapse.

If Earth acted deliberately and moved contrary to the One, its levelness would become crooked and its stability would turn to turmoil. Mountains and rivers would collapse and break apart; firmness and softness would be damaged, the transformation of Qi would be obstructed, the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—would fall out of order, the hundred grains would wither, and living beings would suffer disease. If Earth could not remain settled, it would surely shake and break apart.

If the spirits acted deliberately and moved contrary to the One, their openness would give way to distress and their numinous power would cease. Transformations would lose their order; things would stagnate and be depleted; abundance and decline would become irregular, and the stretching and relaxing of things would end in destruction. If the spirits could not remain numinous, they would surely come to a halt.

If the valley acted deliberately and moved contrary to the One, what it already possessed would turn to loss, and fullness would turn to exhaustion. Emptiness and fullness would cycle out of order, and water and marshes would no longer be able to flow into it. If the valley could not remain full, it would surely dry up.

If rulers and lords acted deliberately and moved contrary to the One, their honor would turn to lowliness and their uprightness would collapse. All under Heaven would fall into confusion; government would be driven by personal will, officials would lose their standards, names and realities would part ways, and the people would no longer rally to them. The order of Heaven and Earth would then be severed. If rulers and lords could not maintain their honored place, they would surely be overthrown.

The life and nature of these five all depend on a simple root. Even when change reaches its utmost, through advance and retreat, bending and straightening, they cannot depart from the guiding principle. Attaining the One means survival; losing it means destruction. How much more so for someone who is not a sage yet would rule the people, abandoning the guiding principle and acting on private impulse? Even those who cling to the principle in their affairs cannot entirely avoid misfortune. How much more quickly must those perish who abandon it and act recklessly?

The workings of Heaven, Earth, and humanity follow this pattern: things transform into one another. What is scarce may become plentiful; what is lowly may become honored; what is high may become low; what succeeds may fail. Increase may bring loss, and seeking gain may bring harm. From one extreme, things often turn toward the opposite; by single-mindedly pursuing something, one may end up losing it. This is what is meant by saying that the honored take the lowly as their root, and the high take the low as their foundation.

Thus worthy rulers and sage lords, though they stand above the people and hold rank above all under Heaven, and though their kindness extends to the myriad things and their De embraces the four seas, remain diligent and self-disciplined, holding fast to their integrity. They call themselves “the orphan,” “the solitary,” and “the unworthy one,” the humble titles used by ancient rulers. They dwell below and hold to humility, shoulder burdens themselves, restrain private desire and set aside their will, and strive to place themselves beneath the people. They do not deliberately seek honor, and so can govern the people; they do not set themselves above others, and so remain above the people for a long time. They do not crave, and so lack nothing; they do not act recklessly, and so can guide the myriad things. The myriad things are many and ever changing, but they do not impose themselves upon them; therefore they can become the root of all things. This is not only the way of rulers; it applies to every undertaking.

When a craftsperson builds a cart, they must work out details such as round and square, long and short, curved and straight, lengthwise and crosswise. They labor throughout their life, yet do not call these parts “a cart.” Only at the end do they build a cart that can be used. This is what people mean when they say that repeatedly calculating the parts of a cart does not in itself produce a cart; only by joining the parts according to their proper principles can one make a cart. The same is true of all undertakings.

Jade is scarce and stone is plentiful. What is plentiful is often thought little of, while what is scarce is often prized. Jade and stone belong to the same category, yet because they differ in quantity, one is sought and the other discarded. Thus value and lowliness depend on abundance or scarcity, while success and failure depend on whether one acts recklessly. One should be neither as aloof and precious as jade nor as ordinary and plentiful as stone. Sages follow the principle of things complementing one another through opposites, and hold fast to harmony. They adapt to circumstances, changing with things; they cling neither to being jade nor to being stone, but remain between the two. They seek neither abundance nor scarcity, and neither covet honor nor accept being despised. Taking the One as their guiding principle and the Dao as their root, they can govern all under Heaven with a power that cannot be overcome, and preserve and nourish the myriad things with a kindness beyond measure. They are honored without trouble and lowly without harm; they occupy high positions without danger and low positions in safety. They understand the cycles of things, return to mystery and stillness, see clearly into being and nonbeing, and go back to the Beginning. They do not impose action upon themselves, and the spirits do not scatter; they do not treat all under Heaven as private property, and all under Heaven instead comes to them.

The saying “The Dao’s movement is return; the Dao’s function is weakness” means that the Dao’s movement appears as a turning back, and its function appears as softness and weakness. Why? Because moving in accordance with the Dao and following the One are the Dao’s fundamental law and the One’s basic principle. Change arises through return; harmony and subtlety form the constant pattern. New possibilities can arise from failure, and life can take root even in death.

Heaven and Earth arise from Great Harmony, the state in which primordial Qi is brought into harmony. Great Harmony arises from dark emptiness, the deep, formless state of nonbeing. Dark emptiness is nonbeing in its utmost form; Great Harmony begins to form from nonbeing. Great Harmony is the budding of being, through which Heaven and Earth begin to take shape. This is what is meant by saying: the myriad things under Heaven are born from being, and being is born from nonbeing.

Those of the highest capacity who hear of the Dao (the fundamental order by which all things under Heaven operate) recognize its depth and beauty, and diligently put it into practice because the Dao is close to their nature. Those of middling capacity hear of the Dao but feel uncertain and understand it only superficially: at times they seem to grasp it, and at times they seem to have forgotten it, because the Dao is more distant from their nature. Those of the lowest capacity hear of the Dao and, accustomed to ways that go against it, burst out laughing, because the Dao runs counter to their ideas. Yet if such people did not laugh at it, the Dao would not deserve to be called the Dao. This shows that the Dao often appears at odds with ordinary convention.

Thus, ancient teachings describe it this way: the bright Dao seems dim; the way that advances seems to retreat, though in truth it is returning to the root; the level way seems rough, and the key is to put the root in order. The highest De (Virtue/Power) is as open and receptive as a valley, able to give deeply and abundantly. What is purest seems sullied, as though it were not fully excellent or beautiful. Great De seems to be lacking, though it leaves no trace of itself. Establishing De seems like slackening, as though it diminished what the world calls good fortune. What is simple and true seems to have changed and become shallow. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed only at the end and is hard to recognize at a glance; the greatest sound is barely heard, while the faintest words can carry meaning; the greatest image has no fixed form and cannot be depicted. The Dao is hidden and unseen, with no name by which it can be called or praised.

Only the Dao is skilled at giving to all things and bringing them to completion, so that each thing finds its proper place.

Dao and De take different forms in the world between Heaven and Earth. Among the myriad things, some are high and some low; their allotments of Qi (vital energy) are long or short. Each delights in what it delights in and worries over what it worries over; each sees and hears in its own way. What they accept or reject differs, as do what they fear and what they love.

Quail and little birds spend all day flying high and darting about, yet their thoughts reach only as far as the mugwort fields. The great geese and magpies fly far and high, traveling east and west and crossing ten thousand miles, yet their thoughts rest on pools and marshes. The luan and phoenix soar ten thousand ren into the heavens and roam freely through the Great Clear Sky, the vast, limpid emptiness above, yet still feel that it is not high enough. Stretching their necks and spreading their wings, they pass through blue clouds, skim the sun and moon, and fly far away. Even after going a long time without food, they travel among the Nine Provinces and perch in all eight directions; only then do they feel at ease. Each of the three has its own fitting place, and each takes pleasure in it.

Bottomless abysses and springs ten thousand zhang deep are where the divine dragon returns and little fish keep away. High mountains and great hills, deep forests and vast valleys, and trees thick with foliage are beloved by great birds and tigers and leopards, but hated by chickens and dogs.

It is lamentable that, in the customs handed down since the Three Dynasties, some Confucians and Mohists have become attached to old writings. They recite the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents, attend to ritual forms, sing the elegant odes and hymns, play the qin and se, revere benevolence and righteousness, and prize purity. They investigate ancient events, study numerical arts, distinguish right from wrong, and sum up gains and losses, seeking peace for themselves and a shining reputation, while teaching their learning to their home villages. This is what middling scholars admire and superior scholars reject.

Some withdraw in solitude to meditate and force themselves to remember everything under Heaven. They dress up falsehood and conceal faults, using empty words to claim a match between name and reality. They also make a show of their every advance and retreat, every movement and pause, every bow and rise. They fuss over the rituals of the inner quarters, cater to current tastes, and conform to worldly expectations in every way. They flatter the rich, attach themselves to the powerful, and seek to please the eyes and ears of the crowd, thereby winning esteem and favor and becoming an example for worldly customs. This is what inferior scholars practice and middling scholars reject.

Thus, the compass and square each have their use, but different natures are hard to reconcile. The worthy and the sage do not match, just as the foolish and the wise do not keep company. Great people love quietude, while small people admire busy, conspicuous undertakings. They do not understand the ordinary person’s frantic, trivial life, nor do they like the way a true gentleman conducts himself. Birds and beasts grow together, each following its own course; scholars who govern worldly affairs, too, each find their own destination.

Therefore, sages discard cleverness and excessive thought, return to natural simplicity, and roam in the Great Uncarved Simplicity, the original state before things were divided. They regard external things lightly and are not stained by worldly ways. Joy and anger do not disturb their hearts; advantage and harm do not move their thoughts. They draw no boundary between noble and lowly and do not treat life and death as two different things. They act without contrivance and contemplate the deep and mysterious principles. Their spirit is calm and peaceful, neither displayed nor advertised. They embrace De and hold harmony within, responding naturally to change. This is what great sages honor and superior scholars strive for. Middling scholars are perplexed by it, while inferior scholars laugh at it. Thus, what middling scholars hear is not the most beautiful Dao, and what inferior scholars see is not the highest good. The principles that perplex middling scholars and make inferior scholars laugh are precisely the most beautiful and good.

When grand pronouncements are made, the highest principles are explained, the workings of nature are revealed, and hidden mysteries are explored, middling scholars are perplexed and inferior scholars laugh. But when vague talk and shifting affairs are discussed, when people seek fortune and profit or advance their undertakings, middling scholars offer their opinions and inferior scholars understand. They do not actually like calamity or dislike good fortune, nor do they prize disaster and scorn blessings. It is simply that their nature lies far from the Great Dao, and their feelings and intentions run counter to it. It is like standing in the Yellow Springs and trying to hear and see what is happening in the Nine Heavens: the distance is so vast that it cannot be sensed at all. Inferior scholars do not deliberately mock the Great Dao; it is simply lofty and hard to see. It is like playing music to a cow: the cow cannot understand it, and so the scene seems comical.

Therefore, when sages set forth their words, they speak of “being.” This “being” points to the difficulty of knowing the Dao, and takes the natural order as its foundation for gathering the intent of the myriad things. Even grasping this is beyond what ordinary people can all understand. Once one understands a Dao that is beyond the ordinary, it follows that ordinary people cannot reach it. Why? The Dao of the sages is subtle and vast, remote and unfathomable, both dark and bright, empty and still. It surpasses the myriad things; it is minute and yet immense, with no fixed form. To probe it to the end exceeds the grasp of wisdom; to sum it up briefly exceeds the power of words; to develop and transmit it exceeds what writing can fully record.

“The bright Dao seems dim.” This means that those who understand the Great Dao may seem not to understand it. Why? Advancing along the Dao can look like retreating, while losing the Dao can look like possessing it still. To govern the world, one must return to oneself. Stillness is the gate of emptiness, and emptiness is the gateway to the Dao. Detachment is the foundation of the spirit, and quietude is the root of harmony. Restraint is how one nurtures the original Qi; work done in the smallest details is the key to accomplishment. From a position of Wuwei (non-action), one acts before there is action. Setting aside the fame and gain of the world, one first settles oneself, nourishes the spirit and gathers harmony, and uses these to govern one’s own heart. The heart governs the body, and the body is the foundation for governing the state. Then the world will respond, as though following its natural nature.

Following the words “Advancing along the Dao can look like retreating,” the text continues: “The level road seems rough.” To reveal the mystery of the right way, one should clear away artificial laws and material desires, remove imposed distinctions, follow the people’s own hearts, and let them live as they will. Eliminate ornament and smooth away obstacles. Take apart the barriers and break the bolts, and wrongdoing will naturally cease. Tear down the walls and dissolve the prisons, and the people will be able to keep themselves in order. Disband the troops and stop the fighting, and the world will be free to come and go like a marketplace. All quarters will return, like streams flowing into the sea.

“The level road seems rough.” A person of De is like a river valley: they do not give by contrivance or make a show of generosity. They do not cling to love or chase after profit; they neither possess nor cast away. Through Wuwei, their beneficence spreads. Without acting in the name of benevolence, their kindness runs deep. They nourish the myriad things and become the mother of the world.

“Great De seems like a valley.” Great De is pure and bright, yet often appears somewhat apprehensive. Without exerting control, its power grows strong; without relying on external things, its authority becomes weighty. Its conduct accords with the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth, and it keeps company with all things under Heaven. It moves between white and black without claiming goodness for itself. It pursues achievement while shunning fame, and so its brightness endures.

“Great whiteness seems disgraced.” A person of abundant De is sincere and honest, yet seems somehow lacking. Without a fixed appearance, they are even in their feelings and simple in their nature, returning to the innocence of a child. They practice Wuwei and do nothing; they seem foolish and deaf. Their body stays in one place, while their spirit reaches in every direction. Their changes cannot be discerned, and their desires do not show. They seem shut off and withdrawn, yet alone they abide with the Dao.

“Great De seems insufficient.” Establishing De may look lax, yet nothing remains beyond its accomplishment. The way of governing the people described here is to keep them from being tempted by external things or pulled along by desires: restrain their wants to preserve their nature, reduce their pleasures to prolong life, simplify their clothing so they do not develop acquisitive desires, and settle their minds so they are at peace.

“Plain truth seems shallow,” yet it can become a far-reaching guide for the people. Use the Dao to make the myriad things grow, De to nourish them, spirit to guide them, and laws to bring them into harmony. Let them dwell between Heaven and Earth, receive the light of the sun and moon, change with Yin-Yang, and feed on water and grain; govern them with the formless Dao and bind them to the limitless. The people of the world will admire and return to it; all within the four seas will be at peace, and the myriad things will flourish. The Dao does not seem to claim credit for itself or to act as though it were deliberately displaying De. It is great yet seems small, rich and full yet seemingly faint.

Plain truth seems shallow. “Yu” means shallow. “The great square has no corners” means that true vastness and uprightness are not bound by fixed shapes and can contain everything. Though it does not cling to squareness, it can be square; though it does not cling to straightness, it can be straight. It has no boundaries and no fixed patterns. It does not deliberately seek to be square or straight, and so the myriad things each find their place and Heaven and Earth move naturally. Yin-Yang interweaves through action and non-action; harmonious Qi dwells among them, and the patterns of the myriad things emerge of themselves. They unite with Heaven and endure with Earth.

“The great square has no corners.” Therefore, the great vessel is completed late, yet contains everything. It transforms without form and brings things to life without signs. It moves without sound and acts without any fixed shape. Its power and De cannot be seen, nor can its accomplishments be directly observed. Calamity fades away in darkness, while blessings grow in the depths. It is still and detached, and the myriad things become what they are of themselves: this is called the most marvelous function. The myriad things come into being through it, yet people do not know why. It continues without ceasing to bring all things to completion, and so it endures.

“The great vessel is completed late.” Thus, the greatest sound seems scarce and communicates through silence. Without words to transmit the Dao, spiritual wisdom can pass from one to another. Without moving or speaking, the world is nonetheless connected. Without sound, the myriad things are stirred; without melody, they respond to one another. Heaven, Earth, people, and all things are harmonized by it, like echoes answering a call.

“The great sound is rarely heard.” The greatest image has no fixed form; the greatest shape has no fixed appearance. When it advances, the myriad things are able to endure; when it withdraws, the myriad things lose their support. Heaven and Earth rise and fall with it, and Yin-Yang bends and stretches with it. The myriad things model themselves on it and take their form from it, like shadows following bodies.

“The great image has no form.” From this we can know that the Dao is vast but has no name, and De is abundant but has no praise. Its achievements are supreme, yet the world does not regard them as great; its beneficence extends across the four seas, yet the world does not treat it as exalted. It shines through the six directions, then finally returns to darkness and namelessness. This is because the Dao’s transformations begin in the formless and end in the myriad things. It exists in what seems not to exist, and gives to the myriad things without claiming to give. When it moves, the myriad things come into being; when it is still, the world finds completion. This is what is meant by “being good at giving and bringing things to completion.”

“The Dao (the Way) gives rise to One”: the Dao produces the obscure, undifferentiated One. “One gives rise to Two”: the One divides into Yin and Yang, the two forms of divine Qi (vital energy). “Two gives rise to Three”: Yin and Yang unite, producing Qi that blends the clear and the turbid. “Three gives rise to the myriad things”: from this, all things come into being, including Heaven, human beings, and forms of every kind.

All things lean on Yin and embrace Yang, and move toward gentleness as they grow. When Yin and Yang Qi mingle and unite, things take shape from a state of softness and weakness. People dislike names that bode ill, yet lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy” to show their humility. Sometimes loss brings gain, because it can dispel excess; sometimes gain brings loss, because it may lead to decline and ruin.

What people teach is humility and softness, and I teach this as well. Those who act arrogantly and flaunt their power ultimately meet a bad end; this shows how low their fate is. I will make this the foundation of my teaching, for arrogance leads in the end to calamity.

The utmost emptiness within the void, which opens the way for the myriad things and endows them with their nature, is “the void within the void”—that is, the Dao (the Way). What is meant by “the source that makes all things what they are cannot itself be made so by anything else” is this: the Dao can bring the myriad things into being, but they cannot in turn bring the Dao into being. Therefore, the Dao is the root of what makes all things what they are.

There is a kind of “void” that molds transformation and becomes the starting point for the ceaseless generation of the myriad things, yet it is not itself a concrete life and cannot give birth as a formed thing does. The “void” spoken of here refers to “the One.” The One is the beginning of the unending life of the myriad things, but formed life does not issue directly from a formed One. Thus it is the source from which the myriad things begin to arise, yet it is not a parent in the manner of a particular living being.

“The void within nonbeing” can keep the numinous powers—the wondrous workings that govern transformation—from being altered. It creates the myriad things and sustains them, but is not itself preserved by them. The “void within nonbeing” here refers to “the Two.” The Two arises from the One. Though it has already taken on form, it can bring forth and sustain the myriad things; it is not created by the myriad things themselves.

The subtle, mysterious state between being and nonbeing propels the formation of the myriad things, yet cannot itself be brought into being by what has already taken form. The “nonbeing” spoken of here refers to “the Three.” The Three arises from the Two and, too, has taken on form. All of them have their source in the One, receive their endowment from the numinous powers, and appear as the myriad things; yet the myriad things cannot create it. Thus the source that propels the formation of the myriad things is not itself formed by them.

So the void within the void gives rise to nonbeing; the nonbeing within nonbeing gives rise to nonbeing; and nonbeing gives rise to formed things. All formed existences belong to the category of the myriad things. Each thing has its own root, and each kind has its own ancestor. Heaven and Earth are the greatest among the myriad things, and human beings come after them.

The process by which Heaven, Earth, and human beings come into being is this: form takes shape through Qi (vital energy); Qi takes shape through harmonious Qi; harmonious Qi takes shape through the numinous powers; the numinous powers take shape through Dao and De (Virtue/Power); and Dao and De depend on the natural course. In this way, the myriad things come to exist. “The natural course” here means a state in which nothing external governs it—that is, the Dao. When the natural course transforms, the numinous powers arise; as the numinous powers flow through all things, harmonious Qi takes shape; when harmonious Qi disperses, Qi takes shape; and when Qi congeals, form takes shape. This is what is meant by: “The Dao gives birth to the One, the One gives birth to the Two, the Two gives birth to the Three, and the Three gives birth to the myriad things.”

Therefore, the source that makes Heaven what it is is not Heaven itself, and the source that makes human beings what they are is not human beings themselves. The first source of the myriad things brings formed things into being, but formed things cannot in turn bring forth the first formed thing. Thus, what makes a person what they are does not come from the person themselves.

How do we know this? Zhuangzi says: “When the human body decays, from where does it receive its form? From where do hearing, sight, and perception come? And what brings about the transformations and end of life?” We can see that the first source begins in nonbeing. From this it follows that formed things arise from nonbeing—in truth, they arise from the void.

Therefore, the original “nonbeing” has no beginning and cannot be grasped as a particular existence. It has no form or sound, so it cannot be heard with the ears or seen with the eyes. It endows the myriad things with being from nonbeing, yet is difficult to describe in words. This “nonbeing within nonbeing” is the beginning before anything has begun, the source from which the myriad things come and on which their nature and life depend. It has no fixed name and is called the Dao. The Dao is the root of the One. The Dao rests at the utmost limit of the void, and so can give rise to the One. The source of the myriad things is originally still and empty; this is the state in which the One first arises from the utmost void.

There is an undivided, indistinct presence, hazy yet existent: light, yet not scattered; heavy, yet not sunk into stillness; seeming Yang, yet without an outer appearance; seeming Yin, yet without an inner substance. It has no above or below, no left or right, and extends without limit. It is the guiding principle of the Dao. It contains emptiness and encompasses all that has yet to appear. Formless and nameless, vast and undifferentiated, it is too deep to fathom. It surpasses sound and color; nothing can be compared with it. Point toward it and no direction can be found; touch it and it cannot be grasped. It is boundless and beyond words, undivided and without beginning or end. It is the abode of the myriad things and the beginning of primordial time, and so it is called “the One.”

In primordial time, being and nonbeing had not yet become distinct, and there were no fixed names. The One arose from this state. The One existed, but had not yet revealed its form. This is the name for the potency that can give rise to the myriad things amid the deep darkness. Therefore it has no beginning or end, no left or right. It resembles Yin but is not Yin; it resembles Yang but is not Yang. Hence it is said that Yang has no outer appearance and Yin no inner substance. The One exists within the void, and so can give rise to the Two; the One is the void within being, transforming into the Two.

The two forces represented by the Two arise together. Subtle and mysterious, they bring forth and sustain the myriad things without cease, transforming along with them. They are supple and formless, ceaseless in their activity, dark yet luminous. They have no fixed direction and reveal no trace, yet contain Heaven and Earth, hiding their own source from view. Their workings cannot be sought through sound, nor can they be escaped through form. This action is called the numinous powers. The myriad things endure through it; when it departs, they perish. Human intelligence and strength cannot reach it; neither authority nor De can command it. This is the Two.

“Three” refers to the divine spirits. The “nonbeing” of the second level rests on the nonbeing of the primordial source, and so it can give rise to “Three.” The divine spirits are nonbeing within nonbeing; therefore, they can give rise to “Three.” The three forces come forth together, blended in a deep and distant mystery. They have no form to see, no sound to hear, no trace to touch, and no gateway to find; they cannot be calculated or measured. Vast and profound, they hold clarity and turbidity together and harmonize Yin and Yang. They are the beginning of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. At this point, no distinct forms or boundaries have yet taken shape. The roots of the myriad things lie in “One,” and they receive life from the divine spirits. This is called “Three.” “Three” is Great Harmony—the harmonious Qi that exists before the myriad things have differentiated. Grounded in non-action, Great Harmony can give birth to the myriad things. It is the “nonbeing” contained within “being”; through transformation, it takes shape as particular things. Thus it is said: “Three gives birth to the myriad things.”

Clarity and turbidity separate, high and low appear, and Yin and Yang begin to divide. Harmonious Qi circulates; the sun, moon, and stars move; and living beings emerge. Everything that has form and can be seen or heard is called a myriad thing. The birth of all things takes emptiness as its root and nonbeing as its beginning: emptiness is the root of nonbeing, and the primordial is the root of beginnings.

The myriad things turn their backs to Yin and face Yang, moving toward gentleness and away from hardness. If one can remain still and quiet, without stirring the mind in vain, the body will unfold and nature and life will become unobstructed. This is because one contains harmonious Qi and preserves weakness, while the Dao itself has no fixed form. From this, the blending Qi of Yin and Yang comes into harmony. Emptiness, nonbeing, formlessness, smallness, and weakness are therefore the roots from which Heaven and Earth arise and the myriad things come into being. People commonly despise these qualities, while lords and kings humble themselves with titles such as “orphan” and “widower.” Emptiness, nonbeing, and the state of being alone are the very roots of the myriad things. That is why princes and nobles call themselves by such titles, even as ordinary people look down on them.

An enlightened ruler may occupy the highest position and wield great power, yet still regard himself as an orphan and a widower. He seeks what he truly needs and avoids greed; he gives up grandeur, accepts a lowly place, and is content to diminish himself. He acts without leaving a trace, considers good fortune before acting, and guards against misfortune in stillness. With Wuwei and few affairs, all under Heaven can settle of itself. He does not look or listen carelessly, but preserves harmonious Qi and quietude so that his spirit may be at peace. His bearing becomes naturally upright; his advances and retreats follow their proper measure, and he does not depart from the right Dao. He transforms the people through De and governs them, thereby receiving Heaven and Earth’s protection and drawing the myriad things to him. By understanding how to diminish, he can instead gain.

Ordinary people act otherwise. Bound by what they see, hear, and know, they can only respond to events that have already occurred; they cannot see changes before they become apparent. They therefore esteem hardness and force. They rely on power and make a show of strength, yet cannot control the many complexities of affairs. They do not understand weakness, distance themselves from what is small and few, and act against the Dao; even in stillness, they go against nature. Their spirits grow confused, affairs multiply, their thoughts become muddled, and their joys and angers lose all measure. Good fortune leaves through the gate, while disaster enters the home. Once misfortune is set in motion, it is difficult to turn back.

Ordinary people often wait until disaster suddenly strikes and fear jolts them awake before they humble themselves and speak meekly. Only when death is near do they speak kindly. Even if they then wish to reform, they can no longer return to a state of smallness and weakness. They move ever farther from the path of life, and may ultimately bring down their state and destroy their family, with calamity falling upon their descendants.

Worldly teachings turn foolishness into cleverness and weakness into strength. They abandon what is small in pursuit of prominence, turn away from what is hidden in pursuit of display, and contend for favor and fame—only to die in the grip of reputation. The teaching of the sage is the opposite: to take simplicity for wisdom, disgrace for honor, smallness for eminence, withdrawal for clarity, fewness for sufficiency, and weakness for strength. The sage leads people to set aside schemes and private desires, to seek no fame, and to return to deep stillness. The paths may differ, yet their meanings can be brought into accord; at times they appear, at times they disappear. The sage teaches people to have few desires and remain weak, while worldly people teach them to crave abundance and exert force. When the scripture says, “Others teach this; I teach it too,” it means that the word “teach” is the same, though what is taught is different.

Thus the forceful states of Qin and Chu dominated for a time, but in the end both fell into ruin. After the Han rose, it flourished through harmony and gentleness. Those who are forceful turn away from the Dao and so lose the protection of the divine spirits. Once the power that governs life withdraws, how can they endure? Those who are forceful and domineering do not meet a good end.

The sage feels compassion for those who fail to examine themselves and instead blame fate and accuse Heaven. He therefore makes this the foremost admonition, writes it on bamboo and silk, and clearly warns later generations. Yet people continue to violate it again and again, and so they suffer calamity. This is the root of my teaching.

The softest thing under Heaven is the formless. It can pass through the hardest and most solid things in the world. The formless “nothing” can enter places without a gap, as though entering the chamber of Wuwei (non-action). From this I understand how things are gained and lost: Wuwei helps eliminate the roots of disorder, and teaching without words can close the gate to calamity. The benefit of Wuwei lies in allowing all things to live and flourish, yet few people in the world can achieve this.

De (Virtue or Power), the fundamental quality of the Great Dao, is supremely subtle and wondrous, and so the spirits assist it. The spirits are the outwardly manifest workings of De, which is why they are called “guests.” Great Harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are balanced and all things live in accord—is utterly empty, yet it is governed by the spirits. Great Harmony takes shape through the workings of the spirits, which is why it is called a “minister.”

When clarity and turbidity come together, Great Harmony takes shape. It is supremely soft and weak, without form, yet it embraces Heaven and Earth, contains Yin and Yang, and governs all things. At times it is beyond Heaven and Earth; at times it is within them. All things depend on it to grow, yet no one can see or hear it. Only after the Dao has undergone three transformations do all things come into being. People, too, depend on it to live, yet no one knows how this happens. It is so soft and weak that even “soft and weak” cannot describe it; it has no fitting name. Sages can only apprehend it inwardly. They are called sages because they study the Dao and preserve the spirits, cultivate life and safeguard their true nature, and ultimately attain the truth and realize the Dao, becoming able to embrace Heaven and Earth. The Dao is a profound and fundamental reality that cannot be grasped by thought alone. So it is called, for want of a better term, “the supremely soft” and “the formless.”

What has no form does not rely on hardness to be firm, or on strength to prevail. Yet it can penetrate Heaven and Earth and wear away bronze and iron. It moves like wind and lightning, passes beyond the sun and moon, and courses above and below. It comes and goes swiftly, yet remains steady and at ease, finally returning to nothing. Whatever has form becomes stagnant; and if the subtle workings of the mysterious are absent from emptiness, they have nowhere to operate. The Dao is neither substantial existence nor utter nonbeing, and so it can pass through things with form without hindrance.

How can this be shown? Sound has no fixed form and so cannot be exhausted; a shadow cannot be grasped as a thing and so cannot be pursued. Water is soft and lowly, yet it can pierce metal and stone and submerge all things. The Earth is yielding, yet it accomplishes great things and surpasses grasses and trees. The tongue and ears are soft and are less often damaged; horns and teeth are hard and are more easily broken. Thus softness and weakness can overcome hardness, and emptiness can pass through what is substantial. This does not result from deliberate action: it is simply the natural course of things, an outcome that follows inevitably from their principles and patterns. But this refers to the natural patterns of things themselves, not to the “naturalness” of the Dao in its own essence.

Thus, a state with a small territory, few people, little military strength, and scarce provisions can still join with Heaven if it thinks deeply, keeps its desires modest, and abides by the Dao of the spirits. The ruler treats the people as his children, allowing De to flourish, instruction to take deep root, and kindness to extend widely. Officials are loyal and soldiers are trustworthy. The ruler remains mindful of danger, and the generals, too, are cautious. They maintain softness and humility over time, willingly placing themselves behind the people. When a state takes a lowly and yielding position, the feudal lords trust it. When it is as unspoiled as an infant, people throughout the world turn toward it, as if returning to their parents.

People all seek what benefits them and avoid what harms them, and from this power gradually takes shape. The strong cannot oppress such a state, and great powers cannot easily seize it. Strength and weakness shift with the times; Heaven and Earth lend their aid, and the spirits assist. When the moment is ripe, it need not force its control to become the guiding power of the world. Why? Because it follows the Dao’s softness and weakness, and remains small and sparing in desire.

By contrast, a state with a vast territory, a large population, abundant wealth, and powerful troops may have bold officials and forceful soldiers, an able ruler and stern generals, lavish rewards and severe punishments, and harsh, intricate laws. Its officials will tremble as though they constantly stand before the ruler. Backed by its terrain and strength, it may become the most powerful state in the world. Yet if it despises its enemies and delights in war, mobilizes its forces lightly, relies on strength to take risks, presumes to dominate Heaven and Earth, forces the feudal lords to submit, holds every state’s fate in its hands, and projects its power beyond its borders, it will make people fearful and all things unsettled. It will depart from Dao and De, and the spirits will leave it. The weaker states will unite in resistance, the people will no longer rally to it, and in the end the ruler will die, the state will perish, and the ruling clan will be scattered. Why? Because it is hard and powerful, and has accumulated pride and possessiveness.

The Dao, through “the existence of nonbeing”—a presence without physical form that can nevertheless act—passes through places without gaps and moves where there are no fixed patterns. It illuminates the realm of action and clears the realm of non-action. It enters and leaves without boundaries and cannot be broken; it passes through pearls, jade, and other things with form without leaving a trace. Thus the Dao is said to be the softest thing in the world, yet it can govern the hardest things in the world.

How can this be shown? Sharp, physical objects cannot enter a place with no opening. The spirits reside within the human body, yet they enter and leave without gaps or doors; in the space of a bow or a stretch, they can travel a thousand miles. This shows that the formless can enter places without gaps. From this we can see that deliberate undertakings often fail, sometimes to no purpose, while the workings of Wuwei (non-action) can bring about limitless achievement. Heaven and Earth come into being through it; people and things flourish through it. A sound made by a physical voice can travel a hundred miles, while a voiceless influence can move what lies beyond the heavens and shake the four seas. What language expresses cannot always pass between different kinds of beings; the influence of silence, however, can transform Yin and Yang and bring Heaven and Earth into accord.

De acts through Wuwei, and Heaven and Earth are thereby brought forth. Heaven and Earth do not speak, yet the four seasons continue their course. These are signs of the spirits’ workings and proof of natural patterns. We should therefore understand that Wuwei is beneficial.

Sages quiet their minds and empty them so they can observe Dao and De. They steady their breath to preserve the spirits. They do not cling to hearing, but apprehend the Dao of silence; they do not rely on sight, but apprehend what is formless. They observe the transformations of Heaven and Earth and follow the growth of things according to their own nature. In this way, they see that deliberate action is the source of disorder. Once they understand the effects of Wuwei, they can naturally see the troubles brought by deliberate action. Wuwei is the foundation of governance. Many words are a gateway to calamity; silence is a gateway to blessing.

Therefore, cast aside cleverness born of self-regard and do not cling to the labels of benevolence and righteousness. Take the Dao as your heart and De as your intention; follow the spirits, nourish harmonious Qi, and let nature take its course. Allow Heaven and Earth to perform their respective roles: Yin and Yang each remain in their place, and the four seasons continue without pause. Then the roots of disorder will be cut off, and all things will dwell in their proper places. The ruler will be calm and detached; the people will have no troubles or worries. Teach without words and transform without deliberate contrivance. Show the image of the formless, so people turn toward the mysterious. Curb the people’s excessive desires, follow their nature and life, and keep them from being clouded by clever schemes and private wants, so they may live long. This is the “teaching without words.”

When the ruler is silent, Heaven and Earth can act through Wuwei. When Heaven and Earth act through Wuwei, Dao and De can do so as well. These three arise together and spur one another on; harmonious Qi fills the world, and peace flourishes. People and all things dwell where they belong, and the world returns to unity. The gates of calamity are closed. Everyone in the world is like a child untouched by clever contrivance. There is no shame or strife, and no clinging to good or bad fortune. Cunning and schemes are blocked, and the Way of nature flows freely. Every household receives the blessing of the spirits, and every person can attain sage-like wisdom. This is the benefit of Wuwei.

At that time, the ruler is like Heaven and Earth, and the people are like infants: they drink in the ruler’s De and enjoy the harmony the ruler brings. Yang becomes manifest and Yin remains hidden; people stretch out or draw back in accordance with the transformations of the Great Dao. The ruler and parents occupy the place above, yet seem to leave no form or trace. The people of the world are at ease, like fledglings who know nothing of cunning. They do not rejoice at birth out of attachment, nor grieve over death from fear. Calm and settled, they are content with life. No one deliberately seeks blessings, yet every blessing comes of itself. Few in the world can reach such a state. Why? Because the ruler does not interfere through commands, but follows the Dao’s Wuwei.

The key to Wuwei and the pivot of silence lie in what is subtle and mysterious, in the hidden depths of the spirits. The hidden depths of the spirits are the source of refinement. They arise where there is no root or stem, enter and leave without doors, and remain between action and non-action. They are the foundation of seasonal harmony. The Dao has no fixed form and cannot be seen or heard. Those who can follow the times and harmonize things can naturally apprehend it. Therefore, the Dao can be heard but cannot be displayed; it can be seen but cannot be fully explained; it can be apprehended but cannot be imparted; it can be put to use but cannot be exhausted in words. To grasp and practice it, to refine it and distill its essential meaning, is easy to explain to wise elders but difficult to make clear to the shallow-minded.

Why? Because the Dao is vast and profound, beyond the reach of most people. It seems to rise upward and yet also to return, and most people cannot enter it. It is distant and far-reaching, and the world cannot hear it. It is obscure and dark, and worldly rulers cannot put it into practice.

Which is closer and more important: your reputation or your body? Your body is closer. Which is more precious: your body or your possessions? Your body is more precious. Which brings greater anxiety: gaining something or losing it? Gaining something brings greater anxiety.

So excessive attachment to fame and wealth will inevitably drain your spirit. Hoarding too many possessions means suffering a great loss when they are lost. Those who know contentment will not be disgraced by greed, and can preserve their honor and peace of mind. Those who know when to stop will not fall into danger, and can keep their bodies safe. In this way, they can preserve themselves over time and prolong their lives.

What makes me what I am is, fundamentally, that I have received Dao and De, the underlying principles governing the workings of Heaven, Earth, and all things. What enables me to live by drawing upon it is the numinous power of the spirits, the marvelous working of nature. What I follow in taking shape is Great Harmony, the primordial Qi that harmonizes Yin and Yang. What sustains me and gives me visible form is Heaven and Earth. These forces allow me to exist as I do, yet I cannot command them myself. Thus, nothing is more exalted than Dao and De as models to follow; nothing is more discerning than the numinous spirits as a measure of law; nothing is broader than Great Harmony in giving form; and nothing is grander than Heaven and Earth in making things manifest.

Dao and De endure without ceasing, while pure Qi, turbid Qi, and Great Harmony change without end. The way of Heaven and Earth lasts, difficult to destroy, and the movements of Yin and Yang never stop changing. Heaven, Earth, and Yin-Yang may seem to have no end, yet they do have beginnings and endings. From this we can see that death is the furthest limit of calamity, and life the furthest limit of good fortune. Therefore, the sage investigates the intent of Dao and De above and measures the purpose of Heaven and Earth below, and comes to understand that eminence and distinction, good fortune and abundant virtue, depth and breadth, honor and glory are all worth less than life.

All things are displayed before us, along with every kind of rare treasure: gold, jade, pearls, and precious stones. However great the benefit they bring, it is still less than one’s own person. Nothing does more to bring decline to society and disorder to a state, to defy Heaven and Earth and injure oneself, than fame. Fame makes people arrogant and reckless. It leads them to oppress the people and harm the state, unsettle the mind and feed desire. It makes them defy the Way of Heaven, struggle and steal, and lose their fellow feeling for one another. Wars then break out throughout the world. The calamity caused by a single person may harm ten thousand states: rulers lose their lives, people die, and all things suffer. The harm brought by wealth is no less.

Fame and wealth are truly perilous, while drawing close to them brings little benefit to oneself. Gaining or losing them may bring either harm or benefit. If one gains fame and wealth but loses Dao and De, the numinous spirits will not remain, life will come to an end, and even Heaven cannot save one. If one loses fame and wealth, yet Dao and De protect and sustain one, the numinous spirits will lend their aid; fame will arise of itself, and one’s wealth may rival that of Heaven and Earth. Gain fame and wealth while losing Dao and De, and one loses one’s life. Give up fame and wealth, and one may instead gain benefits equal to those of Heaven and Earth.

Therefore, those who care only for themselves while pursuing great fame are not fit to discuss the ultimate Way. Those who disregard themselves and care only for the state are not fit to seek true benefit. Fame without a name is a dwelling place where life can settle; fame with a name is a sack that destroys life. Wealth without possessions is a blessing that nourishes oneself; wealth in possessions is the root of calamity. Those who cherish themselves too much and pursue a splendid reputation wear themselves out in their efforts, forcibly suppress their nature, and damage their spirit. They amass great wealth, grow more arrogant by the day, and in the end are ruined by their own arrogance; both their name and their wealth vanish. Excessive attachment inevitably consumes too much. In the end, the numinous spirits cannot bring such a person back to life, and Heaven and Earth cannot preserve them.

Why is this so? Dao and De transform and nurture all things, while Heaven and Earth each follow their own patterns of operation. Yin and Yang alternate and divide into the four seasons; their transformations unfold and form the Five Phases; all things are woven, as it were, into a net that leaves nothing out. Each thing has its own nature and limits, which it cannot overstep. The heart of creation is upright and impartial. It treats all things equally, without favor or dislike, and is in communion with them. It makes up what is lacking and reduces what is excessive, nourishing those who have too little and diminishing what they have in excess.

Greed and hoarding bring calamity upon oneself; when one is never content, the desire for gain keeps arising. Deceiving the foolish through cleverness and seizing from the weak through strength will, in the end, naturally be brought back into balance. Those in power possess fame and wealth: when they lose them, they grieve; when they gain them, they rejoice. As grief and joy alternate, the soul wanders in restless uncertainty. When grief and joy never cease, the numinous spirit departs. Such a person dies and is forgotten, while the calamity reaches their descendants as well. Fame and wealth are therefore like charcoal and ice: their natures are opposed, and they cannot coexist for long. There is no one in the world whose fame has reached its height and whose body has grown frail, yet who continues to live and whose descendants flourish.

Emptiness and stillness are where the Dao returns; filling oneself with external things makes one lose it. Accumulating external things draws one into material fullness, yet to wish to return with the Dao to emptiness and stillness is like combining water and fire: it cannot be done. So it is with unsettling the mind and confusing one’s thoughts, exhausting oneself through constant effort, rushing about from morning to night; adorning one’s appearance and refining one’s speech; worrying about the multitude; founding enterprises and establishing a name; and driving oneself to attain honor. All these things damage what sustains life, while adding to the forces that destroy it.

One exhausts one’s strength, endures hunger and thirst, braves cold and heat, and travels dangerous roads. One wears thin clothing and eats coarse food, giving no thought to comfort at the table. Busy from morning to night, one bears humiliation, lets the spirit race, and never stops. Defying the natural Way in pursuit of splendor, one covets and hoards, endangering oneself in the hope of security. Wealth accumulates, while the spirit perishes; calamity arrives of its own accord, accompanied by arrogance and ruin. This is how people destroy the good fortune they seek and lose the benefit they pursue. The more one stores away, the greater the loss tends to be when it comes.

Thus, success and failure depend on whether one acts recklessly, and survival and ruin depend on whether one knows what to take and what to leave behind. Those who are content bring body and mind into accord with Dao and De, cut off the pursuit of fame and wealth, and do not place too much importance on themselves. They nourish all things without taking credit for it and live among all things without clinging to the preservation of themselves. If they remain within trustworthiness and accord, that is enough to preserve their spirit. Maintaining a household is enough to live out their allotted years.

They constantly follow nature and are therefore not easily harmed. They abide in emptiness and so suffer no assault. They regard fame and external things lightly and are not defiled by them. They can relinquish desires that do not accord with the Way and so flourish for a long time. This is what it means to be free from humiliation.

Those who know when enough is enough do not betray their true nature, even if they are exalted as Son of Heaven; nor do they allow their spirit to be confined, even if they live in poverty among mountain crags and caves. When they advance, they do not consider themselves exalted; when they withdraw, they do not regard themselves as distressed. They do not cling to seeing or seeking, and they do not dwell on gain or loss. They neither condemn themselves nor boast of their achievements. They neither reach out to seize things nor stubbornly refuse them. They are as broad as rivers and seas, freely wandering in a deep and mysterious realm, in communion with the numinous spirits.

Their actions follow Heaven and Earth, so they do not fall into danger. They can distinguish different benefits and harms, and therefore remain secure. Their spirit is deep and cannot be taken from them; their numinous Qi is steady and does not scatter. Their presence is as vast as Heaven and Earth, their bearing as bright as the sun and moon. With their spirit complete, they can preserve themselves. They remain content and know when to stop, and so endure; they know when to turn back, and so avoid danger.

This is what it means: pursue fame, and fame slips away from you; pursue gain, and gain slips away from you. Try to conceal something, and it becomes all the more visible. By following the Way in this manner, one can endure for a long time.

What is truly complete may appear deficient because it does not deliberately display its form, yet its function never fails and it can naturally circulate and transform. What is truly full may appear empty because it does not seek fame, yet its function is inexhaustible and it can bring order to all things. The greatest integrity may appear crooked because it cannot be described by ordinary labels. The highest skill may appear clumsy because it does not deliberately display specific achievements. The most eloquent person may appear inarticulate; one whose inner being is full may also seem empty.

Restless activity can ward off cold, while stillness can dispel heat: this refers to changes in the body and outward form. Quietude can settle the spirit. If one can maintain stillness and clarity, one becomes like Heaven and Earth, and so becomes the standard for all under Heaven and the constant principle by which the myriad things operate.

The Zhigui holds that Dao and De act through Wuwei (non-action), yet their wondrous efficacy arises naturally. This so-called “wondrous efficacy” is precisely what is shown when the most eloquent person seems inarticulate and the full seem empty. Restless activity can ward off cold, while stillness can bring body and mind to rest. If one can remain still and clear, one can become like Heaven and Earth, serving as the standard for all under Heaven and the constant principle of the myriad things.

The Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and its Virtue) takes Wuwei (non-action) as its principle, and so the spirits manifest naturally. The spirits, too, act without striving, allowing harmonious Qi (vital energy) to arise of itself and each thing to find its own order. In the world, some things grow without roots, move without feet, hear without ears, and make sounds without mouths. All the myriad kinds of things follow their own patterns. A mother cares for her child, and the child cares for its mother; male and female join together; all things honor the ruler on whom they depend. Birds hatch their young in nests and feed them by pecking. Beasts give birth and nurse their young. When birds are startled, they take flight; when beasts are startled, they flee. Yin things dwell in caves, while Yang things dwell in nests; fire rises, and water flows downward. All things teem with life: they sprout in spring, grow in summer, ripen in autumn, and are stored away in winter, eventually returning to Earth. None of this is brought about by laws or instruction; it is simply the natural way of things.

These are natural patterns arising from Yin-Yang, the qualities of things, their forms and circumstances, and the workings of Qi and destiny. Things have no choice but to follow them. From this we can see that one should act without deliberately contriving, negate without clinging to negation, understand without grasping at clarity, and dwell in obscurity without clinging to obscurity. Only by neither forcing action nor insisting on negation, neither clinging to clarity nor clinging to obscurity, can one accord with the guiding principles of things. To refrain from forcing, from fixed negation, from clinging to clarity, and from clinging to obscurity is to join the Dao with ease.

The Great Dao is broad and open; it does not depend on gates for entry or exit. The farther one rushes outward, the less one comes to know. The Dao is within oneself, not far away; change arises from within, not through reliance on others. When all things settle naturally, there is no need for cleverness or contrivance to arise.

Thus the sage holds to harmony and practices uprightness, governing through the formless. The sage roams the boundless expanse and takes the Great Clarity—the realm of lucid emptiness—as a mirror. Casting aside the turmoil of the hun and po souls, the sage steadies vital essence and stills the spirit, letting all things be as they are. Quiet and wordless, the sage nevertheless inspires trust. This state is deep and vast, clear and empty, enduring in solitude. It seems to be there and not there, continuous and unbroken. Its conduct is plain and true, yet its efficacy never wanes; no one can see or hear it.

This is what is meant by “Great completion seems incomplete, yet its use is never exhausted”: what is most complete appears to lack something, yet its efficacy never runs out. Why is this so? Because it is subtle and finely ordered, with stillness and purity as its true nature. Before form and sound appear, it already contains the source of change. In opening and guiding, it is like Yang; in closing and gathering, it is like Yin. In stopping and holding things in place, it is like Earth; in moving and transforming, it is like Heaven. The civil and martial—gentleness and strength—are brought into play within the mysterious, and great Virtue manifests naturally in each thing. Thus what is full seems empty, and what is substantial seems deficient; it does not display benevolence and righteousness, nor set up an outward model.

Without imposing rigid rules on the world or deliberately forcing various policies into effect, a ruler who can lessen desire will naturally transform the world. Customs will grow honest and simple, and the people will be as innocent and unknowing as infants. They will neither know what to covet nor where to go, yet they will be able to act without limit, their activity flowing on and on without exhaustion.

What is truly full may seem empty, yet its use is inexhaustible. The people have food without farming and clothes without weaving. In hot weather they rest quietly with their bodies bare; in the cold they keep warm in furs. They live with few prohibitions, alongside the elk and deer, their hair loose, food in their mouths, following one another in play. When the ruler’s De is abundant, the people’s possessions are abundant too.

The Dao’s transforming power permeates all things and brings everything to completion, yet leaves no trace. It is deep and mysterious, with a wondrous power of its own. Heaven and earth, human beings and all things change together with it. People ride upon emptiness and bear nothingness, moving back and forth with the Dao. They cross the four seas and roam throughout heaven and earth, boundless and expansive, dwelling in a state of utter emptiness. Why should this be so?

What is perfectly straight may look crooked; what is perfectly upright may look askew. The ruler is like a sound, and the people of the world like its echo; the ruler is like a body, and all things and the people like its shadow. Thus, without performing suburban sacrifices—the ancient rites by which rulers offered worship to Heaven and Earth—Heaven’s will can still be harmonized. Without leaving one’s seat, the world can still be set in order.

The greatest skill, then, may look like clumsiness. The Way of Heaven moves humbly and low, without relying on calendars or measures, yet Yin and Yang remain in harmony. Without promulgating a calendar, the seasons remain in order. Without laws and institutions, the world still submits. Without rewards and punishments, names and realities still correspond. Restrain military force and conceal its might, and nothing can overcome you; abandon war and conquest, and nothing can defeat you. Issue no commands, and the people will set themselves right. Establish no complicated regulations, and the world will be clear and well ordered. Use no tallies or seals—the tokens of verification in ancient times—and the world will still trust itself. Set no standards of measure, and all things will find what suits them.

The greatest eloquence may sound like a lack of words. Abundance may seem like insufficiency; gaining may seem like winning a victory over something, and gaining may also seem like losing something. Without bells and drums, the people can still be joyful. Without blending the five flavors, they can still find food delicious. Without attention to the colors of clothing, they can still find beauty. Without deliberate accumulation, their lives can still be sufficient. Why is this? Because they follow the Great Dao and nature, acting without cunning or calculation, and so the people can live spontaneously.

The five great qualities described above—great fullness, great straightness, great skill, great eloquence, and seeming insufficiency that nevertheless brings gain—all appear outwardly inadequate, yet each has its own effect. The wise understand how to use the Great Dao to transform the people, so that they naturally come to share in the Dao.

The workings of Heaven and Earth include advance and retreat, through which all things grow and reach completion. Change cannot be halted, and neither can bending and extending. When Yin reaches its extreme, the earth cracks with frost, ice congeals, cold winds rage, and frost and snow fall harshly. Fish and turtles lie hidden, and all things curl inward. At such a time, even in a heated room by a brazier, wrapped in heavy fox fur and wool clothing, one can scarcely withstand the bitter cold. But if one steadies the spirit and moves the body, setting Qi and blood in motion until sweat flows, then takes off one’s clothes and steps outside, the body feels warm. This is how activity can ward off cold.

When Yang reaches its extreme, sand and stones are scorched, birds can barely fly, creatures in the water are tormented, all things wither, and rivers run dry. At such a time, even diving into cool springs, wearing light hemp clothing, seeking shade on a high terrace, and consuming cold things may not be enough to endure the heat. But if one relaxes the mind and quiets the spirit, settling body and will beyond the reach of turmoil, then a calm and even disposition brings a sense of coolness. This is how stillness can dispel summer heat.

Acting through clever schemes may indeed enable one to govern the people and nourish all things, extending De throughout Heaven and Earth and matching its effects to Yin and Yang. Yet the disorder it brings often arises unseen and takes hold without a sound, changing along with decrees and shifting with the course of events. It gains people’s support like dampness seeping in, and controls their minds like a shadow cast over them, as an echo answers a sound and a shadow follows a body. The more one tries to control things deliberately, the more disorderly they often become; the tighter one’s grip on government, the more complicated affairs grow. Even the wise cannot fully master them, and harsh punishments cannot prevent them.

Wuwei, therefore, is the foundation on which a ruler who takes action can achieve his aims. It is the source of governance and instruction, and the root of transformation. It dispels disorder just as movement wards off cold and stillness dispels heat. The sage sets aside cunning and speculative thought, empties the heart, quiets the mind, and gathers the spirit into focus. With a tranquil heart, he responds to things as circumstances require, taking Heaven’s intention as his model and following the patterns of Earth. Then decrees are carried out and instruction spreads like sunlight; disorder vanishes like retreating clouds and mist. The people of the world follow his example and each accomplishes what is theirs to do. All things take him as their teacher and each finds its proper place. This is what is meant by saying that when the ruler is tranquil, the world naturally comes into order.

When the world is in accord with the Dao, the ruler does not covet or act recklessly. He can therefore withdraw the warhorses and send them home to plow the fields. When the world is out of accord with the Dao, the ruler continually raises armies and wages war, and warhorses breed across the countryside. “Warhorses are born in the fields” describes a scene of ceaseless warfare, with troops and horses everywhere. The greatest fault is to treat covetous desire as something worth pursuing; the greatest calamity is to be unsatisfied and make endless demands; the greatest failing is to let the desire for profit keep growing. Those who understand what it means to be satisfied stop grasping at things everywhere. They can therefore remain at ease and secure, with all they need.

The Zhigui says that the people’s fate rests with the ruler, while the ruler’s position rests with the people. When the ruler follows the Dao, the people prosper; when he departs from the Dao, they suffer. When the people prosper, the ancestral temples and altars of state flourish; when they decline, the foundations of the state are overturned. Thus the ruler is the people’s source, and the people are the ruler’s foundation. When the roots are damaged, flowers and fruit cannot grow; when the source dries up, the stream cannot run full. Only when ruler and people support one another can the state endure.

When the ruler attains the Dao, the world is at peace, the feudal lords submit, the different peoples live in harmony, customs across the four quarters become uniform, and warfare ceases. Those who make a living devising attacks and defenses have no chance to act, and the brave, skilled warriors have no use for their strength. The wise and talented follow the times and work calmly in the fields; even fine horses pull carts and labor. This is what is meant by “when the world is in accord with the Dao, the warhorses are withdrawn and made to plow.” The world is peaceful and untroubled. People attend to their livelihoods, customs are simple and honest, and the people focus on daily life, weaving cloth for clothing and farming for food. Heaven and Earth are harmonious, all things ripen abundantly, and auspicious signs appear one after another. This is not because Heaven has bestowed special blessings, but because the ruler’s Dao and virtue have brought these results.

When the Son of Heaven departs from the Dao, the feudal lords no longer come to court, local governments and institutions each follow their own rules, and the four quarters rebel. They oppress one another by force, raise armies to fight for power, and the weak are taken captive while the strong proclaim themselves rulers. The world then selects generals, trains soldiers, and prepares weapons and armor. Beacon fires rise everywhere, each side watching the other from afar. Plots are hatched at court and upheavals provoked on the battlefield; rival factions form alliances and contend, sending chariots and cavalry into combat. Soldiers and horses are dispatched to the countryside and cannot return home for years. In government, deceit and force are prized, and merit is measured by the number of enemy heads taken.

At such a time, the ruler is busy raising warhorses and has no time for his family. Soldiers rush to the battlefield, often living on beans and grain. The greedy seize power, and even vile people may be indulged until they become a source of trouble. The people are worn out and the state’s resources depleted. They serve for long periods and are repeatedly conscripted, never given a chance to rest. This is how warhorses come to breed in the countryside.

Soldiers long for home, hearts heavy with grief and anger. Thinking of their aged parents, they weep far from home. Their loving parents worry and grieve, suffering inwardly. Many soldiers die, their bones left exposed and scattered across the wilderness beyond counting. Along the roads pass children who have lost their fathers, missing their families as they cry out and call for them. What wrong has Heaven done to make them endure such suffering? Wives are widowed and young children lose their fathers; those in grief naturally gather together. The elders lead, and those with greater ability manage affairs. They help and protect one another and, though unrelated by blood, become as close as brothers. They bind stalks of grain into banners, use pits in the ground as drums, take up weapons, form ranks, and train for battle, their hearts filled with resentment toward the ruler. People’s feelings answer one another, and their vital energies affect one another as well. Heaven and Earth seem blocked in their Yin and Yang; the stars fall out of order, and the sun and moon behave abnormally. Rebellion and disaster follow one another. This is not Heaven bringing calamity, but the consequence of the ruler’s departure from the Dao.

Rulers who depart from the Dao are not so from the beginning. Often, they first receive the Mandate of Heaven by following the Dao, but cannot hold on to it. Later they become arrogant, extravagant, and indulgent, never knowing when to stop. They then lose everything they once possessed, and may even be reduced to the status of servants. The ruler receives the Mandate of Heaven and inherits the legacy of the ancient sages. He is exalted as Son of Heaven and possesses the world; no one can match his rank or favor. Yet the people wear coarse clothes and eat plain food, and still feel glad and content. If the ruler sets an example through his own conduct, changing the customs of the age is as easy as wind bending grass, and the people follow his teaching as fish swim toward water.

The ruler should honor virtue, correct himself, care for the people, and continue the sacrifices, bringing honor to his ancestors and passing his undertaking on to his descendants. In this way, his virtue will endure alongside the spirits, and his reputation will last as long as Heaven and Earth. But if instead he grows arrogant and extravagant, pursues fame, clings to power, and lets his desires run unchecked, defying Heaven and Earth and oppressing the people, he will provoke courageous people to rise against him. They travel light and strike deep, acting before others can respond. When enemy forces draw near, the ruler finds no one to help him; his trusted followers scatter, and he can rely on no one, within or without. In the end, he dies, his state falls, and the ancestral temples are overturned. This is the calamity brought on by covetousness; it cannot be blamed on the people of the world. This is what is meant by “the greatest fault is to treat covetous desire as something worth pursuing.”

Even when power, favor, and titles have reached their height and surpassed those of everyone else in the world, failing to know when one has enough will bring calamity and lead to ruin. This is what is meant by “the greatest calamity is not knowing when one has enough.”

Virtue has a wondrous power to transform and nurture. It enables people to preserve their spirit and body, move with ease, hear and see clearly, and perceive the workings of Heaven and Earth and the lessons of rise and fall in ancient times. People dig wells for water, farm for food, live with their spouses, raise children, and follow Heaven’s mandate through the course of their lives. This is enough. Though people differ in their inborn nature, all can receive from the Dao what they need to live, and so have enough to be at ease. How much more, then, should the Son of Heaven, with ten thousand chariots, and the feudal lords, with a thousand chariots, know when they have enough?

If they depart from the Dao, the desire for profit will often arise: they covet other people’s land and possessions, continually annex and expand, and make ever greater demands. In the end, they are bound to bring calamity and invite disaster. This is what is meant by “the greatest failing is to covet what one can gain.”

From ancient times to the present, birds, beasts, and all living creatures have sought what they need to survive and preserve their lives. Yet if a ruler loses his position through covetousness, he may be reduced from sovereign to captive; once exalted, he may end up dead beneath the earth. To be counted among cattle and horses is to escape the calamities that come with a status beyond theirs; to be counted among dogs and sheep is to avoid the disasters that accompany a rank beyond theirs.

Therefore, a ruler who has attained the Dao rests his heart in contentment and keeps his ambitions within proper bounds. He yields power, is content with solitude, relinquishes his covetous attachment to the myriad things, and steadfastly preserves his spirit. In this way he safeguards himself and earns a lasting reputation; he endures without decline, and the world comes to him. This is what it means to know contentment and be content with it, and thus to remain satisfied.

Not leaving the house or wandering around the courtyard means learning about other people and the world by beginning with one’s own home and oneself. Not peering out through the window means not seeking understanding by looking outward. To observe the Way of Heaven, one must grasp it through personal experience. The farther one travels outward, away from home and from oneself, the less one comes to know. Thus the sage—a person who understands the Great Dao—can be called a wise ruler: without traveling in person, he can understand the people; without seeing every place with his own eyes, he can discern the principles of Heaven and Earth; and without acting willfully, he can let things come to completion of themselves.

The Dao and De (Virtue or Power) move through transformation, giving rise to the myriad things. In the Great Void and the Mysterious Darkness—the deep and unfathomable state of origin—the myriad things receive their nature and life. At first, all was undivided chaos. The spirits met; clear Qi (vital energy) separated from turbid Qi; and the Great Harmonizing Qi, which brings all things into harmony, coursed through the vast and the subtle. Thus the myriad things came into being. Heaven is round, Earth square, humans stand upright, beasts walk on all fours, plants take root and grow, fish sink beneath the water, and birds fly through the air. The myriad things divide into kinds and gather in groups, giving rise to hierarchies of high and low, and to good and ill fortune.

From this we can see that Heaven and Earth, humanity, and the myriad things all emerge from one source and share one ancestor. Within the Six Directions—above and below, and the four quarters—and throughout the cosmos, all are connected and are originally one. When the transformation of Qi divided them, differences of above and below and of length and breadth took shape, along with the two Qi of Yin and Yang and the five kinds: the five colors, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), the five flavors, the five notes, and so on. Though the myriad things differ in form and dwell in different places, and sometimes have opposing interests, they still belong to one kind and are connected to one another. Their feelings, life, and intentions share a common source.

Zhuangzi says that a person’s body is born from the same parents, yet its four limbs and nine apertures each serve different functions, as do the five viscera and six bowels. They do not directly know one another, nor can they see what happens inside and outside the body. The head and feet are like Heaven and Earth; the elbows and knees, like the four seas; the liver and gallbladder, like the distant lands of Hu and Yue; the brows and eyes, like Qi and Chu. They seem greatly different, yet together they make up one body. When the head aches, the feet cannot walk; when the chest is ill, the mouth cannot speak. When the mind and spirit are settled, the ears and eyes become clear. Bending and stretching are smooth, and the joints move with ease, because all belong to one body.

Though a person’s actions take place nearby, they can prompt responses from people and things far away; changes here can also move Heaven and Earth elsewhere. They respond to one another without any fixed channel and without distance coming between them. Heaven and Earth are vast and far-reaching, yet the myriad things still respond to one another without the slightest error, because they are originally one. People know that the parts within one body are connected, but do not know that a state is like a single whole. They know that a state is a whole, but do not know that the myriad things arise from one mind. If the myriad things arise from one mind, what true barrier can there be within the mind? That is why one can know the world without leaving the doorway.

Thus the sage does not leave home. Looking upward, he traces things back to the parents; looking downward, he infers the descendants. He examines changes in safety and danger, benefit and harm, life and death; distinguishes right from wrong; and understands the roots of benefit and harm and the foundations of order and disorder. From himself he comes to understand his family, and from his family he comes to understand others. He grasps the guiding principles of affairs and the patterns of the myriad things, knowing where action should lead and what stillness should hold to.

The sage takes Dao and De as his father, the spirits as his mother, quietude as his teacher, and Great Harmony as his friend. He regards the world as his home and the myriad things as parts of himself; he treats others as he would himself and sees himself as he sees others. He does not let private thoughts arise at will or stir his mind rashly. He sets aside contrived cleverness and preconceived judgments, and is not bound by distinctions of one kind or another. He follows nature and does not act recklessly. He lives simply, harms no living kind, and does not eat plants while they are alive. He does not use things before they have matured or gather them before their time is complete, allowing all things under Heaven and Earth to preserve their lives.

Though the things of Heaven and Earth differ in form, from beginning to end and from root to branch, they ultimately belong to one whole. Within this unity there is no inherent resentment between one thing and another. Since all things receive Dao and De and come into being through them, how could they be casually damaged? Therefore, all things under Heaven and Earth should be allowed to preserve what is theirs.

By tracing oneself back to the time before one had a visible form, one can see where one’s nature and life, spirit, blood and Qi, and body came from: what is real arises from the void, and what has form arises from the formless. The smallest thing can enter everywhere; the greatest thing can encompass everything. Our life has its source in Dao and De. While it was being conceived, before birth, its form was already gradually taking shape. From this we can understand that profound subtlety, gentle nourishment, and all-encompassing understanding, as well as being without knowledge or awareness and acting without striving, all contain immense power.

By observing oneself grow from infancy to adulthood and gradually become aware, one can see the weak give rise to the strong, the small to the mighty, the short grow into the large, the foolish move toward understanding, and the dim grow brighter. By observing the breath and the body’s bending and stretching, one can also understand that loss may become the beginning of gain, while gain may become the root of loss; advancing can become the starting point of retreat, while retreat can become the foundation of advancement; fortune is the beginning of misfortune, and misfortune may be the sign of fortune to come.

After climbing high, descending slopes, and passing through dangers, the body grows tired, the breath short, and the heart unsteady. After exertion, still rest brings the spirit and Qi into calm, and the body’s inner and outer parts return to harmony. From this we can understand that peace and stability are the state of attaining the Dao, and see the effects of quietude, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action). The four limbs and nine apertures each have different functions, yet all arise from the same mind. From this we can infer that the changing benefits and harms of a hundred kinds of things are related to their governing root; this root is the source of all people, just as the heart governs the whole body.

When one examines Heaven and Earth and tests the past and present, finding that their transformations do not conflict, one can know that the Way of Heaven and Earth is fully embodied within oneself. Humans are no different from Heaven and Earth. Thus, family is the foundation for understanding others, and oneself is the deep source for knowing the Way of Heaven. One should observe oneself through oneself, family through family, and the world through the world. If one does not understand the Way of Heaven through oneself, or understand others through one’s family, one will seek the great from the small and the distant from the near, and only grow more confused. Traveling far and wide after leaving home does not necessarily bring knowledge of the world; leaving oneself behind and peering only out the window does not bring understanding of the Way of Heaven. The farther one goes, the less one knows. Traveling throughout the four seas may deepen one’s confusion; the more one seeks, the less one may gain. Rather than looking and listening outward, one should seek within. Then one can understand the relation between Heaven and humanity and comprehend the Great Dao. Knowing oneself, one can know Heaven; knowing Heaven, one can know the Dao; knowing the Dao, one can understand people.

Thus the sage need not personally inspect the likes and dislikes of every household to judge the affairs of many families; without traveling a thousand miles, he can infer how things are changing in different places. He need not ascend to Heaven to understand the state of the nine heavens, nor descend into the earth to know the conditions of the nine earths. The waxing and waning of Yin and Yang, the changes of the four seasons, and all that is subtle, hidden, obscure, and unfathomable are beyond none of his insight. How is this possible? By examining the inner, he can know the outer; by investigating the small, he can understand the great; by using himself as a basis, he can infer others, and by explaining what is near, he can make sense of what is far away.

The sage governs the world as the heart governs a person’s body. The heart does not impose elaborate rules from outside; rather, it quietly supports the beginning of life and brings the joints throughout the body into harmony. The sage follows the Dao and does not make arbitrary demands in order to conform to Heaven’s principles. He governs the world through Wuwei and nurtures the people through doing nothing. In deep stillness and silence, he lets the myriad things each develop as they will; above, he shares his intention with the spirits, and below, his heart is one with the myriad things. In action, he follows the myriad things; in stillness, he exists alongside them. Through emptiness, stillness, and detachment, he lets the myriad things grow naturally.

The sage is quiet and acts without striving, allowing the myriad things to accord naturally with the Dao. He is like a bright pearl in water, making the river appear lustrous and beautiful. This is the transmission of wondrous transformation. Thus it is said that the sage speaks little yet earns people’s trust, and does not act recklessly yet brings things to completion.

Someone asked: Once the sage attains the Dao, its principles should endure, and its wondrous teachings should continue without interruption. Why, then, can one accord with the Dao naturally without cultivation, while the beings of the world continue to move farther from the Great Dao day by day? The reason is that they have not experienced the sage’s teaching. It is like clouds moving and rain falling: when plants are nourished, they grow and flourish, but withered plants still do not become lush. We should not deny the blessings of clouds and rain just because something withered has failed to grow. That would be like a person without eyes refusing to believe that the sun and moon shine.

The pursuit of knowledge adds something each day, as people’s experience and understanding continue to grow. Cultivating the Dao, by contrast, requires letting go a little more each day, gradually setting aside contrived cleverness. Continue letting go until you no longer cling to knowledge or cleverness, and you reach the state of Wuwei (non-action) and having nothing to do. Wuwei means not acting deliberately or recklessly; having nothing left undone means following nature and leaving out none of what needs to be done.

To govern the world, one should bring it peace and stability, usually by ruling through Wuwei and avoiding an excess of burdensome official duties. If one deliberately intervenes in everything and relies only on schemes and ability, one cannot govern the world well and will ultimately fail.

The Zhigui explains: “The transformative teaching of Dao and De (Virtue/Power) is subtle, ethereal, and profound. It is boundless, yet quietly brings the world to peace and stability. Those who govern should take Wuwei and freedom from excessive official duties as their guiding norm. If they intervene in everything and exhaust their clever schemes, they cannot govern the world well and will ultimately fail.”

The transformative teaching of Dao and De is profound, subtle, vast, still, and boundless. It has no fixed form; it is indistinct and hard to discern, wholly unified, with no traceable beginning. We cannot see it when we look, nor hear it when we listen. Yet it opens the way for all things and guides them, endowing each with its nature. It is present everywhere. Nothing can be accomplished, and nothing can grow, apart from it. The efficacy of accomplishing things through Wuwei (non-action) is the root of all things.

From this we can see that clarity attained without deliberately seeking knowledge is the source of knowledge; teaching that takes effect without instruction is the root of teaching. Acting through Wuwei is the beginning of action; things that come naturally to completion without deliberate effort are the source of all affairs. Teaching without instruction and action through Wuwei are the Dao’s deepest and most subtle transformations. They arise from a formless mind and cannot be named in words, so they are called the first source and ancestor of all things. These principles are what the spirits rely on and what Heaven and Earth return to. They are expounded by the Dark Sages, who understand the hidden depths of the Dao, and passed down by recluses.

Later, benevolence and righteousness gradually grew shallow, and people’s nature and life were no longer pure. Unable to see the Dao, they acted only as their own desires dictated, became absorbed in knowledge and preconceived ideas, and gradually took on anxieties, resentments, and grievances. Their desires multiplied, and their minds and spirits were drawn along by external things. They planned far ahead, yet spoke against what people felt in their hearts; they made grand pronouncements, yet went against their own nature. They stopped honoring the Dao and instead praised cleverness and cunning; they stopped valuing the effects of nature and instead pursued reputation.

People then devised all kinds of systems and regulations, collected words and composed writings, and recorded them in books to instruct the people. They used these to regulate Heaven and Earth, arrange Yin-Yang, and divide human affairs, breaking apart the Dao’s source and people’s unspoiled nature. They altered simplicity and invented all kinds of falseness, changed customs, made what was upright crooked, and ruined the constant way. They changed rules and dress so that everything was put on display.

Alongside bells, drums, zithers, and lutes, they added instruments such as the yu and sheng. People fussed over gestures of rank and deference, outward appearance, and the bearing of their steps. They established three hundred forms of ceremony and three thousand rules of deportment. Titles and distinctions became confused, and people fought with one another. They busied themselves with affairs and played with words, trying to defeat each other through debate and gain the upper hand through cleverness. Trivial details kept appearing and piling up. This is what is meant by “the pursuit of learning increases day by day”: acquired knowledge and human-made institutions grow ever more numerous.

Thus the people of the world turned away from the root and drifted from the source, pursuing details and outward embellishments instead. They pursued learning broadly and challenged one another repeatedly; every household believed itself knowledgeable, and everyone considered themselves wise. Some even imitated the sages and established distinctions between ruler and minister. Those who shared their opinions could become officials despite lacking ability, while those who disagreed could be rejected even if they had rendered great service. Confucians formed factions in the name of universal love. They called those who agreed with them good, even when they were not, and called those who disagreed with them bad, even when they were good.

As a result, the world fell into turmoil. People no longer had time to care for their own kin; they focused only on pursuing trivial things and strove to comply with the ruler’s wishes. They blended the Five Flavors to please the palate, seeking rich, fragrant, sweet, and crisp foods without regard for other living beings. They varied the Five Colors to please the eye, seeking deep black, bright yellow, and exquisite splendor without regard for the people’s poverty. They blended the Five Tones to please the ear and brought the art of bells and pitch to its utmost refinement, yet did not worry that the customs of the age were becoming corrupt. They also pursued lofty…