《道德真经指归(严遵)》Vol. 2

They build high terraces, towers, and spacious palaces to satisfy the ruler’s wishes, heedless of the poverty this brings to the people. They gallop on horseback, hunt, and roam for the ruler’s pleasure, taking a great catch as a mark of skill, yet failing to follow the course of Heaven. They make the people toil to support themselves and squander the people’s wealth for private gain. They feel no concern for the people’s hardships in their own time and care only for their own abundance. None of this comes from a benevolent heart; it runs counter to the intent of Heaven and Earth.

These practices are not meant to do good, but to please the ruler. People throughout the realm imitate them, and so pretence, affectation, and deceit flourish while harmony fades. The roots of disorder spread without end and gradually become custom. People treat cunning pursuit of profit as virtue, undermine the people’s livelihoods, increase their burdens, and damage their natural goodness, leaving them more troubled.

At this time, conditions differ from place to place. The feudal lords each claim the title of ruler, and the four quarters each have their own king. People exalt rank and status, prize power, regard strength as superior, and fight one another, competing to outdo each other by force. The strong imprison the weak; the many overpower the few. They substitute nourishment for governance and mistake error for the right Way. Thus ministers murder their rulers, and sons murder their fathers. The struggle grows ever more intense, and no one can uphold order. Many seek to seize things, but few truly obtain them. The roads are full of sorrow, and people speak only of war, shouting and quarrelling without cease, even boiling and devouring one another.

Why is this so? Because people embellish and adorn, add more and more tasks, and strain to regulate one another with all kinds of rules. This is the failing of “learning, day by day, adds more”—the gradual accumulation of study and knowledge.

Therefore, the sage casts aside the names of benevolence and righteousness and returns to the Great Dao. He cuts off cunning and cleverness, abandons artificial instruction, and turns inward to seek. His words grow fewer day by day, and his actions grow simpler. This is “practising the Dao, day by day, lets go”—cultivation of the Dao means gradually shedding what is artificial.

The sage keeps removing these artificial practices, day and night without stopping. With the profound and obscure Dao, he embraces all things, so that the people no longer feel ashamed of cunning and deceit. He dispels ornamentation and needless complications, and the realm settles of its own accord. Through continual reduction, cunning thoughts cease to arise; with further reduction, layer upon layer of artificial contrivance is stripped away.

The sage conceals his fame, preserves himself and his spirit, and grasps the essentials of Dao and De and the turning points between survival and extinction. He neither rules over affairs nor acts as a teacher of cleverness. He is still and silent, as if he did not exist, and ultimately reaches Wuwei (non-action), until he clings to nothing.

Heaven and Earth move according to their own nature, and all that is beautiful follows in their wake. The myriad things each reveal their own nature, and distant peoples naturally live in harmony. The people are simple and unknowing, with no idea where they are headed. They follow the changes of light and darkness, making their home among the four seasons. At ease, they let their spirit unfold, without letting their intentions chase after things outside themselves. Their minds are empty, like wood adrift on water or soil at rest. They do not deliberately pursue benevolence and righteousness, nor do they understand elaborate rites. Their hearts hold no greed, and their intentions contain no contrivance. They walk upright and plainly, and look upon things with a broad, far-reaching vision. Here, “dian dian” means upright and plain, while “dian dian” means broad and far-reaching.

Their speech is quiet, their bearing deep and still. Outwardly they seem like birds and beasts, yet inwardly they are different. They are silent and inactive, as if there were no distinction between ruler and minister, yet the realm is governed without coercion. The people are honest and sincere; the realm is peaceful, their spirits at rest, and their nature and life preserved. All things continue one another and draw close to Dao and De. This is doing nothing, yet leaving nothing undone.

Why is this so? Because the ruler issues no flood of commands, and the people hear no vexing decrees. Therefore, to govern the realm, one should often begin by refraining from reckless action: do not control people through words, but use Wuwei as instruction. Treasure having no desires, and take not presuming to be clever as the essential principle. If one can act in accordance with the Dao, there is nothing that cannot be guided back to what is right. This is governing the realm through Wuwei.

Cast aside empty pursuits and return to what is real; carry the pursuit of knowledge to its utmost. Know the height of Heaven above and the depth of Earth below; understand the distinctions of Yin-Yang and the numbers of the myriad things. By day, see the stars in the sky; by night, see fish in the depths. Let the ear distinguish the harmony of the winds from all eight directions, and the eye discern the markings on every kind of beast. This is thought brought to its utmost, yet it does nothing to settle life.

Let strength exceed Wu Huo’s tenfold, force exceed Meng Ben’s hundredfold, courage exceed Xia Yu’s thousandfold, and authority suffice to command the three armies. Attack as swiftly as light and shadow, retreat as lightly as floating clouds, strike like thunder, and when still, be as deep as a dark cloud. This is physical power brought to its utmost, yet it does nothing to secure true victory.

Suppose all the people in the realm studied the Rites and the Changes, understood the Songs and Documents, and knew the statutes and laws. Suppose every household had an official, every hamlet a headman, every village a granary, and every ward a storehouse, all backed by keen investigation and judgment, and by armed force to catch thieves. Then people throughout the realm would stand with their feet pressed together in fear and look sideways at one another. Fathers and sons would no longer cover for each other, and brothers could no longer live in harmony. This is affairs multiplied to their utmost, yet it does nothing to bring good governance.

Therefore, governing by knowledge makes people depart from the Way of Heaven; deliberate action runs counter to it; and busyness with government affairs loses sight of Heaven’s intent. If measures are continually added to the governance of a state, every possible calamity must be anticipated and guarded against. Even when people act, they cannot succeed; even when they seek, they cannot obtain. The realm is thrown into confusion and ultimately falls into turmoil. “When affairs become too numerous, they are not enough to win the realm” refers to precisely this disorder.

The sage has no fixed personal desires, because his heart is not bound by outward appearances. He takes the people’s concerns as his own and shares their hearts. I treat those who are good with kindness, so their goodness becomes more evident. I also treat those who are not good with kindness, transforming their character so they return to goodness and their hearts naturally become calm and upright. I treat those who are trustworthy with sincerity, so they become still more sincere. I also treat those who are not trustworthy with sincerity, transforming their intentions so they return to trustworthiness and their hearts naturally become calm.

The “sage” spoken of here is the ruler who governs the realm. His mind is empty of selfishness, and his heart is vast and undivided, embracing all under Heaven. The people focus on what they see and hear, taking it as their guide for action. The sage, however, is not moved by these appearances; he follows only the Dao (the Way).

The Zhigui says: Dao and De have no concrete form, yet they govern all things. Heaven and Earth do not act deliberately, yet all things each follow their own transformations. This is because Dao has a “heart” that does not cling to particular thoughts, and a working that does not appear as deliberate action. Such a heart is the root of the heart; a working that is not deliberately put forth is the source of all workings.

Zhuangzi said, “What makes me me—could it be only myself? I look like myself, yet I was not made by myself.” The human body becomes a body because there is an “I” within it; the “I” exists because there is Shen (spirit). Shen can dwell in a person because of Dao: Dao gives rise to Shen, Shen gives rise to the body, and only when body and Shen are joined do we call it “I.” Thus the “I” cannot bring itself into being on its own, and the body cannot become a body by itself alone. Dao itself possesses nothing, yet it enables all things to appear. This is the presence of a heart without intention.

The way to follow Dao and nourish the spirit takes stillness and purity as its foundation, and emptiness and nonbeing as its constant state. This cannot be achieved by forcing things through the will or planning them out through thought. Ordinary people keep looking and listening with their eyes and ears, constantly calculating in their minds, eating and drinking at set times, chasing desires, and staying busy with all kinds of affairs day and night. They make countless plans, trying to predict danger and safety and choose when to advance or retreat, so they can preserve the body and extend life. Instead, they wear down the spirit, damage Qi (vital energy) and blood, scatter the hun and po souls, and injure life. They mean to protect the body, yet do not realize that excessive thought is what harms it.

When people sleep, their thoughts briefly cease and their eyes and ears are no longer active. They neither think nor worry, neither eat nor drink. The spirit then tends toward harmony, Qi and blood are restored, the heart finds peace, and the body is less prone to illness. Even after facing danger, suffering a serious illness, or breaking a bone, the body may still recover. If a brief period of sleep can bring peace, how much more enduring comfort could come from following Dao and forgetting attachment? When someone sets aside their thoughts for a time, a dangerous situation may settle; if they toil constantly with their minds, a life that was secure may instead decline. How much more, then, should those who govern the people, accord with the spirits, and serve Heaven’s will use a heart without intention to bring peace to the people?

Therefore, the sage establishes a “body without a body” (one who does not cling to the private self) and holds a “heart without a heart” (one who does not rule all things through private intentions). The sage possesses without claiming ownership and rests in being without attachment. Above, the sage receives the teachings of Dao and De; below, the sage understands the people’s hearts. The sage does not cling to a private heart, but takes the people’s hearts as their own.

The sage neither favors nor hates. The cruel are not treated as enemies, and the good are not treated as intimates. The sage does not make friends because people are honest or hold grudges because they are deceitful. Like the earth, the sage bears all things; like the sky, shelters all things; like the sun, illuminates all things; and like the spirits, transforms all things. People have long been lost in their ways; how could they change their bad habits overnight? First, treat them with gentleness and give them room to seek their own way out. Then, gradually nourish and guide them until they come to understand for themselves. In this way, their discernment can gradually grow, their confidence take root, and they can be moved to accept the change willingly.

Treat all things, great and small, as you would treat yourself. Make arrangements before events arise, and address troubles before they take shape. Cut off the beginnings of misfortune and nurture the roots of good fortune. This means preventing trouble while it is still budding, restraining harmful conduct, and supporting good conduct. The sage sets aside personal desires and takes up what the people need to live in comfort; sets aside clever schemes and lets things return to their natural state. When things are left to follow their nature, all things find stability. The people benefit in their daily lives without feeling that anyone has arranged things for them.

The sage transforms the people through a harmonious Qi and guides them through emptiness and stillness. Above, the sage accords with the intent of Dao and De; below, with the heart of the spirits. The influence of De reaches throughout Heaven and Earth and among all the people. The people have no heavy taxes or forced labor, and the ruler bears no crushing burden of official duties. Each person fulfills their nature and settles their Shen. They do not deliberately seek or listen for fame from the outside world, but forget private desires and attachments, taking the ruler as their heart. The ruler embodies Dao and shelters the people with it. The people feel the ruler’s kindness as though it arose from their own hearts. They follow the ruler as children return to their mother, and their daily lives move in accord with the ruler.

The ruler moves forward and withdraws with the people, following the way things are unfolding, and the people change along with him. He issues no commands, yet all under Heaven respond; he takes no deliberate action, yet all things grow. Within the Four Seas there are no coercive orders, yet people’s hearts still change: the good become better, and the cruel grow gentler. The sage treats those said to be bad with kindness, and so in the end receives a good response. The honest become more selfless, and the deceitful gradually grow sincere. The sage treats those who distrust others with trust, and so wins their trust as well. The cruel turn toward goodness, and the crooked return to what is true. Good and bad, trustworthiness and deceit, all ultimately return to their natural state.

The Zhigui repeatedly points to nature as the root, to show that the substance of the highest Dao is profound, still, independent, and enduring, as it has been since antiquity. Dao brings all things to completion, while all things cannot in turn control it; that is why it is called “natural.” Here, “natural” does not mean that each insect and bird simply following its own nature is the highest state. One who embodies Dao can live among ordinary people without showing off or standing apart, allowing all things to transform on their own and gradually return to goodness, so that each can freely unfold its own aims. The saying that the sage does not command through words means that the sage transforms everyone through a harmonious Qi.

At this point, the people are immersed in vast emptiness and stillness and in deep harmony. They forget deliberate thought and live with ease. They leave behind what they dislike, obtain what they need, move forward and withdraw with the seasons, and follow the course of Dao. They do not abandon evil because they are driven by forced prohibitions, nor do they change because they are disciplined by constraining doctrines. They change under the guidance of Wuwei (non-action), without even realizing it.

How is this possible? A ruler governing all under Heaven should be empty, still, and quiet: outwardly, not displaying force; inwardly, like a bellows—empty yet responsive to things. The ruler’s intent should be deep and wide like rivers and seas, and governance should be accommodating like a valley. The ruler should not cling to east or west, north or south; to sweet or bitter, black or white; or rashly decide what is round or square, straight or crooked. The ruler should devote himself to the profound and mysterious Dao while doing as much as possible to remain unseen. This is what is meant by the sage’s humility and gentleness, through which the hearts of all under Heaven return to simplicity.

The ruler does not manipulate all things through private intentions, but lives at ease among them; sets aside personal desires and makes room for what all under Heaven needs. All things appear in their profusion, each revealing its own character. The ruler practices Wuwei and remains composed. Heaven and Earth are like a furnace; the Qi of great harmony is like its bellows; the spirits are like the wind that fans the fire; all things are like iron; De is like the smith; and Dao is like the art of making. In this way, all things under Heaven are nourished and enriched.

The sage has this kind of power and can therefore bring limitless benefit to all things. The sage can shape people’s hearts and change customs, embrace all from above and below, bring all things to completion, and adjust to each according to its circumstances. The transforming influence of the sage’s De moves all beings and reaches across the four directions. The world is vast, and people may not be able to say what is beautiful or ugly; yet a subtle and far-reaching influence naturally leads them to form standards of conduct. The sage moves all things, leading them back toward Dao and letting them follow their own endowments, until fitting norms take shape.

From birth to death, human beings have always depended on Wuwei (non-action: following nature without forcing things). Three in ten live in harmony with the vitality of life; they are calm, still, and balanced. Three in ten move toward death because they overindulge in material things. And three in ten, though alive, drive themselves toward death by chasing fame and profit. Why does this happen? Because they cling too fiercely to life and, in doing so, lose it.

I have heard that those skilled in nourishing life can cultivate Shen (spirit and inner clarity). When they walk on land, they need not avoid rhinoceroses or tigers, and these animals do them no harm. When they enter a battlefield, they need neither armor nor weapons, yet blades cannot wound them. The rhinoceros has no place to gore them because they are gentle and yielding; the tiger has no place to claw them because their body and mind are at peace; and weapons have no place to strike because they offer no vulnerable opening. Why is this so? Because like responds to like. One who abides in a place beyond death does not perish in body.

Dao and De (Virtue/Power) are an undivided whole: spirit powers, clear and turbid forces, and Great Harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are in accord—sink inward and coalesce to become the underlying substance of all things, from which their forms take shape. The life that forms rely on is full of vitality, yet has no visible written form; hence it is called “life.”

Life as such belongs to neither Yin nor Yang and cannot be inferred or measured. It is deep and subtle, beyond the reach of any name; mysterious and hard to understand, it is difficult to give it a name. It is bright yet indistinct, without form or sound, fixed shape or appearance. Its movement and stillness have no set direction: it wanders through the realm of emptiness and silence and dwells in the homeland of nonbeing. With it, life endures; without it, life perishes. When Dao Qi spreads, Yin and Yang harmonize and coalesce, forming life-consciousness. This is called “life.” Yet it is still neither form nor image, and belongs to neither Yin nor Yang. Thus it is said to be “neither Yin nor Yang, dwelling in the homeland of nonbeing.”

Life is lodged within the body: Shen (spirit) is its root, Jing (essence) its foundation, and the nutritive and animating energies that sustain bodily and mental activity its dwelling. The nine openings—the two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, mouth, and the front and rear openings—are its gates. Perception and understanding are its messengers; feelings and intentions, its carriage; the hun and po souls, its attendants; and blood and Qi, its troops.

As life advances, it moves with the Dao; as it recedes, it unfolds with De. It does not depart from Dao and De, yet they cannot wholly confine it. It wanders gently and rests in emptiness; its bending, stretching, bowing, and rising all accord with the moment. It does not take death too seriously, for that would violate the Dao of life; nor does it deliberately crave survival, for clinging to life would make it an enemy of life. When left to itself, life grows naturally, so it cannot be forcibly removed. Deliberately pursuing life, by contrast, hastens death, so life cannot be forcibly held in place. Wuwei (non-action) is the dwelling of life; action driven by intention is the home of death.

When standing, do not cling to yourself; when sitting, forget your private concerns. Let your mind be calm like an infant’s, quiet as though you had no form. Do not deliberately look or listen; do not act rashly or speak at length. Move with change and ebb and flow, with no fixed pattern of activity or stillness. Rise and bow with the Dao, float and sink with De, become one with spirit, and bend and stretch in harmony with the vital energies. Do not regard things as base or people as exalted. Do not pursue the same interests as princes and lords, or bear the same anxieties as ordinary people. Regard life and death as one; make no distinction between existence and extinction. This is Wuwei in self-cultivation.

Spring brings forth, summer nurtures, autumn harvests, and winter stores away. This is the way of following nature’s patterns and responding to the seasons. Be filial toward your parents at home, and sever your thoughts of fame and profit in the world. Do not scheme or force things; do not give in order to receive a return, or demand things from others. Come and go alone, at peace in body and mind. Speak modestly and do not contend with the times. This is Wuwei in governing a household.

Revere Heaven and Earth, and never forget your ancestors. Cultivate yourself and set the standards in order; restrain private desires and appoint others to serve. Examine the facts and establish appropriate distinctions; follow things as they are and harmonize the spirit. Look repeatedly from different angles, so that what comes before and after fits together. Follow principle at every moment, adapting flexibly to the actual circumstances of things. Let the myriad things grow of themselves and return to their natural state. This is Wuwei in governing a state.

Wear “nonbeing” as your crown and “formlessness” as your robe; embrace emptiness, stand upon Heaven and Earth, command Yin and Yang, and make use of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Follow the myriad things, pass through the realm of mystery, act without seeking results, and return to namelessness. This is Wuwei in governing all under Heaven. All who practice Wuwei belong to the category of those who preserve life.

To cling to life and seek longevity, fearing above all that one will not attain it; to force the mind under control and close off the ears and eyes; to practice daoyin exercises and footwork, shaking every joint; to exhale the old Qi and inhale the new, guide the breath, wear the energies of the Five Stars, and absorb the essences of the sun and moon—when body and spirit are constantly exerting themselves without a moment’s rest, this is Youwei (deliberate action) in self-cultivation.

To disregard the seasons and rely on human effort alone; to refuse a low position and force one’s way to a high one; to strive for wealth when poor; to yearn for fame and power, with the mind always reaching after them; to live extravagantly in clothing and food, and do more than is needed—this is Youwei in governing a household.

To expand one’s territory and annex neighboring states, to make light of war and delight in using force; to establish authority through power and pursue renown and dominance; to impose severe punishments and harsh laws, to spread a dense web of surveillance, and to use cruel methods without compassion, making the feudal lords afraid; to keep striving for supremacy, first seeking hegemony and then kingship—this is Youwei in governing a state.

To exalt filial piety, brotherly respect, and benevolence and righteousness; to emphasize ritual and teach the people to care about outward adornment; to refine music, colors, and food to satisfy popular tastes; to use bells, drums, zithers, and lutes to regulate the people’s feelings; to have the ruler issue commands while ministers obey and follow; to proclaim achievements and urge people to perform, to treat the people generously with favors, and to win their allegiance through reputation and orders; to have the ruler arrange everything personally, with every quarter looking to the court—this is Youwei in governing all under Heaven. All who practice Youwei belong to the category of those who move toward death.

Emptiness, nonbeing, clarity, stillness, subtlety, fewness, softness, weakness, lowliness, reduction, timeliness, harmony, and frugality: these thirteen are practices that preserve life. They gather the first stirrings of the Dao and provide a dwelling for nurturing the spirit, so they are called “the followers of life.” Fullness, being, turbidity, agitation, prominence, abundance, hardness, strength, elevation, excess, immoderation, extravagance, and waste: these thirteen are practices that lead toward death. They go against the Dao and run counter to the spirit, so they are called “the followers of death.”

Why is this so? The sage acts with a basis and responds aptly in stillness. The body’s structure—its four limbs and nine openings—is part of the visible conditions outside oneself; changes such as emptiness and fullness, hardness and softness, concern the inner principles of life and death. Thus the thirteen items explain the inner and outer: within are thirteen principles that allow life to endure; without is the body, with its four limbs, nine openings, and other parts.

Emptiness can give rise to fullness; nonbeing can keep the myriad things alive. Clarity sharpens hearing and opens understanding; stillness makes the mind lucid. Subtlety can bring about prominence; fewness can lead to abundance. Softness can give rise to strength; weakness can give rise to firmness. Being low can lead to a high position; reducing can bring increase. Following the times brings things into accord; harmony brings balance; frugality leaves a surplus. This is called increasing life. Whoever can follow this path can accord with Heaven and Earth. Used to cultivate oneself, it can make life endure; used to govern a state, it can make the state enduringly secure. Even if one wished to violate this principle, the transformative workings of nature would not allow it. Since emptiness, nonbeing, clarity, and stillness accord with the Dao, they can bring forth the myriad things. They flow together with the transformations of nature, so nature does not permit people to go against them.

Fullness leads to emptiness; being leads to extinction. Turbidity blocks hearing, while agitation deprives people of clear judgment. What is prominent becomes insignificant; what is abundant becomes scarce. Hardness and strength invite softness and disaster; being high leads to lowliness; fullness invites loss; excess brings obstruction; extravagance leads to hardship; waste invites misfortune. These are all inauspicious. Follow this path, and you will ultimately fall into difficulty. These thirteen become burdens on the body and sources of calamity, so each action leads to hardship. Used to cultivate oneself, they cannot make life endure; used to govern a state, they cannot bring the state peace. Even if one wished to avoid these consequences, the patterns of Heaven and Earth would not comply. Youwei must fail: this is the natural order.

Yet everyone has life and keeps wanting to add things to it; everyone has a body and keeps cherishing and clinging to it. Their actions repeatedly fall into Youwei, and their clever schemes and plans are constantly aroused. Human life therefore often moves toward the realm of death. People abandon emptiness and pursue fullness, forsake nonbeing and rely on being, leave clarity and enter turbidity, turn away from stillness and create agitation; they make the subtle prominent and turn the few into the many. They abandon softness and weakness for hardness and strength, cast aside humility to seek high positions, abandon reduction to pursue fullness, and let the times go by while pushing toward excess. They forsake harmony and create extravagance, reject frugality and practice waste. Why do they do this? Because they value themselves too highly and forget the Dao of life. This is what is meant by “the followers of death.”

Therefore, those skilled at nurturing life are open-hearted and detached from worldly conventions. They travel far and stand apart, free from worldly constraints and unburdened by the dust of the world. They let the body rest in a state of nonattachment and let the spirit roam in boundless realms. They do not regard life as a gain or death as a calamity. They treat all things, great and small, as equal, just like their own body, without hatred or preference. Their spirit is then abundant, and blessings and De gather around them. With the Dao as their inner guide, its radiance appears naturally. In the face of the transformations of Heaven and Earth, people, and things, they respond naturally; nothing can harm or defeat them.

On land, rhinoceroses and tigers cannot harm them; in battle, weapons cannot injure them. This is not because they possess something else that makes their enemies unable to subdue them. Rather, their spirit and Qi are in harmony with the myriad things, and the impulse to harm them has already faded of itself. Those skilled at nurturing life do not hate the myriad things, and regard them as they regard themselves. The myriad things respond in harmony, neither drawing near to them nor hating them. The principle is like a shadow following a body; it does not depend on some art for controlling the myriad things. A sound is followed by an echo; things respond according to their own kind. Rhinoceroses and tigers find no place to strike with their claws, and weapons find no place to bring down their blades, because such people do not inhabit the realm that summons death. Those skilled at nurturing life have no intention of harming others within, and thus show no outward sign of suffering death or injury. The saying “tigers find no place to strike with their claws, and weapons find no place to bring down their blades” means precisely that they have not placed themselves in the realm of death. There is truth in this.

The Dao (the Way) gives rise to all things, imparting to each its endowment and nature. De (Virtue/Power) nurtures all things, enabling each to live. As things take shape, they appear in countless different forms and kinds; various conditions and tendencies allow these forms to develop and come to completion. Thus all things are able to grow, and all honor the Dao and cherish De, regarding them as their root.

The Dao is honored and De cherished because they are vast and abundant. No one grants them a rank, and no name can fully describe them. They always follow their own nature; this is their inherent character. The Dao gives rise to and nurtures all things, allowing them to endure. De nourishes all things, allowing them to become whole. It helps them grow, so that none fail to benefit; nurtures them, so that none are left unsettled; brings them to completion, so that each can fulfill its use; brings them to maturity, so that none fail to thrive; and sustains them, so that none fail to benefit. All of this arises naturally.

The Dao gives rise to all things and allows them to endure; De nurtures them and allows them to become whole. It helps them grow, find peace, reach completion and maturity, and receive nourishment; it also shelters them, giving them a place of refuge. The Dao gives rise to and nurtures all things, yet does not claim ownership of them or treat them as possessions. It acts, yet does not presume to take credit, for it seeks nothing. It helps all things grow, yet does not rule over them or count this as its own achievement. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and hidden Virtue): De is at work, yet does not know itself as De.

The wisdom of the sage does not descend from Heaven or arise from beneath the earth. It is inherent within oneself and is also present throughout the myriad things. By following the patterns of nature, one can understand everything; by observing how things unfold, one can discover principles without end. Thus the Dao (the Way) is empty and De (Virtue/Power) has no form, yet neither loses its root. Heaven is high and Earth is low, each following its own natural order.

Why is this so? People understand things through what they already know, and can see how something will take shape before it has appeared: what is formless becomes visible, and what is empty gives rise to substance. From a subtle sign, one can know the evident result; by observing the beginning of something, one can foresee its end. This does not come from a clever technique, but from following the patterns inherent in things. The sage acts in accordance with these patterns and thus accords with the Way of Heaven.

Therefore, those who understand the Dao take the Great Void—the vast, formless emptiness—as their root and can contain all things. This is because the Dao endows each thing with its own nature. Those who understand De take Ultimate Nonbeing—without trace or partiality—as their root and can give to all things. This is because De gives life to all things. The Dao works through Wuwei (non-action), allowing each thing to take shape without claiming to rule it; it acts without taking possession. De makes no deliberate arrangements, yet allows each thing to form in its own way and claims no credit. In this way, Dao and De nourish nature and life, regulate feelings and thoughts, give rise to aims and desires, and bring about the transformation of all things.

What are nature, life, feelings, thoughts, aims, and desires? These six are distinct.

The body and inborn endowment received from the Dao give rise to differences among people and things: distinctions between male and female; intelligence or foolishness, courage or timidity; differences in size and length; benevolence, integrity, greed, or cruelty; strength and weakness, lightness and heaviness; and variations in sound, color, appearance, refinement, and rank. These are called “nature.” They arise from within, are received from the Dao, and ultimately become relatively stable aspects of one’s nature.

The riches and poverty, high and low status, longevity and early death, suffering and joy, and favorable or unfavorable circumstances received from De are called “Heavenly allotment.” These come from outside and are received through De’s endowment; changes in one’s circumstances are also related to one’s actions. Encounters with rulers, parents, or changes in Heaven and Earth, as well as experiences of good and bad fortune, rise and decline, survival and death, are called “allotted circumstances.” These are conditions one happens upon by chance and are not fixed. When the myriad things appear in profusion and a person acts—taking or setting aside, choosing or abandoning—good or ill fortune follows. This is called “the allotment that follows one’s actions”: the corresponding results one receives through what one does.

When nature stirs and, in contact with things outside oneself, responds with love or aversion, liking or dislike, fear or alarm, joy or anger, grief or delight, worry or resentment, advancing or withdrawing, taking or rejecting, these are called “feelings.” Feelings arise from nature and often appear without one being aware of them. When a person acts in response to their allotment, then thinks and plans, judges safety and danger, handles affairs, distinguishes right from wrong, and separates likeness from difference, this is called “thought.” Thought moves in response to one’s allotment and is also influenced by one’s actions.

When feelings and thoughts turn outward and become bound up with things, the heart-mind develops preferences, which can bring misfortune or good fortune and lead one to pursue fame. This is called “aim.” Once nature and life have stirred and feelings and thoughts have appeared, a person exerts effort and perseveres on their basis, forming an aim. When one follows nature and life and satisfies feelings and thoughts, being drawn along by things and constrained by the myriad affairs, one gradually becomes attached and finds it hard to break free. This is called “desire.” Desire arises from feelings and thoughts, yet may exceed one’s nature and allotment; therefore, it must not be allowed to run unchecked.

All six have their source in Dao and De and change without limit. Only those who understand Dao and De can follow their patterns. The Dao is the root; whoever grasps the root can choose when to advance and withdraw, and will not be driven by feelings and desires. People’s natures differ in refinement and coarseness, and their allotments and circumstances differ in rank; these may all change, increase, or diminish. Whoever grasps the root will not cling to being or nonbeing.

Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things all contain a living heart-mind and a core. Every kind of thing comes to life through the Dao, but the Dao does not possess it. The Dao causes things to grow but does not claim ownership. The myriad things attain the One—the fundamental unity of the Dao through which each takes shape—and are formed, yet the One seeks no repayment from them. The myriad things revere and draw close to the Dao, but nothing can repay its beneficence. All things take form through the Supreme One, yet the Supreme One demands no return. This is the principle by which, when things reach their utmost, they disappear into one another.

Why is this so? The Dao is lofty and De is vast; they are too profound to be expressed in words. External things cannot make them richer, and rank cannot make them more exalted. They act without action and bring all things to completion, without making external things the purpose of their activity. They are not compelled by anything; this is simply their nature. The Dao follows things and moves of itself, without deliberately acting for their sake. The order of things unfolds naturally, without being driven by anything outside itself.

Therefore, the Dao has no gate through which it can be glimpsed, no path by which it can be observed, and no form that can be touched. If one tries to depict it, one finds no fixed image; the mind cannot fully comprehend it, and words cannot adequately express it. All things are born through it, yet it does not diminish; all things return to it, yet it does not become full. It extends without limit above and below, vast and boundless, beyond measure in its waxing and waning, advance and retreat. It moves through what is exceedingly minute without regarding it as small, and encompasses all the heavens without regarding them as many. Whether brilliantly manifest or dark and still, its nature does not change. This is called “constancy.”

The Dao operates without following any set way and without preference; it endows all things with their nature and life and leaves nothing undone. De spreads through all things and cannot be withdrawn; its beneficence gathers among them without being displayed. Dao and De are skilled at giving and nurturing growth, like the bellows that release breath: breath keeps flowing forth and cannot be taken back. They nurture all things under Heaven without being depleted and bring all affairs to completion without being exhausted. For the myriad things, is the Dao only what brings them into being? It also gives them form, establishes them, shapes them, sorts and distributes them, and brings them to stability and maturity. It gives things endings and beginnings, and places them before or after one another.

For the myriad things, the Dao is like water for fish: it enables them to grow, come to completion, end, and begin again, and they cannot be separated from it even for an instant. The Dao is both after and before the myriad things. The spirits find their abode through it, and the Qi (vital energy) of Great Harmony is sustained through it. Clear Qi gathers above and turbid Qi congeals below; thus Heaven becomes round and Earth square, and Yin and Yang each take their own character. The sun and moon shine through it, the stars move through it, the seasons change through it, and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) constrain one another through it. Fire is hot and water cold through it; plants and trees are soft, and metal and stone are hard. Tastes are sweet or bitter, colors dark or yellow, sounds high or low, and things undergo changes of expansion and contraction. Mountains and hills stand firm, and winds and rains move. Scaled creatures swim, feathered creatures fly, beasts run, and human beings are intelligent. All things, however different in kind and lineage, persist through the Dao; through change they take on distinctions and oppositions, differences in rank, and through change they also pass away.

The myriad things under Heaven take different forms, live in different waters and soils, follow customs that diverge, and differ in what benefits or harms them. Their appearances are plainly unlike, and their thoughts and desires do not accord. The changes of Yin and Yang cannot fully encompass these differences, and the light of the sun and moon cannot illuminate them all. Yet the Dao runs through their beginnings and ends. In a person’s opening the mouth and eyes, bending and stretching, turning to either side, looking up or down, and even in every breath in and out, there is no place the spirits pass through, no place the thoughts dwell, no place affection is bestowed, and no process of reproduction and change between female and male that is not guided and sustained by the Dao. The Dao causes all things to grow but does not treat them as its property; it acts but asks nothing of them; it helps them mature but does not claim ownership.

People under Heaven are confused and fail to understand this. The Dao is deep and still, without form, yet it can generate the myriad things. People have been lost for a long time, and so they do not understand.

Some say, “Dao and De are the spirits of Heaven and Earth, while Heaven and Earth are the forms in which Dao and De appear.” Others hold that Dao and De are the function of Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth their substance. To understand it this way is like being a small insect in an urn or a louse inside a garment: one sees only a narrow corner and cannot speak of the Great Dao. Why? Because Dao and De encompass the whole of Heaven and Earth. Zhuangzi said that Heaven and Earth have form and kind, whereas Dao and De have no form. Whatever has form and kind is limited in number; what is formless has no end. Limited things depend upon the limitless, just as plants and trees depend on soil and the myriad stars on the sky. Yet these comparisons alone are still insufficient to explain it.

If one does not accept this, one does not understand how being and nonbeing contain one another, or how emptiness and substance encompass each other. It is like failing to see the vine tendrils joining the segments of a gourd, or like a louse hidden in a fur coat that does not know there are vast cities beyond it.

Therefore, from beyond the cosmos to within the bounds of Heaven and Earth, nothing is constrained by the limits of the formless or confined by fixed rules. Safety and danger, waxing and waning, birth and death, and transformation have no absolute distinction between inside and outside. All things receive the Dao’s transformation together; in harmony and mutual accord, they are preserved and display their beauty, escaping injury and decay. Every kind of good fortune and blessing is covered by the Dao. The Dao’s workings are deep and subtle, hidden from the world. People under Heaven cannot see them, yet they are always at work. The Dao welcomes and sends off all things at every moment without revealing its traces; once it is taken to be some particular image, it is no longer the true Dao. Words cannot exhaust the constant Dao, nor can ordinary understanding grasp it. This is called “Mysterious De”—profound and unseen De, whose beneficence can aid the limitless myriad things.

All things under heaven have their own beginning. This beginning is the Dao of Wuwei (non-action), the source of all things. Grasp this source and follow nature, and you can understand how things come into being. Once you understand how they arise, you can comprehend the principles of the world. Therefore, return to the source and hold fast to the beginning. In this way, you will remain free from danger throughout your life and ultimately find peace.

Close the openings of the senses and keep the ears and eyes quiet. Shut the gate of speech and do not speak without cause. If you do not wear yourself out over external things throughout your life, you will not fall into hardship. But if you let the senses chase after external things, busy yourself with every kind of affair, display your cleverness, and pursue fame, you will find it hard to save yourself and preserve your integrity.

To perceive what is subtle and foresee signs before events become apparent is called “clarity.” Only by holding to gentleness can one be truly strong, and by taking calmness as one’s constant way. Letting one’s brilliance shine outward dissipates the spirit; returning to inward insight gathers the mind and brings one back to oneself. Keeping oneself free from misfortune is the greatest achievement. This is called inheriting the constant Dao and following its principles.

The Zhigui says: The Dao has neither form nor shape, yet it can be perceived before things become apparent. Holding to gentleness is true strength, and calmness should be taken as one’s constant way. When the spirit is displayed outward, the mind and spirit move outward with it; only by returning to inward insight can one return to oneself. Keeping oneself free from misfortune is the greatest achievement. This is called inheriting the constant Dao and following its principles.

The Dao itself has no body or shape, no thoughts or intentions, and no deliberate memory, reflection, understanding, or discernment. It has no beginning and no fixed direction. It does not act deliberately or manage affairs, but appears as a state of emptiness, calm indifference, obscurity, and stillness.

The Dao nurtures and transforms the myriad things by changing within what does not change and producing motion within what does not move. Opposites transform into one another, each complementing the other: reversal gives rise to covering, and covering gives rise to reversal. Being arises from nonbeing, and nonbeing is revealed through being. The myriad things move naturally through this recurring cycle. When the Dao does not act deliberately, the myriad things arise; when there is no human interference, each thing comes to fulfillment in its own way. Thus Wuwei (non-action) is the Dao’s fundamental state and the beginning of Heaven and Earth. This is what “all under Heaven has a beginning” means.

Wuwei is subtle and wondrous, pervasive and all-encompassing. It is harmonious and still, with nothing it cannot regulate. It gives life and nourishment to the myriad things, enabling them to be intelligent and skillful; it reaches everywhere and can nourish all. Thus the Dao is the source of purposeful action and the mother of all things: it is “the mother of all under Heaven.”

When a sage understands the Dao, he can act in accord with the transformations of the myriad things, rather than seeking only to perfect himself. He responds to things as circumstances require, using subtle means without fixed limits. This unbounded activity guides the myriad things back to the Dao. Hence, once we understand where the myriad things come from, we must also hold fast to their source. The sage understands the mind of the Dao and the principles of Heaven, knows the root from which the myriad things are nurtured, and opens the way to accomplishing affairs. Drawing on knowledge from every quarter, he exhausts the arguments of all people, the methods of different schools, and the abilities of the many traditions. Since these forms of knowledge and skill all arise from the Dao, they are called the Dao’s “children.”

One who attains the Dao and moves through it in harmony acts in response to changing circumstances, cultivates himself in accord with the Dao, and follows its cycles. He can communicate with spirits and set ghosts in motion, making the formless manifest. He handles affairs without mishap and explores the limitless without being confined by boundaries. In the end, he returns to the root of the myriad things and holds fast to their mother. Through this cycle of transformation, he becomes the foundation of all under Heaven, roaming in the depths of the mysterious and profound, safe throughout his life.

Therefore, the sage restrains his intelligence and closes the gates through which the senses rush outward. He uses the tongue as a bolt and the mind as a lock; he does not act when the time is wrong, or initiate anything that disrupts harmony. In this way, a state can endure, and a person can live out his life without calamity. “Block the openings and close the gates” means restraining the senses and shutting their gates. Why do this? If one does not deliberately listen, hearing becomes as keen as Heaven’s; if one does not deliberately look, sight becomes as clear as Heaven’s. If one does not force instruction through words, one’s De (Virtue/Power) accords with Heaven; if one does not act recklessly, what one accomplishes accords with Heaven’s efficacy.

The sage holds fast to the root and acts with care, allowing the radiance of De to shine unobscured and the patterns of Heaven and Earth to flow without hindrance. Thus he responds to the myriad things as an echo answers a sound and a shadow follows a form. He observes things without end and becomes the beginning of good fortune and the source of transformation. He flows everywhere, joining the vast Way of harmony and balance. He remains at peace, the myriad things flourish, and all under Heaven is governed without toil. The activity of one who has attained the Dao does not ordinarily rely on deliberate exertion. Like an echo answering a sound or a shadow following a form, it happens naturally; therefore, one labors not throughout one’s life.

Straining to look damages the eyes; straining to listen damages the ears. Eager speech harms De, and artful contrivance ruins one’s work. Therefore, when people indulge their tongues and strain their eyes and ears, all kinds of schemes and calculations arise together, and the myriad things proliferate in confusion. People exert themselves to display their cleverness and make a name for themselves; once their work is done and fame is won, calamity may follow and their good fortune come to an end. Action falls into Heaven’s net, while stillness falls into Earth’s misfortune. The spirits cannot protect them, and the transformations of Heaven and Earth cannot nourish them. The people may perish and the state may be destroyed. This happens because they open the senses and force their way through affairs, acting deliberately against the Dao until there is no way to save them.

Therefore, the sage sets aside deliberate action and ceases to manage affairs by human contrivance. He understands the mind of the Dao and puts its De into practice, grasps the pivot of limitless change, and holds to the essentials of nature. He dwells where things have not yet appeared and rests in the mysterious. He hears what has not yet sounded and sees what has not yet taken shape. Before a sprout has stirred or signs have separated, he already perceives the formless changes. He understands what lies beyond appearances and beyond the bounds of things. Thus subtle evil thoughts have no chance to arise, and manifest calamities do not arrive. “Seeing the small is clarity” means detecting trouble in its earliest, most subtle form, so that evil thoughts cease and good actions can be carried out.

When the sage acts, he speaks little and quiets his thoughts, gathers gentleness, remains humble and yielding, and returns to a state free of contention and scrutiny. He puts down violence and aids the weak, aligning himself with the wondrous transformations of nature. Thus he can overcome any opponent and accomplish any task without prevailing through cleverness or force; all under Heaven is unable to scheme against him. This is what “holding to the soft is called strength” means.

The sage governs human affairs and regulates the myriad things in harmony with Yin-Yang. He uses intelligence outwardly without going against nature. He arranges clothing, food, farming, and silkworm cultivation and weaving so that supplies are abundant. Good fortune accumulates and calamities disperse; everyone has the means to live, and every household has enough food and clothing. He harbors no greed and does not yearn for wealth and status because of a low position, nor rushes to become rich because of poverty. He treasures small things and values frugality. His conduct, within and without, is never excessive: he honors elders above and cares for the people below, so that all human relationships are properly fulfilled. After applying intelligence outwardly, he returns to inner clarity and stillness. Returning to the heart, his spirit is not depleted and his resources remain secure, yet he does not treat any of this as cleverness to display.

The sage is like the rivers and seas, in accord with the Way of Heaven. He does away with harmful contrivances and affairs, preventing them from filling the mind and making the Dao impossible to discern. At ease in obscurity, he lets the eyes and ears rest from striving, thereby aligning himself with Heaven and Earth. Holding to the profound and remaining silent, he connects with the Dao. In this way he avoids calamity and keeps far from anxiety, bears De and preserves harmony, and can overcome anything he encounters. This is because he does not allow calamity to settle within him.

A person can enter the Dao, and the Dao can enter a person; they join one another and become one. By holding to stillness and keeping the heart empty and clear, a person becomes a dwelling place for the Dao, moving naturally alongside the myriad things in a state of complete and seamless unity, returning to the original root. The Dao gathers layer upon layer within the person and becomes one with them. “Xi” means overlapping, attached in successive layers. When one’s De joins with the constant Dao, it is like wearing garment after garment; hence the saying, “The Dao layers itself upon me,” meaning that one has joined with the constant Dao.

If I understood the Great Dao even a little, and knew how to uphold the bright, upright Way, I would follow the Dao, cultivate what is right, and preserve my natural constancy. I would only fear that, when taking action, I might stray from the right path. The Great Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer shortcuts and act recklessly as they please.

Look at those places: palaces and halls are renovated to be splendid and spacious, while the fields lie abandoned and overgrown with weeds. The storehouses stand empty because farming has been neglected. People wear fine, brightly colored clothes, carry sharp swords at their waists, and kill as they please. They eat and drink until they are full, even drunk, and amass great stores of wealth. This is called flaunting oneself like a bandit, displaying violence and extravagance for all to see. Can this be in accord with the Dao? It violates the Way of Heaven.

The Zhigui says: “Virtue does not rely on cleverness to prevail in competition; therefore, it can nurture and transform Heaven and Earth and bring Yin-Yang into being. Heaven and Earth cannot deceive it.” The passage that follows repeats: “They are weary of food, always eating their fill and getting drunk; their goods and wealth are in excess, their hoards and holdings abundant. This is called flaunting oneself like a bandit, displaying violence and extravagance. Is this not contrary to the Dao, and in conflict with Heaven?” It then continues, “Heaven and Earth do not…” The sentence is incomplete in the surviving text, so it cannot be explained further in a coherent way.

The Dao and De do not rely on cleverness, yet they nurture and transform Heaven and Earth and set Yin-Yang in motion. Heaven and Earth cannot deceive them. Heaven and Earth do not rely on cleverness, yet they contain and display change, allowing the myriad kinds of beings to live and die. Nothing can escape their influence. Once the Dao and De abandon what is natural and instead rely on cleverness, they cannot preserve themselves. How, then, could they nurture and transform Heaven and Earth or set Yin-Yang in motion? Once Heaven and Earth abandon what is natural and instead rely on cleverness, they too cannot give life and nurture. How, then, could they contain change and preserve the myriad things?

Here, “natural” means that things are as they are according to their own nature: water naturally flows downward, and fire naturally rises upward. These are within each thing’s own nature; they are not deliberate acts. Thus, emptiness and non-action, without contrived knowledge or desire, are the original heart of the Dao and De, and the intent of Heaven and Earth. To model oneself quietly on what is natural and respond in keeping with the situation is how the Dao and De operate, and how Heaven and Earth change. The Dao and De accord with the myriad things, and Heaven and Earth set change in motion—like an image appearing in a shadow or an echo sounding in empty space. There is nothing difficult to understand about this.

How can this be explained? The Zhuangzi says: “What the Dao brings forth and what Heaven sets in motion begin where there is no beginning, arise where there is no arising, exist where there is no existence, and perish where there is no perishing.” No beginning, no arising, no existence, and no perishing: this is the source of the Dao and De. These are clear proofs of what is natural and the constant principle underlying change.

Therefore, if a person acts without following the Dao, the Dao will not protect them; if they do not follow De, De will not assist them; if they do not follow Heaven, Heaven will not shelter them; if they do not follow Earth, Earth will not bear them. Without the protection of the Dao and De or the shelter and support of Heaven and Earth, calamity will not stay away, and good fortune and De will not draw near. People receive Qi from the Dao and De, and take form between Heaven and Earth. If their conduct does not follow the Dao, they will naturally have nowhere to rest; good fortune and De will gradually recede, and disaster will draw ever closer.

Thus, the sages and recluses who understand the Great Dao are open-hearted, keen of ear and clear-sighted. Yet they follow the Dao and honor De, cast aside clever schemes, and do not put their own interests first. They hold firmly to their purpose and remain constantly vigilant, fearing that they might stray from the right path. They strive to master the skill that shows no cleverness and seek the insight that makes no display of intelligence. They are honest and compliant, gentle and humble; they work the land with their own hands to sustain themselves, know when enough is enough, and return to namelessness. They are cautious and watchful, fearing the loss of the natural Way, and concerned that calamity might spread to Heaven and Earth and the people. Those who truly understand and practice the Great Dao fear above all else that they might violate it.

Therefore, auspicious signs and the arrival of good fortune and De are like a shadow following a body or an echo answering a sound. They are not arranged in advance; action and result seem to occur together. The Great Dao is level and easy to follow. It transforms and nurtures the myriad things without revealing its form. It seems distant, yet is close at hand; it seems obscure, yet is clear. It is plain and free of stain, simple and easy to put into practice. Through Wuwei, it accomplishes things; without disturbance, it brings abundant blessings. Heaven and Earth follow the Great Dao, and the myriad things grow as a result.

The Great Dao is plain and easy, yet the people turn away from it. They rely on cleverness and intelligence, and abandon the Dao through deceit and artifice. They violate Earth and defy the Way of Heaven, extol knowledge and cunning, deceive ghosts and insult spirits, disguise evil and lust, and abandon truth for falsehood. They also devise new systems and change the laws, stirring up affairs in pursuit of achievement. People always love to take shortcuts. So they build towering houses and ornate pavilions, set up broad gates and lofty entrances, decorate them with strange objects, and add painted designs and patterns. They make knowledge their foundation and technique their standard, and so the court, too, is adorned with excessive splendor.

People wield deception like an axe and false ingenuity like a plane. They manipulate power and calculation, disdain spinning and weaving, and look down on farming. The fields lie neglected and overgrown with weeds; crops fail to grow, and the granaries stand empty. The fields are barren, and the storehouses are void.

People wear brightly colored clothes, with brocade and embroidery woven together in striking black and yellow. They also wear fine, lightweight, and costly silk fabrics, seeking to dazzle with their splendor. This is what is meant by “fine clothing.” They wear sharp swords, don sturdy armor, wield powerful crossbows and bows, and ride swift horses in light chariots, gathering fierce men around them who delight in fighting. Their power is imposing and their prestige spreads. They kill the innocent indiscriminately and force the people into service. They envy those who are honest and humble, and resent those who are loyal and trustworthy. They ally themselves with evil and deceitful people and make enemies of the good. They honor strife and prize military force, oppress wherever they can, and even extend their power beyond their borders, often plotting to assassinate their ruler. This is what is meant by “wearing sharp swords.”

People crave delicacies of the Five Flavors and kill living beings, cutting open pregnant animals and capturing and killing their young, in defiance of Heaven’s intent. In their daily lives they eat and drink to excess and take without restraint. This is what is meant by “eating one’s fill.”

People amass great quantities of gold and jade, piling up wealth like a mountain and gathering treasures enough to rival a ruler. They move about in luxury, dazzling with rare and strange things, and live in splendor and prominence, separated from the common people and removed from ordinary life, as if they alone stood above the world. In troubled times, people instead praise such figures and call them “great men.” This is called “the boast of a thief”: using plunder and self-display to flaunt one’s power.

Such people are more wicked than others; their offenses are grave and their calamities far-reaching. A worthy father will not accept them, and a wise ruler will not employ them. They receive no protection from the Great Dao and no shelter from the spirits. Heaven does not cover them, and the myriad things resent them. While alive, they invite calamity; after death, they leave harm behind. Even if they themselves escape misfortune, trouble will pass down to their descendants. All this comes from acting against the Great Dao.

Those who are skilled at establishing a lasting enterprise make its foundations firm and unshakable, because they take the Dao (the Way) as the basis of their lives. Those who are skilled at preserving what they have established never abandon what they safeguard, because they hold De (Virtue/Power) close to their hearts. In this way, their descendants continue the ancestral offerings from generation to generation, and the family line endures without end.

When they cultivate Dao and De in themselves, their virtue becomes genuine and their lives settled and orderly. When they put them into practice within the family, relatives live in harmony and care for one another; virtue then has enough strength to be passed on and to help people bring out the best in each other. When they put them into practice in their village, everyone fulfills their role, virtue endures, and nothing is beyond their ability to manage. When they put them into practice in their state, they establish principles of governance, and virtue grows abundant, undisturbed by slander or treachery. When they put them into practice throughout the world, they set standards for all to follow, virtue reaches everywhere, and people across the world submit willingly.

Thus, by observing oneself, one can understand others; by observing one’s own family, one can understand other families; by observing one’s own village, one can understand villages elsewhere; by observing one’s own state, one can understand other states; and by observing the world, one can infer the distant from the near. How do I know these principles? I reason them out from what is true of myself.

The Zhigui explains: Heaven and Earth are vast and deep; customs differ from place to place; the myriad things are numerous, their changes without end, and their relations of benefit and harm complex and shifting. How, then, could everything be the same? Yet these principles can still be understood by reasoning from oneself.

Between Heaven and Earth there is vast distance, customs differ from place to place, the kinds of things are many, and their changes have no end; the ties of benefit and harm are also intricate. Thus, sometimes people can control the situation and sometimes they cannot; sometimes they can accomplish something and sometimes they cannot.

I am bound up with all under Heaven: I influence the world, and the world influences me. If I place myself among the people, when we meet, they are many and I am alone. When the few contend with the many, the people may remain secure, but the individual is easily put in danger. So if I establish myself through my own insight, others’ insight will surpass mine; if I rely on my cleverness, it will invite attack; if I rely on my strength, it will be threatened. Only by not acting presumptuously can I avoid being easily overcome.

How do we know this is so? Silently seek a sound, and the sound will not answer me. Hide in the shade and seek a shadow, and the shadow will not follow me. If, fearing an echo, I strike metal, the echo answers all the louder. If, disliking my shadow, I stand in the sunlight, the shadow follows me all the more closely. From this we can see that Wuwei (non-action) cannot make people escape good fortune, and action cannot make them escape calamity.

Therefore, the sage abandons displays of strength, cunning, cleverness, and the struggle for distinction. The sage stands in the Dao (the Way) and holds fast to De (Virtue/Power), gathers and preserves Jing (essence) and nurtures Shen (spirit), harmonizes body and mind while remaining supple and yielding, with feet on the earth and head beneath Heaven. This is to establish a sound foundation, and so become unshakable. The sage is empty, still, and unattached, seeming to be there and yet not there. Inside and out, all settles into stillness. In the depths of mystery, the sage responds to change and thereby avoids calamity. The sage acts without forcing and does not meddle, returning to simplicity and original nature, without clinging to fixed rules or measures, responding naturally as things change. One who is skilled at holding fast to the root will not lose it.

The sage holds to the small, fundamental Dao and through it undertakes great affairs, governing and nurturing the people. Whether dealing with what is square or round, what comes first or later, the sage remains constantly within the Dao, keeping body and mind upright and at peace, and passing this De on to descendants so that ancestral rites continue without end. As De accumulates, its teaching spreads widely and its influence becomes boundless. Even if it wanes for a time, it can flourish again, enduring alongside the Way of Heaven.

When Dao and De are used to cultivate oneself, one’s nature becomes simple, one’s emotions readily settle, and one’s mind grows open while one’s aspirations unfold. One can see what is near and far, light and dark, without being misled by appearances. One cherishes Shen and safeguards Qi (vital energy), thinks little of external things and empty fame, and is not confused in thought. Qi and blood are in harmony, sinews and bones supple, hearing and sight keen, skin moist, and complexion bright. The spirit is focused and firm, life brims with vitality, and the body is light and strong. This fine state is difficult to maintain for long. Cultivating the body through the Dao makes De genuine.

When Dao and De are used to govern a family, husband and wife are faithful to each other; fathers are loving and children filial; elder brothers are kind and younger brothers respectful; the clan is harmonious and close-knit. Farming and silkworm raising follow the seasons, the family’s stores are ample, livestock thrive, household affairs are well managed, and there is often a surplus. Neighbors, too, are glad to draw near. Governing a family through the Dao leaves De in abundance.

When Dao and De are used to govern a community, one can discern the guiding principles and proper order of governance, and act with balance and fairness, so that titles accord with reality. Good and evil are clearly distinguished, right and wrong have their standards, and what is true and false becomes plain; there is no room for treachery to take root. Orders carry authority: once issued, they are carried out, and what is forbidden is stopped. Those above teach those below, who are as close as father and child; those above and below respect and trust one another, and the people are harmonious and united. Official business does not pile up. Officials fulfill their duties and earn good reputations, and are called exemplary people. Their De is always abundant, and they remain free from danger throughout their lives. Governing a community through the Dao makes De grow.

When Dao and De are used to govern a state, the ruler is wise and the ministers loyal. The court does not block the path by which worthy people advance, and officials do not envy others’ achievements. Evil cannot obscure the right path, and slander cannot damage public affairs. Those above and below live in harmony and accord, with no resentment between them. Officials are glad to serve, and all things follow their natural course. People from afar look on with admiration, and customs throughout the world tend toward unity. The state is prosperous and the people well provided for; it is strong without boasting of military might. The ancestral temple is honored, the state is secure, Yin-Yang is harmonized, and calamities and disorder do not arise. All things yield abundantly, the land is at peace, neighboring states can entrust their safety to it, and its descendants flourish. When De is complete, it accords with the Way of Heaven and endures. Governing a state through the Dao makes De flourish.

When Dao and De are used to govern all under Heaven, the ruler occupies the still, receptive position of Yin, while ministers take on the active role of Yang. The ruler is still while ministers act; the ruler embraces the Way of wholeness while ministers carry out the particular and definite; the ruler follows the times while ministers initiate and implement; the ruler speaks little while ministers give voice to affairs. In this way, government is upright and fair, coordinated and coherent; governance is simple and unforced, quiet and soundless. The transformation through De passes between people, and intentions and understanding are communicated swiftly. Its workings have no fixed bounds, and its changes resemble the Way of Heaven. Without personally rushing about, one can understand; without forcing action, one can accomplish. When achievements accord with the Dao, all under Heaven returns to its original nature, free of disturbance and worry, and peace arises naturally. Governing all under Heaven through the Dao makes De prevail everywhere.

Thus, I can take myself as a measure for observing others; my family as a measure for assessing other families; my community as a standard for observing other communities; and my state as a yardstick for assessing other states. This is what is meant by observing others from oneself, other families from one’s own family, other states from one’s own state, and all under Heaven from the whole world.

The ruler is the center of all under Heaven, while all under Heaven is like the ruler’s body. The safety or danger of the world is bound up with the ruler: ruler and people alike share in benefit or harm, and together follow the right path or stray from it. When ruler and people are both kept whole, all under Heaven can be at peace. Family and state protect one another, and the ruler and the world are closely joined. If the ruler can set himself right, all under Heaven will naturally follow the right path.

Therefore, one who understands oneself can understand all things; one who governs oneself well can govern all affairs. What is suited to oneself can be suited to all under Heaven, and what benefits oneself can benefit all under Heaven. There is no principle that applies to others but not to oneself. A principle that does not apply to oneself yet applies only to others has no place in the world. The saying that one word can guide a person throughout life probably refers to “shu,” or reciprocity: treating others as you would wish to be treated. How did Laozi know that the principles of all under Heaven are so? The basis lies here.

End of Volume Nine of The True Meaning of the Dao De Jing.

“Falsehood can alter a person’s nature and disposition.” The original text reads: “Practice the way of forgiveness throughout your life, and perhaps you will become tolerant. How do I know that the principles people speak of throughout the world are like this? I know from this. It is precisely from this.”

Profound De enables a person’s body and mind to accord with the Dao’s origin, like the softness and emptiness of a newborn infant. Venomous insects do not sting it, poisonous snakes do not harm it; fierce birds of prey do not seize or injure it, and wild beasts do not pounce on it or menace it. The infant’s bones are weak and its sinews soft. Though its body seems fragile, it can grip things tightly, and its fingers are not easily pried open. It knows nothing yet of sexual union, yet its genitals naturally become erect. This is because its Jing and Qi are abundant and its spirit is vigorous, not because it acts deliberately. When Jing and Qi reach their utmost fullness, Shen is abundant as well.

An infant can cry all day without its voice growing hoarse. This is because its voice is in harmony; harmony brought to its highest degree is a sign of accord with the Dao. To understand harmony is to grasp the constant Dao—that is, to be united with the Dao. To understand the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted, and one’s perception grows more acute. Craving to preserve life and continually increasing one’s desires is called inauspicious; allowing them to grow only brings calamity. Letting the mind drive the breath is to force oneself, growing ever more rigid. All things decline once they become overly vigorous. Rigidity and forcefulness are held to be contrary to the Dao and invite calamity. To go against the Dao is to perish prematurely and lose one’s allotted years.

The essence of Dao and De is empty and formless. The spirits are still and serene, clear and quiet, profound and subtle. The Qi of Great Harmony flows gently. Listen for it, and it cannot be heard; look for it, and it cannot be seen clearly. It has no end above or below, and no boundary in any direction. Heaven cannot enclose it, and Earth cannot contain it. A compass cannot draw its circle, and a carpenter’s square cannot measure its angles. No ruler can measure it, and no instrument can determine its size. Gold and jade cannot conceal it; water and fire cannot obstruct it. No thing can govern it, and no calamity can harm it.

It drifts without a fixed course, vast and undifferentiated. The mind has no settled place of return, and the body no particular dwelling. It molds and shapes all things, endows them with their natures, and brings about their ceaseless transformation and growth. Human intelligence cannot grasp it, and deliberate action cannot attain it. The more one thinks about it, the farther away it seems; the more one tries to force it, the less one gains. Seize it, and it will not be controlled; leave it alone, and it will not depart.

Only those without desire can make themselves a dwelling place for the Dao and hold the Dao within their hearts. This is called “containing De”—harboring Virtue within. When they accord with De, De in turn accords with them. De’s realm is deep and vast. Those who contain De cannot be forced into submission, nor will they stray from the Dao.

De in a person is like parents to their children; De in relation to all things is like pearls and jade compared with tiles and lead. Parents gave me life and raised me; nothing else can take their place. Pearls and jade bring delight to people and cannot be discarded at will. Thus those who contain De cherish themselves and regard worldly fame and profit lightly, just as a loving father and devoted child would never trade a family member for a neighbor. They value their own roots and hold external things lightly, as a shrewd merchant would never exchange pearls and jade for tiles and lead.

They are without desire, not because they hate possessions and prefer poverty, but because nothing in the world can satisfy their hearts. Their minds are empty and still, not because they enjoy quiet and dislike turmoil, but because nothing in the world is worth undertaking deliberately. Why is this so? Because what they value surpasses all things in the world. Once they understand the difference between what is weighty and what is light, and the changes between benefit and harm, nothing can drive them, and the world cannot put them to service.

Thus they do not deliberately seek emptiness and stillness, yet stillness arises of itself. They do not deliberately seek quiet, yet quiet appears of itself. They do not set out to settle the spirit, yet the spirit settles naturally. They do not deliberately harmonize their breath, yet the breath becomes even of itself. So they can hear the soundless without using their ears, perceive formless images without using their eyes, understand right and wrong without thinking, and discern differences and likenesses without planning.

Their spirit is joined with Heaven and Earth, and their De accords with Yin-Yang. They do not pray for good fortune, yet Heaven and Earth protect them. They do not refuse calamity, yet harm departs of its own accord. They do not kill, yet the world still stands in awe of them. They do not give away their wealth, yet the world still cherishes them. Their bellies are full and their hearts content; they find joy in the rhythms of daily life. Grass tastes good to them, and water tastes sweet. Beneath a tall tree, their spirit is preserved; in a rocky cave, their hearts remain at ease. In poverty, they are content with their lot; in low station, they feel no humiliation. In hardship, they face life and death calmly; when danger comes, they do not panic. Their accomplishments accord with Earth, and their De is equal to Heaven’s. They return to simplicity and unknowing, like an infant. Those who contain De deeply are like newborn children.

Therefore, if rulers could truly take the infant—pure and free of desire—as their model, people everywhere would honor the Dao and cherish De, each valuing their own life. They would regard fame and power as filth, and all things as dust. The greedy would shun rank and title, and those who harm others would return to kindness. People would cultivate gentleness and humility, and tend only to their De. How, then, could actions meant to create good fortune bring disorder? All things would naturally accord with De, and disorder could not arise.

How profound and subtle is the Dao of Heaven and Earth! Few can understand it, and fewer still can put it into practice. Wit and eloquence cannot truly grasp it; only the infant can embody it. The infant is close to De: it knows, yet its knowledge has not surfaced; it understands, yet has not formed distinctions. It has abilities, yet does not act recklessly; it is clever, yet seems clumsy. It lives as though it clings to nothing, and is newly born as though it were ancient. It seems to act, yet acts without deliberate intent, in close accord with the Dao.

It has “life without birth”—that is, it does not cling to life—and “a body without self”—that is, it does not cling to the self. It can use the “use of what is useless” and hear the “hearing of what is unheard.” It is without action or affairs, intention or desire. It does not deliberately pursue Dao and De, nor accumulate spirit. It neither thinks nor deliberately prevents the arising of things, and remains in accord with the Dao. It does not agitate its spirit or breath; its intelligence and knowledge are not drawn into distinctions. It is soft and yielding, empty and still, with its hun and po souls at rest. It delights in freedom from attachment and is content without desire. In life it does not exhaust its spirit, and after death its mind is not shut away.

Thus it can receive the Great Dao, contain De within, and be joined with Heaven and Earth. Bees, scorpions, insects, and snakes do not deliberately poison it; fierce birds and beasts do not mean to seize it. Venomous creatures do not sting it, and fierce birds do not attack it, because it does not put itself where harm can reach it. Its bones are soft and its sinews supple, yet its grasp is firm. It knows nothing of sexual union, yet Yin and Yang Qi arise and transform naturally within it. Its spirit is full, and all things turn toward it. Even its cry is not hoarse: this may be called a mind at peace.

Preserve this state and act in accordance with it, and you can remain with the Dao. To understand harmony is to understand the constant Dao; to hold to it is to be called wise. To know the constant Dao is true understanding. Follow the natural growth and transformation of things, and your actions will gather every kind of good fortune. When the mind is deep and acts naturally, the breath flows freely and life grows strong. Because there is no deliberate action, nothing remains undone; because there is no desire, action brings no loss. Natural understanding opens the way, and many good things begin to flourish. Heaven and Earth protect you, and calamities and disorder recede of themselves. Why is this so? Because those who contain De within harmonize their spirit and preserve the infant’s simplicity.

When people begin to make distinctions, they leave unity and turn toward opposition; they leave unknowing simplicity and pursue clarity. External adornment increases while De diminishes. The more cunning their intelligence, the deeper their confusion. They come to prize the world’s fame and profit while neglecting their own spirit; they exalt reputation, power, and status while debasing themselves. They think deeply and plan far ahead, dissipating their spirit; they abandon softness and seek hardness and strength. They fall into greed, become absorbed in the struggle to survive, open the gate to danger, and block the road to preserving themselves.

When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline. Thus, good fortune may be as vast as Heaven and Earth, yet unseen by the eyes; calamity may approach like thunder, yet unheard by the ears. People move between the formed and the formless, creating calamity day after day. This is called departing from the Dao. When action reaches its limit, deeds lead to ruin. Even attempts to cultivate oneself and govern the state can bring disaster upon the country. To burn incense in sacrifice and blame Heaven and Earth, or to pray and make offerings while accusing the spirits, is not to fault fate; it is to face the consequences of how things develop. Once people have turned away from the Dao, calamity arrives of its own accord. It is not that Heaven’s mandate deliberately gives or takes anything away. Thus it is said: depart from the Dao, and disaster will soon follow.

Those who truly understand the Great Dao do not speak lightly, because speaking incessantly makes it difficult to devote themselves to keeping to the Dao. Those who enjoy extravagant talk do not understand the Dao; their many words may also bring trouble and harm themselves.

They gather in their senses so that their ears and eyes are not led astray by external things; close the gate of speech and do not speak carelessly; blunt their sharpness and do not cling to their own ambitions; dissolve their resentment and keep their thoughts from becoming trapped in bitterness; draw in their radiance and avoid setting themselves apart; and live among ordinary people in an unassuming way, without seeming strange. This is called “Mysterious Identity” (Xuántóng)—becoming one with the Dao and blending into the world. It means going along with the ways of the world without showing one’s edge.

Those who understand the Great Dao do not speak lightly, so they can devote themselves to keeping to the Dao; those who do not understand it talk too much and easily invite trouble. Gather the senses, speak with care, blunt sharpness, dissolve resentment, draw in radiance, and live in accord with the ordinary ways of the world: this is Mysterious Identity.

Such a person does not deliberately seek closeness, yet others do not distance themselves from them; they do not cling to profit, so profit does not easily harm them; they do not live in fear of being harmed, and so do not fall into danger on that account. They do not seek noble titles, nor feel inferior because of low status. For this reason, all under Heaven respect and cherish them.

The Dao has no fixed way of extending, De has no fixed standard, Shen has no fixed form, and harmony has no fixed appearance. Look for it and it cannot be seen; listen for it and it cannot be heard. It can neither be viewed from afar nor touched by hand. Thus, one who has attained the Dao can perceive it alone, comprehend it alone, and hold fast to this understanding alone. A father cannot directly pass this understanding to his son, nor can a minister pass it to a ruler. It is like a mother naturally recognizing her child, and an infant naturally recognizing those close to them. Mother and child recognize one another through what comes naturally; the principle behind it cannot be made clear through knowledge or language.

When the five flavors enter the mouth and the five tones enter the ear, sweetness is sometimes not simply sweet, and bitterness is not simply bitter. The Shang and Yu tones, too, each have subtle distinctions. Yi Ya, who was skilled at discerning flavors, and Shi Kuang, the musician skilled at discerning tones, could recognize these differences, yet could not explain in words the basis for their discernment. This is what is meant by saying, “What can be put into words is not necessarily truly understood; what is truly understood cannot necessarily be put into words.”

The form without shape can be apprehended, but not directly seen; the image without appearance can be imitated, but not fully described. Action through Wuwei can serve as a guide, but cannot be stated in full detail; use without apparent function can be put into practice, but cannot be taught to another. Those who have attained the Dao apprehend it as a child recognizes a loved one. They put it into practice as they tread the earth and hold the sky above their heads: they wear it and make it part of themselves, act in accordance with it, and rise and fall, appear and withdraw, expand and contract along with it. Their spirit moves with change, and their intent accords with De. Their intelligence works inwardly, while outwardly they seem unable to hear or see. Their thoughts reach far, while outwardly they seem foolish. Thus, the Dao cannot be made clear in words, and the mind’s intent is difficult to express. This is like dreaming that one is a ruler, in danger and standing at the edge of an abyss, filled with mingled fear and joy. The feelings in the dream are vivid, but after waking, telling a neighbor about it cannot make the neighbor truly experience them.

Those who have lost the Dao are the opposite: they look only at appearances and do not understand what lies within; they recognize changes but do not trace them back to their source; they grasp at details but do not investigate the root. They take the surface of things for their underlying principle, believing that the outcome of any matter can explain its origin. Yet the most fundamental principle cannot be determined by judgments based on appearances.

Thus, the Dao seems to exist only in things outside oneself, and not within. The heart has no guiding center, and its hold is unsteady; thoughts waver and resolve falters. Emotions become entangled with external things, intelligence is confused by the world outside, the false is taken for the real, and right and wrong become indistinct. The Dao and De then gradually fall apart. When speaking, one’s mind is constantly calculating and one’s intent continually turning things over in thought. Intelligence is spent outwardly, and the spirit departs with it. The voice is exhausted within, while outwardly one appears to have more than enough. The more one speaks, the less one sees the Dao; the more people and matters one encounters, the less one truly understands. Speech therefore leads one away from the essential meaning of the Dao and harms De, as though one were defying the Way of Heaven and overturning the Way of Earth.

Therefore, those who have attained the Dao draw in their ears and eyes and do not cling to seeing or hearing, as though they neither saw nor heard. They close their mouths and still their tongues, as though they did not know how to speak. They block the openings of the senses and shut the gates through which the spirit rushes outward. They draw in their sharpness, release their fixations, and cling to no thought, their state of mind so open that it is as if they had no self. They undo their thoughts and disperse their worries, seeming unaware, yet quietly preserving something within. They temper their edge and calm their anger, so that disorder has no chance to arise, and return to unadorned simplicity. Outwardly, they are no different from other people, and their clothing is unremarkable. They follow the workings of Heaven and Earth and adapt to changes in the world, yet penetrate deeply into the Great Dao and remain alongside De.

They respond without words and accomplish things without deliberate action. They cultivate themselves through stillness and meet the moment with composure. They live among ordinary people without forcing distinctions, and join with others without losing the Dao. They temper their radiance and move among the world’s dust; they grasp the root of all things and hold fast to the source of every matter. Though they possess a distinct and uncommon quality, the people of the world may not notice it. They move among intimacy and distance, benefit and harm, honor and lowliness, preserving their spirit and withdrawing into the realm of the formless. They come and go freely, unbound by external things. Poverty and low status cannot make them feel disgraced, and wealth and honor cannot make them feel glorified. They withdraw when they wish and appear when they wish. Changes in Yin-Yang can neither diminish nor increase them, and rulers cannot obscure their clear understanding. This is called “mysterious sameness”—accord with the Great Dao, merging with all things without displaying one’s edge. For this reason, they cannot be said to be either close or distant.

They stand apart, unmatched by anyone. Sounds and colors cannot delight them; the five flavors cannot taste especially sweet to them. Nothing can contend with them, and neither cunning nor strength can prevail in argument against them. They do not deliberately seek things, nor insist on giving; they do not cling to what they gain, nor are they troubled by what they lose. They close the gates of the heart and cut off the tangled beginnings of disorder, taking Shen as their guide and the Dao as their inner center. Their actions follow change; in stillness, they accord with nature. They remain calm and keep in step with the times, and so can endure. At ease and unrestrained, they are not confined by fixed patterns and cannot be measured by any sequence of before and after. People may like them, but cannot thereby draw near to them; people may dislike them, but cannot thereby drive them away. Rewards cannot be bestowed upon them, taxes cannot be collected from them, titles and stipends cannot make them noble, and poverty and low status cannot make them base. They are not directed by the myriad things, so the myriad things cannot make them serve. They do not regard the world as something to possess, so the world cannot possess them. In this way, the world comes to honor them.

Govern the state with uprightness and sincerity; direct warfare through stratagems and expedient measures; govern the world by following nature and refraining from forced action. How do I know these principles? I understand them through my own experience.

When the world is burdened with too many prohibitions and restrictions, the people are humiliated and looked down upon. Their lives grow poorer, and their possessions dwindle. When the people have too many weapons and compete to use clever schemes, the state grows more chaotic and the situation less clear. When people delight in ingenuity and ornament, strange and unusual objects appear in endless succession. The more numerous and exacting the laws, the more thieves there are, and the more violent and rebellious their behavior becomes.

The words of the sage can serve as principles for governing the state: When I govern through Wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves naturally and society becomes harmonious. When I do not interfere needlessly, the people grow naturally prosperous and have few excessive desires. When I cherish stillness and keep government affairs calm and untroubled, the people become upright of their own accord, each content in their place. When I have no greed and know contentment, the people become naturally simple and no longer make a show of refinement.

When government orders are lenient and not oppressive, the people are honest and sincere, and abide by their proper roles. When government orders are strict and intrusive, the people lose Virtue and concern themselves only with private gain. Misfortune—happiness often rests beside it. Happiness—misfortune lies hidden within it. Who can know where the shifts between fortune and misfortune will end? Their beginnings are hard to distinguish. What is called uprightness and sincerity may sometimes decay; uprightness may turn into cunning and deceit, and good deeds may become strange and inauspicious acts. People have been losing sight of the proper norms for a long time.

The Zhigui says: The nature of the Dao and De takes uprightness and sincerity as its constant way. Between change and stillness, things sometimes appear and sometimes disappear. What is called uprightness and sincerity may sometimes decay; uprightness may turn into cunning and deceit, and good deeds may become strange and inauspicious acts. People have been losing sight of the proper norms for a long time.

The Daode Zhenjing Zhigui holds that the fundamental principle of Dao and De is to take “right trust” as the constant Way, while appearing as movement and stillness, birth and extinction as things change. It encompasses Heaven and Earth, harmonizes Yin-Yang, governs the sun and moon, and nourishes all things. To go against this principle is to decline and perish; to follow it is to flourish.

The workings of Heaven and Earth encompass both Yin and Yang. Yang Qi is in charge of the virtue of bringing life forth and nurturing it; Yin Qi governs the punishment that brings things to their close. Punishment and virtue are opposites, yet they must be harmonized between them. In spring, all things sprout; in summer, they grow; in autumn, they are harvested; in winter, they are stored away. The cycle repeats. When Yang reaches its utmost, it turns into Yin; when Yin reaches its utmost, it turns into Yang. This transformation, in which opposites give rise to one another, has no end.

Governing a state likewise calls for both gentleness and firmness, civil administration and military preparedness, with central correctness as the standard. Military force and De oppose one another, yet are also connected: after using force, one should return to rule through De; when rule through De fails, one may again have to use force. Both must be regulated by law and balanced against each other for affairs to proceed smoothly.

Therefore, enlightened rulers and sage sovereigns should lessen their desires and make their minds empty and still. When the mind is empty and still, the spirit becomes peaceful; when the spirit is peaceful, one can know the Dao. Once the Dao is known, one can set the mind straight, then put oneself, one’s family, laws, and social distinctions in order, and from there bring the state into order. To govern a state, one must put its guiding principles in order and discern the facts clearly; trace things back to their origins and follow how they have unfolded; bring the different circumstances together and compare what came before with what came after, so that each thing finds its proper place. Use names to verify realities and realities to examine names, so that name and reality correspond. Rewards and punishments, too, should be proportionate, neither excessive nor insufficient. When name and reality match, the state prospers; when they do not, the state falls into difficulty.

There is no fixed method of governing a state; one must bend and extend, advance and withdraw according to the times. In times of disorder, rely on laws; in the face of rebellion, consider using force; when the situation is stable, take Dao and De as the constant guide. Great and small states should treat one another with fairness. If the other side acts unjustly, it can be taught; if it will not heed instruction, it can be restrained; if it still does not stop, it can be controlled; only if it refuses to submit should troops be sent to punish it. A wise great state, when bringing a small state into accord, does not resort to force lightly: it first instructs and restrains, and only then considers military action.

A small state caught between great powers may face a ruler without the Dao with whom it cannot deal by the proper Way. It can leave; if it cannot leave, it can cede territory; if that does not resolve matters, it can lead its people away; if that too proves impossible, it can only try to flee far away. If none of these measures can be taken, the people will face calamity and the ruler will suffer as well; only then must resistance be planned. This is how war begins. If a state raises generals and trains troops, repairs weapons, stores grain, and builds fortifications in preparation for war, the people will be exhausted and the state depleted.

If one insists on sending troops in the conventional way when one’s own forces are few and weak and the enemy’s are numerous and strong, it is like striking a rock with an egg: defeat is certain. Soldiers will be killed, and the ancestral temples and altars of state may be destroyed. At such a time, one must weigh the circumstances and use an unusual stratagem. “Unusual” means a expedient strategy that departs from convention. The scripture says one can seek to win the support of the people and the feudal lords, bringing the hearts of the Four Seas together and aligning the intentions of the various states. The people will respond as if echoing one’s voice, and neighboring states will follow like shadows. Unusual stratagems offer a way to turn the situation around when conventional military action cannot succeed.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments and should be used only when there is no other choice. The best military strategy is to let the misdeeds of those who rebel bring disaster upon them, so that their followers and allies abandon them and they lose the people’s support, leaving them to bear the calamity of war alone. Even when victorious, the aim should be to bring peace to all under Heaven. The next best approach is to use strategy covertly, exploiting divisions between an enemy ruler and his ministers so that the enemy is constrained and unable to act. There is no need to attack ordinary subjects or harm the entire army to make the enemy submit. The next approach is to weaken the enemy’s forces, sow discord among them, disrupt their plans, and seize opportunities to strike at their weak points. The scripture also describes tactics such as using the terrain, deploying troops, deceiving the enemy, cutting off their supplies, and judging the right moment to attack or defend. This is direct military action in a situation of last resort, and so it is ranked as the lowest strategy.

Once conflict has ended and all things have settled, one should put aside unusual stratagems and contrivances, uphold loyalty and trust, preserve stillness and simplicity, and reduce official business and speech. If one knows only how to win through stratagems but not how to uphold Dao and De, matters may go wrong again. One must therefore put an end in time to strife and contrivance.

Changes in Dao and De give rise to many different expressions, just as people’s circumstances and choices differ. Good people establish themselves through good deeds; the wicked make their mark through evil deeds; the trustworthy are known for their integrity; the deceitful conceal themselves behind falsehood. People each use their own methods to escape danger and preserve their lives. If rulers pursue cleverness too aggressively, the people resort to deceit. If rulers covet profit, the people suffer. If rulers delight in giving rewards, the people may be left destitute. If rulers impose harsh punishments, the people grow resentful. Since government begins with the ruler, officials and subjects follow the direction set by his example. The ruler is the source from which the customs of society change, and should not claim manipulative techniques for his own use, but return them to the Dao.

Even clever schemes aimed at justice are no match for having no calculated intentions and allowing people to live in natural accord. Deliberately prohibiting wrongdoing is inferior to wanting nothing and thereby allowing people to become trustworthy of their own accord. Intentionally regulating joy and anger is inferior to Wuwei (non-action), through which things take effect naturally. Laboring to plan virtuous government is inferior to doing little and allowing all affairs to proceed smoothly. Even mastery of medicine and military strategy is no match for a world with fewer illnesses and less conflict. What De brings about does not depend on forcing people to show kindness or give benefits; what Heaven and Earth accomplish do not depend on human beings making demands. Deliberately bestowing favors and seeking profit may ultimately go against the greater Way of Heaven. Only those who do not cling to showing kindness can truly benefit people; only those who do not force their actions can allow all things to come naturally to fulfillment. Thus enlightened rulers and sage sovereigns have no desires or demands, do not invent new systems recklessly, and do not busy themselves with unnecessary actions. They return to simplicity, and all under Heaven can be at peace. This is governing all under Heaven through Wuwei.

The scripture quotes Zhuangzi: “When people set about bringing blessings and benefits, pursuing success, and preparing all kinds of implements for others to use, they may make people wealthy, but they may also lead all under Heaven into extravagance and overstepping proper bounds. Then goods seem all the more scarce, and the people’s customs grow increasingly corrupt.” A buildup of gold and jade and an abundance of produce do not necessarily make the state more secure or benefit its people. When rulers show off their cleverness and deceive one another, and guard carefully against evil, they only open up more paths for treachery and deceit. When they draw excessive distinctions between right and wrong, sameness and difference, government becomes disorderly. The more prohibitions there are, the poorer people become; when everyone possesses ingenious weapons, the state falls into greater chaos. People manufacture strange objects and decorate them with elaborate designs; rewards and punishments multiply, and harsh laws become more severe. The result is that there are even more thieves and bandits. The ancients said, “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform themselves naturally.” This is because the ruler is like the heart of all under Heaven: when the ruler acts, the people respond in turn. If the ruler can truly practice Wuwei, the people will not be driven about excessively. They will follow the Dao and hold to De naturally, seek nothing, and transform themselves. When the ruler does little to disturb them, the people can be self-sufficient; when the ruler delights in stillness, the people naturally become upright; when the ruler has no excessive desires, the people can be calm in mind, settled in purpose, and return to simplicity.

When a ruler’s policies are gentle and restrained, demanding little and using no coercion, the people can preserve their nature and their lives. The more closely and harshly policies scrutinize them, the more calculating the people become, and the more they lose their simplicity. Thus it is said: when policies are lenient, the people are honest and simple; when policies are harsh and exacting, the people become clever and deceitful.

Misfortune and good fortune depend on each other and transform into each other: misfortune may lie within good fortune, and good fortune may in turn lie within misfortune. They come together, yet may lead to different outcomes. Without someone who sees clearly, it is hard to understand how they change. The truly subtle form of good fortune is not outward wealth and status, but a profound, formless peace that cannot be exhausted. Only those who practice Wuwei can follow the patterns by which misfortune and good fortune change while keeping to the right Way. When the right Way is lost, strange transformations arise, leaving the people bewildered and turning good and evil, right and wrong upside down. Once the people of all under Heaven are deeply confused, it is difficult for them to return to the right Way. The Dao is easy to practice; people find it hard to return only because they have been lost for so long.

Be square and upright without hurting others; this is to cause no harm. Have edges without making them too sharp, and you will cause no damage. Pursuing goodness to excess can instead turn it into something demonic and malign. The people of the world have fallen into deep confusion, yet cannot return to the right Way. The Dao is easy to put into practice, but people have lost their way for so long that returning is difficult.

Be upright without injuring others, honest without being harsh, principled without being indulgent, and radiant without showing off; then you will neither burden nor overshadow others. In governing the people and following Heaven’s Way to sustain life, nothing is better than restraining expenditure. Only by understanding restraint can one align with the Dao early, without relying on prohibitions. By continually accumulating De (Virtue/Power) and grasping the subtle, profound principles of the Dao, there is nothing one cannot overcome or prevail against. The transformations of the Dao are endless and boundless, sufficient to govern a state and assist its ruler. The foundation of governing lies in restraint: make it the constant Way, and the state will endure while turmoil and calamity subside. When the roots run deep and the base is firm, and the spirit is gathered and preserved, life can endure and its vitality remain.

The Dao (the Way) has no form, yet encompasses everything. It bestows nothing on the myriad things, yet they are able to exist because of it. It does not directly rule over them, yet each thing comes into being and runs its course. The Dao has no shape, yet things have their own angular and rounded forms. The Dao is silent, yet things can make sounds. From this we understand that although the myriad things arise from the formless and soundless Dao, each exists and changes naturally in accordance with its own nature.

Someone might ask: If the Dao has neither form nor sound, and neither bestows nor acts, how can it bring forth what could not originally be born and make what did not originally exist come to be? Yan Zun’s explanation is that each thing comes into being naturally by following its own Dao. The sun, for example, does not deliberately create a shadow, yet a shadow appears because of sunlight. An empty valley does not deliberately make an echo, yet an echo arises because of the valley. If the sun and the valley set their minds on making shadows and sounds, there would instead be times when they failed to account for everything. The Dao brings things into being and allows them to exist, but never does so by deliberate management.

When a ruler delights in waging war and accumulating wealth, the people pursue profit. When a ruler makes his own practices the standard, he is apt to impose right and wrong by force. Then the crooked gain power and the upright are oppressed; loyal ministers are harmed and the people suffer. When a ruler prizes wealth, the people compete to acquire it. If he also treats harsh demands and severity as signs of integrity, the greedy rise to prominence while the honest are harmed, and both loyal ministers and the people suffer. When a ruler stirs up conflict, the people turn against one another. If he treats unrestrained force as uprightness, the crooked prosper and the upright withdraw; loyal ministers and the people are harmed as well. When a ruler craves fame, the people resort to deception. If he treats display as illumination, small favors attract notice while great De (Virtue/Power) is obscured, bringing calamity upon loyal ministers and the people.

These practices set human relations and material goods in motion, yet overturn the relationship between names and realities: what is square is no longer square, what is honest can no longer be at ease, what is upright is no longer upright, and what is bright is no longer truly bright. When there is no Dao, people call crookedness, greed, distortion, and deceit square, honest, upright, and bright. The true Dao is then lost, and De is corrupted along with it. The ruler becomes isolated and autocratic, while ministers concern themselves only with pleasing him, guessing at his wishes and shutting off what he sees and hears. The state then falls into danger, and the ancestral temples may be brought to ruin.

A wise ruler, therefore, can possess things without claiming them as his own; know things without forcing others to learn; act without driving others; hold himself to what is square without demanding it harshly of others; remain honest toward all things without possessing them; uphold the right way without relying on his own uprightness; and let the light of his De shine in all directions without using it to seek a reputation.

Why act in this way? When a ruler does not bind the people with benefits and rules, they can each act fairly of their own accord. When he does not impose excessive, harmful measures, the people have little cause for dispute; affairs proceed naturally, and everything finds its proper place. The realm need not have good fortune and misfortune imposed upon it by force in order to be broad and at peace. Take the Dao as one’s heart, and act with fairness and generosity, allowing each thing to fulfill itself: no one can define the limits of such a way. Though the ruler does not deliberately harm the myriad things, they all return to what is right. This governance of “not cutting” is better than setting things right through harm and coercion. Not cutting does not mean never punishing: when arrogance must be rooted out and violence stopped, action is still taken. It simply follows the moment and accords with proper measure, answering both the principles of Heaven and human feeling. Thus, although it corrects, it does not wound.

When a ruler does not covet wealth but maintains integrity, the realm can become fair. When he does not deliberately govern through harsh measures, the people have no pretext for fighting over things. The greedy are thereby restrained, and a clean and honest spirit takes shape naturally. The ruler need not force distinctions between pure and corrupt, and reputations need not depart from reality. Necessary exhortations to goodness, humility, and deference, and the discernment of right and wrong, can still be put into practice, without using empty reputations as a disguise. When a ruler does not stir up conflict but upholds what is right, the people can discipline themselves. When he does not set an example of unrestrained force, the people naturally obey. Correcting crookedness, settling disorder, and changing harmful customs all serve to bring the realm back to what is right. Handle matters appropriately according to their circumstances: even if this appears upright, it is not arbitrary.

When a ruler does not crave fame, the people each settle into their proper place. When he does not display his De, the people are instead able to understand and awaken of their own accord. The realm need not be forcibly illuminated or obscured; the myriad things can grow naturally, De accords with Heaven, and instruction accords with the Dao. The radiance of De extends in all directions and illuminates all things, yet leaves no trace of deliberate teaching. The light of the Dao is everywhere; all things find their proper place, yet no one can point to its name or form. Above and below respond to one another, inside and outside echo one another; coming and going have no clear boundary, like a shadow following a body or an echo answering a sound.

Therefore, the foundation of governing the state and nourishing the people lies in “cherishing.” “In governing people and serving Heaven, nothing is better than cherishing” means that, in governing the people and following the way of Heaven, nothing is more important than restraint and conservation. To cherish is to gather in and preserve, rather than to dissipate carelessly.

A wise ruler should reduce outward display, make the palace less grand, and restrain indulgence in food, drink, sights, and sounds. He may have wisdom without flaunting it, and insight without saying too much. He establishes an unseen bearing and rules that cannot be fixed in a single form, keeping his intentions difficult for others to discern. Then, before he acts, the realm responds; before he gives an order, the people gather; before he goes to battle, he has already secured the advantage; before he attacks, the realm has already submitted. Thus he need not labor to drive the people, yet they accomplish their work; he need not stir up competition, yet everyone fulfills their role; he need not execute anyone, yet the people are in awe; he need not display ingenuity, yet receives Heaven’s blessing. Calamity does not arise, good fortune gathers, and through Wuwei (non-action) nothing is left undone; by not contending, nothing is left unconquered. This is what is meant by continually accumulating De, and so never being defeated.

In this way, the myriad things return to a deep, undivided unity, and the realm becomes harmonious and interconnected. Things rise and fall, intertwining in accord with the Dao: it is as if they end and begin again, as if order lies within confusion; they seem empty yet are full, seem nonexistent yet are present, seem sparse yet are dense, seem slow yet are swift. They have no visible shape or trace of origin; they are elusive and indistinct, beyond words. One knows and sees them inwardly, beyond the bounds of ordinary states. They change without pattern and have no fixed boundaries of storage. Yin-Yang divides and joins, bends and extends, expands and contracts, all moving within deep and silent mystery, vast as Heaven and Earth and beyond exhaustion.

Those who can cultivate themselves in this way and accumulate an abundance of De can possess a state and govern the people and the myriad things, allowing their descendants to endure for a long time. They can do so precisely because they understand “cherishing.” The practice of the Dao lies in not bestowing or acting recklessly, in frugality and care, and in holding to the subtle Dao. On the surface one may seem full, yet inwardly one is not self-satisfied. Sincerely understand and practice the Dao, and one can endure. Though the body is small, the spirit is boundless; by using the One to encompass the myriad things, one can lift the heavy with ease. The myriad things come into being through the Dao; human beings follow the same Dao as Heaven, with deep roots and firm foundations, and are connected with the spirits. This is the state experienced by realized adepts who have attained the Dao and upheld by sages. It is also the foundation of the state: the way of deep roots, firm foundations, long life, and enduring vision.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: handle things gently and carefully, without turning them over again and again. When a ruler governs the realm by the Dao (the fundamental principle of natural workings) and faces the people with sincerity and simplicity, spirits will not manifest to cause trouble or harm them.

This does not mean that spirits have lost their efficacy. Their mysterious power remains, but they do no harm; instead, they help the myriad things follow their natural course. When spirits harm nothing, all things can find their proper place in equal peace and harmony. The sage, too, does not harm the people, and so the myriad things retain their natural simplicity.

When rulers and spirits alike treat the world in accordance with the true Dao, they can avoid harming one another. The Dao is thereby preserved, De (Virtue/Power) gathers between them, and in the end its benefits reach all the people.

As the sun slants westward, Yin energy begins to arise; when dry heat reaches its peak, wind rises. A stream in a ravine may stir only slightly, while the waves of the sea can rise and fall on a vast scale. The same difference appears between places where high and low ground meet, though they may differ by a hundred fathoms: things have different shapes and sizes.

When a small creature climbs a thousand-ren cliff or a ten-thousand-zhang precipice, the rock face may collapse and fall without harming even a mosquito or ant; they can still fly or crawl away. But heavy beasts such as rhinoceroses, elephants, tigers, and leopards may be crushed to death. This is because their bodies are heavy. A violent gale can tear roofs away, break trees, hurl stones and iron objects, and make hillsides collapse, yet may not harm the blood vessels in a person’s body. This is because the wind comes with great force and over a wide area. A faint breeze blowing through a crack in a wall or a cave will not stir a person’s temples or eyebrows, yet it may seep into the body and bring on every kind of illness, even death. This is because it is subtle and hard to detect.

A great state is like a river or sea, or a rhinoceros: something vast in scale. Transforming the people through De is like a violent gale, and also like the faint breeze that enters through a crack. Therefore, good fortune should not be expanded too quickly, gains should not be pursued abruptly, good works should not be carried to excess, and calamities should not be allowed to accumulate to their limit. Excessive expansion of good fortune may invite great loss; sudden gains may quickly bring a downfall; taking good works too far may cause them to be lost; and when calamities pile up, disaster follows.

To occupy a high position and hold power over all under Heaven is already to possess great strength. If one then acts rashly on a grand scale, one has more to lose. Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: it should not be turned over too often. Decrees should be issued as subtly as a breeze through a crack. Even so, one must be cautious, lest a decree overstep its proper bounds and a small matter spread into a large one. How much worse it is to indulge one’s desires, disregard all under Heaven, and force great undertakings upon the people, harming them. This is like rhinoceroses and leopards crushed by falling cliffs, or houses broken apart by fierce winds. It is hardly surprising that calamity follows.

How do we know this? Zhuangzi says: when hungry, eating twice as much; when thirsty, drinking a great deal; when hot, jumping into water; when cold, burrowing into fire—though these may relieve the discomfort for a moment, they are bound to damage the body. If there is a lump in the chest, one cannot dig it out with a chisel; if the throat is ill, one cannot force it open and strip it bare. When a mosquito bites the face, one cannot shoot it with an arrow; when a louse clings to the body, one cannot hack it with a knife. Why not? Because trying to remove a small affliction can bring about a greater calamity.

Therefore, a wise ruler who governs a great state should be as careful as one handling something delicate, clearing a small stream, or examining the finest hair. He should be like someone listening for a sound that may or may not be there, and discerning a situation that may or may not be as it seems. In acting, he seems both to advance and to pause; he seems both to act and not to act. Governance should lie between action and non-action; transformation should operate between what is visible and what is invisible. Good fortune is slight, gains are few, words are few, and prohibitions are few. Yet action takes place without leaving a trace, and its effects reach throughout the four seas. One who grasps the essential points acts little and achieves much; one who misses what matters does more and achieves less.

Thus, those who understand subtle essentials are looked up to by all. Their influence seems both present and absent, and they do not readily reveal themselves to others. Why? They take the Dao as their father, De as their mother, the divine as their teacher, and Great Harmony—the balanced harmony of Heaven, Earth, and all things—as their companion. They make stillness their constant state and ease their standard; they take Heaven and Earth as their model, Yin-Yang as their image, the sun and moon as their measure, and the myriad things as their signs. They take responsiveness to change as their foundation and sincerity as their first principle.

They let different people each keep to their own duties, and quietly, methodically hold to the governing principles. They begin with the roots and seek the way of governing within themselves. Then the people are as peaceful as a child still in the womb or a newly hatched bird, while the ruler, like a newborn infant, makes no display of merit or pride. Cleverness and deceit have no chance to arise, and schemes and manipulations find no opening. All things remain in balance; none is excessively enriched or deprived. Those above and below live in harmony, and all things flourish. Spirits and humans live together, each following its nature and fulfilling its capacities.

When governance reaches this state, it is so quiet that it seems there is no ruler, and so subtle that it seems there are no spirits. All things can grow, and the people live long lives, enjoying their full span without injury or premature death. This is what is meant by “when the Dao transforms all under Heaven, the spirits no longer seem extraordinary.”

If a ruler is without benevolence, the spirits seem to lose their efficacy. But the ruler is not without benevolence: he extends his kindness universally to the natural world, allowing each thing to follow its course and fulfill its use. His stillness and Wuwei are not indifference; he extends his care widely and without favoritism, so that his De reaches throughout the six directions of Heaven and Earth. Nor are the spirits without efficacy. They move through the indistinct and subtle, dwelling in the finest details, reaching everywhere and changing with the times. Through their wondrous power they nourish all things without harming people. It is not that the spirits lack efficacy, but that their efficacy does not harm people.

When a sage is in power, he accords with Heaven and Earth, enabling people and all things to follow their own natures and allowing the Dao’s teaching to spread. People do not resort to cleverness, and strange things do not arise. No one seeks excessive abundance, and no one struggles to claim what is already full. All under Heaven is peaceful and harmonious, and all things are balanced. No one blindly seeks the heights or deliberately burrows into the depths. People do not recklessly mine metals and stones or block springs. They need not travel far and migrate, and they do not live by killing. All things in the world can grow in peace, without being forced into limits imposed by human conventions. Plants and trees fall only when they wither; people depart only when their lives naturally come to an end. Thus the sage does not harm people.

Heaven and Earth contain the myriad things. Taiyi, the fundamental power that governs all things, presides among them, while Tianyi, the original Qi of Heaven, sets them in motion. The four seasons revolve, and the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—are each kept in check. The transformations and movements of the myriad things each have their own functions and limits; they do not encroach upon one another, but circulate throughout Heaven and Earth without harming anything. The spirits govern affairs in the world of Yin, while the sage governs affairs in the world of Yang. The power that governs the world of Yin restrains deviation; the power that governs the world of Yang keeps it in check. The spirits nourish and support a state of emptiness, stillness, subtlety, and few desires. But they damage and even destroy things that grow excessively strong and full to the point of excess. The sage sustains those whose conduct differs from the common ways; he helps the loyal, sincere, gentle, and good; he examines those who are powerful and outstanding; and he punishes those who foment disorder and breed the strange and deviant.

Thus, what moves unseen is regulated by the spirits, while what appears in the world is governed by the sage. Only those who do not act recklessly have no force that can ruin them. When a sage is in power, strange and deviant things cannot arise, and deception cannot take hold. Through their wondrous power, the spirits nurture all things in the darkness; through the Dao, the sage nurtures all things in the world of Yang. Blessings arise from the workings of Yin, while transformation through De comes about through governance in the world of Yang. The spirits bring down nourishment, and the sage spreads kindness. These meet and join, returning to the myriad things and allowing them to live according to their natures. The Great Dao flows through all things, De runs deep, harmonious Qi prevails, and all things return to their true natures. This means that neither Yin nor Yang harms the myriad things; their De converges and together returns to all things.

A great state has vast territory and a large population. It is where people throughout the world travel and gather, and where those from different quarters meet, draw close, and rely on one another. It is therefore like the “female” among all under Heaven: it can readily attract people and draw in benefits.

The female overcomes the male through stillness; stillness prevails over active exertion. It takes the lower position through quietude. If a great state can treat small states with humility, remaining still and accommodating, the small states will come of their own accord and submit to it. If a small state can treat a great state with humility, remaining still and respectful, it can gain the great state’s acceptance and support. Thus, some states occupy a lower position yet can take the initiative in winning others’ submission because their circumstances allow it; others occupy a lower position and are accepted by others because their circumstances constrain them.

A great state wants nothing more than to bring many people under its care and make them its subjects. A small state wants nothing more than to enter the great state’s sphere, serve it, and establish an alliance through marriage. If both sides can obtain what they seek, their dealings will accord and both will be preserved. A great state should therefore be especially humble; this makes it easier to achieve its aims.

The Zhigui says: Heaven and Earth arose together, Yin and Yang came into being at the same time, the four seasons share a common root, and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) issue from a single source. Sorrow and joy, disaster and good fortune, likewise dwell within the same gateway. Thus, what brings peace may also bring danger, and what brings danger may in turn bring peace. The conditions that preserve things may also lead to their destruction, while the causes of destruction may become conditions for preservation. When secure, do not forget the possibility of peril and ruin. By keeping the danger of ruin in mind, one can preserve oneself; by being content with the present and forgetting that danger, one falls into peril. How can this be explained? It depends on…