《道德真经指归(严遵)》Vol. 3

Tigers and leopards can overpower the other beasts because they are large, with hard claws and teeth, strong muscles, thick fur, and striking markings. For the same reason, people hunt them. Flowers and plants are admired for their brilliant colors and sweet fragrance, yet these qualities can also damage their roots. A ruler of a great state, with vast territory, a large population, exalted status, and great authority, can easily oppress neighboring states—and put his own state in danger as well.

When a great state follows the Dao, it is as secure and peaceful as a great rock or Mount Tai. When it loses the Dao, it becomes as precarious and insubstantial as piled eggs or a feather. If both sides are weak, they will be the first to fall into difficulty; if both are in disorder, they will be the first to perish. Thus, a great state can become a stepping-stone to hegemony, or the beginning of a state’s ruin and its ruler’s downfall.

The ruler of a great state stands at the center of a region, surrounded by famous mountains and strategic passes. Barriers protect it on three sides, and great rivers meet and flow through it. Its terrain draws resources from every direction, like the hub around which the feudal lords gather. The land is fertile and abundant in produce, broad and level, extending for thousands of miles. It holds every kind of treasure and rare object. The people bear few labor duties; cattle and horses are everywhere, boats and carts are plentiful, and military provisions are ample. Its inhabitants live in comfort, and travelers are glad to stay. The population thrives, livestock range across the hills and fields, and farming, silkworm raising, and hunting all yield rich harvests.

For these reasons, people throughout the realm are willing to submit to it, and ministers and generals are willing to serve it. A great state commands powerful chariots, cavalry, and armies, with as many as a million armored soldiers. Open ground makes it easy to maneuver; rugged terrain makes it easy to defend. It enjoys favorable timing and advantageous terrain. It can determine the lives and deaths of others and control the fate of other states: those who comply can draw on its power, while those who turn against it may lose their ancestral temples and altars of state. Feudal lords seek its friendship, and the whole realm fears it. A great state is what people across the realm travel to and gather around, the center of relations among the feudal lords.

When a great state acts with righteousness, it can bring other states under its sway. Its exalted position lets it issue commands; its military campaigns can proclaim benevolence and righteousness; its rule over the realm can demonstrate fairness. By taking in land, it can expand its territory; by acquiring goods, it can increase its wealth. The feudal lords therefore look to it, and ministers and generals see advantage in attaching themselves to it.

From ancient times to the present, the realm has been like the feminine and yielding: through stillness, it overcomes the masculine and forceful. This principle has not changed through the ages. Why? Because the yielding receives what is substantial by remaining empty, and responds to what has form through what has no form. It does not regard itself as powerful, but seeks to occupy a small position; it does not claim the high ground, but often lowers itself. The yielding side remains still, while the forceful side actively strives to gain its ends. Thus the yielding and still often overcome the strong and contentious. Arrogance and self-satisfaction tend to bring regret, so a great state should humbly place itself below others.

Accordingly, a wise ruler who governs a great state gives benefits without using them to control others, and treats people with humility without demanding anything in return. The state’s borders embrace the feudal states, and its Virtue can contain their power. Its rulers lower themselves and respond to the people’s wishes. They lead scholars and officials through loyalty, integrity, and trustworthiness; yield territory, recruit the worthy, encourage diligent farming and weaving, and store supplies. They also use alliances, whether across or between opposing sides, to guard against the unexpected.

They open their granaries and distribute money, support the elderly, aid the orphaned, the weak, and the poor, and appoint worthy people who have withdrawn to the mountains and forests. They give without taking possession, provide without seeking repayment, and handle affairs gently and simply, governing through Wuwei (non-action). Even when a feudal ruler is greedy and base, cruel and arrogant, relying on force and defying what is right, the great state still responds to him calmly and humbly, relying on civil and military governance, authority, and Virtue. The other ruler may then cultivate himself, act with caution, mend his ways, offer up land and treasures, submit and serve, and even ask to become a dependent state and protective outpost of the great state. This is what is meant by “a great state humbles itself before a small state, and thereby wins the small state’s allegiance.”

When a small state is in a weak position, it should act in accordance with principle, put its affairs in order, and keep within its proper bounds. It should use boats and carts to facilitate travel and trade, and strengthen its defenses with arms and armor. It should be loyal and compliant in its dealings with others, value simplicity, and give priority to farming. It should arrange farming and weaving well and refrain from taking the people’s wealth. Those above and below should live in harmony, close as parent and child. Ruler and people should rely on one another, uniting the whole state so that they can face life and death together when necessary and maintain peaceful relations with neighboring states.

Even when a great state’s ruler has a large population and great power, and his status and authority surpass those of other states, he should still value Virtue and benevolence. Even if his heart is like a hungry tiger’s, his anger surges, and he is unwilling to give while constantly seeking to annex other states, a small state can still move him if it follows Heaven’s will, wins the people’s support, earns the trust of its ministers and generals and the help of its neighbors, and shows that its defenses are strong. If it also keeps itself humble, does its utmost with sincere effort, and serves the great state calmly and quietly, the other ruler may be moved to change, his anger may subside, and disaster may be averted. He may cease to regard the small state as an enemy. This is what is meant by “a small state humbles itself before a great state, and thereby gains the great state’s protection.”

A small state attaches itself to a great state to gain a power on which it can rely. A powerful great state has favorable circumstances, abundant Virtue, and weighty authority; it is an object toward which people naturally gravitate. If it governs through Wuwei and remains still, holding its position with humility, it will naturally win the people’s hearts. A small state has little land and a small population, and lacks authority and prestige, so it is easily looked down upon. If it wants a great state to accept it, it must be humble and respectful. In this way, it may bring the cities of other states to submit without fighting, and make their fortresses surrender without attacking. It can expand its territory, raise the standing of its state, honor its ancestral temples, and pass its achievements and Virtue down through the generations. This is the outcome a great state hopes for, and by remaining yielding and humble, it may attain these benefits.

When a small state maintains friendly and harmonious relations with a great state, the great state will be concerned for it when disaster strikes and come to its aid if a neighboring state goes to war. Though the small state may temporarily stand below one ruler, it can be protected above ten thousand others. Its altars of state can remain secure and its ancestral temples honored; the state can grow prosperous and strong, its people can live in peace, and its rule can continue through the generations. This is what a small state hopes for. When it humbly serves another state, that state will care for it, and so it can preserve itself.

Therefore, when neighboring states meet, they should not be quick to wield their power. The side that first humbles itself often gains the advantage first. Humility can overcome arrogance, and stillness can prevail over agitation. Even a great state can benefit if it is willing to place itself below others. This is the way of nature; it cannot be forced. Water flows to low places, and people move toward what benefits them. If a state abandons humility and insists on competing for strength, many weaker states may unite and unexpectedly bring down the powerful. A great state should therefore place itself below others. If it oppresses a small state, it will invite calamities like those sent by Heaven. If a small state yields humbly, it is more likely to receive the help of others. Thus, a great state should take the lower position.

The Dao (the Way) is the hidden master of all things, opening the way for them and guiding them. To the good, it is a precious support; to those who are not good, it is also a means to preserve themselves and await a change in fortune. Fine words can help one obtain what one seeks, and noble conduct can set one apart from others and bring one alongside those of high rank. If someone has faults, they merely delight in acting against the right way. What reason is there to reject them? Let them receive favor and have their faults removed.

Thus, the Son of Heaven is installed and the Three Dukes are appointed for those who are worthy and wise. Even a precious jade disk is only a valuable possession; even a carriage drawn by four horses offers only comfortable travel. Neither is as good as sitting quietly to cultivate this Dao—that is, refining one’s conduct and speech. The ancients valued this Dao because it can bring harmony to the human heart. When one seeks something and obtains it, this is because one has followed the grain of things; when one has sinned and is pardoned, there is no other way. This is why the Dao is honored and treasured throughout the world.

The growth of a tree begins at its tips, which depend on the branches; the branches depend on the boughs, the boughs on the trunk, the trunk on the roots, and the roots on Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth, in turn, receive the power of life from the formless. Flowers and fruits arise from Qi; Qi arises from the four seasons; the four seasons arise from Yin-Yang; Yin-Yang arises from Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth receive their sustenance from the formless. From this I understand that the Dao appears in the forms of “nonbeing” and “being,” and in what has no shape: it opens up emptiness, reaches through the mysterious, brings harmony to Heaven and Earth, stillness to Yin-Yang, balance to the four seasons, and gives all things their forms. The changes and cycles of all things follow Wuwei (non-action) as their constant way. The Dao neither favors nor rejects; it is wholly one with all things. All kinds of beings respond to it and each follows its own nature. This is what is meant by saying that “the Dao is the hidden treasury of all things”: it is the root at their deepest core.

When good people attain the Dao, they know how to draw in and extend themselves. They are quiet, gentle, and yielding; calm and uncarved. Their hearts are humane and warm, their influence nourishing and even, their conduct thorough and meticulous, yet they leave no trace even in the smallest details. They see into all things, yet ultimately return to namelessness. All things cycle and turn, and well-being grows of itself. In action, they attain what they seek; in stillness, they avoid trouble. Such people stand above others, and their authority and De (Virtue/Power) become evident of themselves. They can overcome what is hard and strong, and no one can compare with them. That is why good people cherish the Dao.

When wicked people attain the Dao, they use it to expand themselves and show their strength. They are hard and unrestrained, restless and eager to take the lead, proud and self-satisfied, convinced of their own power. They seek ever greater size and reach, shine with a glaring brilliance, and display themselves everywhere. When their power reaches its height, they eventually decline and diminish, and trouble comes upon them of its own accord. In action, they lose what they seek; in stillness, they are still harmed. Their hearts grow sorrowful and their resolve wears away, until at last they return to an ordinary state. Their spirit and vital energy become hurried and strained. They draw themselves in and stop showing off, become gloomy and constrained, and speak humbly. They are controlled and brought low, placed in danger and made to yield; though filled with fear and pain, they pretend to be loyal and trustworthy. They change their appearance and abandon their principles, only then seeming like exemplary people. Once their guilt has been established, they speak kindly; only when death draws near do they cherish their own lives. To preserve themselves, they alter their nature and feelings, grow accustomed to poverty and humble themselves to degradation, honor Heaven and revere the spirits, raise others above themselves, and sink as low as oxen, horses, dogs, and sheep. Once Heaven’s net is set in motion, the natural order no longer lets them have their way. How sad! This warning has been made perfectly clear. Those who are not good fail to use the Dao to preserve themselves and instead damage their true nature. By the time calamities have accumulated, it is too late for regret. This is like digging a well only when one is thirsty: it is better to put things in order before disorder begins.

The paths of good and wicked people differ, yet both are bound up with the movement of the Dao: one walks ahead of it, the other falls behind. Thus one is preserved, while the other heads toward ruin. Good people go first by following the Dao and endure; wicked people turn against it and finally perish. Words and actions, then, are like laws for governing oneself. Whether one can respond to the right moment and arrange things in the proper order determines one’s fate.

Therefore, when establishing himself and dealing with the world, the exemplary person should be restrained, like someone inarticulate who listens without examining. He should be plain and straightforward, keep his words within, and remain in quiet silence. Before speaking, he should consider his words carefully; when he speaks, it should be as if with sorrow. He should treat people gently and act at the right time, bringing others’ good fortune to completion. In answering and yielding, he should be frank and unadorned. Even if his words travel throughout the world, they should never seem excessive; even if his reputation resounds across the four seas, he should not rush to achieve his aims. He should engage with all things without claiming them as his own. His words and actions can move the whole world, enabling every group to find its proper place. Fine words can win trust and support.

Those who govern the affairs of the world should keep their minds deep and still, and avoid outward display. In their own conduct they should seem wary, and their expressions should always show a humble sense of inadequacy. They should be serene and clear, like ice melting away. When the time is right, they act; when circumstances are unfavorable, they draw back and lie low. Sharing Heaven’s concerns, they feel compassion within. When a plan cannot be carried out, they adjust their advance and retreat to suit the moment. They remain humble and content, cultivating themselves through self-effacement. Like water, they gladly stay below, repeatedly taking the lowest place and never holding on to a high position. Lowering themselves again and again, they reach the deepest depths. The world then responds to them, and so they can govern the state.

Honoring the Dao and putting it into practice can bring people to follow. Why? People’s nature is to enjoy honor and favor and dislike lowliness and disgrace. They resent being diminished and rejoice in gaining advantage; they are pleased to be treated with humility and feel slighted when checked or restrained. This has been true through all ages and is a constant of the human heart. The worthy are like this, and petty people especially so. Therefore, when one respects others and treats them with fine words and conduct, one encounters few misfortunes. When the ancients governed the people, whom did they need to cast aside? Even the officials of Jie and Zhou could be guided toward goodness; even the soldiers of Qin and Chu could be led back to the good path. As the saying goes, “Those whom people consider bad—why should they be cast aside?” If one can win the people’s hearts, the world can be governed; without their hearts, one cannot even manage one’s wives and concubines.

How can this be shown? The Son of Heaven holds the most honored rank in the world and the wealth of the four seas. His authority is boundless, and he alone holds power. This is what people fear. Those who assist the Son of Heaven and serve as the Three Dukes leave behind the status of ordinary soldiers and take part in governing the state. They help the Son of Heaven put moral teachings into practice, exercise their abilities, spread blessings among the people, and thereby bring honor to their ancestors. These are the benefits people desire.

Yet if one uses only the power people fear to obtain the benefits they desire, and speaks without kindness or acts without respect, then even if one presents great jade discs and treasures, and sends a carriage with four horses to welcome them, the worthy will still be wary and withdraw. Sages who understand the profound Dao will still retreat into seclusion, and exemplary people will not come. Though the Son of Heaven possesses fearsome authority and the Three Dukes receive generous stipends, relying only on one’s own status to bestow favors, or using gifts of jade and silk to attract people, may still fail to win their allegiance. It is better, then, to sit at ease and put this Dao into practice. When words and actions are cultivated within, one’s spirit and bearing naturally show on the outside. There is no need to trouble horses and carriages or spend precious jade: worthy people from the four seas will respond like a rising wind, outstanding heroes will arrive one after another, sages will come humbly, and the court will fill with exemplary people. This is the result of sitting at ease and putting this Dao into practice.

Why did the ancients prize the Dao? Because it follows the order of Heaven and Earth without claiming credit, and accords with the human heart without relying on authority. When its reputation is established, it does not boast; when its work is complete, it does not claim ownership. It follows its own nature and does not treat what it receives as personal possession. It simply follows what is right and does not claim the merit for itself. All things therefore gather around it, and it can become the ruler of the world. This is why the Dao attains without striving and avoids blame, and why it is honored throughout the world.

Practicing Wuwei (non-action) means following the course of nature without deliberate interference. Handle affairs as though nothing were happening, without causing a stir or drawing attention; savor things without becoming attached to their names. Distinguishing between great and small, much and little, allows one to see merit clearly. Responding to resentment with De (Virtue/Power) is a way to dissolve its roots before resentment arises. To deal with difficulties, begin where things are easy; to plan for great undertakings, start with what is minute and examine what is hidden and subtle.

Difficult things often begin in easy ways, and what is fragile may gradually become firm. Great undertakings begin in small steps, and vast circumstances take shape from beginnings that extend over time. Thus the sage, who governs the world in accord with the Dao (the Way), calls himself a wise ruler. He never regards himself as undertaking anything great, but begins with what is minute; for this reason, he can ultimately accomplish great things by working together with others.

Those who make promises lightly often find it hard to keep them; those who regard things as too easy often encounter greater difficulties. Neither should be judged hastily. The sage still regards matters as difficult and often considers potential troubles in advance. Thus, in the end, nothing is difficult, and everything is brought to completion without fault, from beginning to end.

The Zhigui says: “The transformations of the divine and luminous follow the Dao of nature. When being arises from nonbeing, affairs often encounter many difficulties, and must not be handled hastily. The sage still regards matters as difficult and often considers potential troubles in advance. Thus, in the end, nothing is difficult, and everything is brought to completion without fault, from beginning to end.”

The principles governing the spirits and the truths of nature are these: nonbeing cannot directly give rise to nonbeing, and being cannot directly give rise to being. Only in a state that is neither being nor nonbeing can being and nonbeing arise. From this we can see that sorrow does not arise from sorrow alone, nor joy from joy alone; sorrow and joy emerge only from a state that is neither sorrowful nor joyful. Thus, dwelling amid calamity may turn into good fortune, while dwelling in good fortune may bring calamity. The key to fortune and calamity lies in whether the ruler can grasp the root.

The working of the Dao is unseen and unheard; for this very reason, it is deep and inexhaustible. Thus, accomplishing something without claiming credit has the greater effect, while deliberately striving for achievement has the lesser effect. One’s De is deeper when one does not consider oneself virtuous. Whoever can understand this fundamental principle of being neither being nor nonbeing can escape the sway of fortune and calamity and transform them. By discerning the first signs of events before they occur and addressing them before they appear, one can achieve depth, breadth, and lasting substance.

The sage clings neither to being nor to nonbeing, neither to death nor to life. Settling in the space between being and nonbeing, at the boundary between life and death, he responds to change and takes following nature as his constant way. Thus, without deliberately looking, he sees clearly; without deliberately listening, he understands. He steadies Heaven and Earth, cultivates the Dao and the spirit, brings the myriad things into order, governs the state and comforts the people, dissolves emotions and dispels attachments, and returns all things to their original reality. This is “acting through Wuwei”: simply responding to what change requires. The sage never clings to a particular understanding, and so there is nothing he cannot handle well.

The sage does not scheme for a livelihood or deliberately set events in motion. He does not rely on proclaiming benevolence or use favors to seek advantage. He teaches people not to cling to clever devices and leads them back to simplicity and unknowing. He helps the people relinquish excessive desires and follow their true nature; he also frees them from being troubled by what they dislike, in a way that accords with their wishes. In this way, people can leave the path that brings premature death and injury and walk the path of long life, dwelling at ease in a mysterious and profound realm. All under Heaven becomes unselfconscious and simple; people do not know why, as though they were in an undivided, unformed state, and the world is free of turmoil. This is “taking non-action as one’s task”: changing thoughts that have already taken shape so that events do not continue to grow. The sage does not give rise to misguided thoughts, and so can reach a state in which nothing is done.

To savor flavor in the flavorless and observe things in the formless is to distinguish sameness from difference and understand the truth of right and wrong. It is to arrange things well before they occur and steady a situation before it begins to tilt, without displaying courage or achievement or flaunting talent and reputation. Then fortune has no occasion to arise, and calamity has no occasion to occur. Fortune that is not deliberately sought is true fortune; calamity without a name or notoriety has no chance to grow. The ruler is at peace, the people are happy, and all under Heaven is tranquil. This is to savor flavor in the flavorless and perceive signs in what has not yet begun to emerge. The sage harbors no private intentions, and so everything can be brought to completion.

If a ruler waits until the people are suffering before comforting them, until their good fortune declines before trying to restore it; until someone has murdered the ruler before putting him to death, or until a father has been humiliated before avenging him; until calamity has struck before trying to overcome it, rebellion has broken out before quelling it, invaders have arrived before attacking them, or treason has appeared before punishing it, then displaying courage and achievement goes against nature, while pursuing fame departs from the Great Way. Actions that bring the people short-lived pleasure often make them toil, leaving De shallow; measures that briefly delight the people often bring them little benefit.

If one cannot practice Wuwei and take no action, and gains only a small favor from the many benefits available in the present, the difference between great and small, much and little is immense, and calamity is ultimately unavoidable. This is what is meant by the principle of “great and small, much and little.” Loyalty and trust are then damaged, and just government disappears. Those who follow nature are forced into hiding, while those who rely on cleverness become active. People who steal credit rise to prominence; those who seize authority by stealth gain power; the violent profit, and the wicked and deceitful flourish. Right and wrong are overturned, all under Heaven falls into great disorder, the myriad things lose their true nature, and families and states are ruined.

Therefore, it is better to prevent calamity from arising than to be skilled at eliminating it once it comes. It is better to maintain stillness and avoid reckless action than to seek good government by launching projects. This is the benefit of “not speaking” and the value of Wuwei.

The noble person acts with care before matters begin and keeps still when all things return to emptiness and silence. He practices De, responding to change within the mysterious. Though anger may be in his heart, he does not give vent to it; though he can speak, he does not speak rashly; though he can attack, he does not strike lightly. He holds to the root, which has no fixed beginning, inspires awe without resorting to force, and dispels resentment before it takes shape. De is the root of principle, while resentment is the end of a process. To calm the troubles at the end and return to the root, one must cultivate De and return to what is real, quietly transforming things before they take shape. Hence the saying: act before matters begin, and express yourself through not speaking. This is repaying resentment with De.

To deal with difficulty, begin where it is easy; to govern a matter, grasp its root and eliminate it before signs appear, so that the problem cannot take shape. What seems slight can have an effect as great as Mount Tai. Great undertakings must begin with small things and be brought under control step by step. Treat each matter with respect and care, as earnestly as at the beginning; do not let desire lead you or covet immediate convenience. By regularly resisting the pull of immediate habit and holding to the root, one makes steady progress over time. Things will naturally grow and flourish, even without deliberate efforts to make them great. This is planning from what is easy and accomplishing great things through what is small.

A great difficulty about to arise is like an evil wind entering the body. If one takes care to prevent it before illness begins, it will not come. If the pathogen remains at the surface of the skin, it can be removed with external treatments such as hot compresses and fumigation; if it enters the spaces between the muscles, fine needles can treat it; if it penetrates the organs, various medicines must be used to save the patient. Once it reaches deep into the marrow, neither Heaven nor Earth can save the patient, and no power of creation can cure him. This shows that difficulties often begin in what is easy to address. Here, “hot compresses and fumigation” refers to treatments such as applying heat, while “fine needles” refers to acupuncture and similar methods.

A great undertaking about to take shape is also like water flowing down a mountain. At first it only dampens the ground; then small ripples appear; trickles join to form streams in the valleys; the current gradually grows powerful enough to carry boats and move stones, and eventually forms rivers and seas of unfathomable depth and breadth. This shows that great undertakings, too, develop gradually from what is small.

The sage establishes achievements and a reputation because they began small and later became conspicuous; because they were hidden deep and later became visible; because he began with the small, he could accomplish the great; and because he did not make himself prominent, he was eventually brought to prominence. He places himself below the people and so is able to become their ruler. His authority extends throughout the world; the four quarters are brought to order, all obey him, and no one can oppose him. His De accords with Heaven and Earth, and his radiance shines alongside the sun and moon. The sage never considers himself great, and so he can accomplish true greatness.

Thus, one who makes many promises too easily will often break faith when there are too many to keep. One who thinks many matters are simple will find difficulties accumulating and changing in unexpected ways; they must not be judged lightly. Rash promises are inevitably hard to keep; treating matters as too easy leads to more difficulties. This is the natural course of things. Therefore, the sage keeps his mind still and does not act rashly; keeps his mouth still and does not speak rashly; keeps his eyes still and does not look rashly; keeps his ears still and does not listen rashly. In action, he moves like Heaven and Earth; in stillness, he is as profound as the spirits. Without deliberate effort, he gets things done; without many words, he earns trust. When he advances, he has no rival; when he withdraws…

By acting in this way, one can remain inexhaustible, the body will suffer no harm, and the state will face no calamity. The sage understands and follows the Dao, refraining from deliberate action. The sage’s De accords with what is true and natural, so throughout life there is no calamity and nothing that proves difficult to manage.

Why is this so? Before danger arises, the sage keeps danger in mind; before ruin comes, the sage remains alert to the possibility of ruin. The sage clearly sees the signs and quietly takes precautions. In times of peace, the sage treats danger as a warning; before ruin comes, the sage keeps its possibility in mind. Always cautious and attentive, the sage responds before events unfold and thus avoids danger and ruin.

“When Things Are Stable, They Are Easy to Hold”

When things are stable, they are easy to hold, whether in governing the state or cultivating oneself. When calamity has yet to show signs, it is easy to plan how to meet it. Fragile things are easy to break; when calamity first begins to take shape, one should remain alert. Address matters before they arise, and bring order to the roots of disorder before it forms.

A tree too broad for a person to encircle grows from a tiny shoot; a nine-story tower is built up basketful by basketful of earth; a towering tree begins to grow from the ground beneath one’s feet. Deliberate, forceful action often ruins things; clinging tightly to what one wants can make it easy to lose. Therefore, the sage does not act recklessly and so avoids failure; the sage does not cling to possession and so has nothing to lose.

People often fail when they are close to success because they grow careless at the end. If they treated the end with the same care as the beginning, nothing would fail and no fault would remain. Thus, the sage is said to be wise: seeking what ordinary people do not pursue, and giving no thought to what they fixate on; placing no value on rare goods and precious gems, and learning what ordinary people do not learn. The sage returns to the roots and simplicity that the multitude has cast aside. The sage assists all things in following their natural course, yet dares not act recklessly, and always follows the Dao of unadorned truth.

A person who has not yet fallen ill is easy to treat; a state that has not yet entered a crisis is easy to plan for. A calamity is easy to handle when it has only just begun to take shape, and disaster is easy to meet when it is still small and its force still weak. How can this be shown? The Zhuangzi says: before a cart is damaged, even a child can drive it with ease. Once it overturns and someone falls from a height into a deep ravine, a thousand people cannot make it steady again. Before an egg hatches, a single finger can hold it down. Once it has become a great bird, beating its wings and soaring into the clouds, nets and arrow cords can no longer catch it. A newborn beast can be restrained with a single rope; once it has grown into a powerful animal, even a hunting net cannot hold it. A tiger can prey on other beasts and devour cattle and horses; even swords are hard pressed to subdue it.

So, drops of water falling without pause will in time gather into rivers and seas. A small snake, if it survives, may become a divine dragon. Small acts of goodness, accumulated, bring good fortune; a small evil left unchecked will eventually bring ruin.

Therefore, when a ruler has only recently taken the throne and there is no resentment or ill will, ministers and generals are of one mind, the people are loyal, neighboring states trade with one another, there is no slander or theft and disorder, government runs smoothly, and those above and below live in harmony, there is no need to govern by force or expend great strength. Follow what comes naturally and do not create needless disturbances: no one will be able to overcome such a state. A state is easiest to preserve when it is at peace.

When a state is nearing danger, its people nearing hardship, and calamity about to arise, yet no signs have appeared, the key to safety or peril lies with oneself, not with others. One need not wait for a sage to make plans, nor rely on a warrior to exert himself. Correct matters early, while all is still secure, and calamity can be dispelled. It is easiest to plan before any signs have appeared.

When the ruler has lost the Way, ministers are resentful, neighboring states have ended their relations, officials are in decline, and calamity has already begun, yet remains weak and pliable, a wise person can think deeply and act far ahead. By addressing events in time and turning the situation around, calamity can be dissolved before it gathers force; danger can be broken apart without the use of force. What is fragile is easiest to overcome.

When the ruler has lost the proper course, ministers make poor plans, neighboring states are resentful, the people are uncertain, and calamity has taken hold, damaging both roots and branches, treacherous leaders are on the rise but have not yet won popular support, and the various parties have perhaps joined together for a time but lack unity, or formed an alliance that is not firm, then one should honor the worthy and treat the people with humility, act with complete sincerity, attend closely to subtle signs, and reflect on one’s own failings rather than blame others for the calamity. In this way, the matter may resolve itself before advisers and armies are even mobilized. Hidden calamities are easy to dispel, though addressing them is already harder than acting before signs have appeared.

Good fortune and calamity arise from subtle beginnings before they have a name; survival and destruction, too, emerge from places hidden from view. They shift and intermingle, like howling winds and surging waves, with advance and retreat tangled together. They cannot be heard or seen; skill cannot deal with them, and wisdom cannot judge them. The forces that determine survival, destruction, good fortune, and calamity are profound and complex, difficult to discern.

Therefore, the sage transforms people through the Dao and offers himself as an example. He acts before events take place and brings order before disorder arises. He does not impose arrangements, and all things settle naturally; he does not deliberately provide for them, and all things are preserved of themselves. In action he accords with good fortune; in stillness he keeps clear of calamity. His way is deep and mysterious, and ordinary people cannot see its source. Bring order before the situation grows chaotic; make corrections before a collapse occurs. Guard against the roots of treachery and stop falsehood at its beginning. Close off the paths of evil and block the channels of distortion and wrongdoing. Eliminate calamity before its first stirrings, before signs and traces appear. Teach through wordless instruction; guide through the nameless Dao. Know without clinging to knowledge, and act without fixing things into set forms. Then disorder in government cannot arise, and all under Heaven can be governed through Wuwei (non-action). All things follow their nature, and life grows of itself. This is to act before events take place and bring order before disorder arises.

The trees on Mount Tai take root in the shade and extend their branches toward the sun. Their foliage is abundant, their flowers and fruits green; they grow so thick that a person can barely encircle their trunks, and so tall they reach a hundred fathoms. They began from something tiny and grew without deliberate striving. This is what is meant by “a tree too large to encircle grows from a tiny sprout.” A nine-tiered platform, vast as a hill and a hundred fathoms high, seeming to reach the blue sky, is likewise built up step by step from low ground. It did not begin with a lofty form. This is what is meant by “a nine-tiered platform begins with baskets of earth; a hundred-fathom peak begins beneath one’s feet.”

Therefore, large and small, high and low are not fixed. By not clinging to largeness or smallness, things take shape as large or small; by not clinging to height or lowness, things take shape as high or low. Deliberate action leaves the trace of attachment to a result; action without deliberate striving follows the path by which things come to completion. Insisting on success often brings failure; insisting on profit often brings harm. Clinging to life may lead toward death; striving for prosperity may invite decline. The tighter one grips what one wants, the more likely it is to disappear. The tighter one clings to body and spirit, the more they are damaged and diminished. This is taking the path of Wuwei while clinging to the results of deliberate action, as the saying goes: “Reckless action brings failure; clinging brings loss.”

Therefore, the sage uses Wuwei to help all things grow and avoids attachment in order to fulfill what is desired. This is like a craftsperson building a platform or Heaven and Earth growing a great tree: all proceed naturally. Wuwei does not bring ruin; nonattachment does not bring loss. De (Virtue/Power) does not harm the myriad things out of envy, and the spirit does not injure them. Harmony reaches everywhere; greatness overcomes all. Survival and destruction follow their course, and good and ill fortune each find their place. One who accords with the Dao gains the Dao; one who departs from it loses the Dao. People reach an impasse and their undertakings fail because they abandon the natural Way and rely on clever schemes and force, turning from the right path to one that is upside down. Why does this happen? Because they pursue, single-mindedly, what they want to obtain.

People often fail just as they are nearing success because they seek and desire something, and thereby lose what is fundamental. If they remain cautious from beginning to end, seek nothing they do not need, and occupy no place that is not theirs, then they can act before things become visible and return to the root before anything begins. They may seem to act without clinging to action, and seem to possess without clinging to possession. Then, even without deliberately striving for success, all things will come to completion naturally. As long as one does not depart from the Dao at the outset, one will not lose it in the end, and so will not fail.

What unsettles the spirit, muddles vital essence, and keeps intelligence from becoming clear, so that one fails to obtain what one seeks in action and loses what one desires in stillness, is the pursuit of wealth and deliberate learning. Only by refining away desires and changing habits and intentions, by being content with desires that do not grasp and taking pleasure in a life without interference, can one reach the state of Dao and De. The pursuit of wealth disturbs the spirit; deliberate learning breeds falseness. If one can desire without grasping, wealth will hold no importance. If one can learn without clinging to learning, one will gradually diminish what is excessive and return to one’s original nature. Then one accords with Dao and De. What fault could remain that cannot be dispelled?

Therefore, yearn for the Great Dao as one longs for a loved one, and despise the pursuit of wealth as one would the loss of life. Think the thought that does not think; seek what does not seek. Be clear and perceptive, yet learn not to presume that you know. Be capable of bringing things into being, yet learn not to rely on your own ability. Turn back: do not follow the crowd in rushing after what it pursues; return instead to emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei. Desire what is beyond desire, and you will enter the empty and mysterious. Learn without clinging to learning, and you will exhaust subtle principles, reach realms beyond ordinary people, discern truths beyond their measure, accomplish what they cannot, and attain what they cannot attain.

Let the mind be deep and the bearing composed. Lie still like a corpse; stand quietly like a withered tree. Think and consider nothing, as though you knew nothing. Let all things follow their nature and events unfold in their own way. Keep the heart empty and calm; do not impose yourself on things. Amid the profusion of things, each finds its proper place. In handling affairs, be steady and substantial, calm as a great mountain. In action and choice, do not simply follow popular custom. All things will respond, and so one can reach a profound state. Shelter all under Heaven and move together with the spirit. Assist Heaven and Earth, yet do not presume to take charge or create on your own; only help all things follow their nature, and do not force them into action.

In ancient times, those skilled in following the Dao (the Way) governed themselves in harmony with nature. They did not seek to keep the people ignorant or make them believe nothing; rather, they sought to spare them the disturbance of clever schemes and contrivances, lest desires take root. The people are difficult to govern because their minds differ from one another; excessive cleverness and calculation undermine honesty and sincerity.

Governing a state through clever schemes and intellectual manipulation only increases trouble and pretense. It brings disaster upon the state and harms the people. Governing without such contrivances, while holding fast to simplicity and authenticity, is the state’s good fortune, and allows the people’s lives to be preserved. To understand these two ways of governing is to grasp the turning point between misfortune and good fortune, as well as the fundamental principle of sound rule. To understand and follow this principle constantly, and put it into practice in the ruler himself, is called “Mysterious De” (profound and hidden Virtue). Mysterious De is profound and difficult to perceive; it endures through time, yet cannot be grasped and held on to. It does not operate according to the ordinary patterns of the myriad things, nor does it rely on wondrous contrivances. In the end, it reaches a state of harmony with nature, bringing all under Heaven back to simplicity.

Dao and De—the fundamental principles governing the movement of all things—are connected with the divine spirits, the clear and the turbid, and Great Harmony, the state in which Yin and Yang unite. They are linked to Heaven and Earth, to the myriad things, and to humanity: they are both the branches and the root. The Qi and allotted fortunes of all things follow one another, and their transformations through Qi are interconnected. To follow or go against Dao and De brings flourishing or decline, which appear as good or ill fortune.

The original meaning of Dao and De is the intent of Heaven and Earth: to make life secure and enduring, to let all things rest, and to abhor killing and injury. For this reason, Heaven and Earth made the sages rulers of the myriad things. Sages benefit all things and themselves receive blessings in turn. If they cannot benefit all things, calamity will follow. Deeply wary of this, sages fear that calamity may arise in the future. They investigate its causes and conclude that the best course is to follow nature. The key to the Way of nature is to leave no trace of human contrivance.

How should this be understood? Zhuangzi says that Heaven and Earth do not know how Dao and De operate, and so they can move along naturally; the myriad things cannot see how Heaven and Earth operate, and so they can exist in peace. The people do not know what their ruler is doing in detail, and so they can live in stability. A person’s limbs and nine apertures—the openings throughout the body—do not understand how the heart directs them, and so the body can remain whole.

The myriad things have a ruler just as the human body has a heart. How could the heart’s relation to the body be divided into what comes first and what matters most? The flow of blood and Qi reaches everywhere in the body; it acts above and below, within and without. When active, the heart responds to different affairs; when still and empty, it contains the spirit. Inwardly harmonious and outwardly unobtrusive, it enables the whole body to remain intact.

Thus the ancient emperors followed Dao and De, brought the divine spirits into order, regulated the clear and the turbid, and presided over Great Harmony. They did not rely on innate cleverness to build their undertakings and enlighten the common people, intent on making them understand everything. Instead, they veiled the people’s eyes and ears and quieted their thoughts, so that they would not be led astray by complicated knowledge but could return to their natural state. This is what is meant by the ancient masters of the Way: they did not make the people clever, but made them simple and free of contention.

The people, then, lived within an order that was clear and visible, while the ruler dwelt in a realm of deep Wuwei. Instruction took place without explicit preaching, and guidance left no trace of human contrivance. Filial piety and respect between siblings were not deliberately upheld as ideals, nor were benevolence and righteousness proclaimed. Rulers did not seek glory, and the learned did not seek fame. This teaching, accomplished without instruction, spread throughout the four directions; this governance, accomplished through Wuwei, reached everywhere. In action, it accorded with the rhythms of Heaven and Earth; in stillness, it matched the state of Dao and De. All things grew together, each knowing its place. Names and realities were established together, and each kept to its proper role. As harmonious Qi flowed freely, all under Heaven remained simple and unknowing, without desires or affairs, and without seeking fame or merit. Hearts were like wood and earth, and intentions like dead ashes. People clung neither to distinctions between self and other nor to good and ill fortune. Thus the people were easy to govern, and all under Heaven could be at peace.

Peace is what the people need; life is what they turn toward. When people depart from peace and lose their means of living, they become difficult to govern because they have too much knowledge and too many desires. Once people have knowledge, they want to acquire more. When desire arises, they begin to act. As their affairs multiply, they contend for merit and fame. That contention brings resentment and conflict; conflict breeds great treachery and evil, until at last all under Heaven becomes difficult to govern. Thus it is said that the people are hard to govern because they are crafty in thought and possess too much knowledge.

If a state is governed by cleverness, deceit and hypocrisy will grow. Rare and precious goods will appear in abundance, appetites will have no end, and luxury and indulgence will know no restraint. All manner of crooked conduct will gradually emerge, and domineering people will rise up in competition. From this, calamity takes hold. Ministers mislead rulers, and sons defy fathers. Black is called white, and what does not exist is said to exist; names and realities become confused with one another, until the disorder reaches the point of plunder and killing.

All under Heaven falls into turmoil. People act recklessly and wage wars everywhere; the dead are countless, and rivers of blood flow. Grief and resentment move Heaven; stars scatter, the sun and moon lose their radiance, Yin and Yang fall out of order, and the myriad things are harmed. Mountains run dry and river valleys wither; vast lands lie barren, and all under Heaven sinks into hardship, even to the point of people eating one another. This is not Heaven’s fault. It is caused by rulers who prize cleverness and teach the people to compete. The harm brought by the exaltation of cleverness is ultimately this grave. The saying “To govern a state by cleverness is to plant the state’s ruin” is indeed true.

Cast off cleverness, and preserve Mysterious De, the deep and hidden virtue, along with simplicity. Let the ruler alone observe and deliberate, without leading the people into desire; follow the people’s natural dispositions, and do not disturb them with a profusion of sounds and sights. Let the ruler be like Heaven and Earth, and the people like grass and trees. Let them dwell in valleys, drink water, and eat plants, without seeking grain. Let people know their mothers and recognize their fathers, but not cling to their clan ties. Let them remain simple and natural, without distinguishing east from west. Let there be no contrived infatuation between men and women, nor possessive attachment between fathers and sons. Let people neither despise wood and stone nor prize gold and jade. Let all things live together in abundance, and all under Heaven share one mind, with the customs of the four directions, the eight extremities, and the nine provinces brought into accord.

Then harmful insects will not breed, venomous beasts will not appear, and divine dragons will dwell alongside humans. Qilin and phoenixes will roam in courtyards. Gentle breezes will blow, sweet springs will trickle, sweet dew will fall widely, vermilion herbs will flourish, auspicious grain will abound, and all things will grow and endure. This is not a blessing bestowed by Heaven alone. It comes because the ruler does not pride himself on cleverness or display himself through fame. Wisdom that does not boast of knowledge, and rank that does not seek renown, are what accord with the Dao.

Thus, concealing cleverness and revealing simplicity accords with the Dao; understanding the distinct roles of cleverness and simplicity accords with the Dao’s purpose as well. Political instruction that follows this principle may at times bring harm and at times bring benefit. When the gains and losses are clearly understood, peace will come naturally and the myriad things will naturally fall into proper order. Governing a state through cleverness invites calamity; refraining from imposing cleverness through governance brings blessings and De. These two approaches can serve as principles for governing. To understand this principle at all times is called Mysterious De.

Mysterious De is deep and unfathomable, contrary to ordinary practice; none can surpass it. Its movement is vast yet hidden, indistinct and without form. It does not take human affairs as its measure, but harmonizes Dao and De, guides the divine spirits, embraces the myriad states, and governs without limit. Beyond the six directions and down to the smallest details, nowhere fails to receive its blessings and benevolence. All things are thereby able to preserve their life, reach the end of their allotted years, and remain natural. This is what is meant by attaining the greatest alignment with the natural course.

The reason rivers and seas can become the leaders toward which all streams flow is that they lie below the waters and welcome every stream; therefore, all streams gather to them. The sages understood that an enlightened ruler who wishes to stand above the people, in a position of honor, should speak humbly and follow the people’s will. If he wishes to go before them and lead them, he should put his own safety last, first sparing the people from harm.

Though such a person holds a high position and becomes the people’s leader, they do not feel oppressed by him. Though he stands before them to guide them, they are not harmed by him. All under Heaven gladly support him and let him stand above them, and the people are thereby kept safe. He does not claim credit for their peace and well-being. Because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him, and so nothing proves beyond his capacity.

Dao and De (Virtue/Power) do not themselves create the myriad things, yet the myriad things grow of their own accord. Heaven and Earth do not gather all kinds of things together, yet each kind naturally finds what it depends on. Things in the natural world do not seek to rule, yet the myriad things naturally take them as their kings. Thus, though the myriad things between Heaven and Earth are many, Dao governs them all. Yang Qi (vital energy) blazes, and Heaven governs it; Yin Qi sinks deep, and Earth governs it. Human beings, who have neither feathers nor burrows, are ruled by sages. Flying birds have the divine phoenix as their king; beasts that walk on land have the qilin as their king; scaled creatures that live in water have the divine dragon as their king; shelled creatures dwelling in marshes have the numinous tortoise as their king. Where the streams converge, the great rivers and seas are their destination.

These nine beings in positions of governance do not deliberately make themselves masters of the myriad things, yet the myriad things naturally turn to them. They lay down no laws, yet each thing finds its proper order. They do not draw things in through benevolence and righteousness, yet all naturally grow close to them. They rely neither on stratagem nor force, yet all naturally respect them. Why is this so? Because they embody Dao and harmonize with the myriad things. They do not impose their will on anything, and so the myriad things naturally become what they are.

The great rivers and seas become the destination of the streams not by accumulating virtuous government and benevolence, or by winning them over with favors. Nor do they please them through ritual propriety, deference, cleverness, or talent. Still less do they control them through surprise attacks, the manipulation of power, or displays of force. The great rivers and seas are still, remain low, and receive all things with open emptiness. They act without forcing anything and seek nothing deliberately, so the streams flow to them of their own accord. The streams do not turn toward them because they have heard of their excellence and been moved by their De; nor do they flow there because they are constrained by commands or confined to a prescribed course. Water penetrates metal and stone, wears away cliffs, surges over hills, and flows toward the rivers and seas without turning back because its course accords with its nature. Everything follows the natural course of things.

From this we can see how vast the principle of humility and taking the lower position is. All manner of harm cannot injure it; neither strategy nor force can control it. It does not contend, yet it is strong; it does not flaunt its power, yet it commands respect. It is silent and acts without forcing, yet it responds to the myriad things. Streams and valleys willingly remain low. They have no preference for east or west, so their paths remain open and they do not run dry. The rivers and seas lie below, not because they deliberately seek greatness, but because they can govern all the valleys and endure without end. The rivers and seas become kings of the valleys precisely because they are adept at taking the lower position. This is indeed so.

Therefore, when an enlightened ruler wishes to honor the people, he follows their natural dispositions and treats them with generous De and kindness. He is modest and yielding, and treats everyone with respect. He regards himself as low as the earth and the people as exalted as Heaven. He sees clearly without revealing his traces; his abilities are outstanding, yet hard to fathom. His insight is broad and unclouded, his understanding keen and unobstructed. Yet he does not use these abilities to bring the myriad things under his command. Instead, he places himself behind and the people first.

Though the sage possesses such abilities, he does not set himself above others. His words are humble, and in his actions he does not push ahead of everyone else. The people are therefore glad to choose him and do not grow tired of him. They rely on him as solidly as they rely on the earth, and trust him as they would a spirit. He regularly dwells above the people, governs the realm, and stands in correspondence with Heaven.

If a ruler wishes to come before the people, gain an honored position, hold supreme authority, and remain secure for a long time, he should set aside private desires and put his own interests first only in order to let them go, keeping the peace of all the people in mind. He labors so that the people may be at ease; takes the rear so that they may lead; occupies a high position so that they may live; goes ahead so that they may be secure. The people are thus able to live and support him without feeling burdened. They are made secure and are willing to let him lead, without seeing this as a misfortune. They do not find his leadership burdensome because he benefits everyone; so when he stands before them, no one is harmed. Thus the people of the realm choose him and lead him to the front, gladly and without weariness, willingly supporting him without resentment.

The sage becomes king not because he actively seeks the throne from the people, but because they raise him to it. He does not set out to pursue the people’s interests, yet they benefit from him. He does not deliberately seek to honor the people, yet they honor him. He does not intend to walk ahead of them, yet they push him to the front. Therefore he can reform long-standing abuses and respond to change, rescue what is declining and set disorder right, until peace prevails throughout the realm. Above, he accords with Dao and De; below, he communicates with the spirits. Deep and remote, embracing what is hidden and subtle, he moves between Heaven and Earth and travels through Yin-Yang. How can he do all this? Because he casts off selfishness and places himself last.

The De of non-contention, the strength that accords with the people, changes together with Dao and communicates with the spirits without end. Only those who abandon cleverness and scheming can follow its principle. Who, then, would wish to contend with such a person?

In governing a state, one should follow nature and refrain from acting recklessly. If one attains this Dao, life can be preserved; if one follows it, one’s actions have a guiding standard. The sage is wise and true to his nature, and governs by the right way. If this Dao is lost, royal rule cannot be established; if this right way is abandoned, the standards of one’s nature and feelings are lost as well. Therefore, the sage trusts in Dao without clinging to himself, and follows Dao rather than his private desires. He acts without scheming for his own sake and considers others first in everything. He does not treat the realm as his own tool, and so the people of the realm compete to turn toward him.

These words are truly well spoken. Dao is a treasure for governing the state, yet rulers across the generations have not always been able to attain it. Even a slight grasp of it is enough to make one master of the myriad things. But if one makes a beginning and cannot persist to the end, one will ultimately be trapped in hardship and distress. One who can accord with the subtle essence of Dao will not bring calamity upon himself. This is called inheriting the constant Dao, which never comes to an end.

Everyone in the world says that “I” am great, yet I seem contrary to ordinary expectations, almost as if I had no form. It is precisely because the Dao’s De is deep and vast that it appears unconstrained by conventional forms, even as though it were flawed. If it matched everyone’s preferences in every respect, it would become small. That would mean going against the natural course of the Dao.

I have three treasures. They are the workings of the Dao and the principles I follow and preserve. The first is compassion, which makes one unable to bear harming others. The second is frugality and restraint, which keep one in check. The third is not daring to claim first place in the world, but willingly staying behind and acting in accord with the circumstances. With compassion, one can be courageous, because weakness can nurture strength. By remaining frugal, one can have enough, because saving allows things to grow. By not striving to be first, one can let nature take its course and ultimately bring things to completion; those who come later can, in turn, take the leading place.

Today, if one abandons compassion and seeks only to display courage, abandons frugality and seeks only expansion, or abandons taking the rear and competes to lead, one will head toward ruin and lose one’s life. When compassionate people go to war, they often prevail, because the people are willing to lend them their strength. When they defend, they often stand firm, because the people sincerely support them. Heaven seeks to save someone by letting them face the misfortunes brought by their enemies, while protecting them with compassion so that they may survive.

A skilled commander does not act tough or relish fighting. A skilled fighter is not quick to anger. One skilled at defeating an enemy does not contend with others, but makes non-contention the constant way. One skilled at employing others can win their hearts: they place themselves below them, yet their words and actions earn respect. This is called the De of non-contention, and blessings arise naturally from it. By making good use of others, one can bring things to completion. This is to accord with the Dao of Heaven and share its De—the highest attainment of the sages of old.

Among all things, some appear the same on the surface but differ within, while others appear different on the surface but are the same within. Some seem not to be something, yet in fact are; others seem to be something, yet in fact are not. The noble person can therefore escape misfortune, while ordinary people often grieve and suffer because of this.

The sun and moon rise and set in different ways, yet both give light. The wise and the foolish look alike, yet differ in their hearts. The noble person can blend in with the ordinary world without inviting misfortune. The petty person, however, is always trying to appear superior, and trouble follows. This is the principle of “sameness within difference, and affirmation within denial.”

How can this be shown? The Zhuangzi says: The sun and moon follow different courses, yet both illuminate. Whether living or dead, people have similar forms. Spring and autumn come in their own seasons, yet both bring benefit. The sages who deeply understand the mysterious and the people of the countryside look alike. Those who are open and those who are blocked experience similar things. Those who cultivate the Dao and infants alike have the effect of returning to simplicity and truth. These things differ within but are the same in outward appearance; without being a sage, it is difficult to understand them.

Thus the doubts and confusion of the world blur right and wrong, and turn truth upside down. The sage then appears to be an incapable person. Everyone says, “He really doesn’t seem fit for much.” Why is this? The one who has attained the Dao displays nothing outwardly, yet holds fast to something within. Through learning, he transforms his nature and disposition; through his actions, he cultivates himself. Within, he is full, yet outwardly he seems empty. He is deep and still, as though doing nothing. His manner is unassuming and his speech slow; his appearance is plain, even rough. Yet inwardly he understands emptiness, and his nature is in accord with “nonbeing.” Quiet and detached, he rests in Wuwei (non-action), seeming to have no fixed support. He avoids fame and power, keeping company with the Way of spirit. Holding fast to the Great Dao and practicing harmony, he brings all things to their proper place. He does not pander to the common world, yet is at one with Heaven and Earth.

People of the world are false and affected. They regard integrity as ugly and call aspirations that differ from the norm a defect. The one who has attained the Dao has vast De (Virtue/Power), and so does not seem like a “good person” in the eyes of the world. People therefore say that he is ill.

Petty people are different. They are widely learned and use their knowledge to win a reputation for cleverness. They make themselves conspicuous through strange behavior and outward achievements, casting suspicion on the humane and worthy. They deceive the world and shape its customs, polish their words and attend to their appearance, lower themselves and flatter others to win favor. They read their superiors’ wishes and cater to others to gather support. They form factions for private gain, often surrounding themselves with people bent on causing harm. They give little yet receive generous salaries; they achieve little yet hold high rank. The country is poor while their households are rich; the ruler’s standing declines while they themselves grow powerful. They manipulate authority and stir up disorder, seizing power at its height. Their fame and status shine, and their influence reaches beyond the borders. Arrogant, extravagant, and cruel, they indulge themselves: when things go their way, they slight others; when they do not, they seize and suppress. A slight move from them can cost the people their lives; even sitting still brings calamity. One glare damages things; one word brings disaster to the people.

These are precisely the people praised by the customs of the time and judged by the world to be “fit for much.” They have strayed far from the Dao of De. The spirits abandon them, Heaven and Earth detest them, and Yin-Yang rejects them. All things shun them, and the people do not wish to follow them. Neither in action nor in stillness can they meet a good end. In life they are a scourge; their death is a relief. The confused and unenlightened people of the world gradually lead one another toward this way of life. They gain little from it, while its harms accumulate day by day. The more successful they look on the outside, the deeper the damage within grows over time.

Those who have attained the Dao are different. Their hearts are empty and still, and they accumulate kindness, seeing all things as part of themselves. First comes kindness: they restrain the body and gather in their bearing, returning themselves to subtle simplicity. Second comes frugality: they remain quiet and unobtrusive, content to stay behind and never rush ahead of all things. Third comes not daring to be first under Heaven: they harmonize all things, follow the nature of things, and accord with what is natural.

Their actions therefore run counter to worldly ways, and they follow different paths in coming and going. They do not rely on force to display their courage, so they do not grow angry, yet all under Heaven revere them. They do not seek greatness by enlarging the self, so they do not make a show of giving, yet people everywhere turn to them. They do not compete to be first or boast in speech, yet the world esteems them. By not daring to be first under Heaven, they become the leaders of all things.

If one casts aside kindness and seeks only courage, abandons frugality to pursue expansion, and gives up staying behind in order to compete for the lead, one violates harmony and turns against the spirits. One’s actions no longer accord with what is natural. Good fortune departs, misfortune draws near, and life moves toward its end. The spirit disperses; Heaven and Earth can no longer bring one peace, and De can no longer endure. Even on the verge of death, such a person does not understand why. Instead, he blames fate and accuses Heaven. This is neither bad fortune nor the work of another person. It comes from his ease and arrogance, his craving for power, and his abandonment of the Great Dao in favor of force. To cast aside kindness and act with force, abandon frugality and seek expansion, and give up staying behind to compete for the lead is to follow the road to death.

Kind action is gentle and sincere. In acting, it wins people’s support; in stillness, it accords with Heaven’s intent. It willingly remains humble and yielding, yet can guide all things. It can set the world right and rescue its customs, bringing harmony between Heaven and humanity. When kindness goes to war, it is not easily defeated; when kindness defends, it is difficult to break through. Used in battle, kindness brings victory; used in defense, it brings security.

Why is this so? All things under Heaven grow together, and their transformations have no end. When battle comes, the earth shakes and the heavens stir. Strange signs appear in the sky, violent winds rise from the ground, and spirits reveal themselves together, as though bringing calamity upon the enemy and protecting our generals and people, inspiring the soldiers until even all things are affected. Oxen break their tethers, horses run out of provisions, birds take wing, and wild beasts flee. Even tigers and rhinoceroses can join the battle, and fierce birds can lead troops. The enemy is terrified, and hidden soldiers are struck down. Heaven comes to one side’s aid because kindness protects it.

The wise advisers and capable generals do not show off their strength or act arrogantly. They are neither rigid nor violent, but remain yielding and humble; the enemy then withdraws. Those skilled in battle do not display their might. When fighting, they set aside selfish thoughts and keep themselves calm. They speak modestly, willingly take the lower place, and act in accord with the timing of Heaven. They do not flare up in anger or rely on force to provoke war. Those skilled in battle do not grow angry.

When they seek to overcome the enemy, they often use methods opposite to the enemy’s, planning in what cannot be seen and taking hold of the enemy’s spirit. Their actions depend on the conditions already created by the other side; their changes follow the enemy’s moves and then turn them around, allowing them to seize the moment for a surprise victory. Thus, when the other side is crooked, they remain upright; when the other side speaks, they listen; when the other side is angry, they remain cheerful; when the other side acts, they stay still. They guide the enemy toward what he thinks will benefit him, leading him into a situation that harms him. Those skilled at overcoming others do not struggle against them.

When they employ people, they speak humbly, explain the benefits, and treat them sincerely, so that those people come of their own accord. Those skilled at employing people always place themselves below others. Thus they do not compete or force matters, yet they win the people’s hearts, accord with their wishes, and grasp what is essential. This is the De of non-contention. The enemy falls apart while our side remains united and harmonious. Even if the enemy does not wish to perish, defeat is difficult to avoid. Even if our side does not deliberately seek to gain anything, it receives what it needs. This is the power of being skilled at employing people.

At this level, the Dao appears as formlessness, and De begins from it. The spirits become the measure, and Great Harmony the guiding principle. Clear Qi and turbid Qi each find their proper place, and all things are nurtured like children. The sun, moon, and stars lend their aid; the changing seasons offer their support. Stillness is the root of all things; movement is the beginning of transformation. When all things take their support from this, they do not encounter calamity. De is equal to Heaven, enduring without decline. From ancient times to the present, the way practiced by sages and wise people, and the transformations through which those chosen by Heaven’s mandate established royal rule, have all come from this. This is called “being in accord with Heaven,” the highest principle since antiquity.

The “Use of the Military” chapter discusses the principles that govern the use of force: I dare not provoke war or be the first to attack. I would rather remain behind and wait for the other side to act first. I dare not advance, nor am I willing to suffer losses, so I would rather retreat a foot and hope the enemy withdraws of its own accord. This is called acting as though one were not acting, with the aim of turning the course of war around.

In a contest, it is as though one had no arms, and so no one is harmed. One may hold a weapon as though one had none, leaving the opponent with nothing to fight against. One may continue forward as though no enemy stood in the way. The greatest disaster is to underestimate the enemy and assume oneself to be right. Taking the enemy lightly can nearly cost me what I value most: my nature, which follows the natural course.

The Dao is everywhere. With it, all things can fulfill their functions. The Dao takes peace and gentleness as its substance, concealing a mighty force deep within. It gives life and nourishment to all things, and nothing can go against it. It has no fixed form, yet it is the foundation of all things. When a state possesses the Dao, it is secure; when it loses the Dao, it is in danger. Heaven and Earth follow the Dao, and so they continue their course for a long time without decline.

How can this be shown? Zhuangzi said, “If there is Yin without Yang, things cannot grow; if there is Yang without Yin, things cannot come to fruition.” From this we can see that if a ruler has only might and lacks virtue, the people cannot be governed; if the ruler has virtue but no might, the ancestral temples and the altars of state will fall. To lack both virtue and might is to invite disaster. When circumstances change, the end may be death for the ruler and ruin for the state.

The ruler is the heart and belly of the state; the army is the force through which the state displays its might. Among the many states of the world, large and small, wise and foolish, each seeks a ruler. People submit because their wits are exhausted and their strength has failed, not because they still have power to spare and willingly choose to serve as subjects. A wise ruler should therefore follow the Dao and take Heaven and Earth as models. The ruler should put stillness first, make harmony the constant way, begin by adapting to circumstances, take trustworthiness as the foundation, preserve order by matching names to realities, and restrain the people through rewards and punishments. By using virtue together with might, the ruler can respond to change. Then people throughout the world will willingly accept governance, the state can be preserved, and the people can live in peace.

Virtue and the use of arms are like Heaven and Earth, like Yin and Yang. Might and moral instruction, force of arms and civil rule, complement each other. They are kept hidden in subtle depths and used only when there is no other choice. When a ruler loses the Dao and delights in war, the ruler brings harm upon himself: proper affairs of state are neglected and disorder grows; arrogance and extravagance prevail, and laws and discipline fall into disuse. Palaces are adorned, dogs and horses are kept for show, grand terraces and gardens are built, and the ruler becomes absorbed in music and sensual pleasures. The loyal and outspoken are killed, while beautiful women are favored. The ancestral temples are neglected and elders are mistreated; people are brutalized and harmed, and orphans and young children are abandoned. Such conduct defies Heaven and Earth, harms the way of Yin and Yang, and damages virtue and the spirits. Harmony is thrown into confusion, the transformations of all things lose their proper order, thunder sounds in winter, frost falls in summer, and living things are harmed.

The ruler then uses force to attack in every direction and plots unjust acts, terrifying the great states and driving the small states to flee. The old and young are separated, weeping as they wander from place to place. Anger spreads throughout the world; the people long to take up arms in revolt and join together in resistance, while the ruler is left as the last to send out troops. Why does this happen? The rulers of earlier generations possessed virtue that reached to Heaven and Earth and devoted themselves wholeheartedly to the people. In return, they received tallies and cinnabar documents as proof of their mandate, were granted land and bestowed surnames, and became kings. They brought honor to their ancestors, and their work was handed down to their descendants. This was to follow the will of Heaven and Earth and to build up a legacy over ten thousand years.

Yet rulers who inherited the throne refused to humble and discipline themselves, cultivate their spirit, and learn the ways of virtue so that they might carry on their ancestors’ work. Instead, they dismissed small acts of good and allowed small evils to go unchecked, declining day by day and falling further with each passing month. In the end, the ancestral temples collapsed, the state became a ruin, and the ruling clan was scattered. The living had nowhere to turn, and the spirits of the dead had no place to rest. Alas, how could this fail to be sorrowful?

So the generals and soldiers must be instructed. There is a principle in the use of arms: put away armor and lay down weapons so that people can rest; calm unrest and change people’s hearts; give the other side a chance to repent and begin anew, so that the situation can change. Do not force yourself into the role of aggressor. Instead, take a defensive position and remain the one on the guest’s side. If you press forward without ever turning back, you will become a calamity to the world, bringing hardship to the people, exhausting their wealth and draining their strength. The world’s troubles will grow ever worse. Heaven will send signs, and calamity will gather upon the state. Even if the ruler does not wish to be punished, the state will naturally move toward ruin. This is the combined work of Heaven and humankind.

Thus, in outward action one may show weakness while inwardly keeping one’s own judgment; the body may move forward while the will is prepared to turn back. If advance and retreat run counter to one’s own principles, action loses its purpose. The legacy of the ancient sages is to be mourned, and the plight of innocent people is heartbreaking: they have done nothing to offend Heaven, so why must they suffer such disaster?

War can erupt suddenly, but the lives of the people depend on how arms are used. Orders must be issued with a commitment to trustworthiness and fulfilled through concrete action. Reward those who submit early and punish those who submit late. Let small cities that surrender early benefit, and provide more generous arrangements for great states that submit. Grant ranks to those who offer up their cities, and bestow rewards upon cities that surrender. While a city has not yet been captured and the fighting is not over, do not kill recklessly. Pardon those who have committed crimes and appoint those who have ability. Care for the old and weak, and bury the dead. Even someone who signals surrender by raising an arm should be assured that no harm will come to them. In this way, kindness is extended widely and compassion and generosity spread; people’s hearts become harmonious and they willingly submit. When the ruler quietly puts these measures into practice, people’s hearts and the force of circumstances respond to one another. This is what it means to overcome the enemy without using arms.

Soldiers in the enemy army may also come to share our purpose. Enemy spies can be put to use, and even bandits can serve as guides; they can tell us the enemy’s plans and describe the terrain. By making use of conditions already present on the other side, subtle strategies for adapting to change can be put into effect. When laws are not harsh, even dangerous terrain can be examined for its strengths and weaknesses. When timing and the people’s will are in accord, victory comes as if aided by spirits; no enemy can block an advance, and plans do not fail. Even when the enemy is numerous and we are few, we can take the initiative in battle and move as if no one stood in our way.

Even when preparations for battle are complete, we must not underestimate the enemy. Overconfidence gives the other side an opening to devise a plan, causing us to miss the moment and lose our advantage. Good fortune turns into calamity, and Heaven’s disapproval is incurred. No calamity is greater than contempt for the enemy. So even when aided by Heaven and by people, we must remain anxious and alert. When passing through dangerous places or making use of openings, we must prepare in advance. We must choose convenient and safe places to camp and rest, make use of water and vegetation, close gaps and remove dangers, and only then face the enemy. Those who underestimate the enemy will perish, so we must act with caution.

Changes in the situation leave no fixed trace, and the emergence of an unusual strategy gives no clear sign. Ways of winning are endless, and neither achievements nor methods of warfare can be determined in advance. Change reaches into deep and hidden places and has no fixed beginning. Even those close to us may not know exactly what we will do. How, then, could the enemy fully grasp our situation?

Therefore, people at home live in peace and contentment, while those in the army are also cheerful. With the greatest sincerity, people treat the army as their own children. When they leave home and cross borders on a distant campaign, they act together like a crowd going to market. The people work hard at farming and weaving, rise early and rest late, and give the army every extra harvest, as if caring for their parents. When victory is planned in this way, the enemy dares not act rashly. The world can be settled without fighting, and the feudal lords can be brought to submit without besieging their cities. Wherever Heaven and Earth extend their covering and support, wherever the sun and moon shine, each state can live securely in its own territory. Why is this so? Because compassion and pity have been put into practice, in accord with Heaven’s will; this has not been forced into being by the ruler’s own power. When two armies face one another, the side that acts with compassion and caution is more likely to prevail.

My words seem very easy to understand because they explain “no bright views”—not clinging to what appears obvious. They also seem easy to put into practice because they speak of “no contrived action”—not acting willfully or in excess. Yet few people in the world can grasp their meaning, and few can put them into practice and follow them.

Words have their foundations, but ultimately return to silence. Each affair has its own governing principle, but in the end returns to its natural state. Only those who are not self-centered can understand how I differ from others. Because of this, people do not understand me and so do not know me. When I say that few understand me, I mean that ordinary people in the world find me difficult to comprehend. That is why I seem precious, and why I alone preserve the truth.

Thus the sage—the person who follows the Dao—says that a wise ruler wears coarse cloth outwardly, making himself appear plain, while inwardly cherishing a piece of jade, keeping his spirit full and profound.

The Dao (the fundamental pattern underlying all things in the universe) and spirit (the wondrous power that sets all things in motion and transformation) have neither form nor sound, yet they enable all things to grow naturally according to their own nature. Heaven and Earth have form and sound, and they too enable all things to follow their natural course. The Dao of spirit is vast and boundless, silently nurturing and transforming all things. Heaven and Earth speak no words, yet everywhere they reveal the patterns of nature. Spirit and Qi pass between one another; things respond to one another through mutual resonance. In the end, all returns to emptiness: subtle and mysterious, returning to nature, it guides everything.

Thus, deliberate speech is a means of following nature, while deliberate action is a way of losing one’s original nature. Wuwei (non-action) and wordlessness are the keys to accomplishing things and enduring over time. So the sage speaks without deliberate expression and acts without deliberate action. He uses speech to bring speech to rest, and action to bring reckless activity to rest. To quiet speech, one must let go of preconceptions and schemes; to end reckless activity, one must let go of artificial contrivances and clever devices. Remain simple and sincere, neither displaying knowledge nor giving rise to desire. With no desire, one can be still; stillness brings an open mind, an open mind brings fullness, and fullness brings access to the mysterious. Let action return to its original simplicity, and stillness return to nature. In this way, one can preserve oneself and bring stability to the state, allowing wealth and honor to endure without decline, and enabling all living beings to find their proper place and live long.

These principles are easy to understand and not hard to put into practice, yet few in the world truly understand or carry them out. Why? Those who direct affairs in the world favor cleverness and seek only to satisfy their own wishes. They cannot see the Great Dao or understand nature. They mistake deliberate action for true action and deliberate speech for true speech. They suppress their innate understanding and instead create trouble, seeking only ease in the moment. Gradually, they turn these practices into custom and suffer their harm throughout their lives. Their nature changes and their desires shift, drawing them ever deeper. Their spirit grows clouded and their minds unsettled; they appear full on the outside but are empty within. Forced silence brings fault, and forced stillness gives rise to distress. The sage’s words stand before them, yet they neither see nor heed them. This is not because they dislike themselves, but because they believe the Way does not exist and so refuse to follow it.

The sage’s words take nature as their foundation and spirit as their source. They often rest at the point where opposites complete one another, between silence and speech. They are subtle and far-reaching, and ultimately return to nature. They seem clear, yet are as if unseen; they seem heard, yet are as if unheard. They are open and accessible, yet seem closed; they reach their destination, yet seem thwarted. The sage’s conduct begins in nature and reaches the realm of spirit. He constantly maintains balance and harmony, standing between action and non-action. He is still, pure, gentle, and yielding; his actions are subtle, his dealings simple, and he is humble and self-effacing. In the end, he returns to Wuwei. These words have a fundamental purpose, and the actions they describe have a guiding principle.

Use emptiness to accord with the Dao, and quietude and simplicity to settle life. Use harmony with the times to strengthen the state, and nurture the people through education. Govern the people through freedom from desire, and guide them by the natural course of the Dao. Let them enjoy the blessings of Heaven, Earth, mountains, and rivers, live long lives, cherish themselves, and remain free from worry and calamity. There is nothing that freedom from desire cannot attain, and nothing of which contentment cannot preserve. The people do not feel that they are being ruled, and the ruler does not regard the people as his private possession. Set aside cleverness and force, follow the Dao and rely on the Way of Heaven, and the states throughout the realm will live in harmony and unity, as though serving a single ruler. This is the sign of flourishing affairs and great achievement, yet the people of the world do not believe it. In truth, the Dao brings things about in this way; there is no doubt in its principles. It is simply that those whose understanding is clouded refuse to believe.

People do not understand me not because my teachings are too slight to merit understanding, nor because my work is too insignificant to be put into practice. Nor is it that they prefer failure to success, or disaster to happiness, and so deliberately refuse to follow me. Their nature is simply contrary to mine, their desires differ from mine, and their understanding is trapped in desire. All their lives, they remain bound by what they have seen and heard. Their spirit does not accord with mine, and their minds do not agree with me, so they do not understand me. Their eyes cannot see what I see, and their ears cannot hear what I hear. Thus, profound words invite slander, and great undertakings draw criticism. Unique insight finds no use among the people, while uncommon intelligence is mocked by them. What accords with spirit does not fit worldly custom, and achievements equal to Heaven and Earth do not please the crowd. Few truly understand me.

The most profound words encompass myriad transformations and grasp countless situations. They distinguish differences at the finest level and reveal the realm of emptiness and obscurity. They are seamless and complete, ultimately returning to a vast, dim, distant realm. This is not something that those fixated on details can understand, nor can those with narrow horizons attain it. The swan may fly high and travel all day without knowing what lies beyond the universe. Those who make laws and scholars who cling to doctrines may study for years and debate throughout their lives without ever knowing the vastness of the Dao of De. Even spirit has what it cannot comprehend, and Heaven and Earth have what they cannot govern—how much less can those who cling to inherited opinions and cannot see the fundamental principles understand? Thus, what the world scorns and rejects is precisely what those who have attained the Dao alone revere. For this reason, I value it.

The sage understands, yet does not act deliberately; he has ability, yet does not flaunt it. He practices benevolence and righteousness, yet does not claim them as his own. He is accomplished, yet does not pride himself on his accomplishments. He is strong and great, yet does not use these qualities to seek distinction or honor. His words do not seek to be heard, and his actions leave no trace. His heart is like a river or sea, his aspirations like the boundless sky. He abandons artificial contrivance to establish the Great Dao, and reduces outward displays of goodness to preserve his nature. He is silent and vast, beyond anyone’s ability to fathom. He shines brightly, yet no one can see into him. He is quiet and speaks no words, yet stands alone, enduring through time. He regards outward fame and profit lightly, and deeply nourishes his inner nature. He lowers himself and diminishes his reputation, turning away from the customs of the crowd and taking the Dao as his constant guide. He wears coarse cloth while carrying fine jade within: his outward appearance is plain, but inwardly he is precious.

On Knowing That One Does Not Know

Those who truly understand know that their knowledge is limited, and so return to emptiness, stillness, and freedom from intention. Those who think they know everything are instead trapped by their knowledge and opinions. Only by recognizing attachment to knowledge as a failing, and refusing to show off one’s cleverness or skill, can one avoid being harmed by it. The sage is not troubled by external things. What concerns him is that people suffer from the failing of not understanding the Great Dao. For this reason, he is not ensnared by calamity.

The Zhigui says that moral instruction takes following nature as its guiding principle. The signs of nature’s workings are like a body followed by its shadow, or a sound answered by its echo. All things have form and sound, and choices bring corresponding results; this is not true only of the myriad things. A moving body does not produce another body, but it does produce a shadow. A sound does not produce another sound, but it does produce an echo. Being can arise from nonbeing; conversely, what covers something can also bring forth an opposite result.

Thus, those who hold to the Dao govern through Wuwei (non-action). Those who think themselves clever, by contrast, create turmoil through doing too much. Because infants do not understand the ways of the world, they are able to remain unharmed; older people are often damaged by having too many affairs to manage. This shows that unadorned simplicity and Wuwei are the root of cleverness and skill, while cleverness and skill are like their shadow. Wuwei is the source from which things come to completion, while deliberate action is like its echo. Cleverness weaves a net of confusion; deliberate action becomes the framework for failure. Unadorned simplicity and Wuwei are like body and sound: they are the root and allow cleverness and skill to appear. Deliberate action is like shadow and echo: it is secondary and readily brings confusion and failure.

The myriad things cannot be harmonized by force, and Heaven and Earth cannot be ordered by human contrivance. Forced harmony loses its true balance, and deliberate arrangement loses its natural order. Only without deliberately seeking harmony can there be true harmony; only without deliberately seeking what is fitting can things truly be fitting. Once deliberate action and cleverness chase after the outward signs of things, they rise in layers like waves, and the way of harmony and fitness disappears with the passing of time. Thus, deliberate effort proves unfitting, while refraining from reckless action accords with the Dao.

When people are secure, they often do not recognize danger; when they are caught in disorder, they may not understand how to restore good governance. This is like a shadow following a body: it cannot escape. If one does not move the body, one cannot make the shadow appear. Once people understand this, they can let go of their attachment to knowledge and no longer be trapped by it. Those who do not presume to know are likewise not trapped by knowledge. Neither is bound by knowledge, though for different reasons: letting go of knowledge is a way to cultivate oneself, while not presuming to know is a way to follow others. Both reach the same result by refusing to cling to the use of knowledge.

The sage preserves an open and responsive nature. He wanders in a quiet, mysterious, and distant realm, and rests where no one tries to display their abilities. He takes “not presuming to know” as his way of life. Still as empty space, he seems hazy and sunk in silence and Wuwei. His mind makes no plans, and his will does not try to direct the myriad things, yet insight and intelligence unfold naturally and shine in all directions. He does not disturb the people with displays of sound, color, knowledge, or skill, but lets them return to simplicity and freedom from desire. Then desire and cunning do not arise, and calamity and disorder come to an end.

The sage issues no commands, yet the world is governed; he makes no deliberate effort, yet the world is at peace. The people go about their work with their heads lowered and do not indulge in reckless behavior. They look up, but have no model they are meant to imitate. Sincere, honest, upright, and selfless, they each keep to their unspoiled nature and live in peace until the end of their lives. The dead have no posthumous titles, and the living have no public titles. This state continues from generation to generation, beyond counting. Because its people understand the benefit of not presuming to know, this state is called “the highest.”

Those of the next level have no particular attachments or dependencies. They do not pursue profit, and know nothing of filial piety, fraternal respect, benevolence, righteousness, or ritual institutions. They simply hold to the root of their true nature and live like deer and wild geese. They do not cling to sorrow or joy, yet neither do they deliberately avoid the affairs of the world. They seem unable to see or hear, with no particular knowledge or experience. The ruler has no palace, the people have no city walls, the state has no laws, and the world has no rules that threaten people with disgrace. These people take what is insufficient as knowledge, and their behavior appears to be a sickness. Hence the saying: “To not know, yet presume to know, is a sickness; to regard ignorance as knowledge.”

Recognize this sickness as a sickness, and you can avoid being harmed by it. In accord with the Dao, you need neither speak nor act; awe and moral power then appear of themselves. Heaven and Earth are in harmony, and the myriad things are fully alive as one. Though they seem outwardly confused and unrefined, when they appear they are dignified and luminous. People and things all return to simple foolishness and stillness. In movement, they leave no deliberate trace; in stillness, they do not break apart or collapse. Rulers and people alike flourish, and the world is at peace. Without coveting small gains, they enjoy great blessings.

One who governs in silence cannot be measured by the plans or standards of ordinary people. The sage often appears as if he were ill. For this very reason, he escapes the sicknesses of the world and can be in communication with the Dao. Without this, the impulse to seem clever and deliberately display one’s cunning would arise, followed by deceit and corruption.

How can we see this? When the Great Dao and De decline and simplicity disappears, clever novelties appear one after another and scheming takes hold. Ritual practices arise and hierarchies become clear; the myriad things and affairs are divided into categories and systems. Boundaries are then drawn, and cities, houses, districts, townships, and lanes are built. The state honors loyal ministers, and families honor filial children. People look after themselves while neglecting outsiders. They form alliances and ties, show special favor to one another, and benefit one side at the expense of another. Powerful states grow ever stronger, while small and weak states perish. People offer sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, to famous mountains and great rivers, and perform fengshan rites on Mount Tai, ceremonies in which emperors sacrifice to Heaven and Earth. Ritual practices pass down in changing forms. Thousands upon thousands of court cases are heard, and people branded as criminals fill the roads. Ministers kill rulers, children kill fathers, and the ruin of states and destruction of families become countless. The people of the world gain the benefits brought by cleverness, and thereby invite death and disaster.

To feel no shame at not knowing, and not to force oneself to pursue what one does not understand, is true wisdom. This shows that cutting off knowledge rooted in cunning brings good fortune, while greed for knowledge and cleverness invites disaster. If a virtuous ruler changes his purpose and turns away from the Dao, seeking to instruct the people by launching countless enterprises and praying for blessings, the way of nature will not grant his wish, even if he hopes to achieve great order. Conversely, if a ruler whose state is collapsing briefly sets aside cleverness and desire, stops reckless action, and cultivates the Dao and De, he cannot reverse the course of ruin simply by changing his mind for a moment. Neither his body nor the circumstances around him will comply with such a sudden wish.

Thus, advancing or yielding, abolishing or putting into practice are outward signs of the kingly way; good fortune and calamity, survival and destruction, are the corresponding results of these choices. In action, the sage accords with the way of Heaven; in stillness, he accords with the Great Dao. He preserves both himself and the state. Rising above deliberate action, he rests in a state without affairs, takes blessings from the smallest things, and extends their benefits across the Four Seas.

The sage takes the wisdom of not presuming to know as his foundation. He seems ignorant, yet can accomplish everything and misses no subtle sign. He avoids the small losses brought by deliberate action and thereby achieves the great benefit of Wuwei. Thus, he can take blessings from the smallest things and extend them throughout the world. The sage does not flaunt his intelligence, parade his knowledge, or show off his skill. He responds to changing times and the harmony of nature, adapting as he bends and rises with them. He makes no deliberate effort, yet things come to completion naturally; he does not deliberately instruct, yet the people settle naturally. His kindness even reaches the beasts and birds. This is because he diminishes cleverness and skill, sets aside contrived ingenuity, and lets the Great Dao run its course.

Treat the human impulse to flaunt knowledge as a sickness, and you can avoid being harmed by it. If you do not recognize that impulse as a sickness, you will continue to act recklessly. Follow private feelings and desires to their extreme and let your intentions drive your actions; even if you hope to command Heaven and Earth and control every affair, you will ultimately meet with ruin. Praying to spirits and taking precautions at every turn cannot undo it. Even if you wish to escape destruction, the natural order will not stop for you. Turn away from the Dao and chase after desire, and your hopes of preserving yourself are bound to fail. Those who act violently and recklessly do not meet a good end; this follows from the nature of things. The text says “zhi,” meaning “to stop.”

When the people no longer fear authority, they are apt to break the law. Then grave calamities will follow, bringing division and ruin upon them. Do not rely on the security of your position; instead, be content with humility and weakness. Do not resent the circumstances of your present life; instead, be content even amid hardship and danger. Only by not rejecting life’s sweetness and joys can you sustain this attitude over time and keep from losing it too soon.

Therefore, the sage counsels the ruler: Know yourself, but do not make a show of yourself; this is what it means not to boast of your wisdom. Cherish yourself, but do not elevate your status; instead, remain beneath the people. Set aside self-display and high rank, choose humility, and seek the source within yourself.

The Zhigui says: The purpose of Dao and De, the work of the spirits, the foundation of Great Harmony—the balanced harmony between Heaven and Earth—and the intent of Heaven and Earth all teach this: No calamity is greater than destruction, and no blessing is greater than not boasting of one’s wisdom, cherishing oneself without claiming superiority, and willingly remaining beneath the people. One should set aside the former and choose the latter, seeking the root within oneself.

The purpose of the Daode Jing is to speak of the workings of the spirits, the heart of Great Harmony, and the intent of Heaven and Earth. Nothing is a greater calamity than ruin, and nothing a greater blessing than preservation. This applies not only to the Way of Heaven, but also to people and all things.

To preserve oneself, the foremost concern is to nurture the spirit. The key to nurturing the spirit is to remain simple and peaceful. One should always be mindful of danger and act with care. The spirit loses its protection at root through indulgence; it is often damaged when one acts on one’s own impulses. Thus, the wisest revere the Dao (the Way); next come those who revere Heaven, Earth, and humanity; last are those who revere themselves. Prosperity or decline, good fortune or danger, are all brought about by one’s own actions. If we fail to heed the smallest signs, they will eventually become unmistakable; if we dismiss minor faults, they will ultimately grow into great errors.

To guard against calamity so grave that it brings ruin, one must be watchful from the very beginning, before anything takes visible form. When there are no signs of trouble yet, careful vigilance allows the radiance of the Way to appear. In action, one can obtain what one seeks; in stillness, one can find peace; and blessings and prosperity can become abundant and far-reaching. Straightforward words may sometimes sound like their opposite, and clear principles may at times appear obscure. The Way is deep and vast, and ordinary people find it hard to understand. Our fate lies in our own hands; why rely so completely on Heaven? The greatest blessing may conceal calamity, and the greatest good fortune may look like danger. The people of the world are absorbed in comfort and pleasure, and few understand this.

Ordinary people are short-sighted. They do not understand profound and mysterious principles, and are clouded by subtle, constant patterns, unable to grasp the workings of the spirits. They see only small gains close at hand, not great calamities looming like mountains. So they indulge their feelings and act as they please, without fear. They speak only in keeping with their immediate thoughts and do only what they like. If they have the power, they take; if they desire something, they give it freely. Arrogant and extravagant, they act without restraint and make decisions alone, ultimately harming themselves. They even deceive their parents, violate Heaven and Earth, show contempt for their ruler, and follow their desires in defiance of the Way of Heaven.

Thus they use cunning and empty reputations to pursue their own advantage. Though they appear to bestow kindness and generosity, they instead invite great calamity. Blessings leave them, while troubles close in from every side. Even if they seek blessings and De (Virtue/Power), they cannot obtain them; when disaster approaches, they have nowhere to flee. Because they do not revere authority, true majesty descends upon them. When great calamity arrives, it is already too late to begin doing good and make amends. De cannot be restored, and Heaven and Earth cannot undo what has happened. This is not Heaven’s fault. It is because people covet status and rely on power, forget danger and reverence, and refuse to examine themselves.

Therefore, those who worry about their own conduct need not fear others; those who revere their own faults will not be ruled by external things. Those who treat small matters with care need not fear great ones; those who attend to problems at hand will have no cause to regret distant calamities. If one admonishes and continually encourages oneself, becoming more careful day by day, disaster will not come from afar, and blessings will be close at hand.

So do not take your position lightly; give your work your full attention. Do not neglect the circumstances you inhabit; diligently cultivate proper conduct and ritual. Do not give up changing yourself and beginning anew because your status is low. Do not reject the work of correcting what is wrong because you are in hardship. Even when in distress, remain at ease as if all were going well; even when facing death, be composed as if enjoying a long life. Such a person may wish to remain forever, but in the end cannot stay indefinitely.

How should we understand this? Zhuangzi said that the workings of Heaven and Earth have a beginning and an end, and that within an end a new beginning takes shape. Yang energy lies quiet and hidden, like a dragon in hiding; only after it gathers strength can it melt metal. Yin energy rests in the slight chill of the first frost; through accumulation, it can solidify into hard ice. A tree can grow from a tiny shoot and eventually reach a height of a hundred fathoms. A stream can gather from trickling drops and become a sea. A bird hatches from an egg and grows from a small creature before it spreads its wings and flies high; a beast develops in the womb before it grows and runs. All things come into being through the accumulation of what is small.

The sages’ wisdom reaches without limit. They can accord with the Way of Heaven and see through the constant patterns of all things. Yet they continue to build up deep De, set aside private interests, and rein in their cleverness and abilities. They are concerned by the turmoil of the world and alert to calamities not yet visible. They conceal their traces and restrain their demeanor, returning to emptiness and settling into what is remote, mysterious, and still. Their own being is as weighty as Heaven and Earth, yet they do not consider themselves exalted. Their De is as vast as Yin and Yang, yet they do not flaunt themselves.

Thus, sages know themselves but do not seek to display themselves. They are content with what is subtle and few, and place themselves behind others. They do not seek fine food or lavish clothing, do not adorn themselves deliberately, and do not let their aspirations run wild. Sages cherish themselves but do not elevate themselves. They hold fast to the Dao and De, and accord with the transformations of all things. They nurture the people as they would a child and treat others with the respect due to a ruler. They attribute De to Heaven and yield credit to others. Thus people throughout the world are willing to yield, and their kindness is deep and enduring. Such people are not overcome by calamity, their blessings do not depart, and their De does not vanish.

This is not because the Dao favors Heaven and Earth or gives them special treatment. It is because from the very beginning they have been careful with what is subtle, remaining gentle, humble, and true. They follow the Great Way, accord with the Way of Heaven, and live in harmony with all things. They settle their minds through watchfulness and concern, and remain at ease even amid hardship and difficulty. In success or failure, life or death, they look within themselves for the cause. They set aside pride and self-satisfaction and choose humility and yielding.

Brashly insisting on one’s strength and daring to take risks often leads to death, failure, and injury. Knowing when to hold back and not rushing ahead carelessly can instead preserve life, make it possible to enjoy life, and allow one to live long. Keep in mind the outcomes these two attitudes bring: one may be beneficial, the other harmful.

What, exactly, does Heaven reject? It is not easy to explain this clearly. Who can understand the reason? The Dao of Heaven—the natural order of things—encompasses both Yin and Yang. It does not contend with the myriad things, yet it always prevails by adapting to their circumstances. It issues no commands, yet responds to the sounds of all things. It summons nothing, yet all things come of their own accord and reveal themselves. It acts with calm Wuwei (non-action), yet arranges things according to their natural condition.

Heaven’s net is vast and boundless. It seems so loose as to be almost nonexistent, yet nothing escapes it. The Dao of Heaven speaks, yet responds to all things; it summons nothing, yet all things appear of their own accord. It follows the nature of things. Its workings seem plain and unremarkable, yet they have their own order.

The laws governing the movement of Heaven and Earth, and the principles of life and death, do not favor separation or closeness, nor do they deliberately take or give. They act without contrivance, yet bring all things to completion; everything follows its natural course. They are impartial as a carpenter’s line and level, and even as flowing water. They respond to the circumstances of things and change along with all beings. Increase and decrease, taking and relinquishing, remain in step with events from beginning to end. Each thing has its proper measure of depth and shallowness, weight and lightness. Though forms differ, each ultimately returns to its rightful place.

Life is the beginning of death, and death is also the beginning of life; the two reflect one another, and from them good fortune and misfortune become apparent. To know only life and not death is to go against the laws of the Dao of Heaven. To know only killing and not life is to go against the foundation of Earth. Joy and anger must be restrained, and the giving of life and taking of life must accord with the proper time; otherwise, Heaven’s punishment and Earth’s calamities will follow. If one does not become angry when anger is called for, a son may turn wolfish and a younger brother as savage as a rhinoceros or tiger. If one does not contend when contention is called for, a wife may become an enemy state and a concubine a bandit. If one does not kill when killing is called for, one will suffer Heaven’s disasters and be subdued by circumstances. If one does not rejoice when joy is called for, one will incur calamities from Heaven and Earth. If one fails to let people live when they should be allowed to live, a ruler will lose his state and the people will die.

Thus, the noble person treats the people as he treats his own life, and saves others as he would save himself. He upholds virtue and sets himself right, acting only when there is no other choice. The key to preserving oneself and securing the state lies in whether life and death are dealt with appropriately. When the giving of life and taking of life accord with what is right, Heaven and Earth will protect; when joy and anger are restrained, all things will gather to one.

Strength, resolve, simplicity, and integrity; firmly suppressing evil and supporting what is right; acting decisively and daring to accept risk; skill in defense and warfare, and knowing when to open and when to close; mastering anger and responding calmly; carrying out executions quietly when necessary; refusing to shrink from even a powerful enemy in matters that benefit the state and its people; extending one’s authority far and wide, with power reaching beyond one’s borders—these may be considered one half of goodness: the courage to act.

Gentleness, humility, caution, and reverence; restraining emotion and speaking little; thinking deeply before acting; daring to punish enmity when a matter of principle is at stake; reducing conflict as much as possible and building up kindness; bringing benefit without harm, giving without taking, and rewarding without punishing, thereby showing goodwill; allowing all things to grow without killing them, thereby fulfilling benevolence—these too may be considered one half of goodness: the courage not to act rashly.

Both kinds of achievement require courage, but their strategies and ways of acting differ greatly. Some people attack one another and each pursues their own course. The result may be that a lord with a thousand chariots becomes a fugitive, or that an ordinary person becomes a king. Thus, some things bring survival yet end in calamity, while others bring death yet end in good fortune. The benefits and harms brought by giving life and taking life are profoundly subtle; no one can fully measure them. Only those who have attained the Dao can perceive signs before events emerge and deal with them from the outset. This is beyond the ability of ordinary people.

Therefore, allowing what all under Heaven detest to keep growing will harm what all under Heaven protect. Nurturing what all under Heaven protect may also harm what all under Heaven detest. In the shifts between opposites, one outcome may become profound virtue, another a deeply hidden calamity. Reverence for Heaven and Earth allows blessings to pass down to one’s descendants. When all things are nurtured over time and later generations flourish, it is because what should live has been allowed to grow. When fostering growth brings about destruction, it is because the time for destruction had already come. When killing brings good fortune, it is because what should perish has been removed. When loss of wealth brings calamity, it is because what should grow has been damaged.

What Heaven and Earth detest, one must not forcibly keep alive; what Heaven and Earth protect, one must not kill on one’s own authority. What Heaven and Earth would diminish, one must not give; what Heaven and Earth would increase, one must not take away. Only Heaven can decide what should be given and what should not. Whether something should be killed is likewise not something people can fully know. Those who press ahead through sheer force often meet injury and defeat. Those who are cautious, do not act rashly, and accord with the Dao of Heaven are the ones who follow the natural laws.

The courage not to dare means daring to act when action is called for, and daring to hold back when restraint is called for. In action, one accords with the Dao of Heaven; in stillness, one responds to Earth. No one can fully discern what Heaven’s intent detests, nor can anyone completely know why Heaven detests a particular thing.

The Dao of Heaven consists of the alternation of Yin and Yang, their division into the four seasons, their branching into the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), and the generation and transformation of all things. It gathers into the three lights: the sun, moon, and stars. Yang Qi governs nurturing life and virtue; Yin Qi governs punishment. Heaven covers and Earth supports the myriad kinds of beings, embracing and transforming the varied things found in different places. The Dao is deep and still, without self-interest, impartial and unbiased. It does not treat nurturing life as a feat of ingenuity, nor killing as a skill. It simply follows all things and does not presume to direct them. Good things meet with good, and harmful things with harm; what should diminish diminishes, what should increase increases, what should be killed is killed, and what should live lives. Those who do good receive their own good fortune; those who do evil suffer their own punishment.

Thus, Heaven and Earth act without contrivance, yet all things grow of themselves; they act without contrivance, yet all things perish of themselves. A shadow appears with a body, and an echo follows a sound. Without deliberately seeking, things are naturally obtained; without imposing restraints, things naturally comply. Without deliberately observing, things reveal themselves; without interrogation, the truth of a matter comes to light of itself. This is the Dao of Heaven.

Therefore, without contending, one can be skilled at winning; without speaking, one receives a response; without calling, things come of themselves; without deliberate arrangement, things come naturally to completion. The Dao of Heaven is still and vast, seeming to make no plans, yet encompassing all things. It spreads a net that seems both present and absent, deploying a web without shape or form. It extends far and wide, reaching into the distance; it is dense and complete, leaving no gaps, and moves together with all things. Thus, when it is ahead, it cannot be overtaken; when behind, it cannot be left behind. Its stillness and movement leave no sound or trace, and its advances and retreats are hard to discern. Calamity and blessing, good fortune and misfortune, ultimately turn into one another; nothing can escape the Dao of Heaven. Heaven’s net is vast and boundless. Though it may seem loosely woven, it lets nothing slip through.

The common people do not fear death because they think little of their own lives. In that case, how can death be used to frighten them and stop them from causing disorder? If the people always feared death and so lived peacefully and obeyed the law, even those who act deceitfully would become fortunate. If I could seize them and execute them, I could punish deceitful and unrestrained conduct. Who would dare act that way then? This is an argument that severe punishments are indeed effective.

There is always someone in charge of executions who carries them out; here, this refers to the ministers. If the ruler takes the ministers’ authority over executions into his own hands and kills people himself, it is like taking the place of a master craftsman, who should be the one to judge and do the work. Few people who wield an axe and chop wood in place of a master craftsman avoid injuring their own hands. This warns the ruler not to interfere personally in matters entrusted to his ministers.

Human nature and emotions often change with circumstances. When young and inexperienced, a person may be honest and trustworthy; after growing up and gaining worldly knowledge, that same person may deceive an older brother or sister. In times of success, people are secure and self-satisfied; in times of failure, they resort to crooked schemes. When trapped in desperate straits, they may not fear death, yet in comfort they cling to life. This is not because human nature has suddenly changed, but because circumstances have shaped what happens.

Zhuangzi said that an infant who knows nothing of the world may even be loyal to an enemy; once grown and worldly, that same person may deceive an older brother or sister. When an army is victorious, it may look down even on the lowliest captive. A wild beast cornered in a ravine will not retreat even from a rhinoceros or tiger. From this we can see that if people cannot settle their minds and preserve their lives, government orders cannot make them act. If they are beset by sorrow and pain, care nothing for pleasure, and even cease to fear death, punishments will not frighten them.

Thus, rulers who prize cleverness worry over affairs and exhaust the people. They make offerings to Heaven and Earth, seek ways to dispel disaster and bring good fortune, pray to spirits, alter all manner of things, and take action at every turn to please the people. They want every household to understand government orders and every village to produce humane and worthy people. Yet this runs counter to the natural order. It relies only on human intention, treats one’s own opinions as wisdom and one’s own arguments as correct, abandons the correspondence between names and realities, and goes against the inherent character of things. As a result, the Dao is obstructed, disputes over right and wrong, praise and blame multiply, the world falls into chaos, and the people are thrown into alarm and exhaustion. In their desperation, wrongdoing takes root as well.

Those who dare to rebel are honored and rewarded for their achievements; those who do not fear death enjoy wealth and ease. Those who accumulate good deeds remain poor and troubled; those who obey the law go hungry and suffer. The weak are tormented until they long for death, while the powerful indulge themselves and wield authority. People throughout the world then chase fame and fight for power, disregard right and wrong, contend for even the smallest gain, and face death without hesitation. To impose harsh laws and punishments at that point is to try to restrain people with something they no longer care about, and to threaten them with a death they already scorn. Once people have reached the point of fearing no death, how can death be used to frighten them? However many punishments are imposed, wrongdoing cannot be stopped. Rewards may be offered, yet ministers will not obey, the people will not rally to the ruler, and the feudal lords will not maintain relations with the court. The state loses its character as a state, and the ruler loses his position as ruler.

Therefore, when a sage governs the people, the ruler does not act recklessly, and the people have no excessive expectations. When the people gain nothing beyond what is due to them, the ruler suffers no loss on that account. People can readily sustain their livelihoods, and are not easily deprived of them. They are unlikely to violate the teaching, which is also easy to put into practice. Clothes are easy to make and do not wear out quickly; food is sufficient and does not run short. People throughout the world give up greed, cherish life, and abhor death because they value their spirit and take care of themselves. In this way, people’s conduct can be guided and power can be kept in check.

People’s fear of death and attachment to life are natural feelings when they are content with their circumstances. Therefore, even outstanding strongmen and capable, discerning people dare not grant favors or wield authority on their own. Laws may be established without needing to be enforced, and rewards may be set out without being handed out at will. Why? Because everyone cherishes life and regards external things as lighter than a feather. When laws are clear and strict, even those with wrongful intentions dare not indulge themselves. If everyone respects the law, and someone alone has no fear of it, the officials in charge will deal with that person according to the law. Who, then, would dare to break it?

The principle by which an emperor governs the world is to minimize affairs and action, without being pulled along by external things: the eyes do not look without purpose, the ears do not listen without purpose, the mind does not plot without purpose, and the mouth does not issue orders without purpose. Ministers on every side each have their own duties. The ruler oversees them according to the work at hand, allowing them to carry out their tasks steadily. He entrusts affairs to those able to handle them and lets them act within their responsibilities. The ruler grants rank according to the ministers’ performance and gives stipends to those of virtue and ability. Those who presume to grant favors are punished; those who usurp authority bring calamity upon their clans. Each official performs his own duties, and the ruler need not personally manage every matter. Every position has someone in charge, and no one should take over another’s work. Entrusting matters to those capable of handling them is the ruler’s way of governing.

If the ruler sets ministers aside and personally takes on their duties, those who are distant from him will be overlooked while those close to him are honored. The ruler’s way will be obstructed, and government affairs will fall into disorder. If ruler and ministers alike compete to wield authority, wrongful and deceitful conduct will flourish on all sides. Close attendants will be promoted beyond their rank, bringing fault upon the ruler as well. When the ruler’s authority is weakened, treacherous and powerful men will issue orders on their own. The people’s grievances will go unheard, justice will vanish throughout the regions, loyal ministers will be troubled, and those skilled in flattery will rejoice. Names and realities will no longer match, and rewards and punishments will fall into confusion. This is like making the dead rise to mourn themselves, or having the master take the carpenter’s place and cut the wood.

If the ruler does not entrust affairs to capable people but instead does the ministers’ work for them, it is as absurd as making a corpse rise to mourn itself or having the master take the carpenter’s place. The dead cannot act, so their children mourn for them because they have died and cannot mourn for themselves. A carpenter does not personally plan the proportions and shape of a hall because he entrusts that work to a master carpenter and does not do it himself. The master carpenter swings the axe and labors, just as the master handles affairs; the children mourn, just as the dead lie still. If the dead rise to mourn themselves, no one will mourn for them. If the master takes the carpenter’s place and cuts the wood, the carpenter can only stand with folded hands and watch. If the carpenter does not work, the great hall cannot be built; if no one mourns, the funeral rites are abandoned. When the dead rise to mourn, those who should mourn lose their role; when the master takes the carpenter’s place and cuts the wood, the work cannot be completed. This is a necessary principle. Even a carpenter can injure his hand; how, then, could the master accomplish great things?

Therefore, an enlightened ruler rectifies himself and aligns government with the Way of Heaven. Ministers who plan the affairs of state put those plans into effect among the people. Ministers propose laws, while the ruler holds authority over them. The ruler issues orders, and ministers then revise and implement them in detail. Ministers propose the names of matters and their plans; the ruler examines and decides. Ministers carry out the work; the ruler makes the plans. If a minister’s title and duties are not properly aligned, he will lose his position and his life.

The ruler’s way is to remain still and direct affairs; the ministers’ way is to act and get things done. The ruler holds final authority, while ministers define and carry out their specific duties. When ruler and ministers each keep to their position and neither crosses the boundary, everything becomes clear of its own accord. The ruler has his own responsibilities, and the assembled ministers each have their duties. When the division of work and the responsibilities are clear, they cannot be substituted for one another. If each keeps to his proper role, the Great Dao can proceed, all affairs become clear, and the world is at peace, with nothing left undone. When ministers exceed their authority and exercise the ruler’s Dao, they bring about their own destruction; when the ruler personally takes on the ministers’ affairs, he will inevitably damage the state.

People go hungry because rulers impose excessive taxes. Rulers regard lavish meals as a fine thing, leaving the people short of both clothing and food. The people are hard to govern and bandits arise because those in high positions are constantly busy with misguided actions, concerned only with satisfying their own desires. As a result, the state cannot find stability and falls into disorder.

People take death lightly because they cannot live as they choose. Rulers pursue a life of luxury, with desires that know no bounds, so the people are easily driven into hardship and calamity. If one does not place too much importance on preserving life, one can regard life and death with equanimity. This brings greater peace and longevity than simply cherishing life and seeking lavish nourishment.

De endows people with life, and each person has a defined allotment. Heaven and Earth sustain people, and each likewise has a defined allotment. Rulers govern the state, ministers fulfill their duties, and the myriad things maintain themselves—each within its own bounds.

People receive their nature and life, taking on different bodily forms, and their minds begin to function. They are able to live because their internal organs work together, blood and Qi flow, the inner and outer body respond to one another, the upper and lower parts each perform their roles, movement and bending are easy, and sight and hearing are clear. This is the allotment bestowed on people by Dao and De.

Heaven and Earth contain and support the myriad things, set the clouds in motion and send down rain. Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain continue their activity without pause, while the sun and moon take turns in their courses. In spring, things sprout; in summer, they grow; in autumn, they are harvested; in winter, they are stored away. Yin-Yang harmonize, the myriad things flourish, and the people are able to work and live. This is the allotment by which Heaven and Earth sustain people.

Rulers should cultivate De in accordance with the Dao, follow the seasons, devote themselves fully, and govern promptly without slackening. They should keep faith and remain simple, returning to the boundless Dao; reduce even small extravagances and serve as an example to all under Heaven. In this way, people everywhere can keep to their proper place, cultivate De, and be content with their lives and customs, so that the four seas submit to their rule. This is how rulers fulfill their responsibilities.

Ministers should be clear-minded and fair, upright and impartial, loyal, trustworthy, and true to their duties. They should praise good conduct and detest wrongdoing, never confuse titles with facts, and neither look down on their office nor treat its official robes as unworthy. This is how ministers fulfill their responsibilities.

The people should be prudent and honest, thrifty and industrious, follow the seasons, and make full use of the land. Their clothing should suit their needs, and their food should be enough to satisfy hunger and sustain them. They should work at sunrise and rest at sunset, neither disdaining their homes nor being choosy about their food. This is how the people maintain their lives.

When activity and rest fall out of balance, one violates the bounds set by the Dao. When plowing and sowing do not accord with the seasons, one violates the bounds set by Heaven. When one abandons the duties granted by the ruler and acts only on one’s own authority, one violates the ruler’s bounds. When ministers make rules on their own or knowingly act deceitfully, they violate the bounds of their office. When the people’s clothing and food exceed due measure, they violate the bounds proper to them. Violating the bounds set by the Dao makes it difficult for human nature to find stability; violating the seasons makes it difficult for the household to remain secure; violating the ruler’s duties makes it difficult for the state to endure; violating the duties of ministers makes it difficult to preserve life; and violating the bounds proper to the people makes it difficult to survive.

Dao and De, Heaven and Earth, ruler and ministers, officials and the people—all have their own appropriate scope of action. When each keeps within its bounds, those above and below can all be preserved. When people violate their proper place, everyone, great and small, falls into hardship. By keeping to one’s proper place, one can connect with Heaven and Earth; by reducing what is excessive in oneself, one can walk alongside the Dao. Then the sacrifices can continue, and future generations can flourish. But if one oversteps one’s bounds and covets too much, calamity will befall oneself, troubles will follow one after another, and one’s descendants will suffer as well.

The ancients sometimes gave up bodily comforts and endured hunger, cold, and hardship because they believed that unbalanced conduct, farming out of season, indulging desires, insatiable greed, consuming every kind of delicacy, wearing fine and colorful garments, pursuing luxury and pleasure, and showing no reverence for the Way of Heaven all lead people to exceed their proper bounds. If one uses far more clothing and food than one needs, one takes a greater share from others. People go hungry because those above impose excessive taxes; the people, meanwhile, fail to keep to their proper place and imitate one another’s extravagant ways.