《道德真经新注(李约)》

The Dao (the Way) is originally quiet and natural, and so all things under Heaven grow from it. Human beings are one part of the myriad things and also an important force in governing the world. For this reason, they are named alongside Heaven and Earth as the “Three Powers”: Heaven, Earth, and humanity.

Laojun lived during the Western Zhou period and upheld the Dao and De (Virtue/Power) in an effort to restore the customs of his time. “Dao” refers to the fundamental principle of quietness and naturalness; “De” refers to the qualities people cultivate by following that principle. The scripture says, “The Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great,” calling these the “Four Greats within the realm.” Here, “ruler” means the sovereign who governs the world. The sovereign should model governance on the natural workings of Heaven, Earth, and the Dao, bringing peace to the world; this is an expression of De.

In explaining “Humanity models itself on Earth, Earth on Heaven, Heaven on the Dao, and the Dao on what is natural,” the author takes “humanity” to mean human beings in general. The word “models” means to imitate and follow. He argues that the passage describes how people should follow the natural principles embodied by Heaven and Earth: model themselves on Earth, which carries all things without selfishness; on Heaven, which covers all things without selfishness; and on the great Dao, which gives life to all things without selfishness. This is like saying, “The ruler fulfills the ruler’s way, the minister the minister’s way, the father the father’s way, and the child the child’s way”: each rests in their proper place and follows the principle appropriate to it.

The author criticizes later commentators for misunderstanding the scripture. In his view, interpreting the passage as a sequence of five levels—humanity modeling itself on Earth, Earth on Heaven, Heaven on the Dao, and the Dao on what is natural—turns the scripture’s “Four Greats” into “Five Greats.” This contradicts the text and misses its teaching. He also argues that a ruler should model himself not only on Earth, but on Heaven and the Dao as well. The stepwise derivation expressed in “Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven on the Dao, and the Dao on what is natural” is, moreover, not quite fitting in principle.

The author laments that once the fundamental transmission becomes confused, later accounts grow muddled as well. Some treat Daoist classics merely as books of immortal arts and techniques; others describe them as teachings about nothingness. Some place the teachings of Huang-Lao ahead of the Six Classics, while others dismiss Huang-Lao. The author considers all these views superficial, because in his understanding the Six Classics are branches and leaves of Huang-Lao learning.

The author says that in his youth he grasped the essential meaning of these teachings, and therefore set out to distinguish and explain them. In his view, the purpose of learning about Dao and De is to quiet the mind and cultivate one’s vital energy, thereby bringing stability to the family and safeguarding the state.

All things between Heaven and Earth are originally in a natural state of stillness, and so they are able to come into being. After existing for a long time, all things decline. Cultivating the Dao is to return them to their natural state; hence it is called the “Dao.” The book as a whole has thirty-seven chapters.

If the Dao can be clearly explained, it is not the eternal, unchanging Great Dao. The eternal Dao can only be described as indistinct and elusive, difficult to grasp. If a “name” can be stated precisely, it refers to the particular form of a thing, and is not an eternal, unchanging name. Words such as “great” and “passing away” are ways of describing the Dao.

“The nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. When Heaven and Earth first came into being, there were no people, so no one could force a name upon the Dao. “The named” is the mother of all things. Once the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—were in place, things came into being and took form, revealing the meaning of nurturing all things. The names “mother” and “child” thus became established, and the sages began their teaching from this point.

By remaining free of desire, one can often observe the Dao’s subtlety; when desires are present, one can see only the Dao’s outward limits. “Jiao” means a boundary. The two main states of human beings are simply desire and freedom from desire. Those who are driven by desire cannot roam within the Dao; only those who let go of attachment can perceive its subtlety.

These two states, desire and freedom from desire, both come from the Dao, though they have different names. From the Dao’s point of view, they are one; their differences emerge only in particular things. To regard these differences as a unity is called “mystery.” “Mystery” suggests darkness and depth: when the five colors lie in shadow, they are hard to distinguish. To bring different names and distinctions into unity is to reach the mystery within mystery. The Dao is deep and deeper still: it is the gateway from which all subtle wonders emerge and return.

All things under Heaven have their own governing principles. Everyone knows that beauty is beautiful, and so ugliness appears alongside it. If everyone regards the same thing as beautiful, that very thing may also come to seem repellent.

This distinction already reveals a problem: if everyone regards the same thing as beautiful, could it not turn into something repulsive? When everyone knows what goodness is, that itself brings out what is not good. If everyone’s idea of goodness is different, then goodness truly cannot be spoken of.

Thus being and nonbeing depend on each other for their existence; difficulty and ease set each other off and become apparent; only when long and short are placed together can their difference be seen; high and low interact and can easily give rise to rivalry; notes and tones answer one another and cannot exist alone; what comes before and what comes after follow one another, and their boundaries are not fixed. These are all examples of the principles discussed above.

Therefore, the sage does not simply follow the words of those who came before. He handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action, or refraining from unwarranted interference), keeping his mind settled in stillness. He teaches without relying on words, and guides those below by setting himself straight. As the myriad things arise and develop, he does not interfere with them or claim them as his own. He does not disturb them, so they can each complete their own growth and transformation without needing to thank him.

The sage nurtures the myriad things but does not possess them. Even if their growth might be said to be due to his power, he asks himself, “What power could I possibly have?” He acts but does not rely on his achievements. Even if it might be said that he brought things to completion, he does not claim the credit. When a task is done, he takes no credit, because he does not wish to display his own worth. Precisely because he takes no credit, his achievements do not disappear. He does not deliberately manipulate the myriad things, yet he enables affairs to unfold naturally and smoothly. This is taking no credit, and thus his achievements endure.

If people do not exalt those who are talented and virtuous, the people will not contend with one another. If people do not regard their own abilities and virtue as something to boast about, who would contend with me? If rare and precious goods are not considered valuable, the people will not become thieves. If freedom from greed is regarded as a treasure, those below will also be transformed by it. Who, then, would become a thief? If people are not shown things that stir up greed, their minds will not be thrown into disorder. Whatever stands in opposition to me and gives rise to a sense of distinction, I do not hold in my mind; the mind naturally becomes still.

Thus the Sage follows these practices: making people’s minds empty and calm, so that external things do not enter them; filling their bellies, so that their original harmony—the primordial Qi within the body—is not dissipated outward; softening their will, so they can devote themselves to gentleness; and strengthening their sinews and bones, so they can preserve their Jing and Qi. The reason is to keep people from having too much clever knowledge or too many desires. Transformed by this, the people return to simplicity. Then even those who pride themselves on being clever will not dare to act recklessly. When people see an example of returning to simplicity, they will follow it. Act in accordance with Wuwei, and nothing will be left poorly governed. Do not stray from Wuwei in your actions, and there will be no need to worry about governing badly.

The Dao’s body is empty, yet it can function because it empties itself to respond to the myriad things. It seems never to become full, so its virtue and power can remain continually abundant. It is deep and still, as though it were the root and master of all things, unfathomable. It draws in its sharpness and can restrain the urge to advance and prevail; it untangles confusion and is skilled at dissolving resentments and estrangements; it tempers its radiance and blends with the light; it mingles with the dust of the world and enters the darkness. It is deep and quiet, seeming to exist yet difficult to grasp. Its function is everywhere, while its nature is untouched by anything external.

I do not know whose descendant the Dao is. I know only that it has this power, but not where it came from. It seems to have existed before the Heavenly Emperor. The Heavenly Emperor is the being who governs the generation of all things, and the transformations of the myriad things occur after the Dao; only the Dao can precede the Heavenly Emperor. The word “seems” means that this is how it appears, though we dare not assert it with certainty. Because the Dao’s nature is humble and yielding, we can say only that it seems to stand before the Heavenly Emperor.

Heaven and Earth show no partial affection. “Affection” means kindness, and kindness arises from the heart. But Heaven and Earth have no consciousness, so how could they bestow kindness? They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice—offerings made of straw and discarded afterward—and give them no reward for having feelings. The sage, too, does not practice partial affection. Following Heaven and Earth in their lack of intention, the sage lives with an open and empty heart. Without partiality, how could the sage favor the people? The people receive no special care, like straw dogs, and so gradually forget the ruler’s power.

The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows or a flute. A bellows is hollow, and the blacksmith uses it to blow air into the fire. A flute is hollow too, and the musician brings it to sound by blowing through it. Because they are empty inside and have no feelings of their own, both can keep working as needed. Heaven and Earth are the same; this is why they show no partial affection. Emptiness does not run out: the more it moves, the more it can do. Speaking at length from a fixed point of view is likely to exhaust what one has to say. It is better to keep the heart empty and still. Speech guided by intention must eventually come to an end; meeting things with an open heart has no end.

“The valley spirit never dies.” A valley is hollow. When a sound reaches it, an echo answers, yet we do not know who is responding. This unknowable, unfathomable capacity may be called “spirit.” The valley’s response continues without cease, so it is said never to perish. If a person can keep the heart empty, they can respond to all things. Meeting things with a heart empty at its center leaves no end to what it can do.

The spirit of the valley never ends. The valley is empty, so it can respond to sound; yet no one knows exactly what responds, nor can it be measured. That is why it is called “spirit.” This responsiveness endures, seeming never to vanish. Why is this so? If people can make their minds empty and still, nothing among external things will fail to find a response. It is like the spirit that remains within the body and endures. This is the “Mysterious Female,” the deep and gentle source. Here, “mysterious” means deep and hidden, while “female” refers to the feminine. A woman dwells in a quiet inner chamber, and so is called the “Mysterious Female.” Her nature is gentle and still; she does not let external things harm what is within. Thus she can preserve within herself the unfathomable, wondrous nature of spirit.

The “Mysterious Female” can also be understood as the nose and mouth: empty and open, they take in and release primordial Qi, and are the source from which Yin-Yang arises. The “Gate of the Mysterious Female” is the root of Heaven and Earth. To act in accordance with the way of the Mysterious Female is to have found the gate to attaining the Dao. Once attained, the Dao becomes the root of Heaven and Earth. The Dao extends without end, subtle and elusive, seeming to exist and yet not to exist, as though difficult to sustain, yet present from ancient times to the present. Its workings never tire. If people can understand and obtain it, they can preserve their nature, invigorate their spirit, and gain long life. This passage also speaks of the art of breathing: using the breath to nourish body and mind.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. Since ancient times, they have never ceased to exist. They endure because they do not live for themselves; thus they can live long. They do not deliberately seek their own survival, and for that very reason they persist. So the sage takes Heaven and Earth as a model.

The sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore; he can take the lead because he is skilled at yielding. He does not place himself first, yet preserves himself; he avoids danger because he does not cling to his own private interests. Is it not precisely because he is free of selfishness that he fulfills himself? By considering others as well as himself, even if he does not necessarily secure others’ private interests, he has already secured his own.

The highest good is like water. A person of supreme goodness also has water’s qualities: water nourishes all things, and nothing fails to receive its moisture, yet it does not contend with anything. It follows the natural course. It settles in low places, which people generally dislike. Others avoid such places, but water alone makes its home there. For this reason, water is closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle underlying all things). “Near” means being close.

In choosing where to dwell, goodness favors low ground; in quieting the mind, it is deep and clear, like an abyss; in giving, it is compassionate; in speaking, it is trustworthy; in governing, it brings matters to a proper resolution; in carrying out tasks, it makes good use of its abilities; in acting, it chooses the right moment. Because it does not contend, it has no faults. Here, “fault” means error: water has these qualities, and good people who take water as their model can likewise live with few faults.

Holding a vessel and wanting to fill it to the brim is not as good as knowing when to stop. Those who always try to remain full rarely avoid being overturned; better to pause and keep to a balanced state. “Stop” means to cease.

Sharpen something too much, and it will be hard to keep it keen for long without damaging it. “Sharpen” means to grind; “keen” means thin and pointed. Fill a hall with gold and jade, and no one can hold on to it forever. Showing off wealth as a source of pride invites misfortune; accumulating too many possessions may even endanger one’s life. Who can be sure they will keep them? To become arrogant after attaining wealth and status is to bring disaster upon oneself. When a high position makes someone haughty, trouble follows. How could they blame anyone else?

When one’s achievements are complete and one’s work is done, one should withdraw rather than remain in an excessively prominent position. This accords with the Way of Heaven, which does not allow things to remain full forever.

Can you bear and sustain body and mind, and hold fast to “embracing the One”—keeping the spirit unified and undispersed—without letting it depart? A living person necessarily has a hun and a po: the hun belongs to Yang spirit and inclines toward life; the po belongs to Yin, and commentators call it the “Yin ghost,” which inclines toward death. Thus Laozi teaches people to protect themselves by cultivating body and mind, preventing the spirit from wandering recklessly outward and inviting misfortune. The essential method is to embrace the One, keeping the spirit unified and oriented toward life.

People live in this world, and one day they will die. Therefore, Laozi taught people ways to cultivate body and mind and preserve life, so they would not act recklessly and bring trouble upon themselves. Of all ways to nourish and protect body and mind, none is more important than “embracing the One.” The “One” means undivided focus. When the mind remains focused, the hun and po souls are less likely to leave the body, and the spirit can settle, adapting to the circumstances at hand.

“Can you concentrate your Qi and make it supple, like a newborn infant?” This asks whether one can focus on nourishing and harmonizing Qi until the body becomes supple, like an infant’s. “Can you cleanse the deep inner vision until it is free of blemish?” The “deep inner vision” refers to the heart-mind’s capacity for inward perception. When the mind is clear and open, it can see things plainly, even when they are hidden or far away. People often have excessive desires and toil without restraint, so the heart-mind becomes clouded and loses its power of insight. One must therefore use the Dao to cleanse the mind and remove the dust and burdens that have accumulated within it.

“Can you care for the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)?” This asks whether one can care for the people and govern the state by following the Way of Wuwei. Only those who have cultivated themselves well can hope to govern the state well. The people are the foundation of the state, and Wuwei is the key to governing. To govern the state by grasping this key is to care for the people and govern well.

“Can you remain receptive as Heaven’s Gate opens and closes?” This asks whether, amid the opening and closing changes in the workings of Heaven and Earth, one can remain gentle and still, holding to quietude. Heaven assists those who possess De (Virtue/Power). A ruler who cares for the people remains yielding and still, and acts without departing from the Dao. Then Heaven’s Gate stays open for a long time and bestows blessings and good fortune upon him; otherwise, it closes.

“Can you understand everything and reach everywhere without relying on knowledge?” This asks whether, even when one sees clearly in every direction and knows everything, one can avoid priding oneself on that knowledge. A person of supreme De is like the sun: illuminating all things without drawing attention to itself. Such a person gives life to and nourishes all things without claiming them as possessions; acts without relying on those actions; and helps all things grow without ruling over them. Thus the myriad things do not realize who enabled them to grow. This is called “Mysterious De,” a profound and natural form of De.

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub. It is because the hub is hollow that the wheel can serve its purpose. When people first made carts, they fashioned the wheels from wood; without those thirty spokes, the wheel could not turn or carry the cart forward. What makes a cart useful is the open space inside its carriage. It is this empty space that lets the cart carry goods and travel.

Clay is kneaded to make vessels, and it is because their centers are empty that they can hold things. The ancients joined clay together and fired it into bowls, basins, and other vessels. These can hold things for the same reason: their insides are empty. This open space allows food to be stored and portions to be regulated.

Doors and windows are made when building a house, and it is because the inside is left open that the house can be lived in. To build a dwelling, people leveled high ground or hollowed out caves to make rooms, then made doors for entering and leaving and windows to let in light. People can live inside because space has been cleared within. This emptiness makes it possible to live in comfort and keeps the dwelling from becoming closed off and stagnant.

Thus, the usefulness of what has form depends on the aid of emptiness; and emptiness can serve its purpose only by appearing through concrete objects and forms.

The brilliant colors dazzle the eyes. When people stare at them for a long time, their vision grows blurred and they can no longer see clearly, as though they were blind. The many kinds of sound dull the hearing. After listening for a long time, the ears grow heavy and hear nothing, as though they were deaf. The many kinds of flavor disorder the sense of taste. Chewing without pause, the flavors gradually mingle until their differences can no longer be distinguished, as though the sense of taste were lost.

Racing on horseback and hunting in enclosed grounds make the mind and spirit run wild. People chase foxes and rabbits until they are so exhausted they have no time to rest; this is why such pursuits are said to make the mind go mad. Rare and precious goods obstruct people’s conduct. People risk their lives in pursuit of valuable treasures and have no mind to cultivate De, so their conduct is hindered.

Therefore, the sage uses the sage’s way of acting to restrain the five temptations described above. People in the world are always busy chasing these things and never know when to stop, so the sage teaches them through the principle of the “belly”: they should be content when the belly is full, rather than pursue only the pleasures seen by the eyes. The eyes seek outward and are never satisfied; the sage does not act this way. When the belly is full, one is content, and the sage values this. Thus, one should let go of the former and choose the latter. Here, “that” refers to the eyes’ desire to seek outward, while “this” refers to the belly’s inward fulfillment.

Whether favored or disgraced, one should be as cautious as if startled. Regard favor and disgrace as the same condition, and you will not be disgraced. Treat great troubles as seriously as you treat yourself, and value yourself no more than you fear calamity; then you can avoid trouble.

What is meant by favor and disgrace? Being honored is called favor; being denigrated is called disgrace. Favor begins from a position of low standing, and disgrace often arises from favor. That is why disgrace deserves even greater attention. This resembles the circumstances of Ji An, a minister of the Western Han: for a long time he was not entrusted with important duties, but later he was appointed again. When favored, one should be wary, fearing that disgrace will follow. When favor is lost, one should also be wary and use the occasion for self-examination. This is the meaning of “favor and disgrace are like a shock”: favor and alarm may seem alike.

What is meant by treating great troubles as seriously as oneself? The reason I have great troubles is that I have this body. If I prize myself too dearly, I become anxious about everything and invite trouble. When I no longer cling to myself, what troubles could there be? If I do not claim my body as my own, but forget its form, troubles have nowhere to take hold.

Therefore, only someone who cherishes the world as they cherish themselves can be entrusted with it. A person who prizes themselves, if made ruler, will surely seek fine clothes and abundant food, exhausting the people’s resources. Who would not resent such a ruler? Even if entrusted with governing the world, such a person would not hold it for long. Only someone who cares for the world as they care for themselves can be entrusted with it. A ruler who treats favor with caution and cares for the world will guard against disgrace and refrain from harming the people; therefore, the people will draw near and rely on them. To entrust the world to such a person is to give them its governance.

When one looks with the eyes but cannot see, this is called “Yi.” The eyes can see all kinds of colors, but they cannot see the Dao. One who sees the Dao encounters only a plain, undifferentiated scene. “Yi” means level and even, like an empty expanse with no distinctions to make out. When one listens with the ears but cannot hear, this is called “Xi.” The ears can hear sounds, but they cannot hear the Dao. One who listens for the Dao encounters only silent stillness. “Xi” suggests emptiness and rarity: some people may never experience it in their entire lives, while others may perhaps come to know it. When one reaches out to touch but cannot feel anything, this is called “Wei.” The hands can grasp concrete things, but they cannot seize the Dao. One who touches the Dao can only sense how subtle and elusive it is: it seems to be there, yet disappears when pursued.

These three experiences cannot be investigated any further, so they should be regarded together as a single whole. To pursue each of the three separately leads nowhere; it is better to merge them into one. Look upward at the Dao, and it does not seem bright; look downward, and it does not seem dark. Ordinary things are bright above and shadowed below. But the Dao extends so high that there is nothing higher, so it cannot be called bright; it reaches so low that there is nothing lower, so it cannot be called dark. It stretches on without end and is difficult to name. When one probes its substance and tries to give it a name, it returns to formlessness and nonbeing.

This is called “the form of the formless.” Since the Dao cannot be named, it has no fixed form. Why, then, call it a “form”? Because although the Dao itself has no form, it truly gives rise to the many forms of all things; hence it is called “the form of the formless.” It is also called “the image of the imageless,” since it has no image that can be seen like a concrete object. This state is called “the elusive and indistinct”: “elusive” suggests that it seems to exist, while “indistinct” suggests that it seems not to exist. To say that it exists is wrong, but to say that it does not exist is also wrong, so “elusive and indistinct” describes it best.

Go toward the Dao, and you cannot see its beginning, because it has no visible source. Follow the Dao, and you cannot see its end, because it has no visible limit. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide the affairs of the present. The Dao cannot be known by sight or hearing, or by searching and selecting. Yet it has existed since antiquity, and people call it the Dao. If we wish to hold to it now, the way is not to seek outside ourselves, but to make the mind empty and still. When the mind is truly empty and still, the Dao will appear of its own accord. Then, by handling all things through the Dao, one can help each find its proper order. To understand the ancient source of all things and act in accordance with the Dao is to grasp the guiding principle of the Dao—the general principle underlying the transformations of all things.

In ancient times, those skilled at governing many things could bring everything into good order. To understand the source from which all things began was to grasp the guiding principle of the Dao (the Way). The Dao has been the beginning of all things since time immemorial. To recognize it and act in accord with it is to grasp the fundamental principles of governance and teaching.

The ancient masters of the Dao, speaking of those in distant antiquity who cultivated themselves through the Dao, described them as subtle and mysterious, penetrating the depths beyond reach. They explored the utmost Dao on their own, exhausting its subtleties. Their realm was as lofty as a sheer wall or towering mountain, impossible to glimpse.

Because they were so hard to fathom, one could only make a tentative effort to describe what they were like. The Dao dwelt within them and did not show itself outwardly, so others could not recognize it. To guide and teach people, one could only offer a few rough descriptions, allowing them to understand by inference.

They were cautious, like someone crossing a river on foot in winter, seeming always to fear that the ice might give way. They were wary as if watching for dangers on every side. Though they lived in the world, they were not stained by external things, always mindful lest they leave a trace that might bring misfortune. They held back their sharpness and concealed themselves, like people fleeing disaster, afraid of being noticed by those around them.

They were solemn and restrained, like guests visiting another’s home. They were also like ice beginning to melt, loosening and flowing instead of remaining frozen and still. Plain and honest, they were like unworked wood, mindful lest they drift along with worldly customs and forget to return to their source. Their minds were open like a broad valley; their depth was unassuming, like muddy water not yet settled, without any effort to appear lofty and pure.

Who can still muddy water and let it gradually become clear? Only one skilled in cultivating the Dao. Who can remain settled while allowing activity, so that life gradually comes into view? The cultivator of the Dao does not cling to fixed repose. They let things come and go, arise and pass away in their turn. This is how they walk the Dao.

Those who return to the Dao do not seek fullness, for fullness invites loss. Because they do not seek fullness, worn-out things need not be replaced with new ones simply for the sake of it.

Bring the mind’s emptiness to its utmost, and hold fast to stillness, deep and unwavering. Here, “firm” means deep and steady. To have the Dao gather within oneself, one must first empty the mind. When emptiness reaches its utmost, the Dao will naturally come to reside within.

All things grow and change together; from this, I observe how they return. The author fears that people may not believe stillness is a path to attaining the Dao, so he points to the changes in all things as evidence: as things move and grow, once they wither, their vital energy all returns to stillness.

All things flourish and grow, yet in the end each returns to its root. In autumn, their flourishing gradually wanes; as autumn gives way to winter, their vitality returns to the root, which is still. Returning to the root is called “stillness.” If movement continued without pause, there could be no new growth. Stillness is also called “returning to life’s source”: that is, returning to the origin of life.

In the tenth lunar month, the breath of all things returns to the root. Only after the winter solstice does the first Yang begin to arise, and all things start to stir. This cycle, repeating without end, is the fundamental pattern of nature. Returning to the source is called “the constant”: the Dao through which life goes on without end. To know the constant is called “clarity.” Only by understanding the constant does one truly know. Those who do not know it and act recklessly will bring danger upon themselves; those who cannot see it clearly will act wrongly and find it hard to encounter good fortune.

One who understands the constant can be broad-minded and all-embracing. Only with an empty, still mind can one know the constant and embrace all people. Embracing all people makes one impartial and selfless; being impartial and selfless makes one a ruler whom all will support. The way of the ruler has no favoritism, like Heaven, which covers all things equally. Heaven comes from the Dao. The Dao’s power is supreme, yet it neither boasts nor clings to its own achievements. The Dao endures without end. If a ruler can forget personal interests and credit for achievements, their blessings will remain unharmed, and they will not fall into danger throughout their life.

“Cherish the sweet pear tree; will you wash its people?” This means that a perfected person—one whose virtue has reached the highest level—can establish achievements, enterprises, teachings, and institutions that endure for generations. Even after the body has passed away, the spirit remains.

End of Volume One of New Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue

New Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue, Volume Two

The Lower Part of the Dao Scripture

Commentary by Li Yue

The highest rulers were known only to exist. Of the rulers of ancient times, people likewise knew only that they existed; they had never heard of them issuing commands. The next best rulers were loved and praised by the people: when people received their favors, they grew fond of them; when they basked in their benevolence, they praised them. The rulers below these were feared and despised: upright people feared them, while the corrupt despised them.

When a ruler lacks sincerity, the people do not trust him. At first, he uses deceit to induce them to praise him. Later, he bestows favors in the name of benevolence, so that they grow fond of him and praise him. After that, they fear him and despise him: upright people fear him, while the corrupt despise him. That the ruler first deceives the people into praising him shows that he lacks sincerity. Even if he later acts in good faith, the people no longer believe him. This is because he places too much importance on words. When words are valued too highly and sincerity too lightly, the disorder has already reached this point; if words are still given such weight, a simple and harmonious way of life cannot arise. Once the work is done and the achievement complete, the people all say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.” Such a way of life took shape because there were no excessive commands and instructions.

Only when the Great Dao—the fundamental principle of natural Wuwei—declines do benevolence and righteousness appear. It is not that the Dao declines in order to reject benevolence and righteousness. Rather, once benevolence and righteousness are singled out and held up as ideals, the Dao is forced to decline. This is what happens when an age abandons the root and esteems the secondary. When cleverness is prized, serious deceit appears. It is not that cleverness by nature encourages deceit; rather, when people act on the basis of outward signs, deceit follows. Only when relations among family members grow strained do filial devotion and parental affection stand out. In an age when fathers were loving and sons filial, where would there have been a reputation for filial piety like Zeng Shen’s? Only when a state falls into disorder do loyal ministers come to the fore. When rulers were wise and ministers good, where would there have been a display of loyalty like Bi Gan’s?

If people do not exalt sagehood or flaunt cleverness, the people can gain a hundredfold benefit. When sage wisdom is no longer held up as an ideal, there is no need to devise complicated laws. Without such laws, people need not fear breaking them. Freed from that fear, they can make their living with ease. Rather than judge the benefits of this approach by its reputation, we should count its practical gains: they amount to far more than a hundredfold.

If benevolence and righteousness are not deliberately promoted, people will instead recover their natural filial devotion to their parents and affection for their children. When contrived acts of benevolence and righteousness are no longer treated as standards, the world will no longer follow rules that demand what people cannot manage, and everyone can return to their natural filial care and affection.

If people do not flaunt excessively ingenious skills or covet private gain, thieves will not appear. When people do not pursue cunning that goes beyond the proper measure, benefits can be distributed fairly. With fair distribution, people will each know contentment. And when people are content, who would become a thief?

These three points are not yet complete as prose and instruction, so the explanation continues. “Linking” means carrying on. The first three points are enough to admonish rulers and to teach the people, so the following four phrases are then introduced: “Revealing the unadorned” means showing simplicity and removing embellishment; “holding to the uncarved” means keeping to the root; “reducing selfishness” means diminishing self-interest and forgetting oneself; “curbing desire” means diminishing one’s desires.

When one stops pursuing worldly learning, there is no more anxiety. Worldly learning makes people act in ways that often bring regret and fear, and so they become troubled. How far apart are “wei” and “a”? They are merely two spoken responses. Both come from the mouth, yet they can stir changes in joy and anger. How far apart, then, are “good” and “bad”? Good and bad both arise in the human heart. How could the distance between them be as great as that between the lands of Hu and Yue? What people fear must be approached with care. Since everyone fears it, one should treat it with due reverence; otherwise, misfortune will soon arrive.

The turmoil brought by worldly learning has no end. People all pursue learning in this way, and their natural nature gradually falls into neglect, seemingly without limit. The crowd is exuberant as it chases after desire, like guests at a lavish sacrificial feast; their greed is plain to see. They seem to climb a springtime terrace, where their desires grow ever stronger. I alone remain cautious and apprehensive, as though nothing had yet shown a sign—like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. Laozi says: I left the learning of the human world long ago, yet even now, when I see these things, I still feel apprehensive, as though they had shown no sign. I am like an infant, with no understanding of the thoughts of ordinary people.

I go along with whatever carries me, as though I had no fixed destination. Here, “riding what rides” means proceeding with whatever circumstances one encounters. The sage has no fixed opinions and follows the course of whatever arises. How could the sage know the difference between this place and that, or decide that any place in particular is home?

Everyone seems to have more than enough when it comes to worldly learning; I alone seem deficient. In worldly learning, I seem to lack mental acuity and to be forgetful. Am I truly a fool at heart? No: my inner nature is simply whole and unadulterated, not yet shaped by the ways of the world. Ordinary people are sharp and clever, skilled at showing off; I alone am dull and slow, as though I had no ability. Ordinary people think themselves clear-sighted; I alone seem muddled, as though I had hidden my sharpness. My heart is at once deep and still as the sea, and seems to have nothing to rely on, like an empty boat drifting across the vast ocean, never coming to anchor.

Everyone thinks they have a way to get things done, and so they are never at ease. I alone seem foolish and coarse, like someone from a remote village. I alone differ from everyone else: outwardly I am like them, but inwardly I stand beyond the ways of the world. What I value is seeking nourishment from the Mother. Here, “Mother” means the Dao, and “nourishment” means its sustenance. The reason I differ from everyone else is that I seek nourishment from the Dao. Because I can cut off worldly learning, the Dao continually sustains me with the wondrous primordial harmony Qi—the original, harmonious energy brought forth by the Dao.

A person of great De acts by following the Dao. “Kong” means profound; “rong” means to contain; and “cong” means to follow. A person of virtue keeps the heart-mind still and clear, can contain the Dao, and acts in accordance with it.

The Dao’s form is elusive and hard to discern. Amid this elusiveness, it seems to have an image, yet also seems to be nothing at all. “Image” means something that seems both present and absent. When the heart-mind shifts from desirelessness to desire, the Dao seems to take shape as a vague, indistinct image. When one can return from desire to desirelessness, the Dao once again becomes a subtle presence, dwelling quietly in the heart-mind.

The Dao is deep and obscure, yet it contains vital, subtle Qi. “You” means deep and far-reaching; “ming” means dark and hidden; and “essence” refers to the Dao’s subtlety. Through its subtle Qi, the Dao moves in and out of all things. People cannot see its traces; only those who empty their hearts can perceive it. The Dao’s essential Qi is real and unfailing. Those who receive it become perfected beings—people who have attained the Dao. It also embodies trustworthiness: so long as one is sincere and inwardly still, the Qi will respond and will not be lost.

From ancient times to the present, the Dao’s name has never changed. This shows that the way people in antiquity responded to the Dao was the same as it is for people today. Among those who have examined the origins of all things, many throughout the ages have attained the Dao; they did so through desirelessness.

Laozi says: How do I know that those who attained the Dao, from ancient times to the present, were all like this? I know from the principles explained above.

Yielding allows one to remain whole. By following the way things are, one can move freely everywhere—who, then, could harm me? After being wronged, one can return to what is right; by bearing hardship for a time and not rushing to defend oneself, one will eventually be vindicated. Being lowly allows one to become full. Only those willing to take a low position can win the hearts of all under Heaven. Once old things have been worn down, they can be renewed; only by not clinging to what one has already gained can one continue to cultivate oneself. Taking little can bring gain, because the mind does not become scattered. Coveting much instead confuses a person, who is then easily drawn in every direction. In the end, one will be vindicated.

The low place can receive the waters of many streams, and so it becomes full. Only those willing to take a low position can win the hearts of all under Heaven. What is worn out can be renewed; by not placing too much value on what one has gained, one can continue to cultivate oneself. Taking little and remaining focused can bring gain; coveting much leads to confusion and pursuit in every direction. The sage therefore holds to the Dao, the fundamental principle governing the movement of all things, and makes it the standard for all under Heaven. When one holds to the Dao, no one under Heaven dares to oppose it.

By not deliberately putting oneself on display, one becomes clear-sighted. By not showing off one’s abilities, they will eventually become evident. By not insisting on being right, one becomes distinguished; by not proclaiming one’s own correctness, one’s reasoning is made clear. By not praising oneself, one can endure; by lowering oneself, one’s strengths return to oneself. By not boasting of one’s achievements, one achieves merit. Precisely because one does not claim credit, one’s accomplishments are not lost. Because one does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with them and prevail. Acting in the way described above, one naturally leaves no one unconvinced. Could the ancients’ saying “Yielding allows one to remain whole” really be empty words? It truly enables one to remain whole and, in the end, reach completion. When one acts appropriately, the results will naturally become evident.

Speaking little accords with nature. Being cautious in speech not only helps one avoid mistakes, but also accords with the natural way. A gale cannot last all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. Both kinds of violent weather harm all things, which shows that forceful power cannot endure. Could the ancients’ saying “Yielding allows one to remain whole” really be empty words? It truly enables one to remain whole and, in the end, reach completion. When one acts appropriately, the results will naturally become evident.

Speaking little accords with the natural way. Those who are careful with their words not only make fewer mistakes but also follow the patterns of nature. A gale cannot blow all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. Both kinds of weather harm the myriad things excessively, so they cannot continue for long. What brings about gales and downpours? Heaven and Earth. Even Heaven and Earth cannot make them last. How much less can a person do so? Heaven and Earth are the greatest in form and the widest in power, yet they do not allow violent winds and storms to harm the myriad things for long. How can a person, so small by comparison, damage the Qi of nature by talking too much? Thus, those who follow the Dao are precisely those who speak little.

Those who belong to the Dao accord with the Dao; those who possess De accord with De; those who have lost the Dao accord with its loss. The myriad things always gather with their kind. Those who accord with the Dao can attain the Dao; those who accord with De can attain De; those who accord with the loss of the Dao will likewise meet its consequences. Kindred things encounter one another and respond in kind. If one lacks sincerity, one invites distrust. Some do not believe that speaking little accords with the Dao, and instead think that speaking much brings mistakes. When they regret it and seek the Dao, even if they profess their sincerity, those who follow the Dao may not believe them.

Those who rise onto their toes cannot stand firmly; forcing themselves up on tiptoe, they cannot keep the posture for long. Those who stride too widely cannot walk far. How can a person reach a distant place by taking steps that are too large? Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who insist they are right cannot make their reasoning clear; those who boast of themselves have no merit; those who exalt themselves cannot endure. Standing on tiptoe and taking oversized strides lead to such behavior as showing off and insisting on being right. These are all acts of forcing things and violate our natural nature. If a person has even one of these traits, the world will regard them as unreasonable. How much more so if they have several?

To the Dao, these behaviors are like surplus food and extra flesh. They are repulsive, like scraps left uneaten or excess flesh on the body. Since the myriad things reject such things, those who have the Dao do not engage in such behavior. Even ordinary things can be disliked; those who have the Dao are all the less likely to set their minds on these behaviors.

There is something whole and undivided that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. When primordial Qi was gathering, Heaven and Earth had not yet appeared. It was still and spacious, utterly empty and quiet. It existed alone without changing, never mingling with the myriad things or changing along with them. It moves everywhere without ever growing weary. It exists within all things yet never falls into danger. For this reason, it may be called the mother of all things under Heaven, for it can bring them forth and nurture them.

I do not know what it was originally called, and have no fitting name for it. I can only reluctantly give it the word “Dao,” using this word to express its De: its power to bring Heaven and Earth into being. I also reluctantly call it “Great,” because it encompasses everything. I give it this name so that those who wish to cultivate the Dao have a point of reference.

When the Dao reaches the utmost greatness, it moves far away; the farther it moves, the farther it departs from its origin. At the utmost distance, it eventually returns. Though one pursues it, it cannot be grasped; in the blink of an eye, it has returned to emptiness and stillness.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is great. Though the ruler cannot stand alongside the Dao, Heaven, and Earth as their equal, the ruler is still counted as a fourth kind of greatness. There are four great things between Heaven and Earth, and the ruler is one of them. The three below the Dao all arise from the Dao; the ruler, in turn, should take these three as models.

People should model themselves on Earth. Earth quietly bears and nurtures all things, so people who follow its example should be like Earth. Earth should model itself on Heaven: Heaven’s De broadly covers all things without favoring any, so to follow Heaven is to be like it. Heaven should model itself on the Dao: the Dao’s nature is to claim no credit, so to follow the Dao is to be like it. Ultimately, the Dao models itself on what is natural, following the inherent patterns of things.

Only when a person can model themselves on Earth, Heaven, and the Dao, and accord with them, can they be called a ruler. Even so, they are still just one among the people. Earth, Heaven, and the Dao each possess the subtle principles of nature, and the ruler should take them as models. The principle of nature means covering, bearing, and bringing forth all things without favoring any one of them.

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness. Nothing in the world grows without a foundation; therefore the foundation is important. Stillness governs agitation. The people are all governed by a ruler because the ruler occupies the leading position, grounded and still.

Therefore, the noble person never leaves the baggage cart behind when traveling through the day. Before setting out for a destination, the noble person first prepares the cart, ready for cold or heat, hunger or exhaustion.

Even amid splendid scenery and fine dwellings, one can remain at ease, detached and free. “Detached” describes a state of freedom from restraint. “Splendid sights” refers to magnificent scenery or residences, such as places for spring outings, and may also mean places where one adorns one’s appearance. These are realms of detachment attainable by those who remain grounded and still.

As the ruler of a ten-thousand-chariot state—that is, a great ruler—how can one treat oneself lightly or govern the realm carelessly? All things and people should remain grounded and still; the ruler of the realm should be all the less given to rash action and arbitrary comings and goings. Acting lightly alienates the ministers; behaving frivolously makes them hard to command. If one’s nature is agitated and one cannot remain composed, one loses the position proper to a ruler.

Those skilled at walking leave no wheel tracks or footprints. Those skilled at speaking make no mistakes. Those skilled at planning rely on no counting rods or calculating devices; they maintain stillness and clarity, without resorting to elaborate calculations. Those skilled at closing a door need no bolt to keep it shut.

One who is skillful at walking leaves no wheel tracks or footprints. One who follows the Dao leaves no visible trace. One who is skillful at speaking makes no mistakes; one who explains principles makes no errors. One who is skillful at planning can arrange things well without using counting tokens; by remaining calm and still, one need not rely on elaborate calculations. One who is skillful at closing doors can keep them shut even without a bolt; by closing the gateways of the seven apertures, one prevents outside evil thoughts from entering. One who is skillful at tying knots can keep them secure without using rope; by clearing the spirit and Qi stored in the five organs, one is no longer tempted by external things.

Therefore, the sage is always skillful at helping people, so no one is cast aside; and skillful at dealing with all things, so nothing is discarded. The sage carries out these good deeds in secret, and the Dao’s influence reaches plants and trees—how much more so, then, people? This is called “inheriting clarity”: inwardly receiving and applying the wisdom of the luminous Dao. Its work takes place within, while nothing shows on the outside.

Thus, the good person is the teacher of the person who is not good, for the good person can pass the good Dao on to others. The person who is not good, in turn, provides the means for the good person to act, since the good person can use them as an occasion for instruction. “Means” here means a resource or support. If one neither honors the teacher nor values the people and things that can serve as resources, then, once both return to the Dao, the distinction between teacher and student, and between resource and user, is forgotten. Though this may seem like profound confusion, from the Dao’s perspective it is the heart of subtle wisdom.

Understand the value of strength, yet willingly remain gentle and yielding, and you can become like the streams of the world, a place toward which all gather. Though you possess the power of a warrior, do not use it to show your strength. If your heart is content to be gentle and yielding, people will turn to you. Like streams gathering the waters of a hundred rivers, the virtue of humility will always remain with you. In this way, you can return to the pure, harmonious state of an infant, with your body and mind filled with gentle Qi.

Understand the benefit of being visible, yet willingly remain in obscurity, and you can become a model for the world. “Model” means a standard. Keep your own light subdued, as though you were in the dark, and the people of the world will trust you. Once you become a model for the world, your constant virtue will not go astray. Keep this virtue, which does not flaunt its brilliance, within yourself, and you will never lose it. In this way, you can return to a state without end. With virtue like this, your blessings and longevity are beyond measure.

Understand the worth of honor, yet willingly accept disgrace, and you can become like a valley of the world, receiving all things. Regard honor as though it were disgrace, and your heart will be as broad as a valley, able to receive everything. Once you become a valley of the world, your constant virtue will be full. When your virtue is complete, you can return to your original, unadorned state.

“Uncarved wood” is the essential nature of an object before it has been carved, and it is also the foundation of the Dao. Only after uncarved wood is split apart do the various objects take shape; only after the Dao unfolds do the myriad things come into being. When sages put the Dao into practice, they complete their virtue and return to simplicity. They can also take their place above the people and teach those who do not yet understand the principles of the Dao. Thus, truly great governance does not divide things or harm the whole. A sage who holds the supreme Dao can govern the myriad things; in governing, the guiding principle should be Wuwei (non-action), rather than forcing submission by adding more punishments.

To govern the world, one might try to win the people’s favor. I do not think this can ultimately succeed. To gain the world through deliberate action, I believe, is certain to fail. “Yi” is a grammatical particle.

The world is a sacred vessel and must not be handled by force. “Sacred vessel” refers to people: because there is spirit within the human body, people are called sacred vessels. Human nature recoils from disturbance. Deliberate action disrupts the people, so the world cannot be gained in this way. Forcing things will ruin them, and the people will scatter as a result. Clinging stubbornly to power will also lead to losing the world.

If one does not trust words of sincerity and persistently clings to one’s own ideas, one will surely lose the imperial enterprise. Some things move ahead, while others follow behind. If one forces the way forward, failure and loss will follow. Some things are gentle, like a soft exhalation; others are harsh, like a forceful breath. Governing through benevolence is like breathing out gently; imposing harsh punishments is like blowing forcefully. Some things are strong, while others are weak. When the people are settled, the state is strong; when they scatter, the state is weak. Some things are supported, while others are overturned. If the people are cared for, the state can remain secure; if they are mistreated, the state will be overturned.

Therefore, the sage removes extremes, extravagance, and excess. The consequences of forcing things are so severe: how could those who govern the world fail to abandon such practices? The sage governs the world by removing extreme, extravagant, and excessive conduct.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not use force to dominate the world. In ancient times, those skilled at assisting rulers brought stability to the people and strength to the state by relying on the Dao, not on military power. The consequences of war easily rebound upon those who wage it: the moment a victorious army sets out on its return, retaliation is already on its way. Thorns grow where armies have been stationed, hindering cultivation. After a large-scale military campaign, years of famine often follow. In war’s wake, the killing energy remains concentrated and peaceful energy cannot circulate, so crops fail to ripen.

Thus, those skilled in warfare seek only to accomplish what necessity demands; they dare not use force to show their strength. A ruler should be assisted by following the Dao, not by relying on military power. When there is truly no alternative, one should choose someone skilled at commanding troops. Such a person must act decisively, but must not be bent solely on victory. Once the task is accomplished, they should not boast. Thus, those skilled in warfare seek only to accomplish what necessity demands; they dare not use force to show their strength. A ruler should be assisted by following the Dao, not by relying on military power. When there is truly no alternative, one should choose someone skilled at commanding troops. Such a person must act decisively, but must not be bent solely on victory. To act decisively without boasting, self-promotion, or arrogance is to act decisively only because necessity leaves no choice. This is called decisiveness without forceful display.

If someone skilled at warfare leads an army to punish disorder, they will certainly not boast, promote themselves, or act arrogantly. Why? Though decisive, they remain humble; they do not use force to show what they can do. To display one’s strength is to go against the Dao. When things reach their height, they grow old; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. When things reach their peak, they decline. An army that is bent on becoming powerful is not necessarily spared defeat. All this comes from being out of accord with the Dao. To be out of accord with the Dao is to meet an early end. To recognize that one is out of accord with the Dao and stop in time is good. “Cease” means to stop.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments. Here, “zui” means fondness; “weapons” refers to all kinds of arms. Weapons are tools that harm people, and delighting in them is no good. Among all things, some abhor weapons; therefore, a person with the Dao does not put themselves in such a position. All things cherish life and abhor death. If a state delights in warfare, all things abhor it; how much more would a person with the Dao be willing to live in such a state? When a gentleman is at home, he values...

The left symbolizes the place of growth and benevolence. A noble person teaches and guides others through benevolence, so in daily life they should take the left-hand position. In military affairs, however, the right is honored, because a commander’s duty is to wage war and kill. The timing and direction of military action therefore belong to the side that symbolizes decline and decay.

Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a noble person esteems. A noble person governs through civil virtue, not through weapons. Only when there is no other choice should weapons be used, and then they should be deployed from the position that symbolizes growth. The purpose of war should be to quell banditry and disorder; one must not take pleasure in killing. Victory, too, is nothing to celebrate. To call victory a fine thing is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot prevail in the world: everyone hates death, so who would sincerely submit to them?

Thus, auspicious occasions honor the left, while inauspicious occasions such as funerals honor the right; each is arranged according to its kind. The deputy general stands on the left. Though also a commander responsible for killing, the deputy does not hold authority over the conduct of war. The supreme general stands on the right and is charged specifically with military campaigns. This arrangement treats war according to the rites of mourning: the generals occupy the corresponding positions, though they do not necessarily wear mourning clothes. In this way, it accords with the grim, killing force brought by war while also restraining the pride of those who wage it.

After victory, one should still follow the rites of mourning. When many people have been killed or wounded, a noble person serving as general weeps in grief, thinking: “I truly lack virtue. What wrong have the people done? Once war begins, many are wounded, and some even die.” Before these words have left his mouth, tears are already falling.

The Dao is always present by its nature, yet has no fixed name. Calling it “Dao” now is also only a name imposed on it. “Uncarved wood” refers to a state that has not been shaped by carving and remains in its natural condition.

The Dao endures, yet has no fixed name. Calling it the “Dao” is merely a makeshift name. The “Uncarved Block,” though subtle, has no visible form; the world does not presume to treat it as a subject. Those who hold the Dao in their hearts can still serve as teachers to kings. How much less could the Dao itself be ruled as a servant or concubine?

If lords and kings can keep to the Dao, all under Heaven will naturally submit to them. Here, “guest” means one who submits. If they hold fast to the Dao and do not forget it, even those in distant places will submit. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth comes together, sweet dew descends. This harmonious interaction of Heaven and Earth brings down sweet dew, displaying the response to a lord or king who keeps to the Dao. People need not obey anyone’s commands; they will naturally become balanced and equitable.

Once systems are established and categories distinguished, the Dao can govern things that have names and forms. These include the spirits of mountains and rivers who may receive offerings, as well as recluses in forests and mountains who may be summoned and appointed. Once their ranks are established, these enfeoffed spirits and recluses will submit and eventually come to court.

They, too, will understand when enough is enough and be content with their place. Knowing when to stop keeps one from falling into danger. If even things with names and forms attach themselves to a ruler who follows the Dao and dwell in a place of contentment, how much more so will the people?

The Dao moves through all under Heaven like streams flowing into rivers and seas. When a ruler who follows the Dao governs the world, communication flows between ruler and ministers, above and below: the ruler’s beneficence extends downward, while the people’s feelings can reach upward. It is like the waterways linking streams with rivers and seas, flowing freely between them.

Knowing others is a form of wisdom, and one who is wise is not easily deceived, so such a person is able to understand others. Knowing oneself is true discernment. The discerning person can perceive a matter before any sign of it has appeared, and so does not set out on a path that departs from the Way (Dao, dào).

Overcoming others takes strength, but such strength rests on either authority or physical force. Overcoming oneself is true power. To cultivate one's own De (Virtue, dé) so that others submit willingly is far greater than prevailing over others by force alone.

One who knows contentment is truly rich. If a single rice bowl feels sufficient, one is richer than a ruler of ten thousand states. To persist diligently in one's work is to have resolve, and to carry a task from beginning to end with unwavering consistency is to have integrity.

One who does not abandon one's root endures, and one who lacks constant principles cannot practice the Dao over the long term. When the body dies but the shen (spirit) and one's influence do not perish, one may be called long-lived. If a person practices the Dao and benefits the world, the laws and institutions they leave behind all derive from their spiritual wisdom, and once established, these can be transmitted for ten thousand generations. This is what is meant by the body dying while the spirit endures, and why it is called longevity.

The Great Dao, the fundamental principle common to all things, flows everywhere and reaches both left and right. To say it "may be left or right" is to name two extremes in order to show that the Dao encompasses all things. The myriad things depend on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim credit for giving them life. It loves and nourishes all things without presuming to be their master.

To be constantly free of selfish desire may be called "small," and people without desire are like infants. Yet the Dao holds no selfish desire toward the myriad things. Can it be merely as small as an infant? All things return to the Dao, yet the Dao does not act as their master, and this may be called "great." All things return to the Dao, yet the Dao does not claim this as its own. Could this be arrogant self-importance that disregards the myriad things?

Therefore the sage never presumes to be great. The sage emulates the Dao, and in particular its humble attitude of not presuming greatness, fearing lest it lose its modesty. Precisely because the sage has no intention of boasting of greatness, the sage accomplishes a vast undertaking.

Whoever holds fast to the Dao (the Way) will find that all under heaven naturally turns toward them. The "Great Image" (daxiang) spoken of here is the Dao itself. All things take their forms by following the Dao, so if one governs the realm according to the Dao, the people will have no cause to resist. Once the people have come to submit, they must also be given secure lives. Only when all under heaven is at peace can the people be truly content.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop in their tracks. Music and food are things people love, so how could anyone pass by without pausing? The Dao, when spoken aloud, is bland and tasteless. Travelers stop because what lies before them pleases the eye and fills the belly. Now, if one tries to explain the Dao to others, it is so plain that there is nothing to savor, so how could it make anyone long for it? Moreover, human nature dislikes tangled affairs and favors Wuwei (non-action). The Dao is itself non-acting, and that is why people come to love it. It cannot be seen when one looks for it or heard when one listens for it, yet its application never runs dry.

If you wish to contract something, you must first let it expand. If you wish to weaken something, you must first let it grow strong. If you wish to abolish something, you must first let it flourish. If you wish to take something, you must first give. This is called "subtle clarity" (weiming), which means seeing the changes of things clearly from their smallest beginnings. These four cases are all signs at the moment a thing first shows its beginnings. If one can grasp and cut off a thing at its source, before it sprouts, one can foresee how it will change. The soft and yielding will in the end overcome the hard and strong. Calamities usually begin faintly and only later grow powerful. If one eliminates a problem while it is still weak, one can overcome the situation it would have become once it had grown large.

Fish cannot leave the deep waters, and once a fish has entered them, it is hard to control. The "sharp instruments" of the state, meaning its vital secrets and its authority, must not be shown to just anyone lightly. When matters are still subtle and unrevealed, there is still an opportunity to take hold of them and keep them from growing large. This is an essential principle for cultivating the self and governing the state: the vital secrets must not be entrusted to petty people. If they fall into the hands of such people, it is like a fish swimming into the deep, and they can no longer be restrained.

The function of the Dao lies in regulating things while they are still unformed and weak, so that they never grow into a state of strength that is hard to control. This is indeed an essential principle for cultivating oneself and governing the state, but it must never be divulged to petty people. Once it falls into their hands, it is like releasing fish into a deep abyss: it becomes difficult to grasp and control.

The Dao usually follows what is natural and does not force action, yet nothing fails to be accomplished. It acts, yet holds no deliberate intention, and therefore nothing is left unaccomplished. If marquises and kings can hold fast to this principle, the myriad things will transform and nourish themselves naturally. So long as one does not deviate from wuwei (non-action), the myriad things will change on their own. If, in the course of this change, reckless desires arise, I will settle them with the Nameless Uncarved Block (wuming zhi pu), the simple, original nature that has not been carved or shaped by human artifice and cannot be named. The Nameless Uncarved Block is the root of wuwei. Since wuwei leaves no trace of human contrivance, how could one give it a name? If the ruler uses this to settle the multitude, who would dare to act recklessly?

The Nameless Uncarved Block has no desires. Even the thought of guarding the Dao must be let go, so that one accords with the natural state of simplicity. To be without desire and to keep still, and the world will naturally settle into peace. If one deliberately seeks stillness, one is constantly stirred by the mind that "seeks stillness," and so cannot truly be still. Now, letting the myriad things follow their nature and each attain its proper place, with no thing remaining in my mind, then ruler and minister, superior and inferior, can each rectify their own nature and allotted destiny.

Dao. Even the thought of guarding the Dao must be let go, so that one accords with the natural state of simplicity. To be without desire and to keep still, and the world will naturally settle into peace. If one deliberately seeks stillness, one is constantly stirred by the mind that "seeks stillness." Now, letting the myriad things each attain their proper place, with no thing remaining in my mind, then ruler and minister can each rectify their nature and destiny.

This concludes the second volume of the New Commentary on the Scripture of the Way and Its Power (Daodejing Xin Zhu).

New Commentary on the Scripture of the Way and Its Power, Volume Three

Commentary by Li Yue

Upper Part of the De Jing (Classic of Virtue)

Forty-one chapters

The highest De (virtue in accord with the Dao) does not deliberately display its virtue, so people see no trace of it and assume it has none. Precisely because of this, it truly possesses De. When the myriad things keep their original simplicity, people come to recognize that it has De. The lower De, by contrast, clings to not losing its De. It admires the fame of the former kings, reverently keeps their rules, and insists they not be lost. For this very reason it lacks true De. When the inherent nature of the myriad things changes even slightly, one can see that it is deficient in De.

The highest De follows what is natural and takes no deliberate action. It has no purpose it pursues on purpose, yet it still accomplishes things. The lower De acts, and acts with a clear aim. Though it does accomplish things, its doing is driven by intention.

The highest Ren (benevolence) begins to depart from the Great Dao and to value benevolence, but it acts without a deliberate aim, and even when it acts, its heart is not attached to what it does. The highest Yi (righteousness) also begins to depart from the Dao and to value righteousness. It acts with a clear purpose and focuses on judging what is right and wrong. The highest Li (ritual propriety) begins to depart from the Dao and to value ritual. When others do not respond, it rolls up its sleeves and forces them to comply. Once the reciprocity of ritual exchange goes awry, people become angry because of it.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does one speak of De; only after De is lost does one speak of Ren; only after Ren is lost does one speak of Yi; only after Yi is lost does one speak of Li. When the highest De is lost, the lower De takes its place. When the lower De is deficient, the teaching of Ren arises. When the teaching of Ren declines, the standard of Yi is put into practice. When even the notion of what is fitting in right and wrong has lost its relevance, ceremonies such as bowing, kneeling, jade, and silk gifts will flourish throughout the world.

Li is the sign of the thinning of loyalty and trustworthiness, and it is also the beginning of chaos. The "chaos" spoken of here means that rulers no longer act like rulers, ministers no longer act like ministers, fathers no longer act like fathers, and sons no longer act like sons. Loyalty and trustworthiness belong to the Dao and De. If we compare Li with Dao and De, Li does indeed appear thin and weak. Yet if we wish to use it to remedy chaos, what else could we rely on besides Li?

The so-called "those with prior knowledge" refers to people who concern themselves with ritual in advance. The outward form of the Dao is like a flower: it pleases the eye, and so it is called the "flower of the Dao." "Flower" is what is nowadays called "splendor." To cling to these outward forms is the very beginning of foolishness, and it may also lead people to use them to restrain their unruly conduct.

Therefore, the dazhangfu (great man), one of vigorous and upright spirit, should hold fast to uprightness and not follow flashy worldly fashions. As the Changyan says, the great man should practice virtue and not esteem the trivial rites of the surface. He should choose what is substantial rather than what is shallow, establish himself in De rather than in thinned-out ritual, and choose what is real rather than what is ornate. Fruit can satisfy hunger, while flowers serve only to be looked at. Therefore, one should abandon the flower and choose the fruit.

Those things that attained the One, as described below: Heaven attained the One and so became clear; Earth attained the One and so became tranquil; the valleys attained the One and so became full; the spirits (shen) attained the One and so became numinous; the myriad creatures attained the One and so grew; and the feudal lords and kings attained the One and so became the correct Way of all under Heaven. "One" (yi) refers to the unifying root of the Dao. From Heaven and Earth down to the lords and kings, each was able to attain its proper rectitude because it obtained the Dao. Therefore the lords and kings should first rectify themselves and then rectify the realm, which is why the text says they "become the correct Way of all under Heaven." "Zhen" means correct.

Pushing these principles to their extreme: since we know that these achievements come from obtaining the Dao, could one then lose it? If Heaven could not remain clear, it would likely crack apart; if Earth could not remain tranquil, it would likely quake; if the valleys could not remain full, they would likely run dry; if the spirits could not remain numinous, they would likely fade away; if the myriad creatures could not keep their vitality, they would likely perish; and if the lords and kings could not keep their noble position, they would likely be overthrown. "Dian" means to overturn. When one obtains the Dao but cannot hold on to it, calamity arises in exactly this way.

Nobility takes lowliness as its root. The king's position is noble, while the common people are humble; yet the lords and kings take the common people as their root, for without the people there would be no ruler. What is high rests on what is below, and the base is the foundation. A mountain nine ren high must still be raised from a single basketful of earth; if its foundation is not secure, the mountain will collapse. A lord who wishes to keep his lofty position but does not bring stability to the people will see the people scatter, and the ruler himself will lose his power.

This is why the lords and kings call themselves "gu" (orphaned), "gua" (widowed), and "bu gu" (ungrained). Is this not taking lowliness as the root? Indeed it is. "Gu" refers to one without a father, "gua" to one without a husband, and "bu gu" to one without nurture or good fortune. All three are titles that people dislike, yet the lords use them for themselves precisely because they take lowliness as their root.

Therefore, if you take apart a cart and count its parts, you will not find a complete cart; counting the pieces one by one yields only wheels, shafts, and other materials. Likewise, if you count one by one the people on whom a ruler depends, you will find only ministers and the myriad common folk. Once the materials are scattered, there is no complete cart; and if the common people cannot be settled, how can a ruler remain in his seat?

Do not wish to be precious like jade, nor to be base like stone. Here "lu lu" describes the appearance of precious weight, and "luo luo" describes the appearance of lowliness. Jade, though precious, is formed from within stone; the ruler, though noble, exists because of the people. Thus one should not seek the splendor of jade, but should wish instead to remain rooted like stone, valuing the foundation.

The movement of the Dao (the Way) takes the form of turning into its opposite. The essence of the Dao is originally still, and once it begins to move, it turns back upon itself. Because the nature of the myriad things includes a hard and unyielding aspect, the Dao also applies firmness expediently in response, hoping through this to return the myriad things to stillness.

Rouruo (softness and weakness) is the Dao's ordinary mode of operation. All the myriad things know this, so why does the author state it again? They worry that when people see the Dao also apply firmness, they will mistakenly conclude that firmness is the Dao's consistent way of working.

All under heaven is born from you (being). The myriad things arise from the visible heaven and earth, and this heaven and earth, which is you, arises from wu (non-being). In other words, the visible heaven and earth are produced by the Dao. Because the Dao itself has no form or image, it is called wu.

People of superior capacity (shang deng genqi) who hear of the Dao (the Way), the fundamental law that Daoism describes, diligently act on it. Having grasped the Dao upon hearing it, they cultivate themselves with effort and return to their root. People of middling capacity seem to remember the Dao and then seem to forget it. Having heard it, they harbor doubts, yet they can still be taught so that they come to understand it. People of inferior capacity burst out laughing when they hear of the Dao. Having heard it, they are bewildered, and because bewilderment is what makes them laugh, they cannot be brought to understand it. If the Dao were not laughed at by such people, it would not be worthy of the name Dao. If the Dao were merely a sound heard by the ears of inferior people, it would not be worth treasuring.

The ancients established these sayings: "Clear Dao seems dark" (ming dao ruo mei). One who understands the Dao appears muddled, because the way he acts is bright, yet in application he seems reserved. "Advancing on the Dao seems like retreat" (jin dao ruo tui). One who cultivates the Dao seems to be moving backward, yet inwardly he is diligent and outwardly he shows no haste. "Level Dao seems uneven" (yi dao ruo lei). In "lei," the word refers to silk thread that is not evenly spun, and here it is borrowed to mean uneven ground. One who walks the level, broad Dao appears to be treading a dangerous road. "The highest De (Virtue) is like a valley" (shang de ruo gu). The highest virtue is as empty and still as a deep valley, responding to things without a calculating mind. "Great whiteness seems tarnished" (da bai ruo ru). The most pure original nature appears to have been soiled. "Expansive De seems insufficient" (guang de ruo bu zu). Virtue that is vast appears lacking, because the Dao does not show itself outwardly. "Established De seems lax" (jian de ruo tou). One who firmly establishes virtue appears idle, because his talent and virtue do not appear on the surface. "Genuine substance seems changeable" (zhi zhen ruo yu). Substance that is pure appears to be altering, and when it reaches its utmost, it seems mixed.

"The greatest square has no corners" (da fang wu yu). The greatest squareness has no visible edges. "Great vessels are completed late" (da qi wan cheng). Great achievements cannot be attained quickly. "The greatest sound is xi, without sound" (da yin xi sheng). Here "xi" means "none," so the greatest sound seems to have no sound at all. "The greatest image has no form" (da xiang wu xing). The greatest image has no fixed shape. "The Dao is hidden and nameless" (dao yin wu ming). The Dao is concealed and does not show itself, and it has no name by which it can be called. From "the ancients established these sayings" onward, the passage describes how the great Dao is hidden within namelessness. Therefore, people of superior capacity awaken fully and then practice diligently; people of middling capacity doubt and so advance and retreat; people of inferior capacity are bewildered and laugh. Understanding this, one can grasp the reasons behind it.

Only the Dao is skilled at bestowing and perfecting the myriad things. The Dao does not treat the three kinds of people differently because of their differing capacities. Instead, it gives the same harmonious qi to each of them so that they may be born and grow. Those who practice diligently return alone to the harmony within the Dao. Those who doubt or ridicule are, by contrast, sunk together into yuanqi (the original qi, the fundamental vital energy from which the myriad things are generated).

The Dao (dào) gives birth to "One" (yī). That is, the Dao, through resonance, produces a single Qi (qì). This One Qi then gives rise to two Qi, Yin and Yang (yīnyáng): the Yin Qi begins to take form, and the Yang Qi follows. Yin and Yang resonate and blend with each other to produce a "harmonizing Qi," which is the "Three." This harmonizing Qi gathers and transforms into the myriad things.

The myriad things rest their backs against Yin and embrace Yang, and the Yin and Yang Qi circulate through them so that they are brought into harmony. The outer skin and flesh belong to Yin, while the solid marrow within belongs to Yang. The gentle and faint Dao Qi pervades the space between them and coordinates Yin and Yang.

People dislike the titles "orphaned," "lonely," and "unworthy," yet kings and lords use them to refer to themselves. Because the kings and lords harmonize the multitude through humility and softness, becoming the root of the myriad things, they can take these inauspicious titles as their own designations and thereby become rulers of all under Heaven.

Thus, sometimes diminishing brings increase. To call oneself "ill-omened" is indeed a form of self-deprecation, yet the myriad things come to pledge allegiance. How is this not an increase? Sometimes increasing brings diminishment. To rely on one's nobility and exalt oneself causes the common people to turn away. How is this not a loss?

The teachings people pass down, I also teach through the principle of softness. Those who wish to establish teachings and instruct others should likewise teach through the principle of yielding softness, so that all who receive instruction keep it in mind and return to settling the Dao of nature and life (xìng mìng). The violent and domineering often do not die a natural death. When a ruler is brutal, he loses the loyalty of his subjects, and his downfall may come at any moment. When an individual is overbearing, the multitude will strike back, and he will soon fall.

I will take the Way of softness as the foundation of my teaching of the multitude. "Father" means root and forerunner, so I take the principle of softness as the forerunner in teaching the myriad people.

The softest things in the world can pass through and master the hardest things in the world. Harmonious Qi (qi), the gentle and pliant vital energy, is itself the softest thing in the world, yet if a person drives it and gives it free rein, it turns into the hardest thing in the world. Formless things can enter places where there is no gap. To restore the softness of harmonious Qi, one need only hold no thought of driving it and understand that harmonious Qi naturally enters where there is no gap. Then it can become the most yielding of things. Therefore I know that Wuwei (wuwei, non-action) is beneficial. Laozi says that when Wuwei is left to operate of its own accord, harmonious Qi can be preserved within the heart, and a person who remains soft and pliant attains long life. Wuwei therefore benefits people. To bring benefit through Wuwei without using words to teach is something few in the world can achieve. To teach others little and practice the Dao (dao) of Wuwei oneself, few in the world can equal the benefit of this.

Which is closer to oneself, fame or life? Fame can be discarded, but life cannot, so is fame not the more distant of the two? Which matters more, life or possessions? Lost possessions can be sought again, but lost life is hard to recover, so are possessions not the lighter? Which is more harmful, gain or loss? If one loses one's life through greed, but loses possessions and keeps one's authentic nature, which is the more beneficial? Excessive love invariably incurs a great cost. When desire exceeds proper limits, the loss is also heavy. When hoarding grows excessive, one will inevitably suffer grave loss. Accumulation without dispersal often endangers life.

One who knows contentment will not be humiliated, and one whose heart is content can always remain at ease. One who knows when to stop will not fall into danger, and one who keeps to one's proper limits can always find peace. Only in this way can one endure long and avoid dying before one's time.

When things reach fullness and completeness, they may seem to be lacking. One whose De (Virtue) is complete often appears insufficient, yet his functioning never runs dry. Confronting all things, there is nothing he cannot meet.

What is truly full may seem empty, and one whose inner substance is full often appears to be void. His functioning is inexhaustible, and when he aids the multitudes, his resources never run out.

One who is truly upright may seem to bend. He can bear defilement and is in no hurry to reveal himself. One who is truly skillful may seem clumsy, for he does not boast of his abilities. One who is truly eloquent may seem tongue-tied.

Agitation can overcome cold. When things reach their extreme, they turn to their opposite, so at the summer solstice yin Qi begins to arise from within. Stillness can overcome heat. When things reach their worst, they turn toward good, so at the winter solstice yang Qi begins to arise from within. Clarity and stillness are the standard for all under heaven. What is called "correct" is the moderate state between agitation and stillness, like the second and eighth months, when cold and heat are balanced. Therefore, the conditions described from "great accomplishment" to "great eloquence" all lie in a balance of motion and stillness, and so they accord with the correct Dao (the Way) of all under heaven.

When the world possesses the Dao (the Way), war horses are sent back to fertilize the fields. A ruler who possesses the Dao, having succeeded a benighted ruler, will surely quell the chaos and restore the proper order, halt military campaigns, and promote civil governance. Therefore, the war horses that galloped along the roads in the campaigns of the former kings are no longer used. They are sent home to labor in farming.

When the world lacks the Dao, war horses breed in the outskirts. After a ruler without the Dao succeeds an age of peace and clarity, he relies on full state granaries and delights in launching wars and seizing the lands of others. Soldiers therefore cannot take off their saddles and remain stationed on the borders for long periods.

No fault is greater than desire, no calamity is greater than not knowing contentment, and no transgression is greater than the constant pursuit of more. Whenever one sees or hears of something, one wishes to make it one's own, and in this way the goods of all under heaven will be stripped bare. These are the practices of a ruler without the Dao.

Therefore, knowing sufficiency is true sufficiency. One who knows when to stop feels no lack, even if he dwells in a house with earthen steps or a thatched hut, and he is always content. Not overstepping one's proper station and valuing the peace of the people is the practice of a ruler who possesses the Dao.

Without leaving one's doorway, one can know the conditions of everything under Heaven. By judging others from one's own circumstances, the affairs of everything under Heaven can be understood. Without looking out through a window, one can still know the Dao (the Way), the regular patterns by which nature operates. Acting in accordance with the Dao does not require looking far afield. The farther one travels, the less one ends up knowing.

People could settle into a state of non-action, undisturbed by many affairs. If rulers instead keep stirring up undertakings, hoping thereby to bring the people peace, then the affairs multiply while the people find it ever harder to be at rest. For this reason the sage can understand the feelings of the people without going out: he knows that whether the people are at peace depends on himself. So long as he does not recklessly create affairs, the people will naturally be at peace, and there is no need to travel the whole land to inspect them.

Without personally observing, one can still judge government affairs. So long as one holds to the Dao and occupies one's position, the order of government will naturally be stable, and why must one look out a window to grasp the situation? Without deliberate effort, one can still accomplish things. To achieve this highest principle depends precisely on not acting rashly. If one forces it deliberately, one cannot reach it.

In learning, one adds to one's knowledge every day; that is to say, the student adds to his experience and learning daily. In cultivating the Dao (xiudao), one reduces artificial action every day. Reduce, and then reduce again: one reduction is not enough, and only further reduction allows one to penetrate deeply, until one reaches the state of wuwei (non-action). When nothing remains to be reduced, one dwells at the pivot of the Dao. The "ring-center" (huanzhong) is a metaphor for dwelling at the center of change, where one can accord with all things.

Through wuwei, nothing is left undone. When an affair is accomplished, one does not claim it as one's own or seek to control it; this is wuwei. To cause the myriad things to grow and be nurtured is to leave nothing undone. In governing the realm, one should generally take non-interference as the principle. Here "non-interference" means not recklessly intervening in or forcibly arranging matters for the people, but following the likes and dislikes of the multitude rather than seeking one's own convenience. If one constantly stirs up action, one cannot govern the realm well. If what one does benefits only oneself, the people will be burdened. When the people grow weary and resentful, they will scatter, and how then could the realm be well governed?

The sage has no fixed opinions of his own. Like an empty boat drifting with the current, he does not cling to his own will but takes the hearts of the common people as his heart. Whatever the people delight in, the ruler helps them to achieve. He treats the good with goodness, not going against their original nature; he also treats the not-good with goodness, so that the virtue of goodness may be made manifest. When the sage cultivates goodness in himself, the unvirtuous are transformed and gradually become good. He never forces external things to comply with him.

He trusts those who are trustworthy and does not take away their aspirations; he also trusts those who are not trustworthy, so that the virtue of sincerity may be made manifest. The sage treats the world with a sincere heart, and the common people are naturally transformed and become trustworthy. This is not achieved through compulsory commands.

When the sage governs the world, he is always deeply anxious, concerned lest any one person be left without a secure place. He merges his mind with that of the world. The common people hope for less disturbance, so he too follows their wishes and does not trouble them with complicated affairs. The people all watch and listen to the sage intently, observing whether he responds to their will. The sage regards the people as infants, cherishing and nurturing them with love. How could he bear to disturb them with governmental affairs?

A person moves from birth toward death, and when deluded thoughts arise from the heart, they gradually walk the road to death. Within the body there are thirteen kinds of factors that can push a person toward life or toward death. One account holds that the five viscera (wuzang) lie inside the body, while the eight envoys (bashi), the senses and limbs that act outwardly, which are the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, hands, and feet, lie outside it, with the "three leakages" (sanlou) and other factors also counted. Together these inner and outer elements all shape a person's life. When the eight envoys race outward and the five viscera receive what they take in, the two working together easily lead a person into danger and ultimately to death. If one does not stir these forces and each keeps to its own duty, life can be preserved.

Another account holds that the five viscera, the five physical parts (the head and the four limbs), and the three dantian (the upper, middle, and lower dantian, the body's cultivation sites in Daoist practice) together make thirteen. The head and limbs are the five physical parts. The Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture) says: the upper dantian is in the brain, the middle dantian lies between the heart and spleen, and the lower dantian is the Sea of Qi (qihai) in the kidneys.

Human activity often brings a person to the place of death. People anxiously seek to survive, yet they often step toward danger, and it is precisely these thirteen factors that lead them on. Why do people walk toward death? Because they value survival too highly. In other words, when they pursue worldly things excessively and indulge themselves too richly, they give these thirteen factors the opportunity to do harm.

It is said that one who is skilled at nurturing life (shesheng) can, in stillness, restrain these thirteen factors, settle body and mind, and forget the burden that the physical form places on the self. Walking in the wilds, such a person will not meet the rhinoceros-like beast (si) or the tiger, and entering an army's ranks, such a person will not suffer from weapons. The si finds nothing to gore, the tiger has no place to use its claws, and the blades find no one to wound. If one's mind is set on harming other things, even a tiny wasp or bee will sting with its poison, let alone the tiger and the si. If there is no thought of harming any being, then even when one meets fierce beasts and sharp weapons, what can they do to such a person?

Another interpretation holds that the si, the tiger, and the armored soldiers symbolize the greed and evil thoughts within the body. When one is clear, still, and practices non-action (wuwei), misfortune has no cause to enter, and illness has no way to arise. Why can one escape death? Because there is no path leading to it. Stillness can expel the thirteen inducing factors and keep the "five thieves" (wuzei), the inner factors that harm body and mind in the Daoist context, and the "three corpses" (sanshi), spirits said to dwell in the body and often regarded as beings that tempt one to wrongdoing and damage life, from entering the heart, so there is no gate for death. If stillness wavers even slightly, the five thieves and three corpses will slip in through the gap and use their horns, claws, and blades.

Dao (the Way) gives rise to all things, and at the very beginning it bestows original qi (yuanqi) upon them. De (Virtue) nourishes all things, causing them to gradually gestate and grow. Each thing then takes on its own form, and its substance and shape become complete. Circumstances bring about the development of things, so that they grow and change through the alternation of the four seasons, and at last mature to completion.

Therefore, there is no being that does not revere the Dao and cherish the De. Even the most foolish creature knows to be close to and respect its parents. That the Dao is revered and the De is cherished is not because anyone conferred titles or honors upon them; it is simply so by nature. The noble status of worldly figures comes from receiving rewards from the sovereign, but the Dao and De do not depend on such things. They inherently possess the merit of generating all things, and so all things revere them.

Dao brings things into being, nurtures them, lets them grow and mature, and furthermore sustains and shelters them. It has such power, so it has no need of rewards to establish its nobility. It gives birth to all things yet does not claim them as its own; if it did, it would be assigning the grace of nurturing to itself. It acts, yet does not rely on its own merit; if it did, it would be seizing achievement. This is called "profound De" (xuan de), virtue that is deep and does not show itself, and it may also be called "hidden De" (yin de), virtuous power that seeks no fame and works in secret.

The Ultimate Source of all things under Heaven has a common beginning, and this beginning is the root. Ten thousand things are produced by relying on it, which is why it is called the "Mother of the world." "Mother" means the foundation that nourishes; the myriad things grow and take form through it. To know the root of the myriad things is to know how they come to be: the Dao is the mother of the myriad things, and the myriad things are its children. Once one understands that all things arise from the Dao, one should hold fast to the Dao as the root, and in this way one can preserve oneself. Abiding in this throughout one's life brings freedom from peril. If the Dao sustains and protects all things, what danger could there be?

To block the orifices of the senses means to gather in sight and hearing, so that the mind-spirit (shen) is not drawn outward by external things. To close the doors of speech means to speak little and not speak carelessly. In this way, one remains free of toil throughout life, the body is at ease, and the spirit (shen) is full. If one gives free rein to the senses and busies oneself chasing external objects and desires, one grows ever more exhausted. Even when one restrains oneself by means of the Dao, one still worries that the mind-spirit (shen) will scatter; how much more so if one indulges the senses and feeds desire? Then misfortune has already taken shape, and even a lifetime may not be enough to remedy it.

To perceive change in things at their most subtle is called clarity (ming); to grasp a thing at the moment its form first appears is to understand it. To hold to softness and yielding is called strength (qiang), for true strength accumulates out of softness. To use one's own inner light and then return it to inner transparency: this is the method by which one guards the root of all things and preserves oneself. Gathering in sight and hearing and securing the heart-mind, perceiving the subtle and holding to softness, all belong to this one method. In this way one brings no calamity upon oneself and need not pay for it with harm to others. This is called receiving and following the constant Dao, a profound method of the Way that leads toward long life.

If someone as solitary and upright as I am can still understand the principles of the world, then I should let the upright Great Dao prevail throughout the realm. My only concern is that by adhering to the upright Way alone, I will instead be rejected by the many crooked ways.

The Great Dao is perfectly level and smooth, a proper path that rulers and ministers alike can follow, yet people deliberately prefer shortcuts. In those times crooked ways flourished, and I, alone and without strength, was unable to stop them.

The court was built with great splendor because the ruler vigorously pursued ornamentation. The fields lay waste because the common people had their farming seasons seized by forced labor. The granaries stood empty because the people lacked food. The ruler wore magnificent robes, carried sharp swords, and enjoyed lavish feasts, and their wealth was abundant. Looking at the common people, however, we see that they were suffering and in want.

This is what is called daokua (dao kua): obtaining wealth through improper means without any shame, and even boasting about it. Taking wealth was already contrary to the Great Dao, so how much more so when one also flaunts it? Such people are truly lamentable.

One who is skilled at establishing a foundation will not see it overturned. One who is skilled at governing a state and at standing in the world must take De (virtue, power) as the root. If one establishes oneself through De, the individual will not fall into peril. If one governs the state through De, the state will not be overturned. "Ba" means to overturn or uproot.

One who is skilled at holding fast will not lose what he holds. "Tuo" means to lose. A ruler who governs the state must hold fast to the common people, and one who stands in the world must hold fast to the spirit (shen). If both take De as the root, nothing will be lost.

In this way, descendants will flourish and prosper, generation after generation will make sacrifices to their ancestors, and the sacrifices will never be interrupted. "Chuo" means to cease.

Cultivating oneself through De makes one's De genuine and pure, and cultivating the person through De dispels all falsehood. Ordering a household through De gives De a surplus, and its blessings are passed down to later generations. Governing a village through De makes De grow continually, and its influence deepens day by day. Governing a state through De makes De abundant, so that both ruler and people are wealthy and replete. Governing all under Heaven (tianxia) through De makes De spread widely. In this way every household receives transformation, and distant foreign lands are also affected, so that even those who cross high mountains and great seas come to present tribute.

Therefore one may observe the self through the self, the family through the family, the village through the village, the state through the state, and all under Heaven through all under Heaven. By comparing the corresponding circumstances, one can discern whether prosperity or decline is coming. How do I know that the world is like this? By means of these principles.

A person of deep De is like an infant. One whose inner virtue is profound has a disposition and outward bearing like an infant's. When a baby is first born its complexion is ruddy, so it is called "chizi" (red infant).

Poisonous insects will not sting such a person. The poisonous insects here are bees, wasps, and similar creatures, which inject venom with their tails; this is called "shi" (to sting). Fierce beasts will not pounce on or pin down such a person. The fierce beasts are tigers, leopards, and their kind, which strike with their claws and hold their prey down; this is called "ju" (to seize). Birds of prey will not seize such a person. The "jue" bird refers to eagles, ospreys, and similar birds, which strike with their wings and talons; this is called "bo" (to strike). A person of De does not compete with external things and so preserves the spirit, which is why these three kinds of dangerous creatures often keep away from them. Another reading holds that these three dangers are metaphors for greed, wicked thoughts, and poison within the body. On this reading, the meaning is that when one's virtue is deep like an infant's, greed, evil, and poison have no way to harm the self.

An infant's bones are soft and its sinews pliable, yet its grip is firm. It does not yet understand joy or anger, but its fist clenches tightly, because its heart-mind is undivided. An infant does not know about sexual union, yet its penis can become erect. This shows that its jing (essence) and Qi are abundant. Although it knows nothing of the coming together of man and woman, its genitals are often firm, which shows that its jing and Qi are whole and complete. An infant may cry all day and yet its voice does not grow hoarse. This shows that its harmonious Qi (heqi) is abundant. Even after crying the whole day, its voice does not become hoarse, because its heqi has reached its utmost.

To understand the way of harmonization is called "chang" (constancy). The infant possesses these three signs because its heqi has reached its utmost. A person of De who understands this principle can therefore endure for a long time. To understand "chang" is called "ming" (clarity). To comprehend and preserve the constant Dao may be called "mingda" (enlightened penetration).

To pursue the nourishment of life to excess is called "xiang," a portent of misfortune. Adding even a little to what is natural and proper invites change and turns good fortune into calamity. To use the heart-mind to drive the breath is called "qiang" (forcing). Heqi is naturally gentle, and when it becomes rigid, it is because anger in the heart drives the breath into that state. When things grow strong and vigorous, they move toward decay, and strength is precisely the beginning of old age. This is what is not in accord with the Dao. If one cannot follow nature and preserve heqi, one cannot walk the Dao, and whatever is not in accord with the Dao will decline early.

Genuinely insightful people do not cling to words. Being able to forget words is the sign that wisdom has reached fullness and depth. Those who keep talking without end are usually those whose understanding is still lacking, and so they remain stuck in language.

To block the openings of the senses, one does not deliberately chase external things with the eyes; to close the doors of the mind, one does not rely on words to express everything. One gathers in one's sharpness and dissolves the desire to compete; one resolves entanglements and keeps the heart empty and still. One harmonizes one's own brilliance, shining clearly when it is time to shine, and mingles with the dust of the world, dimming when it is time to dim. This is called xuantong (profound sameness), a state of subtle unity in which nothing stands apart from it.

A person who attains this state cannot be moved by feelings of closeness, because he does not reveal partiality; nor can he be pushed away, because he leaves no stain. He is not swayed by the lure of profit, because he does not regard external things as important; nor is he drawn in by the bait of harm, because he does not covet what is offered as bait; and he is never looked down upon, because he embraces De (Virtue). Therefore he is respected by all under heaven. Only when a person has reached this state may he be considered an embodiment of the supreme Dao of the world.

Governing a state through decrees means relying on instruction and law. Commanding troops through clever stratagems means prizing deception and cunning. Governing the realm through wuwei (non-action), by doing nothing and not meddling, is what wins the hearts of the people. Only one who does not presume to act can win people's hearts, accord with the will of the people, and become a ruler. By comparison, how can the two methods of governance described earlier be placed alongside the governance of wuwei? How do I know that the state of affairs under heaven is like this? I know it from the principles set out below.

How do I know that relying on decrees or clever stratagems is not enough to gain the realm, and that only non-action and non-meddling can win the hearts of the people and make one master of all under heaven? The following words make it clear.

The more prohibitions and restrictions there are under heaven, the poorer the common people become. This refers to a ruler who governs by decree. When prohibitions multiply and grow tight, the people constantly fear transgression and dare not act, and over time they grow ever more impoverished. The more weapons the people possess, the more chaotic the state becomes. When the people fear death, they hide their bows and arrows to protect themselves, and the state grows increasingly disordered.

The more cunning the people are, the more strange things arise. This refers to a ruler who prizes clever stratagems. His mind is fixed on warfare, he especially delights in ingenuity and deception, and he vigorously manufactures instruments of attack and defense, so the people also devote their wits to making false and excessively ingenious things. The more laws are proclaimed and multiplied, the more bandits there are. The so-called fawu (artifacts of law) are objects that people craft with great care, surpassing nature in skill. When an object exceeds ordinary standards and appears exceptionally fine, it easily invites those who would copy its form and steal its wealth. This is the harm that comes from making objects too conspicuous.

Therefore the sage said: "When I do not act, the people transform themselves. When I remain still with my arms folded, the people are naturally transformed. When I love stillness, the people rectify themselves. When I keep myself to stillness alone, the people do not go down crooked paths. When I do not stir up affairs, the people become prosperous of their own accord. When I do not presumptuously interfere, the people do not lose their livelihood and naturally become prosperous. When I have no desires, the people become simple and genuine of their own accord. When I only lack desire, the people naturally value what is fundamental."

"Qi zheng men men" means that the ruler does not stir up affairs or disturb the people, and so appears dim and inactive. "Qi min chun chun" means that the people rest in stillness and therefore become thick and unpretentious.

Under a lenient and peaceful government, the ruler does not rashly stir up trouble or burden the people, and on the surface it seems that nothing is being done. The common people can then live in calm and quiet, and they gradually grow simple and sincere. Under a harsh and meticulous government, the people do not know what to do. The slightest move may run afoul of the laws, so everyone fears and avoids action, and they gradually wither and fall into hardship.

Calamity often rests upon good fortune. "Yi" means to lean on or depend upon. A wise ruler examines himself and cultivates his De (Virtue), and so he can turn the people from decline and hardship toward simplicity and harmony. Good fortune also hides calamity within it. "Fu" means to lie hidden. A muddled ruler takes the people's momentary sincerity and harmony as his own merit and begins to abuse severe laws, and the people shift from peace back to decline.

Who can see the end point of these changes of misfortune and fortune? They are intertwined and cycle endlessly. Is there no principle within them? That fortune and misfortune depend on and conceal one another certainly follows a regularity, and this regularity is contained within the governance of a ruler who possesses the Dao (the Way).

What is upright may turn into the deviant, and what is good may become a source of harm. People have long been confused by such transformations. They take uprightness for deceit and regard good conduct as empty, which is a common condition of the deluded. This confusion did not arise overnight; it has deep and long-standing roots.

Therefore the sage (shengren) is correct but does not injure others, and so does not cut or push others away in the name of the right path. He is upright but does not flaunt it, and does not deliberately let others see his uprightness. He is bright but does not show off, and keeps his radiance hidden rather than displayed. He is pure but does not despise others, and does not look down on those who are impure simply because he himself is clean.

Governing the people and according with the Dao (dào) depends above all on frugality. Sè (sè) means frugality. To win the hearts of the people in governing, and to accord with heavenly principle in following the Dao, the best method is to restrain expenditure.

Only through frugality can people submit early. When one can uphold the De (dé) of frugality, the common people will come to submit early. Early submission is what is meant by the continual accumulation of De. Frugality is the first step, and the people's early submission is the second. The progression from the first step to the second is the gradual accumulation of De. When De is deep and substantial, nothing is beyond reach. When nothing is beyond reach, one's capacity has no limit, and when capacity has no limit, it cannot be measured. De that is deep and immeasurable is enough to possess a state and become the lord of a realm.

The foundation of governing a state lies in accumulating De. Through such accumulation nothing is unattainable, and one who can accomplish everything has De that is unfathomable. Only such a person can possess a state. When the state and its people are nourished by the Dao, the state's blessings can endure for a long time. "Mother" means nurturing. When the state and its people receive the nourishment of the Dao, the altars of soil and grain, that is, the state, can enjoy lasting peace and order.

This is what is meant by having deep roots and firm branches, able to endure for a long time. It is like planting a tree: when the roots run deep, the trunk stands firm, and even when great winds strike, they cannot uproot the tree or blow away its flowers and fruit. The principle of accumulating De and consolidating the state works in the same way.

The phrase "long life and enduring sight" (chángshēng jiǔshì) spoken of here means that the sage establishes enduring laws so that all under heaven may continually benefit from them. It does not mean that the physical body is to be made to exist forever.

Here ends Volume Three of the New Commentary on the Daodejing (Dàodé Zhēnjīng Xīnzhù). Volume Four of the New Commentary on the Daodejing: the commentary of Li Yue, Part Two of the Classic of De.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish. When you cook a small fish, let it slowly cook through on its own, and its body stays whole; if you keep stirring it, it falls apart. The one who is skilled at governing the people lets them rest content in their own lives, and society is then at peace; if they are constantly disturbed, chaos follows.

When the realm is governed by the Dao (the Way, the law of natural non-action), ghosts and spirits do not manifest to cause harm. Wherever the teaching of the Dao reaches, the people suffer no calamities, and so the spirits seem to have ceased their manifestations. This does not mean that the spirits have lost their divine power; rather, they still possess it, but do not harm anyone. Ghosts and spirits truly exist, yet they do not injure the myriad things. Since the spirits do not disturb the people, the sage likewise does not harm the people. The sage cherishes the people as one cherishes a newborn infant, and the spirits, too, will assist them and bestow blessings.

When humans and spirits do not harm one another, the netherworld and the human world each attain their proper place, and so virtue (De) and its benefits gather together in mutual exchange. The ruler will never lack the offerings made to the spirits, and the spirits can in turn bring blessings to the ruler; this is why it is said that virtue returns to one another.

A great state is like the lower reaches of a river, the place where all the waters of the world converge. Though it is powerful, it can remain humble and place itself below others, so who would dare not to submit to it? For this reason, all under heaven will come to it and seek its allegiance.

The way of interaction among the states under heaven is like the female's habit of overcoming the male through stillness. People are willing to submit to a great state because it is able to dwell in a lowly position. This uses the female's quiet humility as a metaphor: the male tends to take the initiative in seeking closeness to the female, but one who remains still and places itself below becomes, on the contrary, the object that the active party seeks.

Thus, when a great state treats a small state with humility, it wins the small state's allegiance. When a small state treats a great state with humility, it earns the great state's courteous acceptance. So sometimes it is the great state's humility that wins the small state's submission, and sometimes it is the small state's humility that gains the great state's embrace, each for its own reasons.

What a great state seeks is nothing more than to broadly pacify and accommodate other states. When it humbles itself before smaller states, it hopes they will become its vassals, dependent states that extend its territory. What a small state seeks is nothing more than to depend on and serve a great state, so that other states will not raise armies to attack it. Both the great and the small states thereby obtain what they desire and fulfill their aspirations. For this reason, it is especially incumbent upon the great state to be humble. The admonition is addressed specifically to the great state out of concern that it will rely on its strength and be unwilling to yield.

Dao (the Way) is the most profound root of the myriad things, the foundation from which all things can come into being. It is the treasure of the good person: the good person cultivates the self by following the Dao and so is able to preserve life for a long time, which is why the Dao is regarded as a precious thing. It is also what the not-good person relies upon. The not-good person is the xiashi (inferior scholar), one of shallow understanding who has little aspiration toward the Dao. In ordinary times such a person is unwilling to draw near to the Dao, and only when calamity strikes does he hope that the Dao will shelter him.

Fine words can be used in social dealings. When speech in exchanges is pleasant, affairs proceed smoothly and requests are easily granted. A person of lofty conduct can serve as a model for others, and only when one's conduct is upright can one instruct and influence others. When a person has some shortcoming, what reason is there to abandon him? People are not incapable of goodness; it is only that transformation through teaching has not yet reached them.

Therefore the Tianzi (Son of Heaven, the sovereign of all under heaven) and the Sangong (Three Excellencies, the high officials who assist the Son of Heaven) are established. The Son of Heaven is the leader of the common people, and the Dao is entrusted to him so that he may teach and transform the not-good. Yet there is concern that he might neglect the Dao, so the Three Excellencies are set in place to assist him. Even if someone were to present a great jade disc and lead four fine horses as a gift, it would not match quietly sitting and presenting the Dao to the ruler. For the Three Excellencies to offer precious gifts is also the duty of a loyal minister, but what matters more is passing on this profound Dao to the ruler, so that the realm reaches a governance of peace and harmony.

Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? This question is raised in order to explain the subtlety of the Dao. The answer is that the Dao cannot be obtained in a short time. It must be attained over long years, through accumulating merit and good deeds. A person of this kind, even if he commits a transgression and offends the ruler, can escape punishment. The phrase "mian ye" (can he be spared?) here is an expression of admiration. Therefore, since ancient times, all people under heaven have revered the Dao.

By approaching affairs with non-action (Wuwei), one lets activity arise naturally from within. Deliberate, reckless action disturbs the mind. By approaching matters with non-affairing, one ensures that action springs from proper intention. Being absorbed in endless business makes the will easily confused. To savor tastelessness is to attain true flavor. Pursuing only the pleasures of mouth and belly injures the palate and deprives one of normal perception of taste. Exclamations of praise such as "miǎn yē" express admiration. Therefore, the principles of non-action, non-affairing, and tastelessness have been esteemed by all under heaven from antiquity to the present.

When facing resentment, one should repay it with De (Virtue). De refers to the three principles just discussed: non-action, non-affairing, and tastelessness. If a person can embody these three, the heart becomes empty, still, and clear. With a clear mind, one can perceive resentment at the moment it first stirs. It begins in small matters, and if it is resolved promptly, it will not grow into great resentment. It begins in slight matters, and if it is dispelled promptly, it will not accumulate into many resentments. Responding in this way with De, how could resentment still arise? Resentment disturbs the heart, clouds the Shen (spirit), and impairs one's perception.

When planning difficult undertakings, begin with what is easy, for small matters are inherently easy to manage. To accomplish great things, begin with what is subtle, for "few" here means "fine." The difficult things under heaven must begin with the easy, and the great things under heaven must begin with the subtle. This is an inevitable principle. One who is skilled at planning and acting deals with matters as soon as their signs first appear. Therefore, the sage never deliberately sets out to do great things, but treats subtle details with the utmost care, and so is able to accomplish great things.

Those who make hasty promises often fail to keep them, while those who are sincere in heart will certainly treat their promises with prudence. Regarding a matter as too easy often leads to encountering more difficulties, because one who does not consider the outcomes perceives every affair as easy. Therefore, the sage still regards affairs as difficult, approaches beginnings with caution, and in the end encounters no difficulties. By fully recognizing difficulty at the outset, one finds things easy later on.

When matters are still stable, they are easy to hold; before a calamity has shown any sign, it is easy to plan for. What has not yet happened is easy to guard against, so it is easy to manage. What is still fragile is easy to break apart, and what is still minute is easy to scatter. Removing a thing while it is just sprouting makes it no hard task. Therefore, one should act before things occur and govern before disorder arises. This is the course taken by one who, while at ease, can anticipate labor and calamity.

A tree that takes both arms to encircle grows from a tiny shoot. Once it has become great, it is hard to cut down. A nine-tiered terrace is built up basket by basket of earth. Once it has been raised, it is hard to conceal. A journey of a thousand li begins with the first step beneath one's feet. When the road is long, it is hard to stop.

Acting on purpose brings about failure. What is called "doing" is failing to pull out the roots of calamity early, letting it keep growing until it ripens beyond control, and then the matter fails. Still, if one has failed, one may retrace the old path and repair the damage. Clinging stubbornly to a thing causes loss. Because one has long nurtured evil, it eventually comes to ruin and destruction, and this is what is called "loss." Such a loss cannot be recovered.

The sage follows nature and does not presumptuously act, so he has no failure brought on by forced action. Failure arises from presumptuous action. If one does not act presumptuously, what failure could there be? The sage does not cling, so he has no loss caused by clinging. Loss arises from clinging. If one does not cling, what is there to lose?

When people undertake affairs, they often fail just as success is near. This happens because they have a beginning but do not carry it through to the end. If one treats the conclusion with the same caution as the beginning, one will not spoil the matter. Never slackening from start to finish means there is nothing that cannot be accomplished.

Thus the sage pursues what ordinary people do not pursue, and he does not prize rare goods. What he values is what people commonly overlook, so he regards gold and jade as no different from mud. He studies what ordinary people do not study, in order to make up for the faults that the multitude commonly commits. By learning the principles others neglect, he is able to restrain the transgressions of beings who overstep their proper bounds. In this way the sage helps the myriad things return to their natural dispositions and to their original genuineness. He guards himself with great care, and therefore he does not dare to act presumptuously.

The ancient masters of the Dao, when they spoke of how the ancients followed the Dao (the Way), did so in order to have the rulers of their own time emulate them. They did not explain the Dao plainly to the common people, fearing that this would stir up divergent intentions. Instead, they quietly infused the people with the Dao, causing them to return to their simple, original nature.

The people are hard to govern because they have too much cleverness (zhiqiao). When crafty thoughts multiply, they give rise to opportunism, slander, and deception, and so the people become difficult to manage. Therefore, to govern a state by cleverness is a calamity for that state. If those skilled at playing with cleverness are put in charge, they will inevitably enact policies that harm the people and bring about social chaos, which is why it is called a calamity. If cleverness is not used to govern, the state will enjoy good fortune. When one governs by the principle of sincere simplicity, one can realize wuwei (non-action), governing lightly so that the people live in peace, and the people will be at ease. This is why it is called the good fortune of the state.

To understand these two aspects, calamity and good fortune, is to hold them as standards. Kai is the model, and shi is the rule. Calamity and good fortune are precisely these two outcomes. They are not difficult to discern, and once they are understood, one should avoid calamity and move toward good fortune. To hold constantly to this standard is called xuande (Profound Virtue), the virtue that is deep and does not show itself. To know that good fortune can be preserved and calamity removed, and to bring the people to great peace, is the unfathomable virtue of the ruler.

Xuande is profound and subtle, and it accords with the ordinary course of the myriad things. Its virtue is deeply hidden and hard to know, far beyond measure, and so it can cause the myriad things to return to their natural nature. Once this point is reached, all things follow their nature, and each attains its proper place.

Rivers and seas are where the hundred streams come to rest because they lie below all the waters, and so they can gather the hundreds of rivers. Here the word wang (the sense of "king" or "sovereign") carries the meaning of guiwang (returning toward, gravitating to). The river and sea settle beneath the waters, and so every stream flows toward them.

The sage (shengren) takes the river and sea as a model. If he wishes to stand above the multitude, he must lower himself in his speech. If he wishes to lead the people, he must place himself behind them. Thus, when he occupies a high position, the people do not feel oppressed by him. Instead they gladly support him and do not even feel that he is lofty and distant. When he walks at the front, the people do not feel harmed and willingly follow him without suffering any loss. Therefore people are glad to elevate him and do not grow weary of him. This is the power of humility (qianxun zhi li).

Because the sage does not contend with others, no one in the world is able to contend with him. Through the virtue of humility (qianxun zhi de, De) I transform the common people (xiamin), and they too are transformed and learn to yield.

People in the world say that the Dao I speak of is vast beyond measure, yet it seems to defy common sense and to be unlike what ordinary people expect. It is precisely because it is so vast that it appears to defy common sense. Let me explain: truly great people often seem foolish and clumsy, and others find them hard to match. If a person were in every way like ordinary people, they would long since have seemed insignificant. If even capable and talented men could readily understand and grasp the Dao (the Way), it would become the most minute and commonplace thing under heaven.

I have three treasures that I hold and guard: compassion (ci), frugality (jian), and not daring to compete to be first under heaven. These are essential principles for cultivating oneself and governing the state, and they should be cherished and upheld. If one treats them as treasures and never lets them go, they will benefit one wherever one goes.

The first is ci, which means benevolence and love. The second is jian, which means restraint. The third is not daring to be first under heaven, standing behind the actions of the many.

With compassion, one can be truly courageous and bold in helping others. With frugality, one can keep resources ample and extend their benefit to more people. By not competing for first place, one can accomplish the work of a leader. By humbling oneself to a lower position and doing one's work well, one's rank and achievements naturally rise, and thus one can become the ruler of all under heaven. Yao once led the Nine Provinces, and he is an example of this.

Now, if one abandons compassion and seeks only boldness, one becomes unbenevolent, and such boldness inevitably harms others. If one abandons frugality and indulges in extravagance, the consequences of extravagance will surely appear. If one abandons humility and competes to be first, caring only for oneself and placing others behind, people will harbor resentment and ultimately bring about their own ruin. Lacking any one of these three virtues may lead to ruin; how much more so if one practices none of them at all?

Fighting with compassion ensures victory, and defending with compassion ensures firmness. When a general cares for his soldiers with compassion, the soldiers will not turn against him, so the army will win in battle and hold firm in defense. Heaven wishes to save whomever it will, and it protects them through compassion. The virtue of compassion moves Heaven, and so Heaven will aid the general who protects his soldiers with compassion.

Those who excel at commanding troops do not rely on martial force to show off, but follow the Dao (the Way). Those who delight in war do not act on anger, but rely on strategy. Those who excel at defeating the enemy do not contend in a contest of strength, but win through De (Virtue). Those who excel at employing people place themselves in a lowly position, treating others with humility rather than subduing them by force. This is the virtue of non-contention and the capacity of one who excels at employing others. It accords with the Dao of Heaven and is the highest standard esteemed since antiquity. When people can practice these four good deeds, there is nothing that does not receive a response. It is precisely because of this that one can accord with the Dao of Heaven above and attain the supreme state spoken of by the ancients.

A military manual says: follow the inclinations of the ruler of the time, and then explain to him the corresponding principles. The Way of using troops referred to here will be discussed further below. I do not dare to take the initiative as the aggressor, nor to act before things arise; I would rather take the responsive role and answer without striking first. I do not dare to advance an inch or presume to encroach on others; I would rather retreat a foot to preserve myself and await change. This is the supreme standard esteemed by the ancients.

The military manual further says: follow the inclinations of the ruler of the time and explain the corresponding principles to him. I do not dare to initiate action, but prefer to take the responsive role. I do not dare to advance an inch or presume to encroach on others; I would rather retreat a foot to preserve myself and await change. This is called "marching as though there were no formation": when the enemy comes, the aim is to guard the territory and halt the incursion, not to harbor a mind of killing. This is called "extending the arm as though there were no arm": one does not swing the arm in anger to strike, so it looks as though no arm is extended. This is called "facing the enemy as though there were no enemy": one does not contend to win, and therefore does not provoke strife. This is called "holding weapons as though there were no weapons": one relies on De (Virtue) rather than on force.

There is no greater calamity than underestimating the enemy. As the responding party, the most important thing is caution, for to underestimate the enemy is nearly to lose one's treasure. The "treasure" here refers to oneself. If one underestimates the enemy and rashly penetrates deep into enemy territory, the whole army is often destroyed, with corpses strewn across the field. Therefore, when two armies are evenly matched and reach the moment of decisive engagement, the side that has most cared for its soldiers in ordinary times will prevail. This is precisely the principle that compassion is the foundation of employing troops.

My words are easy to understand. Underestimating the enemy and rashly penetrating deep into its territory often leads to the destruction of the whole army and corpses strewn across the field. Therefore, when two armies are evenly matched and reach the moment of decisive engagement, the side that has most cared for its soldiers in ordinary times will prevail. This is precisely the principle that compassion is the foundation of employing troops.

My words are very easy to understand and very easy to put into practice. What I speak of is non-action (Wuwei), acting in accordance with nature without forcing things, so it is easy to grasp. If one truly follows it, what difficulty could there be? Yet no one in the world can understand it, and no one can put it into practice. People are busy and confused, all chasing after deliberate action. Action and non-action run in opposite directions, so they cannot accomplish it.

Words have a root, and deeds have a master. The Way (Dao) is the root, and Virtue (De) is the master. Precisely because people lack true understanding, they do not understand me. To "lack understanding" means that their insight does not reach the principles of things. Since people can neither comprehend the supreme truth I speak of nor practice my path of non-action, how could the Dao and De ever be realized? Few people understand me, and few in the world can grasp what I say about the Dao and De. To be able to understand and emulate my Dao is precious indeed, and nothing is more valuable. Therefore the sage wears coarse cloth yet carries jade in their bosom. They hold a treasure within and do not display its luster outwardly, so the people of the world cannot recognize them.

To know that one does not know is superior. Wisdom pervades all things and seems to know everything, yet the sage says, "What do I really know?" This is true understanding, and is it not superior? To not know and yet believe one knows is a flaw. To stand facing a wall, understanding nothing yet claiming to know everything, is the mark of a deluded person, and is this not a flaw? Only by recognizing this flaw as a flaw can one avoid being troubled by it. One who truly understands can see false self-assurance as a flaw and correct it. In this way, true understanding does not become a flaw, and only false knowledge is a flaw. The sage has no such flaw because they treat it as a problem to be addressed. If they instead regarded themselves as afflicted by it, they could not discern the flaws of others. Therefore they are not troubled by it. From this we can see that the sage's words, that to recognize a flaw as a flaw is to be free of it, are indeed true.

If people do not heed solemn warnings, great calamity will befall them. The greatest calamity is death. People often think that small faults do no real harm, so they keep accumulating until their offenses are complete. When they reach the limit and bring death upon themselves, is that not a great calamity?

Do not let the dwelling place of the heart grow narrow. Here, “spirit” refers to a person’s Shen (spirit); the heart is where the spirit resides. When there are too many desires, the heart grows narrow, and the spirit can no longer dwell there in peace. Do not grow weary of life. It is the spirit that enables a person to live; while the spirit remains, a person can live on. Only if one does not grow weary of life will life not depart. When a person can be clear and still, empty and open, body and spirit can draw close and cherish one another.

Thus, the sage knows himself and lets the spirit dwell in a heart that is empty and still; he does not exalt himself. To exalt oneself is to disregard great calamity and grow weary of life, making life difficult to sustain. The sage does not consider himself noble, because seeing oneself as noble makes the dwelling place of the spirit narrow. Therefore, set aside self-exaltation and self-importance, and choose to know yourself and cherish life.

Those who dare to act recklessly, showing off their strength and pressing ahead rashly, often bring disaster upon themselves. If people indulge their desires by flaunting their power, Heaven will surely punish them. Only those who know how to restrain themselves and dare not act arbitrarily may preserve their lives. When people learn to restrain themselves in the face of desire, the world too can find peace.

We should always understand the difference between daring and not daring: one brings benefit, the other harm. Restraint is beneficial; flaunting one’s strength is harmful. Who can fully understand why Heaven abhors what it does? Heaven abhors reckless acts of force, so the sage is especially cautious about them, understanding what Heaven rejects.

The Way of Heaven—the laws by which Heaven and Earth operate—does not contend with the myriad things, yet always prevails. It accords with the myriad things, and who among them would dare not follow it? The Way of Heaven speaks no words, yet the myriad things each respond to it: without verbal instruction, the seasons and all living things conform to it. It summons nothing, yet the myriad things come of themselves; without issuing commands, the sun, moon, and stars all follow their courses. The Way of Heaven is calm and unhurried, yet skillful in its arrangements. It punishes those who act recklessly and preserves those who know restraint. It is never depleted and never falls into disorder. Day and night proceed in their regular course, never making a mistake. Its workings seem to have a master skilled in planning.

The net of Heaven is vast: its mesh is wide, yet nothing slips through. Heaven’s net may seem loosely woven, but those who do evil cannot ultimately escape.

The people often do not fear death because punishments have already driven them into hardship. How, then, can death still be used to frighten them? If the people are threatened constantly with execution, who will still be afraid? If they are not pressed by harsh rule in their daily lives and governance is lenient, they will not lightly risk death. If anyone still acts against reason and disrupts the laws, the ruler can deal with them according to the law. Who, then, would dare behave recklessly?

Even if someone risks breaking the law, rulers should understand that they cannot take Heaven’s place in wielding the power to kill. The authority over life and death belongs to its own master, who alone should carry out punishment. When a ruler kills in place of the Way of Heaven, it is like an inept person trying to cut wood for a skilled carpenter. Few who swing an axe in place of a master carpenter avoid injuring their own hands. When someone lacking the skill tries to replace someone capable, they may damage the wood at best, but at worst they will surely injure themselves.

The people go hungry because the rulers levy too many taxes. The heavier the exactions from above, the less food and property the people have in their hands, and so they go hungry. The people are difficult to govern because the rulers issue too many decrees and take too many actions. When affairs above become complicated, those below devise all kinds of ways to cope, and so they become difficult to govern. The people do not regard death as something to fear greatly because the rulers impose excessive levies, leaving them in desperate circumstances…