《道德真经注(吴澄)》Vol. 1

The Dao (the Way) that can be spoken of and put into practice is not the constant, unchanging Dao. A name that can be used to identify something is not the constant, unchanging name.

Here, “Dao” can be understood as a path, and “speakable” means something that can be practiced. The Dao has no name of its own; “Dao” is simply a word used provisionally to refer to it. If we regard it as a path that can be practiced, it is no longer the constant, unchanging Dao. Here, “name” refers to De (Virtue/Power). De has no fixed name of its own either; any name given to it is provisional. If we regard it as something that can be clearly identified, it is no longer the constant, unchanging De.

The nameless Dao is the source from which Heaven and Earth come into being, and so it is called the “beginning.” De, which has a name, is the source from which the myriad things come into being, and so it is called the “mother.”

By remaining free of desire, one can observe the Dao’s subtle mysteries. By observing with desire, one can see the bounds and outward manifestations of things. “Without desire” and “with desire” refer to different states of mind in observation; “bounds” refers to the limits and points at which things become manifest.

“Constant” is the “constant” in “the constant Dao” and “the constant name.” “Constantly without desire” describes the sage’s nature as still and peaceful. This is where the Dao is whole, through which the subtlety of De can be seen. Here, “subtlety” refers to De, while “Dao” refers to the Dao itself; “subtlety” means the highest goodness and the utmost limit. “Constantly having desire” describes the sage’s feelings being stirred by external things and moving into action. This is where De comes into operation, through which the boundaries of the Dao can be seen. Here, “boundary” refers to De, while “Dao” refers to the Dao itself. “Boundary” means an edge or beginning, like the “sprouts” spoken of by Mencius.

The Dao and De are originally one: the Dao is De, and De is the Dao.

The Dao and De emerge from the same source, yet bear different names. De emerges from the Dao and is therefore called “De,” not “Dao.” Though their names differ, both are unfathomably deep, and so both may be called “mysterious.”

The Dao is mysterious, and more mysterious still; it is the source from which the myriad subtle virtues arise. “Gate” refers to the passage through which they emerge. The Dao is a still deeper mystery, the root from which De arises. The subtlety of the Dao lies in the myriad subtleties returning to a single source; the subtlety of De lies in that source branching into the myriad things.

The previous chapter gave a general account of the meanings of “Dao” and “De.” Zhang Zai said, “Viewed from the Great Void, it is called ‘Heaven’; viewed through the transformations of Qi, it is called the ‘Dao.’” Laozi, in turn, regarded the Great Void as the foundation on which Heaven and Earth take shape, and called it the Dao. He regarded the transformations of Qi as the source from which the myriad things take shape, and called them De.

“Dao” refers to principles beyond physical form, unmixed with Qi, like what the Zhuangzi calls “constant nonbeing.” “De” refers to principles contained within Qi in the realm of physical form, like what the Zhuangzi calls “the Great One.” Thus, Dao and De take emptiness and naturalness as their substance, and softness, weakness, and freedom from self-satisfaction as their function.

Everyone in the world knows what beauty is; in this way, ugliness comes to exist. Everyone knows what goodness is; in this way, lack of goodness comes to exist.

“Beauty” here means surpassing other things in outward qualities; “goodness” means surpassing other things in the ability to act. Terms such as beautiful and ugly, good and lacking in goodness arise only through comparison: beauty exists because ugliness exists, and goodness because lack of goodness exists. If one thing is judged beautiful, another will be judged ugly; if one thing is judged good, another will be judged lacking in goodness. To make these distinctions between beauty and ugliness, goodness and its lack, disappear, one must stop clinging to what is beautiful and what is good. Then there will be no ugliness or lack of goodness to speak of.

Therefore, being and nonbeing depend on each other for their arising; difficult and easy appear through contrast; long and short become apparent through comparison; high and low take shape through their relation to each other; notes and sounds answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

When one deliberately tries to accomplish everything, there will be things one cannot achieve. Only by letting things follow their natural course and refraining from unwarranted interference can nothing remain beyond accomplishment. If teaching relies on words, there will be things that cannot be fully expressed. Teaching without words, by contrast, leaves nothing that cannot be conveyed.

Heaven and Earth are the same. When the myriad things sprout, Heaven and Earth do not issue commands. When they grow, Heaven and Earth do not claim them as their own. This is how Heaven and Earth teach without words. Confucius said, “What does Heaven say? Yet the myriad things come forth.” He meant: What has Heaven said? And yet all things grow from it.

Act, but do not depend on what you have done. Accomplish great deeds, but do not claim the credit as your own.

“Acting” means all things are about to grow to maturity, as in the season of autumn. “Relying” means depending on one’s own abilities to accomplish things. “Success achieved” means all things have ripened, as in the season of winter. “Claiming” means taking credit and praising oneself. Not relying on one’s own abilities and not claiming credit: this is how Heaven and Earth practice Wuwei (non-action).

Precisely because they do not claim credit, their achievements do not disappear.

Achievements that do not disappear are preserved for a long time. Heaven and Earth do not claim credit for bringing all things into being, so their achievements endure without end. The character “fu” is pronounced like “fu” in “support.”

The sage does not act deliberately, yet can bring things to completion; thus, doing things involves no artificial contrivance. The sage does not teach deliberately, yet people are transformed; thus, teaching does not rely on words. The sage practices Wuwei and does not speak. Even when beauty and goodness are present, people may not know that they come from the sage. For this reason, such beauty and goodness are uniquely exalted and endure without passing away.

If one acts deliberately and teaches through words, people will see what is beautiful and what is ugly, what is good and what is not good. When beauty and ugliness, goodness and its opposite stand against one another, they are no longer a singular, nameless beauty and goodness. The principles expressed throughout the chapters of the Laozi do not go beyond the meaning of this chapter.

If the worthy are not held in high esteem, the people can be kept from competing for fame. If rare and precious goods are not valued, the people can be kept from stealing. If things that might stir desire are not displayed to people, their minds can be kept from turmoil.

“Esteem” means to hold in high regard; “value” means to consider precious. “See” and “display” have the same meaning here. The worthy can easily gain a reputation for distinction. If people deliberately hold them in high regard, the people will pursue fame and may even compete with one another for it. Rare goods can bring profit. If people consider them precious, the people will compete to obtain them and may even steal. Fame and profit are both things that can readily stir desire. Not esteeming fame and not valuing rare goods means not displaying such desirable things to the people. This keeps them from competing for fame, coveting profit, and stealing, and prevents their minds from being disturbed. The character “jian” in “seeing the worthy” is pronounced “bian.”

Therefore, when the sage governs the people, he empties their hearts and fills their bellies, weakens their desire for fame and profit, and strengthens their sinews and bones.

All four instances of “their” here refer to the people. “Empty their hearts” means to keep people from valuing profit, so they have no desire to steal. “Fill their bellies” means that although the people do not covet profit, the sage quietly ensures that they eat their fill and live in comfort; this does not mean that they have no need for material goods. “Weaken their desires” means to keep people from regarding fame as something worth pursuing, so they have no urge to compete for it. “Strengthen their sinews and bones” means that although the people do not covet fame, the sage quietly encourages them to work diligently and strengthen themselves. It does not mean that he has no wish for them to become worthy and capable people.

Always keep the people without knowledge and without desire,

means keeping them from pursuing fame and profit. They do not know what there is to covet in fame and profit, and so have no desire to pursue them.

Even those who have knowledge dare not act recklessly.

This means that even if some among the people know that fame and profit are worth pursuing, they dare not commit acts such as competing or stealing. Yet if they merely dare not act, they may still wish to do so in their hearts.

Govern through Wuwei, and nothing will be left poorly governed.

Here, “Wuwei” means bringing people to no longer harbor the desire to compete or steal. Then there will be no competition or theft in the world, and nothing will be left poorly governed.

The passage above is Chapter Three, which explains how the sage governs the world. Later practitioners of health cultivation used “empty the heart, fill the belly, weaken desire, and strengthen the bones” to explain the cultivation of body and mind. Their explanations may be detailed, but they are not what Laozi originally meant.

The Dao is empty, yet its use never runs dry. How deep it is! It seems to be the source of all things.

“Chong” originally refers to an empty vessel. “Perhaps” signals uncertainty, meaning that one does not dare to state something definitively. The Dao’s fundamental nature is empty; when people put the Dao into practice, they too should remain quiet and humble, without becoming self-satisfied. Once something is full, it no longer accords with the Dao. “Abyss” means unfathomably deep. “Source” is like the head of a clan, who leads the whole family; the Dao governs all things, so it is called their source. “Seems” also signals uncertainty, avoiding an absolute claim.

Gather in your sharpness and untangle the knots of confusion. Veil your radiance and mingle with the dust of the world. The Dao is clear and still, seeming to exist and yet to have no substantial form.

Wu Cheng explains that “blunt” means to break down and restrain, while “sharp” means keen. What is sharp will eventually grow dull, so the Dao does not pursue sharpness but first draws it in, avoiding entanglement in conflict. “Soften” means to subdue and restrain; “blend” means to be on a level with other things and not stand apart. What is bright will eventually grow dim, so the Dao likewise veils its radiance and mingles with the dust, making no effort to stand out. This describes how the Dao works without self-satisfaction or fullness. “Clear and still” means pure and quiet. The Dao’s essence is empty and formless, so it is said to seem to exist; this does not mean that some particular thing is really there.

I do not know whose offspring the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Heavenly Emperor.

“I do not know whose offspring the Dao is” is the question; “it seems to have existed before the Heavenly Emperor” is the answer. “Offspring” refers to one born of parents; “the image of the Emperor” refers to Heaven and its sovereign. Heaven precedes the myriad things, while the Dao precedes Heaven. This means that Heaven, too, was born of the Dao, and nothing came before the Dao.

Heaven and Earth have no partial, benevolent regard for things. They allow all things to grow and change naturally, like the straw dogs used in rainmaking rites: once the ritual is over, they are discarded and no longer cared for. The sage likewise bears no partial affection for the people, but lets them act and find rest in their own way. The comparison with “straw dogs” does not mean that Heaven and Earth or the sage deliberately harm things or the people. It means they do not let personal likes and dislikes interfere with the natural course of things. The sage’s inner state is empty and still, without attachment; to deliberately harbor a concern for the people would be to carry a burden in the heart.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? It is empty within, yet does not collapse; once set in motion, it sends forth an unending stream of air. A bellows is a device used in smelting and casting to blow air and feed the fire. Its outer casing is called the “t’o,” and its inner air-pumping part the “yüeh.” Heaven and Earth are like a bellows: the t’o symbolizes the vast, all-embracing Great Void, while the yüeh symbolizes the action of primordial Qi—the original vital energy from which all things between Heaven and Earth are formed—as it flows and moves. “It does not collapse” means that its movement never ceases; “the more it moves, the more it produces” means that its generative transformation is inexhaustible. Because the bellows is hollow within, its movement allows change to extend without end, and its vitality to grow ever fuller. Applied to self-cultivation, this means that when the heart is empty and still, unblocked by distracting thoughts, the movement of Qi flows freely. As this movement continues, the power of inner growth increases.

Too much talk easily leads to difficulty; better to keep the heart empty, still, and calm.

“Too much talking” consumes the breath and hastens the exhaustion of one’s strength. Better to keep the mind empty and still, and to guard what is within, so that external things do not enter and the inner spirit does not scatter outward. Then emptiness and stillness will have no end, and the Qi that arises from them will likewise have no end. “The middle” refers to the inside of the bellows, the place from which its air flows. Here, “count” is pronounced shuo and means “rapid.”

The Valley Spirit never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female.

“Valley” is a metaphor for emptiness. When the mind is empty and still, the spirit remains within it; hence the phrase “Valley Spirit.” “Valley” refers to the place one guards within, and “spirit” is the presiding power that dwells there. “Never dies” means that primordial Qi, the original vital energy, is constantly alive and does not perish. “Female” is a metaphor for primordial Qi’s softness and gentleness; “mysterious” is a term of praise. The “Mysterious Female” is the mother of all things. What the Zhuangzi calls the “Great One” is also called here “the source of the postcelestial world within the Numinous Treasure.”

The gate of the Mysterious Female is called the root of Heaven and Earth.

“Gate” refers to the place from which all things emerge, while “root” refers to the source from which all things are born. Emptiness and spontaneity are the foundation from which Heaven and Earth come into being. Hence they are called the “root of Heaven and Earth,” that is, their beginning. What the Zhuangzi calls “the constant absence and presence” is also called here “the ancestor of the primordial beginning before Heaven.”

Subtle and continuous, it seems to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted.

“Subtle and continuous” means lasting without interruption. “Seems” functions like “and,” while “exists” means that the spirit remains within. “Exhausted” means worn down. When the breath is used gently, it can be nourished and gradually replenished; when used excessively, it is harmed and gradually depleted. The point here is that when the spirit remains within, Qi is not easily exhausted.

Chapter Five

Heaven and Earth are long-lasting. They can endure because they do not live for themselves alone; therefore, they endure.

Heaven and earth use their original Qi to bring forth the myriad things, yet do not hoard and nourish this Qi for themselves.

Therefore, the sage places himself behind others and, as a result, comes before them. He does not put his own interests first and, as a result, preserves himself for the long term. Is this not precisely because he is free of self-interest? In this way, he ultimately fulfills himself.

Here, “behind” means humbly taking a low position and not seeking to lead others; “before” means holding a high position, above others. “Keeping himself outside” means remaining calm and practicing Wuwei, without deliberately seeking benefit for himself; “preserving himself” means enduring in the world for a long time. “Free of self-interest” means not putting himself first or treating himself as most important; “fulfilling himself” means ultimately coming to stand before others and preserving himself for the long term. The sage does not deliberately seek these results; he simply comes by them naturally. If ordinary people deliberately seek their own benefit, then in terms of the outcome, this too could be called “fulfilling themselves.”

The highest goodness is like water. Water is good at nourishing the myriad things, yet does not contend with them. It dwells in low, filthy places that people all despise, and so is closest to the Dao.

“Supreme goodness” means the highest and finest kind of goodness: the goodness of a person who has the Dao. Why can water be compared to supreme goodness? Water irrigates and cleanses, benefiting the myriad things, yet does not contend to occupy high and clean places. Instead, it dwells in the low, filthy places that people despise. In this way, it approaches the goodness of a person who has the Dao. “Near” means close to.

In choosing where to live, one should seek a suitable place; in one’s state of mind, one should be calm and deep like a pool. In relationships, one should draw near to benevolent people; in speech, one should be honest and trustworthy. In governing, one should bring order; in one’s work, one should make full use of one’s strengths; in action, one should seize the right moment.

The goodness in these respects consists in choosing conditions that people generally favor and treating them as good. This may be called goodness, but it is not yet the highest goodness.

Precisely because one does not contend, one is without fault.

The highest good that accords with the Dao does not strive to occupy a high position, but willingly remains low, like water. Actions that do not stir resentment may also be called good, but they are not yet the highest good.

Precisely because it does not contend, it does not invite resentment.

The highest good that accords with the Dao does not strive to occupy a high position, but willingly remains low, like water; therefore, it does not invite people’s resentment. Here, “you” means resentment or blame. Ordinary people dislike being in a low position and prefer to be high. Wanting to stand above others leads to a desire to prevail, and contention easily brings resentment.

This concludes Chapter Seven.

Holding something while filling it to the brim is not as good as knowing when to stop. A vessel hammered and sharpened too keenly will be difficult to keep that way for long.

“Chi” means to hold; “yi” means to stop; and “chuai” means to hammer. Here, filling a container with water serves as a comparison: a vessel for water should not be filled too full, since it may overflow. It is better to stop in time and keep it from spilling over. The text then compares this to sharpening a cone: if its tip is made too sharp, it can easily break, and its sharpness will not last. The same principle applies to filling something too full: it cannot remain full for long.

When halls are heaped with gold and jade, no one can keep them for long. Pride and self-satisfaction after attaining wealth and honor only bring trouble upon oneself. To withdraw after one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has flourished—this accords with the Way of Heaven.

Some people in the world possess immense wealth, with gold and jade filling their houses, yet cannot keep it for long. Why? After becoming wealthy and honored, they grow proud and complacent, bringing calamity upon themselves. Their mistakes are their own doing, not anyone else’s. So after one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation is established, it accords with Heaven’s Way to withdraw and yield modestly. This means that things should not be allowed to reach fullness.

Here, “gold and jade” refers to wealth; “pride” means being self-satisfied and arrogant in one’s fullness; “bring upon themselves” means that they invite calamity through their own actions; and “fault” means the error of failing to hold on to one’s wealth. “Achievements complete and reputation established” refers to attaining high status, while “withdraw” means avoiding fullness. Heaven’s Way is empty, still, and never self-satisfied. Thus, the four seasons follow their ordered course, and after things have fulfilled their purpose, they recede. Wealth is mentioned earlier and high status later; “wealth and honor” in the middle links the two: people of high status are often wealthy, and wealth may also lead to high status. Wealth and honor are therefore connected. Those who grow proud and complacent cannot keep their wealth, nor can they keep their high status. By withdrawing once their achievements are complete and seeking no fullness, they can retain wealth and honor for a long time.

Continuing from the previous chapter: Can the embodied soul hold fast to the Dao (the Way) without separating from it? By tending the breath with single-minded focus and bringing body and mind to a state of softness, can one become as supple and pure as an infant? By cleansing the heart of its tangled thoughts and making the depths of the mind clear as a mirror, can one become free of flaws?

“Carrying” means both increasing and bearing. The Yin soul—the person’s Yin aspect of spirit—shelters and settles the Yang soul, the person’s Yang aspect of spirit, like a military camp. The Yang soul, in turn, protects the Yin soul like a guard. When Shen is joined to the Yin soul and the Yin soul embraces the Yang spirit, the two unite without separating. They can then endure forever, like the courses of the sun and moon. This is how one who has transcended the ordinary preserves the body.

Concentrate Qi within the body, letting it warm and nourish the bones and muscles until the body becomes utterly soft, like an infant in the womb. This is how one who has transcended the ordinary preserves Qi.

Shen resides in the eyes. When the eyes see, Shen rushes outward. Close the eyes and draw in the gaze, letting the mind enter a dark, mysterious stillness. If anything is still seen within that stillness, a flaw remains. Only when everything seen even in that mysterious stillness has been cleansed away, and all delusive visions have vanished, is there no flaw. This is how one who has transcended the ordinary preserves Shen. “Depart” is read with a falling tone.

In caring for the people and governing the state, can you practice Wuwei (non-action)? As Heaven’s Gate opens and closes, can you remain soft and still? In seeing clearly in all directions and understanding all things, can you avoid clinging to distinctions made through knowledge?

Caring for the people and governing the state means that a ruler governs the state and administers its people with benevolence and wisdom. Here, the spirit is engaged outwardly and has not yet united within with the Yin soul. Yet although the body is active, it can remain calm, clear, and natural, without becoming tired. This is Wuwei, the way someone living in the world nurtures the body.

Heaven’s Gate opening and closing refers to the breath moving in and out through the nose. Qi disperses outward and has not yet been concentrated within the body. Yet although the breath continues, it can remain even and steady, without becoming rough or hurried. This is “being the female,” the way someone living in the world nurtures Qi.

Understanding all things in every direction means that the eyes see the light and look in all directions. The eyes encounter external things, so one cannot yet be entirely without inner perception. Yet although the eyes continue to see, neither the mind nor its surroundings are clung to, and no distinctions are made. This is “not knowing,” the way someone living in the world nurtures Shen.

It nourishes all things and lets them grow without claiming ownership of them. It acts without relying on its own achievements. It enables all things to flourish without setting itself up as their ruler. This is called “profound De” (mysterious and unfathomable Virtue).

“Giving life” means bringing Qi (vital energy) into being before it has formed and keeping it in its natural state. “Nurturing” means gathering and sustaining Qi once it has formed, so that it is not depleted. The one who brings it into being helps it grow but does not inwardly claim it as their own; hence “without owning.” The one who nurtures it takes action but does not inwardly rely on that action; hence “without relying.” It is like an official governing the people: though responsible for their governance, the official does not inwardly place himself above them; hence “without ruling.” This is profound and unfathomable De.

The spokes converge at the hub—the part at the center of the wheel that connects to the axle—and it is because the hub is hollow that the wheel can turn. Clay is kneaded into vessels, and it is because their interiors are hollow that they can hold things. Doors and windows are cut out to make a house, and it is because the inside is empty that the house can be lived in. Thus, solid things provide convenience, while emptiness gives them their practical use.

The spokes of a wheel are called “fu,” and the central part that joins the wheel to the axle is called the “hub.” “Nonbeing” refers to the empty space at the center. “Shan” means mixing earth until it is even, and “zhi” is sticky clay. “Making vessels” means mixing water with sticky clay to form pottery.

The front of a house usually has a door on the east and a window on the west: the door lets people enter and leave, and the window admits light. A cart carries heavy loads over long distances; vessels store things; houses provide shelter. Thus carts, vessels, and houses bring convenience to people throughout the world. This is the benefit that comes from what exists.

Yet if a wheel has no hollow center to hold the axle and let the wheel turn, it cannot move. If a vessel has no space inside to hold things, it cannot store them. If a house has no doors or windows for people to enter and leave and for light to come in, it cannot be lived in. A cart turns by means of its hub, a vessel holds things by means of its interior space, and a house allows people to enter and leave and lets in light by means of its doors and windows. These functions all depend on empty space. This is why it is said that use comes from nonbeing.

Food and drink fill the belly and sustain life; this is the benefit that comes from what exists. A mind that is empty and still, not crowded with distracting thoughts, allows the breath to arise; this is the function of nonbeing. The cart, vessel, and house are used here as examples. In this passage, “he” is pronounced “huwoqie.”

The passage on the right is Chapter Ten.

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the hearing; the five flavors distort the sense of taste. Indulging in horseback riding and hunting makes the mind and spirit run wild. Coveting rare goods obstructs one’s conduct.

All external desires can harm the body.

Therefore, the sage focuses on nourishing the body rather than becoming absorbed in sensory pleasures. The sage sets aside external temptations and chooses what truly benefits the self.

The sages seek only to make the heart-mind full and nurture the original Qi (vital energy); they do not pursue pleasing things outside themselves. They therefore cast aside the many illusions of the external world and hold fast only to inner truth.

The preceding passage described five conditions: blurred vision, impaired hearing, distorted taste, a frenzied mind and spirit, and impeded action. Here, the text speaks only of not being led astray by the eyes, using one example to encompass the other four. Dong Sijing says: The previous chapter discussed the effects of inner emptiness and stillness; this chapter warns against letting external desires fill the mind. The eyes inevitably see, the ears inevitably hear, the mouth inevitably taste, the body inevitably labor, and the mind inevitably respond to what it encounters. Thus, it is impossible to remain still forever. The key is to act without ever departing from inner calm. In this way, one may engage with external things without becoming attached to them, and the mind can remain clear and settled, free of desire. Being stained by the world and chasing external circumstances both cause people to lose the right path. Since the eyes are central to the problem, the scripture uses them as its example from beginning to end. In the Confucian teaching of the “Four Prohibitions”—do not look at, listen to, speak of, or act in ways contrary to ritual propriety—looking is mentioned first. Likewise, in Buddhism’s account of the six faculties and six objects, the eye and forms come first.

“Favor and disgrace both bring alarm; regard great trouble as you regard your own body”: whether favored or disgraced, one feels as if startled; one regards great trouble as seriously as one regards one’s own body.

“Favor” means being held in esteem. People think a high and honored position is a source of glory; seen from the other side, it may also become a source of disgrace. Those who understand the Dao do not treat rank as something to cherish. Those who cling to rank, however, are made anxious by it, because they cannot forget it and let it pull their hearts along.

“Regard” means to value highly. People think that possessing wealth is a great benefit; seen from the other side, it may also become a heavy burden of worry. Those who understand the Dao do not place excessive value on possessions. Those who do are weighed down by them: unable to set them aside, they allow themselves to become entangled.

What does it mean to receive favor and suffer disgrace? Disgrace means being in a low position. When receiving favor, one should feel as if startled; when losing favor, one should feel the same.

What is meant by “humiliation”? It is a lowly status, unworthy of anyone’s respect. Some people long for favor before they receive it; once they do, they become anxious and unsettled. They cling to it and cannot bear to let it go, and when they lose it, they are just as anxious. They take both favor and disgrace too seriously, and so are troubled by the fear of gaining or losing. This is why it says, “Receiving favor and suffering disgrace are both like being startled.”

What is meant by “regarding a great calamity as one regards oneself”? I suffer great calamity because I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could I suffer?

People living in the world face countless worries. They are constantly on edge, trying to protect themselves, and find release only after death. The body itself is a great calamity, and there is nothing one can do about that. Possessions, however, are external to the body. If one gives them up and does not claim them as one’s own, how could they become a burden? Some people do not understand that things external to the body matter less than the body itself. They regard possessions as important as their own person and are afraid of losing everything. They value external things as highly as themselves and worry over them as though they were a great calamity. This is why it says, “Regard a great calamity as one regards oneself.”

Therefore, someone who cherishes the realm as they cherish themselves may be entrusted with it; someone who cares for the realm as they care for themselves may be given its governance. This refers to the Son of Heaven: even with the highest status and the wealth of the Four Seas, only someone who understands that possessions external to the body should not be valued as highly as life can be entrusted with governing the realm.

The Son of Heaven’s dignity and the realm’s wealth are attained only when a person places himself above all under Heaven. One who understands the Dao cherishes and values his own life and will not lightly risk it for the sake of the realm. He would rather not possess the realm than wear himself down for it. Precisely for this reason, the realm can be entrusted to him. “Entrusting” here is like entrusting the people’s fate to someone, or entrusting a young ruler to a guardian. Although Shun and Yu possessed the realm, they did not treat it as their private property, and so they were able to accept the abdication passed down from Yao and Shun. Those who regard the humiliation brought by favor as an honor, and their greatest calamity as a great benefit, are merely shallow in understanding. How could the realm be entrusted to them? Wu Cheng believed that Laozi’s teaching—to cherish oneself more than placing oneself above the realm—was sound, but that it also gave rise to Yang Zhu’s doctrine of “acting for oneself.”

Look at it, but it cannot be seen: this is called “Yi.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard: this is called “Xi.” Touch it, but it cannot be grasped: this is called “Wei.” These three cannot be pursued to their limits, so they are blended together and called “the One.”

This chapter focuses on the signs through which De—the qualities and workings that accord with the Dao—becomes apparent. It is smooth and without trace, so it cannot be seen; this is called “Yi.” It is sparse and still, so it cannot be heard; this is called “Xi.” It is faint and formless, so it cannot be grasped; this is called “Wei.” Yi, Xi, and Wei cannot be fathomed, and are therefore blended into one without distinction. Wu Cheng held that “Yi, Xi, and Wei” and “the One” all refer to constant De.

Above, it does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dark. It stretches on without end, yet cannot be named, and in the end returns to a state without form or substance. This is called the form of the formless, the image of the imageless—in other words, “the elusive” (a state that seems to exist and not to exist, and is difficult to grasp).

“De” can also be divided into an upper and a lower aspect, like the “above form” and “below form” described in the Book of Changes. “Continuous and unbroken” means that what has gone is followed by what comes, succeeding one another without end. “Return” means to turn back and revert. “No thing” refers to the Dao: it is above De and has no name, so it does not appear clearly. Below De are the myriad things, which have form and body, so they are not obscure. De lies between being and nonbeing. Though it seems to have a name, it cannot be fully expressed in words. Returning to the beginning is to return to the Dao’s state of being no thing. This accords with Zhuangzi’s words: “When De reaches its utmost, it is one with the beginning.”

The Dao has no form or substance, and so has neither shape nor image. De has a name, and so seems capable of description and representation. Yet the image of De, too, has no fixed shape like a particular thing. Hence it is called “the shape of the shapeless” and “the image of the imageless.” It seems to be and not to be, and so is called “dim and indistinct,” meaning that it is hidden and hard to discern.

Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times, and you can govern the things that exist in the present. To know the earliest source of the myriad things is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

Because the Dao is dim and indistinct, hard to discern and impossible to name, you cannot see it whether you face it or follow it. “Ancient” means what came before; “present” means later generations; “exist” refers to the myriad things. The source of De comes from the Dao, and as it spreads, it reaches throughout the myriad things. Thus, grasping the Dao that has existed since ancient times enables one to govern the things of the present. “The ancient beginning” refers to the Dao, the source that existed before Heaven and Earth appeared. “The guiding principle of the Dao” refers to De: when the Dao spreads and becomes De, it is like threads dividing into orderly strands. To know the Dao is also to know De and to grasp the Dao’s guiding principle.

The passage above is Chapter Thirteen.

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating the depths of the hidden and profound. They were so deep that people could scarcely understand them. Because they were so difficult to understand, one can only make a tentative effort to describe what they were like.

Here, “the realized person” refers to one who has the Dao. “Open to all” means being attuned to the myriad things; “grasping the subtlety of the myriad things” means understanding their hidden, delicate principles, so that nothing is beyond one’s reach. The Dao’s activity is subtle and concealed, never displayed outwardly; it is also mysterious and hard to discern, so deep that it cannot be measured, like deep water. Thus, one can only make a tentative sketch of the realized person’s outward manner, giving others something to understand. The seven traits described below are such a sketch.

The realized person is cautious and hesitant, like someone crossing a river in winter; alert and wary, as if surrounded by enemies; dignified in bearing, yet modest and accommodating like a guest; open and unblocked in mind, like ice about to melt; honest and unadorned, like unworked wood; spacious and receptive, like an empty valley that can hold all things; and indistinct, like muddy water, without making a show of being pure.

“Yu” and “you” are both names of animals. “Yu” refers to an animal like an elephant; “you” is a small dog. Elephants seem able to sense what is coming and move slowly. A small dog walks ahead of its master, then turns back after a while, and so hesitates to go on. This is why the phrase “hesitate and waver” is used. Someone crossing a river in winter fears the cold; someone who thinks enemies may be nearby feels apprehensive. Both hesitate to advance. The realized person does not dare to place himself ahead of the people of the world, and his outward manner is like this. “Yan” means dignified: like a guest, one responds courteously without taking the initiative to ingratiate oneself. “Huan” means dispersing: like ice about to melt, one does not become rigid or stuck. “Dun” means honest and substantial; “pu” is wood that has not yet been shaped into an object. “Kuang” means open and spacious: like an empty valley, one can respond to all things. “Hun” means yellow and muddy. To be like muddy water is to make no sharp distinction between beauty and ugliness, or purity and impurity, and not to proclaim one’s own purity.

Who can still muddy water and let it gradually clear? Who can set a still state in motion and let vitality gradually emerge?

The passage above takes up the word “turbid” and asks: Who can make turbid water clear? “Turbid” describes a state of agitation. After agitation, stillness follows, and the water gradually becomes clear. The text then takes up the word “still” and asks: Who can bring things to rest? “Rest” describes a state of stillness. After stillness, activity follows, and things gradually come into being and grow. “Rest” means being settled and still; “arise” means to move and grow. The general point is that turbidity gives way to clarity, and stillness gives way to activity. From this we may infer that what is empty need not be filled to appear empty; what is substantial is not confined to a single vessel; what is scattered can gather without being forced together; a dignified person can take charge without insisting on control; and a hesitant person can come first without competing to lead. This is roughly what Laozi means. The later lines in the Dao De Jing—“The curved becomes whole; the bent becomes straight; the hollow becomes full; the worn becomes new”—express the same idea.

Those who hold fast to this Dao do not seek fullness. Because they do not seek fullness, they can remain worn and incomplete, without turning into something whole and new.

Here, “complete” means whole. In all things, being worn entails some loss or defect, while being new means being intact. Something worn and flawed is not in a state of fullness; something new and intact is. Those who hold fast to this Dao do not seek fullness, and so they can remain worn and incomplete without becoming new and whole. The seven examples in this chapter all express the idea of accepting wear and incompleteness rather than seeking newness and wholeness.

This concludes Chapter Fourteen.

Attain the utmost emptiness, and hold firmly to stillness.

“To attain” means to bring something to a certain state, all the way to its utmost. “Emptiness” means that the mind contains no external things; outside things do not enter it. “Utmost” means reaching the end. “Hold” means to keep something firmly, as one would hold a city. “Stillness” means being unmoving, with the mind not chasing after things outside itself. “Firmly” means applying oneself continuously without slackening.

All things grow and move together; from this, I observe how they return to their roots.

“To move” means to be active. The growth of plants and the development of perception in animals both count as activity. “Return” means to go back. All things emerge into activity from stillness. By observing all things moving together, we can see how they ultimately return to stillness.

“Acting” means activity. Plants grow, and animals perceive; both are forms of activity. “Returning” means going back to one’s original place. All things shift from stillness into activity, so returning to their original state of stillness is called “returning”: a plant’s vital energy is stored in its roots, while an animal’s mind and spirit settle and return to inner quiet.

All things flourish and grow, yet in the end they return to their own source. Returning to the source is called “stillness”; settling into stillness is called “returning to life’s mandate,” that is, returning to life’s fundamental state.

“Abundant” describes the way all things grow and move. In spring and summer, the vital energy of trees rises from their roots and flows into their branches and leaves: this is activity. In autumn and winter, it falls back from the branches and leaves and is stored in the roots: this is stillness. The energy through which Heaven and Earth bring all things to life is called “life’s mandate.” Returning to the place where life first began is called “returning to life’s mandate.”

Returning to life’s roots is called “constancy”; understanding constancy means understanding how things work. Those who do not understand constancy act recklessly and bring danger upon themselves. Those who understand constancy can be broad-minded; breadth of mind leads to fairness, and fairness enables one to become a leader to whom the people turn. A leader follows Heaven; Heaven follows the Dao; the Dao endures without cease. In this way, one can live a whole life without encountering danger.

“Constancy” means what endures without change. To understand this principle is called “clarity.” Those who are dull and ignorant do not understand it. They cannot remain still, but act recklessly and harm their own lives; this is why their condition is perilous.

“Form” refers to one’s outward appearance. Those who cultivate themselves inwardly naturally look different from ordinary people. “Duke” refers to the ruler of a state and means one who can preserve everything in his possession. “King” refers to the ruler of all under Heaven and means one who can encompass everything between Heaven and Earth. Here, “Heaven” means becoming one with Heaven. When one is united with Heaven, the Dao is within oneself. With the Dao within oneself, one can endure as the Dao does. “End” means to come to a close. “Peril” means damage to one’s lifespan and danger to oneself. The character for peril contains the element meaning “bad,” and carries the sense of danger drawing near; it is often associated with death, indicating that danger has come close to death. Death is the end that comes when one’s breath is exhausted, and the word also implies reaching one’s limit. “To the end of one’s life without peril” means to live one’s whole life free from danger and preserve one’s life for a long time.

—Chapter Fifteen

The highest ruler is one whose existence the people scarcely know. The next best is one whom the people draw near to and praise. The next is one whom the people fear. The worst is one whom the people scorn. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient, the people do not trust him.

“The highest” means that, in an age when the Great Dao prevails, the ruler governs through Wuwei, and the people live in harmony with him, scarcely even sensing his presence. Next comes the ruler who governs through instruction and moral principle; the people draw near to him as they would to their parents. When benevolence and righteousness become more conspicuous, the people not only draw near to him but praise him as well. Next comes the ruler who governs by cunning and strategy; the people fear him as they would the spirits. When such strategies gradually cease to work, the people not only fear him but also scorn him. “Trust” refers to the reality of the Great Dao. When that reality is insufficient, and no longer as pure and substantial as in ancient times, the ruler becomes insincere toward the people, and governance increasingly concerns itself with appearances: first it retreats to benevolence and righteousness, then retreats further to relying on cunning and strategy. “Great” is read as “Tai.”

(The highest ruler) is cautious and composed, and does not issue commands lightly. Once the work is accomplished, the people all say, “We did this naturally, of our own accord.”

This passage describes the kind of situation in which “the highest ruler is barely noticed by the people.” The previous chapter has already explained the word “you xi.” “Esteem” means to value and cherish, and “so” means just that: the sage cherishes his words and does not speak lightly, like a dog moving with hesitant, retreating steps. The reason is that the sage does not issue commands through words. Instead, he follows things as they are and governs through Wuwei (non-action), allowing the people to receive benefits quietly and live securely in their own way. Once his work is complete and matters are settled, the people all feel that “things have always been this way,” unaware that the ruler’s benevolence has brought it about.

Only when the Great Dao declines do benevolence and righteousness appear; only when cleverness and intelligence become conspicuous does great deceit arise.

The earlier passage says that the people “do not know there is a ruler”; this refers to a time when the Great Dao prevails. The people’s affection for and praise of the ruler refer to benevolence and righteousness. Their fear and contempt for the ruler refer to the state that follows when intelligence becomes conspicuous. As the Great Dao gradually declines, change unfolds in stages, culminating in the emergence of great deceit when intelligence becomes conspicuous. There are four stages in all. Benevolence and righteousness arise only after the Great Dao has declined, so the change is relatively gradual. Once intelligence becomes conspicuous, great deceit soon follows, and the change is much more abrupt. These four stages roughly correspond to the ranks Shao Yong described as Sovereign, Emperor, King, and Hegemon, and as Sage, Aide, Talent, and Technique.

Only when relations among relatives break down does the filial child become apparent; only when a state falls into darkness and disorder does the loyal minister become apparent.

When the author says, “Only after the Great Dao was abandoned did benevolence and righteousness appear,” he means something slightly different from what he did in the preceding passage. Here, he is developing the point further.

“The six relationships” refers to fathers and sons, brothers, and husbands and wives. When people of higher and lower rank, and young and old, each keep to their proper roles and live in harmony, children’s filial conduct is simply part of everyday life. People would not even single it out as “filial piety.” Gu and Shi did not regard Shun as a father, and the father–son relationship was distorted and rebellious; only then did Shun’s filial conduct become evident. In the same way, when rulers and ministers, and those above and below them in the state, each follow their proper way and there is no disorder, a minister’s loyalty is simply his duty. People would not single it out as “loyalty.” King Zhou of Shang failed to act as a ruler should, and treacherous, wicked people gathered around him; only then did the worth of the loyal ministers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties become clear.

“Cut off benevolence and abandon righteousness,” and the people can recover filial devotion and affection. “Cut off sagehood and abandon cleverness,” and the people can gain a hundredfold. “Cut off craftiness and abandon profit,” and thieves will disappear. Here, “sagehood,” “cleverness,” “craftiness,” and “profit” refer to the artificial posturing, scheming, and pursuit of gain that Laozi criticizes. Read in light of the preceding passage, the author is explaining that people make a point of promoting benevolence and righteousness, cleverness, and craft and profit-seeking only when the Great Dao is no longer followed and social customs have fallen into disorder.

“Sever” means to cut off or stop; “abandon” means to give something up and no longer use it. “Sage wisdom” refers to intelligence and cleverness that are praised to excess. “Cleverness for profit” means scheming for advantage and pursuing private gain—in other words, the prevailing culture of great deceit. It means guiding the people through clever devices and profit, and governing the state through commercial methods, as Guan Zhong did in Qi and Wei Yang did in Qin.

The previous passage described the gradual decline of the age and explained why people increasingly pursued secondary concerns. Here, the text explains how governance can be restored, tracing the gradual return to fundamentals. Abandon the benevolence and righteousness of the kings’ age and return to the more ancient Great Dao, and the people can recover their original simplicity: children will honor their parents, and parents will cherish their children, as in the unsophisticated age of antiquity. Abandon the sage wisdom of the hegemon’s age and return to the benevolence and righteousness of the kings’ age, and the people will value and make good use of what they already have; their relations with one another will be a hundred times better than in the hegemon’s age. Abandon the clever schemes and pursuit of profit of the overlords’ age and return to the sage wisdom of the hegemon’s age. Though this will not reach the conditions of the kings’ age, people will be able to plan far ahead, and government directives and moral instruction will be clear and well ordered, so no one will turn to theft.

These three proposals cannot be adequately conveyed through explanation alone, so they must also be brought back to concrete fundamentals: reveal what is genuine, hold fast to simplicity, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

“Three things” refers to benevolence and righteousness, sagacity and wisdom, and cleverness and profit. The word shu (“attach”) has the same meaning as in the Zhuangzi phrase “attaching one’s nature to benevolence and righteousness”: to adhere to or be bound by something.

The Great Dao followed by the ruler of the age of the August Sovereigns was originally abundant and complete; it needed no adornment to make up for any lack. From the August Sovereigns onward, the way of governing gradually turned toward adornment. The rulers of the age of the Emperors thought the August Sovereigns’ governance lacked sufficient refinement, so they descended one level from the Great Dao and attached themselves to benevolence and righteousness. The rulers of the age of the Kings thought the Emperors’ governance lacked sufficient refinement, so they descended one level from benevolence and righteousness and attached themselves to sagacity and wisdom. The rulers of the age of the Hegemons thought the Kings’ governance lacked sufficient refinement, so they descended one level from sagacity and wisdom and attached themselves to cleverness and profit. Each of these three forms of governance made people dependent on something, because their rulers believed that refinement was still insufficient. But how could they know that the people of the Great Dao showed simplicity outwardly and preserved their purity within? “Unadorned silk” means silk that has not been dyed; “unworked wood” means wood that has not been carved. Both refer to what is genuine and unembellished. If genuineness is the substance, why add adornment? Because the people were simple and uncontrived, they had bodies yet seemed free of attachment to self; their minds held thoughts yet seemed to have few selfish desires.

The above is Chapter Sixteen.

Cut off learning, and there will be no worries.

Learning increases what one knows day by day, and so one must carry out more and more things. If there is even one thing one cannot do, or one thing one does not know, worry follows. Only by cutting off this pursuit and no longer insisting on acting can one be free of worry.

How great is the difference between the respectful response “wei” and the dismissive response “a”? And how far apart are good and evil?

Everyone is cheerful and excited, as if enjoying a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a high terrace on a spring day to take in the view. I alone am quiet and indifferent, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. The desires in my heart have not yet emerged, and I do not know what there is in the external world to make anyone rejoice.

I seem to dwell among all things, yet I attach myself to none and settle nowhere.

Everyone appears to have more than enough; I alone seem to be lacking.

“Loss” means not having something anymore. Everyone is pleased with how much they have gained; I alone feel as though I have gained nothing, and instead seem to have lost something.

My mind truly seems like that of a fool, indistinct and unformed.

“Unformed” here means mixed and murky, without clear distinctions—a state of ignorance.

People in the world seem clear and bright; I alone am muddled. They are sharp and perceptive; I alone am dull and confused.

“Bright” means already understanding, while “discerning” means especially sharp-minded. “Muddled” means not understanding, and “confused” means even less understanding. People in the world regard knowledge as intelligence; I alone seem ignorant and foolish.

I drift along, as if borne by the waves on the great sea; I am like a howling wind, with nowhere to come to rest.

Everyone knows what they are going to do and where they will stop. I alone am stubborn and dull, like someone from a remote, uncultivated place. “Stubborn” describes numbness and slowness, with no sense of pain or discomfort; “remote” refers to someone from an isolated, unsophisticated place. People who live in prosperous cities tend to know more, while those in remote, cut-off places seem ignorant.

I alone differ from everyone else: I cherish the “Mother” (the Dao, the source from which all things arise), which nourishes all things.

This sentence summarizes the eight sections above. The four sections from “What people fear” to “I alone seem to have been left behind” say that people generally seek learning by trying to learn and master as much as possible, while I alone seem to know nothing at all. The four sections from “My heart is that of a fool” to “I alone am obstinate and uncultivated” say that people generally seek learning by trying to know and understand as much as possible, while I alone seem to know nothing. I differ from other people: what I value is the Dao’s profound and mysterious De, and I feel that I have no particular abilities.

“Profound De” refers to the Dao’s deep and far-reaching virtue. All things depend on it for nourishment, so it is called the “mother of all things”; hence the phrase “feeding on the mother.” The term “feeding on the mother” appears in the Inner Rules chapter of the Book of Rites, where it refers to a wet nurse. The Sima commentary explains that a wet nurse nourishes an infant with the vital energy of original harmony. Here, “feeding” is pronounced sì.

This concludes Volume One of the Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and Its De.

Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao, Volume Two

Written by Wu Cheng of Linchuan.

The Lower Part of the Dao Classic

“The form of great De follows only the Dao.”

“Great De” means abundant virtue. “Form” refers to the shape in which virtue manifests and can be seen. “Follows” means to originate from. All things are rooted in De; everything that has form and Qi, and can manifest, is an expression of De. De can manifest in these forms because it arises from the Dao.

“The Dao as a thing is only indistinct and elusive.”

De (Virtue/Power) arises from the Dao (the Way), while the Dao itself is formless and traceless. De is the source of what the Dao brings into being. It seems to leave no trace, yet also seems to exist. Because it cannot be seen, it is called “indistinct and elusive.”

Indistinct and elusive, yet within it are real things; elusive and indistinct, yet within it are images.

Here, “it” refers to De. “Things” are the forms of the myriad beings after they have come into being; “images” are the Qi (vital energy) of the myriad beings before they come into being. Though De is indistinct and hard to see, visible forms take shape as real things, and visible Qi takes shape as images. All of these are contained within De. As earlier Confucian scholars put it, “In the void and stillness, before any trace has appeared, all things are already fully present.” This means that within emptiness and stillness, without a trace, all things are already there.

Within the deep and shadowy, there are subtle things.

Though the indistinct and elusive cannot be seen, it seems both to exist and not to exist, as if it might still be visible. The deep and shadowy, by contrast, is dark and obscure, entirely beyond sight. This describes the Dao’s formlessness and lack of trace. Here, “it” refers to the Dao, and “subtle things” refers to De. Real things and images are manifestations of De and belong to the coarser, more apparent level. De is the source of real things and images, and thus belongs to the subtle level. The Zhuangzi says, “Take De as the root, and the root as the subtle essence.” The passage above says that real things and images have their source in De; here it says that De comes from the Dao.

Its subtle essence is utterly real, containing something definite and true.

Both instances of “its” here refer to De. “True” refers to the Dao, while “trustworthy” means definite and real, and has the same meaning as “true.” Real things and images belong to the coarse and apparent level, while De is subtle. De is subtle because it contains the true Dao. The true Dao is within De. The passage above says that De is within the Dao; here it says that the Dao is within De. The Dao is De, and De is the Dao. Chapter One says, “These two are originally the same.”

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared. Through it, people observe the origin of the myriad things.

“Does not depart” means that it endures and never perishes. “Survey” means to experience or pass through; “beginning” means what is beautiful, and “the beginnings of all things” refers to all that exists. The beauty of all things changes and fades with time. Only what arises from the Dao through great De remains unchanged and undiminished from antiquity to the present, enduring always. That is why it is described as “not departing”: it is constant and unchanging, having passed through all the transient changes of things across past and present.

How do I know that the beauty of all things changes and fades in this way? I know it by this principle.

“Thus” means “in this way.” How do I know that things change in this way and cannot last forever? I know it through that constant, unchanging existence that arises from the Dao through great De.

The above is Chapter Eighteen.

Yield, and you will be preserved; bend, and you will straighten; be low, and you will be filled; grow old, and you will be renewed. Take little, and you will gain; grasp for much, and you will become confused.

“Curved” means inclined to one side. In the Book of Changes, the Book of Rites, the Doctrine of the Mean, and the Zhuangzi, “curved” refers to something partial and incomplete. Focusing on one particular area may at first seem incomplete. But if you study what you do well with care, master that area, and then use it to understand others—drawing wider lessons from particular cases and connecting things by analogy—over time you can grasp the whole. If you try to cover everything from the start, your ambitions may be too broad and your efforts scattered. Unable to concentrate, you may ultimately fail to master anything fully.

“Bent” means not straight. A measuring worm first bends its body so that it can extend. “Low” means not full; a hollow place can hold water, and so become full. “Worn” means old and in decline: plants and trees wither in autumn and winter, making way for new growth in spring. “Take little and you will gain” and “grasp for much and you will become confused” expand on the same idea: taking little makes it easier to gain something, which can then grow through accumulation. Grasping for too much leads instead to disorder and confusion; you may gain nothing at all, let alone make any real progress.

Not deliberately seeking to be straight, full, new, or to take more follows from the principle that yielding can bring preservation.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the One—the fundamental principle of the Dao—and makes it a model for all under Heaven.

“Embracing the One” is the central theme of this chapter and connects its opening and closing passages. Here, “One” refers to the virtue of emptiness and humility. The word shi originally referred to a crossbar on a carriage; here it means a standard that can be followed. The sage holds to the virtue of emptiness and humility, conducts himself with gentleness and modesty, and becomes a model for all under Heaven. The five kinds of conduct described earlier are also expressions of this emptiness and humility.

Because one does not show off, one appears wise. Because one does not presume to be right, one’s reputation becomes prominent. Because one does not boast of achievements, one can accomplish great things. Because one does not exalt oneself, one can preserve one’s strengths over time. Precisely because one does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them. These four outcomes all arise from not contending.

Could the saying of the ancients, “Bend and you will be made whole,” really be empty words? Indeed, one can be made whole and, in the end, find wholeness.

“Bend and you will be made whole” is a saying passed down from the ancients, which Laozi places at the beginning of this chapter. The chapter takes “Embracing the One” as its guiding principle. It sets out five ways of acting around the idea that bending brings wholeness, then gathers the four preceding outcomes under the principle of not contending. All these ideas can be summed up by “Bend and you will be made whole.” By invoking the ancient saying again at the end, Laozi makes clear that it is no empty claim: those who truly act in this way can preserve themselves and receive the corresponding outcome.

“Speaking little is natural” means saying little, or even saying nothing, and following the natural course of things. Here, “little” means scarce. A sound that cannot be heard is called “little,” so “speaking little” means being wordless. Those who have attained the Dao do not cling to words; they simply follow the way things are.

A gale does not blow all morning, and a downpour does not last all day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. Even the gales and storms brought about by Heaven and Earth cannot last. How much less can human actions endure?

“Whirling” refers to a fierce, violent wind; “sudden” refers to a sharp, torrential rain. The time from dawn until mealtime is called “the whole morning,” and the time from dawn until dusk is called “the whole day.” Speaking and acting hastily, without following the natural course of things, is like the unnatural gales and storms between Heaven and Earth: strange changes that depart from the ordinary. Even such unusual changes in Heaven and Earth cannot be sustained; they soon cease. If people do not follow the natural course of things, how can they endure?

Therefore, those who devote themselves to the Dao come into accord with the Dao; those who possess De come into accord with De; and those who have lost the Dao and De likewise accord with that condition.

“Acting in accordance with the Dao” means taking the Dao as the guiding principle for one’s conduct. Here, “the one of the Dao” refers to a person who has the Dao; “the one of De” refers to a person who has De; and “the one who errs” refers to ordinary, limited people, whose actions are bound to involve mistakes. “Being one” is close in meaning to the word “equal” in the Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”: it means being in accord with another, without rejecting them or judging them to be different.

Because one follows nature and speaks little in the way of human judgments, people of the highest, middling, and lowest kinds can all be treated equally, without exclusion. The one of the Dao and the one of De accord with me, so naturally there is nothing to say. As for those who make mistakes, others may think they are wrong, while they themselves believe they are right; this self-assurance, too, has its natural causes. Given this, why not understand them by following what they take to be right, instead of hastily speaking out to deny them? Zhuangzi said, “Silence can bring things into accord; once one speaks, words disrupt that accord.” This is also what Laozi means by speaking little and following nature, thereby attaining the mysterious state of being one. In the phrase “being one, and speaking,” the word “speaking” is pronounced “yu.”

One who accords with the Dao is accepted by the Dao; one who accords with De is accepted by De; one who accords with error is accepted by error. If one’s own sincerity is inadequate, others will naturally distrust one.

Those who have the Dao or De accord with me, and we confirm one another; there is nothing to criticize. Even those who make mistakes may, by holding to their own views while in accord with me, come to understand a kind of impartial principle. Thus, all three kinds of people can gain something from their dealings with me. But only someone who truly has the Dao can do this. If the Dao within oneself is insufficient, one cannot treat others according to what is true, but instead imposes distinctions between right and wrong. How, then, could one attain this mysterious state of being one?

Rising onto your toes makes it impossible to stand steadily; taking long strides does not let you walk far. Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who think themselves right cannot make their names known; those who boast cannot accomplish anything; those who are arrogant cannot endure. Measured against the Dao (the Way), these actions are like leftover food or excess flesh attached to the body. All things despise them, so a person who has the Dao does not act this way.

Standing and walking are used here again as metaphors for the ideas discussed earlier. We should stand and walk naturally. If we seek some extra advantage, we might rise onto our toes to appear taller or spread our legs wide to lengthen our stride. Such efforts can be sustained only briefly; they cannot last, and in the end we cannot stand steadily or keep walking. For the same reason, those who show themselves off cannot truly see clearly, those who think themselves right cannot make their names known, those who boast accomplish nothing, and those who are arrogant have no lasting merit.

Leftover food is called “surplus,” and excess flesh attached to the body is called an “appendage.” Here, “things” refers to people as well as spirits and gods. Those who show themselves off, think themselves right, boast, or act arrogantly go against the natural way. They are like food left over and unfit to eat, or excess flesh that should not remain on the body: anything beyond the proper measure is no longer useful. All things, in both the unseen and visible worlds, despise such conduct, and a person who has the Dao will not let themselves become entangled in it.

Some believe that the character for “walking” should be read as the character for “form,” since the two could be used interchangeably in ancient times. Sima says: “Leftover food is repugnant, and an attached growth on the body is ugly.” Su says: “An excess of food and drink makes people ill, while excess flesh growing on the limbs becomes a burden.”

The passage above is Chapter Twenty. Its central theme is “the natural.” Speaking little and being in accord with the mysterious Dao is to follow what is natural. Howling winds and sudden downpours, rising onto one’s toes to stand, taking long strides, and leftover food and excess flesh are all unnatural states.

There is something whole and undivided that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape.

The “thing” referred to in the previous chapter’s phrase “the Dao as a thing” means De (Virtue/Power). In this chapter, the “thing” in “there is a thing formed from undifferentiated wholeness” means the Dao (the Way). “Hun” and “hun” have related meanings: “formed from undifferentiated wholeness” means that it has no divisions and is complete and whole. It existed before Heaven and Earth appeared, as in the first chapter’s “beginning of Heaven and Earth” and the fourth chapter’s “before the image of the Lord.”

It is silent and still, vast and without form; it exists alone and never changes. It moves everywhere and is never exhausted, so it can be called the source of all things under Heaven. “Still” means quiet; “vast” means spacious. It is said to be without sound or form because it stands beyond all things, with nothing that can oppose it, and it has never changed. Yet it also moves within all things, reaching everywhere and never coming to an end. “Mother of all under Heaven” refers to De. De comes forth from the Dao, so the Dao is called the source of all things.

I do not know what it was originally called, so I provisionally call it “Dao.” If it must be given a name, I can only call it “Great.”

This existence cannot be accurately expressed in a name. Since Heaven, Earth, and all things come from it, we can only borrow the word “Dao,” meaning “way,” to refer to it. “Name” here is an added designation, not its original name. Even this designation does not fully express it, so we can only call it “Great.” Nothing is greater than Heaven, but Heaven itself is contained within the Dao, so it cannot be considered the greatest. The Dao is vast without limit, and nothing can contain it; therefore, “Great” may serve, however inadequately, to describe it.

That which is great flows and moves; what flows and moves reaches far, and what reaches far returns.

“Enduring” means that the Dao moves and flows without ceasing; “far-reaching” means that it extends through long ages without limit; “returning” means that it goes back to a state of nothingness, without name. All things in the world have form and name, while the Dao alone is formless and nameless. Nothingness stands opposite to being, which is why this is called “returning.”

To say only that “the Dao is great” does not fully convey its vastness, so the text goes on to say that it is vast and moves without ceasing. Because it moves without ceasing, it endures; and because it endures, it returns to nothingness. This is precisely the Dao’s nature. If the Dao became something with form and name, it would no longer be the Dao. A later chapter says, “Returning is the movement of the Dao. The things under Heaven are born from being, and being is born from nothingness.” Zhuangzi says, “In the beginning there was nothing; there was nothing without name.” This is the same idea.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great. The ruler means the sage who holds the throne. From ancient times to the present, only the Dao has been supreme, with nothing comparable to it. Here, however, the Dao, Heaven and Earth, and the sage are placed alongside one another and called the “Four Greats.” This is because Heaven and Earth become what they are by following the Dao, and the sage becomes a sage by following the Dao; their greatness comes from possessing the Dao. The text deliberately adds “also” after “ruler” and counts the ruler among the Four Greats because Heaven is greatest in its vital energy and Earth is greatest in its physical form. Though the sage’s body is small, the sage stands between Heaven and Earth and shares their Dao. In this respect, the sage is as great as Heaven and Earth, and cannot be measured by the size of vital energy, physical form, or body.

Humanity takes Earth as its model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model; and the Dao takes what is natural as its model.

“Person” refers to the sage. “Model” means to emulate and follow. The surface of water is level, so it can serve as a standard for measuring equality. A person is great because they attain the Dao and become one with the Earth; therefore, it is said that people model themselves on the Earth. The Earth is great because it attains the Dao and becomes one with Heaven; therefore, it is said that the Earth models itself on Heaven. Heaven is great because it becomes one with the Dao; therefore, it is said that Heaven models itself on the Dao. The Dao is great because it follows its own nature; therefore, it is said that the Dao models itself on nature. Nature is not something separate from the Dao. What is meant by nature is a state without form or name.

The above is Chapter Twenty-One.

“Weight” is the root of lightness; “stillness” is the master of agitation. “Root” means foundation; “agitation” means movement; “master” means ruler. Lightness has steadiness as its foundation, and agitation has calm as its master.

Therefore, the gentleman travels all day without leaving his heavily laden cart. “Baggage cart” refers to a cart carrying luggage and supplies.

When gentlemen travel in ordinary times, they ride common, light carriages; when armies set out on campaign, they ride war chariots. Both are kinds of light carriage. A baggage cart follows behind, carrying what is needed for lodging, clothing, and food.

Here, a “good person” is someone skilled at a particular task, while a “not-good person” is someone unskilled at it. A “teacher” is someone respected and worthy of emulation; “resource” is like the wealth used to support another, enabling that person to accomplish something. One person does a task well and another does it poorly. If, by comparing them, the latter sees that they fall short of the former, the former’s strengths can serve as a model for them to follow. Conversely, if one person does a task poorly and another does it well, the latter’s shortcomings can serve as a lesson to the former, making the former’s own strengths more apparent. Thus it is said that another’s shortcomings can be one’s “resource.”

But the labels “good” and “not good” stand opposed to one another. How could such a state of affairs belong to a world governed by the Dao? The point of what follows is that a person who has the Dao enables people not to cling to the labels “good” and “not good.”

To honor no one as a model and to value nothing as a lesson, while imagining oneself to understand, is in fact a grave error. This is the most profound point here. “Love” here means liking; “essential” means ultimate and most refined.

“Love” means to cherish; “to the utmost” means to reach the extreme. “Mystery” refers to what is profound and remote, beyond measure.

When an unkind person meets a kind person, they may take that person as a teacher, yet they do not esteem them, because they are unwilling to fix the label “kind” upon them. When a kind person meets an unkind person, they may learn from the other, yet they do not like them, and are unwilling to fix the label “unkind” upon them. The labels “kind” and “unkind” both disappear, and the two return to unity, with no distinction between them. Even a wise person may be so perplexed that they cannot see who is kind and who is unkind, much less decide who belongs to either category. This is the utmost mystery, called “the profound and subtle.”

The first two sections of Chapter Twenty-Three explain the Sage’s goodness, which is never displayed and cannot be confined by labels. The final two sections describe how ordinary people are easily labeled kind or unkind. Not displaying labels that cannot be named is called “concealing the light”; not distinguishing between kinds of good and bad that are easily named is called “the profound and subtle.”

Know what is bright, yet hold to what is dim; this becomes the model for all under Heaven. As the model for all under Heaven, enduring De (Virtue) will not deviate, and in the end one returns to the boundless.

Here, “white” means brightness, “black” means the worldly darkness, and “the limitless” means what has no end.

Know what is strong, yet hold to what is yielding; this makes one a stream for all under Heaven. As a stream for all under Heaven, enduring De will not be lost, and in the end one returns to the state of an infant. “Male” refers to strength, “female” to yielding; “infant” refers to a state not yet marked by discriminating awareness.

Know what is honored, yet hold to what is disgraced; this makes one a valley for all under Heaven. As a valley for all under Heaven, enduring De will be fully abundant, and in the end one returns to uncarved simplicity.

“Honor” means high status, and “disgrace” means low status. “Uncarved wood” means timber that has not yet been shaped into an object. This chapter teaches that one should return to the root and restore the original, following enduring De until one returns to the Dao of the beginning. Enduring De is empty, still, and free of self-satisfaction. So one would rather keep to the dark than seek the bright, dwell in the receptive than contend for masculine strength, and be content with a low position than pursue honor. Though one knows that prominence and strength are desirable, one still chooses to remain humble. The crossbar one holds when riding in a carriage, and the ravine where streams gather, both symbolize willingly taking the lower place. In this way, one does not depart from enduring De, and De becomes complete within oneself. Only by embodying this empty and still De can one return to the Dao of the beginning. When Zhuangzi says, “De at its utmost is one with the beginning,” he means that De has reached a state identical to the original. “The limitless,” “the infant,” and “uncarved wood” all serve as metaphors for the Dao of the beginning.

When uncarved wood is split apart, it becomes various objects. When the sage puts their abilities to use, they become the head of the officials. Thus, the highest form of governance does not rely on division or forceful regulation.

Before it is worked, uncarved wood fully retains its natural substance; once it is shaped and divided, it becomes all kinds of objects. Before being appointed to office, the sage’s inner De remains fully contained; once that De is made manifest, the sage is appointed to lead officials at every level. The one who leads the officials of the world is the Son of Heaven; the one who leads the officials of a state is a feudal lord. The first three sections speak of returning from the branches to the root; these two sentences speak of extending outward from the root to the branches. Even when uncarved wood has already been divided, one hopes to restore it to wholeness, so that it is as though it had been divided and yet not divided. Even when the sage has already been appointed, one hopes to restore them to wholeness, so that it is as though they had been appointed and yet not appointed. This is to treat “not being divided” as division, and “not being appointed” as appointment. Any deliberate regulation must cut into the whole like a knife. The highest form of governance, however, governs without deliberate regulation, and so does not divide. Truly great division does not cause the whole to be lost; truly great use does not depend on deliberate application—just as the highest form of governance does not cut things apart.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Four.

Those who wish to take possession of the world and govern it by force—I see that they will never succeed.

If someone wishes to obtain all under Heaven but tries to force it through their own actions, I do not think they will ever win the hearts of the people.

Here, “obtaining all under Heaven” means having the people willingly submit and turn to you. “Action” means deliberate effort. A person of deep virtue need not force the matter: the people will naturally turn to them. How could anyone compel the people to obey through clever schemes and strength, yet make them submit wholeheartedly?

All under Heaven is a wondrous vessel—that is, it cannot be controlled at will through cleverness or force. When one acts forcefully, things instead fail; when one clings tightly, things instead slip away.

All under Heaven is the greatest of vessels, governed by divine power. It cannot be obtained through cleverness and strength. “Fail” means not to succeed: trying to force an undertaking through one’s intelligence leads instead to failure. One cannot bring the people to submit, and so it is said, “Those who act forcefully fail.” Before obtaining all under Heaven, one cannot do so through forceful action. After obtaining it, one cannot preserve it by holding on deliberately. It is like a precious vessel: if you keep it in your hands and never set it down, fearing every moment that you might lose it, you may instead let it fall. Thus, those who insist on holding on will lose it.

Among the myriad things, some go ahead and others follow; some breathe out slowly and others blow sharply; some are strong and others weak; some bear things steadily and others topple and collapse. Therefore, the sage does away with excess, extravagance, and extremes.

This passage follows the preceding statement, “Those who cling will lose,” and explains how to preserve all under Heaven. How can someone who possesses all under Heaven ensure that it will remain theirs forever and never be lost? The circumstances of the myriad things are always changing: some go ahead and some follow, some breathe out and some blow, some are strong and some weak, some bear things and some topple. Therefore, the sage does away with excess, extravagance, and extremes.

This continues the discussion of governing the world from the preceding phrase, “Those who grasp at things lose them.” How could anyone who possesses the world hold it firmly in their hands forever and keep it from declining and perishing? Gain and loss, preservation and destruction alternate, just like going ahead and following behind, breathing out to warm and breathing in to cool, growing stronger and growing weaker, building up and tearing down. These things are opposites, yet they also depend on one another. The sage understands that things inevitably develop toward such outcomes, and so knows how to respond.

Whatever grows too strong will eventually decline; decline is the beginning of destruction. Only by preventing things from becoming excessive can one avoid decline and thus avoid destruction. “Excess,” “extravagance,” and “arrogance” all refer to a state of having reached the extreme. To set aside excess is to seek to remain moderate and unassuming; to set aside extravagance is to live as one does when frugal; to set aside arrogance is to remain simple. If one can avoid becoming too powerful, it may be possible to preserve the world and prevent its destruction.

Shao Yong said: When drinking, be content with being slightly tipsy; do not drink until completely drunk. When admiring flowers, see them just as they are about to bloom; do not wait until they are fully open and then scattered in decay. This expresses the same principle.

Su Shi said: Some go ahead, while others follow behind; some breathe out to warm, while others breathe in to cool; some strengthen, while others weaken; some bring things to completion, while others destroy them. These are all natural tendencies in the changes of things, and cannot be avoided. Fools care only for their own interests and pursue gain single-mindedly, insisting on resisting and defying these tendencies. As a result, they are either destroyed or defeated. The sage alone understands that the changes of things cannot be defied, and so follows nature and responds with composure. At the same time, the sage sets aside excess, extravagance, and arrogance, preventing things from developing too far; then the world will suffer no calamities.

Dong Sijing said: The sage knows that changes in things bring one another about, and that this is the constant order of things. Therefore, the sage follows nature and does not let things become full to excess.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Five.

Those who assist a ruler by means of the Dao do not use military force to assert power over the world. Asserting power through armed force often brings retribution.

Wang says, “If one uses the Dao to assist a ruler, one still cannot rely on military force to dominate the world. How much less should a ruler personally follow the Dao?” Su says, “The sages use military force only when they have no choice. If they are not compelled by necessity but seek to conquer the world through force, even if they win for a time, calamity will surely turn back upon them. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han either lost their lives or brought disaster upon their descendants. No one who is hated by people and rejected by the spirits can escape calamity.”

Where armies have been stationed, brambles and thorns grow thick. After a great war, years of famine often follow.

The Zhenghe commentary says, “Those above seize the people’s labor, leaving fields abandoned and overgrown with brambles. They go against the timing of Heaven, and famine follows.” Su says, “Where armies are present, the people’s daily work comes to a halt and no one cultivates the fields. After military campaigns, the killing force prevails, and the harvest is damaged. This is the result of any use of arms; how much more so when one seeks to dominate the world through military force?”

Those skilled in using arms need only to achieve the pacification of disorder; they do not dare use force to flaunt their might. They win without boasting, showing off, or becoming arrogant. To use arms only when there is no choice is called winning without flaunting one’s strength.

Skill in using arms means acting decisively to pacify disorder in the moment. It does not mean relying on military power and refusing to stop fighting simply to compete for victory and display one’s might. Su says, “Not boasting, not showing off, not becoming arrogant, and acting only when there is no choice: these four are the signs of winning without flaunting one’s strength.”

When things reach the height of their strength, they turn toward decline and old age. This is called being contrary to the Dao; what is contrary to the Dao soon decays.

Those who have the Dao constantly preserve the infant’s state of softness and simplicity, and so can avoid decline. If things remain at the height of their strength for a long time, they must eventually grow old. This is what it means to be contrary to the Dao.

Those who follow the Dao are often as simple and gentle as infants, and so they can avoid showing signs of age. If people remain strong and vigorous all the time, they will inevitably grow old in the end; this is a state that does not accord with the Dao. “Those who do not follow the Dao die early” means that people who do not accord with the Dao cannot endure for long. Su says: “Strength inevitably gives way to old age; this is the constant course of all things. Only those who follow the Dao, though accomplished, seem to lack something, and though full, seem still to be empty. They never deliberately display their strength, and so they show no signs of age, as though they would never perish. If one relies on force to dominate the world and reaches the height of strength, how could one fail to decline?”

Taking pleasure in warfare is inauspicious. All things in the world tend to abhor it, so those who follow the Dao do not put themselves in that position.

“Esteem” means to love and exalt. “Inauspicious” means lacking good fortune and instead inviting calamity. “Do not place oneself” means being unwilling to put oneself in such a situation.

In ordinary life, the gentleman regards the left as honored; in warfare, the right is regarded as honored.

This explains why those who follow the Dao do not place themselves amid warfare: in ordinary life they do not choose the honored position, but occupy the position that receives less respect. In other words, they are unwilling to put themselves on the side of warfare.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments, not things a gentleman takes pleasure in using. They are used only when unavoidable, and should be approached with calm detachment. Even when victorious, one does not regard victory as something worthy of praise.

Weapons take life and bring calamity; they are not instruments used by those who bring good fortune. “Calm and detached” means neither pleased nor eager, showing that warfare is not something one desires inwardly. “Esteem as the highest” means that not taking pleasure in warfare is what deserves praise. “Victory is not beautiful” means that even after winning a battle, one does not regard it as a good thing.

If one regards victory as beautiful, one takes pleasure in killing. Anyone who takes pleasure in killing cannot truly achieve success in the world.

This further explains why war should not be praised. To regard victory in battle as beautiful is equivalent to taking pleasure in killing; such a person cannot accomplish their aims in the world. The chapter concludes with this warning to caution people.

For auspicious occasions, the left is honored; for funerals and other inauspicious occasions, the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, and the supreme general on the right.

This restates the earlier point: warfare is an inauspicious affair, so in the army the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, and the supreme general on the right.

In auspicious matters, the left is honored; in funerals and other inauspicious matters, the right is honored. The assistant general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right.

This restates the earlier point about not placing certain things in a prominent position.

When many people have been killed, one should weep with grief and sorrow. Even when victory in war has been won, the ceremony should be conducted according to funeral rites.

This restates the earlier point about not treating victory as something beautiful.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Dao is eternally nameless.

This refers to the Dao.

The uncarved block—undivided and untouched by shaping—may be small, yet the world dares not treat it as a subordinate. If lords and kings can hold fast to it, all things will naturally submit to them.

The “uncarved block” refers to the Dao. The Dao fills the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, yet when gathered in, it is no larger than a handful; that is why it is called small. The Dao is supremely honored. Therefore, one who understands and follows the Dao can govern the world without the world treating him as a subordinate. A lord is the ruler of a feudal state; a king is the ruler of all under Heaven. If lords and kings can hold to the Dao, all things will honor them as their master and naturally come to them. “Naturally” means that I do not wish to make them so; they are so of themselves.

When the Qi of Heaven and Earth join, sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet the sweet dew naturally and evenly nourishes all things.

The Dao’s workings extend everywhere throughout the world, like the sweet dew that descends when the Qi of Heaven and Earth come together. Though no one issues an order, the dew falls naturally and evenly upon all things. All things grow and are nurtured within the Dao, so a person who has the Dao can become their master, and all things will come to him. Master Su says: Sweet dew nourishes all things and leaves none untouched. The sage understands the Dao and uses it to respond to all manner of things; like sweet dew, it reaches everywhere, and so can bring all things to submission.

When governance begins to be put into practice, distinctions arise.

This refers to De. “Beginning” refers to the Dao, “to shape” means to make or put into practice, and “names arise” refers to De. The Dao itself is nameless; when De comes forth from the Dao, it acquires a name.

Once distinctions have taken shape, one must know when to stop. Knowing when to stop makes it possible to avoid danger.

The Dao originally had no name. Once it came to be called “De,” it already had a name. Those who put this De into practice should know to stop at De and go no further. In the phrase “jiang wu tong” (“perhaps they are the same”), used by the people of Jin, the word jiang conveys no urgency. Laozi calls the Dao “higher De,” meaning that the Dao is above De, and calls benevolence “lower De,” meaning that benevolence is below De. He also says that only after losing the Dao does one have De; after losing De, one has benevolence; after losing benevolence, one has righteousness; and after losing righteousness, one has ritual. He discusses the Dao and De in particular, and criticizes benevolence and righteousness, because they are lower than De.

This chapter speaks of De and says, “one should also know where to stop.” This means that, in moving from the nameless to the named, one should stop at De and not proceed further. Once De has a name, it is already below the Dao; how could one go still further down from De? To know to stop at De is to remain not far from the Dao. “Not in danger” means not falling into hardship and deprivation, but being able to endure over time without decline. Su Shi says: How could sages chase fame and forget simplicity, or pursue trivial details and lose sight of the root? This is why they can respond to the myriad changes without falling into danger.

The Dao in the world is like the relationship between the rivers and streams and the great seas.

The preceding passage says that, in moving from the nameless to the named, one should stop at De. Here, it says that in returning from the named to the nameless, one should return to the Dao. The Dao extends throughout the world, just as the great seas are where all waters ultimately gather. De is like the waters in streams and mountain valleys; when De returns to the Dao, it is like those waters flowing together into the great seas.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Seven.

To understand others is called wisdom; to know oneself is true clarity. To overcome others is strength; to overcome oneself is true fortitude.

One who is clever and quick-witted, able to understand others, possesses only the outwardly directed intelligence of the mind. To understand oneself is to know inwardly and fully express one’s nature; this is called “clarity.” One who has the strength to overcome others relies only on strength from without. To overcome oneself is to restrain oneself inwardly; this is called “strength.”

One who knows contentment is rich; one who strives to put the Way into practice has resolve.

Fully expressing one’s nature is called “clarity.” Overcoming others depends on strength from without; restraining oneself is what deserves to be called “strength.”

One who knows contentment is rich; one who strives to put the Way into practice has resolve.

One who can both fully express their nature and understand the Mandate of Heaven will not envy other things, but will always feel inwardly fulfilled. Only the clear-sighted can do this. One who can both restrain themselves and act bravely in doing good has something to hold fast to, and is never lax. Only the strong can do this.

By not departing from one’s root, one can endure. When the body dies but the spirit does not perish, this is called longevity.

Only the clear-sighted and strong can perceive the truth and hold firmly to it. As impurities within gradually dissolve, and cultivation and action reach maturity, thought and contrivance fall away, bringing one into accord with wondrous transformation. While living in the world, wherever one may be, one does not lose one’s original nature and remains constant; this is called “enduring.” After leaving the world, though one departs from the dwelling of the body, one’s original nature continues to abide. It is the same in ancient times and today; this is called “longevity.”

The above is Chapter Twenty-Eight. Someone asked, “Laozi’s Dao takes dimness as clarity and weakness as strength. Why, then, does this chapter speak of clarity and strength?” The answer is: “Laozi is not unclear within; he merely appears dim on the outside. He is not weak within; he merely appears yielding on the outside. Dimness and yielding are ways of regulating outward appearance; clarity and strength are ways of cultivating the inner self. Both can be practiced at the same time and do not conflict.”

The Great Dao is vast and boundless, extending everywhere. It can be found to the left or to the right.

“Flooding” means vast, describing something that spreads outward like water overflowing its banks. The Dao is vast and present everywhere: to the left or to the right, wherever you look, it is there. It can be drawn upon from any direction; nothing is beyond its use.

All things rely on the Dao (the Way) to come into being, yet the Dao never refuses them. Once all things have grown and come to fruition, the Dao does not claim credit for their accomplishment.

“Rely on” means to depend upon. “Come into being” refers to the beginning of life’s sprouting in spring. All things rely on the Dao to come into being, yet the Dao says nothing. This is the same idea expressed earlier in the words, “All things arise, yet the Dao does not refuse them.” “Accomplishment” refers to winter, when all things are stored away: the Dao’s work of nurturing them is complete, yet it does not pride itself on its merit.

The Dao nourishes and covers all things, yet does not rule over them. It has never had selfish desires; this might be called “small.”

This further explains that all things rely on the Dao to come into being, yet the Dao does not refuse them. When all things sprout in spring, the Dao extends throughout them, like clothing worn on the body or bedding laid over it. The phrase “the primal Qi (vital energy) flows freely and spreads among the myriad kinds” means that primal Qi reaches everywhere and is distributed among all things. The Dao does not set itself up as their ruler. “Always without desire” means that the Dao has no private interests. It is like a whole dividing into countless different things, with the Dao’s workings dispersed into the smallest details; this might seem to warrant calling it “small.” But can the Dao truly be called “small”? No. If the Dao could be confined to a particular name, it would no longer be the Dao that refuses nothing, rules over nothing, and has no private interests. Here, “clothing” is pronounced with a falling tone.

All things return to the Dao, yet they do not know what governs them. In this sense, the Dao may be called “great.”

This passage again explains that once a task is complete, one should not claim credit for it. In winter, all things are gathered in; they return to their source and recover their original nature, converging as one. As the Yi Jing says, it is beneficial to remain steadfast in what is right: only then can one keep the spiritual root secure. Remaining steadfast is also a process of sincerely returning to one’s original nature. Yet all things do not know who, in the end, governs them.

Things differ from one another, yet ultimately converge at a common source. This is the Dao as a whole, something of immense breadth. Can it be called “great”? In fact, it cannot. If one could assign it the name “great,” it would no longer be the Dao that claims no credit and does not reveal itself as a ruler.

Some suspect that the three words “chang wu ming” (“constantly nameless”) were omitted after “do not know who governs them.” The two phrases “can it be called small?” and “can it be called great?” are questions, not direct assertions. Although the sentence endings do not contain the particle “hu,” their meaning implies a question. The previous chapter offers similar examples: “Can one remain without separation? Can one be like an infant? Can one be free of blemish? Can one act through Wuwei? Can one remain receptive? Can one be without knowledge?” Some versions omit “hu,” yet the passages must still be understood as questions. The Book of Songs also has a similar construction: “Is Zhou not illustrious? Is the Emperor’s mandate not timely?” The lines are actually written, “Zhou is not illustrious; the Emperor’s mandate is not timely,” but their meaning still carries a rhetorical question.

Thus, the sage can accomplish great things precisely because he does not regard himself as great.

This chapter discusses the Dao of Heaven and Earth, then turns at the end to the sage because the sage accords with that Dao. The cycle of the seasons runs its course, and all things return to their roots: this shows the Dao’s utmost breadth. Yet Heaven and Earth do not claim credit for this, and all things do not know who governs them. Though the Dao of Heaven and Earth is vast, it does not regard itself as vast. The sage is the same, and so can accomplish great things: though his Dao is vast, he does not regard himself as great.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Hold fast to the “Great Image”—the complete image of the Great Dao—and all under Heaven will turn toward it. Once they have turned toward it, they will come to no harm, and so will be settled, peaceful, and at ease.

Embody and hold fast to the Great Dao without deviating from it. The “Great Image” is a metaphor for the Dao as a whole: the sage does not claim the Dao as his own or consider himself great, and so is able to accomplish greatness.

The passage above is Chapter 29.

When people throughout the world embody and hold fast to the “Great Image”—the Dao as a whole—they will turn toward them. They will not be harmed by turning toward them, but will instead find peace, balance, and well-being.

“Hold fast” means to embody the Dao without deviating from it. The “Great Image” is a metaphor for the Dao. A later passage says, “The Great Image has no form; the Dao is hidden and nameless.” Here, “go toward” means to turn toward, and “not harmed” means to benefit. The sage who embodies the Dao is welcomed by people throughout the world, yet does not benefit them by seeking advantage. Benefits pursued for their own sake may bring harm along with gain; benefits given without seeking personal advantage can be lasting and free from harm. In this way, the people can remain peaceful, balanced, and well for a long time. The Zhenghe commentary says: “Peace” means being free from danger; “balance” means being free from deviation; and “well-being” means being open and secure.

Beautiful music and delicious food can make passing guests stop. But the Dao, when spoken of, is bland and without flavor; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard, yet in its use it is never exhausted.

“Exhausted” means brought to an end. Benefits that come from external things cannot last. Only the Dao benefits people without seeking personal advantage, and so its benefits endure. Music includes the sounds and sights of singing, instrumental performance, and dance. “Bait” refers to the flavors of food and drink, as well as the formalities of hosting guests. A feast with music can delight guests, but once they leave, the sights and sounds of the music and the flavors of the food are gone. Such pleasure is brief; it does not last throughout the day. The Dao cannot be tasted like food, nor does it have the sounds and colors of music to watch and hear. Yet using the Great Dao can bring people lasting peace, balance, and well-being, without ever reaching an end. That is why it is said that the Dao’s use is inexhaustible.

The passage above is Chapter 30.

If you would reduce something, you must first let it expand fully. If you would weaken something, you must first let it grow strong. If you would abolish something, you must first let it flourish. If you would take something from someone, you must first give it to them. This is called subtle insight.

“Xi” means to close or draw together; “zhang” means to open or spread out. Laozi says that things turning toward their opposites is how the Dao operates. He also says that profound and subtle De often runs counter to people’s usual views. So the approach described here is, in broad terms, to act contrary to what people see before them, making one’s intentions difficult to discern. The author uses the four pairs of contrary methods mentioned earlier as analogies, then sums them up in the six words “the soft overcomes the hard, the weak overcomes the strong.” This resembles the previous chapter’s opening, which uses skill in walking, speaking, planning, closing, and tying as analogies before concluding with skill in saving people and things.

People such as Sun Wu, Wu Qi, Shang Yang, and Han Fei used political stratagems to entrap others without their victims realizing it. Some believe these stratagems all derive from Laozi’s thought. Laozi’s arguments may indeed leave room for shortcomings and give people an opportunity to exploit them. But to conclude from this that anyone in the world who accepts Laozi’s teachings must be suspect, and to infer his inner motives from his words, is excessive. Commentators, too, are misguided if they simply try to cover up and defend him, or fob readers off with vague explanations.

What the eye cannot see is called “wei,” or subtle. “Weiming,” subtle illumination, means concealing outward signs so that others cannot see them, much like “ximing,” hidden use of clear perception, in the previous chapter. People see only that someone is expanding, strengthening, reviving, and giving, without realizing that he actually intends to draw in, weaken, abolish, and take away. This is why it is called “weiming.” The character “xi” is pronounced “xi,” with the sense of drawing together.

The soft can overcome the hard; the weak can overcome the strong.

If the other person is hard and forceful, I want to overcome him with hardness; if he is powerful, I want to defeat him with power. Wouldn’t that be difficult? I put myself in a soft and yielding position, and the strong person does not guard against me. In the end, I am able to overcome him. Why? Because I take the opposite course, leaving him unable to fathom my true nature. Su Shi said: “The strong in the world are all contending with one another, while I alone respond with softness. When the strong have been wounded and the weak have perished, I do not struggle with them; I simply sit and wait for them to decline. That is how I am able to prevail.” Yet would a sage deliberately act this way just to wait for a chance to defeat others? The sage simply understands that circumstances naturally unfold this way and follows their course.

Fish cannot leave deep waters; a state’s sharp instruments must not be readily displayed to others.

Once fish leave deep waters, they are easily controlled and caught. If a state displays its sharp instruments, people will see their advantages and imitate them, perhaps even seeking to surpass them. In that case, what was once my advantage will no longer be an advantage. By keeping its sharp instruments beneath the deep waters and out of sight, a state leaves others unable to fathom its true nature. This is what is called “subtle illumination”—insight that is fine and deeply concealed.

The above is Chapter Thirty-One. Its central theme is captured in six words: “softness overcomes hardness; weakness overcomes strength.” The first section speaks of taking the opposite course from others; the third speaks of leaving them unable to fathom one’s true nature.

The Dao always follows its own nature. It does not deliberately force things, yet nothing is left undone.

The Dao’s Wuwei (non-action) endures unchanged; it is not merely temporary, so it is called “constant non-action.” It may appear to do nothing, yet nothing that ought to be done is left unaccomplished. If Wuwei caused things to be neglected or left incomplete, what would be worthwhile about it? The Wuwei spoken of here means acting in accordance with one’s nature, at ease and content.

If rulers and lords can hold fast to this way of Wuwei, the myriad things will transform of their own accord.

If rulers can uphold the Way of Wuwei (non-action)—a principle of governance that refrains from imposing arbitrary acts and follows nature—then all things will change of their own accord, even without deliberate efforts to make them change.

When all things are changing, if someone develops a desire to intervene and bring about change, that desire should be steadied through “the uncarved simplicity of the nameless” (a plain state free of human embellishment, here referring to the Way of Wuwei). “Desire” means an intention to act; “arise” means to come forth. Wu Cheng explains that those who have not fully attained Wuwei often see all things changing and hasten to make them change. As soon as this intention arises, they have strayed from the Way of Wuwei. So, when desire first begins to emerge, it should be restrained through the Way, so that it does not arise further. In this way, desire returns to a state of desirelessness, without clinging to anything.

When the impulse to act recklessly no longer arises, the mind becomes calm, and all under Heaven will naturally return to the right Way.

“Calm” is the opposite of “arising”: it means returning to the original state of things. When the intention to intervene arises, the Way steadies it; desire then ceases to arise, and action comes to a halt. Thus, even without deliberate efforts to bring order to all under Heaven, it will naturally return to the right Way. This follows the same principle as the self-transformation of all things: some proceed calmly in accord with the Way, while others proceed because they have benefited from it, yet in the end they reach the same result.

Wu Cheng concludes: The first two sections of this chapter explain how, through Wuwei, the people transform themselves; the last two explain how, through a love of stillness, the people return to what is right.

The second section begins with “Superior De does not act as De,” so the word “De” was used as its title. The title itself has no particular meaning. Commentators, however, have claimed that the first section deals exclusively with the Dao and the second exclusively with De. This interpretation is seriously mistaken. Some versions render the passage as: “Superior De does not act as De … the title has no particular meaning, but commentators claim …” It now seems that “Dao Jing” and “De Jing” were simply named after a word at the beginning of each section. Later generations joined the two titles as the Dao De Jing; the book as a whole was not named using the words “Dao De.”

“Superior De does not act as De, and so has De; inferior De does not lose De, and so has no De.”

Here, the Dao is contrasted with benevolence. “Superior De” is a state above De: the Dao. “Inferior De” is a state below De: benevolence. The Dao follows what is natural and does nothing; it does not treat De as something to pursue deliberately. Hence, it “does not act as De.” To say that it “has De” means that De is naturally contained within the Dao. The benevolent person practices benevolence gently and lovingly, always worrying about losing their own De. Hence, they “do not lose De.” To say that they “have no De” means that, as a result, they cannot truly possess De.

“Superior De does nothing and has no purpose in doing so; inferior De acts and has a purpose.”

Here again, the Dao is contrasted with benevolence. The word “purpose” can mean either application or intention. The Dao is Wuwei (non-action): it does not deliberately apply anything in order to act, nor does it treat De as something to pursue. Benevolence, by contrast, acts and makes that action its purpose.

“Superior De does nothing and has no purpose in doing so; inferior De acts and has a purpose.”

Here again, the Dao is contrasted with benevolence. The word “purpose” can mean application. The Dao is Wuwei (non-action): it uses no method to bring about action. Benevolence, by contrast, acts with intention and purpose.

“Superior benevolence acts without a purpose; superior righteousness acts with a purpose.”

Here, De is contrasted with benevolence. “Superior benevolence” refers to a state above benevolence: De. “Superior righteousness” refers to a state above righteousness: benevolence. De does involve action, but not to achieve any particular end. Although it falls short of the Dao’s Wuwei and lack of purpose, it is superior to benevolence’s deliberate, purposeful action.

“When superior ritual acts and no one responds, it rolls up its sleeves, bares its arms, and forcibly imposes the ritual.”

This passage focuses specifically on “righteousness.” “Higher ritual” refers to a state beyond ritual: righteousness. “Roll up” means to gather up or raise one’s sleeves; “approach” means to draw near or move toward someone. Righteousness is no longer enough to move people, so one acts righteously, yet no one responds. When others do not come near, one has no choice but to go near them. One then rolls up one’s sleeves and personally approaches the other person. This image conveys a way of acting that is both effortful and awkward.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual.

These lines continue the preceding passage and introduce what follows.

Ritual appears only after loyalty and trust have grown faint, and it is the beginning of disorder. “Foreknowledge” means knowing in advance and displaying cleverness and craft. It is the showy appearance of the Dao and the beginning of foolishness.

This passage discusses ritual, wisdom, loyalty, and trust together. As profound De gradually thins, it declines first into benevolence, then into righteousness, and finally into ritual; loyalty and trust fade along with it. Ritual originally aims to put things in order and prevent confusion, but instead becomes a source of disorder. That is why it is called “the beginning of disorder.”

The Dao is like the life force in a tree before it becomes visible: before the tree sprouts, the source of its growth is already hidden within it. Once it sprouts, De is like the root, benevolence the trunk, righteousness the branches, ritual the leaves, and wisdom the flowers. The root, trunk, branches, leaves, and flowers all grow from the Dao. Wisdom seeks to distinguish things clearly and avoid foolishness, yet instead opens the way to foolishness. That is why it is called “the beginning of foolishness.”

Therefore, the noble person grounds themself in profound De and does not linger over shallow ritual; they abide in the genuine Dao and do not pursue showy cleverness. “That” refers to what is shallow and showy; “this” refers to what is profound and genuine. The earlier passage says to rest in what is profound rather than take up what is shallow: this means honoring De without deliberately elevating ritual. It says to hold to what is genuine rather than take up what is showy: this means embodying the Great Dao without flaunting cleverness.

The foregoing is Chapter Thirty-Three. In Laozi’s arrangement, the first chapter of the upper section discusses the Dao and De separately, while the first chapter of the lower section discusses the Dao, De, benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom.

Here is how I distinguish the Dao, De, benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. The fundamental principle followed in common by Heaven, Earth, and all things is called the Dao. The inherent nature that all things receive from Heaven and Earth is called De. De is the general term; when divided, it comprises four qualities: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. The virtue formed by receiving the fundamental Qi through which Heaven and Earth nurture all things, and by gently cherishing them, is called benevolence. The virtue formed by receiving Heaven and Earth’s power of gathering things in and helping each find its proper place, and by making clear-cut judgments about them, is called righteousness. The virtue formed by receiving Heaven and Earth’s power of enabling things to grow and flourish, and by clearly expressing order and refinement, is called propriety. The virtue formed by receiving Heaven and Earth’s power of storing things away and bringing them to stability, and by understanding things in a comprehensive and undivided way, is called wisdom.

Laozi regards the Dao as nameless and De as named. Below De come, in descending order, benevolence, righteousness, and propriety, each at a lower level than the one before. Thus this chapter places the Dao first, above De, and calls it “highest De”; it places De second, above benevolence, and calls it “highest benevolence”; benevolence comes third, below De and above righteousness; righteousness comes fourth, above propriety. The chapter’s overall account is that when the Dao is lost, people turn to De; when De is lost, they turn to benevolence; when benevolence is lost, they turn to righteousness; and after righteousness is lost, they turn to propriety. Propriety ranks fifth. Since the text mentions propriety first and then “foresight”—the ability to discern or anticipate things in advance—wisdom ranks sixth.

If we compare these qualities to the six line positions of a hexagram in the Book of Changes, the Dao occupies the first position, De the second, benevolence the third, righteousness the fourth, propriety the fifth, and wisdom the sixth. The Dao is the root; wisdom is its outward expression. When the root is full and sound, the outward expression is not showy or superficial. The first and top positions represent the beginning and end of things. De is like a tree’s roots, and propriety like its leaves and branches: when the roots are deep, the leaves do not become thin or insubstantial. The second and fifth positions correspond to each other. Benevolence is like a tree’s trunk, and righteousness like its branches: the trunk stands firm while the branches divide, and the third and fourth positions are adjacent.

The Dao is like Heaven: it contains and covers all things and is their source. De is like Earth. Its soil is sincerity and trustworthiness, the ground in which the “four sprouts” of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom can grow. Benevolence is like spring, when the earth of De passes its influence to Wood; righteousness is like autumn, when Wood passes its influence to Metal; propriety is like summer, when Metal passes its influence to Fire; and wisdom is like winter, when Fire passes its influence to Water. The successive transmission and mutual restraint among the four seasons and the Five Phases are used here as an analogy for how these levels of virtue follow one another.

The Dao is the foundation, De comes next, then benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and finally wisdom. In this order, the Dao and De stand above benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom.

Truly lofty De does not deliberately display itself as virtuous. Those who speak of benevolence let their loving kindness show; those whose De is at a lower level are unwilling to give up the reputation for virtue. Those who speak of righteousness deliberately proclaim their righteousness, while those who speak of ritual emphasize its formalities.

Thus, deliberately pursuing De means losing natural De; even clinging to Wuwei (non-action) becomes a deliberate pursuit. When one acts with a specific aim, De becomes contrived. Deliberately displaying loyalty and trustworthiness shows that the Dao’s original simplicity has grown thin. These outward displays are merely the Dao’s superficial flourishes.

To call what is not “something” and then believe that no one responds to you is the beginning of confusion and the starting point of folly.

In ancient times, each of the myriad things received the One—that is, the Dao as their foundation—and so found stability. Heaven received it and became clear; Earth received it and became tranquil; spirits received it and became numinous; valleys received it and became full; the myriad things received it and grew. When lords and kings received it, they became the proper models for all under Heaven. All these transformations came from the same foundation.

The One is the De of emptiness and openness: a quality that is clear, still, and able to contain the myriad things. It is also what the previous chapter called “embracing.”