《道德真经注(吴澄)》Vol. 2

“One” is the so-called “One”; it is also what the later phrase “the Dao gives birth to One” refers to. Zhuangzi calls it the “Great One,” and sometimes simply calls it the Dao or the One. It is the function of the Dao of Nature as it manifests itself: empty and never self-satisfied, taking the rear and not striving to be first, gentle rather than forceful, weak rather than overbearing. The preceding chapters have mentioned these qualities several times; this chapter fully explains their underlying principle. To “obtain” means to obtain this One and make it one’s own De (Virtue/Power); only then can these qualities appear.

Heaven, Earth, spirit, and valley have different names but share the same essence. What moves and is clear is called “Heaven”; what gathers and is still is called “Earth.” “Spirit” is the subtle working of Yin-Yang’s two Qi (vital energies) between Heaven and Earth. Zhang Zai’s saying, “The two Qi are everywhere, and so are difficult to fathom,” expresses this principle. Their workings respond to things and change with them, without any fixed form, and so they are called numinous. “Valley” refers to the empty space between Heaven and Earth. Zhang Zai held that emptiness is Qi. Qi fills this space and is present everywhere, and so it is called full. “Steadfastness” is like the trunk of a tree. To “be the steadfastness of the world” means, in effect, to become the standard for the people.

Only when Heaven is clear, Earth is still, spirit is numinous, and the valley is full can the myriad things continue to thrive. The lords and kings stand above the world and become a standard for the people. All of this is possible because they have obtained the One.

If Heaven lacked the De of clarity, it might split apart. If Earth lacked the De of stillness, it might quake. If spirit lacked its numinous working, it might lose its efficacy. If the valley could not be full, it might run dry. If the myriad things could not grow, they might perish. If the lords and kings could not stand by the right way, but instead cared only to exalt themselves in a position of honor, they might fall and lose their place.

“Without” means lacking this quality and relying on it to carry out its function. “Split” means to break apart and collapse; “quake” means to shake; “lose its efficacy” means to cease responding and lose its numinous working; “run dry” means to be unable to remain full; “perish” means to stop growing and pass into extinction; “fall” means to tumble and lose one’s position.

Thus, honor must take lowliness as its root, and high position must rest on what is low. This is why lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” and “worthless”—all humble forms of self-reference. Do they not thereby take lowliness as their root? Is this not so?

This chapter explains its teaching through six statements, following what came before by taking “low” as the foundation. When rulers of the feudal states call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy,” are they not placing themselves in a low position and making lowliness their foundation?

Continuing from the earlier discussion of “noble” and “high,” this chapter focuses on rulers. Their status is noble and exalted, so they should be especially careful to preserve a receptive, still, and humble De, placing themselves in a low position. “Orphan” suggests someone without a father; “widower,” someone without a husband; and “unworthy” means “not good.” These are unflattering, unwelcome titles, yet rulers use them for themselves precisely to place themselves below others. Earlier, the text says “make lowliness the root and lowness the foundation”; later, it says only “make lowliness the root.” This is an abbreviated expression, using one phrase to convey both ideas.

Thus the highest praise is, paradoxically, to receive no praise at all: one should neither wish to shine brilliantly like fine jade nor stand out crudely like a stone.

“Lulu” describes the appearance of fine jade, while “luoluo” describes that of a stone. Being famous and praised by everyone is only a shallow and limited kind of renown; to let one’s reputation fade until no one praises it is the highest praise. This, too, expresses the idea of resting in a low position. If one does not deliberately distinguish beauty from ugliness, no one can immediately tell which thing is smooth and bright as jade and which is rough as stone. Once people see the difference between beauty and ugliness, the beautiful thing will naturally be praised, making it impossible to go without acclaim. Both parts of the chapter say that preserving a receptive, still, and humble De—like jade and stone, neither displaying oneself nor competing for superiority—is how rulers can attain the One, the Dao.

The above is Chapter Thirty-Four.

Reversal is the movement of the Dao; softness and weakness are how it works.

When still, the Dao appears as “nonbeing”; when it moves, it stands in relation to “being.” “Reversal” means that being is contained within nonbeing and is never separate from it. The Dao’s essence is empty, and its operation is characterized by softness and weakness. “Softness and weakness” mean being empty without becoming self-satisfied. These two statements form the guiding principle of this chapter.

All things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.”

From here through “good at lending and completing,” the text explains in detail the statement “The movement of the Dao is reversal”: the Dao propels things by changing in the opposite direction. The myriad things take shape as Qi gathers. Form arises from Qi, and Qi arises from the Dao. Qi and form are beings, while the Dao is nonbeing. Since nonbeing differs from being, this is called “reversal.” It means that the Dao operates in the opposite way.

When people of the highest understanding hear of the Dao, they strive to put it into practice. Those of middling understanding hear of it and seem to remember it, yet seem to forget it. Those of the lowest understanding hear of it and laugh aloud. If it were not laughed at by those of the lowest understanding, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

This passage concerns how people understand the Dao, which operates through reversal. The Dao runs counter to what people ordinarily expect of worldly things. Only people of the highest understanding can recognize it and strive to put it into practice. Those of middling understanding have somewhat less insight; after hearing of it, they seem to understand, yet do not. Those of the lowest understanding lack insight and laugh because the Dao seems contrary to ordinary sense. Few people can recognize the Dao, which is why it is precious. If everyone could recognize it, it would no longer be worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus, those who spoke in ancient times put it this way:

This sentence introduces the next two sections and means that people of old once expressed it in these words. The Dao operates contrary to ordinary expectations, as shown by the twelve examples that follow.

The bright Dao seems dim; the path that advances seems to retreat; the level path seems to have hollows and bumps.

These lines describe how things can appear to take on the opposite quality as they unfold. Holding back one’s radiance and seeming dim is precisely how one preserves brightness. Choosing to stay behind rather than rush ahead is precisely how one moves forward. Like thread with uneven knots and flaws, what seems irregular can, in fact, bring about an overall evenness.

The highest virtue seems like a low valley; the purest white seems stained; abundant virtue seems deficient; establishing virtue seems like slackness; genuine simplicity seems altered. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed last; the greatest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image has no form.

The valley achieves great heights because it lies low. Colors, once stained, appear all the whiter. A space that is narrow and seems insufficient can instead expand into vastness. Laxity and a failure to establish oneself can instead become the starting point for building.

“True substance” refers to what is real, as in “the real within the real.” “Changing” means failing to keep faith. Only after keeping faith can something be called real; yet when reality reaches its utmost, it seems changeable and untrustworthy. A square takes shape through its corners, but when squareness and breadth reach their utmost, the corners are no longer distinct, and it no longer looks square. An object becomes a vessel only after it has been made, but when a vessel’s capacity reaches its utmost, it is difficult to complete and takes a long time to finish. Interwoven sounds become music, but when music reaches its utmost, the sounds grow sparse. An image must be visible to be an image, but when it reaches its utmost, it has no visible form.

The Dao, the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe, is hidden and nameless. Precisely because it is the Dao, it excels at giving to all things and enabling each to fulfill its own nature.

This passage sums up the meaning of the two preceding sections: the Dao is concealed in namelessness, and so can give universally to all things without being diminished. All the examples above describe opposing relations that appear as things move and change.

The Dao gives rise to one Qi (vital energy). This one Qi divides into the two forces of Yin and Yang, whose union forms a third state, from which all things are born. All things carry Yin and embrace Yang; the two Qi blend together to form harmony.

From here through “few under heaven can match it,” the text further explains that “softness and weakness are the Dao’s function.” The Dao arises from nothingness and transforms into empty, open Qi. This then divides and combines in turn, giving rise to all things. All things carry Yin and embrace Yang; the Qi of Yin and Yang blend together and reach harmony.

The passage from here through “few in the world are able to do this” explains in detail that gentleness and weakness are the way the Dao operates. The Dao gives rise from nothingness to a single, empty and harmonious Qi (vital energy), the original energy that is empty and calm. This Qi then differentiates into Yin and Yang. Together, Yin and Yang and the original Qi are called “three,” which is why the text says “gives birth to three.” This does not mean that, beyond one and two, there is some separate third thing. All things are generated by these three. In coming into being, they turn their backs to Yin and face Yang, with the harmonizing Qi of balance and unity between them. “Harmony” means that Yin and Yang are properly balanced, with neither one prevailing.

All things depend on this harmonizing Qi to come into being, and must continue to draw on it after they have been formed if they are not to lose their root. The Qi that is the root of all things is empty and never full, which is why it is called “weak.” This explains why the Dao operates through gentleness and weakness.

People dislike no titles more than “orphan,” “widower,” and “one without blessings,” yet lords and kings use these words to refer to themselves.

This passage speaks of how people can understand the use of gentleness and weakness. “Orphan,” “widower,” and “one without blessings” are not titles that place someone above others; they are names people dislike. When lords and kings use them for themselves, they are demonstrating the use of gentleness and weakness.

Thus, sometimes a thing is diminished and thereby gains; sometimes it is increased and thereby suffers loss.

This sentence introduces the two points that follow: gentleness and weakness may seem to bring loss, yet they lead to gain; strength and power may seem to add force, yet they bring harm. The three things described below are examples of this.

The principle others teach, I teach as well: those who are forceful, violent, and brutal often meet an untimely end. I will make this the foundation of my teaching.

This passage concerns living by gentleness and weakness. “Forceful and brutal” refers to someone overbearing and violent; “brutal” carries the sense of being hard and powerful. “Does not meet a good end” means failing to die well. For example, Zilu, because of his unyielding courage, did not meet a good end. “Foundation of my teaching” means the root principle of instruction.

This speaks of applying the principle of softness and weakness. “Beam” also carries the sense of strength and hardness: a piece of wood spanning water is called a beam, as is a piece of wood supporting the roof ridge. In both cases, the word conveys solidity and force. “Unable to meet a good end” means unable to die peacefully. Confucius once thought that Zilu’s forceful temperament meant he might not meet a good end; later, Zilu indeed died amid the turmoil caused by Kong Kui in the state of Wei. “Father of teaching” is like “the root of instruction”: “father” refers to something exalted, with nothing above it. When people teach others, I teach them the principle of softness and weakness. Those who strive to prevail through force and know nothing of softness will ultimately find it difficult to preserve themselves. To overcome others through hardness may bring benefits that instead lead to the calamity of an untimely death. This principle, which appears to bring gain but in fact brings loss, is the most fundamental principle of instruction, and so it is called the “father of teaching.”

The softest thing in the world can move freely among the hardest things in the world. What has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this I understand the benefit of Wuwei (non-action).

This continues the preceding idea of teaching through softness and weakness, explaining it further. “The supremely soft” and “what has no substance” both belong to the realm of softness and weakness. “Move freely” means to travel back and forth in every direction without hindrance. “What has no substance” refers to something without impurities or physical form; “where there is no gap” means a place with no opening, where nothing can enter. Water is extremely soft and weak, yet it can wear through the hardest stone. Qi (vital energy) has no fixed form or substance, yet it can penetrate metal and stone walls that have no gaps. By means of softness and formlessness, hard and tangible things are worn away; in turn, one gains the ability to move through what is hard and enter where there is no opening. This is the principle of appearing to lose while actually gaining. Softness can overcome hardness, and the formless can enter the formed. None of this results from deliberate action; it happens naturally. That is why Wuwei is said to be beneficial.

The teaching that does not rely on words, and the benefits of following what is natural, are things that few in the world can achieve.

This passage sums up the meaning of the previous two sections. “Teaching without words” means that people need not wait for someone to speak and instruct them before they can understand that they should be yielding and should not force their strength. “The benefit of non-action” means that the power of utmost softness, formlessness, and non-action can move through things and permeate them; its ability to guide and help people surpasses the efforts of ordinary people. All the methods in the world that rely on spoken instruction and deliberate action to help others fall far short of this approach. Hence, few can equal it. What has been discussed above is all about applying the Dao of softness and weakness.

The previous chapter spoke of “attaining the One” and specifically discussed applying softness and weakness. Why, then, does this chapter place “return” and “weakness” side by side? Because their meanings are connected: “return” traces softness and weakness back to their source, while “weakness” describes what the way of return looks like when put into practice. Whenever “return” is mentioned, it means applying softness and weakness; whenever “weakness” is mentioned, it means moving against the many restless, formed things. There is no separate principle called “return” apart from softness and weakness.

Which is more worth cherishing, reputation or life? Which deserves greater regard, life or possessions? Which is the greater loss: gaining reputation and possessions but losing one’s life, or keeping one’s life but losing reputation and possessions?

Here, “cherish” means to love dearly, and “regard” means to value highly. “Reputation” is placed before “person” and “possessions” after it for the sake of phrasing and rhyme. Sima says: between gaining reputation and possessions but losing one’s life, and preserving one’s life but losing reputation and possessions, which brings the greater harm?

Therefore, excessive attachment inevitably comes at a great cost, and excessive hoarding inevitably brings heavy loss.

Excessive concern for fame means placing great weight on one’s reputation. “Great” refers to oneself. Compared with fame, oneself is far more important. Those who pursue fame often prize their reputation above all else, neglecting their own bodies instead. In the end, they exhaust their spirit and shorten their lives. This is what it means to damage one’s precious self for the sake of fame, hence the phrase “great expense.”

To store up great quantities of possessions is to place great value on wealth. “Abundant” also refers to oneself. Compared with wealth, oneself is far more important. Those who covet possessions keep accumulating and hoarding them, while neglecting themselves. In the end, they may lose their lives and harm their vital nature. This is what it means to let one’s precious self suffer loss for the sake of wealth.

Those who know contentment will not be disgraced; those who know when to stop will not fall into danger. Thus they can endure.

Knowing that one’s proper place and limits are fixed leads to contentment and an end to excessive concern for fame. One will therefore not be disgraced by losing one’s reputation or damaging one’s De. Knowing that external things offer no benefit leads one to stop in good time and cease pursuing them. One will therefore not shorten one’s life or harm one’s vitality, and so can endure.

A work brought to its utmost completion may appear incomplete, yet its function will never fail. Fullness brought to its utmost may appear empty, yet its function will never be exhausted. The supremely straight may seem bent; the supremely skillful may seem clumsy; the supremely eloquent may seem inarticulate.

If “completion” is understood only as achievement, “fullness” only as being filled, “straight” only as being perfectly straight, “skillful” only as being clever, and “eloquent” only as speaking well, the understanding is shallow. What appears incomplete is the greater completion; what appears empty is the greater fullness; what appears bent is the greater straightness; what appears clumsy is the greater skill; what appears inarticulate is the greater eloquence. Much of Laozi’s book conveys this idea: things that seem opposed can fulfill one another and work together. Earlier chapters have made this point repeatedly, so there is no need to explain it further.

Movement can overcome cold; stillness can overcome heat.

The movement of Yang Qi can resist the cold of Yin Qi, while the stillness of Yin Qi can suppress the heat of Yang Qi. This, too, shows how things that seem opposed can work together and act upon one another.

Only through clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) can one become a model for all under Heaven. Clarity and stillness mean Wuwei: not a single distracting thought in the mind, but stillness without rash action.

Clarity and stillness mean Wuwei (non-action): the mind is free of even the slightest distracting thought, calm and quiet, undisturbed by external things. “Ruler,” as in the phrase “the proper ruler,” means one who governs all under Heaven. A ruler’s duties are many, but if they worry over every matter and force their way through every situation, how can they truly govern the world well? Only someone who is clear and still, practicing Wuwei, can act without forcing and yet leave nothing undone; such a person can therefore rule all under Heaven. This is an example of things that seem opposed in fact working together.

Some also hold that the stillness in “clarity and stillness” is defined in contrast to agitation: overcoming heat requires stillness, while overcoming cold requires movement; each leans toward one extreme. The stillness of clarity, by contrast, is not opposed to another extreme. It contains movement, joining movement and stillness as one without clinging to either, and can therefore serve as a standard for all under Heaven. This interpretation is subtle, but it is not the original meaning of this chapter.

When the world is peaceful and governed by the Dao, people retire swift horses from service, yoke them to manure carts, and use them to carry fertilizer and cultivate fields. When the world is in turmoil and without the Dao, warhorses breed in the countryside.

“Retire” means to withdraw from service; “swift horses” are horses good at running; and “manure carts” are carts for transporting manure. In ancient times, each dian comprised sixty-four jing units of land, and the people had to provide warhorses as a tax. In an age governed by the Dao, states guarded their own borders and did not invade one another. Fine horses among the people were therefore no longer used to pull chariots; they were retired to haul manure and fertilize the fields. “Warhorses” are horses equipped for battle, while “the countryside” refers to the borderland between two states. In an age without the Dao, enemy states invaded and battles were frequent in the borderlands. Warhorses could not return home to rest and recover, and could only breed there.

Most editions do not include the word “cart” after “manure”; it appears only in the passage from the scripture quoted in the Zhuzi yulei, whose source has long been unknown. Wu Cheng points out that when Zhang Heng quoted the Laozi in his “Eastern Capital Rhapsody,” he wrote, “Retire the swift horses to haul manure in carts.” This shows that the word “cart” was still present in the scripture in the late Eastern Han. By the time of the edition annotated by Wang Bi, who lived not long after Zhang Heng, the word had already dropped out. It may have been omitted by accident in an early copy, with the error then passed down and never corrected. The final word “countryside” rhymes with the preceding text; without “cart,” the rhyme does not fit.

The principles behind all things in the world are present within the human heart. So even without leaving home, one can understand the world. The Way of Heaven—the fundamental pattern governing how all things in heaven and earth operate—is the common source of all principles. It can be discerned through inward reflection; unlike particular things outside us, it need not be seen through a window.

If one does not understand that these principles are already present in the heart and believes one must always go somewhere to learn something, then the farther one travels, the less one comes to know. For this reason, the sage need not travel to understand how things work; need not see with their own eyes to understand the nature of things; and need not act deliberately to bring things to completion.

The sage does not cling to personal opinions but makes the people’s wishes their own.

Those who pursue learning worry that their knowledge is insufficient, so they devote themselves to broad study, and their knowledge increases day by day. Those who cultivate the Dao return from purposeful action to emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), letting go each day of some attachments and deeds.

They keep letting go until they reach the state of Wuwei. Through Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished.

Those who cultivate the Dao gradually reduce their deliberate actions, letting go again and again until there is nothing left to let go of. Then they reach Wuwei. Those who act deliberately can complete only one task by doing one thing, and ten tasks by doing ten things. Yet the tasks they have not undertaken are too numerous to count—how could deliberate action complete every one of them? Only by not acting deliberately can all things be brought to completion.

Those who govern the world usually do so through Wuwei. If they act deliberately at every turn, they cannot govern the world.

“Having no affairs” here means Wuwei. Governing the world should follow the same principle: when the sage’s De (Virtue/Power) is deep, the people naturally rally to them. If the sage must instead rely on schemes and force, deliberately making countless arrangements, how could they truly win the world?

The Commentary by Zhenghe says: The sage’s mind is empty and clear, able to receive; it is still and quiet, yet able to respond. It is like a mirror reflecting forms: whatever their beauty or ugliness, the mirror reflects them all. It is also like an echo in a valley: whatever the loudness or softness of a sound, the valley answers it. The sage responds as things change, without fixed opinions.

Dong Sijing says: The sage has no selfish mind and is not entangled by external things. When things come before him, he responds in accordance with them. Master Wang says: All thoughts and actions are directed toward responding to external things. The Book of Documents says: “From among our people, wisdom and ability emerge.”

I treat the good with goodness, and I also treat the not-good with goodness; in this way, all can attain goodness. I trust those who are trustworthy, and I also trust those who are not trustworthy; in this way, all can attain trust.

Among the people, some are good and others not good; some are trustworthy and others not. The sage does not decide how to treat them based on these distinctions, but treats all with goodness and trusts all. Thus, not only do the good receive goodness and the trustworthy receive trust; the not-good also receive goodness, and the untrustworthy also receive trust. To “attain” means that the people acquire goodness and trust and are able to keep them. Those who are not good or trustworthy are thereby transformed and become good and trustworthy, so that everyone may possess goodness and trust.

The sage, in the world, is restrained and humble, bringing the hearts of all under Heaven back to a simple and sincere state. The people all listen and watch attentively, and the sage treats them all like children, with a loving heart.

“Xi” describes drawing the mind inward and not insisting on one’s own views. Wang Bi takes it to mean that the mind has no fixed master; “hun” means that the mind does not incline toward either side. Some versions read “die” or “chu,” both meaning fear. Only Wang Bi’s version has “xi,” which he explains as “the mind has no fixed master,” a reading that fits the context better.

Dong Sizjing says that “hun” means to mingle: differences dissolve and what is alike comes together. “All are like infants” means making no distinctions among the myriad things. Su Shi says that people in the world each decide for themselves what is good or bad, sincere or false, and accuse one another. The sage, by contrast, treats everyone alike. People strain their eyes and ears, waiting to see what the sage will accept or reject, but the sage treats them as infants, feeling neither delight nor resentment toward anyone. Thus, those who are good and sincere do not boast, and those who are bad and false do not resent them. Everyone can change peacefully, and the world comes to rest.

“Xi” is pronounced like “he”; “die” is pronounced “da-ye.”

Chapter Forty-One

Coming forth is life; entering is death.

The passage from “coming forth” to “being” is life; the return from “being” to “nonbeing” is death. Here, “coming forth” means manifesting from the formless as something tangible, while “entering” means returning from tangible form to the formless. Zhuangzi says that all things emerge from the pivot of transformation and return to it. He also says that one need not rejoice when things are born or fear when they die, and that all things are born and all things die. These statements all understand “coming forth” as life and “entering” as death.

Of those who follow life, three in ten; of those who follow death, three in ten.

“Ten” is a general term that encompasses the upper, middle, and lower ranks, dividing people roughly into ten categories. “Three in ten” means that three of these ten categories belong to each group: three tend toward life, and three tend toward death.

People can broadly be divided into ten types, across three levels: upper, middle, and lower. Three of these types occur at each level. Those who do not shorten their lives through grief, worry, excessive thought, or indulgence in desires; who do not fall ill from wind, cold, heat, or damp; and who avoid calamities such as punishment, killing, warfare, conflict, crushing injuries, or drowning belong to the group able to preserve life. The opposite kinds are easily harmed: the wealthy and comfortable by inner worries and desires, the poor and lowly by exhausting labor, and the coarse and forceful by failing to live out their full natural span. These belong to the group likely to lose their lives. Each of these two groups accounts for three types among the ten.

In the course of life, however, three out of ten move toward death. Why is this? Because they strive too forcefully to stay alive.

“Move toward” means to go or head in a particular direction; “act” means to undertake something. “Clinging to life” means devoting oneself to preserving one’s own life, and “excessively” means applying too much effort. Some use immortal techniques to extend their lives but do so inappropriately. Some rely on medicine to maintain their health but take too much. Others are so cautious about their homes, nourishment, and daily routines that they make their bodies frail. Three of the ten types are like this: though they seek long life, their actions instead lead them toward death. This is because their desire to live is too strong, and they fail to follow their natural course.

It is said that those skilled at nourishing life walk on land without avoiding rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter battle without avoiding weapons. The rhinoceros finds no place to gore them with its horn; the tiger finds no place to seize them with its claws; weapons find no place to pierce them. Why is this? Because they have not entered the realm of death.

It is said that those skilled at nourishing life walk on land without avoiding rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter battle without avoiding weapons. The rhinoceros finds no place to gore them with its horn; the tiger finds no place to seize them with its claws; weapons find no place to pierce them. Why is this? Because they have not entered the realm of death.

Of the ten types, three follow the way of seeking life, three move toward death, and another three intend to live but actively head into danger. Together, these make nine types. Beyond these nine is one more: the Most High Perfected Person, one who has cultivated the Dao to its highest state.

The character she is like the she in shezheng or sheguan: it means to take charge temporarily without treating what one oversees as one’s own. The Most High Perfected Person does not regard life as belonging to him, but cares for it as if it were only entrusted to him for a time. His mind is empty and still, his outward manner gentle and yielding. He rests as calmly as wood or stone, without awareness or sensation, and is as pure and guileless as an infant, free of desire. Even when confronted by fierce beasts or violent people, he does not flee; instead, they become tame and draw near, causing him no harm. This is because all hindrances and impurities within him have dissolved. His spirit and vital energy are so insubstantial that they are like wind and shadows, impossible to grasp and unable to form a body that can be killed. Even if someone wished to harm him, where could they strike?

The Dao gives life to the myriad things, and De nourishes them. The myriad things take on concrete forms and, by following the right time, come to completion. Thus, there are none among them that do not honor the Dao and cherish De.

“Giving life” means that in spring the myriad things sprout and grow; this is the source from which they begin. “Nourishing” means that in autumn the myriad things are gathered and stored, preserving the benefit brought by the harmonious energy of Heaven and Earth. “Taking form” means that the things that grew in spring continue to flourish in summer, allowing each to appear in its own form; this is the sign of their unhindered growth. “Coming to completion” means following the course of the autumn harvest and storing the myriad things in winter, so that their fruits ripen fully and each finds stability in its own nature and allotted life.

The growth and storage of the myriad things are both set in motion by the Dao and De. Thus, they honor the Dao as they would a father, and cherish De as they would a mother. The Dao and De may seem distinct, but in truth they are one. In spring, the myriad things spread outward from their source and grow, so we say, “The Dao gives them life”; yet the Dao is also De. In autumn, the myriad things gather inward from their abundance and are stored, so we say, “De nourishes them”; yet De is also the Dao.

The Dao is honored and De cherished without anyone commanding the myriad things to do so. They have always done this naturally.

People’s exalted status is usually conferred by others. The Son of Heaven is honored because he has received a mandate from the Lord on High; the feudal lords are esteemed because the Son of Heaven has invested them with their titles. Only the Dao is revered and De cherished without anyone conferring this standing: all things naturally accord them this respect.

Thus the Dao brings all things into being and nurtures them, helping them grow and develop, mature and take form, while nourishing and sheltering them.

The previous chapter said that the Dao brings all things into being and De nurtures them. Here it says that the Dao is revered and De cherished not because anyone has conferred this status, but because all things naturally accord them this respect.

Thus the Dao brings all things into being and nurtures them, helping them grow and develop, mature and take form, while nourishing and sheltering them.

The previous chapter said that the Dao brings all things into being and De nurtures them. Here, however, only the “Dao” is named, not “De,” because De is also the Dao. “Grow and develop” refers to all things taking shape; “mature and take form” means that their development approaches completion. “Nourishing” means continuing to cultivate all things, while “sheltering” means that once they have matured, they return to their source and recover their original state.

To bring all things forth without claiming ownership of them, to act without relying on one’s achievements, and to help all things come to maturity without ruling over them: this is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and subtle power of De.

“Bringing forth” means causing all things to arise and take form; “acting” means nurturing them and helping them grow to maturity. “Without claiming ownership” means having no thought of treating all things as one’s own. “Without relying on one’s achievements” means not regarding the nurturing of all things as one’s own accomplishment. It is like a ruler who acts without thought or contrivance: even while helping all things grow, the ruler has no intention or action aimed at controlling or directing them. Here, the functions of bringing forth, gathering in, and the like are all called “Mysterious De”; the text does not separately mention the Dao, because the Dao is also De.

The passage on the right is Chapter Forty-Three.

All things under Heaven have a source, which may be regarded as the mother of all things under Heaven.

“Beginning” refers to the Dao, and “mother” refers to De. The origin of Heaven and Earth may be regarded as the mother of all things.

Once you have recognized the mother as the source, you can understand the things that arise from it. And once you understand those things, you should return to the source and abide by it. Then, in directing your own life, you will not fall into danger.

After birth, a person is nurtured by their mother and thus comes to know that a child exists within her. Once we know that we ourselves were once children within our mothers, we can hold fast to our own root and remain connected to it, just as a child stays close to its mother. Dong Sijing says: “People receive Qi and are born. Qi is like the mother, and Shen dwells within Qi, like a child. Hold fast to Qi, and it becomes unified; Shen, too, becomes settled.”

Close the mouth and shut the gate of breathing, and throughout life you will not be wearied by the loss of energy. Open the mouth and nose, constantly dealing with affairs, and the depletion that follows will be difficult to reverse.

This is the method for holding fast to the root. The Shuowen says that the character “dui” is formed from “ba” and takes “kou” as its phonetic element. Wu Cheng held that “ba” symbolizes breath exhaling from the mouth; the Dui trigram in the Yijing also represents the mouth. To “block the dui” means to keep the mouth closed and silent, so that Qi does not leak out through it. The “gate” is the passage through which breath enters and leaves—in other words, the nose. Only after first closing the mouth can one further restrain the nasal breath: begin by speaking less, then gradually regulate and reduce the breath until it becomes extremely subtle. In this way, Qi can remain concentrated within the body instead of being continually depleted through exertion. People often need to speak in the course of their work. If they open their mouths each day to handle social exchanges and affairs, their Qi will gradually run out, and it will be difficult to restore.

Attend to what is subtle, and clarity will grow day by day; hold to softness and weakness, and strength will grow day by day.

Here, “small” has much the same meaning as “subtle” in the previous chapter. Observe what is subtle without pursuing discernment too intensely. This prevents overuse of the mind and harm to Shen, and instead brings increasing clarity. Hold to a state of softness and weakness rather than forcing strength; this avoids a fierce depletion of Qi and instead brings increasing vigor. Attending to what is subtle is nurturing the “child”; holding to softness and weakness is holding to the “mother.” Some editions write “yue” in place of “ri”; Wu Cheng considers this a copying error.

Use your own light, then return to inward insight. Leave no opening for calamity to arise; this is called continuing the constant Dao.

This describes a method for cultivating body and mind. A water mirror can reflect things outside itself; this function is called “light.” The source on which the light depends is called “brightness.” Draw back the light that shines outward on things, use it to illuminate the heart and mind, then return it inward and store it there. This is the brightness of the source itself. Overusing the spirit leads to depletion; seeing fish in deep water was regarded as an ill omen. Turning the light toward external things brings calamity upon oneself. Gathering in one’s radiance and living among ordinary people can avert calamity. This means concealing the ordinary light used outwardly and returning it to the inner source of brightness; hence the term “inheriting the constant” (taking up and returning to the constant Dao).

The above is Chapter Forty-Four. The previous chapter discussed how Dao and De exist throughout all things; this chapter discusses how they exist within people themselves.

If someone suddenly gains a little understanding and wishes to follow the Great Dao, what they should be most wary of is showing off.

Here, “I” refers to people in general, not Laozi himself. “Jie ran” is close in meaning to the phrase “jie ran yong zhi cheng lu” in the Mencius: it refers to a brief instant. The character “zhi” (“understanding”) marks the pause in the sentence. “Shi” means to boast or flaunt oneself. Yan Hui, whom Confucius’s school held in high esteem, had talent and virtue yet seemed to lack them; inwardly full, he appeared humble and never showed off. Laozi’s teaching takes a similar stance, treating boastful display as something to be especially avoided. This chapter says that those who do not understand the Dao care only about flaunting themselves. Even if they briefly gain some insight and wish to follow the Great Dao, they should focus on guarding against boastfulness and dare not show off. “Jie” is pronounced “jia.”

The Great Dao is very level, yet people prefer to take the side paths.

“Jing” means a small path, the opposite of the Great Dao. Humbling oneself, holding back, yielding, and avoiding contention make up the Great Dao; this path is level and easy to follow. Acting arrogantly and flaunting oneself is like taking a side path, yet people often prefer to do so.

The court is in great disrepair, the fields are badly neglected, and the storehouses are utterly empty, yet people wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat and drink their fill, and have wealth to spare. This is called domineering display and flaunting one’s riches; it is not in accord with the Dao.

This criticizes practices marked by vanity and extravagance. In the household, not drinking wine or sweeping the courtyard reflects the frugality praised in the “Tang Airs.” If the court is preoccupied with refinement and decoration, it is clear that the palaces must be luxurious. Fields lying fallow and storehouses standing empty show that the ruler has taken away the people’s time for farming and exhausted their strength, leaving them with no reserves. To dress in splendid clothes and ornaments, feast on lavish food and wine, and count the wealth in one’s private treasury as proof of riches is like a thief flaunting stolen goods. Xia Jie and Shang Zhou were such men. How could someone who understands the Dao act this way?

Chapter Forty-Five

What is well established cannot be overturned by anyone; what is well held cannot slip away. Such a person’s descendants will continue to make offerings for generations without end.

A tree planted in level ground will eventually be uprooted or fall. Anything held in both hands will eventually slip free and be lost. One who is truly skilled at establishing something does not set out to establish it, and so it endures and remains firm. One who is truly skilled at holding on does not deliberately grasp, and so does not lose what they hold. The same is true of someone skilled at safeguarding a state and carrying its destiny forward: without trying to hold Heaven’s mandate in place, the mandate remains with them of its own accord. Their descendants therefore continue to make offerings for generation after generation, just like those who are skilled at establishing and holding fast.

Cultivate yourself, and your De will return to what is real.

The passage continues the point above: only by cultivating one’s De can one ensure that one’s descendants continue to make offerings generation after generation. To cultivate De is to preserve within oneself, in its entirety, the reality of the enduring Dao. Everything outside oneself is external; why deliberately act in pursuit of some particular aim? When De is cultivated within, good results arise naturally rather than through deliberate pursuit. In this way, one can safeguard the state and carry its destiny forward. Such a result is not something I sought on purpose.

Cultivate the Dao within yourself, and De will have strength to extend to your family. Cultivate the Dao within your family, and De will grow throughout your village. Cultivate the Dao within your village, and De will become more abundant in your state. Cultivate the Dao within your state, and De will extend everywhere under Heaven.

Use the Dao’s foundation to cultivate yourself, then use its effects to govern others. Here, “family” means those beyond oneself but within one’s nine generations of kin; “village” means the area beyond one’s family but within the local community; “state” means the territory beyond the village but within the state’s borders; and “under Heaven” means the lands beyond those borders, within the four seas. To cultivate the Dao and De in one’s family, village, state, and under Heaven is to extend outward step by step, from what is near to what is far, so that people cultivate their own De. But does this mean teaching everyone one by one? No. If I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people will transform themselves; if I have no selfish desires, the people will return to simplicity.

“Surplus” refers to the influence that extends from one’s own De. “Grow” means that this influence reaches farther than a single family. “Abundant” means it is broader and more substantial than in a single village. “Everywhere” means it extends more widely than throughout a single state. In this passage, some versions write “state” as “country.” The original wording in the Laozi, as quoted in the preface to the Book of Songs and in Kong Yingda’s commentary, uses the character for “state.” It was changed to the character for “country” in the Han dynasty to avoid using the personal name of Emperor Gaozu of Han, Liu Bang. Although the imperial library in the early Tang held many books, it still preserved old copies that had not made this change.

Therefore, observe others as you observe yourself; observe other families as you observe your own; observe other villages as you observe your own village; observe other states as you observe your own state; and observe all under Heaven as you observe all under Heaven.

Those whose De is deep and abundant are like infants. A person whose inner being is filled with De is like a newborn child. Earlier, the text asked whether one could focus the spirit and soften the breath so as to become like an infant. By constantly preserving De without departing from it, one can return to the state of an infant. Mencius said that a person of great De does not lose the heart of an innocent child. Su Shi held that Laozi’s use of the infant as a metaphor for the Dao and De means that infants possess the substance of Dao and De, though its function has not yet appeared.

Poisonous insects will not sting them, fierce beasts will not seize them, and birds of prey will not strike them. “Poisonous insects” refers to creatures such as bees and scorpions, which release venom from their tails; “fierce beasts” means animals such as tigers and leopards. “Sting” means to bite, “seize” means to pounce and grasp, and “strike” means to attack.

Venomous creatures, such as bees and scorpions, sting people by releasing venom from the tips of their tails. Fierce beasts, such as tigers and leopards, pin down and seize their prey with their claws. Birds of prey, such as eagles and falcons, strike and snatch with their wings and talons. Dong Sizheng says: “Those who preserve their inborn nature are harmed by none of the myriad things.” Master Su says: “When the mind clings to nothing, nothing among the myriad things can stand as its enemy. How, then, could anything harm it?”

The bones are weak and the sinews soft, yet the hands can grip tightly into fists. Though a child does not yet know the joining of male and female, its genitals can still become erect: this is Jing and Qi at their fullest. Though it cries all day, its throat does not become hoarse: this is harmonious Qi at its fullest.

“Red child” refers to an infant. “Cry” means to wail; “throat” refers to the pharynx; and “hoarse” means that the voice has become rough. An infant’s body is not yet fully formed, yet its Qi naturally remains undivided. Its desires have not yet been stirred by the outside world, yet its Qi naturally responds. This is Jing and Qi at their purest. The infant can cry for a long time without its breath being impaired because its harmonious Qi is balanced and unobstructed. In the commentary, the pronunciation marked for “though the child” is “zi he qie,” and “hoarse” is pronounced “suo ya qie.”

Understanding how to harmonize is to accord with the constant Way; understanding the constant Way is clarity.

If a person understands the infant’s harmonious and balanced Qi, they understand the constant De. Those who understand the constant De possess the clear insight of natural innocence.

Trying only to increase life instead brings calamity. Letting the mind drive the breath is to force things.

Here, “omen” refers to an inauspicious anomaly, a sign that departs from the vital Qi of Heaven and Earth. Those who cannot keep their Jing and Qi pure as an infant’s are apt to rely on the body to replenish the breath. Seeking to extend life through external nourishment merely tends to an illusory body; it is not the proper way of Qi. If desires cause the breath to move recklessly, the mind driven by desire and pulled by external things is then controlling the breath. This is merely human force.

When things reach the height of their strength, they move toward decline. This is called departing from the Dao. To depart from the Dao is to meet an early end.

Relying on the body to replenish the breath is an excess of the body; letting desire stir the breath recklessly is an excess of desire. Whatever becomes too strong will eventually decline. This is failing to keep to the constant Way; failing to keep to the Dao leads to an early end, so that one cannot endure. If one can remain naturally pure and balanced like an infant, one will not move toward excess and so will not decline prematurely.

Relying on the body and deliberately strengthening one’s own power makes the body overly strong. Acting according to one’s emotions makes them overly intense. Once things become excessive, they inevitably grow old. This is because they have failed to abide by the constant Dao (the Way). Things that do not accord with the Dao come to an end early and cannot endure. If one can always be like an infant, never appearing strong, how could one grow old? And if one does not grow old, how could there be an end?

The above is Chapter Forty-Seven.

Those who understand the Dao do not speak much; those who speak much do not truly understand the Dao. Block the openings of the senses and close the gates through which breath enters and leaves.

This is a way to cherish the body and preserve oneself. Speech depletes vital energy, and only those who do not understand the Dao speak without pause. Those who understand the Dao do not speak much. First block the opening through which words emerge; then you can go further and close the gates through which breath enters and leaves.

Soften your sharpness, resolve confusion, temper your brightness, and blend with the dust of the world. This is called “Mysterious Sameness” (xuantong): becoming profoundly one with all things, without distinction.

This is a way to deal with the world and respond to things. First make your sharpness less keen, and then you can resolve the disputes of others. First temper your own brightness, and then you can blend with the world’s dimness. In relation to both yourself and others, make no distinction between sharp and dull, bright and dim. Become one with all things in the world, profound and beyond measure; this is why it is called “Mysterious Sameness.”

Such a person inspires neither particular closeness nor distance. People do not regard them as someone to profit from, nor as someone who can cause harm. They are neither elevated nor despised. Thus, they become someone the world honors.

Since I am in “Mysterious Sameness” with all things, people cannot treat me according to closeness or distance, benefit or harm, honor or disgrace. Even when affection is as deep as that between close kin, we can forget one another in our hearts and avoid seeking special closeness. Even when we are as unfamiliar as passersby, people cannot bear to keep their distance. Thus, they cannot regard this person as distant or base, and so this person is honored by the world.

I have already become one with the Dao, so others cannot influence me through closeness or distance, gain or loss, rank or low status. Even if I treat someone with the affection I would show my own flesh and blood, that person may still forget me and leave me aside; they cannot truly draw close to me. Even if I keep someone at a distance like a stranger on the road, that person cannot bear to leave me; they cannot truly distance themselves from me. Even if I place no value on status or wealth, others cannot use these to benefit me or make me profit. Even if I place no value on life and death, fortune and disaster, others cannot use them to harm me. Even if I hold the position of ruler, others still treat me with familiarity and ease; they cannot regard me as someone of high rank. Even if I am merely an ordinary person, others dare not slight me; they cannot regard me as someone of low rank. Others cannot bring about these six conditions; only I can. Thus I have become the most precious person under Heaven.

The above is Chapter Forty-Eight.

Govern the state by the right way, direct warfare with stratagems, and gain all under Heaven through Wuwei (non-action) and noninterference.

“Right” means correcting improper conduct through laws and prohibitions. Figures such as Guan Zhong and Shang Yang governed the state through laws and regulations. Emperors, by contrast, took self-cultivation and the ordering of the family as their foundation, rather than treating legal restrictions as the basis of governance. “Strange” means improper methods such as schemes and deception. Military strategists such as Sun Wu and Wu Qi directed warfare with unusual stratagems. Emperors, by contrast, took caring for the people and punishing the guilty as their starting point; they did not esteem schemes and deception. Stratagems may be used in warfare, but not to govern the state. The right way may be used to govern the state, but not to gain all under Heaven. “Noninterference” refers to the kind of rule through Wuwei practiced by the Three Sovereigns: just as Heaven does not speak, yet the four seasons continue to turn and all things continue to grow. The ruler makes no deliberate demand that people obey, yet under Heaven there is no one who does not obey. Thus only through Wuwei and noninterference can one gain all under Heaven.

How do I know that this is truly so?

This question introduces the answer that follows: the right way can be used to govern the state, and Wuwei and noninterference can be used to gain all under Heaven. How do I know this? The following passage will provide the answer.

The more taboos and prohibitions there are under Heaven, the more the people will...

The passage begins by posing a question that the following discussion will answer: Why can “rightness” alone govern a state, yet prove insufficient to bring peace to all under Heaven?

The more prohibitions and restrictions there are under Heaven, the poorer the people become. The more weapons and tools of advantage the people possess, the more disorderly the state becomes. The more people pursue technical skill, the more strange and unusual things appear. The more detailed and explicit the laws and decrees, the more thieves there are.

Wu Cheng explains that these words answer the earlier statement that “rightness” can be used only to govern a state. “Prohibitions” refers to strict precautions and bans, originally intended to correct the people’s conduct. But when even raising a hand or taking a step can easily violate a ban, people live in constant fear. Unable to live and earn a livelihood in peace, they grow ever poorer.

“Tools of advantage” refers to implements convenient for people to use, such as nets, farm tools, mortars and pestles, boats, and carts. They are meant to make life easier. But if people make and control all these implements themselves, and even standards that ought to be uniform, such as measures and weights, are no longer coordinated by those above, the state loses its unified order and falls into confusion.

“Technical skill” refers to the crafts used to make various implements. As occupations outside agriculture multiply, people compete to display their skills and pursue profit. Some then manufacture and sell ingenious but useless goods. Laws and decrees are rules the people fear. When they are dense and easy to violate, people cannot live in peace, and many are driven to become thieves.

These statements explain two things: numerous laws and decrees bring many prohibitions, while numerous crafts bring many tools of advantage. The root of rising theft is the people’s poverty; the root of strange goods flourishing is disorder in the state. Putting government affairs in order and teaching the people what to avoid, as well as gathering skilled workers so that the people have enough goods for their needs, are all aspects of “rightness.” These measures are intended to bring order to the state, yet they may instead leave the people impoverished and driven to theft, while affairs among the ruling class fall into confusion and strange goods proliferate. This shows that “rightness” alone is still not enough to govern a state.

Thus the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves naturally. When I favor stillness, the people set themselves right naturally. When I refrain from meddling, the people grow prosperous naturally. When I have no desires, the people become simple and honest naturally.”

These lines return to the earlier idea that the world can be governed through “doing nothing.” Wuwei (non-action), quietude, and freedom from desire all belong to “non-action.” If rulers do not impose their will or disturb the people, how could they deliberately make everyone in the world submit to them? Precisely because they let things follow their natural course, the people spontaneously change their ways, set their conduct right, and become prosperous and simple. Since the results are so good, governing the world through “non-action” is more than enough.

When edicts are lenient and rulers do not engage in harsh scrutiny, this may not seem pleasing; yet the people become simple and honest. When edicts are numerous and severe, and everything is scrutinized, this may seem astute; yet the people often feel deprived and dissatisfied. Misfortune may lean on fortune, and fortune may conceal misfortune. Who can know how things will ultimately unfold?

This passage draws together the preceding two sections. “Muted” describes lenient edicts, which may not seem welcome; “simple and honest” describes people who are unpretentious and unaffected. “Scrutinizing” means being astute and watchful in every detail; “deprived” means that the people feel they lack what they need and are unsatisfied. Edicts grounded in Wuwei may seem unremarkable, yet they enable the people to transform themselves, put themselves right, become prosperous, and remain simple. Tightly controlled, excessively scrutinizing edicts may seem orderly, yet they can leave the people poor, the rulers confused, and social customs false and chaotic. The author therefore compares this to the way misfortune and fortune depend on each other: lenient government, which people may regard as a misfortune, can bring about a simple and honest populace; meticulous, scrutinizing government, which they may regard as a blessing, can leave the people dissatisfied. Misfortune need not end in misfortune; in the end, it may turn into fortune. Fortune, too, need not remain fortune; in the end, it may turn into misfortune. Who can foresee the outcome?

Can there really be a fixed and unchanging “right” in the world? What is right may turn into the strange—the abnormal or uncanny—and what is good may turn into the ominous, the uncanny or ill-fated. The people have fallen into confusion, and this has been going on for a long time.

The text then poses a question using the character “upright.” “Reversal” means turning back or turning around; “ominous” refers to what is bad. Governing a state by the upright Way may seem good in itself. But if the people remain impoverished and distressed, should those who govern still cling to “uprightness”?

Uprightness stands opposite to what is not upright. Once the upright Way is reversed, it becomes strange and deviant; uprightness is good, while departing from the Way is bad. Goodness and badness also stand opposite to each other. Once goodness is reversed, it becomes the ominous—calamity and aberration. Only by refusing to fix anything as upright, or anything as good, can one avoid its reversal into deviance and calamity. Perhaps only a sage can understand this. Ordinary people have long been confused and unenlightened about the principle; this is nothing new. They know only that governing a state by the upright Way is good, but they do not know that refusing to cling to what is called “upright” is what truly keeps to the upright Way. How does taking “not clinging to uprightness” as upright differ from governing the world through Wuwei (non-action)?

Thus the sage is square without harming others, stern without wounding them, direct without becoming unrestrained, and bright without showing off.

Here, several images are again used to explain “non-interference.” “Square” suggests an object with sharp corners; “sharp-edged” suggests the corners of a hall, which also have edges. Edges can be like blades and may injure people, hence the terms “cut” and “wound.” The harm caused by cutting is greater than that caused by wounding. Someone who is overly rigidly upright does not know how to be flexible; someone who is too severe and exacting may easily hurt others in dealing with them. Someone who is too blunt does not know when to restrain their words, and so exposes other people’s faults; someone who is too conspicuous does not know how to keep their actions discreet, and so puts their own strengths on display.

The sage’s “non-interference” means making the refusal to act rashly a guiding principle. Sharp edges can easily injure; by not clinging to squareness, one does not harm others. Excessive severity can easily wound; by not clinging to sternness, one does not wound others. Unrestrained directness can lead to unrestrained speech; by not clinging to directness, one does not become unrestrained. Unceasing brightness can become showiness; by not clinging to brightness, one does not show off. Thus, “square without harming others, stern without wounding them, direct without becoming unrestrained, and bright without showing off” are all metaphors for practicing Wuwei without imposing interference.

To seek uprightness through Wuwei (non-action) is to avoid appearing reckless. Brightness that does not take dazzling brilliance as its measure will not dazzle the eyes. Being square without harming others, being pure without wounding them, being upright without becoming unrestrained, and being bright without flaunting it: these are all examples of doing nothing and imposing nothing by force. “Gui,” pronounced “gui,” means to wound by piercing.

Chapter Forty-Nine

In governing oneself and following the Way of Heaven, nothing is more important than conserving.

The body formed in a person receives Qi (vital energy) bestowed by Heaven. To govern the mind and body and cultivate the body is to nourish it. “Conserving” means not lightly dissipating what one has received within, and not overusing it. Conserving the body and cherishing primordial Qi are important ways to preserve life.

Precisely because one knows how to conserve, one can return sooner to one’s original state. Returning sooner is called accumulating De (Virtue/Power) in depth. When De has accumulated deeply, there is nothing one cannot accomplish. When there is nothing one cannot accomplish, the limit of one’s strength cannot be measured. With strength that has no end, one can preserve oneself.

“Return” means going back to the original state; “abundant” means much, and “accumulate” means to store within. “De” is the harmonious Qi received from Heaven; “accomplish” means to be capable of, “limit” means an endpoint, and “preserve” means to keep. Here, “state” is a metaphor for the human body. By conserving primordial Qi, one can restore what has been depleted and revive what has grown weak, returning sooner to the original state. The harmonious Qi received from Heaven will also continue to accumulate within. When Qi is abundant, it can withstand external things and is less easily depleted or harmed. When Qi flows on without end, there is no foreseeable time when it will be exhausted. This differs from the Qi of ordinary people, which gradually runs out with age. If Qi does not decline, one can preserve the body and keep its form for a long time.

To preserve the body by relying on its root is to endure. This is the way of deep roots, firm foundations, long life, and lasting vision.

The passage above says that preserving the body comes from accumulating De. De is the root of the forms of all things. To preserve the body, one must hold fast to the root of its form, and so endure. Qi is the root and foundation of bodily form; this is the way of long life and lasting vision.

As mentioned earlier, preserving the body depends on accumulating De. De is the foundation of the forms of all things. One can preserve one’s own body because one preserves the foundation on which it rests; in this way, one can endure.

Qi is the foundation of the body. Qi sustains the body, and the body in turn retains Qi. Qi arises below, like the roots of a tree. Nurture the body to cultivate its foundation, and the roots will grow deep and strong. Qi flourishes above, like the stem of a fruit. Nurture the body to nourish that stem, and it will become sturdy and hold fast. If the roots are not torn out, the tree will not wither; if the stem does not break, the fruit will not fall. In this way, the human body can endure, the eyes can remain clear for a long time, and life can continue without death.

“Deep roots and firm stems” means that the body retains Qi; “long life and enduring sight” also means that the body retains Qi.

The above is Chapter Fifty.

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

Volume Four of Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and Its De, written by Wu Cheng of Linchuan. This is the second part of the Classic of De.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish.

“Little fresh” means a small fish. The larger the state, the more people it has. Governing a large state should be simple and quiet. Do not disturb the people too often, just as when cooking a small fish, one takes care not to break it apart or ruin it and so does not turn it carelessly.

When the world is governed according to the Dao (the Way), ghosts and strange beings do not manifest and cause trouble.

Here, “oversee” means to govern or to face. “Ghosts” refers to the Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth, while “spirits” refers to uncanny and unusual phenomena. Human Qi connects with the Qi of Heaven and Earth. When a ruler governs the world according to the Dao, keeping policies simple and quiet and not disturbing the people, their breath and Qi remain calm and abundant. Heaven and Earth then respond in harmony, and no disruptive changes occur. Thus ghosts and strange beings do not bring forth calamities.

This does not mean that ghosts and strange beings lack uncanny powers. Even when they manifest, however, they do not turn into calamities that harm people. The Qi of Heaven and Earth does not harm people, but this is not something it accomplishes on its own. It is because the sage brings peace and calm to the people and does not damage the Qi of Heaven and Earth. The Qi of Heaven and Earth is therefore also calm and does not harm people. The “ghosts” and “spirits” in the scripture both refer to the Qi of Heaven and Earth; their names differ, but their substance is the same.

The Qi of Heaven and Earth and human beings do not harm one another because the sage brings peace and calm to the people and does not damage the Qi of Heaven and Earth. The Qi of Heaven and Earth therefore does not harm people either. Although “ghosts” and “spirits” have different names, both are, in substance, the Qi of Heaven and Earth.

“Together” means jointly, or all alike. The Qi of Heaven and Earth does not harm people because the sage does not damage it; the sage does not damage it because his policies are simple and still, keeping the people’s breath and Qi calm. The fact that human beings and Heaven and Earth do not harm one another alike stems from the sage’s De (Virtue/Power), so the merit on both sides belongs to the sage.

The final sentence of Chapter 51: A great state takes the lower position, like the place where rivers and seas converge, where all things under Heaven come together.

“Meeting” means convergence. A great state is like a place where many small states gather. It is also like water flowing to low ground, becoming the place where all the waters under Heaven converge.

A great state is like the female of all under Heaven. The female often overcomes the male through stillness, and often occupies a lower position. When small states gather around a great state, it is like water flowing to low ground and becoming the place where many waters meet.

The female does not actively pursue the male, yet the male often actively pursues the female. The one who pursues is liable to suffer loss, while the one who waits quietly gains an advantage. Hence the saying, “Through stillness, the female overcomes the male.” The one who pursues occupies the higher position, while the one who waits quietly occupies the lower. Hence the saying, “Through stillness, take the lower position.” Some also believe that one occurrence of the character “female” here may be superfluous.

Therefore, when a great state treats small states with humility, it can win their allegiance; when a small state treats a great state with humility, it can gain the great state’s acceptance. In other words, sometimes a great state is humble and thereby wins the allegiance of small states; sometimes a small state is humble and thereby gains the acceptance of a great state.

When a great state is humble toward small states, it simply wishes to absorb and nurture them; when a small state is humble toward a great state, it simply wishes to join it and serve it. Both sides obtain what they want, so the great state should be especially willing to take the lower position.

A small state is already in a low position, so it is not hard for it to be humble. A great state is usually not subordinate to others, so it may find humility difficult. Hence the saying, “The great should take the lower position.” The earlier image of water flowing to low ground refers to a great state that is not originally in a low position, yet willingly places itself there. The image of male and female refers to a small state that is already in a low position, yet remains content to be humble.

The above is Chapter Fifty-Two.

The Dao is the repository and mystery of the myriad things. It is the treasure of the good, and the support by which those who are not good can be kept safe.

The Dao is the most profound and revered presence among all things. “Profound” refers to the southwest corner of a house. In ancient residences and temples, the layout was divided into a hall and an inner chamber, with the chamber set farther inside and therefore considered more honored than the hall. The southwest corner of the chamber was where a person of high rank lived, so it was called the “profound corner.” The Dao’s honored place is like the southwest corner of the inner chamber in a residence or temple.

A “treasure” is something people value. A good person cultivates himself along the Dao and, through it, earns others’ respect. Even someone who is not good can preserve himself by turning toward the Dao, changing his ways, and repenting. Here, the words “yao” (pronounced yǎo) and “yi” (pronounced yí) are ancient names for locations within a room.

Fine words may be cherished like precious objects, and noble conduct can raise a person above the crowd.

This further explains that the Dao is a treasure for good people. Because of the Dao, a good person earns others’ respect. His good words are worth cherishing, just as fine objects are worth buying; his noble conduct is worth emulating and can set him apart from ordinary people.

And what reason could there be to cast aside someone who is not good?

This further explains that even someone who is not good can preserve himself through the Dao. If such a person reveres the Dao’s authority, he will commit fewer offenses and can remain safe and at peace. How, then, could the Dao ever cast aside someone who is not good?

Therefore, when establishing an emperor and appointing the Three Dukes—high officials who assist the emperor—even presenting a pair of jade discs and then offering a four-horse chariot is not as valuable as sitting quietly and presenting and following this Dao.

The Dao (the Way) is the most profound and precious thing among all things. If a person who possesses the Dao is chosen by Heaven to serve as ruler and teacher, that person becomes the Son of Heaven. If appointed by a ruler to serve as a teacher, that person becomes one of the Three Dukes. Their honor comes entirely from possessing the Dao.

“An arm-span jade disc” means a large jade disc held between both hands; a “team of four horses” means the four horses that draw a carriage. Offering the jade disc before the team of horses is like the account in the Zuo Commentary to the Spring and Autumn Annals, where four hides of cooked oxhide were presented first, followed by twelve oxen. In ancient court audiences, four horses were displayed outside while the envoy summoned to appear held a large jade disc. This was called a formal audience and presentation. Yet even when the jade disc and the team of horses are regarded as the most precious gifts, they are still less valuable than kneeling to offer the Dao. The Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes are honored because they possess the Dao; the jade disc and the team of horses cannot compare with it. Thus all things cherish the Dao, regarding it as the most profound and precious foundation.

Since ancient times, why have people cherished the Dao so greatly? Is it not because good people are honored through the Dao and able to achieve what they seek, while those who are not good rely on the Dao to protect themselves and escape punishment? That is why the Dao is treasured throughout the world.

This sums up the first three sections. “The mystery of all things” means that the Dao is their profound foundation; “seek and obtain” means that the Dao is the treasure of good people; and “escape punishment” means that it is also what those who are not good rely on to preserve themselves. Here, “the world” refers to all things, and “treasured” means that the Dao is the mystery at their heart.

On the right: Chapter 53

Act through Wuwei (non-action); make non-doing your work; taste what has no flavor.

Wu Cheng held that “acting through non-action” is Laozi’s central teaching. In everyday life, this means letting non-forcing guide the body’s actions and preferring what is plain and without strong flavor when tasting with the mouth. These are ways of explaining “make non-doing your work.”

When addressing difficult undertakings, begin with what is easy; when accomplishing great undertakings, begin with what is small. The difficult things in the world must arise from what is easy, and the great things in the world must begin with what is small.

“Acting” means arising or beginning. One can attain Wuwei (non-action) because the sage plans and takes action in advance, while matters are still easy to handle and their beginnings still faint. Things in the world are often easy and small at first, then gradually become difficult and large. Great difficulties begin with what was initially easy, and major undertakings begin with what was initially slight. If matters are put in order as soon as they begin, while they are still easy to handle, they can be kept from becoming troublesome later and brought to completion step by step without much effort. This is how one can practice Wuwei. If one fails to plan early and rushes to deal with things only after they have begun, what was easy will gradually become difficult, and what was small will grow into a major undertaking. One’s energy will be drained in the process—how, then, could one practice Wuwei?

What is stable is easy to maintain; what shows no sign of trouble is easy to plan for; what is fragile is easy to resolve; and what is slight is easy to disperse. Therefore, act before matters arise and bring order before disorder takes shape. This means planning while matters are still easy to handle.

A tree wide enough to be held in one’s arms grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story terrace is built up basket by basket of earth; and a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet. This means beginning with what is slight.

Promises made lightly are often hard to keep; treating matters as too easy often leads to many difficulties later. The sage, therefore, always approaches matters with care and in the end avoids difficulty. The earlier passage describes how matters themselves shift from easy to difficult; this one describes the attitude one brings to them. If one readily agrees to others’ requests at the outset, one often cannot follow through later and loses their trust. If one initially regards many things as easy, one will encounter many difficulties afterward. The sage does not wait until trouble is upon them to take matters seriously. Even when things seem easy, the sage remains cautious; never acting carelessly from beginning to end, the sage ultimately meets no difficulty.

Whether a grievance is great or small, one should respond with De (Virtue/Power). The sage never carelessly judges matters to be great or small, difficult or easy. For this very reason, the sage can accomplish great undertakings.

Earlier, the text spoke of things being great or small; here it speaks of the mind’s attitude being great or small. Even when one already possesses much and holds a high position, one should remain humble inwardly, feeling that one still has little and is small. Even when one suffers resentment and could take revenge, one should not rely on one’s superior standing or greater power to rush to reclaim justice and retaliate. Instead, one should place oneself in the weaker position, willingly bear the slight for a time, and repay resentment with kindness and virtue. When one’s power is weak, of course one does not dare presume to be strong; but even later, when one’s power has grown and one possesses more, one still does not dare become arrogant. Only by remaining humble can one achieve true strength.

People often fail at the very point when they are close to succeeding. If they can remain as careful at the end of a task as they were at the beginning, they will not ruin it.

This continues the earlier discussion of “in the end, thinking it is not difficult” and “in the end, presuming oneself great.” One may find a task difficult at first, then stop being careful as it nears completion; or one may not presume to be great at the beginning, then become self-satisfied at the end. In this way, one may fall short just as success is within reach. So one must begin and end well: be attentive and careful at the start and just as attentive at the end; do not presume to be great at the start or at the end. Then failure can be avoided.

Deliberate effort can spoil a task, while insistently holding on can lead to losing what one has. Wuwei (not forcing things through personal intention) leaves no failure caused by striving for success; nonattachment (not clinging or demanding possession) leaves no loss caused by clinging to what one has.

Thus, the sage makes the absence of craving a desire and does not prize goods that are hard to obtain. The sage makes not deliberately pursuing learning a form of learning, and returns to the principles that people overlook or stray from. By following the natural patterns of all things, the sage assists them, and does not dare to impose action through subjective will.

Earlier, it was said that deliberately taking action is inferior to having no desires; that rare and valuable goods should not be prized; that not learning should be taken as learning; and that one should return to the proper Way from which people have strayed, helping the myriad things develop according to their nature without daring to impose misguided action.

Earlier, it was said that action is inferior to non-action, and grasping to not grasping. Here, it says that the sage takes having no desires as a desire, and not learning as a lesson. Rare and valuable goods are what people want, but the sage does not prize them. In other words, the sage does not pursue what people pursue; this is why it is called “desiring what is not desired.” Everyone heads in one direction, but I do not follow. Everyone waves as they pass without looking back, but I turn around and return to where I began. This is not learning what everyone else learns, and so it is called “learning what is not learned.”

The sage does not pursue these things or learn by following custom because the principle underlying the myriad things is Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness. The sage, too, practices Wuwei and responds to nature together with the myriad things, like the spokes that depend on and join with one another to form a whole. The chapter begins with “act through non-action” and ends with “natural, without daring to act.” Its opening and conclusion connect, expressing the same idea.

The above is Chapter Fifty-Four.

In ancient times, those skilled in following the Dao did not seek to make the people clever; they sought to keep them simple and unspoiled.

Knowledge is called “clarity,” while the absence of knowledge is called “ignorance.” The ancient sages made their own De (Virtue/Power) manifest to awaken the people’s De, and hoped that the people, too, would move from ignorance to understanding and gain knowledge. If the people were ignorant and could not be made to understand, this did not mean the sages did not want them to understand, much less that they deliberately wanted them to remain ignorant.

Laozi lived in a time of decline. He saw that in antiquity, rule through Wuwei left the people simple and free of desire; later, rule through deliberate action made them shallow and deceitful, and increased their knowledge. Thus, this passage says that those skilled in following the Dao educate the people by guiding them back to simplicity. Their aim is not to make them clever, but to keep them simple. This is a critique of the times and an attempt to correct their excesses. But taken to extremes, this way of thinking can lead to harm, as when the Qin dynasty burned books and kept the people ignorant.

The people are difficult to govern because they have too many cunning schemes. Therefore, using cunning to govern the state is a calamity for the state; governing without cunning is the state’s good fortune.

The people are difficult to govern because they know too much and are too clever. Thus, as soon as laws are issued, crafty schemes arise; once orders are given, deceitful acts follow.

To govern a state through cleverness is to rely on one’s intelligence and wisdom to occupy the position above, causing the people to become shrewd and quick-witted as well. They then resort to cunning and excel at exploiting loopholes, making them difficult to govern. Governing through cleverness harms the state. To govern without cleverness is to restrain one’s own intelligence and govern the people with humility, causing them to become simple and unassuming in turn. They then remain plain and know little, and are easy to govern. Governing without cleverness is the state’s good fortune.

Understanding these two approaches allows one to take them as guiding principles.

The “two” here means using wisdom and not using wisdom. A model is something people can follow; the crossbar at the front of a carriage was originally something a passenger could hold on to. When riding, standing upright and leaning against the side rail places oneself high; bowing the head and leaning on the front crossbar places oneself low. The sage does not pride himself on intelligence, but instead remains simple and unassuming, just as he does not seek a high position but willingly stays low.

One who understands how to follow this principle and place oneself in a humble position possesses “Mysterious De” (profound and subtle virtue). Mysterious De is deep and enduring, not a shallow or temporary virtue, and so it is difficult to fathom. Everyone wants to appear clever; I alone am content to appear simple and unassuming. This is the opposite of worldly convention. Yet by seeming to go against the world, one achieves a greater accord with it. This is Mysterious De, profound and unfathomable.

The rivers and seas can become the rulers to which all streams flow because they are good at staying low; thus they can gather all streams beneath them.

The waters of all streams flow into the rivers and seas, just as the people of the world turn toward a single ruler. The rivers and seas lie downstream, beneath all the waters, and so they become the place to which all streams flow.

All the waters of the hundred rivers flow into the rivers and seas, just as the people of the world all belong to one ruler. The rivers and seas lie downstream from all the waters and can hold what comes from every direction. Thus they receive the hundred rivers and become lords of the waters. A ruler can govern the people of the world for the same reason.

Therefore, if a sage wishes to stand above others, the sage first lowers their words; if the sage wishes to walk ahead of others, the sage first places their body behind. “Lowering one’s words” means speaking modestly, without adopting a lofty, superior air. “Placing one’s body behind” means yielding and not pushing ahead of others. These are the sage’s lofty virtues of humility and deference; they are not calculated ways to gain high rank or get ahead of others. Readers should not cling to the literal wording and misunderstand its true meaning.

Thus, when the sage stands above others, they do not find it hard to accept; when the sage walks ahead of them, they do not feel burdened or harmed.

So the people of the world gladly support the sage and do not grow tired of them. Because the sage does not contend, no one in the world can contend with them.

The people of the world gladly choose the sage to stand above them and walk ahead of them, yet do not grow weary of this. This is because the sage is humble and yielding, and does not contend for the place above or the place in front. Thus, no one in the world can vie with the sage for high rank or struggle to seize the lead; in the end, the sage is able to stand above others and walk ahead of them. Dong says, “In virtue, one humbly yields and takes the lower place; in outward position, one is esteemed as lofty. In virtue, one is content to remain behind; in outward position, one comes to the front.” Yang Xiong says, “If you are content to take the lower place, people will raise you up; if you are content to remain behind, people will let you go ahead.”

The above is Chapter Fifty-Six.

Everyone in the world says that “I” is vast, yet it seems like no particular thing. It is precisely because the Dao is vast that it does not resemble any one particular thing. If it resembled something, it would long ago have become small.

“Unadorned” means that nothing resembles it; it seems to have no particular strength or quality. The Dao is so vast that no name can describe it. Nothing can be used to praise it, so it appears unlike any specific thing. Dong says: once it resembles something, it is equivalent to that particular thing. How, then, could it still be called vast?

I have three treasures, which I cherish and hold fast to. The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not daring to place myself ahead of everyone under Heaven. Here, “hold fast” means to guard them and not lose them.

Compassion means being gentle and humble, showing concern for others, and not forcing one’s strength or hardness upon them. Frugality means using little and valuing economy, without extravagance or indulgence. Not daring to take the lead means yielding and staying behind, rather than rushing to be first. By holding fast to these three treasures, one may be vast yet seem to have no outstanding qualities.

Because of compassion, one can be brave. Because of frugality, one can be generous. Because one does not dare to take the lead, one can become the foremost among all. Today, if compassion is cast aside and one simply strives to be brave; if frugality is abandoned and one seeks only expansion; if yielding is rejected and one insists on taking the lead, the result will be death.

Compassion may seem timid and lacking in courage, but it is precisely this that brings true bravery. Frugality may seem narrow and insufficient, but it is precisely this that makes endurance and breadth possible. All implements have a form, and the one above the others is their leader. Someone who does not dare to take the lead stands behind others and seems unlike a leader. Yet by yielding, they are chosen by everyone and eventually become foremost among all things. If compassion, frugality, and yielding are abandoned, and hardness is mistaken for bravery, extravagance for breadth, and taking the lead for progress, life cannot be preserved, and death will follow.

If one goes to war with compassion, one can win; if one uses it to defend, one can stand firm. When Heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them with compassion.

Compassion is the principle by which all things are born and nurtured. It is also one of the seven virtues and stands at the head of the “Three Treasures”: compassion, frugality, and not daring to put oneself ahead of the world. This passage focuses on compassion as one of the treasures, but the other two are included in it as well.

Compassion draws people close, as they are close to their parents. What child would make an enemy of a parent or attack one? So when people fight and defend themselves with compassion, others cannot bear to oppose or attack them. In this way they can win and hold their ground securely. Even if enemies invade, many will be willing to help those who are like “parents,” so victory and defense remain possible. If their forces are insufficient, Heaven will also come to their aid and keep them from defeat and rout. Heaven helps them because they protect others with compassion.

Cao Cao and Fu Jian were insatiably greedy and utterly lacking in compassion. Though the states of Wu and Jin could not attain the sages’ compassion, they had no choice but to take up arms against foreign enemies. Compared with Cao Cao and Fu Jian, their side was more humane and thus closer to compassion. At the Battle of Red Cliffs, the wind fanned the flames and destroyed the northern fleet. At the Battle of Fei River, the sound of the wind and cranes’ cries sent Fu Jian’s army fleeing in panic. Though Wu and Jin were weak, they defeated the million-strong armies of Cao Cao and Fu Jian. This, too, may be said to be Heaven coming to their aid.

Those skilled at being generals do not flaunt their bravery. Those skilled at warfare are not quick to anger. Those skilled at defeating an enemy do not engage it in direct contention. Those skilled at employing others willingly place themselves below them. This is called the virtue of non-contention, and it is also called skill in drawing on the strength of others. It accords with the Dao of Heaven and has been the highest principle since ancient times.

This passage again explains that “compassion” is a treasure in governing armies and employing people. The preceding sentences discuss the use of troops; the final sentence turns to employing people.

In ancient warfare, armies fought from chariots. Each chariot carried three armored soldiers: the one on the left held a bow, the one on the right carried a spear, and the one in the middle drove the chariot and managed the flags and drums. Another seventy-two foot soldiers fought alongside it. Before battle, commanders often tried to stir their troops’ emotions, making them angry and eager to fight so they could defeat the enemy. But the way of using troops guided by “compassion” does not regard these as good methods. Its aim is not to display strength or martial prowess, nor does it rely on enraging the soldiers. It need not draw up in battle formation against the enemy or wield weapons to make the other side submit of its own accord.

Though your wisdom surpasses that of others, remain humble as if you had none; though you have ability, yield as if you were incapable. By placing yourself lower, you can draw on other people’s wisdom and strength to accomplish things. In this way, you neither display force nor stir up conflict. You do not contend with others for victory, yet you prevail: this is the virtue of winning through non-contention, just as Heaven contends with nothing, yet brings all things to submission. Those in a lower position do not rely on their own wisdom, but accomplish their work through the strength of others. This is like Heaven, which acts without forcing anything and yet brings all things to completion; hence the saying that one is “in accord with Heaven.” Only the sages of the highest antiquity could do this, which is why it is called “the ancient ideal.”

Those who use troops often say, “I dare not be the first to attack; I would rather take the defensive. I dare not advance an inch; I would rather retreat a foot.” This is what is meant by marching as if there were no ranks, raising one’s arms as if one had no arms, holding weapons as if one had no weapons, and facing the enemy as if there were no enemy.

This passage again explains that “compassion” is a treasure in the use of troops. The words “dare not” describe the proper attitude toward warfare. “There is a saying among those who use troops” means that military leaders often put it this way: one dares not take the initiative in attacking, but would rather meet an attack; one dares not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.

He explains again that compassion is a precious treasure. “Not daring to be first under Heaven,” when applied to warfare, means this: those who wage war often say that they would rather be the guest army than the host army that actively starts hostilities. They would rather advance by an inch than press forward any farther, and would rather retreat by a foot. In an attack, they put their ranks in order, raise their arms and take up their weapons, and advance toward the enemy. If they do not do this, then even with ranks they are as though they had none; even with arms they are as though they had none; even with weapons they are as though they had none; and even with the enemy before them, they are as though there were no enemy. The character xing here is pronounced hang.

There is no greater calamity than to look down on the enemy. To underestimate the enemy nearly causes me to lose my precious treasure. Therefore, when two armies meet in battle with equal strength, the side that feels compassion can prevail.

When commanding an army and facing battle, one should remain wary and never treat the enemy lightly. To underestimate the enemy is to rush into battle, perhaps even killing and wounding others—and thereby to lose compassion, this precious treasure. That is the greatest calamity. Even before battle has actually begun, the moment one develops contempt for the enemy, one has already set out on the path of killing and losing the treasure. Hence the saying, “nearly lose my treasure.” Kang means to raise or set in motion. “The compassionate one” refers to a person in whom compassion has become manifest. Su Shi says: if the two armies take up arms and fight, and my side is forced to respond, doing so with compassion for those who may be killed or wounded, that compassion can move Heaven and human beings, and so bring victory. The compassionate side prevails over the un compassionate side; victory does not necessarily require winning through battle. To make the other side lose without fighting, or submit without fighting, is also victory.

The foregoing is Chapter Fifty-Seven.

My words are very easy to understand and very easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven can understand them or put them into practice.

Laozi teaches people only to remain yielding and humble. His words are easy to understand, and what he teaches is easy to practice. Yet as the ways of the world decline, people under Heaven fail to recognize the worth of these words and cannot remain yielding and humble.

Words have a foundation, and actions have a guiding principle. It is because people lack true understanding that they do not understand me.

Within a clan, the clan head holds an honored position and leads the whole family. Within a state, the ruler holds an honored position and governs the country. The principles of gentleness, humility, and remaining below others can serve as the guiding thread for many teachings, just as a clan head leads the family; they can also be the foundation of all affairs, just as a ruler governs a state. Laozi lamented that people of his time were ignorant and unenlightened, unable to understand how precious the principles he spoke of were.

Few people understand the principles I speak of; that is why they are precious. Thus the sage wears coarse cloth, yet keeps a piece of fine jade hidden within.

Laozi first laments how few there are who understand him, then seems almost to take comfort in this. In fact, he is not comforted, but deeply saddened. He says that few people recognize the value of his words, and this is precisely why they are precious. If everyone understood them, his words would be no different from familiar opinions shared by the crowd, and would no longer be worth esteeming. “He” means coarse woolen cloth, the kind worn by people of low status. People do not understand the sage: they see only the coarse clothes he wears and do not consider him precious, unaware that within himself he holds principles as precious as fine jade.

The above is Chapter 58.

To know that one does not know is wisdom. Not to know, yet to think one knows, is a failing.

To know clearly, yet be able to appear not to know, is the highest wisdom. Those who are intelligent and perceptive cultivate themselves through humility and simplicity; hence they are called “superior.” To be ignorant, yet think one knows, is the height of folly: one’s understanding is narrow, yet one imagines oneself informed and full of opinions; hence this is called a “failing.”

Only by treating this failing as a failing and remaining alert to it can one avoid having it.

“Treating the failing as a failing” means regarding one’s own faults as matters for concern and correction. If one recognizes “not knowing, yet thinking one knows” as a failing and takes it seriously, one can cease to be troubled by it.

The sage has no such failing because he remains alert to his faults by treating them as faults; therefore, he has no such failing.

The sage is born with wisdom, yet still appears not to understand. How could he suffer from the fault of mistaking ignorance for knowledge? The sage has no such fault; this is simply natural for him, not the result of deliberately treating a fault as a fault and trying to eliminate it. The sage does not rely on his inborn wisdom. Even when he has no fault of his own to correct, he still reflects on himself when he sees that others are not virtuous. When ordinary people have faults that call for vigilance, the sage takes them seriously, as though they were his own. For this reason, he remains free of such faults from beginning to end.

When the people do not fear what they ought to fear, great calamity is near.

Here, “threat” refers to things that damage the body and shorten life; “great threat” means the most dreadful thing of all: death. When people do not fear what is harmful, they damage their bodies, shorten their lives, hasten death, and ultimately meet the greatest dread. Zhuangzi says that people often do things that harm them while sleeping or eating, without knowing to guard against them. This is a failing.

Do not take lightly the conditions of your daily life, and do not reject your own life.

“Do not” here means a prohibition; “take lightly” means to grow accustomed to something and treat it carelessly; “the conditions of your daily life” refers to the circumstances in which the body lives; and “reject” means to loathe and cast away. In everyday life, if people feel no fear of things that harm the body and shorten life, and grow accustomed to doing them, they are not afraid of calamity. To “reject life” is to harm the body and hasten death, which amounts to casting one’s life away. Thus great calamity will arrive.

Only by refusing to take these harmful things lightly can one avoid rejecting one’s own life.

The original commentary notes that this line reads “Only by not rejecting” in older editions. Liu of Luling argued that it should be changed to “not taking lightly,” and this translation follows that emendation.

“Not being frivolous” appears in older editions as “not being weary.” Liu of Luling argues that the “not being weary” in the previous line should read “not being frivolous,” and I follow his reading here. Only by treating the place one inhabits with respect and holding in awe what deserves awe can one avoid growing weary of life and thereby avoid bringing upon oneself an exceptionally terrible calamity.

Thus, the sage knows himself but does not deliberately display himself; he cherishes himself but does not exalt himself. He therefore gives up the former and chooses the latter.

“To know oneself” means to understand how to care for oneself. “To display oneself” means to show others what one knows. “To exalt oneself” means what the text later calls “cherishing life”: becoming excessively attached to staying alive. Although the sage understands how to care for himself, he keeps De (Virtue/Power) within and preserves wisdom inwardly, as if he knew without thinking himself knowledgeable; he does not show others what he knows. Although he cherishes himself deeply, he follows the natural course of the Dao and does not cling to the pursuit of life. Thus he is not at fault for anxiously grasping at life or exalting himself.

“Those” refers to displaying and exalting oneself; “this” refers to knowing and cherishing oneself. The earlier passage says that failing to hold things in awe invites great calamity, while refraining from frivolity prevents one from growing weary of life. These statements address ordinary people. The sage need not deliberately remind himself to be in awe: naturally, he does nothing that would bring upon him a fearsome calamity. Nor need he deliberately tell himself not to be frivolous: naturally, he has no frivolity in him. Inwardly, he truly knows and cherishes himself, yet he does not display or exalt himself. “What he lacks” refers to what he gives up; “what he has” refers to what he chooses.

The above is Chapter 60.

Daring to force one’s way forward may bring death; daring to restrain oneself and refrain from rash action may preserve life. One kind of courage brings benefit, the other brings calamity.

In the administration of the law, there are two kinds of human courage: “courage to dare,” meaning the courage to do evil, and “courage not to dare,” meaning the firm resolve not to do evil.

Suppose two people have both broken the law. One is strongly inclined to do evil, repeatedly refuses correction, and commits crimes deliberately; that person should be put to death. The “Yu Canon,” in its ancient record of penal law, calls this “punishment for banditry.” The “Zhou Proclamation,” a chapter of the Book of Documents, calls it “not an error,” meaning the crime was deliberate rather than accidental. Only in cases of deliberate and repeated wrongdoing is execution unavoidable. The other person does not dare to do evil, but commits an offense by mistake through misfortune or carelessness; this is an unintentional lapse and should be pardoned. The “Yu Canon” says, “Pardon offenses arising from error or misfortune,” meaning crimes caused by a mistake or calamity should be forgiven. The “Zhou Proclamation” calls such a person “not a habitual offender”: someone who commits a crime through a lapse should not be put to death.

Punishing deliberate crimes and pardoning unintentional ones is the principle by which rulers administer the law. Laozi’s point goes further: each course has both benefit and risk. Pardoning those who offend by mistake is beneficial; executing those who deliberately do evil may result in killing the wrong person. Thus, while those who offend through carelessness should indeed be pardoned, even deliberate wrongdoers should not be put to death lightly.

What kind of person does Heaven abhor, and who can know why? The sage therefore remains cautious and finds the matter difficult.

Those who dare to do evil may be the kind of people Heaven abhors. But Heaven’s intent is deep and unfathomable; who can be certain that someone truly is among those it abhors? Even when a person seems worthy of execution, the sage still hesitates to decide and dares not kill rashly.

The Way of Heaven does not contend with people, yet excels at overcoming them. It does not speak, yet responds skillfully. It does not summon, yet things come of their own accord. It seems calm and unhurried, yet arranges things with great skill. Heaven’s net is vast and boundless; its mesh may be loose, but no one slips through.

The sage does not kill lightly, so evildoers may temporarily escape punishment. But no one escapes Heaven’s net.

Sages do not kill people lightly, so evildoers may sometimes escape human punishment. But Heaven’s retribution leaves no one out. Heaven punishes the wicked without fighting them by force, as people do, or disputing with them in words. The Dao of Heaven follows its own fixed course and ultimately prevails over humanity. Its response is like an echo answering a sound: retribution comes swiftly and arrives of its own accord, without being summoned. Those who do evil will eventually suffer for it; no cunning scheme can help them escape. The Dao of Heaven seems impartial, calm, and untroubled, yet it carries out retribution with skill. Its arrangements surpass anything human beings can devise. Heaven’s net is vast. It may look loose and open, but it never misses anyone. The wicked cannot escape it in the end. Though sages do not kill them, the Dao of Heaven will punish them.

If the people do not fear death, how can death be used to frighten them into obedience? Suppose the people were always afraid of death: I could seize and execute those who behaved wickedly, and who would dare to do evil then?

“Deviant” means acting improperly. If ignorant people always feared death, then once evildoers were seized and executed, everyone would know to be afraid. Who would dare to do evil? Yet even after evildoers are killed, others continue to do wrong. This shows that fear of death has not restrained the people. Evildoers may indeed face punishment and execution, but that does not necessarily make them fear their rulers. If so, how can death be used to frighten the people, and how can people be killed rashly?

There is always someone in the world who is in charge of taking life. When people kill in place of the one who holds that charge, it is like trying to chop wood in place of a master carpenter. Few who take up the axe for the master carpenter avoid injuring their own hands.

Does that mean evildoers should not be killed, since death should not be used to frighten the people? The answer is that someone is in charge of taking life. Here, “the one in charge of taking life” refers to the Dao of Heaven. Only the Dao of Heaven has the right to take life, just as only a master carpenter is skilled at chopping and shaping wood. When people try to kill in place of the Dao of Heaven, they are like amateurs wielding an axe in a carpenter’s stead. Those who swing the axe often injure their own hands; this illustrates how people who take it upon themselves to kill in the name of Heaven’s Dao are sure to bring many troubles upon themselves. Even if they escape human punishment, they will suffer Heaven’s retribution.

The passage above concerns Chapter 61, which has five sections. The first explains the usual rules for applying punishment, which should not be followed rigidly, and expresses Laozi’s kindness and compassion. The second says that the Dao of Heaven is difficult to fathom, so people should not kill lightly. The third explains that the Dao of Heaven can also use human acts of killing as a warning. The fourth says that punishments should not be imposed lightly out of fear that the people will be difficult to govern. The fifth cautions against presuming to take the Dao of Heaven’s role in killing. Laozi’s compassion is truly profound.

The people are hungry because the rulers levy too many taxes, and so the people go hungry.

“Food” refers to the provisions rulers obtain from the people; “taxes” are what the people provide to support their rulers. When rulers demand too much from the people, the people become poor and hungry.

The people are difficult to govern because the rulers interfere too much and act too often, making them difficult to govern.

When rulers use schemes and stratagems to control the people, the people in turn use deception and trickery against the rulers, making society difficult to govern.

People do not fear death because they are too attached to seeking life, and so they come to take death lightly. “Excessive devotion to life” means placing too much importance on staying alive. “Superior” means surpassing; to “value life” is to prize one’s life, that is, to become overly attached to staying alive. When the desire to live is too strong and one takes excessive measures to preserve life, one may end up inviting death instead of avoiding it.

Those who have attained the Dao do not fail to cherish life. Rather, they follow things as they are and do not deliberately strive to stay alive. They may seem not to care about life, yet they preserve themselves. This is better than exhausting oneself in deliberate efforts to cherish life, which may instead lead all too easily to death.

That concludes Chapter 62.

While people are alive, their bodies are soft; after death, they become stiff. While plants and trees are growing, they are tender; when they wither and die, they become dry and hard.

While a person is alive, the skin is soft and the limbs can bend and stretch. After death, the body grows cold, hard, and rigid, and can no longer bend or stretch. While plants and trees are alive, their branches and stems are soft and flexible; once they wither and die, they become dry and hard. The author therefore begins with people, then goes on to speak of plants and trees.

Thus, what is hard and strong belongs to death, while what is soft and yielding belongs to life.

From the fact that people and plants are soft in life but hard after death, we can infer a general principle: in dealing with others and conducting oneself, those who force their strength and cling stubbornly to their ways often cannot protect themselves; they belong to what tends toward death. Those who are gentle and humble know how to preserve life; they belong to what is full of vitality.

Thus, an army that relies on force is unlikely to win, and a tree that grows too thick and strong is easily damaged. “Gong” means to encircle something with both arms.

In warfare, appearing weaker often reflects deeper planning and more skillful tactics. The enemy may therefore underestimate you and grow careless, giving you a chance to win. A side that relies on its strength may think too little and become arrogant and complacent; its enemy will then be alert and prepared, making victory difficult. The art of war says that at first one should be as still as a maiden, letting the enemy lower its guard; afterward, one should move as swiftly as a fleeing hare, leaving the enemy no time to resist, and so win. When Qin troops passed through Zhou territory, three hundred of them leapt onto their chariots in a show of strength, but in the end they were defeated at Xiao. When Qi troops entered Jin, they hurled huge stones at the enemy, but they too suffered defeat. These are examples of relying on strength and failing to win.

The tender branches of a tree, which sway easily, grow near the treetop. The hard, unyielding trunk, which does not sway easily, grows near the roots and is thick enough to encircle with both arms. By moving from armies to trees, the author shows that both may suffer harm because of their hardness.

Thus, the strong occupy the lower position, while the weak occupy the higher one.

The preceding passage says that a weapon with a hard edge is easily subdued because it is in a lower position and cannot gain the advantage as one who defeats others does. The hard part of a tree lies near its roots, also in a low position; it cannot stand as high as the small branches above. From this we can infer a general principle: human virtue is the same. Those who are forceful by nature, enjoy boasting, and place themselves above others will inevitably lose their honored position and fall below others. Those who are gentle and humble, by contrast, are respected and supported by the people and are able to stand above them.

This concludes Chapter 63.

Is the Way of Heaven—the natural order of things—not like drawing a bow? When the bowstring is too high, it is pressed down; when it is too low, it is raised. What is in excess is reduced; what is insufficient is replenished.

The phrases “pressed down” and “raised” describe drawing a bow; “reduce what is in excess and replenish what is insufficient” describe the Way of Heaven. When a bow is slack, its body curves downward and its tips point down. When it is drawn, the body rises and the tips point up. Thus the bowstring, which was higher, is pressed downward, while the lower tips are raised. The Way of Heaven reduces what is in excess, just as the string is pressed down, and replenishes what is insufficient, just as the tips are raised.

The Way of Heaven reduces what is in excess and replenishes what is insufficient. Human practice, however, often does the opposite: it takes from what is insufficient to support what is in excess.

The Way of Heaven diminishes what is full and increases what is humble. People, by contrast, often take from those who have little to add to those who have much. They swallow up the small to enlarge the great, and take from the poor to enrich the wealthy. This is acting against the Way of Heaven.

Who can take what they have in excess and use it to nourish all under Heaven? Only a person who has the Way.

A ruler who has the Way, though honored as the Son of Heaven and wealthy enough to possess all within the four seas, does not treat his rank and riches as private possessions. He eats simply, dresses plainly, and does not seek a grand, splendid palace. He safeguards resources for all under Heaven and avoids waste. He also provides the people with fields and homes, teaches them to farm and plant, and reduces their taxes, so that every household has surplus grain and everyone can live in comfort. This is using one’s surplus resources to nourish all under Heaven.

Therefore, the sage acts without relying on his achievements, and when things are accomplished, he does not take pride in the credit. Is this not because he does not wish to display his own excellence?

A sage’s abilities and accomplishments are enough to benefit all under Heaven because he has more than he needs. He does not use his abilities to make every household wealthy and every person prosperous in order to glorify himself. Instead, he offers his surplus abilities and resources to all under Heaven.

Thus, the sage acts without relying on his own abilities, and completes his work without claiming credit. Is it that he does not wish to display his worth and skill?

A sage’s abilities and accomplishments are enough to benefit all under Heaven; this shows that he has more than he needs. He does not rely on his capacity to get things done, but seems to have no ability. He does not claim completed works as his own, but seems to have earned no merit. He does not wish to show off abilities that surpass those of others. All these ways of acting lessen what he has in excess.

This is the right-hand text of Chapter 64.

Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming what is hard and strong, for nothing else can take its place.

Metal and stone are exceedingly hard, yet water is needed to grind them down. Water is the most powerful means of overcoming hard things; nothing surpasses it. Even if one wished to replace water with something else, there would be no suitable substitute.

The weak overcome the strong. Everyone under Heaven knows this principle, yet few can put it into practice.

Water is the softest and weakest thing, yet it can overcome hard metal and stone. This shows that the weak can overcome the strong. Everyone under Heaven understands this principle, yet no one can truly practice yielding and taking the lower position, because they are blinded by delusion.

Therefore, the sage says: “One who bears the filth of a state may be called its master; one who bears a state’s ill fortune may be called the ruler of all under Heaven.”

“Filth” means impurity, and “ill fortune” means inauspicious events. People usually consider filth and misfortune shameful and low, and regard them as humiliating. The sage does not see them this way. By bearing even a state’s filth and ill fortune, one can become the ruler of all under Heaven.

Filth means impurity; ill omen means bad luck. People usually consider a reputation for impurity and ill omen shameful and lowly, something degrading and humiliating. The sage sees it differently. Even if an entire state lays that reputation upon him, he accepts it without protest. This is because he can be yielding and humble, willingly taking a lowly and humiliated place. He is unlike the strong, who seek to rise above others through honor and glory.

Yet the spirits will accept his offerings, allowing him to preside over the state’s rites; and the people will rally to him, allowing him to rule all under Heaven. The strong anger the spirits and drive the people away, ultimately losing their state and all under Heaven. The yielding, by contrast, gain the spirits’ protection and the people’s allegiance, and so retain their state and all under Heaven. This is the outcome of the yielding overcoming the strong.

The above is Chapter 65.

Words that are straightforward often sound like their opposite.

Laozi holds that the Dao operates through reversal, and that De is profound and hard to fathom. Thus, when straightforward words are spoken, they often seem contrary to common sense. What is right may seem contrary, just as brightness can appear dim, advancing can seem like retreating, uprightness can look crooked, and skill can seem clumsy. What appears dim can thereby reveal brightness; what seems to retreat can thereby move forward; what appears crooked can thereby remain upright; what seems clumsy can thereby show skill. What sounds like the opposite is, in fact, the right principle.

The passage that follows says: “When one tries to reconcile deep-seated resentment, some resentment is bound to remain. How can that be considered truly satisfactory?” This is an example of “words that are straightforward sounding like their opposite.”

In old editions, “Words that are straightforward sound like their opposite” appears at the end of the previous chapter. Wu Cheng argues that the previous chapter’s four sentences beginning with “The sage” already form a complete conclusion, and should not be followed by another sentence; other chapters are not structured this way either. Chapters such as “Freedom from Learning Brings No Worry” and “Few Words Accord with Nature” first state the main point in a four-character phrase, then explain it in detail. This chapter should follow the same pattern. Moreover, “opposite,” “resentment,” and “satisfactory” rhyme in the ancient pronunciation, which suggests that “Words that are straightforward sound like their opposite” belongs at the beginning of this chapter.

“When one tries to reconcile deep-seated resentment, some resentment is bound to remain. How can that be considered satisfactory?”

“Harmonizing” means bringing the two sides to an end to their dispute. “Resentment” means harboring bitterness toward another person; “deep resentment” is a grudge that has grown intense over time. “Lingering resentment” refers to bitterness still hidden in the heart, not yet fully dispelled.

When two sides resent one another, they view each other as enemies. Their hostility can be undone only through reconciliation. Good people have no resentment between them in the first place, so they naturally need no mediation. When bad people are at odds, their misdeeds often accumulate until they turn on and harm one another. One side may prevail and the other be defeated, or both may suffer; onlookers can simply watch.

Mediation is needed only when, through misfortune, a good person comes into conflict with a bad one. The good person is generous and does not wish to treat the bad person as an enemy, while the bad person harbors resentment and may harm the good person. To help the good person, one should reconcile the two sides and persuade them to let go of their grievances. But if the bad person’s desire for revenge is merely suppressed, while the resentment in their heart remains, the conflict has only been calmed for a time and may flare up again later. Such mediation cannot prevent future retaliation. How, then, can it count as treating the good person well?

Therefore, the sage holds the left half of the tally (in ancient times, a contract was divided into left and right halves; the creditor often kept the left half as proof), yet does not use it to demand payment from others.

Holding the left tally and not pursuing another person for payment means keeping no account in one’s heart and letting things unfold naturally. In ancient times, people carved tally contracts from wooden tablets and split them in two, each party holding one half as proof of the agreement. To demand property from someone was called “pursuing payment.” The tally contract had a left half and a right half: the party responsible for managing the property held the left tally, while the party who came to collect it held the right. The Wang family of Linchuan cites the Records of the Grand Historian and the Book of Rites to explain that the left tally was the proof held by the party responsible for repayment. The person holding the left tally does not proactively pursue others for payment, but waits for them to bring the right tally for comparison. If the two match, the property is handed over, without judging whether the other person is good or bad. This is not a deliberate effort to resolve resentment or to make oneself seem virtuous. It means keeping no account in one’s heart, quietly observing things, and letting them take their natural course.

A person with De (Virtue/Power) administers the tally contract; a person without De administers the “che” system.

Having De means responding to things without deliberate calculation. Lacking De means intentionally arranging matters and weighing gains and losses. “Che” was a system of cooperative labor. Under the ancient “help system,” a square of farmland was divided into nine plots. Eight households each cultivated one private plot, while the remaining plot was public land, farmed jointly by all eight households. The harvests from the private plots differed because households had different numbers of workers, with different levels of strength. In the Zhou dynasty, the help system was changed to the che system: the eight households worked the private plots together as well and divided the harvest equally, so that each household received the same amount. The person administering the left tally lets others come to collect what is due without judging who they are, which is why it is said, “A person with De administers the che system.” Those who established the che system worried that households would receive unequal shares, so they deliberately arranged and adjusted the distribution; this is why it is said, “They lack De.” Deliberately resolving resentment and worrying that kind people might suffer harm are also intentional actions, like those who implemented the che system by looking after households with less able workers, fearing they would reap too little.

The Dao (the Way) of Heaven favors no one as its kin, yet it always helps the good.

Ten people form a shi; a hundred form a bo. “Implements for groups of ten and a hundred” refers to large tools used by many people together. Let the people, even if they possess such tools, refrain from managing, making, or coveting them. Let them value life and cherish themselves, without traveling far from home; born here, let them live in peace here. Laozi hoped to reverse the decline of the Zhou dynasty and return society to the simplicity of ancient times: a small state with few people, whose inhabitants did not yearn for the world beyond their borders and could provide for themselves.

Even if boats and carts exist, there should be no need to ride in them; even if armor and weapons exist, there should be no occasion to display or use them. Boats, carts, armor, and weapons all require many people to use together. With no need to travel far, boats and carts are unnecessary; with no conflict, weapons are unnecessary.

Let the people return to a way of life in which they keep records by tying knots.

When the people are simple and unpretentious, and affairs are uncomplicated, the ancient way of governing all under Heaven through knotted cords can be restored. Even when writing and contracts exist, they can remain unused; this means more than simply making no use of vessels that hold ten or a hundred bushels.

The people find their food delicious, their clothes beautiful, their homes secure, and their customary way of life joyful.

This means that the people cherish life and do not wish to move far away. They find their food delicious and their clothes beautiful, feel inwardly content and fulfilled, and cherish and care for their lives: this shows that they value life. They find the place where they live secure and are at ease there; they find the local customs enjoyable and take pleasure in them. This shows that they do not wish to move far away. Since they are willing to live where they were born until they grow old and die, who would readily move to a distant place?

Neighboring states can see one another, and the sounds of their chickens and dogs can be heard, yet the people grow old and die without visiting one another.

This means that the people are all attached to their native homes. Even when neighboring states are so close that they can be seen and the sounds of their chickens and dogs can be heard, the people still grow old and die without visiting one another. This means more than simply saying that they do not wish to move far away.

The above is Chapter Sixty-Seven.

Words that are true and trustworthy are not ornate; words that are ornate and pleasing to the ear are often untrustworthy. Those skilled in action do not rely on argument to prove themselves; those who enjoy arguing are often not skilled in action. Those with true wisdom do not boast of extensive knowledge; those with extensive knowledge are often not truly wise.

Genuine words are not dressed up with ornate embellishments; ornate words must contain some artifice…