《道德真经注(李荣)》

The Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De was written by the Tang dynasty Daoist Li Rong. The original work comprised two scrolls. Two fragmentary copies survive. One is included in the Orthodox Canon (Zhengtong Daozang) and contains the original preface and commentaries on the thirty-six chapters of the Scripture of the Dao. The other is a fragmentary manuscript from Dunhuang, preserving commentaries on forty-four chapters of the Scripture of De and on chapter thirty-seven of the Scripture of the Dao. Even together, the two fragments are incomplete. The text has therefore been reconstructed by comparing and supplementing the Daoist Canon edition, the Dunhuang manuscript, and Qiang Siqi’s Commentary on the Mysterious De of the True Scripture of the Dao and De (abbreviated as the “Qiang edition”). The original work did not divide the text into chapters; chapter numbers have been added here according to the standard edition.

Preface to the Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De

The Daoist subject, Li Rong, says: I have heard that the Dao’s essence is profound and still, existing before Heaven and Earth. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they cannot reveal its appearance. The Dao’s essence is undifferentiated and formed as one, yet it truly contains the myriad things. Even surveying all things is not enough to fathom its mystery completely.

Your subject Li Rong respectfully submits: I have heard that the deep and still source that preceded Heaven and Earth pervades them both, yet cannot be revealed through ordinary appearances. The Dao, whole and undivided, seemingly takes form and contains the myriad things, yet people still find it difficult to perceive its subtle depths. It transcends images and words, and is so profound that it cannot be measured. The hidden traces by which the Dao brings the myriad things to life return to emptiness and stillness, responding to each thing as it arises; the subtle way by which it guides the myriad things is held within its wondrous laws.

Thus, the registers of immortals left by Laozi seem to have communicated with the spirits long before emperors appeared. The Daoist teaching Laozi transmitted in Ku County also became the beginning of emperors receiving revelations from the divine. The five thousand words of the Daode Jing have been passed down to later generations, making its mysterious teaching shine forth. And the auspicious signs left behind when Laozi rode a blue ox through the pass gave rise to the legend of purple qi coming from the east.

With reverence, I say that Your Majesty has inherited a line of sage rulers and ascended the throne in accord with Heaven’s mandate. Your radiance is like a bright mirror reflecting upon water, while auspicious qi swirls like clouds and mist around the mountain where longevity is offered. When Your Majesty delighted in an excursion by the Fen River, you followed the transformations of nature without imposing your own rule. When you sought the Dao by the river, you practiced the highest benevolence without using human will to direct the myriad things. Your Majesty has personally studied with solemn care the true writings of the sacred grottoes, and has also read with a sage’s insight the scriptures kept in the immortal capital. You have centered your spirit on the subtle principles of the Huangting Jing and steeped yourself in the “Mysterious Female,” the hidden source from which the Dao brings the myriad things to life, while keeping to humility and restraint. Thus the fashion for empty display and contrived action has come to an end, and the myriad things can each grow through the nourishing transformation of Wuwei (non-action).

I respectfully cite the Jing: “Therefore, the sage governs the world by dealing with affairs through Wuwei and carrying out teaching without words.” It also says: “The sage governs the world by emptying people’s minds and filling their bellies, while ensuring that the people have sufficient clothing and food.” The many efficacious signs from past and present seem to confirm one another. From antiquity to the present, those who have studied the Dao have not fully grasped its profound intent—perhaps because they had yet to encounter a sage ruler whose De was still and free of contrivance. Now the heart of a sage, revealed as though by Heaven’s own inspiration, is clear to all. This is a sign of the wondrous teaching of peace: it brings to light principles that earlier ages left obscure, establishes the supreme achievement of Wuwei, and passes its auspicious signs on to people a thousand generations hence. Can this be merely like auspicious texts such as the Hetu and Luoshu, which left only the fame of Han emperors, or the cinnabar writing handed down at Changhu, which merely marked the name of King Wen of Zhou?

The words of the Daode Jing are plain yet subtle; its principles are profound and enduring. It is like Xihe, the deity said to govern the movements of the sun and moon, illuminating the six directions with an even light. It is also like the highest goodness, which nourishes the myriad things so that each receives sustenance.

For this reason, worthy and outstanding people of the past competed to investigate its deeper meaning. Some Confucian scholars of the Wei and Jin periods were caught between being and nonbeing and could not reach an understanding of the profound. Some Daoist masters of the Qi and Liang periods strayed from admonitions about right and wrong conduct, speaking instead in abstractions beyond visible traces. Those who merely echoed others saw the profound as if it were mist dispersing, and spoke only of emptiness, losing their way in the process. Those attached to being were like clouds gathering, insisting that everything truly exists. Some explained the text only to those of the highest capacity, leaving their account incomplete; others wrote at length to accommodate shallow understanding, becoming elaborate rather than concise. Thus a single book, the Daode Jing, came to have a hundred schools of commentary. Their many interpretations muddied the immortals’ current of clarity and stillness, and turned the sea of wisdom into a confused expanse. At times, these commentaries still failed to unlock the subtle key by which the text might guide public affairs and customs; and those seeking to pass from actual existence through to emptiness often had yet to open the gate to stillness and quiet.

Though I, Li Rong, have entered the Daoist community and my name appears in its registers, I drink from the stream of purity, yet my mind has not become as clear as still water. I dwell beside secluded mountain rocks, yet my insight falls far short of a bright mirror. For a long time I have stayed in places devoted to quiet cultivation and have long heard the teachings of Daoism. I have also chanted beside Qing Creek, yet only passed my days in an age of peace without making any contribution. Thanks to the repeated edicts Your Majesty has graciously issued, I have been able to present memorials in court while holding the jade tablet and to hear the imperial commands before the vermilion steps. I have often taken part in profound discussions, yet have not had the opportunity to express my thoughts fully.

The sea is deep, and the Three Mountains lie far away. Even sailing to Linzhou cannot reveal their secrets. Springs and channels run into one another, and the Nine Wells are profound; looking up to the virtue of the dragon, I still find it elusive. I dare not call myself wise. I can only offer all that my limited understanding allows and attempt a commentary on the text. At the thought of this, I am often apprehensive; yet I take private joy in having heard the Dao in my early years. Still, to discuss the sea with the insight of a tiny mussel shell is to be unable to measure the waves stirred by the great sea turtle. A towering mountain reaches into the clouds; I can only hope to contribute a little, like an ant piling up earth. May I gain some understanding of the myriad mysteries and find a trace of the Mysterious Pearl, symbol of the profound truth. If I thereby offend Your Majesty, I am deeply afraid. I respectfully submit this memorial.

The Dao is the ultimate principle of emptiness. Its nature cannot be divided into “being” and “nonbeing,” nor can its reality be confined by directions such as above and below. It is mysterious and far-reaching, beyond ordinary understanding; so subtle that it eludes thought, so profound that it resists comprehension. To open a path to this mysterious realm, the sages borrowed the name “all-pervading” to refer to the ultimate principle of emptiness. Since it can be explained through principle, it is called the Dao. Thus Laozi said, “I do not know what it was originally called, so I reluctantly call it the Dao.”

“Not the constant Dao” means that it is not the Dao commonly spoken of in the world. The conventional Dao values ritual and righteousness and exalts outward display. People may even sacrifice themselves to seek fame, forgetting themselves in pursuit of profit. Only after losing the Dao do they esteem De. Laozi now casts aside the outward trappings of benevolence and righteousness and embraces the reality of the Dao and De. He puts an end to shallow conduct and returns to the source of simplicity and honesty. This runs counter to worldly convention, and so it is called the “not constant Dao.”

A name that can be spoken is not the constant, unchanging true name.

“Name” is a title for the Great Dao. If one must give the Great Dao a name, it is called “Great.” A name does not exist in isolation; it must rest on some underlying reality. Nor does a title arise from nowhere: it is established on the basis of the principles expressed through De. The Great Dao flows freely, without obstruction, and embraces all things without limit. Thus the name “Great Dao” points to its underlying reality and helps all things understand it. This is what is meant by “a name that can be named.”

“Not an enduring name” does not refer to the fleeting honors and empty reputations of the world. Calling it “not enduring” is meant to guide people to relinquish what is impermanent and return to what is truly constant. Names have reasons for arising, and people grasp the principles by different paths, from the shallow to the profound, from sudden insight to gradual understanding. So one begins with apt expressions to guide people in letting go of the impermanent and apprehending the truly constant. At the ultimate point, however, there is no “impermanent” to relinquish and no “truly constant” to attain. Indeed, one must not cling even to “impermanence”: it is neither impermanent nor constant in the ordinary sense; neither beyond the constant nor impermanent.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; with a name, it becomes the source and nurturer of the myriad things.

The Dao is profound and hidden; De is subtle and wondrous. Their principle transcends being and nonbeing. Since neither being nor nonbeing can be clung to, names, too, should be set aside. Yet the empty, unobstructed workings of the Great Dao are everywhere. It is not mere nothingness, though it appears as “nonbeing”; this nameless state is the origin of Heaven and Earth’s Two Modes, Yin and Yang. It is not something substantial, yet it can appear as “being”; this named state is the parent of the myriad things. This is what is meant by saying, “The Dao gives birth to the myriad things, and De nurtures them.”

By remaining in a state of desirelessness, one can perceive the subtle mysteries of the Dao. By beginning from a state of desire, one can observe the boundaries and traces that things reveal.

All who receive life take Dao and De as their foundation and likewise receive the Qi of Yin and Yang. Yet people differ in the brightness or obscurity of their inner awareness, and in whether their temperaments are calm or restless...

From birth, all people take Dao and De as their foundation and receive Yin-Yang Qi in equal measure. Yet minds differ in clarity and obscurity, and temperaments in calmness and agitation. If one can quiet the heart and cleanse the mind, bringing it to a state of deep stillness, desires will no longer disturb the spirit, nor will a jumble of sharp and distracting things sway the mind. With the heart clear and settled, like a mysterious mirror, one can discern subtle and hidden principles and grasp what is profound and refined. This is the practice of having no desires.

If one still cannot let go of distinctions, clings to external things, pursues right and wrong, and competes for sights and sounds, devoting one’s energy only to deliberate action and outward appearances, how could one understand the fundamental principle of Wuwei (non-action)? This is the practice of having desires. “Traces” refers to the boundaries and signs of things, and can also mean where they tend or arrive. Here it means acting in accordance with Dao and De, contemplating refined principles to enter the realm of Dao. If one loses inner stillness and emptiness, one strays from the right path; if one becomes tainted by superficial methods, one falls into outward traces.

These two states, “having desires” and “having no desires,” come from a single source; they differ only in name.

Viewed more closely, “having desires” and “having no desires” are two different attitudes toward life. All people receive the nature of the Five Constant Virtues and possess a mind within them; in this, they are alike. To restrain cleverness and artifice, remain tranquil and detached, and discern the source of Dao is called “the subtle.” To compete in acting on preconceived knowledge, let the mind grow confused, and lose oneself in the worldly realm is called “traces.” This is the difference in their names.

From a broader perspective, the sages wished to clarify the principle of purity and emptiness, and therefore took Dao and De as their foundation. This chapter repeatedly affirms that teaching and speaks separately of “Dao” and “De.” At their undivided root, they are one. When the still substance gives rise to activity, they are said to “come forth together.” Dao embodies the power that brings forth the myriad things, while De embodies the work of nurturing them. Dao and De have different names, and so their names are said to differ.

“Together” means that the empty, still Dao and the profound De are both deep, subtle, and beyond prediction or words. No fixed name can encompass them; one can only speak of them as “together.” This is the realm that is mysterious upon mysterious. Nothing else can be called “mysterious”; only Dao and De can be spoken of in this way. Thus, mysterious De is far-reaching, while the highest Dao is deep and still.

Within the mysterious lies a still deeper mystery: this is the gateway to the many subtle principles.

“Profound” means deep and subtle. No concrete thing can establish this profundity; only the Dao and De can be called profound. Thus we speak of “the profound and far-reaching De” and “the supreme Dao, profound and still.”

The Dao and De are deep and difficult to fathom. Their principles transcend words and images; the true root is empty, still, and clear, and cannot be defined as either being or nonbeing. To guide people toward the profound principles, words and images are therefore used to explain what lies beyond being and nonbeing. This is called “the profound.”

There is also a concern that people who have lost their way will cling to words and phrases, while those who fail to grasp the principles will stubbornly hold to their preconceptions. In the end, they may become attached to “the profound” and mistake it for the true Dao. So the text goes further and says “the profound again”: it transcends not only being and nonbeing; even the name “the profound” is borrowed only to dispel attachment to being and nonbeing. Once that attachment has been removed, there is no need to retain “the profound” either.

“The profound again” means that no matter how many times it is explained, its root cannot be fully exhausted. It is vast and boundless, empty yet open and unobstructed. It is the hub that gathers the myriad phenomena and the gateway through which the myriad spirits emerge. Grasping this meaning is the way into the many subtle principles.

Chapter Two

When everyone under Heaven recognizes beauty as beauty, the idea of ugliness arises along with it.

“Beauty” here means things that please people. People have different dispositions, and often take pleasure not in embodying the Dao but in pursuing desire. Pleasure must not be taken to excess, or it turns to sorrow; desire must not be indulged, or it harms one’s nature. People often regard beautiful sights, pleasing sounds, and delicious flavors as the greatest delights, without realizing that these can also become sources of trouble and beginnings of sorrow, damaging both nature and body. From this, what is called “ugliness” arises.

When everyone recognizes goodness as goodness, the idea of what is not good arises along with it.

Throughout the world, whether people are high or low in status, noble or base in character, few can be humble and self-effacing. Most indulge their desires and let their temperament run free. People have different preferences, but all act according to their own nature. Those who cherish their reputation regard reputation as good; those who covet profit regard profit as good. If they take profit to be good, they may pursue it by any means. If they take reputation to be good, they may even sacrifice their lives for it. Though they follow their own wishes and believe they are doing good, losing their lives in the process is still not good. Thus Boyi died for his integrity on Mount Shouyang, while Robber Zhi died for profit beneath Dongling. Neither acted well.

Therefore, Being and Nonbeing depend on each other and come into being together.

All things under Heaven arise from Being, while Being itself arises from Nonbeing. What has form emerges from what is formless and without substance; what already exists eventually returns to Nonbeing. Thus Being and Nonbeing give rise to each other.

Difficult and easy bring one another about.

The difficult tasks in the world must begin with what is easy. Difficulty arises from ease, and what is easy may develop into difficulty. Easy tasks may also be accomplished through difficult ones. Thus difficult and easy bring one another about.

Long and short reveal one another.

Considered separately, things have no absolute greatness or smallness. Only through comparison do we distinguish long from short. Mount Tai and an autumn hair differ greatly in size; the legs of a white crane and a teal differ in length as well. Without comparison, there is no long or short. Once things are compared, their lengths become apparent.

High and low depend on one another and can also endanger one another.

“Overturning” means capsizing or being put in danger. Water can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it. What is high rests on what is low as its foundation, while what is low may be put in danger by what is high. Though the lowly may seem base, they can unsettle those above them; those in high and honored positions can indeed harm those below. When they lose the Dao, both high and low are endangered. When they follow the Dao, ruler and minister alike can be secure.

Musical notes and sounds harmonize with one another.

When those above govern those below, it is like the wind bending the grass: the grass bends whichever way the wind blows. Those below follow those above just as an echo answers a sound. It is also like the mutual response of musical tones such as gong and shang: if a tone is set too high, the zither strings will snap; if those above are too impatient, those below will grow impatient too. From this we can see that only when the five tones are in tune can the eight kinds of instruments harmonize, and only when government orders are calm and measured will the people be content. Thus it is said that the ruler is the people’s teacher, and that the people take the ruler as their model.

Those who come first lead; those who come after follow. The ruler acts first, and the ministers follow; the father acts first, and the son follows. Therefore, rulers and fathers must not act rashly or impatiently and thereby lose the Daoist mind. They should instead remain steady and calm, in accord with De.

Thus the sage governs all under Heaven by handling affairs in accord with nature, without deliberate interference. He carries out his teaching without relying on verbal instruction. As the myriad things grow and change, he neither rejects them nor claims them as his own.

Looking back across the distant past, some ages were marked by shallow customs, others by simplicity and honesty. Among rulers of successive dynasties, some carried out virtuous government with ease, while others pressed ahead in haste. No one inscribed an honored title on a golden tablet, nor recorded sage-like deeds in the annals of emperors. The emperor receives the mandate of a thousand years and establishes a lasting foundation. Without taking up arms, he wins the people’s willing and tireless support. Thus the sage’s far-reaching reputation is already evident before change has come to light, and the foundations of the state are laid in advance, unseen. This is what is meant by “the sage governs all under Heaven by handling affairs in accord with nature, without deliberate interference.”

Brave generals uphold the ruler’s authority and pacify the four quarters. Ministers who assist the ruler discuss the principles of government and manage its affairs, enabling every official to fulfill their duties. Teaching does not depend on words: this is what is meant by “carrying out the teaching without words.”

“Acting” means arising and taking action. Scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each remain at their proper work, and the myriad things do not depart from their inherent state. Change is allowed to unfold naturally, without deliberate intervention or resistance.

He gives life to and nurtures the myriad things, yet does not claim them as his own. He lets each thing change in its own way and makes use of what they produce in daily life, without knowing how this comes about.

He takes action, yet does not pride himself on his achievements. He regards the myriad things as straw dogs—straw figures used in ancient rites and discarded afterward—and does not rely on his own De to boast of his accomplishments.

He brings endeavors to completion, yet does not claim the credit. Even while possessing a splendid palace, he can dwell there at ease without being burdened by it. His aspiration to seek the Dao reaches beyond Xiangcheng, and his state of focused contemplation extends as far as Mount Gushe.

Precisely because he does not claim the credit, his achievements do not depart from him.

The highest Dao (the Way) permeates the whole cosmos, and the highest De (Virtue/Power) encompasses Heaven and Earth. Though it makes no deliberate display of its efficacy, the people embrace it. When the ruler lets his robes hang and rests his hands, the Nine Provinces become peaceful and orderly. He dwells at ease in Wuwei (non-action), standing apart from the world. The Yellow Emperor once asked Guangchengzi about the Dao at Xiangcheng. The Perfected One gathered and cultivated his spirit, attaining a lofty state, like the divine being on Mount Gushe.

Precisely because the sage does not claim merit, merit does not depart from him.

The highest Dao permeates the whole cosmos, and the highest De encompasses Heaven and Earth. Though it makes no deliberate display of its efficacy, the people embrace it. When the ruler lets his robes hang and rests his hands, he brings peace to the Nine Provinces. Ruling through Wuwei, he draws the myriad states to pay court; with his spirit settled, he preserves inner stillness. Thus it is said that merit does not depart.

Chapter Three

Do not exalt the name of the worthy, and the people will not contend with one another.

The kingly Way is broad and impartial, without favoritism or factions. The noble and the lowly stand side by side like jade and stone; the wise and the foolish alike dwell in the world. This is what it looks like when the Great Dao transforms all things: there is no strife. If one insists that the worthy should hold high office and be rewarded according to their achievements, while the foolish should labor and be punished for their faults, then excessive rewards will make the worthy arrogant and extravagant, while excessive labor will drive the foolish into poverty. The arrogant will surely oppress others; those pushed to desperation will rise up in resistance. Resentment and conflict then arise. The sun and moon shine upon all things without changing their radiance according to whether what they shine on is wise or foolish. Heaven and Earth cover and sustain all things without altering their constancy according to whether something is good or bad.

Chapter Four

Do not prize rare goods, and the people will not steal.

Cast aside fine jade worth ten cities and toss away pearls worth a thousand in gold, regarding them as broken tiles and stones. Where, then, would thieves be?

Do not display things that invite covetousness, and people’s minds will not be disturbed.

Let the ears hear no music from Zheng and Wei, and the eyes see no beauties like Bao Si and Da Ji. Cleanse the body and mind, abandon attachments and desires—how could the mind then be troubled?

Thus the sage regards wealth as broken tiles and stones. Where, then, would thieves be?

Do not display things that invite covetousness, and people’s minds will not be disturbed.

Let the ears hear no music from Zheng and Wei, and the eyes see no beauties like Bao Si and Da Ji. Cleanse the body and mind, abandon attachments and desires—how could the mind then be troubled?

Thus the sage governs the world:

The ruler accumulates benevolence until his De is perfected. Lao Jun speaks of this again in order to further illuminate the sage’s De.

He empties people’s minds,

removing their cravings and desires, putting an end to disputes over right and wrong, setting aside all manner of thoughts, and preserving the pure and undivided nature.

He fills their bellies,

filling their hearts with the Dao and their inner lives with De.

The Daodejing says: Diminish people’s drive to compete and show their strength, and soften their will so they follow the Dao rather than oppose it.

Strengthen their sinews and bones. Only when the Dao gathers in emptiness and stillness can an open heart nurture the Great Dao. The Dao is present in all things, yet harms none of them. Those who embody the Dao in their conduct naturally develop firm “immortal bones,” the transcendent body described in Daoist teachings.

Always keep the people short of clever knowledge and desire, so that those who think themselves shrewd dare not act recklessly. Govern according to Wuwei (non-action), following the natural course and refraining from forcing things, and nothing will be left unguided.

Those in high positions should set an example of Wuwei, while those below practice the teaching of simplicity. When those below follow those above and all are at peace, the myriad things can be transformed without deliberate instruction.

The Dao is empty and formless, yet its function seems inexhaustible.

“Chong” means hollow within; “ying” means full. The Dao favors nothing and, in its use, always finds the fitting middle. Heaven’s way shuns fullness: fullness brings loss, so the Dao is said not to be full. At the utmost fullness, loss must follow; at the utmost emptiness, substance comes into being. The way of harmony is neither full nor depleted, neither existent nor nonexistent. Since neither being nor nonbeing can be fixed upon, fullness and depletion cannot be fixed upon either. The image of the “Middle Way” is used to dissolve the bias of clinging to either extreme. Once that bias has been dispelled, the image of the “Middle Way” must also be released, until nothing is clung to. This too is what “not full” means.

It is deep and mysterious, as though it were the source of all things. The sea is deep and vast, so all rivers flow into it; the Dao is deep and boundless, so all things honor it as their root.

Draw in your sharpness. To rely on foresight and think yourself right harms your nature, encourages wrongdoing, and injures others: this is sharpness. Empty the heart and forget the self; use the Dao to draw it in. This is “softening.”

Resolve turmoil. Craving desirable things disrupts the right way, and concern over gain and loss unsettles the heart: this is turmoil. Abandon external things and forget the self; distance yourself from desire and restrain your feelings. This is “resolving.”

Blend your light so it does not dazzle. Mix with the everyday world without being stained by it or damaging what is true within you. Thus the Dao is clear, still, and profound: it seems faintly present, yet endures forever.

I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it existed before the Lord of Heaven appeared.

The Dao is deep and remote, like an abyss of emptiness. Follow it in search, and still you cannot know where it ends. How, then, could you define it? Thus, it is said that no one knows where the Dao comes from. It opens the way to governance that accords with nature, taking Heaven, Earth, and humanity as its guiding framework. It sets the workings of creation in motion and encompasses all things. When we examine how things actually function, the Dao stands before the Celestial Emperor, as though it were the source of all phenomena.

Chapter Five

Heaven and Earth show no benevolence; they regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice.

Long and short appear in relation to each other; right and wrong stand opposed. This is the natural way of things. “Benevolence” means love, and where there is love, there will also be dislike. Heaven and Earth have no private desires and are not swayed by love or dislike; that is why it is said that they are “not benevolent.” A “straw dog” is a dog-shaped figure made of straw and used in ancient sacrifices. Once the ritual was over, it was discarded. People take no special care of a straw dog while using it, nor do they hate it when they throw it away. Heaven and Earth are likewise: the warmth of spring naturally brings all things to life, not out of preference for them; the chill of autumn frost naturally withers them, not out of aversion.

The sage shows no benevolence; the people are regarded as straw dogs used in sacrifice.

The sage has no private desires and accords with the De of Heaven and Earth. The meaning of being “not benevolent” can be understood from the way Heaven and Earth treat straw dogs. Though the sage’s kindness can nourish plants and benefit fish in the water, when putting teachings into practice, the sage places the people first. That is why the text says “the people.”

Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows or a wind instrument? It is empty within, yet never exhausted; set in motion, it sends forth breath without end.

“Tuo” means bellows, “yue” means the pipes of a musical instrument, “qu” means exhausted, and “jian” refers to the space within. The bellows and the pipes are hollow inside, so they can send forth breath without being exhausted; Heaven and Earth are hollow, and so they can continually bring forth the myriad things. The point is that if people can empty their minds and still their bodies, they too can put wisdom and De to work without limit.

Too many words often lead matters into difficulty. Better to hold fast to inner emptiness and stillness.

“Exhaustion” means adversity and constraint. For example, speech may conform to reason yet fail to reach the hearts and minds of all people; when words are ill chosen, they may bring trouble upon the speaker. This is what it means to be constrained. Yet good fortune and misfortune depend on whether one’s words and actions are appropriate; gain and loss do not depend on how much one speaks. The phrase “Too many words lead to exhaustion” warns people against the faults of excessive speech. It urges them to keep to the center—to remain measured and unbiased—so that the teachings are not obstructed, and to grasp the Way inwardly, ultimately reaching a state beyond words.

“Valley Spirit never dies” can be understood to mean that the empty and wondrous Dao never perishes. Heshang Gong took this as a method of cultivation through visualization and nourishing the spirit; Wang Bi saw “the nothingness within the valley” as a metaphor. Li Rong considered both readings focused on concrete phenomena, and instead explained the passage in terms of its underlying principles: “valley” means emptiness, “mysterious” means the Dao, and “female” means stillness. Human beings have bodies and spirits, and thus are subject to a governing principle and to life and death. Since life and death change without constancy, they cannot be called still or equated with the Dao. If one can return body and spirit to emptiness, forget the distinction between self and things, and let Qi gather without anything to which it clings—without treating this gathering as birth—and let Qi disperse through openings that are no openings—without treating this dispersal as death—then one can transcend the distinction between life and death. This is the Dao of the “Valley Spirit.” The impermanence of life and death belongs to things in flux; deep, yielding stillness and tranquil immobility are what “mysterious female” means.

“The gate of the mysterious female” is the source of Heaven and Earth. When the Dao is still, it has no form or appearance. When it moves and stirs, Heaven and Earth come into being from it, and the forms of the myriad things emerge from it; hence it is called a “gate.” Heaven and Earth arise through the Dao, which is why the Dao is also called the “root” of Heaven and Earth.

“Continuous, as though it were present; use it, and it is never exhausted”: the Dao extends without end, seeming to exist while remaining elusive. When put to use, it is never depleted.

“Endlessly continuous” means subtle and unbroken. The Way of the Mysterious Female, which symbolizes the source from which heaven, earth, and all things arise, neither comes into being nor passes away. The principle of receptive stillness cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said to perish. If we say it exists, we cannot see its form; if we say it perishes, all things are born from it. It neither grows stronger nor wanes, is never fixed in permanence, and is never cut off. That is why it is called “endlessly continuous.” “Toil” means labor. After attaining the Dao, one’s capacities are inexhaustible, yet one follows nature and rests contentedly. Hence the saying, “does not toil.”

Chapter Seven

Heaven is long-lasting and earth endures. Heaven and earth can last and endure because they do not live for themselves; therefore, they can last.

The sun and moon move, waxing and waning, rising and setting, never at rest. Yin and Yang transform, alternately expanding and contracting; cold and heat take turns, and time passes swiftly. Nothing among the myriad things lasts forever. Only heaven and earth endure. The reason they endure is that they have no concern for themselves and make no effort to secure their own survival. If people can model themselves on heaven and earth, acting without self-interest and not deliberately seeking excessive nourishment, then their immortal bones can endure like metal and stone, and their lives can continue in lasting stability.

If one cannot set aside judgments of right and wrong to accord with the Dao and De (Virtue), cannot relinquish desires to gather one’s true nature, and lets sights and sounds cloud the eyes and ears and fragrances and flavors disturb the nose and mouth—if the body is worn out by exertion and the mind exhausted within—then even a hundred-year lifespan is as brief as morning dew, and a family fortune worth a thousand pieces of gold vanishes as quickly as an evening harvest. Thus, people head so readily toward death because they overindulge and nourish themselves, thereby bringing death upon themselves.

Therefore, the sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore; he treats himself as though he were beyond concern, yet preserves himself.

Few can restrain their desires and quiet their calculating minds; many pursue their cravings and turn away from their true nature. Only the sage understands this and can put it into practice. He humbly withdraws, yet is placed first because his De is honored. He keeps the Dao in his heart, and so can put himself beyond concern. In the end, he preserves himself and becomes one with the Dao.

Is this not precisely because he has no selfish intentions? Thus, he brings himself to fulfillment.

The private attachments of the human heart can easily cloud the mind; only when the spirit is clear and discerning can it see through things. Without a just and selfless heart, people act with bias: they honor themselves and slight others, favor themselves and neglect others. They try to get ahead of all things, yet cannot surpass them; they try to preserve themselves, but in the end their bodies perish. The sage has no selfish thoughts and makes no deliberate effort to be first among all things, yet naturally takes the lead. Without a greedy desire to preserve the self, the sage is naturally preserved. This is what it means to fulfill oneself.

Chapter Eight

The highest goodness is like water. Water nourishes all things and does not contend with them. It stays in the low places that people all dislike, and so it is closest to the Dao (the Way).

The Dao is profound and difficult to fathom. Those who are skilled in cultivating the Dao act in subtle ways that are hard to perceive, so water is used as a comparison. Water moistens all things, and the Dao aids all people; thus water is said to be good at benefiting all things. Water flows with the terrain and does not contend with anything. To follow the human way is likewise to proceed smoothly and peacefully, treating all equally and without bias. Most things dislike low places, while people generally prefer high places. Water flows downward, and the Dao’s workings are humble and yielding; thus it is said to dwell where people dislike. “Near” means close to. Water’s nature is close to the Dao, so it serves as a comparison.

In dwelling, be good at choosing the place: Water does not select where it goes; it flows wherever it can. Those who cultivate the Dao should be at ease wherever they live.

In the heart, be good at fathoming depths: The surface of water is calm and can reflect things. The human heart should be empty, still, clear, and bright, as quiet and deep as an abyss, able to contain and reflect all things.

In relating to others, be good at kindness: Water nourishes all things. People should treat others with benevolence and generosity.

In speech, be good at keeping faith: Water reflects things without distorting them. The words of a benevolent person always accord with the facts.

In governing, be good at bringing order: When water is stored and still, it nourishes all things evenly and without bias. Those skilled at governing should do the same, bringing peace to the world.

In one’s work, be good at using one’s abilities: There is nothing water cannot help accomplish. A noble person should also put their strengths to use and be ready to take on any task.

In action, be good at timing: Water freezes in winter and swells in summer, always in keeping with the seasons. A noble person should also act at the right moment and in the right way.

Precisely because it does not contend, it has no faults.

Water freezes in winter and swells in summer, yet it always changes with the seasons and never loses its proper measure. A noble person observes the right moment before acting and is therefore able to act appropriately.

Precisely because it does not contend with others, it has no faults.

Water has no desire to triumph over anything. If people can let go of self-interest and stop competing with things outside themselves, they will naturally avoid bringing fault upon themselves.

Chapter Nine

Rather than holding something and trying to fill it to the brim, it is better to know when to stop.

A tipping vessel is bound to overturn once it is full; extravagance taken to the extreme is bound to end in decline. To avoid collapse and ruin, one must not be arrogant or self-satisfied.

Metal beaten again and again becomes sharp, but it cannot stay that way for long.

High status invites criticism, and edges that jut out too far are easily damaged. Striving to stand out can instead bring humiliation and make it difficult to preserve oneself for long.

Even when halls are heaped with gold and jade, no one can keep them forever.

Gold and jade have no feet, yet they disperse on their own. The damage caused by floods or fires cannot be prevented, and when thieves arrive, possessions are hard to guard. Greedily hoarding wealth goes against the natural order; after accumulating wealth, knowing when to give it away accords with reason.

To become arrogant and self-important after attaining wealth and status is to invite calamity upon oneself.

Hoarding wealth without putting it to use, and relying on one’s rank to oppress others, causes calamity to arise from within oneself rather than descend from outside.

When one’s work is accomplished and one’s name is well known, withdrawing from public life is in keeping with the natural order.

Yin and Yang alternate; cold and warmth shift without end, and nothing among the myriad things follows a fixed, unchanging pattern. Change itself is the constant course of Heaven. Clinging to glory and refusing to step aside will inevitably lead to danger and ruin. The two men of the Shu family of Han, Shu Guang and Shu Shou, recognized the moment and resigned from office; the Four Elder Sages of Shangshan likewise withdrew into seclusion for the rest of their lives. They understood the principles governing things and acted in accord with the Dao of Heaven.

Chapter Ten

Can you carry the spirit connected with the body and keep it anchored in the Dao without letting it separate?

“Carry” means to bear or convey; “nourish” means to protect and sustain; “po” refers to the spirit associated with the body; and “the One” refers to the Dao. People are vessels for the spirit, hence the word “carry.” When the body is still, the hun and po spirits can settle; when the mind is in turmoil, the true spirit draws away. Dispelling distracting thoughts and guarding the spirit is why the text speaks of “nourishing.” Keeping no second thought in the heart is what it means to “embrace the One.” When wisdom accords with the Dao and spirit and body become one, they do not separate.

Can you gather the vital energy and bring it to a state of softness, like that of an infant?

If a person can keep body and mind pure, peaceful, and undistracted, this is called “concentrating the Qi” (zhuan qi). If they understand the Way of long life and bring themselves to a gentle, yielding state, this is called “attaining softness” (zhi rou). They no longer cling to distinctions such as the union of Yin and Yang, nor are they caught up in disputes over right and wrong. In this way, they can be as simple and unspoiled as an infant.

“Cleansing the deep mirror” (di chu xuan lan) asks whether one can wash the innermost faculty of awareness until it is free of blemish. Washing the heart-mind with a pure, mysterious current is called “cleansing”; sweeping away its burdens with a numinous wind is called “clearing.” When inner and outer are harmoniously joined in stillness, the heart-mind is clear and steady like a water mirror. Both inner and outer are upright and bright, with no stray thoughts remaining, like flaws in pearls and jade.

In caring for people and governing the state, can one practice Wuwei (non-action)? If those in high positions cannot first return themselves to stillness and purity, they must rely on others. The key to governing all things and bringing peace to the people is stillness. Only reckless action and restless agitation harm all things; following their natural course and remaining still is how one cares for the people.

When the “Gate of Heaven opens and closes,” can one remain still like the female? Heaven has four seasonal gates: when the green gate opens, it brings warmth; when the red gate opens, it brings heat; when the white gate opens, it brings coolness; when the black gate opens, it brings cold. Some people now complain when they encounter summer heat, torrential rain, or bitter cold. This shows that they cannot remain still. “Closing” means shutting. One gate opens while the other three remain shut, symbolizing feminine stillness. The sage’s spirit is settled in vast silence, and wisdom rests in the empty, mysterious realm. Neither life and death nor favorable and adverse circumstances can disturb them; neither water and fire nor cold and heat can shake them.

When “understanding shines in all directions,” can one attain not-knowing? The sage’s wisdom reaches all things, shining like the sun and moon and illuminating every direction. This is called “shining in all directions.” Yet though the sage can see everything, the heart-mind remains still; though there is radiance, it is not displayed. The sage can let go of the discriminating mind and return the heart-mind to an undivided simplicity. This is called “not-knowing.”

The Dao brings all things into being, and De nurtures them. The sage takes the Dao and De as models, bringing forth and nurturing all things with a pure and still heart-mind. The people live within a generous and unadorned teaching, while every kind of thing grows according to its own nature.

To bring forth and nurture all things without claiming them as one’s own, to act without relying on one’s achievements, and to let all things grow without ruling over them: this is called “Mysterious De” (xuande), a profound and natural virtue.

Forgetting one’s own achievements and Virtue is what true High Virtue—the highest form of Virtue—means. Those with High Virtue do not deliberately display their Virtue, and so they possess genuine Virtue. Their attachment to Virtue has fallen away; this Virtue is profound and subtle, and is therefore called “mysterious.”

Chapter Eleven

Thirty spokes meet at a hub. It is because the hub is empty at the center that the wheel is useful.

“Spokes” are the rods of a wheel, and the “hub” is its center. The hub is hollow inside, allowing the spokes to meet there. When the sage is open and unassuming, the people gather around him. “Emptiness” means a hollow space. A cart has a solid form, yet it depends on empty space to serve its purpose; without empty spaces, it could not be used. Its function comes from those spaces. Thus, “It is because the wheel is empty that it is useful.”

Here, the cart serves as a metaphor for principle and teaching. Teaching has written words; it belongs to “what is.” Principle goes beyond names and speech; it belongs to “what is not.” Teaching’s function becomes clear through principle, while principle is expressed through teaching. Principle appears through teaching; without teaching, it has nowhere to take hold. Teaching is made clear by principle; without principle, what could it explain? Once we understand that principle and teaching depend on one another, we can see how “what is” and “what is not” give rise to each other.

Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel. It is because the vessel is empty inside that it is useful.

Making a vessel requires skill in working the clay. Only when the clay is properly mixed can the vessel be used. In cultivating oneself, one should also refine one’s conduct. Only when one’s conduct is pure can one realize the Dao. Here, “knead” means to work together, and “clay” means earth.

Doors and windows are cut into walls to build a house. It is because the house has empty space within that it is useful.

If there were no open space inside and no doors or windows, how could a house be used? The same applies to cultivating the Dao: if the mind is clouded and one is closed off from the outside, it is of course difficult to seek the Dao in this way. Doors and windows make a house convenient to use; wisdom and insight enable a person to realize the Dao.

Thus, solid things provide convenience, while empty spaces make their use possible.

Whether receiving favor or suffering humiliation, one is shaken as if startled.

Those in high positions fear losing their status; those in low positions often feel ashamed. Both are filled with anxiety and apprehension.

To value one’s status is like valuing one’s own body, and so one is always worried that great misfortune may befall them.

Those who think little of themselves are not easily shaken by gain or loss. Those who think much of themselves are easily alarmed by favor or disgrace. To place too much importance on oneself is to invite great trouble. Thus, one who prizes oneself seems to regard great trouble as though it were oneself.

What is meant by favor and disgrace? Let us first ask about “favor.” Favor should count as an honor, so why does the text call it “low”?

“Interpretation” means explanation. Since favor is an honor, it should, in principle, be above; since disgrace is lowly, it should, in principle, be below. The text mentions “below” to show that “above” is included as well; there is no need to spell out each point. Taken literally, worldly people love wealth and splendor and regard favor as an honor. But high position brings danger close, and when honor and favor arrive, disgrace may follow. So favor also means being placed in a lowly position.

When receiving favor, it is as though one were startled; when losing favor, it is as though one were startled too.

When favor comes, splendor arrives; when disgrace comes, hardship follows. Whether one gains or loses, either can bring alarm. Only those whose minds are empty, still, and free from attachment feel no worry or distress at this.

This is what is meant by “both favor and disgrace are like being startled.”

This sums up the meaning of the passage above.

What is meant by regarding great trouble as one regards oneself? This question is now raised. We have great troubles because we have this body.

This is the explanation. The body brings the troubles of flourishing and decline, as well as the calamities of life and death; hence it is called a great trouble.

Once I have forgotten myself, what trouble can remain?

“Emptying oneself and forgetting the mind, having no body” means not clinging to the self. Every kind of trouble arises from attachment to oneself. If one can let go of that attachment, life and death can no longer bind one, and favor and disgrace can no longer cause alarm. What trouble could remain?

Therefore, only one who prizes himself as dearly as he prizes all under Heaven can be entrusted with all under Heaven; only one who cherishes himself as much as he cherishes all under Heaven can be given charge of all under Heaven.

The highest Dao (the Way) values De (Virtue/Power) and does not prize itself. A wise ruler cares for the people and does not look after only himself. If one understands this, one can endure for a long time. If one prizes oneself and looks down on all things, cherishes oneself but despises others, one cannot be impartial like Heaven and Earth or shine everywhere like the sun and moon; one can only make a temporary home in the world.

Chapter Fourteen

Look for it and it cannot be seen: call it “Yi” (the even, the formless).

Is the Dao hard to see? Though the eyes cannot see it, the sage can experience it and understand it inwardly; hence it is called “Yi.” “Yi” means even. The Great Dao is level and open, naturally adept at arranging the myriad things.

Listen for it and it cannot be heard: call it “Xi” (the faint, the soundless).

The greatest sound is, on the contrary, inaudible. Though the ears cannot hear it, the sage can comprehend it and hear its harmony inwardly; hence it is called “Xi.” The mysterious teaching is hard to encounter, its words are few, and it follows nature.

Grasp for it and it cannot be caught: call it “Wei” (the subtle, the elusive).

The greatest image has no fixed form and is hard to touch. Through profound wisdom, the sage apprehends it and penetrates emptiness; hence it is called “Wei.” “Wei” carries the meanings of “trigger” and “nothingness”: when it stirs and responds to the myriad things, it is a “trigger”; when its subtlety transcends all names and forms, it is “nothingness.”

These three cannot be traced to their ultimate source, so they blend into one.

“Xi,” “Wei,” and “Yi” are neither sound nor color; they have no shape or name. They cannot be questioned in terms of being or nonbeing, nor described in terms of length or shortness. They are undivided and indistinct, and are provisionally called “one.” “One” does not stand alone as one; it is formed by the union of the three. Nor do the three stand independently; they appear through “one.” From “one,” the three emerge, and united, the three remain one; when the three unite as one, the one also contains the three. If “one” cannot stand alone as one, then the three are one; if the three cannot stand alone as three, then one too cannot be established. Since there is neither one nor three, this embodies the principle of forgetting words. Clinging to three or to one instead obstructs understanding of the mysterious Dao.

Above it, there is no brightness; below it, no darkness. It extends without end and is difficult to name, then ultimately returns to a state without form or substance.

“Bright” means luminous, while “dim” means obscure; “drifting along” suggests moving freely without a fixed course. Roam amid the comings and goings of the myriad things, bound by nothing.

The Great Dao is neither luminous nor obscure; brightness and darkness cannot describe it. It is neither form nor sound, and cannot be grasped through sight or hearing. “Rare and indistinct” describes the Dao in its subtle state, difficult to see and hear. The principle of the rare and indistinct is still and inactive. It transcends both the “rule of the Three Ones” (the Daoist teaching of the Three Ones) and all manner of tangible things, and so is said to return to “nothingness.” But if nothingness means that nothing exists at all, where could it return? One must also understand that when there are no things, even the thought “there are no things” does not exist. This is “the mystery within mystery”: attachment is dispelled layer by layer.

This is called “the shape without shape, the image without things,” and is also called “the elusive,” a state that seems both present and absent, beyond grasp.

To transcend tangible things and return to nothingness is to be without form or color. Even if one tries to experience the rare and indistinct through sight and hearing, it ultimately returns to stillness. To prevent people from mistaking “nothingness” for mere formlessness, the commentator also points to “the shape without shape” and “the image without things.” These describe both the activity that arises from the stillness of the Dao’s true nature and the ceasing of the myriad things’ transformations as they return to their original state. When transformations cease and things return to their original state, their manifestations are gathered back into their source; when activity arises from the Dao’s true nature, it is stirred from stillness.

To speak of activity stirred from stillness is to speak of “nothingness” that suddenly appears as “being.” To speak of manifestations gathered back into their source is to speak of “being” that suddenly returns to “nothingness.” This “nothingness” is not an absolute, fixed nothingness, and that “being” is not an eternal, unchanging being. Being and nothingness arise together in an elusive way, beyond the reach of words.

Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end.

Being may be said to have something before it that can be followed back; nothingness may be said to have something after it that can be pursued. Yet because its beginning cannot be seen when one faces it, one cannot say that it is being; because its end cannot be seen when one follows it, one cannot say that it is nothingness.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since antiquity, and use it to guide the myriad things of the present.

“Regulating” means setting things right. In ancient times, the Dao of Wuwei was the proper path; in the present age, the Dao of deliberate action has become a deviant path. The sage holds fast to the Dao of Wuwei and uses it to set deliberate actions right, putting an end to shallow and frivolous customs so that society may return to simplicity and harmony.

To understand the Dao of antiquity is to have grasped its guiding principles.

The Dao of antiquity is profound and difficult to understand, and few people comprehend the way of Wuwei. Those in higher positions govern those below by the proper path, and those below follow them with reverence.

Chapter Fifteen

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating the depths beyond measure.

The ancient path of cultivation is difficult to follow, yet those with wisdom can practice it. The Dao is exceedingly subtle and refined, mysterious, still, and open; the work of cultivation, too, must be meticulous and unobstructed. When cultivation accords with the Dao, it becomes difficult to measure and understand. The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words; what can be fully expressed in words is not the Dao. Nor can it be known by thought alone: insisting that one has already understood the Dao leads away from what is true. Thus the Dao is said to be too deep to know.

Because the Dao is too deep to know, one can only try to describe what it is like.

“Appearance” refers to its form. Since the Dao is beyond thought and the state of cultivation is difficult to discern, the author worries that later people will have no way to experience the Dao, and that those who seek to learn it will not know how to conduct themselves and cultivate. So the author offers a few descriptions to encourage them.

“Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter”: Like someone carefully crossing a river in winter. A person crossing the water fears that thin ice may give way and cause them to fall through. Always alert, they dare not act rashly, but devote themselves entirely to the Dao.

“Hesitant, as if wary of the neighbors on every side”: Like someone afraid the neighbors all around might notice. In ordinary life, a person who does wrong fears being discovered by the neighbors. Those who aspire to seek the Dao and do good should revere the scrutiny of the unseen world and of other people, and dare not do evil.

“Solemn, like a guest”: Composed and dignified in bearing, single-mindedly cultivating the Dao and avoiding rash action.

“Melting, like ice about to thaw”: Like solid ice beginning to melt as spring arrives. When the mysterious influence of the Dao arises, accumulated troubles gradually dissolve.

“Genuine, like uncarved wood”: Generous in spirit, without frivolity; simple and plain, without ostentation.

“Open, like a valley”: As spacious as a valley. Empty, a valley can contain all things and echo their sounds. When the mind is empty and still, it can hold the heart of the Dao and help the world.

“Muddled, as if turbid”: Blended and indistinct, as if clouded.

When the mind makes no distinctions, all things form a seamless whole. To live among ordinary people and adapt to the ways of the world is like becoming muddy water. Within, one keeps a character as pure as jade, untouched by defilement; one holds wisdom as clear as a bright pearl, naturally lucid. Yet outwardly, one seems almost muddied.

Who can still muddy water so that it gradually clears? Who can let something quiet move through a long cycle and gradually show signs of life? This refers to a state that appears muddied.

“Still” means quiet; “gradually” means little by little. Let the agitation in the heart settle, and the spirit will naturally become quiet. Do not stir the water, and the mud will clear on its own. Few can do this, which is why it says, “Who can?”

Those who keep to this Dao do not seek fullness or self-sufficiency.

The earlier passages described methods of cultivating the Dao in detail, to encourage those who study it. If a person can hold fast to these principles, stillness and purity will naturally follow. Their essential point is humility and yielding, without seeking to be full.

Precisely because one does not seek fullness, one can achieve anew after decline.

Those who conduct themselves in the world without becoming complacent, and who serve others by striving to remain loyal and upright, can regain vitality even in old age and renew themselves amid decline. Those who study the Dao quiet the mind and keep it empty, undistracted by sights and sounds. They cleanse their thoughts and free themselves from turmoil. Even amid decay and the common world, they can achieve renewal through the true Dao.

Chapter Sixteen

Make the mind empty to the utmost; hold fast to stillness to the very end.

Human nature is pure and upright; conduct is clear and far-reaching. By deeply maintaining stillness and purity, one can cleanse one’s thoughts and escape turmoil. Even amid decay and the common world, one can return to the true Dao.

Chapter Sixteen

Make the mind empty to the utmost; hold fast to stillness to the very end.

Human nature is pure and upright; conduct is clear and far-reaching. By deeply maintaining stillness and purity, one can reach the Dao of utmost emptiness and stillness.

All things grow and move together.

Ordinary people cannot keep to Wuwei (non-action). They often mistake agitation for their nature, turning away from what is real to follow what is false, and abandoning the root to pursue the branches.

From this, I observe how they return.

“Return” means going back to the root. Ordinary people abandon the root to pursue the branches, leaving simplicity for superficiality. The sage, by contrast, restrains the branches and honors the root, bringing superficiality back to simplicity.

All things grow and flourish in profusion, yet in the end each returns to its own root.

All things, including human beings, have a root: the root is their source. People cling to and pursue all kinds of external things with a single mind, seeking and doing more than one thing, and so become scattered and entangled. The sages all urge people to return to the source; hence the saying that all things return, each to its root.

Returning to the root is stillness.

To return from scattered details to the source is to become utterly still.

Stillness is a return to life’s original nature.

In the immediate sense, those who act arrogantly and forcefully cannot live out their natural lifespan; this is called “dying young.” Remaining empty and still, guarding oneself, and preserving one’s natural lifespan is called returning to life’s original nature. At a deeper level, movement brings birth and death, and thus means losing one’s true nature; stillness transcends birth and death and returns one to the “wise life” (the inner true nature and life).

Returning to life’s original nature is called constancy.

Because there is birth and death, life can be cut short. To fall outside birth and death is called constancy.

Knowing the constant Dao is called clarity.

To lose sight of this principle is to be in darkness; to understand it is to be clear.

Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly brings danger.

Those who know the constant Dao and follow the Great Dao act in accord with the good way, receiving Heaven’s protection and others’ help; this is called good fortune. Those who turn away from the Great Dao and follow delusion, indulge their desires, and act as they please, making mistakes at every turn, will be punished by people and reproached by spirits; this is called misfortune.

Knowing the constant Dao enables one to be all-embracing.

Understanding the constant Dao and the principles of things, one’s heart is like empty space, containing all things; hence the word “all-embracing.”

Being all-embracing enables one to be impartial.

To be upright and without self-interest.

Impartiality enables one to be a king.

A partial person cannot govern all things; only an impartial person can lead them.

Being a king enables one to model oneself on Heaven.

Like Heaven, one is impartial and covers all things, while moving according to its own seasons.

Modeling oneself on Heaven enables one to accord with the Dao.

One’s virtue accords with that of Heaven and Earth, and one’s truth matches that of the Great Dao. Nothing obstructs one, and every action accords with principle.

Accord with the Dao enables one to endure.

The Great Dao has been firm and enduring since ancient times; for this reason, the sages too can enjoy immeasurable longevity.

One who follows the Dao throughout life and does not fall into danger accords with the truth of the Great Dao. Nothing obstructs such a person, and every action accords with principle.

When the body dies, one can endure as long as Heaven and remain one with the Great Dao. Though this life has come to an end, one is forever beyond danger.

Chapter Seventeen

The best ruler is one whose existence the people merely know.

“Supreme” here refers to a ruler who possesses high De. He has De but makes no effort to display it, and it is difficult to describe in words. He is called “Supreme” simply because he holds the highest position. He leaves the Dao and De to the people, allowing them to live on their own without depending on the ruler’s gifts. Those above and below each remain in their proper place, and the people merely know that the ruler exists.

The next best ruler is one whom the people love and praise.

A ruler with lesser De takes visible action and cannot avoid relying on words. Because he holds the highest position, his ministers draw near to him and trust him; the people, too, praise the ruler.

The next ruler is one whom the people fear and despise.

Such a ruler cannot follow the changes of all things and let them remain true to their natural character. Instead, he establishes laws and punishments to intimidate the people, so they fear him. When commands are numerous, the people deceive him, and so they also despise him. This is what happens after the ancient ways of teaching have gradually declined.

When a ruler lacks sincerity, the people will not trust him.

A ruler teaches the people through the Dao and treats them with sincerity. He trusts the people, and they trust him in turn. If he cannot trust them, they will not trust him either.

Therefore, words should be valued.

This describes the middle antiquity. People had not yet learned to forget words and still needed to convey their intentions through speech. They therefore drew near to one another and praised one another, making words seem important.

When things are accomplished and the work is complete, the people all say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

When the way of the rulers flourishes, their work is accomplished. When the spirit of Wuwei (non-action) is manifest, things come to completion smoothly. The preceding passages describe, in order, ancient times, middle antiquity, and later ages: only after the Dao was lost did people speak of De, and the ways of the world grew gradually less simple. This passage sums things up again to show that we should cast aside the hollow names of benevolence and righteousness and return to our unadorned nature. When the Dao is shallow, it is easy to see; when De is profound, it is difficult to perceive. The sage’s teaching now reaches deep, and its wondrous effects are beyond measure. The people use it in their daily lives without realizing it, so they say that everything happened naturally.

Chapter Eighteen

Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear.

In the realm of profound mystery, the qi and forms of all things unfold naturally, and cannot be possessed by any one individual. The principle of utmost emptiness cannot be summed up even by “void” and “being.” It cannot be ushered in or sent away, so how could one speak of a beginning or an end? It does not change with flourishing or decline, so how could one speak of its arising or falling away? In an age of simplicity and purity, people did not set themselves apart according to closeness or distance. Society was peaceful and harmonious, with no distinctions of rank. People were naturally in accord with the Dao and had no need to tie knots to keep records; their actions followed the Great Dao and did not depend on documents or contracts. At that time, human hearts were wholly at one with the Dao. This is why it is said, “The Great Dao arose.”

Later, people practiced benevolence with partiality and used artificial standards to judge right and wrong. The ways of the world grew shallow, and people could no longer act in accord with the Dao. This is why it is said, “The Great Dao fell away.” In truth, what changed was the world’s depth or shallowness; the Dao itself neither arose nor fell away.

“When wisdom appeared, great hypocrisy arose.”

Being unknowing and free of contention, still and practicing Wuwei (non-action), is the Dao’s highest expression. Remaining hidden in darkness and acting in accordance with things is the highest attainment in cultivating the Dao. When people are not yet able to shine without dazzling others, they deliberately display their cleverness to startle the ignorant and argue over right and wrong to prevail over others. Then disputes multiply, and cunning schemes breed one another. Robber Zhi used this to commit theft, and Tian Chengzi used it to usurp a state. This is great hypocrisy.

“When the six relationships are out of harmony, filial devotion and loving care become visible.”

The six relationships are father and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife. Since each depends on the others, there is no reason for disputes to arise. But once people compare who is better or worse, likes and dislikes emerge. Only when there is discord do people hold up “harmony”; only when there is a lack of filial devotion does the reputation for “filial piety” appear.

“When the state is in disorder, loyal ministers become visible.”

In the age of Fuxi and Shennong, no one was known for loyalty in assisting a ruler. It was only under the rule of Jie and Zhou that worthy ministers such as Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan were praised. When the sun shines brightly, the stars’ light is less visible; when timely rain falls, the value of irrigation is less readily noticed. It is only when the ruler is benighted and the ministers are in disarray that someone can assist the ruler within and quell disorder beyond the court, and thereby make a name as a loyal minister.

If people abandon their reverence for the “sage” and the “wise,” they will gain a hundredfold benefit.

The “sage” is someone people admire; the “wise” is what the foolish seek. Without wisdom, how could anyone discern how things change? Without sages, who would govern the myriad things? In the past, no one spoke of abandoning sagehood and wisdom. Sages accord with the Dao (the Way), which originally has no name. Once names arise, people lose themselves in distinctions among the myriad things. Rather than proclaiming the name of the sage, it is better to forget the title “sage.” Once cleverness is displayed, deceit arises; rather than putting cleverness to use, it is better to forget it. That is why sagehood and wisdom should be abandoned. When the name of the sage arises, theft and disorder follow; when cleverness is put to use, treachery appears. The call to abandon sagehood and wisdom is meant to prevent theft, disorder, and treachery from arising. Its benefit is truly great—so great that it may be summed up as a hundredfold.

If people abandon their reverence for benevolence and righteousness, they will regain filial devotion and compassion.

Benevolence means caring for all things; righteousness means yielding to others. Although benevolence and righteousness are said to be the way to conduct oneself, they can also serve to correct and restrain people’s natural dispositions. Let go of benevolence and righteousness as deliberate adornments, and people can return to the filial devotion and compassion in their inborn nature.

If people abandon skill and profit, there will be no thieves.

Break the fingers of Gong Chui, the legendary master artisan, and dispel the impulse to make machines: this is abandoning skill. Cast away precious jade and destroy pearls: this is abandoning profit. Thieves are always driven by the prospect of gain. Once treasures are relinquished, there is nothing to gain—so where would thieves come from?

Taken separately, these three teachings are incomplete, so the text goes on to explain what people should turn toward.

“Text” means teaching, and “continue” means to carry on. When sages establish teachings, they hope people will move from the ordinary toward sagehood, from ignorance toward wisdom, and turn away from harm toward what benefits them. Now, however, the text says to abandon all these things. As a teaching, this seems incomplete, and those who study it may not know how to direct their efforts. The following passage therefore explains what comes next, guiding people in how to conduct themselves.

Remain rooted in simplicity and sincerity, keep selfishness in check, and reduce desire.

“Uncarved wood” means the root. When the mind is untouched by external things, this is “seeing the plain.” To hold fast with single-mindedness and not change lightly is “embracing the uncarved.” To act impartially and avoid forming self-serving factions is “lessening selfishness.” To use one’s inborn nature to temper one’s desires is “reducing desire.”

Those who set their hearts on the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) no longer pursue endless learning. They regard both cleverness and dullness as ordinary and stop fretting over gain and loss. They forget honor and disgrace, advancement and retreat, and so are not shaken by success or failure. With their hearts grounded in what is natural and aligned with the Dao, what cause for sorrow could remain?

Those attached to purposeful striving do not study to cultivate themselves. They burn the midnight oil to win a reputation; they read by the light reflected from snow or by fireflies gathered in a jar to seek profit. They worry that their reputations may not be made, and fret that their generous rewards have yet to arrive. Such intentions give rise to distress.

How far apart are the responses “Wei” and “Ah”? And how great is the difference between what is called good and what is called bad?

“Wei” is a respectful reply, while “Ah” is a casual response. What accords with one’s wishes is called good; what does not is called bad. To say that the two are “not far apart” means that they have no essential distance between them.

One who understands the Great Dao can set aside all manner of concerns; one who follows their original nature feels that every path is open. In truth, there is no absolute distinction between what is favorable and unfavorable, or beautiful and ugly. Yet those who strive through purposeful action insist on dividing self from other and favoring one side, conjuring up love and aversion from nothing. They do not set their hearts on the realm of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), but use shallow, showy rituals to judge others. Whatever pleases them, they call right, without asking whether the other person is worthy; whatever benefits them, they call skillful, without considering whether the other person is wise. As a result, the clever seem benighted, and the worthy are regarded as foolish. So how great, in the end, is the difference between good and bad?

Human nature is naturally complete from the start. Adding distinctions and pursuits only brings worry. Whether one deliberately cultivates cleverness in pursuit of so-called beauty and goodness, or adorns and contrives things and calls them bad, the methods differ, but the loss of one’s nature is the same. That is why they are said to be not far apart.

People cannot help fearing some things they fear; yet the turmoil of the world is vast and boundless, almost without end.

Water and fire are to be feared. If you do not guard against them, you will be burned or drowned. Jackals and wolves are to be feared. If you do not watch out, you will eventually be harmed. When people continually give rise to love and aversion, they ultimately move toward injury and ruin. When they ceaselessly crave fame and profit, they invite danger and even destruction. Today, worldly people have been trapped by these desires for many years. They sink into them and forget to turn back, drifting along in bewilderment and ignorance; though they want to escape, release remains a distant prospect.

The crowd is lively and merry, as if feasting at a lavish sacrificial banquet, or climbing a terrace in spring to enjoy the view.

“Xi-xi” describes a state of joy and delight. “Tai lao” means lavish sacrificial offerings and here alludes to fine food; “spring terrace” refers to climbing high in spring to admire the scenery and here alludes to beauty. Laozi says that worldly people devote themselves to pursuing fame and indulging their desires, captivated by beauty and the pleasures of eating. Beauty intoxicates them, yet they do not realize that one day it will harm their mind and spirit. The pleasures of eating satisfy them, yet they do not realize that overindulgence also brings harm. As people grow older, their desires only multiply. Though weary and worn out, they refuse to stop, and still imagine themselves happy.

I alone am cautious, as though the signs of things had not yet appeared; like an infant who has not yet learned to play. I drift without attachment, as if I had nowhere to return.

The sage says: The crowd rushes about in a realm of deliberate action, pursuing external things and stirred by sights and sounds. I alone dwell calmly in Wuwei (non-action), as though the signs of things had not yet appeared, like an infant who has not yet learned to play.

The sage says: The crowd rushes about in a realm of deliberate action, stirred by sights and sounds. I alone remain calm and unattached in Wuwei, unmoved by fragrances or beauty. It is like an infant who does not yet understand the union of man and woman or the affairs of desire: the heart has nothing to cling to, so there can be no fixed direction toward which it turns.

The crowd seems to have everything in abundance; I alone seem to be lacking.

Worldly people feel deficient in stillness and emptiness, yet have more than enough of murky, clouded desires. They accumulate possessions, making them a burden beyond themselves; they indulge their desires and continually add to the filth within. The sage is not stained by the dust of the world and leaves worldly affairs behind, so says that he seems to be lacking.

How foolish I seem—unformed and simple.

Worldly people are ignorant, yet think themselves clever. Misled by desire, their minds grow increasingly confused and clouded. The sage, by contrast, is so wise that he seems foolish; body and mind are empty and still, and inner purity gradually comes to light.

Worldly people seem perceptive and astute.

They do not understand, yet force themselves to claim that they do. They consider themselves clear-sighted, appear polished on the outside, and always think they understand everything. This is why they are described as “bright.”

I alone seem dim and dull.

Though I know, I seem not to know, as if I were dwelling in darkness.

Ordinary people devote all their thoughts to the concerns of daily life.

They believe they see things clearly.

They do not know, yet insist that they know. They consider themselves clever, and their outward appearance seems radiant. They claim to understand everything; this is why they are called “bright and shining.”

I alone seem dim and unclear.

In truth, I know without appearing to know, as though veiled in darkness.

Ordinary people are keenly discerning in everything.

They become entangled in disputes over right and wrong, and fixate on gain and loss.

I alone seem muddled and bewildered.

This means setting aside the mind that makes distinctions and no longer dividing things into good and evil, so that one appears dull and unclear.

My state of mind is calm and detached, like the sea, drifting without direction.

De, or inner virtue, is vast and boundless. The mind is tranquil and detached, like the sea stirred by the wind, drifting east and west without a fixed resting place.

Everyone is intent on doing things.

They employ deliberate methods and act with conscious effort.

I alone seem slow and plain.

Like a fool, I seem to understand nothing; like someone of low status, I make no effort to adorn myself.

I alone differ from everyone else: I cherish and draw sustenance from the “Mother.”

“Eating” means drawing sustenance, and the “Mother” refers to the Dao. When everyone is pleased with themselves, the sage need not offer guidance in words. When all things lose their grounding in the Dao, the sage establishes teachings. From “Spring Terrace” onward, the text describes the afflictions that arise when beings cling to deliberate action. The sage responds to these afflictions with Wuwei (non-action), just as medicine treats illness. Since deliberate action and non-action differ, the sage says that they are unlike everyone else. Ordinary people remain bound to worldly conventions, while the sage draws sustenance from the Dao; hence the phrase “eating from the Mother.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The expression of great De follows only the Dao.

“Vast” means extremely great or expansive, and the Dao is the fundamental principle underlying things. De can encompass all things, so it is called “capacity”; its actions accord with the principles of things, so it is said to “follow.” One may also say that great De is not obtained from elsewhere: it comes only from the Dao.

As an existent, the Dao is elusive and indistinct, difficult to grasp.

Only when people no longer know what the Dao truly is does the meaning of De become clear. The Great Dao is profound and mysterious, unfathomable. If we say it has no trace or form at all, there is within it a reality formed from undifferentiated wholeness. If we say it truly exists, it still returns to what has no form or substance. Though it returns to nothing, we cannot say it is entirely absent; though we say it has substance, we cannot say it is merely something with visible form. Being and nonbeing are not fixed, and existence and disappearance are hard to determine. That is why it is called “elusive and indistinct.”

Within the elusive and indistinct, there are images; between seeming presence and seeming absence, there are real things.

The Great Dao is neither simply being nor simply nonbeing; it is exceedingly mysterious and profound. It divides the undifferentiated source, unfolds the three forms of Heaven and Earth—the “Three Images”—and harmonizes the two Qi of Yin and Yang, thereby giving birth to the myriad things.

Within darkness and depth lies a subtle, real essence.

Principle returns to the One, so it is called “essence”; its substance is subtle and does not change, so it is called “true.”

This subtle substance is real and not illusory, and within it are signs that can be verified.

The Great Dao is still and formless, yet through resonance it reaches and connects with all things. Good fortune follows good conduct, and calamity follows wrongdoing; good and evil each receive a fitting response, like shadows and echoes that never part from their source.

From ancient times to the present, the Dao’s name has never disappeared. Thus, the beginnings of all things can be examined.

“Examine” means to investigate and scrutinize; “beginning” means the start. Those without understanding fail to recognize this, while those bound by worldly feelings find it hard to comprehend. They therefore suppose that profound principles have nothing to do with causes and conditions, and that in the elusive and indistinct there is no cause and effect or karmic response. So those who do good grow lax, while those who do evil refuse to change. They do not understand that the subtle Dao has a responsive power, or that true principle has real efficacy. The scripture says, “Within it there is trust,” to show that the Great Dao is not empty or false. To guide living beings, methods and teachings were established so that people might trace results back to their beginnings and distinguish the causes behind good and evil actions. Since ancient times, people’s upright and deviant conduct has been open to examination: the loyal and filial were rewarded with rank, while those who acted wrongly were punished. The Great Dao connects emptiness and existence and extends throughout the cosmos; its substance endures alone, and its name remains clear and undying.

How do I know the beginnings of all things? I rely on these principles.

How can I know the course of the Great Dao from ancient times to the present, tracing its end back to its beginning? By examining the myriad things and discerning human affairs, we can see that the Great Dao runs through all beings and every age without deviation. Observing the things before us is enough to understand the past and the future.

Chapter Twenty-Two

What bends can remain whole; what is pressed down can rise; low places can fill; what is worn out can be renewed. Taking little can bring gain; grasping at much can bring confusion.

When the outer self follows the inner, and the inner nourishes the spirit, neither oneself nor external things are harmed. This is called “wholeness.” To yield to others without abandoning the Dao one holds within is called “straightness.” To be humble, give way, and dwell low is like a hollow place that can receive water. To mingle with all things without being stained by them is called “renewal.” Principle returns to the One, so it is called “little.” Forgetting words and aligning with principle brings gain. The world has many kinds of activity and circumstance, along with a profusion of institutions, rules, and affairs. Many people chase their desires, and their feelings and intentions become confused; they also cling to teachings and fall into doubt. Hence, “much brings confusion.”

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao and takes it as the standard for all under Heaven. The “One” is the Dao. Because the sage keeps the Dao in mind, he is said to “embrace the One.” Because all his actions accord with principle and can serve as a model for the myriad things, he is called a “pattern.”

Those who do not put themselves on display appear enlightened; those who do not insist they are right make the truth clear; those who do not boast of their achievements accomplish things; those who do not exalt themselves endure.

Set aside distinctions and abandon clinging thought, and wisdom will become clear of itself. Let go of the division between self and things, and preserve one’s true nature; De will then reveal itself naturally. Claiming credit leads to losing credit; boasting of De prevents it from enduring.

Because the sage does not contend, no one can contend with him. To claim oneself right and accuse others of being wrong, to refuse to accommodate others and only oppose external things, is to provoke conflict. The sage yields to others and follows external things. He releases his attachment to right and wrong, does not compete for fame or merit, and does not contend with the myriad things. Though the world is vast, who could contend with him?

When the ancients said, “What bends can remain whole,” were they speaking empty words? Indeed, one can preserve oneself and bring everything back to the Dao.

Is the ancient saying “Bending allows one to remain whole” empty talk? It can indeed preserve oneself, and in the end bring one to completion.

The sage does not set out to speak on his own behalf, but uses the words of the ancients to explain the principle. “Bending can make one upright” and “taking little can bring gain” are not empty words. They can indeed preserve oneself; these are records of what actually happens.

Chapter 23

Speaking little accords with the natural Dao.

“Rare” means “little.” Speaking too much often brings trouble; speaking little accords with the Dao, and so is called “natural.” The Dao can be said to be neither wholly absent nor truly present. Nor is its principle a matter of little or much. Here, “speaking little” is used to show that speaking too much easily leads one away from the truth.

A gale cannot last the whole morning; a downpour cannot last the whole day.

Even a fierce wind and rain cannot continue all day. How much less can people who are rash and restless and speak too much preserve themselves and keep harm at a distance? Speaking little accords with the principle, like gentle wind and rain; speaking too much brings damage, like a gale and a downpour.

“Who makes it so?” This is a question about Heaven and Earth. The explanation follows: if even Heaven and Earth cannot make a gale and downpour last for long, how much less can a person?

This uses something great to illustrate a small principle.

Therefore, those who act in accordance with the Dao resonate with the Dao; those who act in accordance with De resonate with De; those who act wrongly resonate with what has strayed from the Dao. The Dao accepts those who resonate with it.

The Dao is stillness and emptiness, following what is natural and not acting recklessly, while also helping people and benefiting all things. Those who conduct their affairs in accordance with the Dao are accepted by the Dao.

Those who resonate with De are accepted by De.

De nurtures all things and nourishes and helps people. When people act in accordance with De, they are accepted by De.

Those who resonate with what has strayed from the Dao are abandoned by the Dao.

If someone cannot act in accordance with the Dao or De, but instead joins those who do evil, they will be punished like a criminal.

When trust in the Dao is insufficient, people become distrustful.

Those who resonate with the Dao are accepted by the Dao; those who uphold De are accepted by De; those who resonate with what has strayed from the Dao are abandoned by the Dao. When faith in the Dao is insufficient, distrust arises.

Chapter 24

Standing on tiptoe makes one unsteady; taking an exaggerated stride will not carry one far.

To stride means to take an enormous step; to “stand on tiptoe” means to rise up on the balls of one’s feet. Walking slowly and steadily is what allows one to travel far; taking enormous strides and reaching upward on tiptoe, by contrast, cannot be sustained for long. This means that those who are humble and yielding can endure, while those who boast of themselves, act arrogantly, and force their way forward put themselves in danger and ultimately bring about their own ruin.

Those who display themselves cannot make themselves shine; those who insist they are right cannot gain recognition; those who boast of their achievements have no merit; those who vaunt themselves cannot endure.

This is neither the conduct of a noble person nor the way of someone who has left worldly concerns behind and follows nature.

From the perspective of the Dao, such behavior is like leftover food and excess baggage. All things tend to reject it, so a person who has the Dao does not act this way.

Leftover food cannot be offered in sacrifice to the spirits; neither can tiptoeing and striding set a person on the path of the great Dao. Those who are confused and benighted favor this behavior, believing it to be right and contenting themselves with it. Those who understand how things work see that this path is wrong and do not follow it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There is a being, whole and undivided, born before Heaven and Earth.

What is meant by “a being” is the Dao. Since it is called the “Dao,” it is spoken of as “a being.” Yet the Dao, as a presence, is elusive and difficult to grasp. It cannot be discussed in terms of being or nonbeing, nor distinguished by Yin-Yang. It is formless and undifferentiated, taking shape of itself; hence it is called “formed as one.” The principles of nature set the transformations of the myriad things in motion; within the formless, Qi transforms and gives rise to the many forms. Traced back to its origin, the Dao was born before Heaven and Earth.

Silent and vast! It exists alone and does not change; its movement reaches everywhere and never ceases. It can serve as the mother of all things under Heaven.

The whole and undivided Dao was born before Heaven and Earth. It cannot be heard, and so is silent; one cannot touch and grasp it, and so it is formless. It has no counterpart or opposite, and so it is called “independent.” It is still and enduring, and so it is called “unchanging.” It reaches everywhere, and so it can move through all things; its use is never exhausted or depleted. It covers, bears, and nurtures the myriad things—this is why it is called their “mother.”

I do not know its original name, so I call it “Dao.” If I must give it another name, I call it “Great.”

I do not know the name of the Dao, so I call it “Dao.” If I must give it a name, I call it “Great.”

Things with form can be named; things without form cannot be confined by names. The Dao runs through all things and makes them function, so I call it “Dao.” It contains everything, and no principle lies beyond it, so I call it “Great.” Principles have no fixed names. Giving a name to what is nameless is only a makeshift way of speaking.

“Great” means moving without end. Moving without end leads far away, and what goes far away returns.

“Going” means setting out. Even if one seeks it from the perspective of greatness, one cannot reach it; even if one follows it, one cannot catch up, because it has already gone far ahead. Yet the Dao’s own essence is close at hand, so it is said that, in the end, it returns.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great.

The Dao is revered, and De is vast without limit. Heaven covers all things universally, making no distinction between the noble and the lowly. Earth bears all things generously, without choosing between beauty and ugliness. The ruler governs the realm, reaching both near and far, so that the poor and the rich alike may be nurtured. Each has its own sovereignty and function; these are all expressions of greatness.

Between Heaven and Earth, there are four things that are great, and the ruler is one of them.

Things beyond Heaven and Earth are naturally difficult to describe. Only within the realm of form and appearance do things acquire principles and corresponding names. Though the myriad things are many, in the end there are only four great things. The name “great” is the same, but their actual functions differ. This passage urges rulers to take Dao and De as their standard and Heaven and Earth as their models.

Human beings take their model from Earth; Earth takes its model from Heaven; Heaven takes its model from the Dao; the Dao takes its model from what is natural.

When a ruler governs the people, he is still and impartial, like Earth. In action, he is just and unbiased, like Heaven. He is quiet and empty, moves with the natural course of things without obstruction, and does what accords with principle, like the Dao. The sage has no private desires, but this does not mean he deliberately sets himself to do something. He remains humble and open, does not control the myriad things through schemes and plans, and instead lets them change according to their own nature. This is taking what is natural as one’s model. The passage speaks of following the principles of Heaven and Earth; it does not mean that Heaven and Earth model themselves on each other.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Heaviness is the root of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation.

Whether large or small, one must not be frivolous, for frivolity cannot serve as a foundation. Whether in a high or low position, one must not be restless, for a restless person cannot take charge. When one side is light and the other heavy, the lighter should take the heavier as its foundation. When one side is restless and the other still, the restless should take the still as its guide. Thus stillness governs restlessness.

Wuwei (non-action), gravity, and stillness are the virtues a ruler should embody. Taking action, frivolity, and haste are the duties of ministers. Rulers and ministers, high and low, each have their proper role; the ruler must be grave and still.

Thus the virtuous gentleman, even when traveling all day, does not leave his baggage cart—the vehicle that carries supplies on a journey. A Daoist ruler, in governing the state and leading the people, strives to be grave and still, not frivolous or hasty. His conduct does not stray from the right path, and his actions do not depart from stillness. That is why a traveler takes the baggage cart along, and why a ruler, in his own residence, carefully guards himself against danger and ruin: both depend on gravity and stillness.

Even when surrounded by splendid sights and palaces, one can dwell in peace, detached and at ease. What the Sage values is the gravity and stillness treasured by the Great Dao. Even amid lavish halls such as jade terraces and jeweled chambers, the body remains grounded in emptiness and quiescence; even in the company of beauties like Li Ji and Feiyan, the mind and spirit find their rest in Wuwei. Desires cannot burden the stillness treasured by the Great Dao, and splendid dwellings cannot bewilder the self. External things cannot entangle us; this is what it means to be detached.

Why should the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots treat the world and himself lightly? A person with a thousand gold pieces does not sit near an unguarded height; all the more should the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots avoid reckless action.

Frivolity causes one to lose the support of one’s ministers; restlessness causes one to lose the dignity and authority proper to a ruler. Earlier, the text explained that gravity and stillness allow one to remain detached and free of entanglement. Here it explains that frivolity and haste inevitably bring harm. When there is no entanglement, those above and below can be at peace; once harm occurs, both ruler and ministers suffer.

Chapter 27

One skilled at walking leaves no cart tracks or footprints.

A seven-fragrance carriage is propelled by flowing water, and as it travels it leaves wheel tracks. A fine horse swift as a floating cloud runs a thousand miles, leaving hoofprints wherever it leaps. The sage’s work may seem unhurried, yet its effects come quickly. Riding a cloud carriage, formed from cloudlike Qi, the sage need not tread the earth; seemingly without setting out, the sage has already arrived, like a phoenix that leaves no trace as it flies past. This means that the sage governs the world from the court, sitting with robes hanging loose and hands folded, without having to rush about everywhere and leave wheel tracks. The worthy person who withdraws to the mountains and forests and keeps out of sight leaves no footprints in the wilds like those of Confucius.

One skilled in speaking makes no mistakes in speech. What they say is sure to hit the mark and receive a response even a thousand miles away. If they do not speak what is contrary to principle, what fault could they have?

One skilled in planning does not rely on counting tools. Counting rods are used to calculate quantities. Viewed from the standpoint of the Dao, the myriad things are never apart from it. Why cling to numbers or resort to counting rods?

One skilled at closing needs no bolt to keep a door from opening. A door can be shut and opened because it has a bolt; if one can govern by means of the Dao, there is no need to rely on one. A ruler who guides the people through the Dao will keep them from spying on and scheming against one another. A person who cultivates themself and uses the Dao to restrain desires for sights and sounds will keep the mind and spirit from being disturbed or breached by external things.

One skilled at tying needs no rope to keep a knot from coming undone. A rope can be tied and untied; to bring the four directions under the guidance of the Dao is to tie skillfully indeed. When all the states honor one person together, their bond will not fall apart. One who cultivates themself must accord with the Dao, and so is called skilled at tying. Holding fast to unity and never departing from the Dao, one cannot be released from it.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at rescuing people, and so no one is abandoned. If even one person loses a place to dwell in peace, the sage grieves as though trapped in a muddy pit themself. The sage regards people as their own children; whom would they abandon? The true sage explains the scriptures to awaken and teach, responds to the needs of living beings to guide ordinary people, and uses the Dao to aid them, leaving no one out.

The sage is also always skilled at rescuing the myriad things, and so nothing is abandoned.

By consistently following the Great Dao, one is called “constant.” Because blessings and celebrations reach everywhere, one is called “good.” Because one’s De can widely benefit others, one is called “aiding.” Because one’s words apply to all things, one is called “the myriad things.”

This is called “inheriting illumination”: receiving and putting into practice principles that bring clear understanding.

There are five ways of practicing the Dao well, all of which can serve both people and the myriad things. To receive the Great Dao and put it into practice is what is meant by “inheriting illumination.”

A good person is a teacher to those who are not good; those who are not good can also serve as a lesson to the good.

One whose conduct accords with the Dao and whose De benefits the myriad things is a good person. Such a person can be a model for people and an example for the myriad things, and so is a teacher. Those who are unenlightened seek clarity; the clear-sighted do not seek instruction from the unenlightened. Students serve their teachers with respect and offer the customary bundle of dried meat presented when entering a teacher’s service in ancient times. In this way, they take the teacher as a model.

To fail to respect one’s teacher or value the example they provide is a grave delusion, even if one believes oneself to be clear-sighted. The principle involved is exceedingly subtle.

To revere the teacher and esteem the Dao is to honor them. To teach with benevolence and generosity is to show love. Those who serve as examples should also be respected and valued. If a teacher does not value those who learn from them, the mysterious current of the Dao will be blocked and unable to nourish people. If those who learn do not respect their teacher, the path of generosity will be hard to restore. Those who understand this grasp the essential point; those who remain unenlightened are caught in deep delusion.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Know the strong, yet hold to the weak, and you will become the valley of the world.

Neither fawning nor arrogant, staying centered and balanced—this is the conduct of a noble person. Neither lingering in stagnation nor rushing ahead, remaining in harmony—this is the foundation for entering the realm of the Dao. So, one may know oneself to be strong and bold, yet hold to weakness and refrain from rushing ahead; or know oneself to be weak, yet hold to strength and avoid stagnation. By clinging to neither extreme, one naturally accords with the middle way.

Yet many act with force, while few hold to gentleness. That is why the valley serves as a metaphor: it lies low, and the waters gather there. When a person is humble and yielding, De comes to them. Constant De—virtue that remains unchanged—does not favor either extreme and naturally accords with the middle way.

When eternal De does not depart from the Dao, a person can return to the state of an infant.

Having no distinctions within the heart and clinging neither to right nor wrong is characteristic of a newborn child. To remain calm and clear at all times, always in accord with De, is to “not depart.” In childhood, people have few desires; as they grow older, their desires multiply. To cast off the knowledge and distinctions acquired in adulthood and return to the simple, unknowing state of early childhood is what is meant by “returning.”

Know what is bright, yet keep to the dark, and you can become a model for all under Heaven.

One who is truly pure may appear to have suffered disgrace; one who is truly wise may seem dull. To restrain one’s sharpness and remain inconspicuous is the way to conduct oneself.

When eternal De is without fault, a person can return to the limitless—the boundless, unending state.

“Fault” means error. Do not flaunt your intelligence, nor harm yourself by chasing fame. Though your heart is pure, let your outward conduct accord with the ways of the world. Those who make their way in public life can thereby enjoy good fortune and rank for a long time; those who cultivate the Dao can become perfected beings and return to the limitless.

Know what is exalted, yet keep to what is lowly, and you can become the valley of all under Heaven—the low place that receives all things.

Holding office and rank is exalted; having no status or renown is lowly. To understand how to occupy a prominent position without becoming proud, while remaining content with a lowly place, is to be like a valley that can contain everything and become the valley of all under Heaven.

Become the valley of all under Heaven, and enduring De will be full; you can then return to the uncarved simplicity of your original nature.

Though placed among the exalted, act as if placed among the lowly; though occupying a prominent position, act as if bearing disgrace. True, constant De will naturally become abundant. Because enduring De returns to its source, this is called “returning to the uncarved simplicity.”

When the uncarved block is divided, it forms various vessels. The sage uses them to govern the officials, and thus, in carrying out great governance, does not divide or damage the whole.

Before the original One Qi has divided, it exists in a simple, undifferentiated state. Once Heaven, Earth, and humanity each take their place among the Three Powers, concrete objects and forms come into being. Formless things transform into forms; thus the simple and undivided disperses and takes shape as objects.

Once the pattern of exalted Heaven and humble Earth is established, the relationship between a noble ruler and subordinate ministers becomes clear as well. A ruler is appointed to govern the people, hence the term “official head”; he oversees the states under Heaven, hence the term “great ordering.” If a ruler protects the people as parents nurture their children, they will not be harmed. This is called “non-injury”: not damaging or hurting them. The sage teaches without words; this too shows how the simple and undivided divides into distinct forms. As lord of the true immortals, the sage is therefore called the “official head.” When the Dao guides all things, each finds its proper place; this is “great ordering.” When compassion extends to all things and allows them to be preserved, this is “non-injury.”

Chapter 29

To seize the world and govern it by one’s own will—I do not think this can be done.

Only through Wuwei (non-action) and noninterference can the world be governed. If one deliberately acts and busies oneself with affairs, I do not think success is possible.

The world is a wondrous whole that cannot be manipulated at will. Trying to force action will ruin things; insisting on control will cause them to slip away.

If one can contribute to the good of the world without claiming its benefits as one’s own, and remove its troubles without taking pride in the credit, then people within the Four Seas will be bathed in kindness and filled with joy. All things, too, will respond to the teaching and rest content in the life of the world. Only then can one bring peace to the world and safeguard this sacred vessel. If one does not understand the harm caused by deliberate action, but insists that such action is right, this will lead to ruin and loss.

Thus, among all things, some move ahead and some follow; some are gentle and unhurried, while others are swift and forceful; some are strong and flourishing, others weak and declining; some gather together, while others break apart and scatter.

Every method based on deliberate action has those who go ahead and those who follow behind; it brings cold and warmth, flourishing and decline. What gathers together comes into contact; what scatters apart is broken up. If one insists on deliberate action, even success in the short term may end in failure. If one follows the way of Wuwei, things in decline may recover.

Therefore, the sage casts off extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Luxury and indulgence are both signs of deliberate excess. When the pursuit of desire goes too far, craving luxury in the heart is called “extravagance”; when pleasure reaches its height and still does not satisfy, it is called “excess.” The sage keeps the heart empty and still, and understands contentment: this is how excess is removed. Revealing simplicity and preserving one’s original nature removes extravagance. Forgetting excessive pleasures and returning to the joy of contentment removes indulgence.

Chapter Thirty

Those who use the Dao (the Way) to assist a ruler do not use military force to impose their will on the world, because the use of arms always brings retribution.

A loyal minister assisting a ruler, and a worthy chancellor harmonizing Yin-Yang (the complementary forces of nature) to govern the state and bring the workings of Heaven and Earth into accord, should both bring peace to the world through the Dao, rather than impose their will by force. A minister serving a ruler should assist him through the Dao. If the ruler himself follows the Dao, why should he rely solely on military campaigns? Governing through the Dao brings peace to all; using force leads to mutual attacks. Each side takes revenge in turn, which is why the use of arms always brings retribution.

Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow thick; after a great war, there will surely be years of famine.

Only when fertile fields are left uncultivated do brambles grow there; this, too, is a calamity caused by the use of arms.

Therefore, those skilled in the use of arms are content once they have achieved their purpose; they dare not use force to display their might.

Those skilled in the use of arms kill the enemy only to achieve a necessary purpose. When an enemy comes to invade, they have no choice but to stop it. They do not rely on force simply because their state is large and its army strong.

They achieve their purpose without boasting, displaying their accomplishments, or becoming arrogant; they use arms only when there is no alternative.

To regard oneself as superior is called “self-importance”; to claim credit for one’s accomplishments is called “boasting”; to be obsessed with victory is called “arrogance.” Thus a just war can establish a king’s rule; a war waged in response to the enemy’s actions can bring victory; a war launched in anger leads to death; and an arrogant army will ultimately be destroyed. Those skilled in the use of arms act decisively, but do not boast, give way to anger, claim credit, or grow arrogant. They send out troops only when there is no alternative, beginning in response to circumstances. Their aim is to eliminate a threat and save the people, not to rely on their strength or delight in warfare.

This is what it means to achieve one’s purpose without using force to display one’s might.

With steadfast resolve, one will not lose one’s life through warfare; an arrogant army, by contrast, will meet its end. Those skilled in the use of force make decisions firmly and decisively, yet do not boast, grow angry, covet credit, or become arrogant. They take up arms only when compelled, and meet the enemy from a defensive position. They do so to remove the threat and save the people, not because they rely on force or delight in war.

This is called “being decisive without becoming overbearing.”

To be steadfast in resolve, without arrogance or boastfulness, and to act only when compelled: this is to be decisive without becoming overbearing.

When things grow strong to their utmost, they grow old. This is called being out of accord with the Dao (the Way). Whatever is out of accord with the Dao will soon perish.

Things inevitably grow from infancy to maturity, and, once they reach their height, inevitably decline. This is what is meant by “the strong grow old.” If one knows that using force is an act of overbearing strength, then when the army is defeated it will inevitably become weak. That is why it is said to be out of accord with the Dao. What accords with the Dao can endure; what does not accord with it should be brought to an end promptly.

Chapter Thirty-One

Fine and splendid weapons are ill-omened things, and people generally abhor them. Therefore, one who has the Dao does not make them a place of habitual dwelling.

“Fine” means beautifully adorned. Here, “omen” means something good. Once weapons are put to use, they bring the calamities of a ruined state and injured people; that is why they are said not to be good things. Life is what people cherish, while death is loathed by people and all things. A ruler who has the Dao does not delight in weapons.

In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; in the use of arms, he honors the right.

Civil affairs achieve merit through governing the world; military force brings an end to armed conflict. Each has its proper purpose, just as ritual and music, or water and fire, each have their place and neither can be dispensed with. What matters is whether they are used in accord with reason and at the right time. Thus, in ordinary times life is cherished and the left is honored; when troops are sent out, killing is their principal purpose, so the right is honored.

Weapons are ill-omened things, not things a gentleman delights in using.

Weapons may sometimes be used, but they often bring death and injury. They should be used by those charged with military affairs; they are not instruments on which a ruler should rely personally.

When compelled to use arms, one should remain calm and detached; even in victory, one should not regard it as a cause for celebration.

“Calm and detached” means at peace. When a king sends out troops, it should be to punish wrongdoing, and it is best if no battle proves necessary. Even when action is taken, the heart should remain at peace. That is why one is told to remain calm and detached. A ruler does not delight in using arms or regard victory as something to boast about.

If one treats the use of arms and victory as beautiful things, one is taking pleasure in killing people. Anyone who takes pleasure in killing cannot fulfill their ambitions in all-under-Heaven.

A ruler ought to care for the people as parents care for their children. If he delights in fine weapons, esteems military force, and loves killing, he cannot be said to be nurturing the people.

Thus, at auspicious ceremonies, the left is honored; at inauspicious ceremonies, the right is honored.

The Yang way, which inclines toward bringing life forth and nurturing it, cherishes life and is therefore auspicious. The Yin way, which inclines toward severity and killing, esteems execution and is therefore inauspicious.

For this reason, the deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right.

The deputy general is second in command and should not make killing his business, so he takes the left. The supreme general commands troops in the field and carries out punitive campaigns. The way of killing is inauspicious, so he takes the right.

For this reason, the deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right.

The deputy general is second in command and should not make killing his business, so he takes the left. The supreme general commands troops in the field and carries out punitive campaigns, so he takes the right.

When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep. Even after winning a battle, one should conduct matters according to the rites for the dead.

The proper reason for using troops is to save people. One should grieve over the loss of the right way and mourn the excess of killing. The ancients used troops with compassion: they valued De (Virtue/Power) and looked lightly upon weapons. After defeating the enemy, a general put on plain mourning clothes, presided over funerals for the dead, and received condolences according to the rites.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Dao (the Way) is eternally nameless. Though the Uncarved Block, its natural state before it has been worked, is small, all beneath Heaven dare not treat it as a subordinate or look down on it.

Nothing with a name or form can remain unchanged forever. To say “nameless” here is to say that principle returns to the eternal Dao. “The Uncarved Block” means the root. “Subordinate” means lowly and subject to another’s control. The wondrous root of the eternal Dao cannot be measured by size: it is not great, yet it can bring about vastness; even when vast, it does not thereby become precious. It is not small, yet it can appear minute; even when minute, it cannot thereby be treated with contempt.

If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will naturally come and submit.

If the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords can hold fast to the Dao, people and things both near and far will naturally gather around them.

When Heaven and Earth unite, sweet dew descends.

This is what it means to hold fast to the Dao.

If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will naturally come and submit.

If the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords can hold fast to the Dao, people and things both near and far will naturally gather around them.

When Heaven and Earth unite, sweet dew descends.

When one holds fast to the Dao, one’s merit and virtue can extend in every direction. By following Wuwei (non-action), Heaven and Earth can mingle in harmony. This means not only that Heaven and Earth unite, but also that De accords with Heaven and Earth. Those whose De accords with Heaven and Earth know that sweet dew will descend and that sweet springs will gush forth. This is the transformative teaching brought by the Dao.

People need not be commanded; they will naturally live in harmony and find their proper place.

Those above rest naturally like the high branches of a tree, while the people live freely like deer in the wild. Without being driven by commands, they can naturally attain peace and order.

All things arise from the source and grow from their roots. From this, Heaven and Earth take shape. This is what is meant by “beginning to create and giving things their names.” Once we understand the things born from the source, we should also understand their roots. Children depend on their mother: this is the natural order. Thus one should know how to return to the root.

Those who know when enough is enough will not fall into danger.

When children depend on their mother, all things remain unharmed. When people follow the Dao, they can act without peril.

The Dao is present throughout the world, just as streams and valleys flow toward rivers and seas.

Though the waters of streams and valleys rise upstream, their flow does not cease, because they have rivers and seas as their destination. They take the rivers and seas as their root, and in the end return to them. This shows that people are born from the Dao and should return to it. If they do not know how to return, they lose their root. It can also be said that when a person has the Dao, all things gather around them, just as the waters of streams and valleys flow into rivers and seas.

To know others is cleverness; to know oneself is true understanding.

To grasp something upon hearing it is called “sagacity”; to understand only after seeing it with one’s own eyes is called “wisdom.” From the outside, others are difficult to know; from within, oneself is difficult to know. To discern the good and bad in others is wisdom; to examine one’s own gains and losses is clarity. When you recognize what is good, draw close to noble people, as if taking on the fragrance of fragrant orchids. When you recognize what is bad, keep away from petty people, as if leaving a fish market with its stench. When you know you have achieved something, devote yourself with loyalty; when you know you have made a mistake, recognize it and make amends. This is wisdom and clarity.

If you can grasp the profound principle of stillness and clarity and see into the realm of emptiness, you will recognize that all conditions are empty and realize that the self is not substantial. Since the self is not substantial, you will not covet fame and profit. Since all conditions are empty, external things cannot lead you into fascination with sights and sounds. When both inner and outer realms are still and clear, this is called “clarity”; when a person is in harmony with all things, this is called “wisdom.”

To surpass others is merely to have strength; to overcome yourself is true power.

Those who use physical force prevail over others through greater strength. Those who act through De (Virtue and Power) bring all things into accord through the depth of their De. To strengthen one’s De and cultivate one’s work, to encourage oneself without ceasing and not to indulge in what is wrong or perverse: this is to overcome oneself. A person who cultivates the Dao forgets external things, and so they cannot harm him; this is why he can prevail over others. He empties his mind and holds fast to the Dao, while his immortal bones grow ever stronger; this is why he can overcome himself.

One who knows contentment is wealthy; one who strives to put things into practice is resolute. A person who understands contentment can be at ease with nothing more than a gourd of food and drink, considering himself well provided for. One who covets profit may accumulate a million in possessions and still feel poor. To refine oneself, spur oneself onward, and steadfastly uphold and keep faith with the Great Dao, becoming ever more earnest in doing so: this is resolution.

One who does not depart from the root can endure. The teachings of the highest Dao are meant to guide people. To practice in accordance with these teachings and not violate their principles is what it means to “not lose one’s place.” When those who govern a state act this way, the state’s fortunes can endure. When those who cultivate themselves act this way, their nature and life can endure.

Only when the body dies but the Dao does not perish is there true longevity. When a ruler follows the Dao, Heaven and Earth are clear and at peace, the people are tranquil, and their spirits are harmonious; they are no longer on the brink of ruin and danger. Even when disaster and decline strike and fortune turns against them, they can pass through danger and emerge safe, remain steady amid adversity, and thereby preserve their lives for a long time. This is what is meant by “to die without perishing is longevity.” A person who cultivates the Dao also attains an endless, boundless life through a body whose hundred years are nearly spent; this too is “dying without perishing.”

All things are born and die; people live and perish. These are the natural changes of things. The Dao itself is not born, yet it can manifest as birth; though it manifests as life, it does not cling to continuation. The Dao itself does not die, yet it can manifest as death; even when it manifests as death, it is not extinguished. The Dao is not bound by life or death, and so it is called long-lived. Yet when the distinction between life and death disappears, the distinction between long life and short life disappears as well.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Great Dao flows everywhere and is present in all things. It moves to the left and to the right.

The empty boat drifts with the water, unmoored. The Great Dao, too, is unconfined and unobstructed, mysterious and far-reaching. “Unmoored” means it is not limited by the directions east and west; “mysteriously far-reaching” means it is not enclosed within the bounds of left and right. Thus, when the Great Dao enters the most subtle places, it does not seem small; when it fills the whole universe, it does not seem large. Its manifestations and transformations take countless forms, and its wondrous changes are impossible to grasp as fixed or constant. Nothing among the myriad things fails to respond to it, so there is nothing it cannot bring to completion.

The myriad things depend on the Great Dao for their life, yet the Dao does not claim this as its own achievement.

All things grow by relying on the Great Dao. The Dao lets each thing transform and come into being in its own way, and the things call this “natural.” That which enables all things to grow does not regard this as an achievement; the things that grow from it do not regard it as a favor. At the deepest level of truth, there is no need for either side to offer thanks.

It brings all things to completion, yet does not claim to possess any merit.

The Great Dao enables all things to grow; this is how it brings them to completion. Neither that which gives life nor that which receives it clings to merit, so the Dao does not claim ownership.

It nourishes and covers all things, yet does not rule them; in this sense, it may be called small.

The Great Dao gives life to all things impartially, covering and supporting them without preference. This is what it means to “clothe and shelter all things.” It lets them grow without ruling them, which is why it “does not act as their master.” To say it may be called small does not mean that it is truly thought small.

All things turn toward the Great Dao, yet the Dao does not claim to possess them.

It nourishes and covers all things, yet does not rule them; in this sense, it may be called small.

The Great Dao gives life to all things impartially, covering and supporting them without preference. This is what it means to “clothe and shelter all things.” It lets them grow without ruling them, which is why it “does not act as their master.” To say it may be called small does not mean that it is truly thought small.

All things turn toward the Great Dao, yet the Dao does not rule them; in this sense, it may be called great.

All things cycle and return, never going beyond the realm of the formless Great Dao. The coming into being and ending of every kind of thing likewise depend on the empty and still. That is why it is said that all things turn toward the Dao. To say it may be called great does not mean that it is truly thought great.

Therefore, the sage never considers himself great, and so is able to accomplish true greatness.

The sage follows the Great Dao in nourishing all things, accords with the ultimate principle, and forgets his achievements. He clings neither to emptiness nor to existence, and is not bound by ideas of smallness and greatness. He can let go of distinctions between small and great, which is why it is said, “In the end, he does not make himself great.” Clinging to such distinctions brings limitation; forgetting them makes one expansive. By not claiming greatness, he accomplishes greatness. That is why it is said, “He accomplishes his greatness.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Hold fast to the Great Image, and all under Heaven will turn toward it.

The “Great Image” refers to the formless Great Dao. “Hold fast” means to devote oneself to keeping it. One who can abide in oneself, protect mysterious De (Virtue), and settle wholeheartedly in a state of quiet stillness can accord with the Great Dao, and all things will turn toward them. That is why it is said, “All under Heaven will come.”

By holding firmly to oneself and shielding profound De (Virtue/Power), while concentrating on a quiet and still state, a person who has the Dao can bring all things to return. Thus, all under Heaven will come back to it.

They return without harm, in peace and balance, at ease.

Like dense clouds spreading across the sky, it nourishes all things; like sweet rain falling, it lets the grasses grow. It benefits even the smallest things without causing harm. From this we can understand that returning to the Great Dao also brings no harm. What is this state of being unharmed like? When body and spirit are calm and still, this is called “peace”; when one is undisturbed by the changes of life and death, this is called “balance”; when things communicate with one another and become one, this is called “ease.”

Music and delicacies make travelers stop.

Pleasant music and tasty delicacies can make passersby stop in their tracks. “Music” means instrumental sounds; “bait” means delicious food; “travelers” is a metaphor for people dwelling temporarily in the world; and “stop” means to stay or attach oneself. Returning to the Dao can bring the dispositions of all things into harmony. Without understanding this, people can easily become absorbed in music to vent their emotions, grow attached to fragrant and beautiful things such as orchids and osmanthus, or seek fine food to satisfy their appetites. If one cannot grasp the foundation of the Dao yet hopes to attain peace and ease, it is difficult to succeed.

The Dao, when spoken, is bland and without flavor.

The bustle and splendor of the world appeal to ordinary human feelings, while stillness and quiet often leave people unable to settle. What feelings favor is called beautiful; what is hard to settle into seems bland and without flavor.

Look, and there is too little to see; listen, and there is too little to hear; use it, and it cannot be exhausted.

“Exhausted” means brought to an end. The eyes see colors and are easily beguiled by hues such as blue and yellow; the ears hear sounds and are easily beguiled by musical notes such as gong and zhi; the mind covets profit and is easily blinded by precious treasures. Treasures may be useful, but in the end they are used up; sounds may be pleasing, but when hearing declines, they can no longer be heard; colors may be lovely, but when sight is lost, they can no longer be seen. Those who become absorbed in music and fine food therefore face these troubles.

The Dao of quiet simplicity and Wuwei (non-action) may seem invisible, yet those who truly experience it can perceive everything clearly. It may seem inaudible, yet those in accord with it can hear with greater acuity. The mind cannot fathom it completely, yet those who understand it can use it without end. Such is the nature of worldly preferences, and so it is with the changing gains and losses, benefits and harms.

Chapter Thirty-Six

To draw something in, first allow it to expand.

If you want to block the openings of the senses and close the gates of the mind, the foolish will not comply. Let them open their senses and keep chasing worldly affairs; they will stop only when body and mind are exhausted.

To weaken something, you must first let it grow strong for a time.

To calm the mind that strives to outdo others and presses forward fiercely, first allow its will to act with full force. The life force of the yielding and weak can endure, while deeds of strength and force lead to ruin. A person will stop only when suffering reaches its utmost.

To abolish something, you must first let it flourish for a time.

When things are about to decline, they often first become more prosperous. Once they reach their utmost, they turn of their own accord toward the opposite.

To take something away, you must first give it for a time.

To put an end to wrongdoing, if it continues unchecked, accumulated evil thoughts will destroy the person who harbors them. Only when danger is at hand might that person awaken. Before then, wrongdoing often keeps growing until it reaches its utmost and turns toward the opposite.

To take something away, you must first give it for a time.

To put an end to wrongdoing, if it continues unchecked, accumulated evil thoughts will destroy the person who harbors them; only when danger is at hand might that person awaken.

This is called “subtle insight”—a discernment that is slight in appearance yet far-reaching.

Viewed as expedient methods, the practices described above may seem unlike instruction. But on closer examination, their principles reveal a profound guiding purpose: they are subtle and refined, their logic is clear, and they are truly beneficial. Hence they are called “subtle insight.” The eighty-one chapters of the Dao De Jing widely expound the principles of instruction. People of the world are bound by different concerns and attachments, so they must be guided in ways suited to their circumstances. One must not guide them only through expedient methods, but help them understand how to return to the mysterious Dao. The expedient explanation comes first, followed by the account of the true meaning. To draw in people’s desires, first open the scriptures and teach them; to lessen worldly passions, strengthen their foundations in the immortal Dao; to abolish evil intentions, give them the righteous Dao; to take away wrongdoing, guide them to accumulate good deeds.

The yielding and weak can overcome the firm and strong.

The expedient way follows the circumstances of things without resisting them. Thus the yielding and weak can ultimately subdue the firm and strong, and are therefore said to “overcome” them.

Fish cannot leave the deep waters. The state’s important instruments must not be displayed carelessly to others.

“Losing” means being deprived of something. Fish swim in rivers, streams, and lakes, and cannot live without water. Likewise, the foundation on which a sage relies cannot be separated from the instruments that serve them. Fish cannot be deprived of water: without it, they die. Useful instruments should not be shown carelessly; once revealed, they invite danger. Hence, the people may be guided to act according to principle without being made to understand all the strategies behind it. From this we can see that the means of holding authority should not be readily transferred to others.

Commentary on the True Classic of the Way and Virtue, volume two, annotated by Li Rong. Chapter 38: A person of high De (Virtue) does not deliberately proclaim their virtue, and so truly possesses De.

The way of governing practiced by the sage rulers of antiquity was to take the Great Void—the vast, formless realm—as their heart, and to make the gathering of pure, unified Qi the foundation. Without relying on words, they could harmonize the changes of Heaven and Earth; without deliberately doing anything, they could bring the achievements of the myriad things to completion. They never deliberately sought a reputation for yielding, and so naturally there was no contention by arms. Though they occupied the position of ancestral ruler and supreme sovereign, they did not contend for fame or profit. Following their natural course and remaining without action, they were therefore called “those of highest De.”

They acted, but did not rely on their actions; when things were accomplished, they did not claim the credit. They were therefore called “without De.” They nourished the myriad things, enabling them to grow and come to completion, and so they were also called “possessing De.” Inwardly, their De accorded with the Dao, and its principles merited reverence; they were therefore called “those of highest De.” The Dao has no fixed form, and De is deep and subtle. They reined in their radiance and concealed their workings. Though hidden from view, they could exert an unseen influence; though not dazzling, they held a light concealed deep within. Through their influence and radiance, they could help people and all things, and so they were said to “possess De.”

Those of lower De do not let go of their attachment to De, and for that very reason have no true De.

When the influence of Dao and De had nearly declined, teachings of benevolence and righteousness were about to arise. Once words and distinctions became conspicuous, social customs gradually grew shallow; hence the term “lower De.” They treated De as De and merit as merit, boasting of their conduct and taking pride in their achievements; hence they were called “not lacking in De.” Clinging to the idea “I possess De” kept them from reaching the state of Wuwei, and so they were said to be “without De.” Inwardly, what accords with the substance of emptiness and stillness is highest De; conduct burdened by complications and entanglements is lower De. To hold fast to the idea of De in one’s mind is to be “not lacking in De”; once there is attachment, true De has already been lost, and so one is said to be “without De.”

Highest De is Wuwei, with no intention of acting deliberately.

“By” means to put into practice. Those in higher positions put Wuwei into practice to guide those below them, while those below serve those above them through Wuwei.

Lower De involves action, with the intention of achieving a particular aim.

Highest De is Wuwei, with no intention of acting deliberately.

“By” means to put into practice. Those in higher positions put Wuwei into practice to guide those below them, while those below serve those above them through Wuwei.

Lower De involves action, with the intention of achieving a particular aim.

When those above guide those below through deliberate policies, those below likewise serve those above in deliberate ways. Why is this so? Grass bends east or west with the wind, and shadows curve or straighten according to the shape of the objects that cast them. Therefore, those who govern the world should not issue a multitude of commands; the root of governance lies in emptiness and stillness. Nor should those who teach disciples go against ritual and law, for these give weight to the duty of loyalty and filial devotion.

The highest form of benevolence acts without deliberately seeking anything; the highest form of righteousness also acts, but with a definite aim.

To love widely and bestow kindness freely is benevolence. To reward good conduct and punish wrongdoing is righteousness. Only by steadfastly upholding virtue and acting according to one’s proper role is one fit to occupy a position above others. The difference between higher and lower Virtue (De) also lies in instruction shifting from the substantial to the superficial. The difference between non-action and deliberate action shows itself in the gains and losses of government. Lower Virtue acts because it falls short of higher Virtue; higher benevolence is without deliberate action because it surpasses righteousness.

The highest form of ritual has many rules and ceremonies, which it uses to teach people; that is why it is said to involve deliberate action. When ritual becomes cumbersome, it can easily confuse people, and those below find it difficult to follow. That is why it is said that “no one responds.” This may be called a lack of trust, which gives rise to distrust. When people trust one another, there is naturally no need for many words. When trust is lacking, anger and disputes arise, and people wave their arms, reach out, and tug at one another.

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

In ancient times, people’s hearts were simple and harmonious, and the nature of all things was honest and spontaneous. There was no need to wave their arms, reach out, or pull one another along.

In ancient times, society was simple and peaceful. People were sincere and unpretentious, each content with what they had. They did not need to rely on benevolence and righteousness to teach and nurture one another. Every household followed its natural course, each person living freely in accordance with Dao and De. The line symbols used to divine and infer good and ill fortune had not yet arisen, and systems of instruction had not yet appeared. People made no distinctions between those close to them and those distant, or between the high and the low. This was the age of the Supreme One: people knew that a ruler existed, but did not feel that he was deliberately instructing them. It was the result of the natural transforming influence of the Great Dao.

When this way of life faded, the title of ruler arose, along with the duties of nurturing the people and governing affairs. The effects of achieving accomplishments and relieving the people’s distress then became visible. The sage instructed the people subtly, and they settled naturally. This was the transforming influence of High De.

Later, feelings of affection and kindness arose, and the benefits of extending love widely followed. But those who draw some people near cannot easily care for everyone equally; to love some inevitably entails partiality toward them. Thus a shallow and insubstantial way of life gradually took shape. When affection and kindness proved insufficient to transform society, rulers began governing people through rewards and punishments. Later, the principles of reward and punishment also ceased to work. Benevolence, righteousness, and law were then cast aside in favor of teaching people through rites and ceremonies, with jade and silk used in ritual offerings. As a result, rulers above deceived, and subjects below acted deceitfully. The roots of simplicity had already receded, while a culture of ostentation and hypocrisy grew ever more prevalent.

Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and the beginning of disorder.

When everyone is sincere and honest, with loyalty and trust in their hearts, there is no need for elaborate, convoluted rites. Once loyalty and trust have weakened and ostentation and hypocrisy have grown, confusion and disorder deepen. To govern by means of ritual then, esteeming ornament over simplicity, only aggravates corruption and disorder. That is why ritual is called the beginning of disorder.

“Foreknowledge” is the outward splendor of Dao, and the starting point of folly.

De is the true substance of Dao; benevolence and righteousness are its outward splendor. Those who pursue benevolence and righteousness first see only its external appearance, without recognizing its true substance. The wise follow nature and so accord with what is right; the unenlightened must wait to be instructed by teachers and elders. Knowing ritual is not the foundation of great wisdom; it may instead become the starting point of folly.

Therefore, the great man rests in what is substantial and does not chase what is shallow; he stands on what is true and does not covet what is showy. Thus one should let go of one side and choose the other.

Original simplicity and purity were later fragmented and fashioned into various implements. If we trace things back to their beginnings, we see that they were originally full and genuine. By the end, however, having lost the Dao, only the name of De remained, and people’s ways had grown shallow.

Humaneness is not part of human nature; righteousness differs from the natural Way; trust no longer springs from the heart, and ritual is merely an outward adornment. Disputes over right and wrong and warfare arose in their wake, along with a succession of deceitful schemes and clever contrivances. Fathers and sons lost their feelings of kindness and filial devotion, while rulers and ministers departed from the Way of loyalty and justice. Thus Lao Jun (Laozi), grieving at the profound disorder of the age and taking pity on the decline and sinking of the Great Dao, sought to restrain the branches and honor the root, still the shallow and return to the genuine. Whether governing a state, managing a household, cultivating oneself, or correcting one’s conduct, one should therefore take the fullness of Dao and De as one’s model, set aside the hollow shallowness of humaneness and righteousness, release the constraints of worldly ritual, and return to the true Dao.

Chapter 39

In ancient times, all who obtained the One: Heaven obtained the One and became clear; Earth obtained the One and became peaceful and numinous; valleys obtained the One and became full; the myriad things obtained the One and grew; rulers and lords obtained the One and became the standard for all under Heaven.

The “One” spoken of here is primordial Qi, the fundamental energy of all things before they differentiated. It had not yet divided, and so there was no duality; for this reason, it is called the “One.” Though Heaven and Earth are vast, what they receive at their root is the primordial One. Though the myriad things are numerous, what they rely on is balanced Qi. Though rulers and lords are exalted, what they depend on is the true Dao. Thus Heaven is clear and can cover all things far and wide; Earth is still and can bear all things in its depth; the spirits transform with numinous subtlety; valleys are empty and spacious, able to fill; the myriad things flourish and preserve their lives; and rulers and lords practice Wuwei, bringing peace to all under Heaven. How is this possible? It is all because they have obtained the One within the Dao.

The Dao itself neither flourishes nor declines, but the myriad things may gain or lose it. Those who gain it can maintain the states described above; those who lose it move toward the opposite and suffer decline.

If Heaven could not remain clear, it would likely collapse. If Earth could not remain peaceful, it would likely quake. If the spirits could not remain numinous, they would likely dissipate. If valleys could not remain full, they would likely dry up. If the myriad things could not receive the vital force of life, they would likely perish. If rulers and lords could not remain exalted, they would likely be overthrown.

The Dao of True Unity (the pure and undivided Dao) must not be lost. If it is lost, all kinds of forms will appear, causing people to fear that it has been broken apart.