《道德真经注(苏辙)》

The Dao can be explained in words, but the Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao.

Nothing is not the Dao, yet any Dao that can be explained in words cannot remain constant. Only the Dao that cannot be fully expressed in words is constant. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are all ways of the Dao that can be spoken of, but benevolence cannot stand for righteousness, nor can propriety stand for wisdom. This shows that the ways of the Dao that can be spoken of are distinct and cannot remain constant. Only the ineffable Dao can manifest as benevolence in benevolence, righteousness in righteousness, propriety in propriety, and wisdom in wisdom. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom each differ, while the Dao itself remains constant and unchanging.

Since the Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, how can it be named? Names refer to things that can be clearly described. Once something has a name, it is distinguished into categories such as round, square, curved, or straight, and so can no longer encompass the constant, unchanging Dao.

“The nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “the named” is the source of the myriad things. By dwelling constantly in the state of “nonbeing,” one can observe the Dao’s subtlety; by dwelling constantly in the state of “being,” one can observe the boundaries and signs that appear in the myriad things. “Boundary” refers to the limits and traces that things reveal.

Before things have acquired names, they appear as Heaven and Earth. Only when Heaven and Earth have each settled into their place do names begin to take shape. From the perspective of what already has names, the Dao spreads out and gives rise to the myriad things; as they flourish, their names become too numerous to count. Thus, namelessness is the Dao’s original nature, while having names is the way the Dao functions.

The sage understands the Dao’s original nature and uses this understanding to respond to the affairs of the world. He enters into the particulars of things while remaining empty, still, and unattached, so that he may discern their subtle principles. He experiences the deepest emptiness, yet knows that it always contains the potential for life, so that he may observe the boundaries and signs through which things appear. If one follows only the signs things reveal without understanding their subtle principles, one becomes shallow and lacking in insight. If one remains only with the hidden principles without understanding how they extend throughout things, one becomes refined but incomplete.

“Observing the boundaries and signs through which things appear” refers to this. To follow the signs without understanding what is subtle is to be shallow and lacking in insight; to remain with what is subtle without knowing how it extends throughout the myriad things is to be refined but incomplete.

Nonbeing and being both arise from the Dao; they differ only in name. Their shared source is called the “mysterious” (the profound principle that cannot be fully grasped).

If we judge being and nonbeing only by their forms, we may think they are truly two separate things. How can we know that nonbeing moves and transforms into being, and being in turn returns and transforms into nonbeing, so that they have never ceased to be one? Their names differ, but their root is the same. To recognize that their root is one is to understand the “mysterious.” Whatever is so remote that it has no end may be called mysterious. That is why Laozi often uses “mysterious” to name the utmost reach of the Dao.

“Mysterious upon mysterious” means mysteriousness carried to its furthest point. To call something “mysterious” is already to speak of what is profoundly deep, yet a thought that clings to “the mysterious” may still remain. To say “mysterious upon mysterious” is to let go even of that attachment, leaving nothing more to add. This is the gateway from which all subtle principles arise.

Everyone in the world recognizes beauty as beauty, and ugliness thereby appears. Everyone recognizes goodness as goodness, and badness thereby appears. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy complete each other; long and short are made visible by comparison; high and low depend on each other; sounds answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

People often judge beauty and ugliness by outward appearance and names. Can things called beautiful and good truly be beautiful and good in an absolute sense? People do not understand that being and nonbeing, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, sound and silence, front and back all arise in relation to one another and transform into one another. They are not fixed, unchanging standards. Just when you think you stand above others, someone taller appears before you, and you seem low. Just when you think you are ahead, someone walks in front of you, and you fall behind. If you simply follow the standards people praise and conclude that they are truly beautiful and good, you will be far from the truth.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches the people without relying on words.

When matters arise, the sage acts, but without a mind set on deliberate action. When guidance is needed, the sage speaks, but without the intention of insisting that words must teach and transform. Such a person goes beyond measures of long and short and is not bound by the order of before and after. They do not cling to beauty or ugliness, goodness or its opposite. How could the people of the world understand them by ordinary standards?

The myriad things arise, and the sage does not turn them away. The sage helps them grow without claiming them as possessions, acts without relying on accomplishments, and, when the work is done, does not take pride in the credit.

The myriad things arise through me, and I do not turn them away. I help them grow and come to fulfillment, but do not consider them mine or rely on my contribution. How could the people of the world understand this way of acting by ordinary standards?

The myriad things arise, and the sage does not turn them away. The sage helps them grow without claiming them as possessions, acts without relying on accomplishments, and, when the work is done, does not take pride in the credit.

The myriad things arise through me, and I do not turn them away. I help them grow and come to fulfillment, yet never possess them or depend on these accomplishments. Even when the work succeeds, I never claim the credit for myself. This is the result of Wuwei and teaching without words. How could this kind of beauty and goodness ever invite ugliness and wrongdoing?

It is precisely because the sage does not claim credit that the achievement does not depart.

The sage may live in poverty and low status without being troubled by them, or in wealth and honor without being burdened by them. This is what it means not to claim possession. If the sage does not claim the achievement as their own, how could it leave? This is the highest state of living at ease.

Chapter Three: “Do Not Exalt the Worthy”

Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not compete with one another. Do not prize rare and difficult-to-obtain goods, and the people will not steal. Do not display things that stir up greed, and the people’s minds will not be thrown into disorder. Thus, when the sage governs the people, the sage keeps their thoughts simple and their desires few, while ensuring that they have enough to eat; the sage keeps them from striving to outdo one another, while ensuring that their sinews and bones are strong.

When the worthy are exalted, people feel ashamed that they are not as good as others, and then they compete. When rare goods are prized, people worry because they do not possess them, and then they steal. When alluring things are displayed, people fear they will not obtain them, and then their minds grow troubled. Though everyone under Heaven knows that these three practices bring calamity, to abolish them all indiscriminately would still be unwise. The sage does not refuse to employ worthy people, but does not deliberately exalt them; does not discard rare goods, but does not regard them as precious; does not eliminate every alluring thing, but does not display such things. In this way, the worthy can still be put to use, yet the people do not compete because of them. Rare goods and desirable things may be before their eyes, yet they do not stir confusion; thieves and disorder therefore do not arise. Does this not allow people’s minds to be calm without keeping their lives from being full, and prevent them from striving to outdo others without weakening their sinews and bones?

If today we simply promote the worthy, honor wealth, and display alluring things to the people, their thoughts and desires will become crowded and excessive. But if, in the opposite direction, we abolish all these things, people will lose their resolve and grow weak. The first course gives rise to competition; the second leaves people with nowhere to stand.

Always keep the people’s cleverness and knowledge limited, and their desires few, so that those who pride themselves on being clever will not dare to act recklessly.

When these three kinds of things are not displayed to entice the people, they will not know what to envy, and their dispositions can remain detached and their desires few. Even if clever people are present, they will have no opportunity to practice deceitful ingenuity.

Act through Wuwei (non-action, following what is natural without undue interference), and nothing will be left unguided.

The Dao is empty and formless, yet it acts upon all things, as though it could never be filled. It is deep and subtle, seeming to be the source of all things.

The Dao is originally empty and formless, yet it reaches through every concrete thing. The vast heavens and earth, the broad mountains and rivers—there is nowhere it cannot reach. Because it has no form, it seems as though it could never be filled. It is deep and subtle. The author knows it is the source of all things, but does not dare to call it that outright; hence the phrase “seeming to be the source of all things.”

Wear down its sharpness, resolve its entanglements, soften its radiance, and mingle with the common world. It is deep and still, seeming almost to be there and not there.

Everyone has the Dao, but only a sage can preserve it in its entirety. To wear down its sharpness is to keep the mind from wandering into delusion; to resolve its entanglements is to keep it from becoming caught up with external things. Once delusion and entanglement have both ceased, inner brightness appears. The sage then softens this brightness so as not to seem different from others. Brightness is utterly pure, while dust is exceedingly fine; even while living amid the common world, one does not reject anything. In this way, the Dao can be preserved, deep and still, enduring through time. Though it exists, people do not recognize it; hence the phrase “seeming almost to be there and not there.”

I do not know from whom the Dao came; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

Though the Dao endures forever, in the end no name can describe it precisely. Yet neither can we say it does not exist. Hence the question: “Could it have existed before the Lord of Heaven?” It came before the Lord of Heaven, and before everything else; nothing, then, is older than it.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Humane

Heaven and Earth show no partiality: they treat the myriad things like straw dogs used in ritual and then discarded. The sage, too, shows no partiality, treating the people like those same straw dogs.

Heaven and Earth show no favoritism. They simply let the myriad things grow and perish according to their own patterns. Thus, the myriad things arise and perish of themselves. Their deaths do not mean that Heaven and Earth have harmed them, nor are their births a special favor bestowed by Heaven and Earth.

It is like straw dogs, shaped from grass for use in ritual. During the ceremony, they are beautifully adorned and respectfully offered up. Is this because they are cherished? It is only because the occasion calls for it. When the ceremony is over, they are discarded and left for passersby to trample. Is this because they are despised? It is only because events have taken their course. The sage treats the people in the same way: so long as the people are not harmed, they can preserve their natural nature. As for life and death, gain and loss, the sage does not deliberately interfere. Though the sage does not deliberately practice benevolence, the benevolence thereby accomplished is immense.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? It is empty, yet it is never exhausted by use. Once set in motion, its airflow keeps pouring forth. As the bellows moves, the air reaches and stirs everything in its path. People do not understand how this works, and so they think its mechanism is supremely ingenious. But what does the bellows do? It simply remains empty without being exhausted; once set in motion, its airflow keeps pouring forth. Heaven and Earth nurture and bring about the passing of the myriad things, shaping them in all their forms, in just the same way.

Too many words often lead to exhaustion. It is better to preserve the emptiness and stillness within.

People see only that when the bellows moves, its airflow keeps pouring forth; they do not realize that this happens because it is empty within. Thus Laozi cautions people: many words are easily exhausted; it is better to preserve the emptiness and stillness within, so that one will not be exhausted.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The Valley Spirit—the empty, profound source, like a mountain valley—does not perish. This is called the Mysterious Female, the hidden source capable of giving birth to the myriad things.

A mountain valley is vast and empty, yet it still has form; the Valley Spirit, by contrast, is empty and formless. Since it has no form, and has not yet come into being, how could it die? That is why it is said to be inexhaustible.

Calling it the “Valley Spirit” speaks of its virtue; calling it the “Mysterious Female” speaks of its function. The female can give birth to the myriad things, yet she is called “mysterious” because people can see that the myriad things come forth from her, but cannot see how she brings them into being.

The “gate of the mysterious female” refers to the source from which all things are born; “the root of Heaven and Earth” means that Heaven and Earth, too, come into being from it.

“Continuous” means subtle and unbroken; “as if it were present” means that it seems to exist, yet cannot be seen. If one can experience this state, one can use it all day without feeling weary.

Chapter Seven: Heaven Is Long and Earth Endures

Though vast, Heaven and Earth are still bounded by form and number, so their endurance must also have a limit. When Laozi speaks of Heaven and Earth enduring, he means the Heaven and Earth people can see. The truly immeasurable endurance is the state said to have existed before Heaven and Earth began.

Heaven and Earth can endure because they do not live for themselves alone; this is why they last. The sage puts himself last, yet comes to stand before others. He does not put his own interests first, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish motives? In this way, he ultimately fulfills himself.

Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish all things, but do not exist for themselves alone; they stand apart from all things and so can endure. The sage places himself behind everyone else, thinking first of others. He does not look after himself alone, but helps others; therefore he can stand before everyone and preserve himself. If Heaven and Earth struggled with all things to survive, and the sage fought others for gain, Heaven and Earth would be no more than one thing among all things, and the sage no more than one person among the people. What, then, would make them seem wise? The sage is selfless, not to secure private gain. It is precisely because he is selfless that he ultimately fulfills himself; this is the natural way of things.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water excels at nourishing all things, yet does not contend with them. It dwells in low places that people all disdain, and so is closest to the Dao (the Way).

The Book of Changes says, “The alternation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; what receives the Dao and gives rise to the myriad things is goodness, and the nature through which the myriad things take shape is their nature.” It also says, “Heaven, by means of the One, gives birth to water.” When the Dao moves and manifests as goodness, it is like Qi moving and giving rise to water. That is why it says, “The highest goodness is like water.” Both statements begin with what is formless and gradually take on concrete shape, so their underlying principles are connected.

The Dao is everywhere and benefits all things; water does the same. But once water becomes something with form, it differs from the Dao. That is why water is said to be “close to the Dao.” Still, nothing is more fitting than water as an example of goodness, so it is called “the highest goodness.”

Water is skilled at choosing low places for its dwelling, deep and still as the heart, and generous in giving to all things. In flowing, it keeps faith; in dealing with filth, it handles things well; in adapting to things, it makes the best use of each; and in acting, it follows the moment.

Water avoids high places and flows toward low ones, never going against the lay of the land: this is skill in choosing where to dwell. It is empty, still, and unfathomable: this is skill in keeping the heart. It nourishes all things, giving without seeking anything in return: this is generosity. In a round vessel it turns in circles; in a square vessel it changes course. When blocked, it stops; when it meets a lower place, it flows down: this is keeping faith. It washes away every kind of filth and brings high and low into balance: this is skill in governing. It takes shape wherever it goes and does not cling to a single state: this is skill in making use of its abilities. It freezes in winter and melts in spring; whether dried up or overflowing, it never misses its season: this is following the moment.

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

Some things have their good qualities, yet people still find fault with them, because they contend. Water does not contend; therefore, it embodies all seven of these good qualities without fault.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding something until it is full is not as good as stopping in time. Hammering a blade until it is sharp is not as good as keeping it in good condition for the long term.

Filling a vessel to the brim and then struggling to keep it there is not as safe as stopping at the proper point. Hammering a blade to make it too sharp is not as good as keeping it sharp for a long time.

If you know that a full vessel will overflow, straining to keep it full is less secure than leaving room from the start. If you know that an overly sharp blade will eventually break, repeatedly hammering it is less wise than not relying on sharpness. Though the sages possess everything, they do not cling to possession; how, then, could they become overfull? They act in accord with how things are, so how could they deliberately seek to make themselves sharper? With no overfullness, there is no need to struggle to maintain it; with no excessive sharpness, there is no worry about breakage.

A house full of gold, silver, and treasures cannot be kept forever by anyone. If a person possesses wealth without clinging to ownership, how could they feel that their riches have overflowed? If they act in accord with the natural order of things, how could they appear sharp and conspicuous? With no sense of abundance spilling over, there is no need to struggle to preserve it; without sharpness, there is no need to test others or compete at every turn.

A house full of gold, silver, and treasures cannot be kept forever by anyone. Pride and arrogance after attaining wealth and status can instead bring calamity upon oneself. Once one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has risen, one should withdraw. This is in accord with the Dao of Heaven.

The sun begins to move westward once it reaches midday; the moon gradually wanes after becoming full. The seasons turn in their cycle, and once achievements are complete, one should withdraw. If this is true even of Heaven and Earth, how much more so of human beings?

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Po and Embracing Oneness

Can you make the bodily Po settle and bear the hun, while holding fast to the Dao of oneness, without letting them separate?

The Po differs from the hun: the Po belongs to the body, while the hun belongs to the spirit. The Book of Changes says, “When vital energies gather, they form tangible things; when the hun wanders and disperses, transformation takes place.” This is how people can understand the nature of ghosts and spirits. The Po belongs to the body, so it is manifold and has a place to dwell; the hun belongs to the spirit, so it is unified and capable of transformation. To speak of “carrying the Po” means that the Po has a place to settle and is attached to the body. The Dao is everywhere; in a human being, it takes form as one’s nature, and the subtle essence of that nature is Shen.

When one’s nature is pure and not yet mixed with anything, it is called “Oneness.” When the spirit is gathered and has not yet dispersed, it is called “the Uncarved Block,” the original state before carving. In the end, these expressions all point to the Dao; they describe it from different perspectives.

The nature of a sage is settled, and the spirit is gathered, unmoved by external things. Even though the Po is attached to the body, it follows whatever the Shen wills to do. This is how Shen can govern the bodily Po. Ordinary people, by contrast, let external things govern their nature. Their spirit grows muddled and can no longer direct their actions, so Shen follows the Po’s lead: the ears and eyes are troubled by sounds and sights, while the nose and mouth are wearied by smells and tastes. Whatever the Po wants to do, Shen follows along, as though the Po had come to govern Shen.

For this reason, the ancients taught people to hold fast to the spirit and settle the bodily Po, keeping the two from separating. This is an important method by which sages cultivate themselves. The same principle underlies how the perfected people of antiquity—those who had succeeded in cultivating the Dao—could strengthen the root of life, live long, and preserve their vitality.

Can you make the spirit unified and bring it to a state of gentleness, like that of an infant?

When a person’s spirit cannot calmly govern the body and mind, the breath becomes disordered: the strong are drawn to conflict, while the weak are easily frightened, without realizing why. When the spirit is calm, the breath does not stir recklessly, and joy and anger each arise for an appropriate reason. This is called “concentrating the Qi”—steadily regulating the breath. The spirit’s attainment of emptiness and stillness begins here.

Can one steadily regulate the breath, soften body and mind, and become like an infant?

When the spirit is unsettled, the breath becomes disordered: the strong are combative, while the weak are easily afraid, without understanding why. When the spirit is calm, the breath does not stir recklessly, and joy and anger each accord with what is appropriate. This is called “concentrating the Qi.” From this, the spirit moves toward emptiness and stillness, while the breath grows full. Emptiness and stillness at their utmost become softness; fullness at its utmost becomes strength. To keep one’s nature pure and whole, free from the control of the breath, is called “attaining softness”—reaching the utmost state of gentleness. An infant knows neither preference nor aversion, and so its nature remains whole; with its nature whole, its breath is subtle and its body soft. To regulate the breath with single-minded focus until the body and mind become gentle, like an infant’s, is to reach the utmost of this state.

Can one cleanse the mind of stray thoughts and make it clear and perceptive, without a flaw?

The sage is not burdened outwardly by the body or driven inwardly by the breath, and can therefore wash away the dust. The spirit then becomes open and bright, able to perceive all things and understand that they all arise from their own nature. The sage regards purity and filth alike, with no bias or flaw in the heart.

Can one care for the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)?

After cultivating oneself, one extends this principle to others. Even in caring for the people and governing the state, one responds with an uncontrived mind and does not interfere on the basis of private intent. If one harbors selfish motives, caring for the people will instead harm them, and governing the state will instead bring it into disorder.

When the gates of Heaven open and close, can one remain gentle and still, holding to the receptive?

What is called the “Heavenly Gate” is the crucial turning point from which the world’s order or disorder, rise or decline, takes shape. Since you have taken responsibility for governing the world, when circumstances open and close and change, people often crave what they might gain and fear what they might lose, so they act first in pursuit of good fortune. The sage, by contrast, follows the order of things and understands the Mandate of Heaven, waiting until the moment arrives before responding. The Book of Changes says, “Acting ahead of Heaven’s timing, Heaven does not oppose him; acting in accord with Heaven’s timing, he does not fall behind Heaven.” This means that acting early or late must always accord with the moment set by Heaven’s Mandate. Otherwise, to act first is too early, and to lag behind is too late; both are misplaced. So to remain on the side of gentleness and stillness simply means not going against the timing.

If one is perceptive, clear-sighted, and knows everything, can one still avoid relying on cleverness?

Cultivate yourself inwardly and govern the state outwardly, until no situation you encounter fails to accord with the Dao. Is this not possible through perceptive understanding? Perception and understanding belong to the mind. The mind seems to know everything, yet it has never held the thought, “I am able to know.” The mind is originally one. If you then imagine something that observes and grasps this mind, there are now two. Once the one is divided into two, obscuration arises; folly begins there too.

Take a mirror: when things appear before it, they are reflected naturally, and that is all. What need is there for something else that “knows it is reflecting things”? This thing does not exist to begin with; adding it through subjective thought is the root of delusion.

Let all things grow and nurture them, yet claim no possession over them. Act, yet do not rely on your accomplishments. Help all things mature, yet do not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De”—profound Virtue that remains unseen.

The Dao brings all things into being and nurtures them, yet neither possesses them, relies on its accomplishments, nor rules over them. Though its De is profound, all things may not perceive it; hence it is called “Mysterious De.”

Chapter Eleven: “Thirty Spokes”

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub, and it is precisely because the hub’s center is empty that the wheel is useful. Clay is shaped into a vessel, and it is precisely because the vessel is hollow that it is useful. Doors and windows are cut to build a room, and it is precisely because the doors, windows, and interior are empty that the room is useful. Thus, what has form provides the conditions, while formless emptiness enables those things to serve their purpose.

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel. The hub is hollow, allowing the wheel to turn and the cart to serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded into a vessel; its hollow interior allows it to hold things. Doors and windows are cut into a house, leaving open spaces within, so that people can live there. Thus, tangible things bring convenience, while the intangible spaces within them make their use possible.

Use every measure of ingenuity and draw on the full range of things to make tools, yet their usefulness often depends on the empty spaces within them. Without tangible things, empty spaces could serve no purpose; without empty spaces, tangible things could not offer their convenience. Therefore, the sage often considers things through “nonbeing”—emptiness, or what has not yet appeared—to perceive their subtleties, and also observes them through “being”—things that have taken concrete form—to see their completeness and reality. To understand that being and nonbeing are one and cannot be separated is to attain clear insight.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

The five colors dazzle the eye, the five tones dull the ear, and the five flavors distort the palate.

Seeing colors, hearing sounds, and tasting flavors are all part of human nature. Before nature is drawn away by external things, it is at its purest. But when the eyes chase after every color, the ears after every sound, and the tongue after every flavor, people are captivated by what they pursue and forget their own nature. Then, even when they see, it is as though they do not see; even when they hear, it is as though they do not hear; and even when they taste, their sense of taste becomes distorted.

Riding at a gallop and hunting can unsettle the mind, while rare and precious goods can lead people to act without restraint. The sage, therefore, values the nourishment of inner needs and does not become absorbed in pleasures of the outer senses. The sage sets aside the latter and chooses the former.

The sage sees colors, hears sounds, and tastes flavors just as ordinary people do. The sage does not necessarily abstain from riding at a gallop and hunting, or from using rare and precious goods. Yet ordinary people take these things as sources of trouble, while the sage can find good fortune in them. Why? The sage attends to inner fulfillment, while the crowd pursues pleasures of the outer senses. The eyes may keep demanding more, but cannot truly take in fulfillment; the belly can be filled, yet does not endlessly demand. External things come to a person from outside, while inner nature is rooted within.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled; regard great calamity as you would regard your own self.

Those in ancient times who understood the workings of things were as watchful when receiving favor as when enduring disgrace, because they knew that favor is the forerunner of disgrace. They treated their own person with as much caution as a great calamity, because they knew that the body is the source of troubles. Thus they did not cling to favor, and disgrace did not come upon them; they forgot self-interest and the self, and troubles had no way to arise.

Why say, “Favor and disgrace both make one apprehensive”? Favor itself places a person in a low position: when receiving favor, one is uneasy; when losing it, one is also uneasy. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are like alarm.”

Favor and disgrace are not two unrelated things. Disgrace arises from favor, yet people do not understand this. They regard favor as noble and disgrace as lowly. If they understood that disgrace is the result of favor, they would know that favor itself occupies the lower position. Thus those in ancient times who understood the workings of things were watchful when receiving favor and watchful when losing it. They never relaxed while enjoying favor, only to panic when disgrace came. To be “like alarm” does not mean to be truly frightened, but simply to remain alert.

Why say, “Regard a great calamity as you regard your own person”? The reason I have great calamities is that I have a body. If I had no body, what calamities could I have?

The sage sees that people find it hard to face calamity, yet they do not realize that clinging to the self brings calamity. So the sage teaches them to recognize the trouble caused by attachment to the self. Once they understand that this attachment is itself a calamity, many great troubles can be dispelled.

Human nature is no greater at birth and no less at death. It is vast enough to fill Heaven and Earth, yet subtle enough to seem to pass through water and fire and enter metal and stone. Nothing can make it perish. Yet people often cease to attend to their nature and lose sight of it, caring only about themselves. When their love of the self grows too strong, external things seize the chance to unsettle their minds. Birth and death, illness and disease trouble them from within; favor or disgrace, gain or loss tug at them from without. In the world, almost nothing fails to become a source of anxiety. Only those who understand the Dao know that nature cannot be destroyed and that the physical body is not enduring reality. They therefore forget their attachment to the self, and all manner of worries vanish. Only then can one live in the world without being burdened by it.

Thus, only those who value their own person as they value all under Heaven can be entrusted with all under Heaven; only those who care for their own person as they care for all under Heaven can be given charge of its governance.

People chase power and profit and lose themselves in wealth and status, even risking their lives without regret. At root, they do it all to make life better for themselves. But if someone is given the emoluments of all under Heaven and also charged with governing it, that person will become utterly self-forgetting. Even if entrusted with all under Heaven, the vastness of the realm cannot become a source of worry for such a person.

Chapter Fourteen: “Look, Yet Do Not See”

Looking at it, one does not see it; this is called “yi.” Listening for it, one does not hear it; this is called “xi.” Reaching for it, one cannot touch it; this is called “wei.” These three states cannot be explained in words, so they are taken together as a single, undifferentiated whole.

What the eyes see are forms and colors, but the source that enables people to see them cannot itself be seen by the eyes. What the ears hear are all kinds of sounds, but the source that enables people to hear cannot itself be heard by the ears. What the body senses through contact are various tactile impressions, but the source that enables people to perceive them cannot itself be grasped through touch. Even the wise find these three difficult to explain. The key is to bring them together and return them to a single source; only then can they be understood. This source is “nature” (xing), a person’s original nature; seeing, hearing, and touch are its functions. At first, a person has only this nature. It is through contact with external things that sight, hearing, and touch become distinct. People use these senses every day but do not know how to return to their source. If they cannot bring them together again as one, they move ever farther from that source. The same principle applies more broadly to the Buddhist teaching of the “six faculties”—the six avenues of perception: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says, “Turn back the outward-flowing activity of the faculties and gather the mind into unity; then the six perceptive functions will cease.” This is the very principle being described.

The Dao, when it is high, does not appear brilliantly radiant; when it is low, it does not appear obscure.

All formed things are subject to the division between Yin and Yang: what is above is bright, and what is below is dark. This is unavoidable. Though the Dao is above, it does not appear radiant; though it is below, it is not obscure. It cannot be measured by the standards applied to formed things.

The Dao moves without cease. It is difficult to name, and in the end returns to what is formless and without substance.

“Shengsheng” describes movement that continues unbroken. People see it moving continually and assume it must be something real, not knowing that in the end it returns to nothingness.

This is called “the shape without form, the image without substance,” and is also called “the elusive”—a state that seems to be and not to be, and is difficult to grasp.

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

The Dao is present everywhere, so it cannot be described in terms of what comes before or after. It is not that it does not exist; rather, neither “being” nor “nonbeing” names it accurately. That is why it is called “the elusive.”

The Dao is everywhere, so one cannot see where it begins or ends.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide the myriad things of the present. Then one can know the origin of all things. This is called the guiding principle of the Dao.

“Ancient” is the source from which all things arise; “being” is the form in which they appear now, while “nonbeing” is their source before they appear. Grasp the source from which all things arise, and you can control for yourself when to advance or withdraw, and how quickly or slowly to act.

Chapter Fifteen: Those Skilled in the Dao in Ancient Times

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, moving freely without obstruction, and so profound that others could scarcely fathom them.

When what is coarse has been exhausted, one enters the subtle. When the subtle reaches its utmost, it becomes mysterious. When the mysterious reaches its utmost, it becomes hidden and profound. Reaching this depth, one passes through everything and becomes unfathomable.

Because they were so hard to fathom, we can only make a few tentative comparisons: they were cautious, like someone wading across a river in winter.

“Yu” means acting only after taking precautions. Whatever they wished to do, they waited until they had no choice but to respond. They were as cautious as someone crossing a river in winter, testing each step with care.

They hesitated as if wary of people all around them.

“ You” means being uncertain and not acting lightly. When faced with something they did not wish to do, they were always slow and careful, as if afraid those nearby might see them.

They were solemn, like someone performing a formal bow.

They approached everything with reverence and were never careless.

They were loose and yielding, like ice about to melt.

They understood that all things arise from illusion, and so they clung to nothing and felt attached to nothing.

They were sturdy and unadorned, like uncarved wood.

All artificial embellishment had fallen away, and they had returned to their original nature.

They were open and spacious, like a valley.

Their minds were empty and broad, able to contain anything.

They were murky, like muddy water.

They kept their light within and lived among the everyday world, without setting themselves apart from the myriad things.

Who can still muddy water and let it slowly clear? Who can keep a settled life in motion for a long time, until it gradually comes to life? When flowing water is left undisturbed, it gradually becomes clear. Once life is settled, it too gradually unfolds through the long process of transformation.

Ordinary people are absorbed in external things and disturb their inborn nature. Their minds grow clouded and can never regain their clarity. Those who wither into solitude use stillness and concentration to suppress their nature. Though they become quiet, they can no longer be lively and responsive. Now, knowing that muddiness disturbs one’s nature, let the mind grow still; after a long time, it will naturally become clear. Knowing that suppressing one’s nature is contrary to the Dao, let life become active; as it stirs, vitality will naturally return. The Book of Changes says, “Still and unmoving, once stirred by a stimulus, it can understand the principles of all things under Heaven.” The “movement” spoken of here means the same thing.

Those who hold to this Way do not seek fullness.

Fullness is the result of going to extremes: once clouded, one can no longer become clear; once dormant, one can no longer bring forth life. This is excess.

Only by not seeking fullness can decline fade away on its own, without waiting for something new to take shape.

Nothing fails to decline. The “movement” spoken of here means the same thing.

Those who hold to this Way do not seek fullness.

Fullness is the result of going to extremes: once clouded, one can no longer become clear; once dormant, one can no longer bring forth life. This is excess.

Only by not seeking fullness can decline fade away on its own, without waiting for something new to take shape.

Nothing fails to decline. Only by not seeking fullness can decline fade away on its own, without waiting for something new to take shape.

Reaching the Utmost Void (Chapter Sixteen)

Bring the mind to the utmost void, and firmly hold to stillness.

If void has not been reached to its utmost, something remains in the mind that has not been cleared away. If stillness is not held firmly enough, disturbance remains within. Even if great masses, like hills, have been removed, but the finest dust has not been cleared away, one has not reached the utmost or held firm. If the thought of “void” still remains in the mind, one has not yet escaped being; if one deliberately clings to “stillness,” one remains caught in activity. How much more so in other cases? It is difficult to make void and stillness serve their purpose when neither has been brought to its utmost.

All things flourish and transform together; through them I observe how they return.

Only by reaching the utmost void and firmly holding to stillness can one observe the transformations of all things without being disturbed by them. From this, one can see that nothing that arises fails to return. If one is caught up in arising and changing along with all things, one cannot see this clearly.

The myriad things flourish in profusion, but each returns to its root.

All things arise from their nature and return to it. It is like flowers and leaves growing from a root and finally returning to it, or waves surging up from water and finally returning to water.

Returning to the root is stillness.

If one has not yet returned to one’s original nature, deliberately stopping one’s actions and quieting one’s thoughts in pursuit of stillness is not true stillness. The growth of all things begins at their root and eventually returns to it; waves surge up from the water and in the end return to the water.

Returning to the root is called stillness.

If one has not yet returned to one’s original nature, deliberately stopping one’s actions and quieting one’s thoughts in pursuit of stillness is not true stillness. Only by returning to the root can one be truly still.

Stillness brought to its utmost is called returning to one’s Mandate.

“Mandate” is the most subtle part of one’s original nature. The nature can still be described in words, but the level of the “Mandate” is difficult to put into words. The Book of Changes says: “Investigate the principles of things, fully understand one’s nature, and ultimately reach the realm of the Mandate.” Sages who study the Dao must first investigate the principles of things, then fully understand their nature, and finally return to their original Mandate.

Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and music are standards by which sages respond to external things. There must be a fundamental principle underlying why these standards are as they are. Those who do not understand the principles and merely follow the names and forms are worldly people; those who act after understanding the principles are exemplary persons. This is called “investigating principle.”

Yet investigating the principles of things takes focused effort; without inquiry, they cannot be understood. External things appear one after another, and each must be considered before one can respond. This takes much effort for little result. Sages are not clouded by external things. Their nature is clear and still, so their actions accord with principle without effort, and they understand without deliberation. When things appear before them, they respond appropriately of their own accord. This is called “fully realizing one’s nature.”

Even so, if one still regards one’s nature as “one’s own” and distinguishes oneself from external things, one is close to delusion. A ruler’s command is called a “Mandate,” and Heaven’s arrangement is also called a “Mandate.” When one responds to external things through one’s nature without clinging to the idea that “I” am doing it, one attributes the response to the Mandate of Heaven. This is called “returning to the Mandate.”

Returning to the Mandate is called constancy.

As soon as things come into being, even if they are as vast as Heaven and Earth, mountains and rivers, they are subject to change and decay. Only by returning to one’s original nature can one become clear and still, and endure forever.

Knowing the Way of constancy is called clarity.

Unless one regards the restoration of one’s original nature as true wisdom, all one gains is worldly cleverness. Even if one believes oneself wise, that is not true wisdom.

One who does not understand the Constant—the enduring, unchanging principle—will act recklessly and invite danger.

One who does not know how to return to one’s original nature will be moved by external things, and everything one does will bring danger. Even if one gains some benefit for a time, one will only grow further from one’s nature.

One who understands the Constant Way can be broad-minded and accepting.

If one loses oneself in deluded thoughts, one becomes self-righteous and rejects others at every turn, treating external things as enemies. How, then, could one accept them? But if one understands that these distinctions are all deluded thoughts, then even when facing an enemy, one will feel compassion for them. What, then, could one not accept?

To be accepting is to be impartial and selfless. To be impartial and selfless is to become a ruler to whom all people turn. To become such a ruler is to accord with Heaven. One who holds all things in one’s heart has attained a state that even Heaven cannot surpass.

Heaven still has form. To attain the Dao (the Way) is to reach the highest state. The Dao endures without change; throughout one’s life, one will not fall into danger.

Chapter Seventeen of the Taishang Jing

The highest kind of ruler is one whom the people merely know exists.

He nurtures all under Heaven through the Dao, yet does not deliberately govern the people. They do not know why things are as they are; they only know that such a ruler exists.

The next kind of ruler is one whom the people draw near to and praise.

He governs all under Heaven through benevolence and righteousness. His virtue is worthy of love, and his achievements are visible, so the people draw near to him and praise him. His reputation may sound good, but this is where people begin to distinguish between those they favor and those they regard less warmly.

The next kind of ruler is one whom the people fear and also scorn.

He uses laws and commands to bring order to the people. They are indeed afraid of him, but wherever the ruler’s power does not reach, they scorn him.

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

If I could truly trust myself to uphold the Dao, then governing the world by means of the Dao would be enough. It is only because I lack confidence that I add benevolence and righteousness, and then add punishments and laws. Only then do the people begin to lose their trust.

The sage cherishes words and does not speak lightly. When matters are settled and achievements accomplished, the people say, “We did this naturally, of our own accord.”

The sage’s confidence in the Dao is already complete, so he is especially cautious in speaking and does not speak lightly. Even so, the people already trust him. Once matters are settled and achievements accomplished, the people gradually correct their faults, turn toward goodness, and move away from wrongdoing, yet they do not know how they came to do so.

End of Volume One of the Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue.

In the phrase “wu yi zhi qi yong,” the character zhi was originally written as gu; it has been corrected on the basis of the Baoyan edition. “Youyou” was originally written as “youwu”; it has been corrected on the basis of the Baoyan edition. In the phrase “wu suo bu huai,” huai was originally written as huai; it has been corrected on the basis of the Baoyan edition.

Volume Two of the Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, annotated by Su Zhe of Meishan.

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

When the Great Dao flourished, benevolence and righteousness were naturally contained within it, but the people did not notice them. Only after the Great Dao waned did benevolence and righteousness become apparent.

Only when wisdom emerged did great falseness arise.

People in the world do not understand that the Dao is sufficient to enable all things to find their proper place and have their needs met. So they intervene with contrived cleverness, and the people begin to respond with falseness.

Only when the six family relationships are out of harmony do filial devotion and loving care become conspicuous; only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers appear.

When a family lives in harmony, who is not filial and loving? When a state is governed in good order, who is not a loyal minister? Yao was not unfilial; it was only because Shun had unkind relatives, such as Gusou, that Yao’s filial conduct received special praise.

Only when the six family relationships are out of harmony do filial devotion and loving care become conspicuous; only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers appear.

When the six kinds of close relatives—parents, siblings, spouses, and others—live in harmony, is there any family without filial devotion and parental kindness? When a state is well governed, is there anyone who is not a loyal minister? Yao was not unfilial; it was only because he had no relatives like Gusou and Xiang that Shun was especially praised. Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal; it was only because they had no rulers like Jie and Zhou that Longfeng and Bigan were especially praised. Fish stranded in a drying pool wet one another with their saliva, but it would be better for them to forget one another in rivers and lakes.

Chapter 19: Discard Sagacity and Abandon Cleverness

Discard what is called sagacity and cleverness, and the people will gain a hundredfold.

It is not that one cannot know the Dao without sagacity and wisdom. If people of sagacity and wisdom governed the world, would they not follow the Dao in directing the myriad things? But people do not understand the roots of sagacity and wisdom. They see only the minor details on display and imagine that cleverness can overcome the myriad things. So they compete to pursue those details, and the people begin to suffer endless harm. Therefore, discard the pursuit of sagacity and cleverness, and the people will gain a hundredfold.

Discard the labels of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to their natural state of filial devotion to parents and care for children.

One who truly has a benevolent heart does not abandon their family; one who truly follows righteousness does not disregard their ruler. Benevolence and righteousness are originally rooted in filial devotion and parental kindness. But when the age declines, some people exploit the reputation of benevolence and righteousness for personal gain. Then sons defy their fathers, and fathers mistreat their sons. This is what happens when people cling to the outward labels of benevolence and righteousness. Therefore, discard those labels, and the people will return to filial devotion and parental kindness.

Discard cleverness and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will no longer appear.

Cleverness is originally meant to make tasks easier, and profit is originally meant to benefit the myriad things. Neither is itself a cause of theft, but without these conveniences and benefits, thieves cannot do harm. Therefore, discard cleverness and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will no longer appear.

These three proposals, stated by themselves, are not yet complete in meaning, so their basis must also be made clear: preserve a simple and genuine nature, reduce selfishness, and lessen desire.

People esteem sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit, believing that the world is unsettled because refinement and instruction are still insufficient. Some therefore place their hopes for governing the world in sagacity and wisdom, others in benevolence and righteousness, and still others in clever devices and profit, seeking to rule by these means. Yet the world only grows more unsettled. Why not return to the root? Preserve the natural simplicity of one’s original nature and lessen selfishness and desire, and people everywhere will naturally return to their own nature. Then even if these three things remain, they will be of little use. As the saying goes: “When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves naturally; when I delight in stillness, the people set themselves right naturally; when I do not burden the people, they grow prosperous naturally; when I have no greed, they become simple and honest naturally.” This is the point at which sagacity and wisdom reach their height, benevolence and righteousness their utmost, and cleverness and profit their limit.

Confucius, however, governed the world through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Laozi advocated cutting them off and discarding them. Some have therefore thought the two held opposing views. The Book of Changes says: “What is above form is called Dao; what is below form is called a vessel.” Deeply concerned for later generations, Confucius showed people the concrete “vessels” while keeping the Dao concealed. In this way, people of below-average ability could follow concrete rules without being confused by abstract principles and still become exemplary people; those of above-average ability could proceed from them to a deeper understanding of the Great Dao.

Laozi took a different approach. His aim was to illuminate the Great Dao, and he was eager to awaken people’s minds. He therefore pointed directly to the Dao and gave less weight to concrete rules. He believed that if those who study the Dao understand only concrete rules, the Dao will be obscured. So he cut off benevolence and righteousness and discarded ritual and music in order to make the Great Dao clear. The Great Dao cannot be fully expressed in words; whatever can be said of it is only an approximation of its appearance. Those who understand can recognize reality through appearances, while those who are unclear about the principles cling to appearances and fall into illusion. Thus, in later generations, some seized on Laozi’s words to throw the world into disorder, whereas those who studied Confucius rarely committed serious errors as a result. Many have reached the Great Dao by way of Laozi’s words; but those who seek a path into the Dao through Confucius’s teachings often find it hard to discover an entrance.

Both sages adopted different methods of teaching because circumstances left them no choice. To be thorough in one respect, one must inevitably leave something out in another.

Although the sage regards himself and external things as equal, and sees different things as interconnected, he clings to neither side in his heart. This does not mean that he disregards the rites and laws of the world, acts beyond his proper place, disrupts the moral order, and ignores the consequences. What people hold in awe, he too holds in awe; what people do, he likewise does as usual. Within human relationships such as those between ruler and minister or father and son, and while observing social norms such as rites and music, punishments, and government orders, he appears to the people of the world to be no different from anyone else. He is unburdened by external things simply because he does not cling to them in his heart.

The realm of the Dao is vast and boundless, as though it had no end.

People cling to what they know, so their thinking remains confined within its own limits, unable to move beyond them. The sage understands both being and nonbeing and can respond to any circumstance. Thus the sage’s realm is vast and boundless, impossible to exhaust.

The crowd is lively and bustling, as if enjoying a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a terrace to admire the spring scenery. I alone am quiet and unassuming, my intentions not yet revealed, like an infant who does not yet know how to laugh.

Everyone is absorbed in the things they love, finding them as delightful as a feast and as joyful as climbing a terrace in spring. They chase after them amid the clamor, unaware that this is not the true Dao. The sage alone sees the emptiness of these desires and remains quiet and unmoved when they arise, like an infant who does not yet know how to laugh.

I follow the way things move, without claiming them as my own, and so I seem to have no fixed home.

Everyone seems to have gained something; I alone seem to have gained nothing.

People each cling to their own understanding and believe they have more than enough. The sage embraces all things without clinging to any one side, and so appears detached, as though something were missing and nothing had been gained.

My mind is truly like that of a fool: simple and unadorned.

What is called “pure and simple” here may look foolish, but it is not foolish in truth.

The people of the world seem clever and sharp; I alone seem dull. They seem discerning and precise; I alone seem muddled and slow.

The world regards making distinctions and judgments as cleverness. The sage understands that many distinctions and judgments are not worth clinging to, and so appears dull on the surface and does not busy the mind with analysis.

I seem dark and indistinct, and so still that I appear to have no fixed place to dwell.

Dark and indistinct, I seem to have no visible limits; quiet and without a trace, I give no sign of where I have settled.

Everyone has some particular strength and can be put to use in the world; I alone seem clumsy and uncouth.

People each have their abilities, and so can often put them to use in the world. The sage’s De is complete, yet there seems to be nothing to put into practice; thus the sage looks clumsy and ordinary.

I differ from everyone else in that I am like an infant, dependent on its mother.

The Dao is the source and mother of all things. People chase after external things and forget the Dao, while the sage lets go of attachment to all things and takes the Dao as the root. This is like an infant that eats no other food and lives solely on its mother’s milk.

The manifestation of great De is complete obedience to the Dao. People pursue external things and forget the Dao; the sage, by contrast, frees himself from attachment to the myriad things and takes the Dao as his foundation. He is like an infant who eats no mixed foods, but drinks milk only from its mother.

The manifestation of great De is obedience to the Dao.

The Dao has no form in itself. When it moves and transforms into De, it takes on visible form. De is therefore the manifestation of the Dao. Extending this idea, the many forms that things assume are all manifestations of the Dao within them.

The Dao seems to exist and yet not to exist; it is elusive and difficult to grasp. In its elusiveness, there are images; in what seems to be and not to be, there are things.

The Dao cannot simply be described as either existent or nonexistent, so it is called “elusive.” Yet the movement of things gives rise to images, and their congealing gives rise to physical substance; all of this emerges from that elusive, indistinct state.

Within the deep darkness lies vital essence.

Before existence and nonexistence have yet been determined, the Dao is elusive and unseen. When existence and nonexistence meet, it appears deep and subtle. Though form has not yet taken shape, vital essence is already contained within it.

Its vital essence is utterly real, and within it lies a basis for trust.

Once things take on form, truth and falsehood become mixed. But when vital essence first arises, it is pure and free of falsity. Once truth and falsehood are mixed, things divide from one into two, and from two into three, appearing in a tangled profusion; their reality then becomes difficult to grasp. Vital essence, at its first arising, does not deceive.

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared. Thus one can observe the beginnings of the myriad things. “Fu” means beautiful; even if the myriad things are beautiful for a time, they cannot escape change.

How do I know what the beginnings of the myriad things are like? Through the Dao.

The sage knows why the myriad things are as they are because he understands the Great Dao and never departs from it.

Bend, and you will remain whole; …

When sages act, they always follow the way things are. The way things are may sometimes call for a winding course, sometimes a direct one; what matters is whether the matter can reach its proper fulfillment. When it does, one does not oppose the myriad things; by not opposing them, one can preserve oneself.

What bends can in the end become straight. If one insists on going straight without following the way things are, that is not true straightness. Acting in accord with the way things are, one may seem bent or constrained, yet still attain the greatest uprightness under Heaven.

Low places can become full. The places where all things gather lie low, so it is impossible for them not to become full.

What is worn down can be renewed. To insist on seeing everything distinctly and judging it clearly does not accord with the Way. Keep instead a broad, undivided state: it may seem close to decline, yet new life is already arising within it.

Taking little can bring gain. The Way is one. Once you attain this root, there is nothing you cannot attain.

Seeking too much can bring confusion. If you learn a great deal but cannot unite it through one fundamental principle, you will fall into confusion.

Therefore, sages hold fast to the “Oneness of the Way”—the common root of all things—and make it the standard for all action under Heaven. To hold fast to this Oneness is to return to one’s nature. Preserving oneself by bending, becoming straight through constraint, being filled by staying low, renewing oneself while seeming to decline, and gaining through taking little all result from holding fast to the Oneness of the Way. Thus the teaching ultimately comes down to “embracing the One.”

By not deliberately displaying oneself, one can see clearly. The eye cannot see itself; only then can it see other things. A mirror does not reflect itself; only then can it reflect other things. If one is always looking at oneself and reflecting on oneself, one has barely enough time to attend to oneself—how could one attend to anything else?

By not considering oneself right, one can become clear; by not boasting, one can accomplish great things; by not exalting oneself, one can endure. Precisely because one does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with them.

Not displaying oneself, not considering oneself right, not boasting, and not exalting oneself are all expressions of noncontention. Thus the teaching ultimately comes down to “not contending.”

Could the ancients’ saying that “bending brings preservation” be empty words? It truly can preserve a person and, in the end, bring things to completion.

People think uprightness is right and crookedness is wrong. Yet anyone who hopes to act entirely in accordance with how things are in the world will sometimes have to take a winding course. That is why the Dao De Jing concludes by saying, “Can these words be empty? Truly, one must preserve everything and let it return to its original nature.” To preserve does not mean preserving oneself alone: it means preserving oneself inwardly and all things outwardly, so that both oneself and all things may be kept whole and ultimately return to their nature. This is uprightness on a vast scale.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Trusting in Nature

Speak little; this accords with nature.

Words that arise naturally are concise and to the point. But when one goes against one’s nature and forces oneself to keep talking, one becomes tedious, boastful, and untrustworthy. Thus it is said: “The Dao, when spoken of, is bland and without flavor. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. Yet use it, and it is never exhausted.” This is what is meant by speaking little.

A gale cannot last all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. What brings them about? Heaven and Earth. If even the gales and downpours created by Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can those created by human beings?

When Yin and Yang are in harmony and do not contend, wind and rain come in season. They are neither too fierce nor too mild, unfolding in accord with nature’s course and stopping when they reach their end. But when Yang Qi is excessive above and Yin Qi is trapped below, Yin and Yang become blocked and cannot circulate. Gales and downpours then arise, seeming unstoppable in their force, yet even this state cannot last a whole day. The words of the sages of antiquity were few but precise, and their conduct was plain and natural. They followed the inherent patterns of things, and so endured without being depleted. People sometimes scorn such words and conduct, finding them less pleasing than clever argument and less striking than strange behavior. They fail to see that cleverness and strangeness cannot last.

Thus, those who cultivate the Dao accord with the Dao; those who cultivate De accord with De. Those who lose the Dao and De likewise accord with a state of loss. By accepting the state one is in, one can endure without being exhausted. People sometimes scorn such words and conduct, finding them less pleasing than clever argument and less striking than strange behavior. They fail to see that cleverness and strangeness cannot last.

Thus, among those who devote themselves to the Dao, those who seek the Dao become one with it; those who cultivate De become one with De; and those whose actions go astray find themselves in accord with their errors. The Dao welcomes those who become one with it; De welcomes those who become one with De; and errors follow those who become aligned with them.

Confucius said, “If one is wholly devoted to benevolence, one will commit no evil.” So a person who holds fast to benevolence may be forgiven even after making a mistake. If this is true of someone wholly devoted to benevolence, how much more so for someone wholly devoted to the Dao? If one truly commits oneself to the Dao and acts in accordance with it, one will gain insight; if one acts in accordance with De, one will gain something of value. Even if things happen to go wrong, and one’s efforts do not succeed, one will certainly still gain something from the experience about the Dao and De.

When faith is insufficient, distrust arises.

Those who do not understand the Dao do not hold firmly to their faith. When they encounter a mistake, they doubt the Dao and become even less trusting. Only those who truly know the Dao will not doubt it because of gain or loss.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Those Who Rise on Tiptoe Do Not Stand Firm

Those who rise on tiptoe cannot stand firm; those who stride too far cannot walk far. Those who think they see clearly do not see clearly; those who think they are right cannot make themselves clear; those who boast cannot establish merit; those who are arrogant cannot endure.

People can naturally stand and walk. If they think standing is not enough, they rise on tiptoe; if they think they are not walking far enough, they deliberately stride too far. As a result, they cannot stand firm or walk far. Those who insist they are right, boast about themselves, and act arrogantly are in the same position.

To the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food and extra limbs.

When eating, it is enough to eat what is appropriate; eating too much does harm. It is enough for the body to have all its proper parts; extra flesh or growths are only a burden.

All things detest these excesses, so those who have the Dao do not act this way.

Chapter Twenty-Five: There Is a Being Formed in Chaos

There is a being, whole and undivided, that existed before Heaven and Earth came into being.

The Dao makes no distinctions between clarity and turbidity, high and low, departure and arrival, good and evil. It is one undivided whole. In a human being, it takes form as that person’s nature. That is why it is said, “There is something that came into being as a whole.” No one knows what gave rise to it, for it has endured quietly and without end. Heaven and Earth, too, came into being within it.

It is silent and still, empty and formless. It exists independently and does not change; it moves without ceasing and is never exhausted. Thus it can be the source of all things under Heaven.

The Dao is silent and still, empty and formless, unmatched and never changing. It moves among all things without ever growing weary. It nurtures all things from below, so they all take it as their mother.

I do not know what it was originally called, so I will provisionally call it “Dao.” If I must give it a name, I will call it “Great.”

The Dao originally had no name. Seeing that everything came from the Dao, the sage called it “Dao”; seeing that nothing could surpass it, the sage provisionally called it “Great.” In truth, no name can describe the Dao accurately.

“Great” means moving onward and flowing away. Moving onward and flowing away means reaching far off; reaching far off, one eventually returns.

If one pursues the Dao by way of “Great,” it moves ever farther away. If one searches for it where it has gone, it seems distant and beyond reach. Yet however far it moves and however distant it seems, turning back and seeking it within oneself is enough.

Therefore, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. Between Heaven and Earth there are four great things, and the king is one of them. Human beings take their model from Earth; Earth takes its model from Heaven; Heaven takes its model from the Dao; and the Dao takes its model from nature—that is, from the way things proceed of themselves.

From the Dao’s point of view, neither Heaven and Earth nor the king can truly be called “great.” Yet people know the greatness of Heaven, Earth, and the king, but do not believe that the Dao is great as well. So Laozi included the Dao among the four great things. In fact, human beings are inferior to Earth, Earth to Heaven, and Heaven to the Dao, while the Dao follows nature as its standard. But if people one day recover their own nature, they too can fully embody these forms of greatness.

What is weighty is the root of what is light; stillness is the master of agitation.

Nothing light or small can bear what is weighty, and what is small in scale can scarcely subdue what is powerful. What is still can bring what is active to a halt; what does not move can restrain what is in motion. Thus, lightness must rest on weight, and agitation must be governed by stillness.

So, when the noble person travels, they do not leave their luggage cart all day. Even when splendid sights appear before them, they remain settled and are not drawn along by external things.

One may wish to travel light, yet cannot do so without a cart to carry one’s luggage. Though admiring splendid sights is pleasurable, one must also have a quiet place to rest. This is why weight and stillness must not be lost.

But how can a ruler who commands ten thousand chariots treat himself lightly and govern the world recklessly?

A ruler bears responsibility for the world through his own person. If he treats himself carelessly, he cannot shoulder the great responsibility of governing it.

Carelessness makes the ruler lose the trust of his ministers; agitation makes him lose the authority befitting a ruler.

Carelessness and agitation are unsuitable wherever they occur. If a ruler acts carelessly, his ministers will feel he is not someone they can rely on. If a minister acts rashly, the ruler will see that he is bent on private gain. Thus carelessness makes a ruler lose his ministers’ trust, while agitation makes a minister lose the ruler’s trust.

One who is skilled at walking leaves no cart tracks or footprints.

Because they act in accordance with how things are, they leave no trace.

One who is skilled at speaking makes no errors in speech.

Because they wait for the right moment to speak, they can speak throughout the world without giving cause for reproach.

One who is skilled at calculating needs no counters or counting tools.

The changes and quantities of all things are clear before them. They understand without calculating, so what need is there for counting?

One who is skilled at closing needs no bolt, yet no one can open what they have closed. One who is skilled at binding needs no rope, yet no one can undo what they have bound.

A person whose De is complete treats all things as a mother treats her children. Even when all things are allowed to move freely, they do not depart. Thus, they can be kept secure without a bolt and held together without a rope.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is abandoned; always skilled at caring for things, and so nothing is discarded.

Those who use counting rods to calculate, establish checkpoints to seal things off, and bind people with ropes can ultimately control and constrain only a limited sphere. The sage treats the people not only with tolerance but also guides and rescues them skillfully. I abandon no one; how, then, could people fail to turn toward me?

This is called “inheriting the light” (xi ming).

Rescuing someone in a time of danger does not yet count as the greatest aid. When people are caught in the cycle of life and death and obscured by external things, if one can pass on the clear insight one has attained, making those in darkness shine like lamps, and ensure this light is handed down from generation to generation without interruption, then one may be called skilled at rescuing people.

Thus, the good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is also a lesson for the good person. Yet people neither value their teacher nor cherish such a lesson.

The sage has no intention of teaching, and so does not treat others as lessons for himself. The people of the world have no deliberate intention to seek learning, and so do not revere the sage as their teacher. The sage not only does not hold the world in his thoughts, but can also help the people of the world cease to hold him in their thoughts.

Even the wise may seem confused and unable to understand. This is called the subtle mystery (yao miao), the essential and profound truth.

The sage’s mystery may elude even the wise.

Chapter 28: Know the Masculine

Know the masculine, yet hold to the feminine, and you can become the stream of the world. As the stream of the world, your constant De (Virtue/Power) will never depart, and you will return to the pure, gentle state of an infant.

Know what is bright, yet hold to what is dark, and you can become the model of the world. As the model of the world, your constant De will not flaunt its strength, and you will return to the limitless state of the Ultimate Void, without boundaries or attachment to any one position.

Know honor, yet hold to disgrace, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will be full, and you will return to a state of natural simplicity.

Male and female, what comes first and what comes after, are two aspects related to the same thing. White and black, brightness and darkness, are likewise two related aspects. So too are honor and disgrace, nobility and lowliness. People usually want to come first and dislike falling behind, seek the light and dislike the shadows, and desire high status while avoiding low status. This is only natural.

Yet the effects of coming first or falling behind are less immediate than those of light and darkness; and the effects of light and darkness are less profound than those of nobility and lowliness. The sages of antiquity cast aside delusion and sought to restore their original nature. The clearer one’s understanding of one’s nature, the more one can remain content in a low position. The more one can remain content there, the deeper one’s De (Virtue/Power); and the deeper one’s De, the more widely people will turn to one. Not acting out of ignorance is less complete than understanding the principle and still choosing not to act. Once one understands, one can be even more content in a low position; the more one can remain there, the deeper one’s De and the wider the support one receives.

To understand the strong side yet remain with the gentle side is to know one’s nature. Knowing one’s nature brings the desire to compete for victory to an end. All those under Heaven who contend to be first will turn to such a person, as streams flow into a valley and do not leave it. Even so, this person remains like an infant: able to receive things from the world, but not yet able to put them to use. Hence the saying, “return to infancy.”

To understand the bright side yet remain with the obscure side is to see one’s nature. Though dwelling in obscurity, one can see what is bright; thus, nothing bright and conspicuous under Heaven can hide its traces. All who understand affairs will therefore take this person as their standard. In responding to the myriad things, this person never deviates from the proper measure, and the effects are inexhaustible. Hence the saying, “return to the limitless”—to a state without bounds.

To understand the side of honor yet remain in a place of disgrace is to restore one’s nature. All delusion has been cleared away, and there is no resentment at dwelling in disgrace. One’s heart is as open and spacious as an empty valley; when things arrive, one responds according to their circumstances. De is thereby made complete, and one’s nature is pure, without admixture. Hence the saying, “return to the uncarved”—to the original state, untouched by shaping.

When the uncarved is divided, it becomes the various vessels. The sage puts these vessels to use so that each serves its purpose, and makes them heads of the officials who govern affairs. Hence the saying, “Great governance does not divide.”

After returning to simplicity, the sage divides the uncarved into various implements to respond to the myriad things. This is like a ruler assigning duties and appointing officials in accordance with the circumstances of things as they are. Though arrangements are made, things are not forcibly divided.

The chapter beginning “One who would govern the world” is Chapter Twenty-Nine.

To gain possession of the world and use it to govern all things is like a ruler assigning affairs to officials and establishing ranks of administrators. This, too, is to follow the circumstances of things themselves. Though arrangements are made, they are not forcibly divided or remade.

I do not think that trying to seize the world and govern it can ultimately succeed.

A sage does not take possession of the world by wresting it from others. Rather, all things come to him, and only then does he accept it, having no choice. Nor does a sage govern the world through deliberate, arbitrary action. He follows the natural state of all things and removes only what brings harm. Anyone who tries to seize the world and govern it by force cannot succeed.

The world is a mysterious vessel—the order of the world and the workings of all things. It cannot be arbitrarily shaped. Reckless action will ruin it; stubbornly holding on to it will make it slip away.

Nothing can be forced into submission. Even a group of only a hundred people will fall into discord and disobedience if it ignores its own natural order and acts recklessly. How much more so the world? In small matters involving few people, one might still seize control by force or govern through cunning. But the world is vast, and its governing principles are mysterious. If all things are not allowed to come of their own accord, people will turn away. If the world is not left to govern itself according to its nature, it will fall into disorder.

Some things move ahead, others follow; some are gentle and yielding, others fierce and forceful; some are strong, others frail; some support, others overturn. Therefore, the sage removes extremes, extravagance, and excess.

The Qi of Yin and Yang stir against one another; high and low press against each other, and large and small drive one another onward. Some go ahead, others follow behind. Some warm things, others cool them. Some increase and strengthen them, others diminish and weaken them. Some support them and bring them into form, while others surround them and bring about their destruction. These are all changes that arise naturally among things, and are difficult to avoid as circumstances unfold.

Yet foolish people in the world think only of themselves and seek what they can gain, even trying to force their way against these changes. At best, this brings disaster that topples them; at worst, it destroys them. Only the sages know that nature cannot be defied. They therefore follow change and wait quietly for the right time, while removing excess, extravagance, and arrogance. In this way, events do not reach extremes and harm all things, and the world is free of calamity. This is the highest expression of “not acting recklessly.” When Yao and Tang faced floods and droughts, they could not avoid them entirely, yet in the end they were not brought to ruin. This was why.

The Book of Changes, in the Tai Hexagram, says: “The ruler should measure the patterns of Heaven and Earth and assist their fitting changes, so as to protect the people.” In the Tai Hexagram, the three Yang lines are within and the three Yin lines without, symbolizing all things in a state of flourishing harmony at its height. The sages feared that after reaching their peak, things might develop too far and harm life. They therefore measured and assisted them, preventing them from going to extremes. This is what is meant by removing excess, extravagance, and arrogance.

Chapter 30: Using the Dao to Assist the Ruler

Those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not rely on armies to assert their power over the world, because victories forced through military might often bring retribution.

When sages use arms, they do so only as a last resort. If they are not compelled by necessity but seek to subdue the world through force, then even if they win for a time, calamity will surely return upon them. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han all suffered for this: some lost their lives, while others brought misfortune upon their descendants. People despised them, and spirits loathed them. In the end, none could escape retribution.

Where armies have been stationed, thornbushes grow. After a great war, years of famine are sure to follow.

Where an army is present, the people’s farming is neglected, and the fields go uncultivated. After troops have been deployed, the force of killing grows strong, and crops too are damaged. This is true of every war—how much more so when force is used to flaunt power and seek dominion over all under Heaven?

Therefore, one skilled in the use of arms stops once the aim has been achieved and dares not flaunt strength through victory.

Here, “once the aim has been achieved” refers to a lesser recourse. When moral instruction cannot bring people to peace and commands cannot secure their obedience, using arms is a last resort and a second-best measure.

After achieving the aim, one does not boast, show off, or grow arrogant. To use arms only when there is truly no alternative is what it means not to flaunt strength.

Not boasting, not showing off, not growing arrogant, and acting only when there is no alternative: these four are the marks of not flaunting strength.

When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to age. This is called being contrary to the Dao. What is contrary to the Dao soon perishes.

After strength comes decline; nothing can escape this. Only those who follow the Dao accomplish great deeds yet seem to have fallen short, and are full yet seem empty. They never appear powerful, and so do not proceed toward age and death. If one uses force to dominate all under Heaven, strength has reached its extreme—how could decline not follow?

The Harm of Exalting Military Force (Chapter 30)

Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen, and people generally detest them. Therefore, those who follow the Dao do not use them in daily life.

Arms are used to meet an emergency, not as a regular means. This is called not making weapons a constant practice.

In ordinary life, a noble person honors the left; in war, the right. Weapons are instruments of ill omen, not things a noble person cherishes. They are used only when there is no alternative, and calm restraint should be valued above all. Even victory in battle is not considered worthy of praise. To call victory good is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot fulfill their aspiration to govern all under Heaven.

For auspicious affairs, the left is honored; for inauspicious and funerary affairs, the right is honored. Therefore, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander in chief on the right: this is to treat the use of arms as a funeral rite. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and mourn them. After victory, the rites of mourning should be observed.

The nature of the Dao (the Way) is constant and unchanging, and has no fixed name. The uncarved simplicity is its nature: it may seem small, yet nothing under heaven can control it. If lords and kings can hold fast to this nature, all things will naturally come to them.

“Uncarved simplicity” means nature itself. The Dao is constantly nameless, so its nature cannot be confined by a name. When the Dao unfolds, it is everywhere; when it contracts, it becomes smaller than a hair’s breadth. It may seem small, yet it cannot be controlled. Ordinary people may be low in station, but if they hold fast to their nature, even things as humble as dust, dirt, wood shavings, or grain husks can be enough to make them sage rulers like Yao and Shun. Lords and kings may be exalted, but if they cannot hold fast to their nature, all things will not come to them.

The Qi (vital energy) of Heaven and Earth mingle and unite, bringing down sweet dew. No one commands it, yet the dew naturally moistens all things evenly.

The clear, empty Qi between Heaven and Earth rises and falls, mingling and joining as one. Sweet dew then descends, moistening all things far and wide, with no place left untouched. The sage understands the utmost Dao and puts it into practice to deal with all the affairs of the world. Like the sweet dew, it reaches everywhere. This is why the sage can bring all things to him.

Once people begin making implements, they give them names. When names arise, they should know where to stop. Knowing where to stop is what keeps them from danger.

The sage divides uncarved nature into various implements, then assigns names according to those implements. Would the sage pursue names and forget nature, or pursue what is secondary and lose what is fundamental? The sage knows to return to nature, and so can respond to countless changes without falling into danger.

The Dao exists throughout the world as rivers and valleys relate to the great rivers and seas.

The great rivers and seas are where water gathers; rivers and valleys are where it branches out. The Dao is the source of all things, while all things are the ends through which the Dao appears. Rivers and valleys are all water, so in the end they flow into the great rivers and seas. All things likewise come from the Dao, so they return to it, their source.

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

Distinguishing among things is called “knowing”; only when all obscurations in the mind have been cleared away is it called “clarity.” As long as the mind’s distinctions remain, one can only understand others, not truly know oneself. Once the obscurations are gone, one is no longer confined by distinctions, and can know oneself—and, from there, understand others more fully.

To overcome others is called strength; to conquer oneself is true power.

Force can be used to subdue others, but not to subdue oneself. The ability to restrain oneself and return to one’s original nature does not come from brute strength. That is why it is called true strength.

One who knows contentment is rich.

A contented person finds enough in whatever they encounter and is never deprived. Even with the whole world at their command, someone who still feels they have too little will never feel rich throughout their life.

One who perseveres has purpose in their heart. They do not compete with external things for supremacy, but continually strive to improve themselves, so external things cannot take away their purpose.

Only by not losing one’s roots can one endure.

The transformations of all things are without end, yet the inner self never loses its original nature. This is what it means to endure.

Only when the body dies but one’s original nature does not perish can one be called long-lived.

The changes of life and death are immense, yet human nature remains clear and tranquil and does not perish. The ancients who attained the highest level of cultivation were able to transcend the bonds of life and death.

Chapter 34: The Great Dao Flows Everywhere

The Great Dao flows widely, reaching in every direction and operating everywhere.

The Dao encompasses all things and reaches every place; above and below, left and right, coming and going, it is present throughout.

All things depend on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao does not refuse them. When they come to fruition, the Dao does not claim credit.

Some beings in the world nurture all things while secretly claiming them as their own. Others avoid all things and refuse to possess them, and so must also refuse to nurture them. Only the Dao nurtures all things without refusing them, and brings them to fruition without claiming them as its own.

The Dao cherishes and nourishes all things, yet does not rule over them. It is often without desire or striving, so it may be called “small.” All things return to it, yet it does not rule over them, so it may also be called “great.” Thus the sage never regards themself as great, and so is able to achieve true greatness.

To regard oneself as great and deliberately undertake great deeds is, in the end, to appear small.

Chapter 35: Holding Fast to the Great Image

Hold fast to the fundamental principle of the Dao, and all things under Heaven will return to it.

The Dao is neither “being” nor “nonbeing,” and so it is called the “Great Image”: the vast, formless Dao. If the Dao appeared clearly in a particular shape, there would be distinctions between what is alike and what is different. People would love what resembled them and dislike what did not. They would draw near to what they loved and turn away from what they disliked. In this way, the Dao could not draw all under Heaven to itself.

To return to it without suffering harm is to become settled, peaceful, and unobstructed.

Where there is love and dislike, there are gains and losses. When both love and dislike have vanished, nothing is harmed. Thus, one who has reached the state of the Dao is settled, peaceful, and at ease everywhere.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop. Spoken of, the Dao is bland and without flavor; look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; put it to use, and it is never exhausted.

When music is played and fine food is set out to welcome people, how could they fail to keep passersby from moving on? Yet when the music ends and the food is gone, they gather their things and leave. If one faces all under Heaven with the Dao of the “Great Image,” how could people know what to love in it, much less what to dislike? Though the Dao has no scent, shape, or sound to please people, its workings are inexhaustible.

Chapter 36: If You Would Draw It In

If you would draw something in, you must first let it expand. If you would weaken it, you must first let it grow strong. If you would abolish it, you must first let it rise. If you would take something from it, you must first give to it. This is called “subtle insight”: discernment that becomes clear through what is minute.

If you rush to take without first giving, circumstances have not yet developed to their limit, and the principle is not sufficiently established. When circumstances have not reached their limit, it is difficult to prevail; when the principle is not sufficiently established, others will not be convinced. Yet this approach already comes close to the use of stratagems. How is it different from the methods of Guan Zhong and Sun Wu? The actions of a sage and an ordinary person may appear similar on the surface: the sage follows the nature of things, like a skilled doctor who prescribes according to the illness; an ordinary person uses stratagems, like a merchant skilled at pursuing profit.

The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong; the small and weak can overcome the great and powerful.

The sage knows that strength is not something to rely on, so he places himself in weakness. When the strong in the world jostle and fight among themselves, the sage alone responds with weakness. He does not compete with them, but waits quietly. When the greater are wounded and the lesser lose their lives, the sage still does not fight. He lets them bring about their own destruction. This is what is called victory.

But does the sage deliberately act this way in order to triumph over others? He simply understands that circumstances naturally unfold this way, and so settles into them in accord with nature.

Fish cannot leave the deep pool. A state’s sharp weapons should not be displayed carelessly to others.

Fish have no sharp claws or teeth and cannot rely on strength to overcome other creatures. Yet when they hide in the deep pool, even the strongest and most powerful person cannot catch them. Once they leave the pool and reach dry land, they are merely clumsy, helpless fish. What can they do then? The sage settles in weakness, and the strong cannot harm him. More than that, he can use it to act first and control the situation. Is this not the sharpest weapon under heaven? Only when a fish leaves the deep pool can it be subdued. The sage remains settled in weakness without growing weary, and so ultimately brings the world to submit. Is this ability something that can be shared with everyone?

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Dao Always Acts Without Acting

The Dao—the fundamental principle governing the movement of all things—always follows its natural course and does not impose its will, yet nothing is left unaccomplished.

This means that the Dao accomplishes everything, yet does not act deliberately.

If the lords and kings can uphold this principle, all things will transform of themselves. Once they have transformed, if excessive desires and actions arise again, I will use the nameless uncarved simplicity—the plain state, free of names and desires and untouched by ornament—to settle them.

The sage teaches the myriad things through Wuwei (non-action, or refraining from unwarranted interference), and the myriad things transform accordingly. At first, this transformation arises from non-action; later, it gradually develops into deliberate action. It is like an infant growing up, as human desires and actions increase day by day. By the decline of the Three Dynasties, changes in human nature had become increasingly severe. When people began to act deliberately, rulers and the people throughout the realm followed suit, and change multiplied beyond measure. Had the rulers not been swayed when this change first began, but instead steadied people’s hearts with the nameless uncarved simplicity (the unadorned state untouched by human artifice), perhaps the changes could have been brought to a halt.

The nameless uncarved simplicity would also put an end to people’s restless striving. Without such striving, they could be still, and the realm would return of its own accord to the right path.

The sage harbors no intention of deliberately preserving simplicity, nor does he outwardly make a show of doing so. Thus simplicity remains whole, and its efficacy is far-reaching. If the mind still clings to the pursuit of simplicity, it has already strayed far from simplicity.

End of volume two of the Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De.

One of higher De does not regard himself as possessing De, and so truly has De. One of lower De is intent on not losing De, and so in fact has no De.

The sage follows his heart’s inclinations without transgressing the rules. He does not deliberately seek De, yet De naturally abounds in him. A person of lower De knows that De is precious and therefore strives not to lose it; this is merely a forced effort to preserve himself. How could that count as having De?

One of higher De practices Wuwei and has no deliberate aim in acting. One of lower De acts and does so with a definite aim.

If one practices Wuwei while still harboring an aim to act deliberately, one is still acting. Only when there is both Wuwei and no deliberate aim in acting can it be called Wuwei. A person of lower De cannot accomplish things without acting, but acts with a definite purpose; he is not simply acting in vain, without anything to uphold.

The highest form of benevolence acts without deliberately pursuing anything; the highest form of righteousness acts with a clear purpose. Both benevolence and righteousness involve action. Their difference is that benevolence values acting without deliberate intent, while righteousness counts purposeful action as merit.

Why are there higher and lower forms of De (Virtue/Power), yet only a highest form of benevolence and righteousness, with no lower forms? Because lower De falls within the realm of benevolence and righteousness; anything below them is no longer worth discussing.

The highest form of ritual strives to put its practices into effect, but when no one responds, it rolls up its sleeves and imposes them by force. The sage has exhausted every means of governing the people, from De through ritual. When ritual also fails, force is applied; when force still proves ineffective, punishments and military action follow. In the end, all this effort is futile and brings no benefit.

Thus, only after the Dao (the Way) is lost does De arise; only after De is lost does benevolence arise; only after benevolence is lost does righteousness arise; and only after righteousness is lost does ritual arise. Ritual signals that loyalty and trust have weakened, and marks the beginning of disorder.

Where there is loyalty and trust without ritual, they are not easily made visible. Once ritual is established, the virtues of loyalty and trust are displayed outwardly. Between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, and friends, outward order may be clear, yet there is little genuine feeling within. Following ritual brings order; violating it brings disorder. Order and disorder lie close together, and the slightest misstep can lead to disorder. That is why ritual is called the beginning of disorder.

“Foreknowledge” refers to the pursuit of knowledge in advance and the display of cleverness. It is merely the Dao’s superficial show, and the beginning of folly.

The sage observes all things with a profound and mysterious vision. Right and wrong, gain and loss, all appear before him, as forms appear in a mirror. Nothing escapes his sight, so how could he distinguish what comes first from what comes after? Ordinary people, by contrast, see only with their eyes, hear only with their ears, and think only with their minds. They move blindly among the myriad things, exhausting themselves in pursuit of understanding. When they happen upon a discovery, they imagine they understand, unaware that the deepest ignorance begins with believing oneself to be right.

Therefore, the great man—one of virtue and insight—takes his stand on what is substantial and plain, not on what is shallow. He rests in what is real and essential, rather than chasing outward display. Thus he leaves that side behind and chooses this one.

People of shallow understanding are content with gaining some small benefit from a lowly place, while forgetting the higher foundation. They cherish what is shallow and discard what is substantial; they gather what is showy and abandon what is real. If not the great man, who could leave that side behind and choose this one?

Of Old, Those Who Attained the One (Chapter 39)

Of old, those who attained the One: Heaven attained the One and became clear; Earth attained the One and became stable; spirits attained the One and became numinous; valleys attained the One and became full; the myriad things attained the One and grew; lords and kings attained the One and became the rightful rulers of all under Heaven.

The One is the Dao. All things are able to become what they are because of the Dao. People under Heaven see the myriad things but forget the Dao. Heaven knows only that it is clear; Earth knows only that it is stable; spirits know only that they are numinous; valleys know only that they are full; the myriad things know only that they grow; lords and kings know only that they are the rightful rulers of all under Heaven. They do not know that they can be this way because the Dao is within them.

Consider the matter to its furthest point: if Heaven remained clear without the Dao, it would likely split apart; if Earth remained stable without the Dao, it would likely quake and collapse; if spirits remained numinous without the Dao, they would likely lose their efficacy; if valleys remained full without the Dao, they would likely run dry; if the myriad things grew without the Dao, they would likely perish; if lords and kings retained their exalted rank without the Dao, they would likely be overthrown.

“To bring to its utmost” means to carry something to the extreme. If Heaven loses the One, the foundation that enables all things under Heaven and Earth to exist, it does not collapse at once. If Earth loses it, it does not immediately sink; if the spirits lose it, they do not at once cease to function; if the valleys lose it, they do not immediately run dry; if the myriad things lose it, they do not at once perish; and if lords and kings lose it, they do not immediately fall from power. Yet all these outcomes will eventually come to pass.

Thus, nobility takes lowliness as its root, and height rests on what is low.

Heaven and Earth are vast, and lords and kings are noble, yet all this comes about through the operation of the One. What, then, is this One? It cannot be seen or grasped, and so it is the smallest presence under Heaven. This is what is meant by lowly and humble.

For this reason, when lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy,” all terms of self-deprecation, are they not taking lowliness as their root? Is this not so?

The ancients used these titles to point to the root and leave aside the branches.

Take a chariot apart and count every component: there is no single part that can, on its own, be called a “chariot.” People do not wish to seem dazzling like fine jade, nor to stand out as crude and rough like a stone. Only when the wheels, spokes, canopy, carriage frame, crossbar, yoke, hub, and other parts are joined together does a chariot take shape. Each component can be counted individually, but the chariot itself cannot be counted as one separate object. From this we can see that a chariot depends on what is absent in order to function. This is what it means for absence to make a function possible.

Are Heaven and Earth, then, formed simply by being vast? Are lords and kings lords and kings simply by being noble? The One exists within vastness and nobility. It is what enables Heaven and Earth, and lords and kings, to exist, though people often fail to notice it. Thus the One is within what is noble without seeming noble, and within what is lowly without seeming lowly. It is neither like dazzling jade, noble but not lowly, nor like crude, prominent stone, lowly but not noble.

Chapter 40: Reversal and return are the movement of the Dao

“Reversal” is how the Dao moves. Returning to one’s original nature leads to stillness. Though the Dao is quiet and unmoving, once it responds to something, it can reach the patterns of all things under Heaven; movement begins from there.

Softness and weakness are how the Dao works.

The Dao has no form or sound. Things under Heaven that seem soft and weak are often still; yet once they respond to something, they can reach the patterns of all things, and movement begins from there.

Gentleness and yielding are the way the Dao (the Way) works.

The Dao has no form and makes no sound. Nothing under Heaven is more yielding than the Dao, yet nothing under Heaven is more powerful. That is why the Dao can put all things to use.

All things under Heaven come from what is, and what is comes from what is not.

People do not understand that stillness can become movement, or weakness can become strength. So I tell them where all things come from. People under Heaven have heard of using a mother to restrain her child, but they have not heard of using a child to restrain its mother.

Chapter Forty-One: When the Highest Person Hears of the Dao

When a person of the highest kind hears of the Dao, they practice it diligently. When a person of the middle kind hears of the Dao, they seem to remember it, then seem to forget it. When a person of the lowest kind hears of the Dao, they laugh. If the lowest kind did not laugh at it, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

The Dao has no form and cannot be seen; it has no sound and cannot be heard. Unless one first sees clearly the illusory nature of all things, clears the heart so it is empty and unobstructed, and comes to clear understanding, one will inevitably fail to believe in the Dao. Thus, when people of the lowest kind hear of the Dao, they find it absurd and far removed, and laugh. People of the middle kind hear of the Dao and find it alternately present and absent, seeming to exist and not to exist, so they feel uncertain. Only those who truly understand the Dao practice it diligently, keep it firmly in mind, and never slacken. Confucius said, “When I explain a principle to someone and they do not grow weary of hearing it, surely that must be Yan Hui?” He was speaking of a person of the highest kind.

Those who set forth teachings in ancient times said:

“Set forth” means to establish. Those who expounded teachings in ancient times said these things, and Laozi quoted them below.

The bright Dao seems dim;

The Dao illuminates all, yet does not look deliberately.

The advancing Dao seems to retreat;

It seems to stand still, yet nothing under Heaven is faster.

The level Dao seems uneven and winding;

At times it is level, at times it seems uneven. Wherever it goes, it ultimately makes things smooth, yet it never deliberately levels the road.

The highest De (Virtue/Power) seems like an empty valley;

The highest De does not think of itself as having De, and is like a valley, empty and open.

The purest white seems stained;

If one is so pure that one will not allow even the slightest stain, one becomes a person who prides oneself on being aloof and keeping oneself pure. Such a person is not a sage.

Vast De seems to have some deficiency, because what is truly vast can no longer be enlarged; it can only remain as it is. If it could still expand, it would not be truly vast.

In establishing De, one may seem outwardly idle and inactive. In fact, one is following the way things are by nature and making no deliberate display. Thus, something is accomplished inwardly.

A nature that is pure and true may appear to have changed: one preserves one’s nature and spirit, responding as things change without losing what is true within. For this reason, one’s outward appearance seems to have changed.

The greatest square has no corners, because it remains whole and vast and does not deliberately show small edges.

The greatest vessel is slow to complete. Because its scale is immense, it cannot be made quickly or put to use at once.

The finest sound seems silent, because it cannot be heard by the ear.

The greatest image seems formless, because it cannot be seen by the eye.

The Dao is hidden and nameless. Only the Dao is good at giving all things what they need and helping them fulfill themselves. Wherever the Dao reaches, its influence is evident. These sayings describe the Dao as it appears in particular things; the vastness of the Dao as a whole, however, remains hidden and nameless. It always gives what is in excess to what is insufficient, and all things rely on it to fulfill themselves.

Chapter 42: The Dao Gives Birth to One

The Dao gives birth to one; one gives birth to two; two gives birth to three; three gives birth to the myriad things. The myriad things bear Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, blending the two Qi in harmony.

The Dao itself is neither one nor two. But in relation to the myriad things, the Dao is called “one,” while the things themselves are all distinct. Thus, though “one” is used to name the Dao, the Dao itself is more than a single “one.” One and one come together to form two; adding one to two makes three, and from this the myriad things arise in succession. Though the myriad things differ in countless ways, they all bear Yin and embrace Yang, attaining harmony through the blending of Yin and Yang Qi. This is because the myriad things arise from three, while three arises from one; the principle behind this unfolds naturally.

People dislike such titles as “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy one,” yet kings and dukes use them to refer to themselves.

People do not know where the myriad things come from. They often look down on what is few and small, and honor what is many and great. Yet even those as exalted as kings and dukes call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy one”—all humble titles expressing that they fall short in Virtue. Those in ancient times who understood things thoroughly must surely have grasped the reason.

Some things benefit from being diminished; others are harmed by being increased. The teaching people give me is the same teaching I use for them: those who act with force and arrogance often meet a bad end. I regard this saying as the foundation of instruction.

People regard weakness as a loss and forceful arrogance as a gain, but they do not understand that this way of thinking is mistaken. Therefore, I would have all who teach throughout the world use this saying to instruct others: Have you not seen that those who act with force and arrogance often meet a bad end? To reach the extreme of force and arrogance is to act recklessly. Only when people understand that reckless action is not to be pursued can they go on to discuss the Dao. Thus I regard this saying as the foundation of instruction.

The Softest Thing in the World (Chapter 43)

The softest thing in the world can pass through the hardest thing in the world. What has no form can enter where there is no gap. This is how I know that Wuwei (non-action) is beneficial.

Meet hardness with hardness, and one thing will either break or be crushed. Meet hardness with softness, and the soft is not worn down, while the hard is not harmed. Look at things in nature: water is an example. When one formed thing enters another formed thing, they resist each other and are difficult to reconcile. When what has no form enters what has form, it does so without effort, and what has form may not even notice. Look at the myriad things: ghosts and spirits are an example. Thus, when the sage achieves Wuwei, the sage can master all kinds of powerful things and move in and out among the myriad things.

The teaching that does not rely on words, and the benefits of Wuwei that accords with nature—few in the world can achieve them.

Reputation and Life (Chapter 44)

Which is closer to you: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or wealth?

Putting life before reputation, cherishing life and treating wealth lightly—this still does not amount to true selflessness…

Which is closer to you: your reputation or your life? Which matters more: your life or your possessions?

Putting life before reputation, and valuing life while treating possessions as unimportant, still does not amount to true selflessness. One who is truly selfless is not attached even to their own body, much less to reputation or possessions. Yet one can take responsibility for the world and devote oneself to it only by letting go of attachment to the self. Thus, first let people understand that reputation is not worth pursuing and possessions are not worth valuing; then help them learn to cherish life, and from cherishing life, to understand selflessness. This is what Laozi means.

Which brings greater anxiety: gain or loss?

Before gaining something, people regard the possibility of losing it as a source of anxiety. Once they have gained it, they worry about losing it, and their anxiety grows worse than if they had never gained it at all. Only when being and nonbeing, gain and loss, are regarded as equally ordinary can anxiety fall away.

Therefore, excessive cherishing is sure to bring a great cost; hoarding too much is sure to bring a heavy loss.

When people cherish something too dearly, they will often do anything to get what they want. How could that not come at a cost? The more one hoards, the more people covet and try to seize what one has. How could that not bring loss?

Those who know contentment will not be disgraced; those who know when to stop will not encounter danger. In this way, they can endure.

Chapter 45: Great Perfection Seems Incomplete

What is most complete seems to have something missing, yet its function never fails. What is most full seems empty, yet its function is never exhausted.

People think that perfection means having no flaws, so this kind of perfection eventually declines. They think that fullness means leaving no space, so this kind of fullness is eventually spent. The sage seeks true perfection and does not mind that it appears incomplete; the sage seeks true fullness and does not reject its appearance of emptiness. Thus, though accomplished, it does not decline; though full, it is never exhausted.

What is most upright seems bent; what is most skillful seems clumsy; what is most eloquent seems inarticulate.

Those who insist on appearing perfectly straight and refuse to bend are easily broken. Acting in accordance with how things are may look indirect, yet is truly upright. Those who seek only to appear skillful and refuse to seem clumsy wear themselves out. Letting things follow their nature and allowing each thing to find its place may seem clumsy, yet is truly skillful. Those who rely only on verbal argument and refuse to be silent will eventually reach an impasse. Speaking in accordance with how things are may seem inarticulate, yet makes things clear.

Activity can overcome the cold, and stillness can overcome the heat. Only tranquil non-action is the true Way under Heaven.

A task may be completed without seeming deficient; something may be full without overflowing; one may be upright without being rigid, skillful without seeming clumsy, and eloquent without seeming dull. These states, like activity that cannot be still and stillness that cannot be active, each favor one extreme. Activity can withstand the cold, but cannot dispel the heat. Stillness can overcome the heat, but cannot withstand the cold. Both are limited to one side and are not the true Way. Only by being detached and tranquil, without clinging to either extreme—without fixating on completion or deficiency, fullness or overflow, straightness or yielding, skill or clumsiness, eloquence or dullness—can one respond to every circumstance and become the true Way under Heaven.

Chapter Forty-Six: When the Way Prevails in the World

When the Way prevails in the world, warhorses are withdrawn to plow and fertilize the fields.

When all under Heaven are at peace, each thing in its proper place and keeping to its proper role, there is no fighting, and society settles naturally. Warhorses can then be withdrawn to plow and fertilize the fields.

When the Way does not prevail in the world, warhorses breed in the countryside, ready at any moment to be sent into battle. No fault is greater than displaying things that stir up greed; no calamity is greater than never knowing contentment; no disaster is greater than always wanting more.

Displaying things that stir up greed invites calamity in the first place. To possess some things and still not be satisfied deepens the calamity; to want to obtain everything brings the greatest disaster. If an ordinary person has even one of these faults, disaster will come upon them. If a ruler does the same, war will arise from it.

Thus, knowing how to be content with a life that is already sufficient allows one to feel contentment often.

Those who know contentment can find enough in whatever they encounter, and so nothing makes them feel they lack anything.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Without Going Out the Door

Without going out the door, one can understand the affairs of the world. Without looking out the window, one can discern the patterns of nature. The farther one goes from the world outside, the less one knows.

Human nature is our foundation. It fills the whole universe and is not limited by distance or by past and present. The sages of antiquity could know everything without leaving their doors because their nature was whole and unobscured. Ordinary people are obscured by external things, and their nature is confined by the senses of sight and hearing. Within, they are troubled by the body and mind; without, they are blocked by mountains and rivers. What they see extends no farther than their line of sight, and what they hear no farther than their hearing. Even a small door or window can block their view and limit their perception. People do not understand that restoring their nature is all the sages need; instead, they seek outwardly. The farther they search, the less they find.

Therefore, the sage can know without traveling, discern things without seeing them with their own eyes, and accomplish things without deliberate action.

What human nature can attain goes beyond knowing and discernment. It can also accord with the inherent patterns of things, allowing them to be accomplished without effort.

Chapter 48: Learning Through Daily Increase

Learning makes knowledge increase day by day.

If you do not yet understand the Way but pursue learning single-mindedly, what you hear and know may grow ever greater, yet you cannot bring it together into a coherent whole. This is still ordinary learning. Confucius said, “Listen widely, and choose what is good to follow; look widely, and retain what you have seen.” This is only one way of approaching true wisdom.

Cultivating the Way requires daily reduction.

Once you truly understand the Way, you can look back at the myriad things and see that none is free from illusion. Only by removing illusion can you restore your nature, which by its own nature has no excess. Confucius once asked Zigong, “Ci, do you think I understand the Way by learning much and remembering much?” Zigong replied, “Is that so?” Confucius said, “No. I use one fundamental principle to connect everything.”

Reduce, and reduce again, until you reach Wuwei (non-action). With Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished.

Removing illusion is a kind of reduction. But if the thought “I want to remove illusion” still remains in your mind, you have not yet let go completely. When even that thought is forgotten, your nature becomes pure and unadulterated. Then nothing is beyond your ability, and yet you do not go against Wuwei.

The sage seeks to obtain the world through Wuwei (non-action) and by not lightly disturbing the people. Once he stirs things up everywhere and deliberately strives to obtain the world, he is no longer fit to govern it.

People all harbor the desire to seize the world, and so they keep stirring up trouble in pursuit of this aim. When this desire is displayed openly, all things come to dislike them, and in the end they cannot obtain the world. The sage follows nature and does not act recklessly, so he makes no unnecessary moves. When his intentions are made known, people can accept him in peace. Though he does not deliberately try to seize the world, people throughout the world instead turn to him.

The sage has no fixed opinions and takes the people’s hearts as his own

The sage has no stubborn, unchanging heart; he takes the people’s hearts as his own. I treat the good with goodwill, and I also treat the not good with goodwill. In this way, De (Virtue/Power) can be brought to perfection. I trust those who are trustworthy, and I also trust those who are not trustworthy. In this way, trustworthiness can be put into practice.

Empty space has no fixed shape, yet it can take on the shapes of all things: when an object is square, the space around it appears square; when an object is round, the space around it appears round. If empty space itself had a fixed shape to begin with, how could it accommodate the shapes of all things?

Therefore, the sage has no stubborn preconceptions and acts in accordance with the people’s wishes. Whether others are good or not good, the sage treats them with goodwill; whether they are trustworthy or not, the sage treats them with trust. Whether others are good or not does not change the sage’s attitude of responding with goodness: this is called perfected De. Whether others are trustworthy or not does not change the sage’s attitude of responding with trust: this is called perfected trustworthiness.

If one treats only the good with kindness and casts aside the not good, trusts only the trustworthy and distrusts the untrustworthy, how can one claim always to be good at saving people and never to abandon anyone?

The sage lives among the people of the world and patiently brings their tangled thoughts into harmony. The people all listen and watch intently, while the sage treats them all like children.

People throughout the world judge good and evil, trustworthiness and deceit in different ways. Each believes they are right, and they accuse and harm one another, unsure what standard to follow. The sage is troubled by this, and so patiently brings the people’s thoughts into harmony. He does not stubbornly distinguish good from evil, or truth from falsehood, but treats everyone alike; the sage regards all the people as children.

People throughout the world each have their own views of good and evil, truth and falsehood. Each side believes it is right, and they accuse and harm one another, without knowing what standard to use. The sage is troubled by this, so repeatedly guides people, allowing their hearts to return to simplicity. Rather than clinging to good and evil, truth and falsehood, they come to regard all things equally. The people watch intently to see how the sage rewards or punishes them, but the sage treats them as one would an infant: neither especially pleased by good deeds nor repelled by evil ones. Thus, those who do good do not boast, and those who do wrong feel no resentment. The people’s hearts are at ease, and they gradually come to follow the Way; only then can the world be settled.

Chapter Fifty: Emerging from Life, Entering Death

Emerging from life, one enters death.

Human nature originally has no distinction between life and death. When it manifests, it is life; when it returns to concealment, it is death.

Three out of ten belong to the category of life, three out of ten to the category of death, and three out of ten, through their own course of living, move toward death.

Those who know how to make use of external things and draw in their essence to nourish themselves belong to the category of life. Those who indulge in sights and sounds, smells and flavors, thereby harming themselves, belong to the category of death. The two paths of life and death are thus clear. Beyond this, I also know that some people know only how to act, not how to rest; only how to speak, not how to be silent; only how to think, not how to let go. Step by step, they move toward exhaustion. These are what is meant by “those who move and thereby head toward death.” If the way of life and death is divided into ten parts, each of these three groups accounts for three. Seen this way, nine parts belong to the paths leading toward life or death; the remaining one is the way of neither life nor death. What is called neither life nor death is what the Book of Changes describes as “still and unmoving.” Laozi speaks of those nine parts but leaves the remaining one unstated, so that people may grasp its meaning for themselves. In this way, he points toward the subtle state of having no thought and taking no action.

Why is this so? Because people crave life too much and overnourish themselves.

Where there is life, there is death. Thus, those who pursue survival single-mindedly are also walking the road to death. The more deeply people depend on life, the more factors there are that lead to death.

I have heard that those skilled in preserving life can walk on land without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter the ranks of an army without being wounded by weapons. The rhinoceros finds no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to strike with its claws, and weapons no way to pierce them. Why is this? Because they do not place themselves where death can easily overtake them.

Those who have truly attained the Dao remain forever in a state beyond birth and death. If even the source of life cannot be found, where could death have its final resting place?

Chapter Fifty-One: The Dao Gives Birth to the Ten Thousand Things

The Dao brings the ten thousand things into being. De (Virtue or Power, the Dao’s nurturing action within things) enables them to grow. The things themselves take shape, while external conditions and tendencies bring them to completion.

The Dao is the source of all things, so all things are born from the Dao. The Dao operates and appears as De, nurturing all things without tiring; thus De enables them to grow. Yet the Dao and De cannot display concrete forms on their own: they become visible through the ten thousand things. Nor can things achieve completion by themselves. Near and far draw upon one another, hardness and softness join together, and as circumstances accumulate into a particular configuration, changes such as flourishing and decline, order and disorder, take shape.

For this reason, nothing among the ten thousand things fails to honor the Dao and cherish De.

Although each thing’s form appears through the thing itself, and its completion is brought about by various circumstances, nothing can come into being without the Dao or receive nourishment without De. The Dao is honored and De is cherished, just as parents and elder brothers are respected, and lords and kings are held in esteem. This is because the Dao has no rank or title, while De has a name.

The Dao’s nobility and the esteem accorded to De do not come from anyone granting them rank. Their nobility is inherent and natural.

Nobility that depends on rank is not true nobility.

Thus the Dao gives life to and nurtures the ten thousand things, allowing them to grow, develop, and mature, then caring for and sheltering them. It gives life to things without claiming possession of them, acts without relying on its own power, and allows them to grow without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and hidden power of De.

Chapter Fifty-Two: The World Has a Beginning

The world has a common source, which may be regarded as the mother of all things.

“The nameless” (the Dao before names and forms appear) is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “the named” (the Dao appearing as particular things) is the mother of the ten thousand things. In its nameless state, the Dao is the source on which all things depend to begin; once it appears in named form, it is the source on which they depend to come into being. Thus the Dao may be called both the beginning and the mother. The children it gives life to and nurtures are the ten thousand things.

Once you know the mother of all things, you can know her children. After knowing the children, return to and hold fast to the mother; then you will remain free from danger throughout your life.

The sage follows the Dao in caring for all things, just as one understands children by knowing their mother, and so understands where all things come from.

Once you understand the root, you can understand everything that arises from it. After understanding the myriad things, return to the root and hold fast to it; then you will never fall into danger throughout your life.

The sage responds to the myriad things in accordance with the Dao, understanding them as a mother understands her child. The sage sees things clearly, with nothing beyond their comprehension. Though the sage’s wisdom is sufficient to survey all things, they never forget the Dao by attending to external things, and so they hold fast to the root at all times.

Block the openings of the senses and close the gates of desire, and you will never be troubled by striving throughout your life. If you open the senses, let desire run free, and busy yourself satisfying it, you will find it hard to escape hardship for the rest of your life.

Everyone in the world possesses the Dao, yet people often stop attending to it and turn instead to pursuing external things. The eyes grow attached to colors, the ears delight in sounds, and the mind is given free rein to seek these pleasures and satisfy its desires. People become immersed in them for life, unable to break free. The sage is never drawn along by external things throughout life precisely because they gather in the senses and close the gates of desire, never letting themselves chase after external things unchecked.

To see what is subtle is to be clear-sighted.

The harm caused by desire is slight at first, then gradually grows. To foresee how a small desire may develop into a great trouble and restrain it in time is to be clear-sighted.

To hold to weakness is true strength.

Chasing what you like without regard for the consequences may seem powerful, but it is not true strength. Only those who recognize desire and know to be wary of it can be called strong.

Use your own light, then return to inward clarity; in this way you will not bring calamity upon yourself. This is called continuing along the constant Dao.

People in the world indulge their preferences and let themselves chase after external things, never to return. The sage gathers in the senses and closes the gates of desire, not to cut themselves off from external things, but to meet the myriad things with spirit. They use the senses without letting themselves be controlled by what lies outside. The senses’ functions are hearing with the ears, seeing with the eyes, smelling with the nose, tasting with the mouth, feeling with the body, and thinking with the mind. The senses come into contact with external things, but when those things pass away, inward clarity remains unharmed. Thus the sage can respond to countless changes without being brought to exhaustion, and calamity does not befall them. Their constant nature is still and deep, enduring without end.

Suppose I have even a little understanding: as I walk along the Great Way, what I fear most is straying onto a crooked path.

Those who truly realize the Great Dao do not deliberately seek knowledge, take action, or make plans. Thus, all things are naturally nurtured and transformed. But when people follow the Dao with even a little subjective intention, they start thinking about what to arrange or establish. Once they have that intention, they worry that they are acting deliberately. What truly follows nature has nothing to fear.

The Great Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer shortcuts.

The Great Dao is easy and without obstacles. Those who do not understand this think it is slow, so they prefer shortcuts to reach their goals quickly. Thus, anyone who follows things’ nature while deliberately arranging and directing them is in a hurry to succeed.

The court is extravagant and splendid, while the fields lie waste and the granaries are empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat their fill, and amass great wealth. This is called “displaying the spoils of theft”: it gives thieves a model of extravagance to boast about. It is not a way that accords with the Great Dao.

The people of the world seem clever and discerning; I alone seem dull. The people of the world are sharp and exacting; I alone seem simple and slow. Should we really polish the surface and discard the roots, make deliberate schemes our life’s work, and flaunt extravagance to teach people to become thieves?

“Those who establish well are not uprooted” chapter, section fifty: “Displaying the spoils of theft—is this not contrary to the Dao?” (Here the chapter title continues from the preceding text.)

The people of the world seem clever and discerning; I alone seem dull. The people of the world are sharp and exacting; I alone seem simple and slow. Should we really polish the surface and discard the roots, make deliberate schemes our life’s work, and flaunt extravagance to teach people to become thieves?

“Those Who Establish Well Are Not Uprooted” chapter, section fifty-four.

Those who are skilled at establishing things build what cannot be uprooted; those who are skilled at holding things fast keep what cannot slip away. For such people, their descendants’ offerings in ancestral rites will also…