《道德真经疏义》

This is the preface to the Daode Zhenjing Shuyi (Subcommentary and Meaning of the True Scripture of the Dao [the Way] and De [Virtue/Power]). The author refers to himself as “chen” (“your servant”), a scholar-official either serving at court or studying at the Imperial Academy.

Reverently observing, he notes that the present sage sovereign (called “the sage ruler” in the original) has taken up Laozi’s Daodejing in moments of leisure and annotated it sentence by sentence, so as to bestow its benefits upon the realm. As a tribute scholar selected from the provinces and sent to the capital, and as a student at the Imperial Academy, the author has been able to fast, clarify his mind, wash away distracting thoughts, and reverently recite the sovereign’s work.

The author privately holds that among the useful learning of the world, nothing is more important than the Daodejing. Laozi’s five thousand characters may be called the highest expression of Dao and De. Its words are concise yet can unfold into countless principles; its contents are varied yet can return to a single unity. It can both guide people back to the constant principle of their original nature and be used to govern the myriad things of actual life. Its language is extremely simple, yet its purport is profoundly far-reaching; had it not been a sage, such writing could not have been produced.

Since the Zhou dynasty, there have been roughly more than a hundred families who annotated the Daodejing. Most were obscured by their own preconceptions and could not recognize the true meaning of the Dao; their discussions were remote, broad, and empty. They intended to honor the Dao of the sage, but in the end went against it. Unless one’s self-cultivation is sufficient to enter deeply into the sage’s realm and one also has wondrous comprehension, he fears one could hardly join them in understanding this truth.

The author reverently sees that His Imperial Majesty “obtains the One and thereby becomes the rectifier of the world; embraces the One and thereby becomes the model for the world”—that is, he takes “the One” (the substance of the Dao) as the standard for the world, thereby realizing the state of “manifesting plainness and embracing simplicity” (preserving one’s plain original nature), and extends this to the ordering of human affairs and accord with the heavenly Dao. The subtle essence of Dao and De is already present within virtuous conduct; His Majesty further expounds it in words and brings conviction, so that scholars know where they should turn. Examining closely the sovereign’s learning, the author finds it broad and profound, and his words essential, wondrous, expansive, and complete—like the Xici (Appended Phrases) attached to the Zhouyi (Book of Changes). Truly it may be called the writing of a sage.

Yet the Dao cannot be fully perceived through hearing and sight, and its operation is inexhaustible. The author nevertheless wishes to use the shallow, near-at-hand words available to ear and eye to depict wonders beyond the reach of hearing and sight, and to use limited phrasing to expound an inexhaustible truth. He does not measure his own strength, and he knows well that his ability and intelligence fall short. He has read the plain exposition composed by Emperor Ming of Tang (Tang Xuanzong, Li Longji), and Du Guangting (a Daoist of the late Tang and Five Dynasties and author of the Guang Shengyi, Expanding the Sage’s Meaning) still wished to elaborate upon it. How much more, then, could the author, long educated as he is, be content to remain behind and refrain from exerting himself merely because the sovereign’s work is profound and unfathomable? He therefore forces himself to undertake the task, forgetting that his words may not fully convey the meaning.

Your servant Jiang Cheng respectfully writes this preface.

2. The meaning and principles of the Daode Zhenjing (Authentic Scripture of Dao and De) are profound and subtle, difficult to fathom. How would I presume to regard myself as one capable of expounding them? I have therefore forced myself to write, yet I fear that my words are unequal to the profound meaning of this classic.

Subcommentary on the Meaning of the Daode Zhenjing, Volume One

Subcommentary by Jiang Cheng, Student of the Imperial University (A taixuesheng was a student at the Taixue, the highest state academy. Here Jiang Cheng provides annotations and subcommentary for this book.)

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: (Huizong is Zhao Ji, Emperor Huizong of the Northern Song; he also wrote a commentary on the Daodejing.)

Dao (the Way) is the fundamental principle that all people must follow; De (Virtue/Power) is the cultivation that the human heart obtains for itself. Dao runs through all generations without decay; De fills human nature and abides eternally. Laozi lived at the end of the Zhou dynasty, when Dao had gradually receded and De had declined with it. He therefore wrote a book of eighty-one chapters (the original calls them the “nine-nine chapters,” that is, nine times nine, meaning eighty-one chapters) to elucidate the constant principles of Dao and De; for this reason it is called a jing (scripture/classic). The words of this classic are concise, but its purport is profound. Students should silently apprehend it and investigate it deeply.

The Dao (the Way) is the root followed by all things; it is everywhere and penetrates everywhere. Though heaven and earth are great, they cannot exceed its scope; though the tip of an autumn hair is small, it must rely on it to take form. All things are confined within limited boundaries—what is there that does not follow this Dao? How much more so human beings? Mencius, a representative of Confucianism in the Warring States period, said, “The Dao is like a great road.” Those who created characters wrote “Dao” with the same character as the “dao” in “road,” probably because in human coming and going, none can depart from it.

When the Dao is embodied in oneself, it is called De (Virtue/Power). De exists in human beings; all that has life possesses it, and whatever has its allotted measure is sufficient to be filled by it. Even if there is only the slightest unmanifest trace, the myriad things can rely on it to grow. De need not be cultivated by relying on external things, nor need it be bestowed by others; it is obtained from oneself—why seek it outwardly? Yangzi, here referring to a pre-Qin Yangist thinker, said, “De is to obtain.” Those who created characters understood “De” as “straight heart,” probably because what is called De is not obtaining something from others, but having one’s own gain. Therefore De is what the human heart itself obtains.

The Dao is inexhaustible, while De can be cultivated. Precisely because the Dao is inexhaustible, it remains as it was through past and present, unrestricted by time or the cycles of Qi (vital energy) and destiny, renewing itself day by day, ever anew, never ceasing. The Daodejing, authored by Laozi, says, “The Dao is long-lasting.” This means that the Dao can endure through ten thousand ages without decline. Precisely because De can be cultivated, one can expand the original good nature of the Four Beginnings—the four good sprouts of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom as mentioned by Mencius—and even after passing through ten thousand forms it does not change its essence; one nurtures and fills it out, never losing it. An ancient transmitted commentary says, “De is the beginning of nature.” To fill out one’s nature and cause it to endure constantly expresses the same principle.

The Dao has its rise and fall, and De has its flourishing and decline. When the age is in a time of great order, the Dao prospers and De flourishes; when the age reaches the end of decline and disorder, the Dao descends and De wanes.

In the late Zhou dynasty, the great Dao (the Way) fell into concealment, and De (Virtue/Power) gradually waned. Thereupon it fragmented into the various one-sided doctrines of the Hundred Schools, each obscured by the divergent theories of the others; none was complete or pure, and so the art of the Dao was torn apart throughout the world. Laozi (Lao the Master), grieving that the wondrous Dao had no one to transmit it and pitying the world for its inability to understand it, took Qingjing (clarity and stillness—a mind at peace and free from deluded thoughts) as his guiding purpose and Wuwei (non-action) as his foundation. Emulating the ultimate principle of the operation of nature, he wrote a book in eighty-one chapters, nine times nine, to elucidate the constant principles of Dao and De. Those who read this book can see the full scope of heaven and earth and the broad norms of the ancients. The reason this book differs from the works of the various masters and is called a Jing (scripture/classic) is that Jing has a fixed pattern; hence it is called the constant classic. It is like the fixed stars in the heavens, attached to the celestial vault and never moving; or like the warp threads on a loom, set upon the loom and unchanging. Therefore it is called Jing.

This book embraces all profound and mysterious principles; it is vast and complete, yet it contains no more than five thousand-odd words, so its language may be called concise. But its purport is deep and far-reaching: even if a person devoted a lifetime to studying it, it would be difficult to exhaust its subtleties. If learners cannot use the words to seek its meaning, nor grasp the meaning and forget the words, they will gain nothing. The Analects says, “To silently retain it in mind.” Mencius says, “The noble person probes deeply and attains it through the Dao himself.” The constant principles of Dao and De cannot be fully summed up in words, nor fathomed by shallow perception. Only through the awakening of the heart and understanding with the spirit can one attain something beyond words and concepts. What cannot be spoken of should be silently kept in the heart; only those of profound natural capacity will grasp something from this book. Thus, at its opening, this Jing expounds the mystery of the Dao and opens the minds of scholars—this is precisely the teaching that admonishes learners to silently recognize it and penetrate it deeply.

Chapter One

If the Dao can be spoken in words, it is not the constant Dao. If the name can be named, it is not the constant name.

Emperor Huizong (Zhao Ji of the Song dynasty, who personally annotated the Daodejing) comments: the Dao originates from the beginningless and cannot be expressed in words; as soon as it is spoken of, it is no longer the Dao’s original face. He also says that the Dao fundamentally should have no name. The reason it can be spoken of and named is that it manifests through concrete things such as the myriad beings and the four seasons, appearing as it responds to changing circumstances and times, like the rise and fall of dynasties, with flourishing and decline. Thus it is not the eternal, unchanging, true constant Dao.

He stresses again and again: the Dao cannot be spoken; if spoken, it is not the Dao. The Dao fundamentally should not have a name. That which can be “Daoed” and named is like the myriad beings and the four seasons—manifesting according to the time, rising and falling by turns—and is not the true constant Dao.

The truly eternal Dao and name take themselves as their foundation and root. They existed before heaven and earth came into being, and have been fixed and enduring since ancient times. Fuxi (the legendary ancient sage king, traditionally credited with first drawing the Bagua, the Eight Trigrams) obtained it and sat quietly in Shaoguang (an ancient legendary place, understood here as a lofty, pure, and tranquil realm). No one knows its beginning, and no one knows its end.

What can be discussed in words is the coarse, superficial side of things. The supreme Dao (the fundamental order and source of all things in the universe) is subtle and profound, far removed from concrete things, and therefore cannot be expounded in words. When Confucius met Wenbo Xuezi (a figure recorded in the Zhuangzi), he merely “looked at him, and the Dao was present” (upon meeting him, he felt the Dao within him); the reason lies precisely here. The Zhuangzi records Wushi’s words: “The Dao cannot be spoken; as soon as it is put into words, it is no longer the Dao.” This is probably what is meant.

At the Great Beginning there was only “nonbeing,” and as yet no names. Only after the myriad things had been generated and their Qi-endowments and destinies fixed did visible and nameable things exist. The Dao is not limited by concrete things and does not fall within the domain of Qi-endowment and destiny; therefore it is invisible, and there is no way to name it. What the Zhuangzi calls “the Great Dao is not designated” refers to this. Wushi’s further statement that “the Dao should not have a name” carries the same meaning.

Consider further the principles of the world: some matters are permissible here but not there; once things have physical form, there are situations in which they are not permissible. When the first signs of things have just appeared, some are permissible and some are not; what is not permissible sometimes becomes permissible. Things have no eternal suitability, and affairs have no fixed right or wrong. Things alternately flourish and decline, just as spring and summer come first and autumn and winter follow, the four seasons taking turns. Things conceal and appear, appear and conceal; no sooner are they completed than they quickly decay, and after decay they are completed anew. What was regarded as right in the past may not be right now; what was previously at odds may later come into accord. If one can accord with the times and circumstances and attain what is fitting, and afterward not cling to it, then one can describe it by means of the speakable Dao and nameable names, just as one describes concrete things and the four seasons. It arises in accord with the moment and flourishes in place of the old and decayed; it is not truly constant and unchanging.

Even so, having name and actuality is precisely how things exist; they can be spoken of and intuited, but the more one speaks, the farther one is from the Dao. Although the Dao cannot be spoken, within it there is the “Dao that is not spoken”; although names cannot name it, within it there is the “nameless name.” The “Dao that is not spoken” is the constant Dao (the eternally unchanging Dao), and the “nameless name” is the constant name (the eternally unchanging name). It is called “constant” because, once accomplished, it no longer changes, enduring long without ceasing. When the scripture says of the Dao that it “stands alone and does not change,” this is what it refers to.

The meaning of chang (the constant) is that once something is accomplished it does not change; it endures without ceasing. (The significance of “constant” lies in its being complete and unchanging, lasting forever without stopping.) The “constant” that pertains to the Dao is what the scripture means by “independent and unchanging”—precisely this. (The “constant” of the Dao refers to its independent existence and eternal immutability.) The “constant” that pertains to the name is what the scripture means by “from antiquity to the present, its name does not depart”—this too is the same. (The “constant” of the name means that from ancient times to now, its name never disappears.)

The generation of things necessarily has a root, but the constant Dao and the constant name have no root. (The arising of the myriad things must have a source, whereas the constant Dao and constant name have no source.) The generation of things is rooted in Heaven and Earth, but the constant Dao and constant name were born before Heaven and Earth. (The myriad things originate from Heaven and Earth, while the constant Dao and constant name existed before Heaven and Earth.)

Although Qi gathers and disperses, this has no coming or going; although forms arise and perish, this has no existence or extinction. (Qi gathers and scatters, but the Dao neither comes nor goes; forms are born and die, but the Dao neither exists nor perishes.) What is called “self-rooted and self-based” means that before Heaven and Earth had formed, it had already been firmly present since ancient times. (The phrase “self-rooted and self-based” says that when Heaven and Earth had not yet formed, it had already firmly existed since ancient times.)

One who obtains this Dao can become a sovereign of high antiquity; thus Fuxi obtained it and thereby inherited the “mother of Qi.” (One who attains this Dao can become an ancient emperor; therefore Fuxi attained it and so inherited the “mother of Qi.”) As for Taichu (the Great Beginning), it is the beginning of Qi and the mother of original Qi. If one can inherit it, one can roam in the realm of the Great Beginning. What the scripture says—“having known the child, one returns to guard the mother”—comes close to this. (Taichu is the beginning of Qi, the source of original Qi. To be able to inherit it is to roam in the realm of Taichu. The scriptural saying “Having known the child, one returns to guard the mother” means precisely this.)

Because of this one can attain long life; therefore the Queen Mother of the West sits at Mount Shaoguang, and no one knows her beginning or her end. (Thus long life is possible; the Queen Mother of the West sits at Mount Shaoguang, her beginning unknowable and her end unknowable.) That which has no beginning and no end is the Dao. (What has no start and no finish is the Dao.) If one can embody the Dao, who then can trace its origin? Who can determine its end? (If one can realize the Dao, who can investigate its beginning? Who can fix its end?) What the scripture says—“having obtained the mother, one knows the child”—comes close to this. (The scriptural saying “Having obtained the mother, one knows the child” means precisely this.)

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things. (“The nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “the named” is the source of the myriad things.)

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The Dao is eternally nameless; Heaven and Earth also depend on it and only then arise. This is what Zhuangzi calls “generating Heaven and generating Earth.” Before Heaven and Earth existed, who could name it? Therefore the nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Only after Heaven and Earth exist do the myriad things arise; therefore the named is the mother of the myriad things. (Emperor Huizong of Song commented: The Dao is forever without a name, and Heaven and Earth also rely on it before they come into being—this is what Zhuangzi means by “generating Heaven and generating Earth.” Before Heaven and Earth had formed, who could name it? Thus the nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Once Heaven and Earth exist, the myriad things are born; thus the named is the mother of the myriad things.)

The most subtle and refined aspect of Dao (the Way) cannot be sought through wisdom, nor found through forms and appearances; even if one wishes to give it a name, this is impossible. The name “Dao” is borrowed for the convenience of speech; calling it “Dao” is merely a forced designation. This is the aspect of Dao hidden in the nameless, and so it is said that “Dao is constantly nameless.”

The Yijing (Classic of Changes) says that Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the original state before the cosmos divided, gives rise to the “Two Modes” (liangyi), Yin-Yang. Heaven and Earth are great things with form, and if things with form are born from the formless, then where do Heaven and Earth come from? They all take Dao as their root; Heaven and Earth too must rely on Dao in order to arise. What Zhuangzi calls “giving birth to Heaven and giving birth to Earth” refers to this same principle.

Dao is without name and without substantial reality. It exists within the myriad things and yet appears empty, and yet it is an undifferentiated whole; it was born before Heaven and Earth, and it itself is only vacuity. When Heaven and Earth had not yet formed, who could name it? Yet Heaven and Earth are the parents of the myriad things, and all things depend on Heaven and Earth for their birth. “The world has a beginning, taken as the mother of the world” means that Heaven and Earth move and operate in dependence on Dao. The beginning of the myriad things takes Qian Yuan (the great primal Qi, vital energy, of Heaven) as its root, and the growth of the myriad things takes Kun Yuan (the Qi of Earth) as its foundation; but when we trace what sustains all this to its ultimate ground, what is it? It is simply that they all emerge from Dao. The saying “Only when Heaven and Earth exist are the myriad things born” means precisely this. This is the aspect in which Dao manifests in things that have names.

Dao is originally a single whole: when it gathers, it becomes concrete form; when it disperses, it becomes beginning. Viewed from its source, Dao is hidden in the nameless, and this is called the “beginning”; viewed from its generation and transformation of the myriad things, Dao is manifest in the named, and this is called the “mother.” Although the terms differ, the source is one. The so-called beginning of Heaven and Earth is right here in this present moment. If one truly has some realization of Dao, one will understand that the circumstances before Heaven and Earth were formed can no longer be known. This is probably why the sage can know the beginning of Heaven and Earth before Heaven and Earth came to be.

The scriptural passage “Constantly non-being, one wishes thereby to observe its wonder; constantly being, one wishes thereby to observe its boundary” means: by constantly maintaining a mind of “non-being,” one can observe the subtle and wondrous aspect of Dao; by constantly maintaining a mind of “being,” one can observe the boundaries and traces of Dao.

Emperor Huizong of Song explains in his commentary: The phrase quoted in the Zhuangzi, “Establish it with constant non-being and being,” means that not establishing any thing is called “constant non-being,” while not abolishing any thing is called “constant being.” “Constant non-being” belongs to the level of principle. It is hidden and subtle, difficult to know; even if one looks with a wondrous eye, one cannot see its form. Therefore it is said that above it reveals no boundary, and its subtle excellence lies precisely in this; thus it is the most refined and subtle in the world. “Constant being” belongs to the level of things. It is manifest and easy to see; the myriad things are each set forth and clearly visible. Therefore it is said that below it is not obscured, and its boundaries are clearly discernible; thus it is the most changeable in the world.

The Subcommentary says: Non-being moves and generates being; the usefulness of being lies in its benefit. When being reaches its extreme, it returns again to non-being; the usefulness of non-being lies in its use. Being does not depart from non-being, and so non-being is not truly empty nothingness; non-being does not abolish being, and so being is not truly solid existence. “Establish it with constant non-being” refers to the non-being that is “the non-being that is not simply non-being”; “establish it with constant being” refers to the being that is “the being that is not simply being.” This non-being that is not simply non-being is non-being everywhere; this being that is not simply being is being everywhere. Though its transformations are inexhaustible, its fundamental standpoint never changes; this is why it is called “constant.”

The Zhuangzi records Laozi’s art of the Dao with the words “Establish it with constant non-being and constant being,” and places this at the head of the whole book, showing that it grasped profoundly the principle of being and non-being. Therefore, when one washes away the myriad beings, even sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, must all be cut off; this is “not establishing a single thing, which is called constant non-being.” When one comes to establish the myriad phenomena, even affairs, phenomena, forms, and names must all be preserved; this is “not abolishing a single thing, which is called constant being.”

“Constant non-being” dwells within principle; it has never possessed any thing, is hidden and difficult to know, and therefore above it reveals no boundary, because it enters into the wondrous and the subtle. “Constant being” dwells within things; it is complete with all excellences, manifest and easy to see, and therefore below it is not obscured, because it comes forth from brightness and vastness. When Confucius composed the Yi, at the moment when one is about to undertake something and about to act, if it were not the utmost refinement in the world, who could participate in it? This is the principle of turning from non-being toward being, which is so from the outset. The Yi also interweaves its numbers by three and five; if it were not the utmost change in the world, who could participate in it? This is the pattern of gathering being and returning it to non-being, which is so from the outset. Constant non-being and constant being both issue from the Mysterious Origin; the utmost refinement and the utmost change are both rooted in the wondrous. Though their names differ, the principle is one.

Although being and non-being are originally one, their functions nevertheless have going out and coming in: within being, non-being is also concealed; within non-being, being also manifests. What are called “the subtle” and “the wondrous” are merely the respective realms in which each is lodged.

A person of great wisdom observes things from both the near and far ends and understands that “Being” (you) is originally not true Being. Those attached to Being believe things really exist, not realizing that Non-being (wu) also dwells within them. One understands that Non-being is not true Non-being either. For those who release fixation and hold that everything returns to nothingness, Being still manifests there. What are called “wei” and “miao” are merely different formulations in which Dao (the Way) is lodged.

In elusiveness and vagueness, forms can be seen; in vagueness and elusiveness, a thing is formed as an undifferentiated whole. Being and Non-being are profound and unfathomable. If one views them with the holistic vision of Dao—the fundamental principle of all things in the universe—then it pervades and exhausts all, merging into a single whole, and nothing is impermissible. Worldly people have narrow understanding and are each self-interested; they are benighted about the principles of the great Dao. Some are blinded by Dao’s “stillness,” and so abandon Being and cling to emptiness, sinking into dark stillness and taking what is not truly Non-being as Non-being. Some indulge in Dao’s “movement,” pursue minor branches and twigs while forgetting the root, linger among concrete vessels and objects, and take what is not truly Being as Being. Still others advocate doing nothing, or grasp only one aspect of things, and the techniques of the various schools each boast of their own strengths. This is precisely why the wholeness of Dao is split apart and the world thereby falls into fragmentation.

These two—Being and Non-being—come from the same source; though their names differ, both can be called “Xuan” (the profound, mysterious, and ineffable).

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Dao originally has no form or appearance; how could one distinguish the subtle from the mysterious? Things and I share the same root; right and wrong emerge from the same Qi (vital energy), and therefore both are called Xuan. Deluded people in the world pick up the illusory in search of the real and only drift farther from the real, not knowing that Being and Non-being differ only in name.

The Shuyi (Subcommentary on the Meaning) explains: The source of the True One (Zhenyi, the unified origin of all things) is undifferentiated, perfectly complete, whole, and sufficient; the image without image—its substance pervades the infinite. Within it, “jiao” (outer boundary and surface appearance) and “miao” (the subtle and profoundly deep essence) are utterly undifferentiated. Dao fundamentally has no appearance; how could one clearly distinguish Being from Non-being? It is merely a difference in name.

The subcommentary says: The source of the True One is undifferentiated and perfectly complete; its substance is whole and fully sufficient. It has no form or image, yet is the source of all forms and images; its substance is boundless. “Jiao” (the outward boundary) and “miao” (the hidden essence) are originally undifferentiated. The Dao (the Way) is fundamentally without form or image—how could jiao and miao be distinguished in it? Only from the Dao downward do the differences and quantities of the myriad things become apparent. Ignorant people cling to the self and become stuck on external things; thus there arises the view that self and things stand in opposition, and they take this as right and that as wrong. In this way the feelings of right and wrong are established. They do not know that things are originally without thingness, and that the self is not the true self. The myriad things arise and perish, yet they do not see their root; but the root is one. Other and self depend on each other; right and wrong also depend on each other. The myriad things transform within the undifferentiated vastness and produce Qi (vital energy); Qi is originally one body. Things and self emerge from the same root; right and wrong return to the same Qi. When all the ten thousand differences are gathered into one source, then who has and who lacks? Therefore it is called “sameness,” and also called “xuan” (the deep and mysterious). People of the world are deluded: they take nonbeing as true and being as false, abandon the false to seek the true, and instead grow ever farther from the true. They do not know that “nonbeing” is wondrous being and “being” is true nonbeing; names and appearances are opposite, but their substance accords.

“Xuan again and yet more xuan, the gate of all wonders.” This means: beyond the mysterious there is further mystery; it is the gate of all profound wonders.

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The Suwen says, “Xuan generates Shen (spirit),” and the Yi says, “Shen is what makes the myriad things wondrous and is thus spoken of” (Shen is what makes the myriad things subtle and can be described). When the subtle reaches the utmost refinement, it is called “xuan”; xuan is the color of heaven (referring to the deep, dark hue of the sky). What has color and is visible has already manifested; but the source that enables all colors to appear has never been disclosed. “Xuan again and yet more xuan” refers precisely to that source that enables all colors to appear. The principle of the mysterious and wondrous is present in all things: heaven thereby moves, earth thereby is settled, humans thereby possess spiritual intelligence, and the hundred things thereby flourish. These are all “miao,” and all issue from “xuan”; hence it is called “the gate of all wonders.” Confucius composed the Yi, and only in the Shuogua did he speak of “miao”; Laozi uses it as the opening of his entire book. The words of the sages follow one another from beginning to end.

The Dao De Zhen Jing Shuyi says: Wind generates Wood, and Wood generates the liver. In Heaven it is “Xuan” (the Dark/Profound); in humans it is Dao (the Way). Dao produces the One; therefore Dao descends and manifests, and once manifested it gives rise to wisdom. The One produces the Two; therefore Xuan ascends and contracts inward, and once inward it gives rise to Shen (spirit). Shen’s function is everywhere, with no fixed place or form, pervading all without outside. The light and clear Qi (vital energy) rises to become Heaven, and Heaven relies on it to move; the heavy and turbid Qi sinks to become Earth, and Earth relies on it to be stable; the harmonious Qi of Kun, the Earth, also relies on it to have spirituality. The myriad things each keep their office and all depend on it to flourish. Thus it is clear that what transforms and nurtures the myriad things is none other than the supremely subtle Shen; and the source that generates Shen lies in “Xuan.” Therefore it is said that “Xuan” is the gate of all subtleties.

Generally, when “Xuan” is outwardly manifest it is great and red; when inwardly gathered it is small and black. The so-called “small yet subtle” is called “Xuan” because it contracts to smallness. What the Jing (scripture) calls “Xuan De” means that De (Virtue/Power) contracts inward and becomes small; what it calls “Xuan Ming” means entering the dark profundity and becoming small. Although “Xuan” is small yet subtle, it has still not departed from the mark of color-form. The Yi says, “Heaven is Xuan and Earth is yellow”; Zhuangzi speaks of “Xuan Heaven”—both take “Xuan” as the color of Heaven. Within the color Xuan there are both red and black; red belongs to Yang and black to Yin—the two aspects of Yin-Yang. The myriad things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, while “Xuan” can be both Yin and Yang. Whatever falls within Yin and Yang, how could it go beyond it? How much more so that root which is “that by which Xuan is Xuan”? “That by which Xuan is Xuan” is “the Xuan within Xuan,” which is what the Liezi calls “color beyond color” (the source that transcends color-form and can give rise to all color-forms). The myriad things are born from here, yet its gate is not seen; its subtlety lies entirely in this.

Nevertheless, when Confucius composed the Yi, only in the Shuo Gua did he speak of “subtlety,” whereas Laozi made this the opening of the Dao De Jing. Why is this? The book of the Yi, from exhausting principle and fully realizing nature up to knowing Heaven’s mandate, uses words to explain the stages of entering the Dao; it is the path of gathering function back into substance. Laozi’s book, however, takes “returning to the root and restoring destiny” as primary, explaining the gate of sudden enlightenment in practicing the Dao and showing Shen arising from substance into function. The Yi relies on images and numbers, while Laozi uses being and non-being to reveal the Xuan principle. Though their words differ, they serve as beginning and end for each other; though their teachings are not uniform, their principle is one.

Chapter Two, “All Under Heaven Know”—A Vernacular Interpretation

When everyone under heaven knows beauty as beauty, the thought of ugliness arises along with it; when everyone knows goodness as goodness, the thought of not-good arises along with it.

The commentary of Emperor Huizong of Song says: Dao originally has no differentiated appearances—how could beauty and ugliness be distinguished in it? Human nature is originally undivided—how could good and not-good be distinguished in it?

The reason there is “beauty” is that “ugliness” stands opposed to it; hence it is said, “When all under heaven know beauty as beauty, ugliness arises along with it.” The reason there is “good” is that “not-good” stands opposed to it; hence it is said, “When all know goodness as goodness, not-good arises along with it.”

What the world exalts as beautiful are wondrous, numinous, and extraordinary things; what it loathes are rotten, foul, and filthy things. Yet wondrous things in turn transform into rotten, foul, and filthy things, and rotten, foul, and filthy things in turn transform into wondrous things. That being so, what distinction can still be made between so-called beauty and ugliness? What was once considered right is now considered wrong by some; what is now discarded will later be adopted again by others. That being so, how should one choose between good and not-good?

The sage realizes that the substance of “the True” is empty and void, yet it constantly reveals its presence; in employing its wondrous function, he maintains a state of emptiness. As for beauty and ugliness, good and not-good, the sage may wish to simplify and eliminate them but cannot; how then could he be ensnared by ugliness and not-good?

Notes:

Huizong refers to Zhao Ji, Emperor Huizong of Song, who personally wrote a commentary on the Daodejing; the quotation here is from his commentary.

“The True” in Daoism refers to the original state of Dao, namely the “Dao of True Constancy.”

“Nonbeing” and “Being” are core Daoist concepts. “Nonbeing” refers to the empty and still substance of Dao; “Being” refers to Dao’s manifestation and function.

The principles of all under Heaven are originally one (referring to the fundamental law that pervades all things). If one views them from the point where all things are alike, the names “beautiful” and “ugly” both disappear; if one views them from the source, original nature admits no division into being and nonbeing, and the distinction between good and evil cannot stand. Yet once there is “above,” there is “below” opposed to it; once there is “left,” there is “right” opposed to it. Likewise, once there is “beauty,” there is “ugliness” opposed to it; once there is “good,” there is “not-good” opposed to it. To wish for only one side and no other is like wishing for Yin alone without Yang—how could that be possible?

People of the world know only such paired relations as above and below, beauty and ugliness, but do not understand the principle of their mutual dependence. Thus they take the wondrous and extraordinary as beautiful and the rotten and foul as ugly. When human likes and dislikes enter in, they deem this right and that wrong, and the good and the not-good accuse each other. They do not realize that the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth have no constancy and never pause for an instant: the upright may turn into the strange, and the good may become baleful; the foul and the wondrous alternate and revolve, changing without cease. Originally there is no absolute beauty or ugliness, and in principle no everlasting right or wrong; things are sometimes right and sometimes wrong, changing with gain and loss. Originally there is also no absolute good or not-good. Where there is birth, there is killing; where there is giving, there is taking away. The two are both distinguished from each other and continuous with each other—how can they be viewed with a discriminating eye?

Only the sage (one who cultivates the Dao and attains the Dao) awakens to this and thereby becomes mystically united with the Dao: he exhausts the reality of things while guarding the root, complies with the transformations of the myriad things while holding to the essential purport. Although the sage is “Wuwei” (non-action, not acting with arbitrary contrivance), he does not discard “youwei” (active action, positive endeavor), because having realized true emptiness, he can constantly preserve its function; although he engages in every affair, all arises from no-mind—this is wondrous function, and it always returns to nothingness. For this very reason, the sage dissolves likes and dislikes into a single whole and lets right and wrong proceed side by side. What is beautiful is naturally beautiful, but I do not deem it beautiful; what is ugly is naturally ugly, but I do not deem it ugly. The good I treat with goodness; the not-good I also treat with goodness. The myriad things transform into the strange and uncanny, elusive and unsettled, yet their principle penetrates and is one. Even if one wished to discriminate among them, it cannot be done—why then let evil and the not-good burden oneself?

This passage discusses the principle that things arise in mutual opposition and depend on one another.

The scripture says: Being and Non-being generate each other; difficult and easy complete each other; long and short manifest each other; high and low incline toward each other; sound and tone respond to each other; before and after follow one another.

Emperor Huizong of Song (a Northern Song emperor who also wrote a commentary on the Daodejing) explains in his commentary: When Heaven and Earth had not yet divided and chaos had not yet been distinguished, the myriad things were originally one body. Once Heaven and Earth, Yin-Yang (the Two Modes), had divided, things acquired two mutually opposing sides. These six pairs of opposites are the meeting point of all transformations, the source from which all deliberations arise, and the cause from which all divergent paths spring; people therefore sink into them and cannot pull themselves out. Being emerges from Non-being, and Being again returns to Non-being, so it is said that Being and Non-being generate each other. Only after experiencing danger and obstruction does one know the ease of the level road, so it is said that difficult and easy complete each other. The relation of long and short is like that of the foot measure and the inch measure; the relation of high and low is like that of mountains and marshes. When a sound is issued, the echo follows; when a body moves, the shadow follows, so it is said that sound and tone harmonize and that before and after follow one another. The movement of Yin-Yang, the turning of the four seasons, and the principles of the myriad things suddenly come into being and swiftly pass away. Their difficulty is like taking action to manage the affairs of the world; their ease is like Wuwei (non-action), in which one naturally finds one’s place. A thing’s length cannot be forcibly cut short, nor can its shortness be forcibly extended; Heaven is naturally high, and Earth is naturally low. When the gong note is struck, the gong note moves in response; when the jue note is blown, the jue note resonates in response; spring arrives first and summer follows; elders lead and juniors follow. The realm of opposition and mutual dependence, though all of it is lodged in the Dao (the Way), is already very far from the Dao.

The subcommentary explains further: Before the Great Change (Taiyi), the one Qi (vital energy) had not yet manifested; it was an undifferentiated whole, complete and without lack, its mystery not yet divided, and therefore all phenomena shared one body. The Yijing says, “In change there is Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), which generates the Two Modes.” The Dao stands at the two poles; there is opposition and mutual dependence, and thus all things become pairs. The Dao of true permanence scatters into various transformations; the unified state divides into a hundred kinds of thought; the source to which all return further branches into different paths. No one can escape these six pairs.

The succession of the four seasons and the ordering of senior and junior each have their own order consonant with proper relations. Whatever falls into the realm of mutual opposition—though all such realms are places where the Dao dwells—if one clings to them, one no longer accords with the Dao and becomes distant from it.

Therefore the sage (one who has attained the Dao and comprehended the principles of nature) rests in the state of Wuwei (non-action) and carries out a teaching without words.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji, emperor of the Northern Song; this commentary is from his own hand) comments: “To rest in the matter of Wuwei” is what Zhuangzi calls “employing the world through non-action”; “to carry out the teaching without words” is what the Zhouyi calls “establishing teachings by the divine way, so that all under heaven trust and submit.” Whenever there is action, there is success and failure; whenever one opens one’s mouth to speak, there is appropriateness and error; in the end one cannot avoid entanglement. This is presumably precisely why the sage can stand alone above the ten thousand things, transform and nurture them, and yet not be entangled by them.

The affairs of Wuwei (non-action) are born from Wuwei itself. This is what is meant by “governing the world through Wuwei.” To govern the world one must inevitably come into contact with concrete affairs, but if one is fundamentally Wuwei, then even when handling affairs one will not fall into deliberate contrivance. Shun did not deliberately make efforts; he merely rectified himself and issued commands, and the myriad things naturally came to completion. He had precisely attained this principle.

“Cultivating the Dao (the Way) is called teaching” means that practicing the great Dao is itself teaching. Teaching without words, setting an example through one’s own De (Virtue/Power), causes people to follow; this is what is meant by “establishing teaching through the wondrous Dao, and the world is convinced in its heart.” Since establishing teaching already brings one into contact with external things, if it proceeds from the wondrous Dao, then even when teaching there is no deliberate intention to preach. The ancients’ saying that “Wang Chi (the ancient figure cited in the classic) did not teach when standing and did not discuss when sitting at leisure” precisely refers to attaining this.

Teaching through words is likewise setting an example through oneself, and people still follow; it too is establishing teaching through the wondrous Dao, and the world submits. Since establishing teaching is already in contact with external things, so long as it proceeds from the wondrous Dao, even when speaking in teaching there is no deliberate intention to speak. “Not teaching when standing, not discussing when sitting at leisure” speaks to this same principle.

Only Wuwei is true; Youwei (deliberate action) is false. Once one throws oneself into affairs and becomes involved in human contrivance, how can one still distinguish completion from impairment? Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know. Those above preach, those below imitate; with endless repetitive clamor, it is inevitable that there will be right and wrong, gain and loss.

At dawn the sage is clear and penetrating; he sees the singular Dao, realizes the emptiness of the Dao, and responds to the actuality of the myriad things. In handling affairs he accomplishes through Wuwei; in carrying out teaching he needs no words, yet people’s hearts are naturally delighted. Though the myriad things of the world are many, they cannot lodge as a knot in his breast; how then could those six pairs of contrasting conditions (liu dui) that stand over against him become entanglements?

The myriad things arise, and he does not refuse them; he gives them life and nurtures them without possessing them as his own; he acts without relying on his ability; when the work is accomplished, he does not claim credit. Precisely because he does not claim credit, the achievement does not leave him.

All things arise and become active at the same time, each responding in accordance with what it senses. It is like a mirror facing forms: the beautiful and the ugly are both reflected clearly. It is like a valley echoing sounds: the pleasant and the unpleasant are both transmitted, and it does not refuse them. Hence it is said, “They arise and act, yet it does not refuse them.”

All things each take shape and each change, each grow and each display their colors; all exert themselves to develop their tall and grand forms, each perfecting its own nature. None of this is bestowed by anyone. Hence it is said, “It gives them life but does not possess them.”

It regulates the myriad things without thereby becoming contrary or harsh; its grace extends through ten thousand ages, yet it does not call itself benevolent; it covers and bears up heaven and earth, carves and shapes the myriad forms, yet it does not call itself skillful. Hence it is said, “It acts but does not rely on it.”

The movement of the four seasons: when their work is accomplished, they depart. This is the pattern of the Dao of Heaven. The sage embodies this principle, and so although his achievements cover the world, he seems never to regard them as his own accomplishment. If one obstinately believes achievements are one’s own, then one is already deluded. Hence it is said, “Achievements are completed, but one does not dwell in them.”

Where there is attachment, there will be a time of departure; this has been so from ancient times to the present. If the mind holds to nothing, external things cannot move it. Things come at their time and leave in accordance with their conditions; how could anything ever have been increased or decreased? Hence it is said, “It is precisely because one does not cling to merit that merit does not depart.”

With one body, one responds to the manifold changes of the myriad things; with one mind, one bears the world’s countless demands. When things seek something, one cannot refuse them; when affairs press upon one, one cannot but act. It is like a bright mirror reflecting all things: what comes appears, and when it goes no trace remains. It is also like an empty valley, which is therefore able to contain everything. Whether beautiful or ugly, good or evil, none is refused. In this way, one has ample room to deal with complicated affairs. If someone, because of the confusion of affairs, dislikes action and seeks only stillness, fearing that having affairs will cause him to lose the joy of quiet purity, then how can the myriad things grow? How can affairs be completed? On what can the world rely to operate? This is what is meant by “the myriad things arise, and he does not refuse them.”

The myriad things grow and change by themselves; the sage does not take the merit of that generation and transformation as his own. The myriad things take form by themselves and display their colors; the sage does not monopolize the achievements of all those forms and appearances. Things with bodily form arise spontaneously by means of their own form; things with nature attain their own suitability by means of their own nature. If one considers these to be one’s own possessions, that is delusion. This is what is meant by “to produce and not possess.”

The sage complies with worldly affairs, simply without any clinging in his mind. He sets the myriad things in order, but not with the intention of setting them in order; his grace benefits ten thousand generations, but he does not intend to bestow grace. His severity is like the killing austerity of autumn, causing the myriad things to wither, and yet the things that are killed do not resent him. His warmth is like the gentle mildness of spring, forming bonds of kindness with the myriad things; thus his grace extends through ten thousand generations, yet it is not favoritism toward any single person. Heaven leaves nothing uncovered, and the one who embodies the Dao (the Way) can cover what Heaven covers; earth leaves nothing unsupported, and the one who embodies the Dao can bear what earth bears. A tiny blade of grass seems to be upheld by it; a minute insect seems to have its wings supported by it. These are not produced by human deliberate carving, but depend on the transformative nurturing of the Dao, not on cleverness. If one applied the mind to carve and shape all forms, would this not belong to the category of cleverness and bold assertiveness?

Setting the myriad things in order, benefiting ten thousand generations, covering and bearing Heaven and earth, transforming and nurturing all forms—these are, after all, still “purposeful action” (youwei), and one cannot avoid acting. Yet the sage is not violent or harsh because of this, nor does he deliberately bestow benevolence because of this, still less does he display clever adornment because of this. In this way, these actions arise from Wuwei (non-action), and therefore he does not rely on their results. This is what is meant by “to act and not rely.”

The climates of the four seasons differ, and their movement is ceaseless: when the Qi (vital energy) of Wu—one of the Ten Heavenly Stems, belonging to earth and dwelling in the center—appears, the Qi of Ding—a Heavenly Stem, belonging to fire—hides; when the Qi of Jia—the first Heavenly Stem, belonging to wood—flourishes, the Qi of Gui—the last Heavenly Stem, belonging to water—declines. They alternately wax and wane, fill and empty; once past, they do not linger. Thus the way of Heaven operates.

The sage is one with Heaven in the same Dao, vast and broad, so that the common people cannot name him; lofty and towering, he has achievements but does not claim them. Although he has no intention of establishing merit, the world naturally credits him with it. The sage intends to set aside merit and fame and return them to the multitude, not regarding them as his private possession. How could this be a matter of obstinately believing them to be real and stubbornly possessing them? This is what is meant by “achievements are completed, but he does not dwell in them.”

A lamp or candle rests in its vessel: the flame of the preceding moment is not the flame of the following moment; when a mirror reflects a form, the present form and shadow are not the past form and shadow. We call what has passed “ancient” and the present “now”; before a thought is uttered, the so-called “now” has already shifted and become “ancient.” Because there is dwelling, there is departure. Shen (spirit) is without form and without dwelling; to cling to a dwelling place is to confine it within a particular bodily form. Only the sage holds fast to his Shen, firm and unwavering, not leaning with external things; therefore he himself has no fixed dwelling, and external things cannot displace him. He is not burdened by the future: knowing that what comes has arrived, he complies; he does not retain feeling for what is past: knowing that what leaves has gone, he follows. Where then could there be increase or decrease? Therefore it is said: precisely because he does not dwell, he does not depart.

At the beginning of Chapter 3 of the Daodejing, it says: If one does not exalt the reputation of “worthiness,” the common people will not contend and undercut one another for fame; if one does not value rare and hard-to-obtain goods, the common people will not steal out of greed.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) explains in his commentary: When worthiness is exalted, people rush to display themselves, their scheming increases, and as a result the world falls into great disorder, with schools such as the Confucians and Mohists rising one after another. When precious goods are valued, people’s desires swell, so that they dare to rob in broad daylight, and even at high noon dare to break through walls and dig holes to steal. When worthiness is not exalted, the common people each keep to their proper station and do not compare themselves with others or boast, and so it is said they “do not contend.” When goods are not valued, the common people can be content with their nature and their actual needs, and no longer covet what belongs to others, and so “they do not steal.”

Zhuangzi also says: Strip away deliberately displayed conduct such as that of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, and block the debating mouths of Yang Zhu and Mo Di; only then will the virtue of the people under heaven begin to return to the mysterious and undifferentiated whole (“profound sameness” means being united with the Dao (the Way), with no distinction between self and other). The “Lü Ao” chapter of the Shangshu also says: Do not value strange and precious things, and do not lightly esteem ordinary useful things; only then will the people’s livelihood be sufficient.

The so-called “exalting” means ranking people as superior or inferior and holding them in esteem. If the worthy and capable are honored, people will compete for the reputation of worthiness; the foolish and the wise will deceive one another, and the good and the bad will criticize one another. The minds of the people will thenceforth become confused and disordered, until the whole world falls into great chaos, and the Confucian and Mohist schools—two major schools of the pre-Qin period—rise one after another and each establish their own faction. This is precisely the principle Laozi expresses when he says, “Promote the worthy, and the people will contend.”

The so-called “prizing” means that people regard something as a treasure. If goods and wealth are prized, people’s greed and envy will grow, and craving for what they lack will arise accordingly. Seeing profit, they forget their original nature; seeing gain and loss, they forget reality. Thus they steal even in broad daylight and break through walls at noon to commit robbery. This is precisely the meaning of Laozi’s statement that “rare goods impede people’s conduct.”

Conversely, if the worthy and capable are not honored, people will simply take plainness as honesty and appropriateness as trustworthiness. Each person will rest content in his own proper role; who then would inflate himself within and without, behave improperly, and act tyrannically? For each to keep his own place and not contend with others is enough. This is the principle expressed in Zhuangzi’s statement, “Cut away the conduct of Zeng and Shi; only then does the virtue of the world begin to be mysteriously one.” (Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu were moral exemplars praised by the Confucians; Zhuangzi advocated discarding such deliberate virtues.)

If goods and wealth are not prized, people will dig wells and drink, plough fields and eat, each content in the natural disposition of life and destiny. Who then would see another’s possessions and give rise to covetousness and greedy thoughts? Once the mind of harm and theft is extinguished, people naturally will no longer become thieves. This is also the meaning of Zhuangzi’s statement, “Smash jade and destroy pearls, and petty thieves will not arise.” (Smash fine jade and destroy bright pearls, and petty thieves will no longer appear.)

“Do not display what is desirable, so that the mind is not disordered” comes from Chapter Three of the Laozi. It means that if desirable things are not displayed, the human mind will not become confused and disordered.

Huizong’s commentary says: When people have desires, they contend according to the nature of life, and so they seize from one another, deceive one another, and stop at nothing. Boyi (son of the lord of Guzhu at the end of the Shang; together with Shuqi he refused to eat Zhou grain and starved to death at Shouyang Mountain) saw that wealth, honor, and profit are what people long for, and so he starved to death beneath Shouyang Mountain. Dao Huai (that is, Dao Zhi, the famous ancient great robber) saw that wealth and profit are what people long for, and so he committed violence and cruelty above Dongling. The heat of desire is like blazing fire, the cold of desire like frozen ice; therefore the human mind becomes confused and arrogant, unable to be tied to the great Dao. As for the sage, he does not rush toward profit, does not avoid harm, does not crave long life, does not lament early death, does not admire glory and success, and is not ashamed of hardship and poverty—what then is there for him to long for? When desires and thoughts no longer sprout, the mind becomes clear and bright; when something evokes a response, he responds accordingly; in stillness there is no obstruction, and in movement he does not chase after things—who could disturb him? Confucius said, “At forty I had no doubts,” and Mencius said, “At forty my mind did not move.” This is precisely that state.

The Shuyi says: Ordinary people see only external things and do not see the great Dao; therefore what they see is all desire. The sage sees only the great Dao and does not see external things; therefore in what he sees there is nothing desirable. Since in what he sees there is nothing desirable, his inner vision overcomes what he beholds outside; therefore Mencius said, “At forty my mind did not move.”

The meaning of this passage in the Daode Zhenjing Shuyi (Subcommentary and Exegesis on the Authentic Scripture of the Dao and De) is this: ordinary people see only external things and do not see the Dao (the Way); therefore everything they see is an object of desire. The sage, by contrast, sees the Dao and does not see external things; hence in his eyes there is nothing worth coveting.

The reason that, seeing the Dao, there is nothing worth coveting is that the Dao he sees surpasses external things, so his inner mind (lingtai, the spiritual terrace, meaning the heart/mind) can hold fast to itself and does not drift with external things. If what one sees is entirely objects of desire, it is because external things surpass the Dao; people then pursue external things and forget to return to their original nature, lose their truth, and sink into falsity.

The eyes crave colors, the ears crave sounds, the mouth craves flavors, the nose craves odors—these are all human instinctual desires. Foolish and ordinary people do not know that the five colors confuse the eyes, the five sounds disorder the ears, the five flavors muddy the mouth and tongue, and the five odors taint the nose; therefore they put the true reality of nature and life in a secondary place while contending for external things, deceiving and plundering, stopping at nothing. Those burdened by heavy profit use their bodies to pursue gain; those burdened by reputation use their bodies to die for fame. For example, Bo Yi (son of the Lord of Guzhu at the end of the Shang, who starved to death on Mount Shouyang while preserving his integrity) and Dao Zhi (written “Dao Huai” in the original; a great robber of the Spring and Autumn period)—one died for fame and one died for profit—probably because they saw something worth coveting in gain that they acted as they did.

When people are hot, they feel as if scorched by fire, and when they gain something they rejoice; when cold, they feel as if frozen, and when they lose something they fear. Unable to govern themselves and preserve their original mind, they go so far as anger, confusion, and arrogance, unable to restrain themselves. Is this not like using the Marquis of Sui’s pearl (a legendary treasure) to shoot at a bird flying a thousand ren high—is it not foolish?

The sage is different from this: he does not draw near profit or avoid harm, for he understands that profit and harm arise from the same source; he does not glory in prominence or feel shame in poverty, regarding adversity and success as the same. Desires and thoughts do not sprout in him; he is not stirred in the slightest; his mind is clear and settled, and external things cannot shake it. When there is a stimulus, he can respond and penetrate through; he can be settled and can also respond. In stillness he does not cling to stillness; in action he does not chase after things or become submerged in movement. Though the myriad things blanket what lies before him, they cannot enter his mind. Who could disturb him? Confucius’s freedom from perplexity and Mencius’s unmoved heart are precisely the attainment of this principle.

Therefore when the sage governs the world, he makes the people’s minds empty and still, their bellies full, their wills soft and yielding, their bones and sinews strong, and constantly keeps the people without discriminating knowledge and without covetous desires.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) comments: The valley, because it is empty, can respond to sound; the mirror, because it is empty and clear, can reflect the ten thousand things; the guanyue, a hollow wind instrument, because it is empty, can hold breath; the ear, because it is empty, can hear; the eye, because it is empty, can see; the nose, because it is empty, can smell. If their interiors are stuffed with solid objects, these functions are obstructed.

The sage governs the world only when he has no choice but to do so, treating all with equal regard and making far and near the same, following things as they inherently are and letting them be natural. What need would there be for deliberate mental effort? When Yao promoted Shun and also employed Gun, he probably came close to this state, in which one does not choose or reject according to personal likes and dislikes. If the mind is empty like the void, one can listen broadly and observe comprehensively, without feelings of like and dislike; if the belly is full—that is, if one has eaten one’s fill—one can be secure, content, and peaceful, without thoughts of acquisition. How then could there still be worthies to exalt, or goods to prize? Therefore the sage nourishes the belly and does not pursue what the eyes desire (from Laozi, chapter 12: “for the belly, not for the eye”), because the belly can contain and does not pick and choose.

The will is the direction in which the mind tends; the bones are the body’s support. When the will is excessively rigid and forceful, some will sacrifice themselves for fame without stopping, some will chase wealth and never be satisfied, and some will boast of their achievements and display their talents, drifting ever farther from the Dao. If the bones are weak, behavior becomes slack and undisciplined; one clashes with external things and becomes entangled with them, sinks into them, and cannot return.

The sage’s will is always content to place itself below others, yet others honor him; it always retires behind others, yet others push him forward. He understands the masculine and strong, yet keeps to the feminine and soft; he understands honor, yet keeps to lowliness and disgrace. This is called “weakening his will” (weakening the mind that strives to compete and win). Resting in the correct Dao, the ten thousand things cannot shake him; holding fast to the firm Dao, myriad transformations cannot overturn him. Like Guangchengzi (a legendary ancient immortal to whom the Yellow Emperor once asked about the Dao; see Zhuangzi, “Zai You”), who lived for twelve hundred years and whose body still did not age—this is called “strengthening his bones” (fortifying the body’s foundation).

Zhuangzi says: To be the same as not-knowing, and De will not leave one; to be the same as having no desires—this is called supu (simplicity, the plain and uncarved). When there is supu, the people’s original nature can be preserved. In governing the world, the sage need only ensure that the people preserve their original nature. If one uses much cleverness to injure the proper allotment of nature and life, and harbors many desires to disturb the true reality of nature and life, then even if it is called governance, could there be any greater disorder in the world? Therefore one should constantly keep the people without knowledge and without desire.

This passage discusses the principle of “emptiness.” If a house has no empty space, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law will quarrel; if the mind has no room for carefree heavenly wandering (tianyou), the desires of the six sensory openings—eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and the rest (liuzao)—will contend with one another. This is precisely why the ancients valued “emptiness.”

Looking outward, the myriad things are like a valley echoing a sound, a bright mirror reflecting a form, or a key fitting a lock—all can be followed and accepted. Looking inward, the ear can hear, the eye can see, and the nose can smell, all because the mind is empty and unobstructed. Generally speaking, “emptiness” is opposed to “solidity”: solidity creates obstruction, while emptiness leaves no gap (no barrier). Whether in the external myriad things or in the inner body and mind, wherever the mind clings to something, obstruction will appear everywhere.

The sage governs the world only when he cannot avoid it. With a heart of universal love he treats the myriad people, regarding them all alike, extending this from near to far, according with the inherent nature of things, making no preferences or rejections, letting them be as they are, dispelling all manner of disturbance, mystically uniting with selfless love, and returning to “non-being” (wu you). How could this require deliberate effort of mind?

For example, Shun had intelligence, ability, and cultural refinement; Yao was not unaware of this, yet he still waited for the lords of the four quarters to recommend him before appointing him. Gun defied orders and brought ruin to his clan; Yao was also not unaware of this, but simply followed the recommendation of the multitude and temporarily employed him. The sage, it seems, has no mind of his own but takes the mind of the people as his mind; therefore Shun could not but be recommended and employed, and Gun could not but be appointed.

Why is this so? “Emptiness” is not “nothingness”; it is “no solidity.” The mind can contain all things, so it seems to have something but is not truly having; if the mind contains nothing at all, it seems to be without anything but is not truly without. Therefore the mind is originally empty. One need only exhaust the mind in one’s original nature and devote oneself to the utmost of emptiness and stillness: treat the good with goodness, and treat the not-good also with goodness; hear all and observe all without feelings of like or dislike. Why, then, still exalt the worthy?

Those who devote themselves to inner observation are content with themselves; those who devote themselves to outward pursuit seek completeness in all things. Seeking completeness in all things, they are constantly anxious about insufficiency; content with themselves, they do not give rise to envy and competitiveness.

The sage does not value goods that are hard to obtain, nor does he treasure rare objects, because he seeks only to satisfy himself and to fill his belly. Here, “sage” refers to one who has cultivated the Dao to a high level; “belly” refers to the body’s inner foundation and nourishment, while its opposite, “eyes,” points to the outward pursuit of sounds and sights. Once the belly is full, the ears and eyes can withdraw inward, and the spirit can remain within. When body and mind are settled and peaceful, greedy thoughts naturally no longer arise; how, then, could goods be worth treasuring? Thus what the sage values is nourishing the belly, not pleasing the eyes.

That toward which the mind tends is called “will” (zhi); will is the direction of the mind. The body is supported by bones, and bones are the foundation by which the body stands. When the will is strong and not weak, a person will not fix his thoughts on eminence and nobility, nor regard wealth as the standard. If the will is weak, some perish for fame without cease; some chase wealth and are never satisfied; they boast of themselves without real merit and pride themselves yet cannot endure—thus they are far from the Dao. Therefore one should make the will strong. If the bones are weak, a person cannot establish himself: his conduct drifts with the current, his mind has no independent judgment, he clashes with external things yet has no strength to prevail, sinks with them and cannot return, and is confused about where to go—how, then, can he stand on his own? Therefore one should make the bones firm.

In employing his will, the sage is humble and self-restrained, and constantly places himself below others; for this reason he is instead honored by others. He stays behind and yet is placed ahead; for this reason he is instead pushed forward as a leader. Knowing how to guard the male and preserve the female, he cannot be overcome by external things; knowing how to guard honor and willingly keep disgrace, he cannot be tainted by external things. One who weakens his will has precisely understood these principles. With proper settledness to restrain it, the myriad things cannot make it shift—this is “one who establishes well cannot be uprooted.” With firm De he holds fast, and the myriad things cannot overturn it—this is “one who embraces well cannot be torn away.” When the roots are set deep and the stem is firmly knotted, he can live long and endure without decay, lasting as long as heaven and earth, as though never uprooted.

Guangchengzi is a legendary attainder of the Dao; he cultivated his body for twelve hundred years, yet his physical form never aged—this is the effect of strengthening the bones. “Much knowledge brings failure,” so one should make the people free of knowledge; “nothing is better for nourishing the mind than few desires,” so one should make the people free of desires.

To be identical with “non-knowing,” then the thickness of one’s contained De (Virtue/Power) is comparable to that of a newborn infant, and one’s De does not depart. To be identical with “no desire,” then one shows plainness and embraces uncarved simplicity, reduces selfishness and curbs desires; this is called plainness and uncarved simplicity. Plainness means not being mixed; uncarved simplicity means not being scattered. With plainness and uncarved simplicity, the people’s nature is attained. When the sage is in the world, it is enough that the people attain their nature. Who would make them multiply knowledge so as to injure the proper portion of nature and life, or multiply desires so as to muddy the true condition of nature and life?

(Vernacular explanation)

If one can be identical with the state of “non-knowing,” then the contained De is as thick and pure as an infant’s, and the De will not be lost. If one can be identical with the state of “no desire,” then one can reveal original reality and maintain simplicity, reduce selfishness and restrain desires; this is called “plainness and uncarved simplicity.” Being plain, one is not mixed; being uncarved, one is not scattered. With plainness and uncarved simplicity, the people’s nature can be preserved. In governing the world, the sage need only let the people each preserve their own nature, and that is enough. How would he make them grow cleverness so that it harms the proper portion of nature and life, or make them covet excessively so that it disturbs the true feelings of nature and life?

He causes those who are clever not to dare to act.

(Vernacular explanation)

He makes those with cleverness not dare to act recklessly.

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The eloquent do not dare to let loose their words; the brave do not dare to put forth their swiftness; the capable do not dare to boast of their ability; the clever do not dare to display their scrutiny. Those who contrive cleverness, devote themselves to scheming, multiply laws and ordinances, and use them to cover the masses—the sage prohibits and stops them all. This is what is meant by “causing those who are clever not to dare to act.” When the nine officials accomplished their tasks and outstanding talents were in service, how could this be taking knowledge as a drill? They simply carried out the ruler’s commands and delivered them to the people.

(Vernacular explanation)

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: The eloquent do not dare to recklessly show off their words; the brave do not dare to force their way and compete in speed; the capable do not dare to boast of their skills; the wise do not dare to reveal their insight. Whenever anyone plays with cleverness, drills into trickery, proliferates laws and ordinances, and uses them to suppress the masses, the sage forbids and stops it. This is what is meant by “making those with cleverness not dare to act recklessly.” In Shun’s time, the nine ministers each attended to their duties, and people of talent and virtue could each rest in their place. Was this taking cleverness as a tool for drilling and creating trouble? It was merely carrying out the ruler’s commands and extending them among the people.

(Note: the received character for “village” should be “ability,” a scribal error due to similar graph forms; “nine officials” refers to the nine ministers in charge of various offices under Shun; “junyi” means persons of outstanding talent and virtue.)

The sub-commentary says: The eloquent do not dare to display their words, because there is no place to use words. The brave do not dare to exert their strength, because there is no place to use strength. The capable do not dare to boast of their talent, because the ruler does not employ the capable. The clever do not dare to apply their scrutiny, because the ruler does not use cleverness. Dismiss cleverness, discard mechanical scheming, and reduce punishments. All who contrive cleverness, devote themselves to trickery, proliferate laws and ordinances, and use them to cover the masses—all are prohibited and stopped. Even if there are clever people, who would dare act? In Shun’s time, people like Gao Yao, Kui, Ji, and Xie: the nine officials all performed their duties, the hundred officials modeled themselves on one another, and outstanding talents were in office. How could they busy themselves with petty distinctions, display sharp-eyed cleverness, and take knowledge as a drill? They acted upon hearing the lead, moved in accordance with norms, carried out the ruler’s commands, and delivered them to the people—that is all.

(Vernacular explanation)

The sub-commentary explains: The eloquent do not dare to employ their words because there is nowhere to use words. The brave do not dare to show their valor because there is nowhere to use force. The capable do not dare to boast of their ability because the ruler does not employ capable people. The wise do not dare to exercise their scrutiny because the ruler does not value cleverness. One should dismiss clever contrivance, remove the mind of scheming, and reduce punishments. All who play with cleverness, drill into trickery, proliferate laws and ordinances, and use them to conceal the masses must be forbidden and stopped. Even if there are clever people, who would dare act recklessly? It is like the time of Shun: Gao Yao, Kui, Ji, Xie, and the others—the nine ministers all did their duties, the hundred officials followed one another’s example, and people of talent and virtue each settled in their office. Were they devoted to petty, trifling matters, showing off keen insight, and treating cleverness as a drill for creating trouble? They merely acted after listening to the summons, moved after observing the norms, carried out the ruler’s commands, and extended them among the people—that is all.

Practice Wuwei (non-action), and nothing will not be governed.

(Vernacular explanation)

Govern with a mind of Wuwei, and there is nothing in the world that cannot be well governed.

The hundred officials each keep to their duties; when those of outstanding talent and virtue all hold office and attend to affairs, there is no need to scrutinize trivial matters with harsh exactitude, nor to rely on petty cleverness to force interpretations and stir up trouble. The ruler need only heed the counsel of his ministers, act in accordance with laws and regulations, and extend the ruler’s commands among the people—this is already sufficient.

“Practicing Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left ungoverned.” (“Wuwei” does not mean doing nothing at all; it means not acting presumptuously and according with the natural principles of things.)

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: When the sage governs the world, does he mean to abandon human affairs, distance himself from the myriad things, and dwell transcendently alone in a place free of affairs? The root of governance is simply action that arises from Wuwei. The transformations of the myriad things belong to the realm of concrete form—what is called “below form.” The sage realizes Dao, stands above the myriad things, coordinates them as a whole, causes each to attain its completion, and thereby governs them. When things arise, he complies with them and observes their cyclical return; when things grow, he assists them to completion in accordance with their nature. In this way, how could there be any failure in governance? Thus, when the ruler above governs properly, the sun, moon, and stars each follow their order; when the realm below is governed properly, birds, beasts, grasses, and trees all accord with their natures.

Those who govern the world, if they single-mindedly speak only of Wuwei (non-action) and do not understand youwei (deliberate action), are like piling up clods of earth and gathering dust: they seem to do nothing, but in fact they do not accord with reason. If they single-mindedly speak only of youwei and do not understand Wuwei, they are like rushing waves and flying fire, busy without cease, and this too is not the true way of governance.

Only when youwei does not depart from Wuwei, and Wuwei does not discard youwei, and what is done arises from Wuwei, will governing the world be leisurely and more than sufficient. This does not mean abandoning human affairs, cutting off external things, and dwelling alone in a place free of affairs.

What is metaphysical is called Dao. As Dao descends into the concrete, no thing can escape its scope; thus the transformations of the myriad things belong to the physical world. Only by understanding that “what brings the myriad things to completion is itself not a concrete thing” can one be without gap from Dao.

Dao comprehensively encompasses all differences and returns them to one principle; it stands above the myriad things, integrates their accomplishments, and governs them. Therefore, when things arise and act, one follows them and observes their cyclical return, as the Daodejing says: “The myriad things arise together; I thereby observe their return.” When things grow, one follows them and assists their completion. What Yangzi (that is, Yang Xiong) said—“The ruler completes the transformations of Heaven and Earth”—means the same.

Thus, looking upward to observe the celestial phenomena, the waxing and waning of the sun and moon have fixed measures; looking downward to observe the earth, birds and beasts, grasses and trees each attain what is fitting. When those in superior positions govern properly, the sun, moon, and stars each follow their order, and birds, beasts, grasses, and trees each fulfill their nature. If this can be so, then even without deliberately governing, the world is already well governed.

The “Dao Chong” Chapter, Chapter Four, is the fourth chapter of the Daodejing. “Dao is empty, yet when used it seems never to become full” means: Dao is empty and void, yet when used it seems it will never become full.

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The Dao is real and trustworthy, and therefore it can exert its function; the Dao is Wuwei (non-action) and without form, and therefore it does not overflow. The Daodejing says: “The myriad things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, and through the blending Qi of Yin and Yang they attain harmony” (the Qi in which Yin and Yang mutually harmonize and intermingle). The principle of the myriad things is this: if they incline toward an excess of Yang, they become strong and aggressive, but they are also prone to overshooting; if they incline toward an excess of Yin, they become weak and debilitated, but they are also prone to falling short. Neither overshooting nor falling short—this is called “chong qi” (blending Qi). “Chong” means “the middle,” and this is the greatest harmony. The high are pressed down and the low are raised up; what has surplus has its excess taken away, and what is deficient is supplemented. In the functioning of the Dao, wherever it is applied, the centered and correct way is attained. Pour into it, and it is not thereby diminished; draw from it, and it is not thereby exhausted. The more it gives to others, the more abundant it becomes itself. The substance of the Dao is like the vast and boundless Taixu (the empty, limitless void), encompassing the Six Extremes (up, down, east, south, west, and north—that is, the entire space of the universe); how could there be any problem of fullness or insufficiency?

The Dao (the Way) can be transmitted, but it cannot be taken as one’s own possession. Precisely because it can be transmitted, the Dao has qing—responsiveness and concern—and xin—verifiable regularity—and therefore can exert its function. Toward a root hair as fine as yellow grass, it is like supporting it so that its branches and leaves flourish; toward a tiny midge, a minute flying insect, it is like holding up its wings. Is this not “qing”? Cold and heat, winter and summer, depend on it and cycle without error; the myriad things depend on it to grow and reproduce, each following its own kind to mature. Is this not “xin”?

Because the Dao cannot be possessed, it is Wuwei (non-action) and formless, and so it is not filled up. It exists profoundly, limpid and unshaken; it roams in clarity and purity, silent and still. Is this not “Wuwei”? It is dim and obscure: look at it, and it cannot be seen; it is deep and remote: grasp at it, and it cannot be caught. Is this not “formless”?

The scripture says: “The myriad things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang; through the blending of Qi (vital energy) they attain harmony.” Yin governs stillness and stability, and the myriad things bear it on their backs; Yang governs free flow and success, and the myriad things embrace it. Yet to model only Heaven (Yang) and not Earth (Yin) is to lean toward Yang and fall into the fault of excess; to model only Earth (Yin) without also attending to Heaven (Yang) is to lean toward Yin and fall into the fault of deficiency. There must be the middle way of Yin-Yang harmony: the strong do not become excessive, the weak do not fall into deficiency. This is “chongqi,” the Qi of Yin-Yang blending and harmonious balance. Chongqi takes Heavenly One (the number in the Hetu, the Yellow River Diagram, that generates Water) as its root, Heavenly Five (the central number) as its center, and Kun (Earth, symbolizing the softness and bearing of Yin) is precisely the center. The central Qi penetrates above and below; this is called “Great Harmony” (dahe). The application of the Dao lies exactly here.

Therefore, what is high is pressed down, reducing its excess; what is low is raised, supplementing its insufficiency. From what has surplus, take away, so that though large it does not become excessive; to what is deficient, give, so that though small it does not become depleted. In its operation, wherever the Dao goes it attains centrality and correctness; hence it is said, “The Dao is empty, yet it is used.” “Chong” means not being full to overflowing; “having use” means not being empty and void. Because it is not full, when poured into it does not overflow; because it is not empty, when drawn from it is not exhausted. Only the Dao cannot be encompassed by fullness or emptiness; therefore it is good at giving and bringing the myriad things to completion, and its function is inexhaustible. It gives to others and itself becomes all the more sufficient; the more it gives, the more abundant it becomes. It is like vast emptiness enveloping the six extremes—above, below, and the four directions—without bounds and beyond measure. How could it be confined by vessels? How could one speak of it as full?

Scripture: “Deep and unfathomable, it seems to be the ancestor of the myriad things.”

Dao is deep, profound, and remote, as though it were the root of the myriad things. (Yuan means a deep pool; zong means root, source, or ancestral master.)

Huizong’s Commentary (the Song emperor Huizong’s commentary on the Daodejing)

Quoting Zhuangzi: the deep water where the ni-huan (a whirlpool in a rapid current) lies is an abyss; the depths of still water are an abyss; the depths of flowing water are also an abyss. The abyss is empty and tranquil, not mixed with external things—this is the substance of Dao. Because it is empty, the myriad things return to it; because it is tranquil, the movements of the myriad things have something to rely on. Therefore it is said that Dao “seems to be the ancestor of the myriad things.” But Dao originally has no attachments; the myriad things naturally take Dao as their ancestor, so one can only say it “seems” so.

Subcommentary (further explication of Huizong’s commentary)

Citing Zhuangzi again: Dao is like an abyss, quietly dwelling therein. The water of the abyss swirls and circulates, yet forms an undivided whole; it is deep, still, and level, clear within and dark without. Even amid whirlpools, rapid currents, and still water, it remains always calm and self-possessed. The more it is measured, the deeper it seems; the more it is explored, the more remote it seems—this is its “emptiness.” The rise and fall of waves is not considered bad, nor is the clarity of the water’s surface considered good—this is its “tranquility.” The substance of Dao is precisely like this: because it is empty, it can contain all the myriad things under Heaven; because it is still, it can encompass and govern all movements under Heaven. It does not give birth to things, yet it can cause the myriad things to be generated; it is the root to which the myriad things are bound. It does not change, yet it can make all changes possible; it is the source on which all changes depend.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) comments: When the sharp edge is too exposed, one will be injured; when entanglements are too many, there will be disorder. Blunt the sharpness, and one does not contend with others; dissolve entanglements, and the mind is not disordered. The phrase “harmonize its light” (drawing in one’s radiance so that it is not exposed) is exactly what Zhuangzi calls “shining but not dazzling”—having light without displaying it. The phrase “become one with its dust” (blending with the mundane world) is exactly what Zhuangzi calls “yielding to things and moving along with their waves,” following external things, rising and falling together with them without rigidity.

When the inner mind is sincere and not slack, one’s outward plans and traces all display a luster, so that even fellow lodgers yield their seats to such a person. Is this not the meaning of “harmonize its light”? If instead one dresses up cleverness to startle the foolish, or adorns oneself to expose the impurity of others, then although one shines as brilliantly as the sun and moon hung on high, one is still attached to something; this, I fear, is not the original meaning of “become one with its dust.”

The sage blunts his sharpness, and therefore in his dealings with the world he does not harm the myriad things, and the myriad things have no way to harm him. He dissolves entanglements: if there is no scheming in his mind, why should he use intelligence? If there is nothing to decide in his mind, why should he use glue (a metaphor for stickiness and constraint)? None of the myriad things is sufficient to disturb his mind. One who can be like this has no proud expression and no arrogant manner. He is harmonious with things but does not drift with the current; he enters the Great Sameness with the myriad things, and thereby comprehends the aspirations of all under Heaven. Whatever situation he enters, he is peaceful and at ease.

An Interpretation of the Daode Zhenjing Shuyi

The scripture speaks of the attitude toward the world that one who cultivates the Dao ought to have. If an edge is too sharp, it cannot be kept for long, and so it will suffer injury. When silk threads are tangled, there are too many ends and no unity, and so there is disorder. Blunt the sharpness, do not reveal corners, become a seamless whole—how then can others contend with you? This is precisely the principle in Zhuangzi’s saying “take profundity as the root.” Straighten out the tangled so that the mind and spirit have something to preside over, and external enticements will recede—who can still disturb you? This is the meaning of Zhuangzi’s “take restraint as the guiding principle.”

When fire and light are joined, there is light; at that point there is only harmony, without discrimination. Thus one gathers in radiance and does not expose it, hides brightness and does not display it, and does not show oneself in order to please the crowd. In the “Ke Yi” chapter, Zhuangzi says, “Bright, yet not dazzling,” meaning that although there is light, one does not flaunt it. This is to say that only when light is not used for boasting does it accord with heavenly De; this is what is called “harmonizing its light.”

When things are coarse and unrefined, dust and dirt arise from them. Only by becoming one with the myriad things, without dividing self from other, can one change with the times and rise and fall with the ways of the world, without deliberately seeking novelty or standing alone in isolation. In the “Gengsang Chu” chapter, Zhuangzi says, “Yield to things and share their waves.” This means that the root of nourishing life lies in harmoniously accommodating oneself to worldly affairs, not in withdrawing from the dusty world and advertising one’s independence. This is what is called “identifying with the dust.”

If the sincerity within has not yet dissolved, if one cannot forget the self, deliberately reveals light, and does not know how to hide one’s brilliance, so that others’ talents must yield to one while one still cannot conceal oneself among the people—how could this be the state of “harmonizing its light”? If one still relies on displaying wisdom to startle the foolish, has not abandoned a cunning mind, cultivates oneself but deliberately makes a display of one’s purity, is not simple and uncarved like a fool, clearly exposes oneself like the sun and moon hung high, and still cannot alone pretend to be dim—how could this be the state of “identifying with the dust”?

(Note: The “dui” here refers to the sharpness of metal. It is used only when it needs to be used; thus, once it is used, its sharp edge will be broken or blunted—how can it avoid injury? Only by blunting the sharp energy does the edge become dull, and who can then harm it? Therefore, blunting sharpness is precisely the sage’s way of conducting himself in the world without injuring things, while things cannot injure him.) “Fen” is made from silk threads: when the threads are gathered, they form a single whole; when they are dispersed, the ends multiply—how can there not be disorder? Only by straightening them can the tangled be brought into order. When the mind has no division between inner and outer, when thoughts do not arise and a cunning mind is not born, one can block the disturbances of the ten thousand directions, so that external things appear before the eyes but cannot enter the mind. Seen in this way, is not straightening out the tangled precisely not scheming and not using wisdom? If there is no carving, where is the need for glue? When no thing is sufficient to disturb my mind, then one does not boast of oneself, and so there is no look of self-conceit; not boasting of oneself, there is no breath of arrogance. Though one differs from others in company, one does not contradict them—this is what the Zhongyong calls “harmonious but not carried away by the current.” Holding fast to purity and resting in harmony is like what the Liezi calls “being greatly one with things.” Moreover, when responding to affairs and receiving guests, one handles everything appropriately no matter what situation arises; this is precisely what is meant by “understanding the aspirations of all under heaven and finding joy in oneself wherever one enters.”

“Deep and clear, it seems perhaps to exist”

The substance of the Dao is profound and limpid. It appears to exist, and yet seems not to exist; it is difficult to point to precisely. (“Zhan” means deep, still, and clear; “huo” means “seems” or “perhaps.”)

The commentary of Emperor Huizong of Song says: If the mind is like extinguished dead ashes and the body like a withered tree, then within extreme stillness the natural light shines of itself. In a blur it seems as though nothing is there, and yet it truly exists; quiet and without manifest traces, it is nevertheless utterly wondrous. Is this not roughly the state of the Dao?

The subcommentary explains: The mind is the place where Shen (spirit) gathers, and among the Five Phases it belongs to Fire. When the mind is present, it is like fire clinging to an object, giving light and illuminating things; when the mind holds to nothing, it is like fire that has burned out and left only ashes. “The mind like dead ashes” means that there are no deluded thoughts in the mind; “the body like a withered tree” means forgetting the physical form and forgetting the self. Plants and trees have vitality but no awareness; a withered tree lacks even vitality. What is meant here is forgetting the self, not truly cutting off vitality. Therefore, within “Taiding” (great stability), heavenly light shines of itself; this is guarding with great concentration while still possessing illuminating awareness.

Seen in this way, it neither fabricates nor suppresses; vaguely it seems nonexistent, and yet it truly exists. It is neither being nor nonbeing; peacefully it leaves no trace, and yet it operates wondrously. The substance of the Dao is clear and permanently quiescent, precisely within its state of “existing.” It resembles “existence” but is not true “existence,” and so it says “perhaps.” “Perhaps” means doubt and uncertainty. How could this be clinging to one particular formulation? “Deep and clear, it seems perhaps to exist” is precisely the Dao herein.

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord on High.”

Emperor Huizong’s commentary explains the word “xiang”: “Xiang” means “as if,” not something real, and so “huo” is used to express it.

The meaning of this sentence is: I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed even before the Heavenly Emperor. This means that the Dao’s source cannot be traced back; it precedes all things, even the Heavenly Emperor.

Emperor Huizong of Song commented: “Xiang” is the first trace through which a thing becomes manifest; “Di” is the presiding power by which spiritual numen responds to the myriad things. Only after things are generated do they possess form and image; Di comes forth from the Dao and enables the myriad things to undergo wondrous transformation and generation. Thus “xiang-di” refers to the beginning of the multitude of things, while what is truly prior to them is the Dao. This is the meaning of the Zhuangzi’s statement that it “spiritualizes ghosts and spirits and the Lord, and gives birth to Heaven and Earth.”

The subcommentary, the explanation of later commentators, further states: what can be seen is called xiang, and so xiang is the moment when a thing first becomes manifest. “Di comes forth from Zhen”; Zhen is the eastern trigram among the Bagua, and Di comes forth from this direction, so Di is the presiding power through which spiritual numen responds to and unites with the myriad things. Before things are generated, there is no form to seek; once they fall into the state of being generated, only then are forms visible. Only when there is a presiding power are there then forms. The myriad things issue from Di, and as they issue they are not refused; the myriad things return into Di, and as they return they are not opposed. This is the principle by which Di comes forth and wondrously transforms the myriad things.

Xiang is the sign of bodily form, and Di is the honored one among the myriad things, so both are beginnings of the multitude of things. But since both xiang and Di come forth from the Dao, the Dao is the truly prior one. Among the myriad things under Heaven, who can be prior to the Dao? The Dao has no color, so it cannot be seen; no sound, so it cannot be heard; no form, so it cannot be grasped. Although it has that from which it “comes forth,” it is without root or source, without border or limit; even its gateway cannot be seen. Who can know its origin? Therefore it is said, “I do not know whose child it is; it is prior to the Lord on High,” which agrees with the Zhuangzi’s meaning in “no one knows who or what it is.”

Previous Section (explaining the meaning of the relevant chapters of the Daodejing)

The Dao is formless, so it cannot be grasped by hand. Although it has a certain “coming forth,” its source has neither root nor direction; its gate and path cannot be seen. Who can know whence it comes? Therefore Laozi says, “I do not know whose son it is” (I do not know whose son it is). This agrees in meaning with Zhuangzi’s statement “not knowing who or what it is” (not knowing who it is or whence it comes).

(The character wen in “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent, wen” is suspected to be a redundant/interpolated character.)

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth

Jing (scripture): Heaven and Earth have no so-called benevolence (ren) and treat the myriad things as straw dogs; the sage also has no so-called benevolence and treats the common people as straw dogs.

Huizong’s Commentary (Zhao Ji, Emperor Huizong of Song, who once annotated the Daodejing): Favor arises from harm, and harm also arises from favor. If one takes “benevolence” as favor, harm will follow. Heaven and Earth toward the myriad things, and the sage toward the common people, both accord with the naturalness of things and harbor no private intent to cherish or profit them; thus the name “benevolence” has no place to be applied. A straw dog is a dog made of straw for sacrifice: when it is fitting, one uses it; when use is done, one discards it. The myriad things grow naturally and the common people govern themselves; where is there need for deliberate intervention?

Subcommentary: “Loving people and benefiting things” may be called “benevolence” (the original text has bian, suspected to be an error for ren). If one deliberately loves people in one’s mind, love cannot be all-embracing; if one deliberately benefits things in one’s mind, there will be choosing and rejecting, taking up and setting aside. The myriad things grow naturally and the common people govern themselves; what need is there for deliberate mental effort?

Loving others and benefiting things is called “Bian.” If one has the intention to love others, that love will not be universal; if one has the intention to benefit things, those benefits will not be complete. This is probably because taking benevolence (ren) as a favor inevitably carries an element of intentionality. Moreover, the arising of favors often has its source in harm, while the arising of harm often comes from favors. Where harm follows, favor is present; where favor follows, harm is present—this is the natural principle.

Heaven and Earth have no private intention toward the myriad things, and the sage has no private intention toward the people. They merely follow nature and do not deliberately add to life; therefore they love all and benefit all. Those who receive gifts need not repay them; those who receive kindness need not thank for it; the benefit continues through ten thousand generations. If it did not come from a heart that loves others, how could “benevolence” (ren) be named for it? What Zhuangzi calls “great benevolence” is precisely “not benevolence.” It is like the straw dogs: before they are set out for sacrifice, they are placed in bamboo baskets, covered with embroidered cloth, and the chief sacrificer fasts and waits respectfully; after the sacrifice is finished, passersby trample their heads and backs, and wood gatherers pick them up to burn as firewood—that is all. The myriad things grow naturally, and the people are governed naturally; what need is there to manage them with deliberate effort?

Between Heaven and Earth, is it not like a bellows (tuo) and a flute (yue)?

(Note: Tuo refers to the ancient smelting bellows, that is, a wind box; yue refers to the pipe among musical instruments, that is, something like a flute. Both are hollow within, and therefore can contain the flow of air.)

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: The bellows is hollow within, and therefore can contain; because it can contain, it can respond; because it can respond, its application is inexhaustible. If it were filled with solid objects, then it would be obstructed everywhere, becoming one-sided with respect to the Dao and partial with respect to things.

The Shuyi says: The bellows can contain qi, and the flute can produce sound; both are empty yet able to contain, and having contained, able to respond. Responding as external things touch them, how could they ever be exhausted? Between Heaven and Earth, the one qi secretly circulates, pervading everywhere without exception. It is empty and still to the utmost, and therefore can supply all that is sought, just like the bellows and the flute. If a single thing blocks it, it is obstructed everywhere. How could Heaven and Earth, so vast, be obscured by one-sidedness or stalled by partiality?

Empty yet inexhaustible; the more it is stirred, the more it brings forth.

The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows (tuoyue, the ancient bag and tube used for blowing air). If the mind clings to one thing, it is like stuffing the bellows full, so that the airflow cannot pass freely. How vast are Heaven and Earth—how could they be obscured by a one-sided view or trapped by a principle confined to one corner?

Empty yet not exhausted, moving and ever more comes forth

The commentary of Emperor Huizong of Song (Huizong) says: Only when the inner mind is empty can one wander in the world and respond to things broadly and appropriately; therefore it is said, “Empty yet not exhausted.” Acting only when matters draw near, one finds it inexhaustible in application; therefore it is said, “Moving and ever more comes forth.” When the sage comes forth to govern the world and assist emperors and kings, words do not become a burden—this is the principle.

The Shuyi subcommentary explains: Heaven and Earth are what the sage takes as his model; their substance is empty, and their function accords with the myriad things. When function is withdrawn back into substance, there is silence and no movement; no thing can make it obstinate or sway it, so how could its responses to all affairs be inappropriate? When function arises from substance, it moves without exhaustion; both others and oneself are more fully supplied, so how could its application be deficient? With an empty mind wandering in the world, one must wait for affairs to arrive before acting; thus throughout life one speaks without the fault of misspeaking, and in Wuwei (non-action) there is no deliberate artificiality. As for governing the world, there is presumably already ample capacity. What Zhuangzi says in “Responding to Emperors and Kings” in the Zhuangzi—that “the achievements of emperors and kings are the leftover tasks of the sage”—refers precisely to this state.

Many words lead to exhaustion; better to guard the center

The commentary says: The yao (the bellows’ outlet) is empty, waiting for the airflow; when the air comes, it sounds; when it does not come, it stops. The sage’s words are like this. Disputants are trapped by words; much speech inevitably brings entanglement, so it is better to guard the middle way (shouzhong, meaning maintaining inner emptiness, stillness, and centeredness). Carefully guarding the inner mind, closing off external disturbances, drawing back the gaze and turning hearing inward, one can again see the original mind of Heaven and Earth—this is called “guarding the center.”

The Commentary on the Meaning of the Dao De Zhen Jing says that all musical sounds arise from the void. The yue (yuè, an ancient bamboo wind instrument used to establish pitch) is the basis for setting pitch standards and weights and measures; the root of music lies precisely here. Thus when the Book of Songs says, “With the yue there is no overstepping,” it is speaking of precisely this principle: the mind remains empty and still, waiting for Qi (vital energy) to arrive; when the Qi arrives, sound is produced; when the Qi does not arrive, it stops. The sage’s speech is also like this: he opens his mouth only when something stirs him, and the words he speaks exactly accord with principle; when someone asks, he responds accordingly—there is no case in which it is otherwise. Confucius’s advocacy of “I wish to be without words” and Mencius’s being fond of disputation only because he had no alternative both arise from this reason. Those who cannot forget words lay out ornate rhetoric, reaching tens of thousands of words, with writings enough to fill five cartloads—this is the cage of disputers. However many words are spoken, what use are they?

Those who guard the center are different. They exhaust the reality of things while keeping to their root; they accord with the changes of things while keeping to their essential purpose. They are careful in their dealings with external things, not letting the outside world’s profusion and comparisons invade; they shut off the inner mind, not letting inner clutter disturb them. The eye sees nothing: this is because vision has been withdrawn, and what is seen is only deep darkness. The ear hears no sound: this is because hearing has been turned back, and what is heard is only soundlessness. After such self-awareness, the mind of Heaven and Earth becomes plainly visible. Guard this without losing it: even if one does not speak for a lifetime, one is never not speaking; why then clamor and dispute? Presumably, when the mind can penetrate above and below, this is what is called the great root of all under Heaven. If words do not issue from this, then even much speaking in order to communicate with others is not as good as guarding centered correctness.

The commentary on Chapter Six, “The Valley Spirit,” comes from Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji). He says: Whatever has form has flourishing and decline; whatever has a fixed number has success and failure. When form and fixed number are both present, life and death are then separated—this is the constant principle of things. The valley (a mountain valley, characterized by emptiness) can respond to the movements of the myriad things yet always remains empty; Shen (spirit)—the mysterious Dao—can transform and generate the myriad things yet always remains still. Within this true constancy, it is united with the Dao as one; it does not attach to form and does not fall into fixed number. It generates ceaselessly without exhaustion, running forever like the sun and moon, unchanging through all ages like the Northern Dipper. Therefore it is said, “The valley spirit does not die.”

When flourishing reaches its extreme, decline inevitably follows; when decline reaches its extreme, flourishing returns. Yet it does not fall into a fixed scheme of numerical calculation. Things generate and regenerate without cease, without exhaustion, like the sun and moon in their movement, never stopping through the ages; and like the Northern Dipper (Weidou, the seven stars of the Big Dipper) in its revolution, unchanging through the ages. Therefore it is called “not dying.”

When things flourish to the utmost they decline, and when they decline to the utmost they flourish again—this is the normal condition of things with form. No sooner has something taken form than it decays; no sooner has it decayed than it takes form again—this is the normal condition of things endowed with Qi (vital energy) and a finite destiny. Once something has become a concrete thing, nothing can escape form and the measure of Qi and destiny; therefore whatever is born must die. When one Yin descends below and one Yang rises above, whatever does not transcend Yin-Yang is like this.

The Valley Spirit (Gushen—used in the Daodejing as a metaphor for the Dao’s empty, still, and yet generative nature) is different. It receives the myriad things without hoarding them, and responds to all changes while remaining always empty and still; it cannot be fathomed through the transformations of Yin-Yang, and it generates the myriad things while remaining forever utterly still. It dwells in the true and the constant, and is united as one with the Dao (the Way). It cannot be sought by means of form, nor investigated by means of numerical principles. Things with form have an end, but it has no end; things subject to number have a termination, but it has no termination. It transforms and generates all beings, generating and regenerating without exhaustion—this is what is meant by “never having died.” Just as the sun and moon go and come, moving without cease; just as the Northern Dipper moves south and north, revolving without error. How then could one know that it has an end?

This is what is called the Mysterious Female (Xuanpin—the dark, subtle, and wondrous mother, referring to the root from which the Dao generates the myriad things).

The commentary of Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji, who once annotated the Daodejing) says: The myriad things receive their mandate from non-being and take form in being. The function of the valley lies in its being without form or appearance; the substance of spirit has no fixed abode—this is the heavenly mandate that the myriad things receive. “Xuan” is the color of Heaven, and “pin” is the category of Earth; this is the root on which the myriad things rely in taking form. The Valley Spirit is used to metaphorize the constancy of the ultimate Dao, and the Mysterious Female is used to explain the wonder of creation and transformation.

This passage continues the preceding text: Xuan is the color of Heaven, and pin is the category of Earth; they are the support for the formation of the myriad things. The Valley Spirit is used to metaphorize the constancy of the ultimate Dao, and the Mysterious Female is used to explain the wonder of creation and transformation.

This passage is from the Daode Zhenjing Shuyi (Subcommentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and De), explaining “Valley Spirit” and “Mysterious Female,” and quoting the commentary of Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) to expound the line “The gate of the Mysterious Female—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth.”

The Shuyi says: The Ming (mandate)—the innate principle of generation and formation received at birth—of the myriad things is continuous and uninterrupted. What, then, is the source from which this Ming is received? It is the Valley Spirit (Gushen). What is the basis for the formation of the myriad things? It is the Mysterious Female (Xuanpin).

The Valley Spirit is empty yet able to respond to the myriad things; looked at, it has no visible form, because the function of the valley has no fixed shape. It moves in a ceaseless round; sought, it is nowhere to be found, because the substance of Shen (spirit) has no fixed location. The Ming that the myriad things receive is precisely here.

Dark red-black is called xuan (the dark/mysterious); therefore the Yijing (Book of Changes) says, “Heaven is xuan and Earth is yellow,” from which we can see that xuan is the color of Heaven. Yang is male and Yin is female; therefore the Yijing says, “Kun benefits from the steadfastness of a mare,” from which we can see that the female belongs to the category of Earth. The forms that the myriad things complete are also here.

The Valley Spirit and the Mysterious Female differ in name but refer to the same reality. From the perspective of its constant existence, it is called the Valley Spirit, used to compare it to the constancy and immutability of the Great Dao (the Way); from the perspective of its generating and transforming the myriad things, it is called the Mysterious Female, used to explain the wonder of creating and transforming the myriad things. The names appear contrary, but in fact they are concordant.

The scripture says: “The gate of the Mysterious Female—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth.”

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) comments: Zhuangzi says, “The myriad things have that by which they are born, yet we do not see their root; they have that from which they emerge, yet we do not see their gate.” Only the sage can see their root and gate. Therefore here it is stated explicitly: “The gate of the Mysterious Female—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth.” Heaven and Earth are the upper and lower limits within which the myriad things dwell—that is, the whole of space. The myriad things and Heaven and Earth originally have no distinction of prior and posterior; but if one wishes to clarify the order of the Great Dao, Heaven and Earth come first, and the myriad things come afterward. The place from which Heaven and Earth emerge is precisely the Mysterious Female. As for that which is born before Heaven and Earth, who can see it?

When things are born, their emergence has no root-origin, so their root is not seen. Their coming has no advance, so their gate is not seen. (The generation of the myriad things: its source has no original beginning, and so its root cannot be seen; its arrival has no advancing path, and so its door cannot be seen.)

Only the sage sees what others do not see and beholds the form of the formless; he understands that all things are their own root and their own origin, and that this is the gate of all wonders. (Only the sage can see what ordinary people cannot see and can perceive that formless form; he understands that all things become their own root and their own origin, and that this is the gate of all mysteries.)

Knowing this is like seeing it; therefore it points directly to the fundamental teaching and plainly says, “the gate of the Mysterious Female (xuanpin)—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth.” (Knowing this is like seeing it with one’s own eyes, so it directly indicates the fundamental purport of the great Dao and explicitly states “the gate of the Mysterious Female,” which is the root of Heaven and Earth. Xuanpin refers to the Dao’s profound, generative gate; Laozi uses it as a metaphor for the Dao’s virtue of generating and transforming.)

What Zhuangzi means when he says that all things are born yet no root is seen, and emerge yet no gate is seen—this is it. (Zhuangzi’s statement that “all things are generated yet their root is not seen; they emerge yet their gate is not seen” refers to this principle.)

Moreover, Heaven opens above and Earth opens below, with humanity situated between them; thus Heaven and Earth are the upper and lower bounds of all things. (Heaven opens above, Earth opens below, and humans dwell between them. Heaven and Earth themselves are the upper and lower poles in which all things are situated.)

Heaven and Earth are born together with me, and all things are one with me; how then can things and Heaven and Earth be viewed in terms of before and after? (Heaven and Earth are generated together with me, and all things are united with me as one. How, then, can things and Heaven and Earth be regarded as prior and posterior?)

There being Heaven and Earth, and only then the myriad things—this is merely the order of the Dao. (Only after Heaven and Earth exist do the myriad things exist; this is simply the order of the Dao.)

As for that from which Heaven and Earth arise, it is named the Mysterious Female; then can that which existed before Heaven and Earth really be seen? (That source from which Heaven and Earth arise is called the “Mysterious Female.” Then can that which existed before Heaven and Earth truly be seen?)

Continuous and seemingly present, it is used without being exhausted. (It is unbroken and continuous, as if always present; when used, it is never used up.)

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: It is its own root and origin; from antiquity it has firmly existed, like the transmission of fire, whose end is unknown. (The Song Emperor Huizong comments: The Dao is its own root and origin; since ancient times it has existed firmly, like the passing on of fire, whose end no one knows.)

This is what is meant by “continuous and seemingly present.” (This is called “continuous and seemingly present.”)

Vastly, Heaven creates, allowing the one Qi to move of itself; suddenly, Earth transforms, entrusting the myriad forms to propagate themselves. Qian is known by its ease; Kun is able by its simplicity. These are not achieved by force—how could there be any exertion? (In the vastness of Heaven’s spontaneous creation, the one Qi is allowed to circulate on its own; all at once Earth transforms and lets the myriad forms multiply by themselves. Qian is known by its ease; Kun accomplishes through its simplicity. None of this is brought about by forceful effort—so how could there be any labor?)

“Continuous and unbroken” is the meaning of mianmian; “as if existing” is the meaning of ruocun. The Laozi says, “Deep and still, it seems perhaps to exist,” which refers precisely to the Dao as deeply hidden and as if present yet absent. In its highest reaches, the ultimate Dao is prior to Heaven and Earth yet without beginning, and posterior to Heaven and Earth yet without end. It seems to vanish and yet always exists; one may say that since ancient times it has endured eternally. This is like the transmission of fire: fire clings to firewood in order to give light, and when the firewood is burned out the fire passes on to new wood. Though there is a time of exhaustion, the continuation of the fire never ceases. This is “continuous and as if existing.”

Heaven is formed by the accumulation of Qi and is the source on which the myriad things depend for their beginning; yet when Heaven creates the myriad things, it simply allows the one Qi to circulate naturally and does not deliberately exert force to contrive. Earth is formed by the accumulation of form and substance and is the foundation on which the myriad things depend for growth; yet when Earth transforms and nurtures the myriad things, it simply allows the various forms to reproduce naturally and does not apply governance or force to cultivate them. The Zhouyi says, “Great indeed is the Qian Yuan: through ease it knows; perfect indeed is the Kun Yuan: through simplicity it is able.” Qian knows the myriad things through plain ease; Kun completes the myriad things through simplicity. This wondrous function is complete in itself and requires no human arrangement; all is spontaneous—where would there still be any need for diligent exertion?

Heaven is long-lasting and Earth endures. The reason Heaven and Earth can be long-lasting is that they do not deliberately seek life for themselves; therefore they are able instead to endure long.

Emperor Huizong of the Northern Song comments: Heaven is high and distant, arching above; the sun and moon move through it like warp threads, the stars are arrayed like weft threads, and all things are covered by it. Earth is thick and level, occupying the lower position; it congeals into mountains and converges into rivers and marshes, and all things are borne by it. The myriad things are covered and borne by Heaven and Earth, yet Heaven and Earth have no mind and practice Wuwei (non-action) toward the myriad things. Thus Heaven is settled and constantly revolves, while Earth is stable and constantly rests; therefore they can endure. If Heaven and Earth had a mind to generate and nourish the myriad things, Heaven would appear shallow and measurable, and the scope of its covering would be limited; Earth would appear fathomable, and its power to bear the myriad things would be weak. In that case, Heaven and Earth would have something on which to depend and something to contrive; how then could they be long-lived?

Heaven is formed from light and clear Qi (vital energy). It rotates in a circular motion, so its body rises high and dwells above. Earth is congealed from heavy and turbid substance. It is square and still, so its body is broad and thick and dwells below. Heaven moves Qi above; the sun, moon, and stars are all formed in the sky from accumulated Qi, and all creatures that have Heaven above them are beneath its covering. Earth rests below as bodily form; mountains, rivers, lakes, and marshes are all formed on the earth from accumulated form, and all creatures that tread upon the earth are borne up by it.

There is no place Heaven does not cover, no place Earth does not bear; the myriad things are all within Heaven’s covering and Earth’s bearing. Heaven covers without partiality, Earth bears without partiality; Heaven and Earth act toward the myriad things without deliberate intention. Therefore Heaven and Earth display to humans “Yi” (the principle of ease and smoothness) in a fixed and unchanging way, and their movement never ceases; they also display “Jian” (the principle of simplicity and naturalness) in a steep and profound way, and their place of rest never changes. This is precisely why Heaven and Earth can endure.

If Heaven and Earth also relied on a cunning mind, depended on wisdom and technique, and discriminated among and finely carved the myriad things, then they would be intentionally concerned with generating and nurturing the myriad things. How then could they obtain the assistance of the divine spirits of Heaven and Earth? In that case, the principles of Heaven and Earth could be deduced through numerological arts and surmised through intellect, and the function of covering and bearing the myriad things would become shallow. If so, the myriad things would have to depend on conditions in order to grow; how would they differ from ordinary things? Only by not clinging to self-preservation and resting in the state of “non-arising” can one truly attain long life.

The sage places himself behind and yet is placed ahead of others; he sets himself aside and yet preserves himself. This is because the sage does not strive to be first, does not seek private gain, and has no intention of acquisition; thus he instead receives honor and preservation.

Heaven covers above and Earth supports below, while the sage dwells between Heaven and Earth. The sage penetrates the Dao of Heaven and is ranked together with Heaven and Earth, being called the “Three Talents” (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity); the three possess functions that mutually communicate. Considered separately, they are called the “Three Ultimates,” each having its own independent substance; considered in their convergence, they are called the “Three Numinous,” containing a divine intelligence that is wondrous in all respects. From this we can see that Heaven, Earth, and the sage all receive and uphold the Dao, and that the sage’s method of cultivating the self accords with the principles of Heaven and Earth.

Therefore this chapter first says that Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves, and then says that the sage likewise does not take the self as his own possession. Everyone in the world wants to seize the lead; only the sage is content to place himself behind and is willing to bear the world’s humiliation and defilement. This is called “placing the self behind.” Being able to “place the self behind,” he does not contend with external things, and thus no one in the world can contend with him. Hence it says, “By placing the self behind, the self comes first.”

Walking upon the road, he does not contend for the convenience between dangerous and level paths; between winter and summer, he does not deliberately cater to the harmony of Yin-Yang, cold and heat. Transcending life and death and forgetting misfortune and blessing, his spirit is never thereby thrown into distress. This is called “setting the self aside and thereby preserving the self.” Since the sage’s method of governing the self is like this, how much more so with things outside the self? When he encounters external things, he does not oppose them; when he passes through external things, he does not cling to them. He preserves his original nature, embraces the primal Shen (spirit), and roams freely within the mundane world. His physical form is naturally upright, and things and self are fused as one. Born before Heaven and Earth, he does not regard himself as long-lasting; born in high antiquity, he does not regard himself as aged. This is probably the proof of such cultivation.

Heaven’s responsibility lies in giving life, nurturing, and covering the myriad things, so it operates above; Earth’s responsibility lies in bearing and giving form to the myriad things, so it occupies the lower place; the sage’s responsibility lies in educating the people, so he stands between Heaven and Earth. Because the functions of Heaven, Earth, and humanity communicate with one another, they are called the “Three Powers” (Sancai); because the substance of each is independent, they are called the “Three Ultimates” (three entities each possessing an ultimate nature); because their wondrous principles are inseparable, they are called the “Three Spirits.” From this it can be seen that when we observe Heaven and Earth and the sage, although their outward traces differ, the Dao they follow is one and the same. In cultivating himself, the sage need not seek outside; emulating Heaven and Earth is already sufficient. Therefore this chapter first discusses Heaven and Earth and then discusses the sage.

Not seeking life for oneself, one is instead able to endure long; not treating the body as one’s private possession, one is instead able to preserve it. Forgetting attachment to life, one instead attains long life; forgetting calculations about the self, one’s body instead continues to exist. This is precisely why Heaven and Earth are Heaven and Earth, and why the sage is the sage.

“One who places himself behind is instead pushed forward by others.” When everyone contends to be first, he alone is willing to remain in the rear. The Dao De Jing’s statement “If one wishes to lead the people, one must place oneself behind them” means exactly this. Rivers and marshes can contain mud and filth; a ruler can tolerate humiliation, and thus can bear the disgrace of the world. The Dao De Jing’s saying “He who receives the filth of the state is called the lord of the altars of soil and grain” (sheji, which in ancient times referred to state power) expresses the same principle.

All of these are ways of placing oneself behind. Only by placing oneself behind and manifesting softness, weakness, humility, and lowliness does one avoid contending with external things. Precisely because one does not contend, one can wander through the world with a heart empty like a valley—who then can harm him? Therefore no one in the world can contend with him. This is the cultivation practice of first placing the self behind, what is called “placing oneself behind and yet the self comes first.”

Those who hurry and rush about pay no heed to whether valleys and streams are dangerous or easy; this is the profit for which people contend. Now, however, he is on the road but does not contend with others over the profit of danger or ease. Avoiding cold and seeking warmth comes from one’s nature and the need for Yin-Yang harmony, and it is also something for which people contend; now, between winter and summer, he does not contend for the profit of Yin-Yang harmony. Loving life and hating death, seeking fortune and avoiding misfortune, are human nature; now he places life and death beyond concern and does not take fortune or misfortune to heart. There is no other reason for this: he knows that this body is not privately owned by him, and that the four limbs and hundred bones will ultimately turn to dust. Therefore he can transform together with the myriad things and does not treat the body as his own possession.

If one can be like this, then one regards the body as a temporary lodging and treats only the ears, eyes, and four limbs as things temporarily entrusted; the spirit is never trapped by them—how then could external things harm him? This is what is meant by “externalizing the body and yet the body survives.” For a person there is nothing more important than his own self; the sage’s governing of himself is still like this, how much more so with things outside the body? When encountering things, he does not oppose them, knowing that their arrival cannot be blocked; when things pass by, he does not linger, knowing that their departure cannot be detained. Unburdened by bodily form, he preserves his original nature and embraces the spirit, mingling with others and wandering amid worldly affairs. The body is naturally upright, subject and object become one, and he can attain long life and enduring vision (long survival and enduring clear sight), coexisting with Heaven and Earth. In this way, even if he were born before Heaven and Earth, he would not regard it as long; even if older than remote antiquity, he would not feel aged—what difficulty could there be?

The reason Heaven and Earth can endure long is that they do not scheme for themselves; therefore they can long exist. Among things with form, Heaven and Earth are the greatest; their difference from the myriad things lies precisely in their ability to endure. The sage’s difference from ordinary people lies precisely in the ability to abide permanently.

The following is the commentary of Emperor Huizong Zhao Ji of the Song (who personally wrote a commentary on the Daodejing): The Zhouyi says, “The greatest De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth is to give birth to and nourish the myriad things; the sage’s greatest treasure is his position.” The great Dao (the Way) is impartial and selfless; Heaven and Earth follow the great Dao, and so are selfless; being selfless, they can endure. The sage embodies the great Dao, and so is selfless; being selfless, the sage can abide permanently. If one single-mindedly schemes for oneself, a selfish mind arises; no one has ever achieved himself through selfishness.

The following is the explanation of the subcommentary: Heaven and Earth generate endlessly and thus can endure; the sage preserves the ruler’s position and thus can abide permanently—both because of selflessness. If one places a selfish mind above the great Dao, one cannot attain the Dao. The great Dao is impartial; those who realize the great Dao are naturally selfless. Han Fei (a Warring States Legalist thinker) said: “To scheme solely for oneself is called private; to discard selfishness is called public.” Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves; setting themselves aside, how could they manage themselves? Precisely for this reason Heaven and Earth can endure and their own selves can continue. This is what is meant by “completing their private ends”: although they appear selfless, they thereby accomplish their own endurance.

The following is Huizong’s commentary on the chapter “The Highest Good Is Like Water”: The Zhouyi says, “One Yin and one Yang—this is called the Dao; what inherits this Yin-Yang Dao is goodness.” Zhuangzi (a representative figure of Warring States Daoism) said: “To leave the Dao and pursue goodness: once the name of goodness is established, the substance of the Dao is impaired.” Nevertheless, water is produced by the one Qi (vital energy) of Heaven and is still not far from the Dao. Water is deep and empty-still, clear and bright; it is the purest and most refined thing under Heaven. Therefore it is said, “The highest good is like water.”

Yin-Yang are two relative attributes of Qi (vital energy). If we speak from the state before Qi has manifested, it is neither Yin nor Yang—this is the Dao (the Way), the source and fundamental principle of all things in the universe. All things carry Yin and embrace Yang; if we speak from the perspective of that which operates within all things, that which does not depart from Yin-Yang is also the Dao. The Zhouyi says, “One Yin and one Yang—this is called the Dao,” and this is said with respect to concrete things.

When the Dao descends into human beings, what people first aspire to is goodness, and so what continues the Dao is goodness. The Dao is originally an undifferentiated whole; once the name “goodness” exists, there is already a distinction from the Dao. The separation of the two is precisely the beginning of goodness continuing the Dao, and therefore Zhuangzi says, “Depart from the Dao for goodness.” Once the name of goodness is established, the undifferentiated whole is split apart, and the substance of the Dao is thereby diminished.

However, in the “Hong Fan” chapter of the Book of Documents, the nine categories of governing methods (jiuchou) begin with the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and among the Five Phases water comes first. This is the saying “Heaven generates water first,” and it is still not far from the Dao. Although water may be turbid and overflow, it does not lose its clear and discerning nature; it is profound and empty. When it is clarified, it can reflect even a beard or eyebrow; this is its purity and clarity. If it were not the purest and finest thing under Heaven, who could accomplish this? From this we see that “the highest good is like water” (from the Laozi) is different from the kind of goodness that everyone under Heaven knows.

The Laozi says, “Water is good at benefiting all things and does not contend; it dwells in places that people dislike, and so it is close to the Dao.”

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Water transforms into rain and dew, by which all things are moistened and grow; it condenses into frost and snow, by which all things take shape. Scattered, it flows as rivers and streams; gathered, it accumulates as marshes and ponds. Springs are deep, the ocean is vast; people draw from it, store it, and use it. It nourishes all things; all things come to rely on it, and it is inexhaustible. When it comes to benefiting all things, who is more good than water? Water benefits all things; all things receive its grace, yet it constantly dwells in lowly places of weakness and non-contention, accommodates turbidity, endures filth, does not regard itself as beautiful, and its heart is not burdened by this; therefore it is closest to the Dao. “Ji” means “near.”

Water is transformed from the Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang between Heaven and Earth. Tianyi (Heavenly One, referring to the primordial Qi of undifferentiated unity at the beginning) transforms into water: when yang Qi flourishes, water vapor melts into rain and dew, spreading abroad so that the myriad things grow and are nourished; when yin Qi flourishes, water vapor congeals into frost and snow, carving and shaping forms so that the myriad things are brought to completion and precious treasures are made whole. On earth, water divides into rivers and streams and collects into lakes and marshes; seeping underground, it swirls and gathers, becoming deep springs so deep that the source of the water cannot be seen; gathering into the sea, it becomes vast and boundless. People draw from it, store it, and take and use it, and its supply is never exhausted. Water nourishes the myriad things and sustains them without end; all things depend on it. It gives whenever it is taken, benefiting the myriad things, and nothing is more good than it.

Water is good at benefiting the myriad things: in Heaven it becomes rain and dew, and the myriad things receive its grace; on earth it becomes springs and pools, and the myriad things receive its moisture. Yet water’s nature is soft and yielding, gentle and slow; it constantly dwells in low places, soft, weak, and non-contending, accommodating mud and impurity, and does not regard itself as pure and exalted. If the human heart could also be like this, unburdened by private thoughts, it would be close to the Dao (the Way). The so-called ji is the subtle incipience of movement: movement is about to manifest but has not yet become evident; hence ji is glossed as “near.” To be near ji is to be near the Dao.

Dwelling in a good place

Huizong’s commentary (Emperor Huizong of Song, Zhao Ji, who annotated the Daodejing): Water flows through the earth, moving without overflowing.

Explication: Water’s nature is to flow downward, and so it passes through the earth. When water encounters a low-lying place, it must first fill it and only then move on (from Mencius: “having filled the hollows, it advances”); therefore it flows without overflowing.

The heart is good at being deep

Huizong’s commentary: Measure it, and the more it is measured the deeper it becomes; probe it, and the more it is probed the farther it reaches.

Explication: A height of a thousand ren (an ancient unit of length, about eight chi) is not enough to exhaust its depth—this shows that the more it is measured the deeper it becomes; a breadth of a thousand li is not enough to exhaust its greatness—this shows that the more it is probed the farther it reaches.

In giving, it is good to be benevolent

Huizong’s commentary: It loves all impartially and without self-interest; it bestows without discrimination.

Explication: When frost and dew descend, regardless of distance, all things borne by the earth receive their moisture; this may be called loving all impartially and without self-interest, and giving without discrimination.

Opening of the Scripture (Subcommentary)

Frost and dew descend, and regardless of distance, all things on earth receive their moistening. It may be said that this is universal love without partiality, bestowing upon all things without discrimination.

Speech Is Good at Trustworthiness

Huizong (Zhao Ji, Emperor Huizong of the Northern Song, who once composed a commentary on the Daodejing) comments: Water can flow around obstacles and reach the sea; when it meets danger and obstruction, it does not lose its nature—this is keeping trust. The subcommentary says: Water, through learning and accumulation, ultimately flows into the great sea; this is avoiding obstacles and reaching the sea. Even if a river twists ten thousand times, it must ultimately flow east—this is traveling a perilous course without losing its trustworthiness.

Government Is Good at Ordering

Huizong comments: It cleanses the turbid and levels the steep; following the natural principles of things, it does not deliberately act, and therefore there is nothing it does not govern well. The subcommentary says: Water, from its emergence to its entry, always flows toward clean places—this is cleansing the turbid; when water is level, it does not flow—this is leveling the steep. It follows the patterns of things and has no intention of purposeful action. Precisely because it is plain and Wuwei (non-action), it seems not to govern, and yet nothing is not well governed.

Affairs Are Good at Ability

Huizong comments: Following the terrain, water can bend or run straight; following the vessel, it can become square or round. As circumstances shift, it has no fixed form, yet it always remains calm—could one without ability do this? The subcommentary says: Water’s flow follows the principles of things, and so it bends or straightens according to the terrain. It responds whenever drawn upon, and so it becomes square or round according to the vessel. Strike water and it can leap as high as the forehead; agitate it and it can be made to stay on a mountain, yet its surface remains level throughout, so that even master craftsmen take it as a standard. Thus it changes without fixed constancy, yet can always preserve levelness. Could one without ability do this?

Movement Is Good at Timing

Huizong comments: When sunlight shines, water evaporates into mist; when yin cold congeals, water turns to ice. On eastern terrain water flows east; on western terrain it flows west. It moves without restraint; the key lies simply in acting according to the time.

In spring, yang Qi rises upward from below, and ice melts into water; this is yang Qi dissolving the ice. In winter, yin Qi reaches its extreme above, and water congeals into ice; this is yin Qi freezing the water. Water does not linger in one corner, nor does it become stuck at a single bend. Placed to the east, it flows east; placed to the west, it flows west. It moves in accord with external things, and in moving it is not constrained. What it ought to do is simply to change with the times.

Laozi says, “It is precisely because one does not contend that one has no fault.” The meaning is: precisely because one does not contend with others, one therefore has no fault.

Huizong (Emperor Huizong of Song, Zhao Ji, who wrote a commentary on the Daodejing) annotates: when the sage realizes the Dao (the Way, the fundamental order of all things in the universe), he can cultivate himself, seeking only to preserve life for a long time. He attends both to self-cultivation and to benefiting others, and peacefully occupies the position of not contending with others. Zhuangzi says that those who regard purposeful action as easy probably do not accord with natural principle. To be able to practice Wuwei (non-action) and commit few faults is still relatively easy; but for one who acts without cease and refuses to rest, it is difficult. Since one must act to benefit the myriad things, to do so without fault is very difficult.

The highest good is like the nature of water: water nourishes the myriad things but does not choose among them, nor does it contend with things; therefore nothing can contend with it, and so it has no fault. This is why Laozi says: “Nothing under heaven is softer or weaker than water, yet for attacking the hard and strong, nothing can surpass it.”

The subcommentary says: When the sage complies with worldly affairs, in cultivating himself he takes realizing the Great Dao (the Way) and preserving his original nature as essential; therefore in self-cultivation he values long preserving himself, so that he may coexist with Heaven and Earth. In dealing with people and affairs, he also takes into account the good of all under Heaven, and thus can benefit the myriad things. The sage dwells in a position of non-contention, so his actions are as natural as water.

Zhuangzi said: “Is it easy to undertake action? If one treats it lightly, Heaven will not be at peace.” This probably means that when a noble person is about to undertake action, he must first fast and purify himself (bathing and cleansing the body, clearing the mind and diminishing desires, and using cultivation practices to make his De (Virtue/Power) clear), so that his conduct will not be rash. In Wuwei (non-action), one withdraws inward and maintains a distinction from things; if one wishes to commit few faults, this is relatively easy. In youwei (action), one comes forth and interacts with things; if one wishes to deal with affairs without pause, this is very difficult. Since one takes benefiting the myriad things as one’s enterprise, it is hard to avoid youwei; therefore it is also difficult to be without fault. If the right rises upward and the left leans askew, if the left bends and the right stretches out—these are all causes of fault. Only the highest good (shangshan) benefits the myriad things, like the nature of water: rising and falling, bending and stretching, without partiality to left or right; it benefits the myriad things without selecting among them and does not contend with things, so no one can contend with it. Through a thousand changes and ten thousand transformations it remains consistently one; the myriad things cannot overcome it, and therefore it has no fault. What the scripture says—“Nothing under Heaven is softer or weaker than water, yet in overcoming the hard and strong nothing can surpass it”—expresses this same principle.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling It

Scriptural text: To hold a vessel and fill it to the brim is not as good as stopping in time; to hammer and sharpen it repeatedly so that it becomes sharp, it cannot be preserved for long.

Emperor Huizong’s commentary says: When a vessel is full it overflows; when an edge is too sharp it breaks. This is the constant principle of the myriad things: fullness inevitably leads to loss. If people do not know to put “holding and keeping” last, to place humility and retreat first, and to govern fullness with emptiness and stillness, but instead indulge in fullness, they therefore cannot preserve themselves for long.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji) comments: When water is full it overflows, and when a sharp instrument is honed to too fine a point it breaks; this is the constant principle of the myriad things—after fullness there must be loss. If people do not know how to retire behind others and yet be first through a humble bearing, do not know how to use emptiness and stillness to master fullness, but instead indulge the desire for fullness, they will invite the disaster of overturning; thus it is better to stop in good time. The transformations of things are inexhaustible, while human wisdom is limited. That sort of “foreknowledge” which predicts the future out of thin air is merely the superficial flower of the Dao and the beginning of folly. To conjecture the actual circumstances of things and then press eagerly forward—even wisdom will sometimes find itself trapped; how, then, can one preserve oneself for long?

The subcommentary further explains: All things have their limits, so what is full must overflow; things also have their tendencies, so what is sharp must be blunted. After fullness there is invariably loss; this is the constant principle of the myriad things. If one does not understand “wielding the expedient of Sun” (Sun means yielding, compliant, and retiring; to wield the expedient of Sun is to adapt one’s conduct through yielding, compliance, and humility), does not understand placing oneself behind yet coming first, does not understand taking humility and yielding as one’s handle and using emptiness and stillness to master fullness, allowing things to diminish and grow and to pass away and renew with the times, but instead indulges the desire for fullness, then one is increasing the calamity of overturning. Therefore, to insist on preserving fullness is not as good as not doing so. The Tradition—referring to an ancient text cited here—says: “One who can hold fullness without overturning is one who has attained the Dao.” This is precisely the opposite of the above approach.

If one uses a single body to respond to the myriad things and a single mind to bear thousands of threads of affairs, exhausting all intelligence and straining all thought to cope, one will be entangled and knotted, confused and unclear; the moment affairs arrive, attending to one means losing another. Even with the greatest wisdom, one may still fail to respond completely, because the transformations of things are endless while human wisdom is limited. Exhausting one’s spirit and recklessly conjecturing—this is “foreknowledge.” Once there is foreknowledge, one abandons the root and pursues the branches; the more the mind labors, the clumsier one’s actions become. This is what is called “the flower of the Dao, the beginning of folly.” Using cleverness as a chisel with which to carve, conjecturing the actual circumstances of things and pressing sharply forward, wisdom will in the end have its time of exhaustion; even if something is gained for a time, it will ultimately be lost—how can it last? The Tradition says: “One who embodies the great Dao is at ease and never exhausted; one who relies on techniques and calculations toils without achievement.” This is probably what it means.

“Gold and jade fill the hall, but none can keep them; wealth and honor accompanied by arrogance bring calamity upon oneself.” These are words from chapter 9 of the Laozi, meaning: when gold and jade fill the house, they cannot be kept forever; to be arrogant because of wealth and honor only brings disaster upon oneself.

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Gold, silver, pearls, jade, wealth, and honor are not the fundamental principle concerning nature and life (that is, human nature and life); they are merely things outside the self and are not worth relying on. Those who prize gold and jade will be entangled by external things, and how can those entangled by external things keep from losing what they have? Thus gold and jade ultimately cannot be guarded. If one becomes arrogant and self-indulgent after attaining wealth and honor, one will damage De (Virtue/Power), meaning one’s inner character and cultivation. Can those whose De has been damaged escape misfortune? Thus wealth and honor instead bring calamity upon oneself. The sage does not cling to temporary advantage, does not treat authority and position as private property, and does not display his status because he rules the world. Would he take gold and jade as treasures and let wealth and honor entangle him? Therefore it is said: if he is rich, the wealth of the state all returns to him; if he is honored, the ranks of the state all return to him. His honor is unmatched, his wealth unsurpassed, and the Dao (the Way) he follows remains unchanging.

The Shuyi sub-commentary explains: Within one’s own allotted portion (“quan” originally meant a contract or tally in ancient times, and here is extended to mean one’s allotted share or what one holds), everywhere is true; outside one’s allotted portion, is everywhere entanglement? Therefore it is said: if he is rich, the wealth of the state all returns to him; if he is honored, the ranks of the state all return to him. His honor is unmatched, his wealth unsurpassed, and the Dao he follows remains unchanging.

The commentary says: Whatever lies within the “contract” (quan, referring to the sphere that accords with one’s nature and allotted portion), whatever one does is real; whatever lies outside the “contract,” whatever one does is illusory. Gold and jade, wealth and honor all belong to things outside the “contract”; they are not the principle of human nature and life.

External things are unreliable; gain and loss constantly alternate, so one cannot rely on them for possession. If treasure is placed in oneself, it can be preserved wherever one goes; if treasure is placed in external things, when they are obtained it will be lost along with them. Those who treasure gold and jade are entangled by external things; when external things depart, they cannot be detained—how can they not be lost? Therefore in the end they cannot be kept for long.

To be wealthy and honored yet respectful and modest is the virtue of a noble person; arrogance, extravagance, indulgence, and self-vaunting will ultimately invite disaster. To be wealthy and honored and arrogant damages virtue; damage to virtue is what people should avoid—how can there be no calamity? This is to leave fault for oneself.

The sage is not bound by momentary profit, does not take it as private property, but delights in sharing it with others; he does not take ruling the world as his own glory, but delights in realizing the Dao and forgets power and position. How could he value rare goods, treasure gold and jade, fix his thoughts on fame and profit, and be burdened by wealth and honor?

Therefore the principles of the myriad things are all complete within oneself, and even abundant wealth can accord with them; he governs the myriad things, and no one in the world can take precedence over him, and even high honor can accord with them. The wealth and strength of Jin and Chu (the great states of Jin and Chu in the Spring and Autumn period) are not the wealth spoken of here; the honor of Zhao Meng (Zhao Dun, chief minister of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period, here referring generally to the eminent) is not the honor spoken of here. The sage’s honor is peerless and his wealth is beyond compare; he penetrates past and present and remains constant as before, and therefore the “Dao” does not change.

“When the work is accomplished, fame is achieved, and the self withdraws”—this is the natural pattern (the Dao of Heaven).

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Once an undertaking succeeds, it tends toward decline; once fame becomes prominent, it suffers loss. When the sun reaches noon, it begins to slant westward; when the moon is full, it begins to wane. This is the constant principle of things. The sage clearly sees that success and failure depend on one another and understands that fullness and emptiness each have their fixed measure. Therefore he can be detached and self-possessed, not entangled by external things, and free of the fault of arrogance and complacency. This cannot be achieved by intelligence and talent alone; only the Dao of Heaven can be like this. Hence the scripture says: “When the work is accomplished and the name is established, withdraw oneself—this is the Dao of Heaven.” The four seasons proceed, and when the myriad things have grown, each departs in turn; this is the Dao of Heaven. If one knows only advance and not retreat, only survival and not death, only gain and not loss, how can one avoid regret? Yi Yin, the worthy minister of the Shang dynasty, said: “I, your servant, dare not, because of favor and the pursuit of private gain, claim the merit of success for myself.”

Meritorious undertakings are accomplished only when accumulated to the utmost, but after accomplishment there is also a time of fullness. Reputation is established only when cultivated to the utmost, but even then there is loss. Looking up at the patterns of Heaven, the sun is the master of yang qi and the moon is the sovereign of yin qi; even the movements of the sun and moon have fullness and waning—how much more so with fame and merit that come by chance?

The sage comprehends the principles of all things and knows that once success is achieved, decline soon follows. Seeing that success and failure depend on one another, they understand that when fullness reaches its extreme it turns into emptiness, and they know that fullness and emptiness have their fixed measure. They do not rejoice at gain; instead they are detached and self-possessed, not entangled by external things, nor enslaved by them. They are humble and yielding, preserving fullness without growing arrogant or complacent; they accord with the changes of fullness and emptiness, waxing and waning, and move together with the times. They regard wealth and honor as a shadow attached to the body or a gnat flying past the face—how could they be burdened by them? Who but one who understands the Dao of Heaven could be like this? Therefore the Daodejing (that is, the Daode Zhenjing, the True Scripture of the Dao and De) says: “When merit is achieved and fame attained, withdraw the self: this is the Dao of Heaven.”

Among the Heavenly Stems, when Wu appears, Ding hides; when Jia is at its height, Gui declines. In the course of the four seasons, when a season has accomplished its work it departs—this is the Dao of Heaven. If one knows only how to advance and not how to yield, then advance and retreat never cease; if one knows only how to preserve and not how to lose, one clings to what one has and refuses to change; if one knows only how to gain and not how to lose, then after gaining one worries about losing—can one avoid regret? Yi Yin said: “I dare not claim success through favor and private profit.” Whenever one claims something as one’s own, there will be loss; to withdraw when merit is achieved and fame attained is to succeed without claiming it as one’s own. Precisely because one does not claim it, one does not lose it. Should those who follow the way of a minister not always keep this in mind?

This passage comes from Chapter 14 of the Daodejing: “That which is looked at but not seen is called yi; that which is listened to but not heard is called xi; that which is grasped at but not obtained is called wei.” “Bo” means to grasp or touch; “bo zhi bu de” means wanting to touch and grasp it, yet being unable to grasp it. Here “wei” means minute and formless, describing the state in which the Dao cannot be directly perceived by the senses.

The original text reads “bo er zhi bu de,” while the received text reads “bo zhi bu de”; “er” may be a mistaken writing of “zhi.” The note “suspected to be” is the textual critic’s indication of doubt about this character.