《道德真经疏义(赵志坚)》

“De” means “to attain” and refers to being in accord with the Dao. De has two meanings. First, it is the Dao’s inherent wondrous function: responding to the differences among the myriad things, it nurtures them and brings them benefit. Second, it is what a Daoist practitioner attains through cultivation and insight into the Dao: first realizing their true nature, and ultimately returning to the Dao. In this way, they benefit both themselves and others.

“Superior De does not claim to be De, and so has De” means that the highest De accords with the Dao and benefits all things widely, without drawing attention to its own merit. Once things are accomplished, it does not boast of its achievements. The people benefit from it day after day without knowing it, and rely on it from generation to generation without noticing. This is why such De is truly profound.

“Inferior De never loses sight of De, and so has no De” means that inferior De is always intent on showing itself to be virtuous. It clings to the name and outward forms of De, and in doing so loses the true De that accords with the Dao.

Only when attachment to both the inner mind and the outer world has fallen away, and all things are seen as continuous with oneself in harmony with the Dao (the Way), can this be called De (Virtue/Power). People today still hold themselves apart and cling to things. They retain fixed views in their minds. Though they possess virtue, they still have a sense of self and have not completely forgotten themselves; that is why this is called “lower De.”

The highest De is Wuwei (non-action), yet has nothing it seeks to accomplish.

“Wuwei” means that the mind is empty, still, and detached, with no private desires driving it to act. “Having nothing it seeks to accomplish” means seeing external things as empty, still, and pure, and not treating worldly fame and gain as tools for achievement. This describes the subtle state of the highest De.

Lower De acts, and has something it seeks to accomplish.

Those with lower De cannot yet let go of precious things or what they love. They take action in order to accomplish things and establish themselves. That is why it says they “act.” They hope to bring prosperity to their families through wealth and benefits, and to distinguish themselves through official rank, posthumous titles, and reputation. That is why it says they “have something they seek to accomplish.”

The highest Ren acts, yet has nothing it seeks to accomplish.

Ren is showing kindness and helping others. When someone is in need, one gives of oneself to help; when someone does wrong, one forgives out of compassion. This is what it means to “act.” After helping others, one does not claim credit, and one gives kindness without seeking repayment. This is what it means to “have nothing one seeks to accomplish.” Many who receive such kindness feel grateful, and people follow its influence as water follows the lay of the land, naturally changing under the inspiration of this example. Ren is a relatively high state, so it is called “the highest Ren.”

The highest Yi acts, and has something it seeks to accomplish.

Yi means what is appropriate. When people fail to observe proper boundaries in their dealings with one another, and things are out of accord with reason, upright and incorruptible people refuse to indulge private feelings or crookedness. They distinguish right from wrong and examine each person’s proper place, as well as what is straight and what is crooked, so that everything finds its proper place. This is the conduct of those who embody Yi. But if they seek wealth and status nearby, and fame and reputation in the distance, then they “have something they seek to accomplish.”

The highest Li acts; when no one responds, it rolls up its sleeves and drags them along.

Even the highest form of Li requires action. If others do not respond, one rolls up one’s sleeves and forcibly pulls them into compliance with the rites.

“Li” means acting in accordance with ritual propriety: bowing and rising, advancing and withdrawing, each with its proper measure. This is called Li. “Rang” means waving the arms; “reng” means pulling or drawing someone along. When the forms of Li are fully established, it is called high Li.

Li is a set of rules that constrains bodily conduct. As customs gradually grow less sincere and human relationships become treacherous and cold, people cease to treat one another with genuine sincerity and grow outwardly arrogant. Rules are then established from the outside to regulate their appearance and conduct, in the hope that the heart will soften along with the body and that the inner self will accord with outward standards. Once the body conforms to ritual propriety, the heart, too, gradually comes to accord with what is right.

Yet sometimes feeling and appearance contradict each other: one behaves in accordance with Li while inwardly violating it; the heart harbors deceit, and the body, too, fails to follow ritual propriety. People then grow angry and fight, waving their arms and pulling at one another. This is the beginning of Li’s decline, and the start of disorder. The four lines that follow fall into three parts.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does De appear; only after De is lost does benevolence appear; only after benevolence is lost does righteousness appear; and only after righteousness is lost does Li appear.

Here, “Dao” refers to the high De discussed earlier. “Later De” refers to lower De. High De accords with the Dao, so it is called the Dao; the term De was first used to distinguish it from the Dao. Here, by contrast, the Dao is set against the lower De that came later, so high De is called the Dao. Unable to practice the Dao of high De, which acts without contrivance and clings to nothing, people turn instead to the De of lower De, which acts with intent and clings to things. Lower De encompasses all kinds of good deeds, but it does not go so far as to forget those deeds.

“Benevolence” means bestowing kindness, caring for others, and showing generosity. It is one kind of good conduct within De. People in the world cannot embody De in its entirety and focus on this one quality alone. Benevolence is the most valued among them, so it is called high benevolence. Benevolence transforms others and wins their allegiance through acts of kindness; at a lower level comes the practice of righteousness, which judges right and wrong. Righteousness relies on punishment to make people comply, while benevolence wins their obedience through kindness, so benevolence is superior to righteousness. Righteousness still uses punishment to secure people’s willing submission, while Li merely constrains the body and makes conduct conform to rules. Thus, although someone may outwardly appear to bow and yield, inwardly they may lack a gentle and compliant disposition. Such a person looks like a gentleman on the outside but is a petty person within, and so people may wave their arms and fight. The six lines that follow fall into four parts.

Li is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown weak, and the beginning of disorder.

Loyalty means wholehearted sincerity; trust means honoring an agreement without divided intent. As society moves from simplicity toward thinness, Li stands at the final stage of its decline, and the heart of loyalty and trust grows weak along with it.

Ritual arises only after loyalty and sincerity have grown weak, and it marks the beginning of disorder. Loyalty means a sincere and single-minded heart; sincerity means keeping to an agreement without divided intentions. When people’s hearts turn from purity to superficiality, ritual becomes the lowest standard after simplicity has been lost. Once loyalty and sincerity weaken, people are left with outward appearances and formal courtesies. Their conduct may accord with ritual while their hearts remain unsound; thus ritual becomes the beginning of disorder.

The heart of the Dao is vast and boundless, and it prizes purity and single-mindedness above all. It would rather keep company with people who seem awkward and disregard formalities than concern itself with elaborate rules of ceremony. Ritual has fixed procedures and requires proper conduct, making measured movements—advancing and withdrawing, bowing and rising—the first priority. This shows that the Dao values the heart, while ritual values outward forms. Those who discipline the heart move toward the Dao; those who discipline outward forms follow worldly custom. If the heart is without the Dao and follows only worldly ritual, how can disorder fail to arise?

“Foreknowledge” is the Dao’s superficial display, and the beginning of folly.

“Foreknowledge” can be understood in two ways. One is to speak first of knowing when one does not actually know, so that the claim to knowledge comes before genuine understanding. The other is to let the mind chase after being the first to display its insight. Usually, one first understands inwardly and then expresses that understanding. Here, however, the heart does not understand, yet the mouth claims understanding first. This apparent insight is the superficiality that arises as the Dao grows weak. It erodes the atmosphere of simplicity and encourages customs of greed and rivalry. It is therefore the beginning of losing the Dao, and the beginning of superficiality and folly.

Thus the great person—a person of great De who can support and nurture others—chooses purity over superficiality. In conduct and intention alike, the great person takes purity as the standard and devotes the heart to the Dao. How could ritual be regarded as the foundation? Thickness and thinness are simply different states of the same thing. One can distinguish the false from the genuine by seeing whether it tends toward ornament or substance. Ornament is false; in the end, it cannot compare with simple sincerity.

The great person is one who has the Dao: the great person holds fast to what is genuine, seeks neither splendor nor pretense, and encourages others to do the same.

Therefore, cast aside the superficial and choose the genuine.

In dealing with the world, one should abandon superficial showiness and choose sincerity and simplicity. Sincerity and simplicity are close to the Dao, so they are called “this”; superficial showiness is far from the Dao, so it is called “that.”

Chapter Two: The Ancients

Beginning with this chapter, a long section of forty-two chapters discusses a wide range of principles. The previous chapter described how the Five Virtues gradually declined, until the emergence of ritual institutions brought disorder instead. This chapter explains how people hold fast to the root and return to the Dao, thereby understanding its principles. The previous chapter pointed out what had gone astray; this one describes what can be gained. Each guides people according to different circumstances, which is why this chapter follows the last.

The chapter has four parts. The first says that all things with form and color depend on the same primordial Qi. The second says that although living beings are many, they should all honor Wuwei (non-action). The third says that only by relinquishing what is high and settling in what is low can one endure. The fourth says that only by setting aside what is exalted and choosing what is humble can one return to one’s original nature. The chapter has eight lines in all.

Of Old, Those Who Attained the One

“The One” refers to primordial Qi, the root from which the Dao began to transform and generate the myriad things. Since ancient times, Heaven, Earth, and all things have received the same primordial Qi and thereby come into being. This line states in general that life and all things arise from “attaining the One”; the lines that follow explain this in turn.

Heaven Attained the One and Became Clear; Earth Attained the One and Became Still

Primordial Qi divides into Yin and Yang. Yang Qi is clear and rises upward, gathering to form Heaven. Heaven receives the clear aspect of primordial Qi, and so is clear. Yin Qi is turbid and sinks downward, gathering to form Earth. Earth receives the tranquil aspect of primordial Qi, and so is still.

Spirits Attained the One and Became Numinous; Valleys Attained the One and Became Full

Within primordial Qi there is also an element that is neither Yin nor Yang, called “harmony.” After Yin and Yang divide, the part of harmonious Qi with a greater Yin aspect becomes ghosts and spirits, including the vital essences of mountains and rivers. Nourished by the Qi of the Dao, ghosts and spirits can respond and transform in wondrous ways without end. Valleys, nourished by flowing water, remain full and never run dry. The vital essences of mountains, rivers, and valleys are like the spirits within the human body.

All Things Attained the One and Came to Life; Lords and Kings Attained the One and Became the Standard for All Under Heaven

All things can grow because they receive primordial Qi. If lords and kings attain the Dao, they can become the right way and an example for all under Heaven.

“Ten Thousand Things” is a collective term for all living beings. Humans are the most spiritually attuned and stand at the head of the Ten Thousand Things. Lords and kings can better bear the essence of the balanced and harmonious Qi, so they become leaders of the people and preside over the affairs of state and the work of education and guidance.

“Attain” means “to obtain.” The six things described above all receive the same Qi, and thus are able to come into being. The following passage describes six more conditions.

If Heaven cannot remain clear, it may collapse. If Earth cannot remain still, it may quake and fall into disorder.

“One” is the beginning of Qi: empty, without form. Heaven and Earth can be clear and still only by receiving “One,” and they must hold fast to it in order to endure. If they insist on acting and give rise to desire, they will lose “One.” If Heaven loses it, it cannot preserve its clarity, and signs of darkness, murkiness, or collapse may appear. If Earth loses it, it cannot maintain its stillness, and calamities of shaking and upheaval may follow. “One” should be held fast at all times; it cannot be gained at first and then lost later. Gaining it initially is not entirely within one’s control, but losing it later is always connected to one’s actions. This is why Laozi uses “collapse” and “upheaval” as warnings.

If spirits cannot preserve their numinous subtlety, they may fade away. If valleys cannot remain full, they may dry up.

When spirits follow “One” and remain empty and still, their mysterious workings can manifest naturally. But if they become proud and self-satisfied, their subtle powers will cease. If the spirits of rivers, lakes, and marshes become proud and self-satisfied, they go against “One”; the waters will dry up, and their sources will run dry.

If the Ten Thousand Things cannot grow, they may dwindle. If lords and kings cannot preserve their dignity, they may fall from power.

“One” refers to the subtle Qi of the Dao and is the root of all things that take on visible form. If people can return to the root and hold fast to “One,” their lives can be preserved; if they chase after what is peripheral and lose “One,” their original nature will perish. If rulers fail to hold fast to “One” while occupying positions of honor, they will likely soon be ruined and brought low—that is, they will collapse and fall. The six things discussed earlier all warn people against pride and self-satisfaction. Heaven and Earth, the spirits, and the empty valley are also mentioned because each has its own spiritual presence, extending the warning to them all. The introductory explanation says, “What Heaven and Earth and the ghosts and spirits all honor together.” The wording is the same in both passages, with no difference in meaning.

Thus, honor takes lowliness as its root, and a high position rests on a lower one.

Those who uphold the way of “One” remain humble, open, and tranquil in mind, whether they are high or low in status. By being modest, restraining themselves, and willingly taking a low position, they draw near to the Dao and preserve themselves. But if they pride themselves on their own worth, boast of themselves, and cling to honor and high rank, they go against the Dao and invite destruction.

That is why rulers call themselves “orphan,” “solitary,” and “unworthy”—with “unworthy” meaning lacking goodness or virtue. Is this not a way of taking lowliness as their foundation? Is it not?

“Orphan,” “solitary,” “widowed,” and “bereft” are all titles people regard as inauspicious. “Unworthy” also means lacking goodness; “grain” refers to a stipend. Rulers humbly claim to lack virtue and to be unfit to receive a stipend. If they hold this attitude and act accordingly, are they not placing themselves in a low position? In this way, they can hold fast to “One” while occupying a high position. The phrase “Is it not?” is rhetorical: it means “Is this not so?”

Thus, receiving many praises means that one has no true praise.

“Praise” means approval. If we pursue the idea of approval, we find that there is nothing with a fixed object that can be praised. People call someone “king” because everyone agrees to designate that person by this title. But if we investigate what the title “king” refers to, we find no fixed, unchanging essence of kingship. Why? The parts of the human body each have their own names, yet “king” is not the name of any one part. If the many parts are gathered together and called “king,” this is merely a provisional name arising from the convergence of conditions, not something that exists independently and truly.

Now let us examine where this title comes from: it arises from the people’s shared act of naming. Since the names established by the people are themselves provisional designations formed through conditions, how could “king” have a true, unchanging essence? Within the body, no fixed “king-body” can be found; outside it, there is no real “king-name.” Since it can be found neither within nor outside, who, then, is called “king”? Pursued in this way, there is no fixed object available to be praised. Everything else can be examined by the same reasoning: although things appear to exist in their own right, they are in fact provisional designations formed through the convergence of causes and conditions.

“Cart” and “vehicle” can be explained in the same way. This passage of the Jing is concise in wording yet broad in meaning. It chiefly uses inquiry and analysis to show that things are formed through the convergence of many conditions and should not be clung to as fixed entities. Similar ideas appear in the thought of Lord Lao and Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi says that things come into being by relying on other things and are lodged in a shared form; since what they rely on is itself a provisional aggregation, the so-called shared form is not truly unchanging either. Zhuangzi also says that if one points out the parts of a horse one by one, one cannot find an independent “horse”; yet the horse remains before one’s eyes, and people call it a “horse.”

The Scripture of the Western Ascension also says that the four elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—converge and, changing with the seasons and conditions, temporarily form the body. Here, the “Four Great Elements” are the four basic constituents of the body: earth, water, fire, and wind; the “four Qi” are the Qi of the four seasons. The Four Great Elements provisionally combine, changing over time to form the body for a while. They cannot each generate a human body on their own; they must await the convergence of many conditions. When a person dies, the Four Great Elements disperse separately, and the body ceases to exist.

The Jing should be explained according to its meaning, rather than by clinging only to its wording. If one follows the old Confucian methods of textual interpretation in every detail, there is no difference between those explanations and the interpretations of Daoist and secular texts. The school of Fu Yi has not yet truly understood the meaning of these Jing passages, yet accuses Daoist practitioners among the people of having been influenced by Buddhist thought. If Daoist practitioners are casually slandered as having absorbed Buddhist teachings, where, then, should these discussions and treatises be placed?

One does not wish to shine brilliantly like fine jade, nor to stand proudly apart like a stone.

Ancient editions write “lulu,” describing the appearance of jade; “gege” means a stone that resembles jade. Today, following the edition attributed to Xiangong, the text reads “lulu,” meaning the appearance of someone rushing about in toil. “Jade” is something the world prizes, while “luoluo” suggests being cast aside. Stone is among the things most looked down upon.

Those who cultivate the Dao do not wish to be as noble and conspicuous as jade, ceaselessly rushing about. They would rather be as lowly and inconspicuous as stone, at ease and still, returning to the Dao. This chapter does not advocate taking a position between jade and stone, because it argues only for dwelling below and keeping to lowliness; it was never meant to take a middle position.

Chapter Three: The Chapter on Returning

The previous chapter discussed how all things are born from the same Qi, as well as the affairs of deliberate action. This chapter discusses how people live in the world through Wuwei (non-action). Life begins by pursuing the branch ends and must ultimately return to the root. The preceding and present chapters explain gain and loss from different perspectives. The previous chapter discussed abandoning the outward signs of deliberate action and returning to the root of Wuwei; this chapter identifies the root of life, so that people may seek it accordingly.

“Returning is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao.”

“Returning” means turning back toward the root, and “movement” refers to what one does. Ordinary people call leaving an old place and going to a new one movement. Those who cultivate the Dao abandon the branch ends and return to the root; this is what a person of the Dao does. Hence the saying, “Returning is the movement of the Dao.” When body and mind are settled and still, without movement, yet one abandons being and returns to nonbeing, this too may be called “movement.”

It is like calling a distant place a “return”: since one has not truly departed, one cannot say it is far away; the word “far” is used only because there is no concrete substance. Here, too, there is no actual coming or going, yet the word “returning” is used. In the same way, the Dao has no comings and goings, yet “far” and “returning” can be used to describe it. A mind at ease and unmoving can also have the meaning of “returning.” Inner emptiness and stillness, together with gentle conduct in the world, are the practice of returning to the root. Hence the saying, “Weakness is the function of the Dao.” The next three lines offer a separate explanation.

“All things under Heaven are born from being,”

“Being” refers to the One Qi (the primordial vital energy born from the Dao). It has not yet taken on any concrete form, but it is already Qi. All things between Heaven and Earth arise from this One Qi, so it is said that “Being” is born from “the One Qi.”

“Nonbeing” refers to the Dao. The One Qi is born from the Dao, so it is said that “the One Qi” is born from “Nonbeing.” Tracing the source from which all things arise serves to point out the Dao, so that all beings may find their way back to it. To return is to come back to this formless, nameless Dao.

Chapter Four: The Superior Scholar

The preceding passage clarified the Dao’s foundation, enabling all things to return to it. Here, the text describes how the superior scholar has no doubts about the Dao, but diligently cultivates it, trusts in it, and puts it into practice. The earlier passage spoke of diligent practice; this one goes further by discussing cultivation. It therefore begins by explaining the different attitudes of three kinds of people when they hear of the Dao, then quotes the words of the ancients to teach humility and the concealment of one’s De. Finally, it explains that only the Dao gives equally to all things and brings them into being. The chapter has three parts: first, it discusses the belief and disbelief of the three kinds of people who hear of the Dao; then it cites an ancient saying to teach people to keep their De hidden; and finally, it describes the Dao’s giving and creation.

The superior scholar hears of the Dao and diligently puts it into practice.

The “Dao” here is the Dao described earlier, which enables all things to arise from Nonbeing and then return to their source. When the superior scholar hears that such a Dao exists, they trust in it and diligently cultivate it, without the slightest doubt.

The middling scholar hears of the Dao and seems to believe, yet also seems not to believe.

“Preserve” means to acknowledge something inwardly; “lose” means to deny it inwardly. Although the middling scholar has heard that the Dao exists, they cannot believe in it completely. At times they wish to return to the Dao; at other times they doubt that it is anything more than emptiness.

The inferior scholar hears of the Dao and bursts out laughing.

The inferior scholar hears that the Great Dao is quiet, still, and obscure, acting through Wuwei and taking no form. They do not believe in this mysterious principle, but instead clap their hands and laugh. The three kinds of people can be distinguished by whether they believe or disbelieve when they hear of the Dao.

If it were not mocked, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

Here, “not worthy” means “unable.” The inferior scholar takes gentleness and weakness for cowardice, and non-contention for foolishness, so they mock the Dao. If they did not mock it, that would often be because they admired broad learning used to show off, winning through argument, deceit and falsehood, and pursuing profit through expediency. These are the things they value, so naturally they would not consider them laughable. But these things are not the Dao, and therefore they cannot be called the Dao.

Those with shallow understanding will mock the principles of emptiness, stillness, Wuwei (non-action), gentleness, and humility. So the teachings of the ancients are cited to show that what they ridicule is precisely the teaching of the sages, and is worthy of following. What follows is such an ancient teaching:

Those who understand the great Dao (the Way) appear outwardly dim; those who diligently cultivate the Dao seem to be falling behind. Those whose hearts accord with the level, even Dao behave outwardly no differently from worldly convention, and may even seem deficient.

The highest De (Virtue/Power) is like an empty valley, able to receive all things. Its inner self is pure and upright, yet outwardly it seems to have suffered disgrace. De that is broad and complete appears outwardly ordinary and dull, and so seems deficient.

Those who establish De do not wish to display it, as though they had done something in secret. Those whose nature is sincere and steadfast appear outwardly to have changed. Here, “stealing” means concealing something and not wishing others to notice it; “changing” means undergoing transformation. The point is to preserve inner truth without wavering, while adapting outwardly to the times and changing with things.

The greatest square has no visible corners; the greatest vessel takes a long time to complete.

This section explains that when cultivation of the Great Dao reaches fulfillment, one’s state becomes upright and complete. Those who follow the most upright Dao do not cling to minor rules or deliberately polish trivial conduct; excessive attention to details can obstruct the Dao. Deviations in small matters can damage the right path. “The great vessel” refers to the heart of the Dao. Things made through deliberate effort in the world can be produced quickly, even when they are large. But the vessel of the Wuwei (non-action) Dao requires long cultivation to bring to completion, hence the saying, “The great vessel is completed late.” This urges people to take the long view and not expect results overnight.

“Great sound is rarely heard; the great image has no form.” Here, “great sound” refers to words that explain the Dao. Those who truly embody the Dao often respond only after the other person has shown some understanding. Few people ask about the Dao, so such words are rarely spoken; this is called “great sound is rarely heard.” The Jing (scripture) also uses this saying to urge people to speak little, cherish the Dao and uphold De (Virtue/Power), remain plain and unadorned, and avoid deliberate embellishment of their appearance and conduct. This is the meaning of “the great image has no form.”

“The Dao is hidden and nameless” means that the Dao’s essence has no form and cannot be seen, so it is called “hidden.” Since the Dao has no fixed form by which it can be identified, it is called “nameless.” It nourishes all things everywhere; only when we force a name upon it do we call it the “Great Dao.” The “Four Greats” mentioned earlier all take the Dao as their model: although the Dao’s workings appear among all things, its essence remains hidden and unseen. This is the main point of the chapter.

“Only the Dao is good at lending and bringing things to completion” describes how the Dao works. “Only” means that it alone does so; the phrase expresses wonder that, among all things, only the Dao is good at temporarily lending life to them and enabling them to grow. “Lend” means to provide temporarily, not forever; “bring to completion” means to complete for a time, not to make something permanent. Whatever is aided by the Dao and brought to completion will not remain that way forever, and will eventually return. The Jing’s use of “good at lending” carries a deeper meaning.

Chapter Five: The Dao Gives Birth

The previous passage explains how the Dao (the Way) achieves virtuous accomplishment through good conduct alone. This passage describes the Dao’s wondrous workings: it is the source from which all things grow, enabling De (Virtue/Power) to take shape and all things to come into being. The chapter therefore has four layers. The first explains where all things come from, helping people understand their source. The second explains how ordinary people, through ignorance and confusion, develop different thoughts that either follow the Dao or turn away from it. The third sets out the consequences, warning people against planting the causes of harm and explaining the gains and losses involved. The fourth points out that acting forcefully out of a desire to win while violating what is natural is the gravest error.

“Dao gives rise to One; One gives rise to Two; Two gives rise to Three; Three gives rise to all things.” This means that the Dao brings forth “One,” One in turn brings forth “Two,” Two brings forth “Three,” and Three ultimately brings forth all things. “One, Two, Three” summarizes the process by which all things come into being: they gradually differentiate from their source.

The original source of the Dao is “Utter Nonbeing,” but this Utter Nonbeing is not complete emptiness. It contains a subtle “Being” from which the One can arise. The Dao is the underlying reality; the One is the Qi generated by the Dao. Since Qi comes from the underlying reality, it is said that “the Dao gives birth to the One.” Although the Dao gives rise to the One, it still runs through it. The Dao’s wondrous workings circulate among all things, appearing in forms both coarse and subtle. The One still rests on the Dao as its foundation, and the Dao is not diminished by this.

Here, “the One” refers to primordial Qi, also called “Great Harmony.” In terms of number, it is called “One”; in terms of its virtue, it is called “Harmony.” It is primordial Qi because it is the beginning of Qi. Primordial Qi exists subtly, without fixed shape, color, or sound. Though it seems formless, it can transform and give rise to the Two. The Two refers to Yin and Yang, the two more distinct forms of Qi.

The One passes from the formless into the formed while remaining in an exceedingly subtle state. It is inaccurate to call it “nonbeing,” because it contains the myriad phenomena; it is also inaccurate to call it “being,” because the forms of concrete things have not yet appeared. It is blended and undivided, with wondrous powers, and can manifest as clear Qi and turbid Qi: clear Qi becomes Yang, and turbid Qi becomes Yin. Since Yin and Yang both emerge from the One, it is said that “the One gives birth to the Two.”

Once Yin and Yang differentiate, the Three—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—come into being. The Three refers to Heaven, Earth, and humanity, whose forms and qualities are now fully present: pure, clear Yang Qi forms Heaven; pure, turbid Yin Qi forms Earth; and the Qi in which Yin and Yang are harmonized forms humanity, the most spiritually endowed of all beings. “Harmony” is a single Qi that encompasses the subtle workings of both Yin and Yang; the three combine to make Harmony. The saying “the Two give birth to the Three” means that harmonious Qi does not arise separately from Yin and Yang. Rather, the One Qi is distributed through them. Just as the Dao is present throughout Heaven, Earth, and humanity, when speaking of these three, we call them simply “the Three” and need not count the Dao separately as a “Fourth.”

Heaven, Earth, and humanity each possess the three forms of Qi: Yin, Yang, and Harmony. Yet after Heaven, Earth, and humanity take shape, their original Qi of Yin-Yang harmony is not diminished. Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang, and all things could not exist without harmonious Qi; still less could they transform and give rise to the myriad things.

What has been described above is a process that moves from the formless toward the formed, and from the subtle toward the manifest. “Birth” here does not mean that one formed thing produces another formed thing, as we see today. When human beings first take shape, they receive harmonious Qi as well as clear and turbid Qi; these energies condense, combine, and transform to form the body. A person’s consciousness, meanwhile, is the essence of harmony with the Dao, received at birth together with Qi from Heaven and Earth. The Scripture of the Western Ascension says: “I and Heaven and Earth share one Qi and govern together, each keeping to its own root.” This is what it means.

The saying “the Three give birth to the myriad things” means that Heaven and Earth transform and give rise to all things, while human beings reproduce and join in nurturing them, allowing them to grow and follow their own nature. From this point onward, things mainly come into being when Yin and Yang interact, with formed things giving rise to other formed things. This is why it is said that “the Three give birth to the myriad things.” The following five sentences belong to the second section.

All things bear Yin on their backs and face Yang. The two Qi energies of Yin and Yang mingle and flow together, forming a state of harmony.

“Bear” means to carry on one’s back, “embrace” means to face, and “between” means to occupy the middle. A person’s back belongs to Yin, so it is said that one “bears Yin”; the chest belongs to Yang, so one “embraces Yang.” Harmonious Qi moves between Yin and Yang, coursing through the whole body and balancing the internal organs, so that both the body and the spirit are complete. This is why it is said, “Qi flowing between them brings harmony.” Plants grow up from the earth and stretch toward the sky, likewise bearing Yin and facing Yang. They too possess harmonious Qi, though they lack human consciousness.

The titles people dislike are “orphan,” “solitary,” and “unworthy,” yet lords and princes use them to refer to themselves.

This explains that when desires arise, likes and dislikes follow. This is the beginning of the karma beings create. “Orphan,” “solitary,” and “unworthy” are all titles people dislike. Most people seek only wealth and status, hoping to benefit themselves, but they fail to win others’ approval and may instead bring harm upon themselves. When lords and princes call themselves by these titles, however, people respect and cherish them. The next two sentences explain why.

Some things bring benefit when diminished, but cause harm when increased.

“Things” here broadly refers to people. Lords and princes call themselves “orphan,” “solitary,” and so on, thereby diminishing themselves, yet in the end they still enjoy wealth and status; this is benefit. Most people, by contrast, seek to benefit themselves by harming others, and often bring loss upon themselves in their pursuit of gain. This passage draws together and sums up what comes before and after it.

What people in the world teach is precisely the opposite of what I advocate.

“Also” means “opposite to” or “contrary to.” Most worldly teachings run counter to the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) that I have described, and instead promote action and intervention. As a result, people lack humility and are more likely to die young.

Those who act with brute force and arrogance often meet an untimely end.

People who are fierce and forceful, decisive and domineering, and always seek to benefit themselves at others’ expense are like rigid beams, relying on their own hardness. They are easily broken by all things and are also prone to an early death.

Acting with reckless force and headstrong decisiveness, harming others to benefit oneself, one imagines oneself strong enough to be a pillar of support. Yet in the end, one crushes and destroys all things, perishes halfway through life, and dies an untimely death. Since such a person does not meet a good end, this death is contrary to what is right.

I take this as the foundation of instruction.

“Wu” is how Lord Lao refers to himself; “fu” means foundation. Lord Lao says that the headstrong cannot ultimately escape death, and uses this to urge people to restrain themselves and rein in their forceful temperament. To make this teaching the foundation of learning is to have people weigh harm against benefit, understand the principles involved, and use them to warn later generations. The chapter begins by discussing the source of life, stirring people’s longing; it then describes calamity, teaching people to fear and abandon forcefulness. It first guides through principle, then admonishes through the consequences of calamity, with the aim of helping people abandon what is secondary and return to the root.

Chapter Six: All Under Heaven

The previous passage says that the headstrong do not meet a good end. This passage turns to show that the way of softness accords with true principle and deserves esteem. Softness is the opposite of hardness, so the discussion has two parts: first, it explains how softness can overcome strength; then, it praises the way of Wuwei (non-action), while lamenting that few people in the world can attain it. The following four lines belong to the first part.

The softest thing under heaven can move freely through the hardest thing under heaven.

“Utmost softness” and “utmost hardness” each have two meanings: one concerns external things, the other the inner nature of the mind. Externally, the softest of all things is the Dao, and the hardest are metal and stone. “Move freely” means to travel through without hindrance. Though metal and stone are hard, the Dao can pass through them and move freely, as if traveling within them. The Scripture of the Western Ascension says, “The Dao is soft because it encompasses Heaven and Earth and penetrates the myriad things.” In terms of the inner nature of the mind, “utmost softness” refers to a gentle Dao-centered heart, while “utmost hardness” refers to afflictions. Afflictions accumulated over many lifetimes are as hard as metal and stone; only a gentle Dao-centered heart can overcome them effectively and make them dissipate.

The power of the formless and imageless can enter places without a gap. From this, I know that Wuwei is beneficial.

“Nonbeing” refers to the mind’s empty stillness: when every concern and thought is cleared from the mind, all attachments dissipate. “Without gaps” refers to the Dao: the Dao is empty, still, subtle, and mysterious, without flaw or fissure. “Entering” means attuning oneself to it. Although the Dao is hidden, subtle, and mysterious, what hinders people from understanding it is their own thoughts. Thus, when the mind clings to nothing and the inner self attunes to the Dao, one can experience the benefits the Dao brings. Comparing this practice of inner emptiness and stillness with Wuwei (non-action) shows how greatly it can help people.

“Teaching without words” means guiding people through one’s own conduct rather than through speech. Those who study the Dao observe and experience this teaching, then follow it without straining their minds or exerting themselves. This practice calls for the body to refrain from reckless action and the mind to be free of desire. One first dispels affliction, then attunes oneself to the Dao without gaps. This is the benefit of Wuwei.

Teaching without words and practicing Wuwei go beyond what people ordinarily hear and see, so most people find them difficult to understand. That is why few in the world can put them into practice. Yet by discerning their purpose through their effects, one can understand this wordless teaching.

Chapter Seven: Name and Body

The previous chapter explained how the virtue of Wuwei benefits others. This chapter turns to show how worldly striving and acquisitiveness harm oneself. Setting these gains and losses against one another, it proceeds in three stages: first, it compares which is more precious, one’s reputation or one’s body; next, it shows that the deeper one’s attachment, the greater the danger; finally, it explains that only by severing desire and knowing contentment can one preserve one’s life.

Which is more precious: reputation or the body?

Fame is an empty reputation outside oneself; the body and life are what truly matter. Without the body, life cannot continue. When one does not chase empty fame, the body can instead endure. The wise conceal their reputation and keep clear of danger to preserve themselves; the foolish covet fame, damaging their spirit and endangering their lives. Laozi saw that people of his time were sacrificing their lives to become famous and regarded this as delusion. He therefore asked: Which is more worth cherishing, the body or fame? This question urges the noble-minded to weigh things carefully and understand what to choose and what to relinquish.

Which matters more, the body or possessions?

“Goods” is a general term for possessions. People seek possessions because they intend to use them to care for the body. Yet some covet wealth and lose their lives, as though they valued possessions more than the body. This is extreme folly. Some consider the loss of even a single arm a great calamity under heaven; how, then, could the benefit of preserving the whole body be compared with possessions? This is a warning to those who covet wealth.

Which is the calamity: gain or loss?

Here two questions are posed in succession. Ordinary people think that losing fame and profit is a calamity, while gaining them means there is no calamity. But from the standpoint of the Dao (the Way), if someone acts shamefully and violates what is right in order to gain fame and profit, and thereby invites disaster, that is a true calamity. Losing fame and profit, by contrast, may allow someone to remain safe, deepen their De (Virtue/Power), receive blessings, and preserve their life. In that case, there is no calamity. Fame and profit are things that anyone may pursue: when sought in due measure, they can bring good fortune; when pursued in excess, they invite harm. One must discern where the proper measure lies.

Therefore, excessive attachment to fame and profit inevitably comes at a great cost; those who amass great quantities of possessions often suffer heavy losses in the end.

This answers the earlier questions about fame and profit. Fame and profit are like dangerous weapons: excessive attachment to them damages the spirit and endangers life, while also consuming one’s achievements and vital essence. The cost is therefore enormous. Greed has no limit. Those who acquire possessions but refuse to spend or share them become increasingly vulnerable to plunder and disaster as their hoard grows larger and more deeply hidden. Anyone who dies for fame and profit, or suffers harm through pursuing them improperly, has incurred a grave loss.

Those who know contentment avoid disgrace; those who know when to stop avoid danger and can therefore endure.

To know contentment is to keep to one’s proper share. There are two kinds of share: one is the share allotted by nature, meaning a person’s natural needs; the other is the share of material goods, meaning what one is entitled to possess. The natural share is like needing food when hungry and clothing when cold. Once one has eaten enough and is warmly dressed, one’s natural needs are met. Fur robes one cannot wear out and surplus grain one cannot eat exceed that share. Only when one can stop after having enough does one truly know contentment. Continuing to eat after being full can harm the body; putting on more clothes when already warm may bring on a fever. This harms the cultivation of health and earns one a reputation for gluttony, which is why it is said to bring disgrace.

The share of material goods is what one ought to possess. Taking only what falls within one’s share and not taking what lies beyond it is knowing when to stop; thus one avoids the danger of ruin. If one refuses to stop and forcibly takes what lies beyond one’s share, one may invite danger or even destruction. Even though eating is one’s proper share, continuing to eat after being full shows a lack of restraint and can earn one a reputation for overeating. Such behavior is undignified, but it does not necessarily lead to ruin. This shows that knowing contentment without knowing when to stop is a lesser problem; failing to stop brings graver consequences. If one can restrain oneself when it is time to be content and time to stop, one avoids disgrace and danger, preserves one’s allotted years, and endures.

“Chapter Eight of the Great Completion”

The preceding passage explained that coveting fame and profit can cost one both body and mind. Here, it explains that only by relinquishing fame and profit and forgetting empty renown can one bring one’s Virtue and accomplishments to full completion. The author uses this to discuss fortune and misfortune, developing the point in two parts. The first explains that a person of Virtue can diminish what they possess and thereby achieve expansive completeness. The second explains that agitation brings loss, while stillness accords with the right way.

Great completion may appear to have flaws, yet its function never wanes.

“Exhaustion” means poverty or depletion. A person whose cultivation of virtue has reached great completion remains humble and self-contained throughout the day, as if still lacking something. When virtue fills the inside and benefits extend to the outside, that person is like a good well: however much people draw from it, it never runs dry. Thus there is no depletion. The earlier passage says that pursuing fame to the point of harming oneself comes from an inability to forget fame. Here, it says that only those who forget fame and conceal their traces can preserve their virtue and lifespan.

Great fullness seems empty; its use is inexhaustible.

A person whose cultivation of the Dao and virtue has reached perfection appears outwardly empty and humble, as if not yet sufficient. Able to adapt to circumstances and put things to use, this person’s resources are inexhaustible. Having achieved completion and fullness, their inner virtue is also whole and complete.

Great straightness seems bent.

To be inwardly attuned to the right way and free from selfish or misguided thoughts is true uprightness. In one’s conduct, however, one adapts to worldly circumstances, going along with them without resistance; outwardly, this can seem like bending or yielding.

Great skill seems clumsy.

To handle matters flexibly and do what is just right is true skill. To follow established ways without deliberately seeking innovation can appear clumsy.

Great eloquence seems inarticulate.

To distinguish truth from falsehood and analyze difficult questions is eloquence. One who does not use clever words to please others, and who, having understood a principle, does not cling to words, can seem inarticulate.

Restlessness overcomes cold; stillness overcomes heat.

This uses the transformations of Yin-Yang to explain how things change when they reach an extreme. “Cold” symbolizes the force of decline and destruction; “heat” symbolizes the force of growth. When Yang energy becomes restless to the extreme, it turns into cold, and all things wither. When Yin energy reaches extreme stillness, it turns into warmth, and all things grow. This serves as a metaphor for human cultivation: when conduct becomes excessively restless and driven, virtue and achievement are diminished, so completion cannot be attained. As harmful thoughts multiply and the force of destruction grows stronger, good deeds wither, leaving a person seemingly insufficient and empty. When emptiness and stillness reach their utmost, they in turn naturally lessen deliberate action, making one seem deficient, as though empty. By contrast, as good thoughts accumulate, merit and virtue grow, enabling great achievement and fullness.

Clarity and stillness are the standard for all under Heaven.

“Clarity” means that disturbances from the outside world cannot stain you; “stillness” means that the heart-mind is not disturbed. When untouched by such disturbances, the six senses—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—are pure. When the heart-mind is unmoved, the five spirits, traditionally understood in Daoism as the spirits of the five organs, are at peace. With this virtue of clarity, stillness, and harmony, one can become a standard for all under Heaven. As virtue continues to grow, one can attain great achievement and fullness.

Qingjing means that the outer world does not stain one with worldly concerns, and the mind within is not disturbed by distracting thoughts. When the outer dust leaves no stain, the Six Senses—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—are pure and still. When the mind within is unmoved, the Five Spirits, the spiritual energies governed by the five organs in the body, are at peace. A person who embodies this calm and still virtue can serve as a model for all under Heaven. Hence the saying: “Qingjing is the standard for all under Heaven.”

The original text is missing Chapters Nine, “The World”; Ten, “Do Not Go Out”; Eleven, “Learning to Act”; Twelve, “The Sage”; Thirteen, “Birth”; Fourteen, “The Dao Gives Birth”; and Fifteen, “Returning to the Source.”

Commentary on the True Classic of the Dao and De, volumes four and five.

The De Scripture

Chapter Sixteen, “If I Had”

The preceding chapter explained that “opening the apertures and acting with purpose” brings danger that is difficult to remedy. Here the text turns to the profound caution required when governing by wisdom, and therefore offers a solemn admonition. The chapter has three parts. The first imagines a wise person governing the world and urges people to trust in the Great Dao. The second explains that people’s fondness for deviant ways harms both their material goods and their De. The third uses thieves who boast of themselves to show that deviant ways are not the right way.

If I had even a little wisdom and followed the Great Dao, I would act with the utmost care and reverence in carrying out its teachings.

“If I had” introduces a hypothetical. “Jie” means “great,” though the two commentators Zang and Liu both interpret it as “small”; here, the interpretation of the “Two De” is adopted. “Having wisdom” refers to making plans and taking action. Even if one possessed only a little wisdom, governing the world and carrying out its teachings in accordance with the Great Dao would require the utmost care. The killing of a person’s father or elder brother is already a cause for alarm; how much more so when the actions of those who teach affect the whole world? If they go against the principles governing the movements of the sun and moon, disturb the vital energies of mountains and rivers, disrupt the seasons, and even harm insects, then the people’s simple customs will also grow shallow and frivolous. When Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—fall out of harmony, and the Five Phases lose their proper order, the world will be plunged into a fearful state. The harm would be so great that one would not dare govern and teach the world by relying on even the slightest measure of subjective cleverness.

The Great Dao is broad and level by nature, yet the people insist on taking narrow side paths.

The “side paths” are deviant, narrow ways. Clinging to small matters of benevolence and righteousness, pursuing deliberate action while receiving little blessing—these are not the true Great Dao, and are therefore regarded as crooked paths. Many people chase after such things, afraid they will fall behind, their minds lost in narrow concerns. How could they know these are not the proper way?

The Great Dao is broad and level, free of desire and contrivance. There is no need to labor over thoughts within, nor to expend wealth without. Simply meet things calmly and follow their natural course, and all under Heaven will be transformed. This is how the Great Dao is put into practice, though people often fail to understand it.

The court is adorned in great splendor, while the fields lie neglected and the granaries stand empty.

Here, “court” refers to the governing court, where the five ranks of feudal lords gather and the peoples of the four directions come to pay allegiance. In the presence of the people, it ought to set an example of humility and gentleness, and uphold frugality and simplicity. “Steps” refers to the stairs before a hall, and can also mean tearing down old structures and rebuilding them. If one abandons the simplicity of thatched roofs and earthen steps, replacing them with grand, ornate halls and elaborately decorated stairways, flaunting luxury before others to elevate one’s own status, this is what it means for “the court to be adorned in great splendor.”

When the court requisitions labor during the farming season and puts able-bodied men to work, no one is left to till the fields, and the land falls into neglect. Harvests fail, homes decay, and the people struggle to make a living. The state has no reserves, so the granaries naturally stand empty.

From the perspective of self-cultivation, “court” can also refer to the human mind. The mind is where the five spirits and myriad numinous beings—the collective term for various ideas of spirits within the body and mind—gather. It is also where thoughts of fame, profit, gain and loss, right and wrong converge. These should be continually diminished until Wuwei (non-action) is reached. If one scorns simplicity and sincerity, speaks without trustworthiness, and seeks only ornate language, then the mind’s “court” has been over-adorned. When desires fill the heart and thoughts of right and wrong accumulate without end, the mind and spirit grow confused, making it difficult for wisdom to appear. This is what it means for “the fields of the mind to lie neglected.” If one does not cultivate the Dao, and one’s deeds and achievements are deficient, it is like holding one’s neck stiff and making empty speeches, with nothing stored within. This is what it means for “the granaries to stand empty.”

Wearing splendid clothes, carrying a sharp sword, eating lavishly without knowing when to stop, and having wealth in abundance.

They concern themselves only with outward luxury, insisting on wearing fine, soft silk garments. This is a preoccupation with splendid clothing. Inwardly, they are greedy and cruel, concerned only with increasing their own gain at others’ expense, like someone wearing a sharp sword at the waist. Every kind of delicacy is piled before them, yet not one dish is worth lifting chopsticks for. This is a rejection of food. The treasuries are filled with the world’s rare treasures and curious objects; their wealth is already abundant and more than sufficient. The last two sentences together make up the third layer of meaning.

This is called “the boast of a thief”: possessing wealth like a thief and then boasting about it. Such boasting does not accord with the Dao.

The wealth described above did not originally belong to these people. They seized it for themselves by plundering the people, like thieves who boast about what they have stolen. The harm is truly grave; how could this be said to accord with the Dao? All the conduct criticized above runs counter to the Great Dao. Even those who practice benevolence and righteousness have already been described as departing from the Dao—how much more so those who take a crooked path beyond benevolence and righteousness?

Chapter Seventeen: Skillful Establishment

The previous chapter discussed insatiable greed and pursuing one’s own benefit at others’ expense. This chapter discusses cherishing the true Dao, keeping to one’s proper place, cultivating oneself, and benefiting others. The previous chapter pointed out the faults; this one goes on to explain how to remedy them. The chapter has three layers: first, it says that those who are skillful in setting their resolve firmly hold to the Dao without wavering; next, it discusses cultivating oneself and governing one’s family so that benefits gradually spread; finally, it shows how to understand the relationship between self and others, and to recognize who is truly close. The following three sentences form the first layer.

What is skillfully established cannot be uprooted; what is skillfully held fast cannot be lost.

“Establish” means laying a foundation at the beginning of an undertaking; “uproot” means later overturning and ruining it. To set one’s resolve on practicing the Dao, beginning with putting oneself in order and governing one’s family, then gradually extending the benefits, without being overturned by changing circumstances—this may be called skillful establishment. “Hold” means to keep firm; “slip away” means to lose or depart from something. To hold fast to the Dao, never letting it slip away, is skillful holding.

Generation after generation of descendants will make offerings, without end.

“Cease” means to come to an end. Where there is an ancestral temple and descendants flourish, the sacrifices can continue; when the descendants dwindle, the sacrifices cease. If a family sets its aspirations high, holds firmly to the Way, and does not falter, then a household that accumulates good deeds will build up blessings deep and lasting, inherited from the ancestors and passed down to the descendants. When each generation has worthy people, good deeds can continue without interruption.

Some people think of descendants as merely shallow and worldly. Yet the cultivation of the Dao described in this scripture is not limited to monastics or to those living in the secular world. Can people with descendants not also embrace the Great Dao? The text goes on to discuss cultivating oneself, governing one’s family, and extending the Way to all under Heaven. This shows that its teaching applies broadly: both monastics and laypeople can benefit from it. One should not exclude people in white robes simply because someone in a yellow robe cultivates the Dao. The following five statements show how cultivation of the Dao extends step by step from oneself to ever wider circles.

When one cultivates the Dao in oneself, De returns to its original purity. Those who cultivate themselves through the Great Dao cast off cravings and desires, dispel errant thoughts and deceit, and single-mindedly hold to the One. Their De thus becomes pure.

When one cultivates the Dao in the family, De comes to abound. Just as wings, once fully grown, can carry one high into the sky, complete De can transform others. After succeeding in self-cultivation, one uses the Great Dao to govern the family, helping one’s spouse and children return to simplicity. They become content with a modest life and take joy in holding to the Dao, gradually shedding worldly habits. Their De is renewed day by day, and their cultivation of the Dao continues to grow; hence it is said that De “abounds.”

When one cultivates the Dao in the community, De increases. A person of the Dao lives among the community, where neighbors admire and follow their example. People of higher and lower standing each observe their proper place, and even those driven by greed and rivalry learn restraint and integrity. De therefore continues to grow.

When one cultivates the Dao in the state, De becomes abundant. Governing the state through the Great Dao nurtures the people and transforms local customs. The people become simple and honest, and all things flourish and abound; hence it is said that De is abundant.

When one cultivates the Dao throughout all under Heaven, De reaches everywhere.

The function of the Dao is like a flame passed from one lamp to another: wherever it shines, light appears. It does not favor only one person. It spreads its deep, generous grace far and wide, reaching beings in the distant realms as well as those in the world of the dead. Even humble plants such as mugwort and creeping grasses can grow in peace, and every tiny creature can follow its nature. Nothing fails to receive its help. This is why the Dao is said to benefit all.

Therefore, observe yourself through yourself; observe one family through that family, one village through that village, and one state through that state; then observe the world through the world.

To observe others, first observe yourself. There are many ways to observe; here, we will briefly describe three: the observation of being, the observation of emptiness, and the observation of reality.

The first is the “observation of being.” Heshang Gong says that a Dao practitioner can observe the body of someone who does not practice the Dao, and compare which body endures and which tends toward decline. The same applies to observing villages, states, and the world. By examining these signs of endurance and decline, one can discern the difference between practicing the Dao and not practicing it. This is called the “observation of being.”

The second is the “observation of emptiness.” Observe that the body is illusory and insubstantial, with no fixed, unchanging reality, and steady your mind in this understanding. The Jing says, “Know the essential teaching: within the Three Realms, the three generations are all empty.” This means that the three realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Realm of Formlessness—as well as everything that continues from generation to generation in this world, are ultimately empty. Though this body exists, in the end it too returns to emptiness. This way of observing is therefore called the “observation of emptiness.”

The third is the “observation of reality.” This means observing in accordance with the teachings of this Jing: What gives rise to this body? Where does it come from, and whose descendants are we? What is the substance of our limbs and bones? What governs Qi, life, and spirit? Following the Jing in search of the underlying principle, we see that they all originate in the Dao. In the beginning, the One Qi gave rise to them; thereafter, they underwent the transformations of Yin-Yang. The Dao dispersed and became spirit, the original harmonious Qi became the Qi of life, and Yin-Yang formed the material substance of the body. The Great Dao is like a master craftsman, blending and shaping these elements to create the human body.

The heart is the essence of Yin-Yang and governs likes and desires. Shen is the essence of the Great Dao and governs Qi and life. It is through these that the body’s various functions are joined together. Conditions of many kinds come together, some subtle and some coarse. The subtle become worthy people and sages; the coarse become ordinary and dull. Birds and beasts also arise from this: these are the bodies that first take shape.

Afterward, life reproduces through physical forms, giving rise to distinct kinds, some sentient and some insentient. Evil thoughts gradually emerge, and when accumulated they form karma. Plants have no awareness, so their kinds and inherent natures generally remain unchanged. Humans and animals are sentient, and each undergoes cycles of transformation according to its karma. By following the teachings of the Jing and observing each level carefully, one can see the matter clearly.

From this we know that the Dao is the mother of all things, and that we ourselves are descendants of the Dao. Once we recognize mother and child, we should return to the mother without delay. Thus the Jing says, “The world has a beginning, which is the mother of the world. Having found the mother, one knows her children. Having known her children, one returns to keep to the mother.” This is a truth beyond doubt. Without clear and penetrating wisdom, it is difficult to recognize, and so this is called the “observation of reality.”

Since this is so, we should cherish ourselves and not let the Dao’s lineage fall into decline. We should devote ourselves to serving the mother of the Dao and care for her with complete sincerity. We must not indulge our desires or become attached and entangled, hastening toward death and letting the Dao’s seed sink into the Three Destinies—the three painful and evil states spoken of in Daoism. Yet knowing that there is a mother of the Dao does not mean merely sitting idle and waiting, or setting out to seek her deliberately. First, we must understand where the mother of the Dao is and what form she takes.

Let us now consider what the mother of the Dao is. We cannot call it “being,” nor can we call it “nonbeing.” It has no source from which it comes and no place to which it returns. It transcends all forms and colors, and its appearance cannot be described. It lies beyond being and nonbeing and cannot be confined to any particular direction. Looking toward it, we see no beginning; following it, we see no end. It is elusive and unfathomable, seemingly without a trace.

Once we understand that the mother of the Dao is wondrous and beyond measure, we should honor her, keep her deeply in mind, and diligently follow her principles. The key to cultivation lies in being unlike the habits of the world: cling neither to “being” nor to “nonbeing.” Let the mind be empty and still, rely on nothing, and remain settled in itself. After practicing this for a long time, the heart will naturally become peaceful and at ease, as though it had understood something.

Then compare your own mind with the mother of the Dao. To settle the mind and spirit, bring them into accord with emptiness and stillness. When the mind resembles the mother of the Dao, it becomes one with the Dao. When the Dao’s wondrous function arrives, the spirit becomes peaceful and joyful; this is why it is said to be as though one had gained something. When the mind sinks into this state, it is like a wanderer who has finally returned home, or like someone who has obtained a mysterious pearl. Everything is then complete, and there is nothing more to seek.

Having observed yourself in this way, observe your family, your state, and finally the world. From sages who have attained the Dao down to mosquitoes and tiny insects, all share the same source in the mother of the Dao, the same Qi, and the same inherent nature. Love among brothers is certainly important, but one should not regard only one’s own relatives as close. The Xisheng Jing says, “The Dao is not found in me alone; all things possess it. All things may not know it, but the Dao dwells within them.” The Dao does not exist only within me: all things possess it. They may not know it themselves, but the Dao dwells within them. This is the heart of observing yourself through yourself.

Those who deeply cultivate De are filled within with a peaceful Qi, and external things cannot harm them. Their Virtue is profound and beyond ordinary people’s understanding, so the newborn infant is used as a metaphor for them.

Venomous creatures do not sting them, fierce beasts do not seize them, and birds of prey do not attack them.

Animals such as poisonous insects, snakes, and lizards harm people in different ways: snakes bite with their mouths, while lizards strike with their tails. “To sting” means to injure someone with poison. “To seize” means to pounce, and can also mean to grab something with the claws. This bird can pounce on a person with its claws, hold fast, carry them away, and eat them. Fierce beasts are wild animals such as tigers and wolves. Someone endowed with abundant De (Virtue/Power) has a heart filled with pure, harmonious Qi (vital energy), so poisonous creatures and fierce beasts will not pounce on or seize them. Harmonious Qi can resonate with all things; its effects can reach this extent.

The bones are weak and the sinews soft, yet the grip is firm.

A newborn baby is called a “red child”: its hair has not yet grown, its skin is rosy, and its body is tender and soft. At this stage, its sinews and bones are very weak. When a baby curls its four fingers around its thumb, this hand gesture is called “the firm grip.” The firm grip means gathering and holding in Qi. The baby’s pure, harmonious Qi is concentrated and has not yet dispersed. It makes a fist without effort or fatigue, naturally, and not by deliberate intent.

Before knowing the union of male and female, the penis stirs: this is the utmost of essence.

“Penis” here refers to movement in a baby’s genitals. “Female” and “male” refer respectively to the sexes. A baby does not yet understand sexual union, yet its genitals may stir because the harmonious Qi within it is abundant, not because of desire.

Crying all day without becoming hoarse: this is the utmost of harmony.

“To become hoarse” means that the voice grows rough and the throat becomes dry. A baby cries all day without its voice becoming hoarse; this shows that the harmonious Qi within it is complete.

Knowing harmony is called constancy; knowing constancy is called clarity.

The presence of harmonious Qi in the body can be seen in such signs as crying without becoming hoarse and remaining unharmed by poisonous creatures. A person who understands the benefits of harmonious Qi will persist in maintaining harmony day after day, making it a regular practice. Here, “constancy” means continuous, uninterrupted cultivation. In the passage below, “constancy” refers instead to a state in which life continues without decline or transformation. When the body attains this constancy, the principles of life become clear; hence the saying, “Knowing constancy is called clarity.”

The first “knowing” means simply understanding that maintaining harmony is practicable; the mind has not yet fully grasped it. The second “knowing” means that, through maintaining harmony, one has gained something: the body tends toward lasting constancy, and the mind becomes clear. The relation between cause and effect is plain: cultivation brings benefit, and benefit brings clarity.

Excessive self-cultivation can bring ill fortune. When thoughts drive the breath into agitation, one becomes hard and forceful.

“Fortune” refers to signs that foretell good or ill. Conduct that benefits life reveals auspicious signs, while evil conduct reveals danger. Here, “excessive self-cultivation” means greedily seeking lavish care for oneself, only to attract strange occurrences over time and reveal signs of ill fortune. “Breath” refers to harmonious Qi (vital energy): when the mind is empty and still, harmonious Qi can gather; when thoughts race and grow agitated, it disperses. A person then changes from gentle to hard, growing ever more forceful. Hardness and force belong to the path toward death, and so are inauspicious.

When things reach their height, they move toward decline and age. This change is a natural law, so why say that it “is not the Dao (the Way)”? The passage uses the changes of things to explain the human condition. Things first flourish and then decline; this is the constant course of Heaven. But when a person’s desires grow excessive, that is “flourishing”; when the mind grows clouded, that is “aging.” Both conditions depart from the Dao, which is why the text says they “are not the Dao.” Once this departure has been pointed out, such a state should not be allowed to continue. People should be urged to stop it as soon as possible.

Chapter Nineteen: Those Who Know

The preceding passage says that excessive self-cultivation and letting the mind stir the breath both depart from the Dao. This passage goes on to explain that restraining the senses and closing the gates of the mind accord with the true Dao. The earlier part speaks of not letting the senses’ cleverness grow; the later part speaks of forgetting distinctions between high and low and keeping the mind distant from worldly concerns. The chapter has nine sentences in all. The first part is explained below.

Those who know the Dao do not speak much; those who speak much do not know it.

The Dao values practice, not words. Those who truly know the Dao put it into practice through their actions. They do not rely on clever speech and boastful talk; this is what it means to know the Dao. The Dao must be understood through experience and practice. Fixating on words leads away from it. That is why those who know the Dao do not speak much. If someone can only talk about it without putting it into practice, those words cannot be considered the Dao. How much less can this be said of those who do not know it and simply talk at length?

Restrain the desires of the senses; close the gates of the mind.

The meanings of “gate” and “opening” have already been explained in detail. “Closing and sealing” has two layers of meaning: in practical terms, it means closing off the senses; in principle, it means gathering and settling the mind.

In practical terms, the mouth’s craving for flavors can easily feed desire and lead to wrongdoing. Always believing oneself right and others wrong, and arguing impulsively, can bring trouble. The more the ears and eyes take in, the more opportunities there may be for error. The senses continually give rise to harmful thoughts, day and night. This is what it means to follow the teachings of the Dao De Jing and keep the senses in check.

In principle, closing off the senses allows one to experience the Dao without letting external things disturb the heart. When you want to eat, do not let flavors draw you along; when you want to speak, do not argue carelessly over right and wrong. Do not indulge the ears and eyes by looking and listening, for what they perceive cannot bring a person to truly understand the Great Dao. Let the mind and spirit settle into stillness.

Those of middling capacity begin by restraining their conduct, then go on to understand the principle behind it. Those of higher capacity awaken and let go of the distinction between inner mind and external things alike. Their minds cling to nothing, and they remain inwardly unbound by their surroundings. This is what it means to be truly skilled at guarding and keeping still.

Blunt its sharpness; untangle its knots.

“To blunt” means to break off or restrain. “Knots” refers to grudges and disputes. Restrain the six outer senses—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—and dispel the three inner poisons—greed, anger, and delusion. Then the Dao can dwell peacefully within the heart, and sharpness and turmoil will naturally subside. Disputes that once existed no longer do: the Dao has dissolved them. This does not mean the disputes remain and are merely being held down for a time by the Dao.

Soften its brightness; mingle with the dust.

“To soften the brightness” means to gather in one’s radiance and not display one’s sharpness. “Mingle with the dust” means to adapt to ordinary life in the world.

These six phrases have already been discussed above. They are repeated here because they are of immediate importance to people, and so warrant particular emphasis.

This is called mysterious sameness.

“Mysterious” means free of obstruction. The practices described above enable one to experience the Dao inwardly and adapt to ordinary life outwardly. There is no clinging or fixation between the inner and outer; one is subtly joined with the principle as a single whole. This is therefore called “mysterious sameness.”

Thus, one cannot make people draw near, nor make them keep their distance.

Those who attain the state of “mysterious sameness,” in which they blend wholly with the Great Dao, are detached and still. Their spirit gathers beyond the myriad things, and their intent connects with the source of the Dao. Their tastes and inclinations differ entirely from those of the world, so worldly affection cannot be used to draw close to them or seek their favor. The De of those who follow the Dao is fragrant, like orchid and cassia. Near them, body and mind are steeped in their influence; even a distant glimpse of their bearing seems to lessen one’s troubles. We should not, then, dismiss them with an ordinary person’s attitude simply because they seem remote.

Such people are not swayed by gain or affected by misfortune.

They have neither schemes nor desires, so wealth and beauty cannot tempt them. They commit no wrongs and do not pursue fame, so punishments and struggles over rank cannot harm them.

Such people are not changed by honor, nor diminished by low status.

They look lightly on splendor and favor, so titles and appointments cannot make them think themselves noble. Those who follow the Dao deserve respect; they cannot be treated as lowly people to be used at will. Distinctions such as intimacy and distance, benefit and harm, arise only in those who cling to things in their minds. They have now let go of every kind of worry, rest peacefully without seeking anything, and no longer take external things as companions. How, then, could benefit or harm, high rank or low, affect them?

Therefore, they are the people whom all under Heaven honor.

Among all that is worthy of reverence under Heaven, only those foremost in De deserve to be honored. Their highest De reaches far; they are mysteriously united and tranquil. Splendor and profit cannot elevate them, and worldly affairs cannot unsettle them. If we are fortunate enough to meet such people, who would fail to respect them? The six circumstances described above are common experiences of the age and common sources of worry for ordinary people. Only those who follow the Dao can remain untouched by them.

Governing through Dao, Chapter Twenty

The previous chapter spoke of shutting off the ears and eyes, gathering in the senses, and cultivating oneself, with realization of the Great Dao as the main aim. This chapter says that once cultivation of the Dao is complete, one must also teach others, extending one’s own cultivation to the myriad things.

This chapter has three parts. The first explains that the influence of three kinds of De extends to different ranges. The second uses a question and answer to show how the stated principles can be tested. The third says that the author seeks only to avoid imposing actions, so that the state may be prosperous and the people simple and sincere.

Governing the state through Dao

Those who govern a state through political directives are feudal lords. “Governance” here includes benevolence and righteousness, ritual and propriety, trustworthiness, laws, and various rules and regulations, all used to instruct the people and manage society. Yet implementing these directives is often cumbersome, and those who comply are burdened by them. They may govern a small state, but they are not enough to instruct all under Heaven. Hence the phrase “govern a state.”

In “use cunning in employing troops,” “cunning” means deceptive strategies and expedient schemes. When people like the Four Fiends defy the Way of Heaven, disrupt the proper order, and make the people live in unrest, a sound strategy is needed to use military force to quell the disorder. The wise are responsible for handling such difficult situations. When there is no alternative, they may resort to expedient measures and deception, but they must not make a lasting practice of it.

“Take all under Heaven through non-interference” means that an emperor governs all under Heaven. “Wuwei (non-action) and non-interference” are the virtues an emperor should possess: the heart is free of selfish desire, one does not recklessly initiate affairs, and one does not deliberately impose labor on others. Then the people naturally admire and rally to him, and people from all directions come of their own accord. Since he does not deliberately seek to gain all under Heaven, this is called “taking all under Heaven through non-interference.”

How do I know that the state of all under Heaven is like this? I know it by the principles explained above.

“How do I know?” poses the question; “is like this” gives the answer. “By this” means comparing and explaining the three matters discussed earlier: using cunning in employing troops, governing a state through political directives, and taking all under Heaven through non-interference. These are the capacities of those who govern; the military, the state, and all under Heaven are the positions they occupy. Affairs can be governed well only when someone has the capacities suited to their position. And when someone with the right capacities obtains a fitting position, the Dao can be put into practice. Therefore, by observing a person’s capacities, one can judge the condition of governance in the position they occupy; by observing the position, one can also discern the quality of their capacities. This is what “knowing by this” means.

The more prohibitions and restrictions there are in the world, the poorer the people become.

This explains how governing all under Heaven through deliberate action harms the people, using the imposition of excessive prohibitions as an example. The directives issued from above make the people ever poorer; the word “more” indicates that the harm caused by prohibitions takes many forms. Here, “prohibitions” refers to laws and decrees. As harsh statutes and severe punishments grow ever more numerous, the people are oppressed in their daily lives and sink into hunger and hardship, even when they dare not take any action. They therefore become increasingly poor.

This passage explains that when a ruler governs the realm with cumbersome and harsh decrees, the people are harmed. This is just as the earlier saying puts it: “The more the government governs, the poorer the people become.” Here, “prohibitions” means laws and decrees. When punishments are severe and regulations numerous, the people suffer hunger and cold in silence; when they try to make a living, they are liable to break the law.

In practical matters, prohibitions generally fall into three kinds. First are the taboos of the state and the ruling family, which people can easily violate by speaking about them. Second are taboos concerning Yin-Yang and the seasons, which can cause people to miss the proper time for their work. Third are legal prohibitions, which can obstruct people’s efforts to make a living. Laws are meant to benefit the people, but if everyone is required simply to obey the ruler, they can instead bring the people hardship: disobeying means breaking the law, while obeying may leave them without a livelihood. This is why the people become poor. We can see from this that such a ruler does not govern through Wuwei (non-action). If government follows ritual and law without imposing a great many prohibitions, the people can naturally become prosperous.

The more schemes and methods the people possess, the more confused the state becomes.

“People” is a general term for the populace, regardless of status. “Sharp tools” refers to schemes, political arts, and stratagems—in short, any means of harming others for one’s own benefit. When a ruler and the state are eager to intervene and take action, those above use schemes and cleverness to control the people, while those below devise deceptions to mislead their superiors. As each side plots against the other and abandons the proper path, the people become deceitful, and ruler and ministers alike fall into confusion.

The more ingenious the people become, the more strange and unusual things appear.

“Multiply” means to increase. Here, “ingeniousness” refers to unusual creations that bring worry and toil. Those skilled in clever invention enjoy making novel objects; people compete to display and prize them, and ingenious crafts multiply day by day. This happens because those in high positions value rare and precious things, leading the people to pursue ever greater luxury.

The more instruments of punishment and penalties there are, the more thieves there will be.

“Implements of law” refers to devices used to inflict punishment, such as cangues and clubs. Such implements and harsh laws are established with the intention of preventing theft, yet the more severe the punishments become, the more thieves there are. This is because those above cherish unusual things, while those below lack a proper livelihood and may turn to stealing. No matter how tightly the law’s net is drawn, thieves become more cunning, and the number of people committing theft grows.

Therefore, the sage says: “I practice Wuwei, and the people naturally cultivate themselves.”

Here, the text continues by explaining that when a ruler does nothing and practices Wuwei (non-action), the people can live in stability and abundance. Imagine the Heavenly King saying, “I occupy the highest position and do nothing; then the myriad regions under heaven will naturally accept instruction.” “Doing nothing” here means that the ruler does not impose arbitrary actions in governing. “Transforming themselves naturally” means that the people thereby benefit. The following four lines all develop this same idea.

When I do nothing, the people grow wealthy of themselves.

The ruler does not levy taxes or conscript the people for labor, so they are not troubled by forced service. They live in peace, and people in the various occupations—scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants—can return to their livelihoods: women spin and weave, while men farm. Sincere De (Virtue/Power) fills them within, and good grain is plentiful without; hence the people grow wealthy of themselves.

When I love stillness, the people set themselves right.

The people are like water: when it is not disturbed, it becomes clear and calm. Only when the surface is still can it reflect things. If the ruler is still and does not act rashly, the people will follow his example, gradually shedding selfish thoughts and misguided desires and returning to simplicity and uprightness. This is also the meaning of the earlier line, “Stillness and quietude make the world right.”

When I have no desires, the people return to simplicity of themselves.

“Desire” is the beginning of greedy craving and attachment; “simplicity” is the state in which people’s hearts are sincere and have not yet become scattered. If the ruler can be free of desire, the people’s greed and licentiousness will diminish. They will reject ostentation and return to what is simple and unadorned. The Old Master’s account of the benefits of Wuwei is not without reason. Set against the harms of deliberate action described earlier, the gains and losses of a ruler’s governance are like a mirror in which to learn from them.

“Its Government” Chapter, Section Twenty-One

The previous chapter said that when instruction employs eccentric practices, the people become either shallow or sincere in response. This chapter explains that lenient or harsh decrees lead to different outcomes for the myriad things: preservation or harm. The discussion of removing burdensome government has not yet concluded, so the text proceeds to this chapter. It has three parts. The first describes the benefits and harms brought by lenient or urgent decrees; the second explains how fortune and misfortune recur without end; and the last shows that governing through Wuwei means correcting oneself and leading by example. Each part consists of four lines.

When its government is dull and unobtrusive, its people are sincere and simple.

“Muted and spacious” describes a generous, unhurried manner. Some versions instead read “obscure and unknowing,” pronounced the same way. “Simple and sincere” means plain and honest. If a ruler does not seem overly clever, and governs and instructs the people with generosity and patience, they will keep to their proper place and value what is solid, becoming so simple and unaffected that they may seem somewhat dull. Changing shallow customs and returning to simplicity is the beginning of good fortune.

“When government orders are strict and urgent, the people fall into hardship.”

“Acute scrutiny” refers to government orders that are harsh and urgent, inspecting everything closely. “Decline and distress” describes the resulting hardship and deterioration. As a metaphor for self-cultivation, the heart is like the ruler. When the heart is calm and at ease, the five organs are settled and harmonious, and the joints and channels throughout the body are coordinated. If one single-mindedly pursues cleverness and sharp perception, one’s outward conduct is likely to suffer, while one’s inner spirit and vital energy are depleted; even one’s lifespan may be shortened. Thus, one is said to fall into hardship.

Misfortune is what good fortune relies upon; good fortune is where misfortune lies hidden.

“Relies upon” means depends on, while “lies hidden” means concealed. Misfortune and good fortune are consequences brought about by good and evil conduct. If a person can keep the heart empty and still, without clinging to either good or evil, they will not summon the corresponding fortune or misfortune. But when thoughts of good and evil arise in the heart and are put into action, fortune and misfortune follow. Evil brings misfortune, yet misfortune may also contain the possibility of turning toward good fortune. When misfortune becomes visible, people say that calamity has arrived; before good fortune appears, they assume there is none. If one can abandon evil and practice good, good fortune may arise from within misfortune: misfortune recedes and good fortune becomes manifest. This is how misfortune becomes the support on which good fortune depends. Once good fortune has been gained, however, pride and indulgence may lead one back to evil; good fortune then fades and misfortune arises again. This is how misfortune lies hidden within good fortune. As long as good and evil actions continue, fortune and misfortune have no end. The heart is the source of good and evil, and within it lie the support and concealment of fortune and misfortune. Fortune and misfortune have no fixed form, yet they arrive in response to what is done.

Who can know when the changes between misfortune and good fortune will end? There is no fixed, unchanging rule within them.

Here, “the proper” refers to the heart that occupies the center and directs affairs. Good fortune comes from good conduct, and misfortune arises from evil conduct. Since fortune and misfortune cycle back and forth, who can say when they will end? This is because a biased and misguided heart arbitrarily creates distinctions between good and evil. To uphold a proper heart is to let go of attachment to those distinctions.

What is proper may turn into what is contrary, and good deeds may in turn bring disaster.

Even when a person has let go inwardly of worldly distinctions, they may still use good and evil as their standard of judgment. This shows they have not yet attained true no-mind: they still cling to some particular “mind” as the correct Way, and so cannot be called truly upright. If they consider themselves different from ordinary people, they become eccentric. Even if they incur neither fortune nor misfortune, and speak only of what is good, they still cannot be said to have truly entered the Dao; they may instead stray into the crooked path. “Yao” refers to deviant conduct that departs from the correct Way. To accord with the Great Dao yet retain lingering obstructions, or to live in the world while harboring excessive aversion, leads only to eccentric behavior of one’s own; it remains far from true goodness.

Human delusion has endured for a very long time.

“Strangeness” is a bias that clings to what is correct; “Yao” is the harm that comes from clinging to goodness. When someone harbors these faults without recognizing them, this is called “delusion.” To reject evil yet cling to what is correct and good is like being trapped in a sack or a cage; this is “stubbornness.” The years have stretched long, from the pursuit of fortune and misfortune to fixation on what is crooked or good; hence the word “long.” The sage compassionately offers skillful aid. The related passage appears below.

Therefore, the sage is upright without harming others, and pure without becoming stained.

“Upright” means honest and straight; “cutting” means dividing or harming; “stained” means defiled or evil conduct. Some versions have “wounding” instead of “cutting,” with the same meaning. Those who cling to uprightness and regard what is crooked as their own deviant conduct may be met by the sage, who practices the Great Uprightness, harmonizes the myriad ways, and sees them as one. The sage does not divide people who are crooked in order to establish uprightness. The sage knows that their nature is already sufficient and does not seek what is improper to satisfy themselves; this is true purity. But if someone considers themselves pure because they detest greedy, defiled people, their own mind is instead no different from worldly defilement. This passage breaks down the deviant conduct that arises from clinging to goodness.

Be upright without being unrestrained or boastful; be luminous without flaunting your brightness.

“Displaying” means making something visible and bringing it to prominence. One may conduct oneself properly without proclaiming it. Deliberately seeking fame stirs up greed; deliberately acting strangely does so as well. Wisdom, virtue, and fame each have different meanings, but inwardly they share one thing: emptiness, stillness, and self-forgetfulness. Those skilled at maintaining emptiness, stillness, and self-forgetfulness do not seek to make their names renowned. Ordinary people remain content with their own place, and the wise follow their example by keeping their brilliance in check. They make things clear without disturbing the people, and remain obscure without provoking envy. In this way, the teaching of the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) spreads widely.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Governing the People

The previous chapter explains that fortune and calamity shift unpredictably, with their roots in deliberate action in government and instruction. This chapter explains that teaching the people and following nature alike should take the Dao of Wuwei as their guiding principle. Since instruction proceeds from near to far, this topic follows naturally. The chapter has three parts: first, it explains how the principle of Wuwei can teach the people and accord with nature; next, how practicing Wuwei can govern a state; and finally, how Wuwei, when lasting and firmly established, allows life to endure naturally.

In governing the people and following nature, there is no better model than “the standard”—a guiding principle or rule.

“Attain” can mean reaching or following; “Heaven” refers to nature. Some versions read “affairs,” meaning one’s undertakings. “Standard” means a guiding principle or rule. Earlier, the text says that the sage “holds to the One and becomes the standard for the world”: the sage preserves the root and thereby becomes a model for all under Heaven. Some versions instead read “frugality,” meaning thrift. But frugality alone is not enough to win the allegiance of all under Heaven, so “standard” is the preferred reading here.

The best way to teach the people, bring those near and far into accord, and enable them to reach a state of following nature is to take the Dao of Wuwei as the guiding principle. In this way, the people can be governed and their conduct can accord with nature. Governing through Wuwei both wins the people’s allegiance and accords with the Dao of nature.

Precisely because this principle is followed, the people submit early.

“To submit” means to yield and obey. The key to guiding the people through instruction so that even those far away submit early is to take Wuwei as the guiding principle; this is the most essential method.

To submit early to the Great Dao is called “accumulating De deeply”—that is, continually building up profound Virtue.

De is the merit left by putting the Dao into practice. It embraces many kinds of good deeds. To cultivate it continually without stopping is called “deep accumulation.” When someone difficult to teach takes the path of the Dao early, it is because their De is profound and broad, accumulated layer upon layer; only then is this possible.

When De has been deeply accumulated, nothing cannot be overcome.

“To overcome” means to achieve results. When De is present within a person, it can move Heaven and Earth and connect with spirits and ghosts, leaving nothing among the myriad things in opposition. Thus, whatever one undertakes can succeed.

When nothing cannot be overcome, no one can measure its limits.

Once De has been accumulated profoundly, people will honor and esteem it together, admire its teaching, and follow the Dao. How could this influence ever be exhausted?

When no one can measure its limits, one can govern a state.

“No one can measure its limits” has two meanings. First, De has been accumulated so deeply and broadly that, like the Great Void—the boundless expanse of the sky—it cannot be measured. Second, those who follow its teaching and turn toward the Dao are countless.

Only when De has reached this degree can one become the ruler of a state and care for its people.

The fundamental way of a state enables it to remain stable for a long time.

The Dao is the foundation of a state. Because the Dao gives life and nourishment to the myriad things, it is called the “Mother.” If a person can possess and apply the Great Dao to govern a state, the state will be peaceful, the people secure, and the fortunes of the state able to endure.

Therefore, to make the roots deep and the foundation firm is the way to long life and enduring vitality.

As we have seen, those who accumulate De take the Dao as their foundation and can thereby ensure that their country endures. Here, the text goes on to explain the subtle benefits of holding fast to that foundation, preserving life, and governing a country, while also offering a warning to rulers.

A tree has roots below and fruit above. When its roots run deep, it is not easily uprooted; when its fruit is firmly attached to the stem, it is not easily shaken off. Those who accumulate De have the Dao in themselves and De in their hearts. They hold to the Dao without acting recklessly, and so the foundation of their lives grows deep. By stilling the heart and cultivating De, they make that foundation secure. With deep roots and a firm stem, life will not be cut short. The body remains whole and life continues, allowing one to endure. “Long life” refers to the substance of life; “lasting vision” refers to its continued function. Thus, those whose roots run deep and whose stem is firm can attain the Dao of long life and lasting vision.

Governing a Great State, Chapter Twenty-Three

The previous chapter discussed governing a country through Wuwei, so that its benefits extend throughout the human world. This chapter discusses governing the realm through the Dao, so that its benefits also reach the spirits. The blessings of De extend through both the visible and invisible worlds. The chapter explains this in three parts: first, an analogy shows why one must not act recklessly; next, it explains in principle how both humans and spirits can receive these blessings; finally, it describes how the blessings of De extend through both worlds, bringing humans and spirits into harmony. Each pair of lines forms one part.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish.

“To cook” means to boil. Some editions write “fresh fish” instead of “small fish”; both refer to small fish. If left to cook naturally, a small fish keeps its shape. If stirred again and again, it breaks apart. This is an analogy for why one should not interfere recklessly when governing a country. When those in high positions practice Wuwei, the realm can be settled and the country preserved. When they act recklessly, the realm falls into disorder and the country declines. The survival or downfall of a realm is a matter of great consequence, yet people often find it difficult to understand. The small task of cooking a fish can help explain the great principle of governing a country. If this is so in governing a country, how much more so in cultivating oneself: how could one act recklessly?

When the realm is governed through the Dao, its spirits do not manifest their powers.

“Rule” means to govern and administer. Governing the world through the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) can not only keep people from doing evil or defying those above them, but also keep ghosts and spirits from manifesting to wreak havoc and harm the people.

This does not mean that ghosts and spirits lack efficacy; it means they will not harm people. It is not that ghosts and spirits have no spiritual power by nature and therefore cannot cause harm. Rather, when a virtuous ruler is above them, the ghosts and spirits below dare not wreak havoc as they please.

When the scripture says, “Ghosts and spirits do not harm people,” it likewise describes the effects of the sage’s teaching. Ghosts and spirits are not naturally incapable of causing harm. Moved by the sage’s Virtue and mindful of his beneficence, they follow the right path and dare not harm the people.

People and ghosts and spirits do not harm one another, so the Virtue of both is attributed to the sage. Here, “people and ghosts” means people and ghosts and spirits. People keep to their proper conduct and uphold what is right: they do not dig up graves, mutilate corpses, or insult spirits and ghosts. In this way, people do not harm ghosts. Ghosts and spirits do not send calamities or disasters to harm the people; in this way, ghosts do not harm people. When people govern the world by the right path, extend their beneficence even to the bones of the dead, and make offerings at the proper times, they bestow Virtue on ghosts and spirits. When ghosts and spirits use their efficacy to protect people and grant them blessings, they bestow Virtue on people. Thus misfortunes no longer pass between them, while blessings flow back and forth.

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Great State

The previous chapter discussed governing all things through the Dao, so that people and ghosts and spirits would be mindful of its beneficence. This chapter explains how a great state, by remaining humble and low, wins the admiration of both the Chinese and the peoples beyond the borders for its Virtue. The previous chapter showed the Dao extending to all things; this one shows all things gathering through humility.

This chapter has three parts. First, it explains that what is great can remain humble, and that the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong. Next, it describes how great and small states alike can remain humble, support one another, and interact with each other. Finally, it gives a special warning that a great state should remain humble.

A great state occupies a low position, like a river or sea lying downstream. For this reason, it becomes the place where all the streams of the world converge.

A land with a broad territory and a large population is called a great state. To place oneself humbly and accept a lower position is called taking the lower ground. Small states admire the virtue of great states, and so compete to come and meet with them.

When the various sides of the world engage with one another, the feminine and yielding side can often overcome the masculine and forceful side through stillness and gentleness.

Here, “feminine” refers to people who are gentle, still, perceptive, and humble; “masculine” refers to people who are forceful, impatient, and fierce, serving as a metaphor for those who compete to display their strength and prominence. When people are gentle, still, humble, and yielding, others in the world come to them and attach themselves to them, so they can prevail over the other side. When people are fierce, impatient, and violent, others turn away and scatter, leaving them at a disadvantage.

Thus, when a great state treats a small state with humility, it can win the small state’s allegiance.

If a great state can treat a small state with humility and courtesy, it can draw the small state to it. A person who cultivates themself and is inwardly humble and gentle will likewise earn the respect and admiration of others. Wang Tai’s ability to gather people around him is an example of this.

When a small state treats a great state with humility, it can join with the great state.

Knowing that it is weak and small, a small state speaks humbly, lowers its stance, and serves the great state. In this way, it can enter into relations with the great state, admire its bearing, and seek its guidance. This is also like a person of limited understanding drawing near to someone with broad insight through humility: they free themselves from narrow self-limitation and admire a generous, far-reaching vision; inwardly, they shed self-centeredness, and outwardly, they seek instruction from a person who follows the Dao. They do not boast or act superior, but yield to others. This is the way of humility for a person.

Thus, at times one gains the other through humility, and at times one joins with the other through humility.

The word “sometimes” indicates that circumstances are not fixed. Though great and small states differ, both treat one another with humility: the great state thereby gains the small state’s allegiance, while the small state thereby joins with the great state. The practice of humility is the same, but the results differ; hence the word “sometimes.”

The wish of a great state is simply to embrace and nurture the people. The wish of a small state is simply to enter the great state’s domain and serve it.

A large state’s intention in humbling itself is, in the end, simply to embrace and care for the people of a small state. A small state’s intention in humbling itself is likewise simply to serve a large state. In truth, humility is a principle for conducting oneself in the world. Why humble oneself only to seek annexation or to serve someone else? When states large and small yield to one another, their vital energies communicate and they respond to one another. When a small state aligns itself with a large state, it is like returning home; when a large state cares for a small state, it is like treating it as one’s own child. Their feelings and intentions are in harmony, and this all comes from humility. One can live in harmony with others nearby and be in accord with the Dao at a distance. The sage’s teachings vary in depth according to the time; only to guide people does he reluctantly describe this as a matter of annexation and service.

“The following four lines form the third section.”

Both the large state and the small state can each obtain what they seek.

“Both” here refers to the large state and the small state. The large state wants to care for the small state, and that has now been achieved; the small state wants to serve the large state, and that, too, has now been achieved. Both sides’ wishes are fulfilled, so each obtains what it seeks.

Therefore, the large state should take the lower position.

States large and small have always treated one another with humility. The text here singles out the large state’s need to take the lower position because it has the power to dominate the small state. Fearing that its humility may not last, the text gives the large state a separate admonition: it must remain true to its good beginning and carry it through to the end.

“The Chapter on ‘The Dao’,” twenty-fifth.

The previous chapter explains that a great person of De possesses the world, and that all under Heaven will turn to and honor him. This chapter explains that the highest Dao has no form, yet is the root on which all things depend and which they cherish. Following on from the discussion of De, this chapter turns to the Dao and unfolds in four parts. First, the Dao is profound and mysterious, and only the good know how to cherish it. Second, those who are not good are dull and ignorant, and treat the Great Dao lightly. Third, the sage’s heart is impartial: he helps all living beings and leaves no one out. Fourth, obtaining the Dao is not difficult; even those who have sinned can be forgiven.

“The following three lines form the first section.”

The Dao is the hidden root of all things and the treasure of the good.

“Ao” means a deep inner chamber. The Dao is profound and mysterious, like something hidden in a deep, secluded room and difficult to fathom. Those who follow the Dao come to cherish it.

“Profound” means a secluded inner chamber. The Dao’s depth and mystery are like those of such a chamber: they cannot be measured. People are born from the Dao, yet do not know it; the Dao is present within them, yet they often fail to notice it. This is because people are ignorant and neither recognize nor cherish the Dao’s profundity. Only those who are wise and of sincere character can truly cherish the Great Dao.

“Those who are not good” refers to people of limited understanding. Their conduct is misguided, and they lack the wisdom to discern what is right and wrong, so they do not know how to cherish the Great Dao.

When petty people pursue profit, they use pleasing words and flattering manners to ingratiate themselves with others, like traders in a marketplace who seek only to gain an advantage at a low price. If gentlemen pursue reputation single-mindedly, they make a show of their conduct in order to outdo others and win their approval. These are all ways of behaving that belong to those who are not good, not to people who follow the Dao.

How can those who are not good be cast aside? They are not naturally inclined to behave this way; their minds are simply clouded, and they have yet to awaken. We should therefore find ways to teach them, so that in time they may have the chance to turn toward goodness.

For this reason, the Son of Heaven is appointed, along with the Three Dukes. These are the tutor, instructor, and guardian, who guide and assist the ruler. Since those who are not good are not to be abandoned, there must be ways to transform them: use expedient rules to restrain them, offer generous rewards to encourage good conduct, and impose severe punishments to stop wrongdoing. This is how the Son of Heaven refuses to abandon anyone.

Even the offering of precious jade discs and a team of four horses drawing a ceremonial carriage is worth less than sitting down in peace and teaching people this Great Dao.

The Dao (the Way) is the hidden root of all things and the treasure cherished by those who are good. The “great jade held in the arms” is a large jade disc cradled in both hands. A “team of four horses” is a carriage drawn by four horses, the kind ridden by the Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes when they traveled. To sit in comfort with precious jade before one, or to travel with a team of four horses leading the way, is indeed the height of wealth and honor. Yet these things are ultimately no match for sitting in oblivion through Wuwei (non-action) and advancing in the wondrous Dao. Why? The splendor brought by jade and horse-drawn carriages still cannot escape sorrow and trouble. But through sitting in oblivion and cultivating the Great Dao, one can reach the realms of the divine and the perfected. Compared with the two, wealth and honor fall far short of cultivating the Dao. Here the text urges the Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes to cultivate the supreme Dao: earlier it urged people to abandon evil deeds; now it goes further, urging princes and dukes to let go of good deeds as well.

Why did the ancients honor the Great Dao so highly? Was it not because those who sought something could obtain it, and those with sins could be freed from them? For this reason, the Great Dao is honored throughout the world.

Here the text explains the benefits that cultivating the Dao can bring. “Without seeking” means that cultivating the Dao does not require exhausting the mind and body by searching outward day after day in order to gain something. If one simply sits in oblivion through Wuwei, the Great Dao will come of its own accord; hence the word “obtain.” The Scripture of the Ascent to the West says, “If people can be empty and still, acting without contrivance, and do not deliberately seek the Dao, the Dao will naturally return to them.” “Sins” refers to the negative consequences of evil deeds committed in the past. Now, through sitting in oblivion and cultivating the Dao, one’s karmic burdens dissolve on their own. This wondrous efficacy can be attained without deliberate pursuit, which is why ancient rulers and wise people honored the Great Dao.

Chapter 26: Acting Without Contrivance

The previous chapter described the Great Dao as profound and subtle, and explained that cultivators can attain it without deliberately seeking it. This chapter explains that only by acting without contrivance can one truly practice the Dao. It presents three points in turn: responding to harm with De (Virtue/Power); remaining inwardly spacious and calm, without contention; and how the sage’s refusal to display cleverness leaves no opening for misfortune to arise. The following five lines present the first point.

Act through Wuwei; handle affairs without fuss; take what has no flavor as flavor.

Ordinary people busy themselves with worldly affairs and pursue sensual pleasures; this is the way most people live. Those who cultivate the Dao take Wuwei (non-action), refraining from reckless deeds and from craving fine flavors, as their proper course. Those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) regard these three as sound practices, and so are able to attain the Dao. Whenever people lose the Great Dao and invite wrongdoing, the cause lies in acting, clinging to worldly affairs, and craving fine flavors. To be free of wrongdoing and attain the Great Dao, the key is to abandon reckless action and practice Wuwei. This concerns the mind. It also means no longer managing and constructing, rushing about and laboring, but taking stillness as one’s work. This concerns the body. It means not craving rich and delicious food, but restraining the appetites of the mouth and taking the mysterious Dao—the deep and subtle Great Dao—as spiritual nourishment. This concerns the mouth. The body and mouth are the channels through which people pursue worldly affairs and flavors, but at the root of the problem lies the mind. If the mind can be empty, still, and free of attachment, all vexations and burdens will disappear. Why, then, speak only of worldly affairs and flavors?

Great and small, many and few: repay resentment with De.

“Great” and “small” describe the nature of worldly affairs and desires; “many” and “few” describe their quantity. Seizing another’s fame or wealth is a minor matter; injuring or killing someone is a grave one. “Resentment” means hatred. A small matter can sometimes grow into a great disaster, and a small accumulation can become much. Even one small matter can be hard to handle; how much harder it is to clear away many matters that have accumulated. Only by practicing Wuwei can past offenses diminish day by day and the creation of new harmful karma cease for good. Respond to old grievances with De, and resentment can be dispelled. Thus it is said: “Repay resentment with De.”

To plan for what is difficult, begin with what is easy; to accomplish what is great, begin with what is minute.

“Difficult” refers to the consequences brought about by wrongdoing; “easy” refers to the small causes at the outset. Those who practice Wuwei and refrain from worldly business have already eliminated the causes of action, leaving no way for wrongdoing to arise. For those who still act and busy themselves with worldly affairs, missteps are often small when they first begin and should be stopped at once. At that point, little effort is needed, and they are easy to clear away. If they are not stopped in time, small matters gradually grow and eventually become serious problems that are difficult to handle.

The difficult matters under Heaven must arise from what is easy; the great matters under Heaven must arise from what is minute.

“Arise” means to come into being. Here, “under Heaven” broadly refers to all kinds of difficult and great matters: however difficult or momentous they may be, they begin when they are still easy to handle and small in scale. Since there are too many kinds of matters to list one by one, the phrase “under Heaven” gathers them all together.

When things are still settled, they are easy to keep that way; before any warning signs appear, they are easy to manage. Here, “preserving” means maintaining an existing state, while “planning” means handling a new problem with care. When the mind is calm, no disturbance has yet arisen, so it is not difficult to maintain stability. A thought may have just begun to stir without taking definite shape; addressing it in time can prevent matters from developing and takes little effort.

When something is still fragile, it is easy to break apart; when a problem is still slight, it is easy to dispel.

“Subtlety” refers to the moment when something begins to emerge from nothing and has only just taken on a faint appearance. At this point it is insubstantial and easily dispersed; if it is not removed in time, it will gradually gather and grow. Later, though it has taken shape, its substance is still fragile and it remains easy to deal with. Things are indeed easier to handle when they have only just appeared.

“Fragile things are easy to break; subtle things are easy to disperse.”

Here, “subtle” and “fragile” describe how a thought arises from nothing, first in a faint form and then with greater prominence. The passage urges people to address problems early. If they are not removed in time, they will gradually grow until they become difficult to manage.

In terms of the logic, “subtle” should come before “fragile”: something subtle is insubstantial, close to nothing, and as easy to disperse as smoke or dust. Something “fragile,” by contrast, has already taken shape, though it is not yet firm, and so is still easy to break. From this perspective, subtlety should precede fragility. The earlier phrases “What is settled is easy to maintain; what has not yet shown signs is easy to plan for,” and the later “when it has not yet come into being; when it has not yet become disorderly,” also speak first of what is subtle and then of what is more manifest. The order of the two phrases about the subtle and the fragile seems to be reversed. The commentator suggests that this may be a copying error in the Dao De Jing; whether it was the Sage’s original intention, he cannot know for certain.

“Act before a matter has arisen; bring order before a situation becomes chaotic.”

“Not yet come into being” means that a thought has not yet arisen; “not yet become disorderly” means that a thought has not yet been tainted. These two phrases return to the earlier state of stability, when no signs have yet appeared, and lead into what follows: if one brings order while things are still settled, problems will not show signs; even if signs have already appeared, stopping them in time will keep them from developing into something subtle and fragile. Dealing with them while they are still small and weak prevents them from accumulating into something as large as a tree that takes two arms to encircle. Great things grow from small beginnings, and calamities often arise from the slightest causes. The scripture thus explains how calamities develop and, step by step, shows why they should be addressed early.

An enormous tree, wide enough for several people to embrace, grows from a tiny sprout.

“Wide enough for several people to embrace” describes a great tree, while “the tip of a hair” describes an extremely small shoot. Today’s great trees also began as tiny sprouts. If a young shoot is left alone, it gradually grows until it becomes a tree wide enough for several people to embrace. Once it has grown tall and large, it draws wind and rain, blocks the sunlight, and becomes difficult to cut down. This is a metaphor for the mind’s first stirrings of attachment: at first they are as slight as the tip of a hair. If evil thoughts are allowed to grow, they spread deeper and wider, obscuring one’s true nature, like a great tree in a courtyard.

A nine-tiered terrace is built up basket by basket, with earth.

“Tier” means a level or layer. To build a nine-tiered terrace, one begins with a single basket of earth. Only through continual accumulation does it reach nine tiers. This shows that if harmful actions in this life keep accumulating, they too will become serious and difficult to put right.

A mountain a hundred ren high is climbed by taking the first step beneath one’s feet.

Seven feet make one ren. Anyone climbing a high mountain begins by taking a step, then continues onward until reaching a height of a hundred ren. This shows that if one does not stop doing evil from now on, it is like climbing step by step and piling earth layer by layer: in the end, harmful actions accumulate to a dangerous extent. What rises gradually from low to high may ultimately lead to death and ruin.

Some versions read “a journey of a thousand li.” “A hundred ren” and “a thousand li” convey similar ideas, but the author considers “a hundred ren” more coherent with the preceding image of the nine-tiered terrace, since both emphasize rising from below and gradually building upward. The text therefore substitutes “a hundred ren” for “a thousand li” and uses “a hundred ren” as the standard reading.

Forcing things to happen brings failure; insisting on holding on brings loss.

People expend effort pursuing what they do not yet have, then cling stubbornly to what they already possess. Endless pursuit harms both the self and one’s endeavors; refusing to let go can cost one life or possessions. If subtle, fragile troubles are not removed in time, they too will ultimately lead to ruin and loss.

Thus the sage does not act recklessly, and so does not bring failure upon himself; the sage does not cling to possession, and so has nothing to lose.

The sage understands that failure and loss arise from deliberate action and attachment of the mind. To keep people from failing and losing, he therefore speaks of Wuwei (non-action) and nonattachment. Things fail because there was first an achievement to be made; when one takes no deliberate action and seeks no achievement, what is there that can fail? Loss always follows having first gained something. If I do not cling to seeking and acquiring, I gain nothing—so what is there to lose? This continues the discussion above of things that are “easy to preserve and also easy to ruin.” If they are not guarded against in time, they will ultimately bring failure and loss. Wuwei and nonattachment mean holding fast to one’s original intention, avoiding failure and loss, and thereby preventing later misfortune.

When people undertake something, they often fail just as they are about to succeed.

“Ji” means “near,” and “cong” means “to carry out.” Whether people are cultivating the Dao or pursuing worldly affairs, many begin, but few persevere to the end. When a task is nearly complete, they end up ruining it themselves. This is what happens with endeavors driven by deliberate action.

“Ji” means “near,” and “cong” means “to carry out.” Whether people are cultivating the Dao or pursuing worldly affairs, many begin, but few persevere to the end. When an undertaking is nearly complete, they end up ruining it themselves. Endeavors driven by deliberate action often cannot endure; work accomplished through Wuwei, by contrast, should be carried through to the end. Failing to see something through after a good beginning leads to failure. This is an enduring principle.

Treat the end with as much care as the beginning, and nothing will fail.

People’s nature is often to begin things but not finish them. They may be resolute at first, then soon grow discouraged and slacken their efforts. If they can preserve their original intention to the end, recognize the possibility of failure just as a task is nearing completion, and remain vigilant in bringing it to a close without ever changing their original intention, they can truly cultivate the Dao. How much more so with worldly affairs? The following four sentences form a separate section.

Therefore, the sage makes not coveting his aim and does not prize wealth that is hard to obtain.

Those who crave hard-to-obtain goods regard them as precious; those without desire regard them as insignificant. When ordinary people develop a craving, they prize what is hard to obtain and try to possess it, thereby bringing loss and ruin upon themselves. The sage, by contrast, urges people not to crave such things and to regard them as insignificant, letting them go; thus no loss follows.

Yet the sage himself does not hold the distinction between “desire” and “freedom from desire.” He speaks, for the time being, of turning toward freedom from desire to address those who are greedy. He invites people to follow his own desireless attitude, so that they may avoid loss and ruin.

Learning the principle of not learning deliberately serves to guard against the many failings of the people.

“Guard” means to prevent. The people’s failings are many; here, only the main points are outlined. Seeking learning and pursuing gain are roots of craving. Ceasing to pursue these desires can guide those whose conduct is improper. Learning and chasing knowledge can also become the starting point for making distinctions and competing; not deliberately seeking learning can offer guidance to the exemplary person. Remove the roots and block the sources, and people will neither contend nor steal. When all under Heaven are free of contrived action and interference, people can return together to the simplicity of natural De (Virtue). This is the benefit of regarding goods as insignificant and not deliberately seeking learning.

Follow the innate nature of the myriad things in helping them, and do not presume to act on them arbitrarily.

“Natural” refers to the original qualities of the myriad things. Their nature is harmed by craving and deliberate learning; remove these pursuits, and their nature can be restored. So one should help the myriad things preserve their nature by not deliberately seeking learning. “The myriad things” here also includes things without sentience. People with excessive desires harm themselves and affect the inanimate things around them; when people cast off craving and deliberate learning, the nature of the myriad things can be preserved. The text says this to protect the myriad things, without daring to impose one’s personal will upon them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight of the Ancient Chapters

The preceding section discusses how deliberately striving to act can instead bring success and failure, gain and loss. Here the point is that governance and cultivating the Dao can bring harm when they rely on clever contrivances. Teaching people by following the changes in things, and helping them become settled, naturally accords with profound De—the deep and natural virtue of the Dao. This passage has three parts: first, it says to abandon clever contrivances, letting people appear simple and unassuming so they do not fall into error; next, it discusses the advantages and harms of governing a state through cleverness or without it; finally, it explains that understanding these advantages and harms gives expression to far-reaching De.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao did not make themselves renowned for their cleverness and talent. Instead, they let themselves appear plain and unadorned.

“Acting” here means cultivation. Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao cultivated De inwardly, while keeping their brilliance and reputation for talent in check, so that they seemed simple and unassuming. They did not seek to appear clever or exceptional in the eyes of others. The world commonly prizes talent and cleverness, with the result that some harm others for their own benefit. Those who cultivate the Dao, by contrast, restrain their contrivances and do not use cleverness to overpower others. They benefit themselves while also benefiting others: this is the way of cultivation, and why it is called “skilled.”

Breaking through walls and digging holes to steal possessions are only minor harms. Using clever contrivances to unsettle the people is a great harm. If this great harm can be removed, the minor harms will not arise either. Thus, those who cultivate the Dao restrain their cleverness to eliminate the harms it brings.

The people are difficult to govern because they have too many clever schemes.

When those above use contrivances, those below respond with deceit. Cunning multiplies, and falsehoods arise one after another. People devote themselves to seeking favor and honor, or to finding ways to evade punishment. The tighter the net of laws and regulations, the more skillfully people find loopholes to escape it. The people are difficult to restrain because those in power have first used contrivances to govern public affairs.

Therefore, governing a state through cleverness becomes a calamity for the state; governing it without cleverness is the state’s De.

There are two kinds of wisdom: one accords with the Dao, while the other is worldly cleverness. Wisdom that accords with the Dao means that the mind stays close to the Dao’s course. More fully, it regards not forcing or acting recklessly as the highest cultivation, and values remaining undisturbed and following what comes naturally.

There are two kinds of wisdom: “wisdom of the Dao” and “worldly wisdom.” Wisdom of the Dao means that the mind is attuned to the Great Dao. One acts without imposing anything recklessly, regarding lack of contrivance and reckless action as the highest achievement, and freedom from interference and disturbance as an outstanding accomplishment. Worldly wisdom, by contrast, understands too little of the Great Dao and has too much cleverness and keen discernment. Those who lack benevolence harbor deceit and use it to seek rewards; the treacherous and ingratiating use their cleverness to bring about punishments and calamities. Those above and below deceive and defy one another, each seeking advantage and causing harm. The people who become a great calamity for the state are those who use such cleverness.

Those who do not use cleverness let all things follow their course through Wuwei (non-action), assess people’s dispositions, and keep them simple and unspoiled. They take what they need without compromising their integrity, and give without demanding repayment. The people below can reach such a state because those above possess De (Virtue/Power). These seven sentences fall into three parts.

To understand these two ways is to grasp the guiding principle.

“Both” refers to using cleverness and not using it. The word “also” means that the passage above has spoken of governing the state through Wuwei, and this passage now speaks of governing without cleverness; hence it says “also.” If one understands that using cleverness can become the root of calamity for the state, while refraining from it can nurture the people and bring De to light, then one has grasped the methods and guiding principles for pacifying the state and cultivating oneself.

To observe this principle from beginning to end is called “Mysterious De”—profound and subtle virtue.

Never changing is called “constant.” To understand that refraining from cleverness can serve as a principle for governing the state and cultivating oneself, and then to put it into practice consistently without ever abandoning it, is to embody the mysterious, highest De that accords with the Great Dao.

Mysterious De is deep and far-reaching. It can run counter to ordinary worldly sentiments, and only then can it attain the greatest harmony.

When De extends downward, it is called “deep”; when it spreads everywhere, it is called “far-reaching.” Such De is called “mysterious.” The Great Dao extends through both darkness and brightness, and De fills Heaven and Earth; hence it is called far-reaching. Ordinary people prize cleverness, while Mysterious De prizes simplicity; ordinary people prize accumulation, while Mysterious De prizes giving things away; ordinary people follow worldly custom, while Mysterious De follows the Great Dao. Hence it is said to run counter to the world. What Mysterious De does is always to bring peace to the state and benefit the people, so it is also said to be harmonious. Here, “great harmony” means being in accord with the Way of Heaven above and in harmony with the people below, without acting against any of the myriad things.

“On the People,” Chapter Thirty-Eight, explains that the people are hungry and distressed, and difficult to govern because their ruler governs poorly. The chapter has three parts. First, it describes how heavy taxes and forced labor impoverish the people. Next, it says that excessive efforts to preserve life can instead bring harm and shorten it. Finally, it explains that those who forget about life and death may live longer than those who cling to life. This passage discusses the first part.

The people go hungry because their ruler levies too many taxes; that is why they suffer hunger and hardship.

“Expenditure” refers to spending, and “tax” refers to levies. The people are poor and lack food and material goods because their ruler spends without restraint and imposes heavy taxes. They must travel away from home to perform labor service, while their households have no reserves, and so they fall into hunger and hardship. The first sentence shows that the state’s foundations are depleted; the next identifies the cause and leads into what follows.

The people are difficult to govern because their ruler issues too many orders and acts arbitrarily; that is why they are difficult to govern.

The ruler’s customs and teachings spread downward, and the people follow his example. When food and material goods are scarce, people fight over them and steal. When material goods are abundant but public morals are shallow, people resort to fraud and deceit, and hypocrisy grows ever more prevalent. As a result, they are difficult to govern. The opening sentence shows that the more tightly the ruler tries to guard against the people, the more ways they find to respond. The next explains that the harsher the suppression, the more skillfully the people resist. The final sentence sums up why they are difficult to govern.

People despise death because they devote themselves to pursuing a rich life, and so end up despising death.

When people go hungry and cold for a long time and constantly fear that they will not have enough to live on, they will acquire wealth by any means. Public punishments and private grudges can also drive them to excess in providing for themselves and indulging their desires. Such conduct harms life and damages one’s nature. Though people may seem to despise death of their own accord, the cause lies in the effects of government decrees and instruction. For this reason, instruction should not be imposed through forceful action or deliberate interference.

Only those who do not make a concern of preserving life and seeking survival surpass those who prize life.

“Worthy” means good. “Not making a concern of preserving life and seeking survival” means forgetting one’s attachment to life. Excessive greed and indulgence toward oneself only hasten death. Only those who forget their attachment to life can surpass those who prize life above all else. By forgetting one’s attachment, life is instead preserved; this could hardly be a better way, and so it is called “worthy.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Humanity

The preceding passage explains that those skilled in preserving life understand how to forget their attachment to it. Here, the text explains that softness and weakness are what one should value if one wishes to preserve life and avoid death. The preceding passage says that excessive indulgence in nurturing oneself makes one forget life; this passage adds that strength leads toward death. The ideas are closely related, so this passage follows the last. The text first uses an analogy to show that strength leads toward death while softness brings vitality, then concludes that the hard and strong are inferior to the soft and weak.

When people are alive, their bodies are soft; after death, they become stiff.

While people are alive, their bodies are filled with harmonious Qi—the Qi that sustains life in balance—and their sinews and bones are supple. After death, harmonious Qi leaves the body, and the limbs become stiff. By contrasting the stiffness of death with the softness of life, the text shows that softness is superior to forceful strength.

When plants and all things are alive, they are soft and tender; when they wither and die, they become dry and stiff.

Here, “all things” includes living beings with consciousness. Once the breath of people, plants, and trees ceases, their bodies all become stiff; while life is whole, the body is soft. This analogy illustrates the principle.

Therefore, the hard and strong belong to the realm of death, while the soft and weak belong to the realm of vitality.

Those with a hard and aggressive temperament often stop at nothing. Some use their bravery to bully others; others rely on their power to seize what they want, thinking only of their own advantage. They pursue their desires single-mindedly and without fear, rushing into danger even when they know the risks, and using their strength to oppress others. Though alive, such people are like walking corpses, scarcely different from the dead. Those who act with gentleness and humility will also die one day, but their conduct and aspirations accord with the way of seeking long life. This is the principle being explained here.

Therefore, an army that relies on force cannot win, and a tree that grows too hard will be cut down.

Two examples serve as proof. A powerful army invites attacks from all sides and is ultimately destroyed; it cannot win. A hard tree will be broken under the weight of heavy things such as bricks and tiles.

Thus, hardness and strength occupy the lower position, while gentleness and humility hold the higher one.

When an army relies on force, others will attack it. Likewise, people whose power is excessive will draw opposition from others and so cannot prevail.