《道德真经藏室纂微篇(陈景元)》

The first part of the Daodejing explains the Dao (the Way), taking the “constant Dao”—the eternal and unchanging Dao—as its foundation. The constant Dao refers to a state of mind that is empty and still, free of preconceived judgments, and able to accommodate and respond to all things.

If the Dao can be clearly expressed in words, it is not the eternal and unchanging constant Dao.

The Dao is profound and subtle, beyond the reach of language; it cannot be discerned by human thought or speech. The mind cannot fully understand it, and the mouth cannot clearly explain it. Only a person’s inner spiritual nature can realize it for itself. This is called “Wuwei (non-action) and natural spontaneity.”

To give it the name “Dao” is already to name it provisionally. In that sense, it belongs to what can be spoken of as “the Dao that can be spoken.” Once it can be spoken of, it can change and shift, and can be described in words; it then becomes a text of instruction. How is that different from dregs of wine or scraps of rice? Even so, let us try to explain it. “Dao” carries the sense of access: when the myriad things attain the Dao, there is nowhere they cannot reach. It also means to walk or put into practice, which is why the word for a road is used to name it. The Shuowen Jiezi says, “A path that leads somewhere is called a dao.” The sages of old urged people to experience and practice it for themselves, and so it was called the Dao.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and trustworthiness are all ways the Dao operates in the world. When these operations become visible, they belong to what can be spoken of as “the Dao that can be spoken.” Once this “speakable Dao” is made clear, it is no longer the eternal, unchanging Dao. The constant Dao is natural and spontaneous: it responds to and changes with external things, and its use is inexhaustible. It cannot be taught through words or attained through intellect. It can only be experienced within oneself, in a hidden union with the transformations of creation. One gathers in one’s radiance and, through Wuwei, accomplishes everything; silently, one reaches the utmost in all things.

Yan Junping said, “The Dao that can be spoken is the form in which Dao and De (Virtue/Power) become manifest; it is not nature itself.” For example, we do not light a lamp during the day because sunlight already makes things bright. The light of the sun is the constant Dao: it does not display itself or act deliberately. Lighting a lamp, by contrast, makes the light visible and turns it into the “Dao that can be spoken.”

What is written on bamboo and silk or carved into metal and stone, and can be passed on to others, belongs to what can be spoken of as “the Dao that can be spoken.” As for the Dao that can be conveyed but not truly received, that can be experienced but not seen, it is its own foundation and existed long before Heaven and Earth came into being. The spirits and ghosts, the divine sovereigns, Heaven and Earth, and all things are generated from it. This is the constant Dao. The profound meaning of the “Five Thousand Words,” the roughly five-thousand-character text of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Dao and De), is expounded through these words. It is truly mysterious upon mysterious, wondrous upon wondrous.

The Dao is the root of all things, while “name” refers to the functions through which the Dao becomes manifest. Functions arise from the root, and names also come from the Dao. Once something has been given a name, its function can be described by means of that name; this is why it is called “nameable.” But once a name has been given, it is no longer the ever-constant, all-pervasive “constant name.” The constant name means that the Dao’s functions have no fixed bounds and can manifest through any thing. Yan Junping said, “A name that can be spoken is a name that reveals achievements and reputation, not the simple, true nature.” Liezi lived in the gardens of Zheng for forty years, and no one recognized him. The ruler and high ministers saw him as an ordinary commoner. This is what it means to hold fast to the constant name.

“Nameless” refers to the Dao. Before the transformations of the myriad things have begun, no name can be imposed on the Dao. When the subtle origin first appears, still undivided and chaotic, the simple, undifferentiated Qi is about to divide, as the Book of Changes says when the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) gives rise to the Two Modes (Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang). Yan Junping said, “‘Nameless’ means having no visible traces and being united with the mysterious spirit. The world depends on it, yet does not know how the myriad things transform out of nothingness; it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” This describes one who embodies the Dao.

“Having a name” refers to Heaven and Earth. Heaven distributes the power of life, while Earth transforms and nurtures the myriad things, nourishing them and bringing them to completion, like a mother raising a child. That is why Heaven and Earth are called the mother of the myriad things. How could the profound and unfathomable Great Dao be confined by the distinction between “having a name” and “nameless”? Sages establish teachings only by drawing on practical functions, to explain the relationship between root and manifestation, sameness and difference. The fundamental principle by which the myriad things renew themselves day after day can all be called “nameless.” Thus, at their beginning, the myriad things are called “nameless”; once they have come into being, they are called “having a name.” Yan Junping said, “The transforming and nurturing function expressed by ‘having a name’ is to honor Dao and De, cherish the spirit, emulate Great Harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are in balance—and take Heaven and Earth as one’s teacher. In this way, it becomes the mother of the myriad things.” This describes one who puts the Dao into practice.

Always remain free of desire, and you can observe the Dao’s subtlety. Always have desires, and you can observe the boundaries and limits of the myriad things as they manifest.

When people pursue external things and follow circumstances, various thoughts arise; this is called “desire.” “Subtlety” refers to the utmost depth and refinement of the Dao. “Manifestations” means boundaries and limits, and also carries the sense of where things ultimately lead. The Great Dao is formless; when it is still and unmoving, it is called “without desire.” When it responds and brings forth the myriad things, it is called “with desire.”

“To remain constantly without desire and observe its subtlety” means to sustain a state free of desire and apprehend the Dao’s hidden, profound essence. “To remain constantly with desire and observe its manifestations” means to observe the Dao’s limits and ultimate direction through its workings and the changes of the myriad things. Here, “with desire” does not refer only to craving. It can also describe the Dao responding to the myriad things and exerting its influence. In the context of cultivation, “preserving and contemplating” refers to concentrating the Shen and using visualization, or inwardly observing the Shen.

The Great Dao is originally formless and without substance; the myriad things arise through their response to it. What transcends physical form is called “Dao,” while what has form and appearance is called “vessel.” Those of the highest capacity can perceive both the hidden and the evident, and grasp the subtlety of things before they come to pass. Those of middling capacity follow the changes of things and discern the Dao’s workings amid the many forms of the world. Yet they often see only its limits and cannot fully know its entirety.

Another interpretation is this: if people constantly contemplate the Dao’s hidden depths, hold fast to the essentials of stillness and purity, return to the roots of nature and life, and refuse to be enticed by external things, their minds will become empty, still, and detached. They can then experience the Dao’s subtlety and recognize the ultimate direction of change. Yan Junping said that those whose resolve is firm as metal and stone, whose bodies are soft and still as withered wood, and whose speech is quiet, composure settled, and intentions plain are people without desire. They can return to the source of nature and life. Those with desire pursue external circumstances and things, thereby losing the Dao’s level and peaceful way. They see only a narrow boundary, lose their way and cannot return, and ultimately forfeit their original nature.

The sages of old offered another explanation: “Without desire” means embodying the Dao and turning inward, clinging neither to thoughts nor to things, and forgetting one’s own roots and traces. “With desire” means allowing the Dao’s essence to express its workings, using principles that can be spoken to establish teachings, respond to the myriad things, and bring various affairs to completion. The first explanation emphasizes self-cultivation, while the second emphasizes guiding the people. The principles underlying self-cultivation and governing the state are shared and complete.

“These two” refers to what can and cannot be spoken or named, and to desirelessness and desire. Both are contained within the silent, unmoving, clear, and profound source. At that point, substance and function have not yet appeared, and good and evil are not yet distinguished, so they are said to be the same.

Once things emerge from the source, names become distinct. Here, “emerge” means that things unfold gradually from the fundamental Dao, forming what can be spoken of and distinguished. Although everything begins with thoughts in the human mind, the Five Constants—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness, as understood in Confucianism—operate in different ways. Thus the worthy and the foolish differ, and change takes different forms. The varied lifespans and fates of all things—their birth and death, persistence and disappearance—also give rise to different names.

What they share is called “mystery.” “Mystery” means profound and subtle, obscure and unfathomable; it also refers to Heaven. Here, Heaven means nature. The nameless and the named, desirelessness and desire, all receive their endowment from Heaven and take shape according to their natural qualities. People differ in temperament, from balanced to muddled, and the myriad things take on countless forms. All this arises from nature’s subtle and wondrous transformations, subtle beyond subtlety and mysterious beyond mystery. One who can understand this subtlety and see into the depths of stillness may be said to possess “Mysterious De.”

“The gateway to the myriad wonders” refers to the realm that leads to the Great Dao. The Great Dao is vast and boundless, without enclosure or fixed gate or chamber, open in every direction. In personal conduct, one acts outwardly like everyone else while inwardly returning to the subtle source. In teaching, the perfected beings revered in Daoism emerge to proclaim subtle principles, while the sages return, holding those principles within. The Great Dao nurtures and guides the myriad things without any fixed method. It is still and pure, standing alone and unchanging: this is “knowing the constant.” Since it is the source from which all things emerge and to which they return, it is called a “gate.” The Zhuangzi says that life and death, coming forth and going in, all undergo change without leaving visible traces; this is called the “Heavenly Gate.” The Heavenly Gate is nonbeing. The myriad things arise from nonbeing, and this is what is meant by “the gateway to the myriad wonders.”

Only through the subtle and mysterious Dao (the Way) do the myriad things come into being. Perhaps only this mysterious Dao can give life to and nourish all things; perhaps only the sage can put the Dao to use. The sage practices the Dao by continually adapting as things change, responding to every situation without a fixed method. This is why it is called the “constant Dao.” The sage sometimes serves in public office and sometimes withdraws from the world, acting within the limits of each circumstance. The sage adopts different ways of acting as conditions change, which is why particular ways of the Dao can be put into practice. Any way that can be put into practice can be described by a name. Once it has a name, people can recognize it. This is why the text next says, “Everyone under Heaven knows.”

Everyone under Heaven knows what is beautiful. Once the idea of beauty is established, ugliness arises in contrast. Everyone under Heaven knows what is good. Once the idea of goodness is established, its opposite, the not-good, arises as well.

Beauty and goodness both arise from people’s deluded feelings: they call what they like beautiful and what they dislike ugly. If they indulge these private feelings, how could they avoid going astray? They call what they approve of good and what they reject not-good. But when they rely entirely on their own judgments to decide what is good and bad, they fall into what is not good.

Beauty and goodness often arise from people’s personal attachments: they regard what they like as beautiful and what they dislike as ugly. If such preferences are allowed to rule, how could they not lead to bias? They regard what they approve of as good and what they reject as bad, but if they let their personal judgments of right and wrong rule, how can they truly understand what beauty is?

Zhuangzi said, “Right and wrong are not what I mean by ‘feeling.’” By “having no feelings,” he meant that a person does not wound themselves inwardly through likes and dislikes, but follows nature and does not deliberately add to their desires. This is to rest content in the true and fitting state of things.

Do sages have no beauty or goodness? They possess them, but do not boast of them, as though they had none. By not boasting, their virtue can be preserved; by not clinging to beauty and goodness, calamity can be kept at a distance. When virtue is preserved and calamity kept away, beauty and goodness are complete. To use beauty and goodness to instruct the world, urging people to deliberately distinguish what is beautiful, is still short of true perfection. The Dao De Jing says, “Those of highest De do not consider themselves to possess De; those of lower De cling to not losing their De.” This is the point.

Good people are few in the world, while those who are not good are many. To force one’s own preferred method of governance upon others, secretly seek fame, and treat people with contempt is wrongdoing. Yan Junping said: Brightness does not necessarily endure, nor does darkness last forever. Plants flourish, often beginning in mid-spring; yet shepherd’s purse, wheat, and other plants associated with Yang grow at the autumn equinox. At the winter solstice, all things begin to grow; at the summer solstice, all things begin to decline. This shows that after things flourish, they must decline, and that ugliness is mixed in with beauty. If even the changes of Yin-Yang are like this, how much more so is the human world? These words warn people not to boast of their own beauty and goodness.

Thus being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficult and easy bring one another about; long and short appear through comparison; high and low depend on one another; notes and sounds harmonize with one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

The six phenomena discussed above all arise because people praise what is beautiful and what is good, thereby giving rise to all kinds of artificial contrivances. Once these contrivances become apparent, rigid attachment follows, people struggle and harm one another, and the myriad things lose their own nature. Thus the discussion ultimately returns to the sage’s rule through Wuwei (non-action), so that profound De (Virtue/Power) is not lost.

Being and nonbeing do not originally give rise to one another. Yet when people discuss them, they say that being comes from nonbeing and nonbeing comes from being; hence they say that being and nonbeing generate each other. Difficulty and ease do not originally bring about one another either. For example, a potter may be skilled at making pottery but not at working wood, while a carpenter may be skilled at working wood but not at making pottery. If they exchange tasks, the work may not be completed; if each puts their own skill to use, it is completed with ease. Hence difficulty and ease are said to complement each other.

Long and short have no fixed standard of comparison. Only after seeing a crane do we know that a hare is short; only after seeing a hare do we know that a crane is long. Long and short become apparent through comparison with each other, as do all things. Hence long and short are said to reveal each other.

High and low are not originally in a relationship of mutual oppression. It is only when status is insufficient that people develop a desire to compete for it. If someone in a high position is not arrogant, no one will try to pull them down; if someone in a low position does not feel inferior or humiliated, no one will insist on raising them up. If everyone rushes to compete and envy one another, they will oppress and topple one another. Hence high and low are said to move each other.

Musical tones and sounds do not originally harmonize with one another, like the sounds of nature, which arise on their own and cease on their own. People in the world, however, believe that only when musical tones and sounds combine do they form a song, coordinating and answering one another. Hence tones and sounds are said to harmonize with each other.

Before and after do not originally follow one another in any fixed way, as day and night alternate: last night came before today, and today comes after last night. The same is true when people walk. Between lifting and setting down the feet, which step is first and which is last keeps changing with the movement.

Junping said: Without “being,” “nonbeing” cannot be revealed; with “nonbeing,” the form of “being” becomes apparent. Difficulty is made clear through ease, and ease is made evident through difficulty. Measuring inches with a foot shows that an inch is short; comparing a foot with an inch shows that a foot is long. A mountain appears high because of a valley, and a valley appears deep because of a mountain. Musical tones are distinguished through sounds, and sounds cease through musical tones. What comes first appears through what comes after, and what comes after becomes clear through what comes first. Thus we know that without nonbeing, being cannot be seen, and without being, nonbeing cannot be known. Difficulty and ease, long and short, mountain and valley, tones and sounds, before and after—all become apparent through comparison with one another.

These relationships are proofs of how Heaven and Earth operate and signs of the natural order. They appear in succession, follow one another in alternating opposites, and cycle endlessly; they cannot be separated. Even the spirits cannot avoid them, and Yin-Yang cannot go against them. From this we can see that rulers should not govern all under Heaven through artificial contrivances.

Thus, the sage attends to affairs of state through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches the people without relying on words.

This refers to the rulers of ancient times, who governed through Wuwei. They did not rule the world by proclaiming what was good and beautiful, so the people could settle themselves. “Wuwei” does not mean sitting idle in silence. It means forgetting the imposed labels of good and beautiful, dispelling private desires, and returning to one’s original nature. Then people can each use their abilities, and all things can each find their proper place, without disturbing one another between above and below. “Teaching without words” means setting an example through one’s own conduct, so that people understand the principles through upright bearing, act in keeping with the moment, and accomplish things in accordance with their inherent conditions. When principle and action accord, there is no need for many words.

All things grow and change, and the sage does not interfere with them.

“Acting” means activity and change. The sage governs the world with forbearance, without contriving policies or forcing action. Thus the people farm and have food to eat, weave and have clothes to wear, and live in comfort, well fed and at ease. They act in accordance with their own nature and endowments; all this is the influence of rule through Wuwei. The sage lets the people live this way and does not obstruct them. The people may act in accordance with the principles without necessarily understanding them. This is the spirit of “the highest De does not assert itself as De”: one has the highest virtue without thinking oneself virtuous.

He gives life to and nurtures all things without claiming them as his own; he acts without relying on his achievements. When things are accomplished, he does not take the credit for himself.

All things grow of themselves and change independently, and the sage does not claim them as his own. Each thing functions in its own way, following its nature, and the sage does not rely on his De. Affairs are completed and all things are nourished, yet the sage’s heart rests freely on Mount Gushe, the legendary dwelling place of immortals, and he does not place himself above the people. This is how the sage’s De is complete.

Precisely because the sage takes no credit and does not place himself above others, his merit and De do not fade away.

The achievements of the sage are like Heaven and Earth nurturing and transforming the myriad things: he enables each thing to attain what is fitting for it, yet seeks no recognition and does not put himself first. To claim no credit is to treat none of the merit as one’s own. In this way, the people may not even notice who brought these things about. Thus the Dao he follows is not lost, and the De he embodies does not fade.

The Huainanzi: Explanations of the Great Light records that Zifa, a general of Chu, attacked the state of Cai and won. King Xuan of Chu went to the outskirts to welcome him, awarded him a hundred qing of farmland, and appointed him chigui, a high-ranking Chu noble title. Zifa declined, saying, “Governing the state and establishing its laws, so that the feudal lords come to submit, are the ruler’s De. Giving the order so that the enemy flees before the armies have even fought is the general’s might. Forming ranks, fighting, and defeating the enemy depend on the people’s strength. To claim a noble title and stipend for oneself on the basis of the people’s achievements is contrary to the way of benevolence and righteousness.” He then declined the reward. This is an example of accomplishing great things without claiming credit.

Once people distinguish things from one another, good and evil arise in opposition, and high and low are set against each other; this is difficult to avoid. When difficulty and ease are placed side by side, long and short also become apparent, and neither can conceal the other. Once differences in length and shortness are clear, people compete to honor those of worthy virtue. That is why the text next says, “Do not exalt the worthy.”

“Do not exalt those who are capable and worthy, and the people will not contend for fame and status.”

When the ruler is humble and calm, and does not boast of his talents and Virtue, the people will follow his teaching, like soft grass bending in the wind. If he holds fast to humility, how could there be any rivalry? The Dao De Jing says: “When I take no action, the people are naturally transformed; when I cherish stillness, the people naturally become upright.”

Another interpretation says: When the ruler is calm, the ministers carry out their duties with discernment. Punishments are not waived for the powerful, and favor is not withheld from those of low status. The worthy and the unworthy each find their proper place, and so the officers do not compete. But if the ruler acts indecisively and the ministers are corrupt and sycophantic, then even if he appears to honor the worthy and seek out talent, he will attract people who seem loyal but are inwardly crooked, harbor ill will, and speak soothingly. Once such people arrive, deceit and hypocrisy will flourish, and conflict will follow.

Junping says: Those of lofty Virtue occupy the ruler’s position; those of lesser ability serve as ministers. Truly worthy people are exceedingly rare, and a sage does not appear in every generation. People of inborn worth do not arise because they have been honored. He also says: Let inferior horses and fine steeds race together along a level road, and let swans and quail fly together high in the sky; the worthy and unworthy will naturally become clear. This comes from their respective natures, not from deliberate acts of honoring them.

When rare goods are not prized, the people will not turn to theft.

“Rare goods” means gold, jade, pearls, rhinoceros horn, and the like. The idea is that when the ruler guides the people through stillness and Wuwei (non-action), they devote themselves to farming. Gold remains hidden in the mountains, and pearls are left in the depths of the water. If wealth is not regarded as something to profit from, and people do not seek the company of the rich and powerful, the people will not develop the desire to covet and steal.

Another interpretation says: If the ruler does not prize the night-bright pearl of the Li Dragon, gold and jade, or brocades and fine curiosities, his subjects will not covet such things—and where, then, would thieves come from? As the saying goes: “If you yourself have no greed, even the lure of a reward will not make you steal.”

The Huainan Honglie Jie (Commentary on the Huainanzi) cites Shennong’s method of governing: “When able-bodied men do not farm, people somewhere in the world go hungry; when women of marriageable age do not weave, people somewhere in the world go cold.” Shennong therefore farmed with his own hands, and his wife wove with hers, setting an example and leading the people of the world. This is precisely the practice of “not prizing rare goods.”

“Do not let the people see things that could stir up desire, and their hearts will not be thrown into disorder.”

“Things that can be desired” are external objects that beguile the heart and give rise to envy, fondness, and craving. Here, “not seeing” does not mean hiding all external things away. It means guiding the people not to prize rare possessions or regard things outside themselves as precious.

Another interpretation is that even when a ruler sees external things, his heart gives rise to neither envy nor covetous attachment. He is not thrown into disorder by lust or material desire, and so can keep his nature calm and unassuming, returning to what is genuine and pure. When the ruler holds fast to this original purity, the people’s hearts, too, will remain undisturbed, and an unspoiled way of life can take shape.

Junping says: When people do not exalt a reputation for worthiness, the people will not compete to pursue it. Without such competition, there will be no strife or disorder. When people do not prize wealth, the people will not covet it. Without covetousness, they will not run about seeking riches or become thieves. If certain pleasures of sight and sound are absent from the world, people will have fewer amusements; with fewer amusements, they will not sink into indulgence. This is the natural course of things.

The Honglie Jie records that Zipei, the chief minister of Chu, once invited King Zhuang of Chu to a banquet, and the king agreed. Later, Zipei respectfully paid his respects below the palace steps, but the king did not attend. Zipei asked whether he had done something wrong. The king explained that he had heard Zipei was holding a banquet at Qiang Terrace. The terrace looked south toward Liaoshan and down over Fanghuang, with the Yangtze River to the left and the Huai River to the right. The scenery was so captivating that one could forget to return—and even forget oneself. The king considered his own virtue shallow and feared he would become so absorbed in such pleasures that he could not return, so he had not gone. This is precisely what is meant by “do not let people see things that could stir up desire, so their hearts will not be thrown into disorder.”

The Yinyi by Fu Yi records that an old edition reads “so the people’s hearts will not be thrown into disorder,” while the Kaiyuan edition of the Heshang Gong commentary reads “so the heart will not be thrown into disorder.” Both readings make sense.

Therefore, when the sage governs the realm, he first brings his own heart to emptiness and stillness, then extends this to his family and the state. To “empty the heart” means to have no improper thoughts and not be led by murky, tangled notions. The heart becomes quiet, desires recede, and the spirit settles; naturally, the heart grows empty and clear. Zhuangzi said, “In an empty room, a bright light arises, and good fortune comes to rest there.” This means that when the heart is empty and still, a pure and luminous state appears of its own accord, and blessings follow.

“To fill the people’s bellies” means that the sage enriches himself through inner moral cultivation, settles the Five Spirits—the spirit energies within body and mind—and remains content in simplicity, without thoughts of greed or attachment. This is what is meant by “filling the belly.”

“To weaken the people’s ambitions”: here, “ambition” refers to thoughts and intentions arising in the heart. Once a thought takes hold, one wants to act. By remaining humble, quiet, and yielding, one can preserve the Great Dao.

“To strengthen the people’s bones” means that the body’s foundation lies in its bones. When body and mind are harmonious and full, the body is nourished; when the spirit is strong, the bones grow strong as well. This, too, is the natural order.

The sage continually cultivates himself and keeps his heart empty and still, hoping that the people will return to simplicity and remain genuine and sincere. They will then gladly be influenced and change of their own accord. As an old saying goes, “If you keep yourself upright, what difficulty is there in governing affairs?”

Even among the people, some may pride themselves on their cleverness, pursue fame and profit, or act with affectation and deceit. Yet when touched by an atmosphere of quietude and an education in simplicity, they too will restrain their thoughts and settle down. They will no longer act rashly or dare to stir up desires to pursue and accomplish things.

When Wuwei is practiced, nothing remains poorly governed. Wuwei means following the nature of things and not exceeding each one’s proper bounds. When nature is not violated, the principles of Heaven are naturally preserved. As things follow their own natures, people’s thoughts of pursuing fame and profit, grasping, and contending will fade away. An atmosphere of simplicity will then spread widely—what, after all, would remain difficult to govern?

When rulers exalt their own cleverness, the people follow suit and compete to outdo one another. When desires for rivalry and theft are indulged, disorder follows. The sage governs through emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). This is why the text next speaks of “the Dao is like an empty vessel.”

The Dao is empty and vast, yet its use never runs dry.

The ancient version writes “full” where the text has “filled.” “Empty” refers to open space and also carries the sense of balance and harmony. “Perhaps” expresses uncertainty, but may also be understood as something constant. The point here is that the Dao works through emptiness, stillness, and balance. Harmonious Qi (vital energy) is still and empty, and so it can move everywhere. A ruler who uses this way of stillness is not burdened by the wealth and status of a realm of ten thousand chariots. An ordinary person who uses it can forget poverty even while living in a small house enclosed by four walls. Though serving at court, one’s mind can be as if dwelling in the mountains; though personally engaged in herding and labor, one need not feel inferior to those of rank who ride in carriages and wear official caps. This is to grasp deeply the function of the Dao’s emptiness and stillness, without being filled and obstructed by wealth and contentment.

Junping says: “To make a deliberate effort to be empty is not true emptiness; to make a deliberate effort to be harmonious is not true harmony. Only by not deliberately pursuing emptiness and harmony does one truly attain them. Emptiness dwells in stillness; harmony makes its home in Wuwei. Those who can be still and practice Wuwei attain profound emptiness; those who can practice Wuwei and be still remain constantly in harmony. This is what it means truly to understand the Dao’s use of emptiness and harmony without becoming full.” “Centered” means that its function lies in harmony; “perhaps” means that one does not presume to define the Dao with certainty.

Deep and far-reaching, the Dao seems to be the source of all things.

“Deep” means profound and still. “Ah” is an exclamatory particle expressing wonder at the Dao. Here the text explains that the Dao of emptiness neither diminishes nor becomes full. Its nature is settled and clear, yet unfathomable, and so it is called “deep.” This unfathomable principle cannot simply be described as either existing or not existing, which is why it is called “seeming.” All beings are nourished by the Dao every day, as though drawing without end from deep, still waters. The Dao’s body embraces all things: both good and evil endure within it, and animals and plants alike return to it. That is why it is called the source of all things.

Draw in the sharpness and resolve the turmoil.

“Dull” means to restrain, or to blunt one’s sharp edge. “Sharp” means keen, and also suggests striving to advance. “Untangle” means to disperse or undo, while “troubles” means disorder and disturbance. For those who display their sharpness and single-mindedly pursue fame and success, one should remember that the Dao is empty and humble, restrain greedy desires and deluded thoughts, and avoid boasting. If anger or pride drives one into restless activity, throwing both inner and outer life into disorder, one should experience the Dao’s deep and tranquil state: blunt sharpness, loosen constraints, quiet disturbances, and let the mind become clear and settled, thereby returning to one’s original nature. The Heshanggong edition writes “resentment” instead of “troubles,” explaining it as resentment that gathers and binds. In other words, if the heart harbors cunning, anger, and resentment, hatred becomes tightly knotted. But if one preserves the Dao’s balanced and harmonious Qi, resentment melts away like ice.

“Harmonize its light, share its dust. Deep and still, it seems to exist.”

The Dao, empty to the utmost, works through balance and harmony; in its operation, nothing is beyond its capacity to accommodate. Amid brightness, it harmonizes with the light without seeming out of place. In the world of dust, it shares the world’s nature without seeming strange. In responding to the myriad things, it blends with light and dust; returning to its source, it is clear and tranquil, untouched by defilement. Seek its subtle essence, and it is remote and unfathomable, as if unreal. Observe its actual workings, and they are clear and tangible. Thus it is called deep and still, seeming to exist yet difficult to grasp.

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

“I” is Laozi referring to himself. “Seems” means “as if” or “it appears.” Laozi says that when he observes the Dao, it seems deep and unfathomable, empty yet with inexhaustible workings, able to generate the myriad things. The Dao has endured from ancient times to the present. It has neither an ancestor nor a master; who, then, would dare claim it is anyone’s descendant? On close reflection, it seems to have appeared before the Lord of Heaven.

The Dao is empty, still, balanced, and harmonious, deep and vast without being full. It can harmonize with light and share the dust, and so it becomes the root on which the myriad things depend. Seeking this root, we find that it precedes Heaven and Earth; the discussion therefore turns to the origins of Heaven and Earth.

Heaven and Earth do not favor the myriad things with a loving heart, but let them grow naturally according to their own nature. The sage likewise does not show private favor to the people out of a loving heart, but lets them live naturally according to their own nature.

“Straw” means grass, and “straw dogs” are dogs fashioned from grass. In ancient times they were used in sacrifices and discarded once the rites were over. The point here is that straw dogs served a purpose during the sacrifice, when people set them out; after the ceremony, they were no longer valued. Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things in the same way: as they grow, Heaven and Earth let them follow their own nature and ask nothing in return. Thus Heaven and Earth seem to offer no partial favor, yet bring about a vast beneficence. The sage does not deliberately put benevolence into practice, yet the world comes to embody its effects. “Not benevolent” means acting without partiality or attachment in one’s benevolence; it does not mean being cold or unfeeling.

Heaven and Earth follow their own nature, regarding the myriad things as straw dogs after the sacrifice and asking nothing in return. The sage likewise follows the natural course, regarding the people as straw dogs and asking nothing in return. This is how Heaven and Earth naturally operate.

Junping says: The sky is lofty and clear; the earth is deep and still. Yin and Yang interact, and harmonious Qi flows. Heaven and Earth remain at ease and act without striving, and the myriad things grow of themselves. Heaven and Earth do not devote themselves to planning, exhaust their spirit, and bustle about doing things. Nor do they grieve and take pity, going everywhere to show love, bestow kindness, and deliberately bring the myriad things into being. This is what “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs” means.

Wise rulers follow the Dao, bring the myriad things into harmony, and remain still and constant; in this way, they bring about transformation. Their spiritual De silently reaches everywhere and accords with the Dao. The world responds, and the myriad things are naturally nurtured and transformed. The sage does not exhaust his talents, trouble his heart and spirit, disturb his mind, and ceaselessly fret and toil, deliberately practicing benevolence and seeking gain in order to govern the people. This is what “The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs” means.

Between Heaven and Earth, are they not like a bellows and a flute? The bellows is hollow inside, yet does not collapse; once worked, it sends forth a continuous flow of air.

The “tuo” is a bellows, used to fan a fire and help it burn; the “yue” is a flute, which produces sound when played. Heaven and Earth may seem empty and inactive, yet they nurture all things without selfishness. A sage’s heart, too, should be open and deeply still, responding to the affairs of the world without resisting them. Like a bellows that holds air and, when worked, blows steadily; like a flute that makes no sound of its own, but harmonizes the notes when someone blows through it. Their function goes on without end, yet they are not exhausted. This serves as a metaphor for the sage’s freedom from selfishness and desire, and lack of attachment to acts of care and benefit.

Junping says: If Heaven and Earth abandoned the Way of emptiness and naturalness, and pursued care and benefit single-mindedly, change could not flow freely and things could not grow to their full potential. If sages abandoned the Way of emptiness and naturalness, and pursued care and benefit single-mindedly, their beneficence could not extend throughout the world, nor could their kindness reach deeply into the lives of the people; their endeavors could not be brought to completion. This is because methods of benevolence have limits, while the need of all things for guidance has no end. To meet boundless needs with limited means is like trying to replenish a dried-up river with ice: it cannot provide what is needed.

Junping also says: Lice crawling among the hair can keep a person from sleeping soundly; mosquitoes and gadflies biting the skin can unsettle the spirit and cloud one’s thoughts; the stings of bees and the poison of vines injure the body and cause pain within. When the ears and eyes are damaged, the limbs and joints, too, lose their function. This means that if thoughts of care and gain remain in the heart, how could they fail to disturb its calm and deplete Qi and blood?

Speaking too much often brings affairs into difficulty. It is better to keep to inner emptiness and stillness.

Here, “much talk” means putting forward many proposals that claim to care for everyone equally. The more proposals there are, the harder they are to carry out fully. They meet repeated setbacks and, in the end, are unlikely to succeed. It is better to emulate the emptiness and stillness of Heaven and Earth: like a bellows, harbor no partiality, hold fast to the Way of balance, and naturally allow all things to find their proper place. This is also the principle behind teaching without words.

The Huainanzi: Explanations of the Grand Illustrious Treatise records that Wang Shou was traveling with books on his back when he met Xu Feng in the state of Zhou. Xu Feng said that one should act in response to changing circumstances. Change arises with the times, so those who know how to grasp the moment do not cling to fixed methods. Books carry words, and words arise from people’s understanding. Those with understanding should keep the principles found in books within their hearts. Wang Shou then burned his books and danced, saying, “Too many words often bring setbacks; better to hold fast to what is centered and upright within.”

The workings of Heaven and Earth are free of self-interest. Though empty within, they never run dry, because of their wondrous efficacy. This is why the text next speaks of the “Spirit of the Valley.”

“The Spirit of the Valley never dies” means that the wondrous Dao, empty and still like a mountain valley and able to contain all things, never perishes. This is called the “Mysterious Female”—the deep, maternal source that gives life and nurtures all things.

The great person who has attained the Dao regards the Great Void—the boundless, empty, and formless expanse—as an open valley, and the transformative power that brings forth and changes all things as a wondrous, numinous activity. The open valley and the numinous activity each embody the Dao’s substance and function. How could there be death? The principle of immortality is profound and subtle, and it nourishes all things like a mother; hence it is called the “Mysterious Female,” the hidden source that gives birth and sustains.

Some say that the valley symbolizes Heaven and Earth, while the numinous spirit symbolizes the Great Dao. Some interpretations today use only the echo within a valley as a metaphor, which is far too narrow. If people can open their hearts to the boundless, emulate the vastness of the Great Void, preserve and follow their true numinous nature, and draw on the wondrous power of transformation, they can naturally bring themselves into accord with the Dao. How, then, could death be in question? This hidden source nurtures all things so deeply that they are all blessed by its grace; hence it is called the “Mysterious Female.”

The Heshang Gong Commentary says: “Valley” may be read as “nurture,” meaning to nourish. People who can nourish the spirit can endure for a long time. Here, “spirit” refers to the spirits of the Five Viscera: the liver stores the Hun, the lungs the Po, the heart the Shen, the kidneys the Jing, and the spleen the intent. If people can remain tranquil and empty, caring for these spirits and keeping them free from the contamination of desires, they can preserve the integrity of their bodies and the fullness of their spirits, and so avoid death. But if they let themselves be entangled and consumed by desires, disturbed by external things until their bodies are damaged and their spirits dispersed, how could the Dao remain within them?

The “gate of the Mysterious Female” is the root of Heaven and Earth.

The Great Void, boundless and empty, brings forth the myriad things, and they all enter and emerge from it. Since it is said that they “enter and emerge,” it is likened to a doorway. “Root” means origin. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they cannot escape the realm of form. All things with form take the Void and the Qi of Great Harmony as their foundation; hence the phrase “the root of Heaven and Earth.”

The Lord of the River says that the Way of long life and immortality lies in the “Mysterious Female.” “Mysterious” belongs to Heaven and corresponds in the human body to the nose; “Female” belongs to Earth and corresponds to the mouth. Heaven nourishes people with the five Qi, which enter through the nose and are stored in the heart. These subtle, pure Qi transform into spirit, intelligence, voice, and the five dispositions. The spirit associated with them is called the Hun. The Hun is Yang, governs passage through the nose, and connects with Heaven; thus the nose is called “Mysterious.” Earth nourishes people with the five flavors, which enter through the mouth and are stored in the stomach. These heavy, turbid flavors transform into the body, bones and flesh, blood vessels, and the six emotions. The spirit associated with them is called the Po. The Po is Yin, governs passage through the mouth, and connects with Earth; thus the mouth is called “Female.”

“Root” also means origin. Here, the nose and mouth are the two gateways through which the primordial Qi of Heaven and Earth passes. The earlier phrase “the Valley Spirit never dies” urges people to nourish their spirit; the phrase “the gateway of the Mysterious Female” explains how to refine and cultivate the body. Only when both form and spirit reach a subtle, perfected state can they unite with the Dao.

Because people have bodies and spirits, they are subject to life and death; with the transformations of life and death, they cannot be said to embody the Dao. If people follow external things and are constantly changing, they cannot be at rest. But if they make body and mind empty and clear, and forget the distinction between self and things, they will not cling to “life” when Qi gathers, nor to “death” when Qi disperses. Then they are no longer bound by the ideas of life and death. This is the state of the “Valley Spirit.” The uncertainty of life and death belongs to what is transient and unsettled; profound, yielding, still, clear, and unmoving is the state described by the “Mysterious Female.”

The breath continues without interruption, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive. When it is put to use, it causes no weariness.

“Continuous” describes something that extends without interruption. This summarizes the earlier discussion of nourishing the spirit and refining the body. To nourish the spirit is to bring it into a profound and tranquil state; to refine the body is to care for it and train it. A mind that is profound, gentle, and still is what is meant by the “mysterious female,” a symbol of the source from which all things are nurtured and born.

It continues without end, seeming almost to exist; when put to use, it brings no sense of strain.

“Continuous” describes something that extends without interruption. This summarizes the meaning of nourishing the spirit and refining the body. In nourishing the spirit, one’s awareness becomes profound and tranquil, clear and still, continuing without end, as if present and yet not quite present. It responds to things and becomes active, never ceasing. In refining the body, one regulates the breath and circulates Qi and blood. One may also care for the body by drinking spring water believed to support longevity and chewing herbs believed to prolong life, allowing the limbs and joints to move freely without strain. Only then can one be said to share a common root with Heaven and Earth and to pass through the gate of all mysteries.

The Great Void, a vast and empty realm, is like a valley; the power of creation, which brings all things into being, is like a marvelous operation. The “female,” a symbol of receptivity and generation, nourishes all things without end. The text therefore goes on to speak of Heaven and Earth’s enduring existence.

Heaven is long-lasting; Earth is enduring.

This is the title of the passage that follows. Heaven extends over the vastness with Qi and has never fallen, from ancient times to the present; therefore it is called “long-lasting.” Earth is substantial in form and bears all things, remaining firm throughout; therefore it is called “enduring.” The meaning of this comparison is developed in the passage that follows.

Heaven and Earth can endure for so long because they do not live for themselves; therefore they are able to live on.

This is a summary of the meaning. Heaven remains clear for so long, and Earth remains settled for so long, because they cover, bear, and nurture all things. All things receive their endowment from a subtle source. Heaven and Earth return to their nature of emptiness, stillness, and depth. They do not boast of their achievement in bringing all things into being, but hold fast to enduring De; thus they are able to live on.

Another interpretation is that all things in Heaven and Earth come into being independently, each following its own nature and seeking no additional benefit to sustain itself; therefore they can endure. This serves as a lesson for people. Thus the sage places himself behind others, yet comes to stand before them; he sets himself apart from his own concerns, yet is able to preserve himself.

The sage follows the natural course of things and does not force action. Though living amid the court, his mind remains as detached as if wandering on Mount Gushe, the legendary home of immortals. He models himself on Heaven and Earth, which shelter and sustain all things, nurturing every being equally and without favoritism. Even in a position of honor, he settles in a humble place and does not presume to lead the world. The people therefore gladly support him without feeling burdened, and raise him up without growing weary of him. Thus he is able to stand before them. He also lets go of achievements and reputation, does not think too highly of himself, and has few desires. The people cherish him as they would their own parents, and the spirits protect him as they would an infant. In this way, he is able to preserve himself.

Is it not precisely because he has no selfish intent that he is able to fulfill himself?

Heaven and Earth bring forth and sustain the myriad things; the sage, in turn, sets personal gain aside to preserve the people. He does not treat the kindness he has bestowed as something to claim for himself. How could he be selfish? Indeed, he has no selfish intent. It is precisely because he has none that he can endure; and because he can endure, it appears as though he has secured his own benefit. Li Yue said, “He does not keep benefits for himself, but is willing to help others succeed. Others may not manage to secure their benefits, but his own benefit is already secured.”

The Hongshu Jie records that Gong Yixiu, serving as prime minister of Lu, liked to eat fish. Someone from the state sent him fish, but he refused it. A disciple asked, “Since you like fish, why not accept it?” Gong Yixiu replied, “It is precisely because I like fish that I refuse it. If I accepted the fish and thereby lost my position as prime minister, then, even though I liked fish, I would have no salary with which to provide it for myself. If I refuse the fish and keep my office, my salary will continue to provide for me.” This shows that one who knows how to consider others also knows how to preserve oneself over the long term. Hence the saying: “Is it not precisely because he has no selfish intent that he is able to fulfill himself?”

The versions attributed to Heshanggong and Yan Junping read, “because he has no selfish intent”; Wang Bi’s ancient text reads, “Is it not because he has no selfish intent?”; and the Kaiyuan imperial edition reads, “Is it not because he has no selfish intent?” These versions each carry a different meaning, and readers may examine them closely.

The sage places himself behind others and thereby preserves himself. He holds himself to the standard of public-mindedness and leaves benefits for others. He is adept at living in harmony with the yielding, bringing benefit to all things. Therefore, the text next says, “The highest goodness is like water.” In the passage about the sage’s selflessness, Wang Bi’s ancient edition reads, “Is it not because he is selfless?” while the Kaiyuan imperial edition reads, “Could it be that he is not selfless?” Each version carries its own meaning, and readers should reflect on them carefully.

In “The highest goodness is like water,” “highest goodness” refers to a person, while “like water” uses water as a metaphor. A person of lofty understanding has a mind that is open and still, free of selfish desires. He can adapt to changing circumstances without going against the conditions of things. Even when doing good, he does not cling to the fact that he has done good. This is why he is called “the highest goodness.” Water takes the shape of its vessel, becoming square or round; it can freeze or melt, be deep or shallow, float or sink. It follows the natural Way and is receptive and still, embodying principles in all these qualities. Only a person who has reached a profound level can fully understand them all. Hence the saying, “The highest goodness is like water.” Water has three qualities that bring it close to the Dao, as well as seven ways in which its goodness benefits all things; these will be explained later.

Water is skilled at nourishing all things without competing with them. It settles in the low places that people all dislike, and so it is closest to the Dao.

These three qualities all bring water close to the Dao. Water is calm and still, yet spreads out to nourish everything. Without water in the sky, there would be drought; without water on the earth, dust would billow. Water nourishes all things, so it is said to “benefit all things well.” This is the first quality.

Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water. Water leaves fullness and moves toward emptiness; it avoids high places and flows to low ones. When it is blocked, it stops; when its path is opened, it flows. It follows the arrangements people make for it, so it is said to “not contend.” This is the second quality.

People’s usual disposition is to dislike being in a low place and to prefer a high position. Water, by contrast, willingly stays low, accepts what is muddy, and does not shun filthy places. It cleanses all things while bearing disgrace on its own, dwelling where everyone else recoils. This is the third quality.

“Near” means close to. Water benefits all things, embodying expansive benevolence; it does not contend, embodying the virtue of humility; and it willingly stays among what is filthy, showing a capacity to endure defilement. These three qualities of water are cited to show that the perfected person—a person whose virtue has reached its highest state—embodies them consistently as well. Such a person is not far from the Dao; hence water is said to be “near to the Dao.”

Another interpretation says that water is a form of Qi (vital energy), occupies the primary position in the north, and is associated with the number six. The north is where Yang energy begins to arise and Yin energy comes to an end. The generative number of water is one, the same as that of the Dao; the Dao is also called “the One.” The Dao’s “One” has no form and cannot be concretely identified, while water’s “One” has visible form. The formless “One” is the Dao’s substance; the formed “One” is the Dao’s function. Water embodies the Dao’s function, so it is said to be near to the Dao.

In choosing a place to dwell, be discerning about what is suitable. In your state of mind, be still and deep like an abyss. In dealing with others, keep benevolence in your heart. In speaking, be honest and trustworthy. In governing, be skilled in managing public affairs. In your work, make full use of your strengths. In your actions, seize the right moment.

Those who have attained the Dao know how to settle themselves and fulfill their lives. They are skilled at humility and taking the lower position, responding to the natural character of all things, and influencing the people of their communities through De. They are like water, which stays in low places and nourishes all things. Hence the saying, “In dwelling, choose the low ground.” This is the first excellence.

The minds of those who have attained the Dao are skilled at remaining empty and still. They perceive what is deep and subtle, clear and bright, like deep water that remains pure even as its surface shifts and ripples. Hence the saying, “In the mind, be deep and still.” This is the second excellence.

When giving to others, those who have attained the Dao are skilled in the way of benevolence. Their kindness reaches throughout the world, without favoritism or private attachment. They are like water, which moistens all things, rising and falling, flowing everywhere, and leaving nothing untouched or unaided. Hence the saying, “In giving, be benevolent.” This is the third excellence.

In speaking, those who have attained the Dao are skilled at keeping faith. They need no deliberate agreements with others, for they naturally come into accord. They are like water reflecting all things, showing beauty and ugliness as they are. When full, water flows on and moves elsewhere; even as it passes through dangerous places, it does not lose its nature. Hence the saying, “In speech, be trustworthy.” This is the fourth excellence.

In governing, those who have attained the Dao are skilled at guiding the people. Through their upright bearing, they influence others, who follow naturally. They are like water, which measures high and low impartially and washes all things clean of dust and grime. Hence the saying, “In government, be effective.” This is the fifth excellence.

In handling affairs, those who have attained the Dao are skilled at employing capable people. They assign positions according to each person’s capacity and ability, so that talent and responsibility do not conflict. They are like water, gentle in nature and able to fit vessels of any shape, taking the form of each vessel while remaining useful everywhere. Hence the saying, “In carrying out affairs, be capable.” This is the sixth excellence.

In their conduct and actions, those who have attained the Dao are skilled at recognizing the right time. Their advances and retreats respond to the changes in things, allowing them to preserve their Dao. They are like water, which changes with the seasons, freezing in winter and thawing in summer, never acting against the season. Hence the saying, “In action, follow the right time.” This is the seventh excellence.

Precisely because they do not contend with others, they incur no fault or resentment.

“Only” here means “alone,” and it sums up the three abilities and seven good deeds mentioned above. The perfected person—one who has realized the Great Dao—acts in the world, enters or withdraws from public service, and speaks or remains silent in accord with the Dao’s subtle workings and the logic of things. They consistently remain yielding and still, without competing with external things for superiority. Since they do not compete, they give no cause for blame. You also means resentment, so the passage says that only those in the world who do not compete will escape others’ resentment and reproach.

The substance of the Dao is empty and formless, while in numerical theory water corresponds to “one.” Only the perfected person can put the Great Dao into practice like water and thereby draw near to the Dao. They are not self-satisfied and are also skilled at holding fast. The text therefore goes on to discuss the problem of holding on to things that are already full.

Holding on to something that is already full is not as good as stopping at what is enough.

Ying means “full,” and yi means “to stop.” If one insists on keeping what is full without understanding the need to yield and diminish it, it will inevitably be overturned. To avoid the harm of such a downfall, it is better to stop in time. This is a warning to people. Yan Junping explained ying as zhi, meaning to keep accumulating wealth and possessions.

If you hammer something until it is sharp and keen, you cannot keep it that way for long.

“Scheming” means calculating and planning, and can also mean refining or disciplining; “sharp” means keen. People know only how to sharpen their covetous thoughts, eagerly chasing wealth and status. They do not realize that reckless calculation and unchecked greed invite disaster, and that wealth, status, and power gained in this way cannot be held for long.

Junping said, “To me, wealth and status are like climbing a mountain to gaze into the distance; power is like a flash of lightning, gone in an instant.” This shows that neither wealth and status nor power can be kept for long. The Huainanzi: Honglie Jie records that after Bai Gong Sheng seized control of the state of Chu, he refused to share the treasury’s wealth with anyone. Seven days later, Shi Qi urged him: “Power gained through injustice, when it is not used to benefit others, is bound to bring disaster. If you refuse to give anything away, you might as well burn the wealth, so it does not bring about your death.” Bai Gong would not listen. On the ninth day, Ye Gong entered the city, opened the state treasury, distributed its wealth among the people, and took out weapons to arm them. He then raised an army against Bai Gong. Nineteen days later, Bai Gong was captured. Chu did not belong to Bai Gong, yet he wanted to claim it for himself: this was extreme greed. He could neither benefit others nor protect himself: this was extreme folly. Bai Gong’s conduct was like that of a person who cherishes a child as tightly as a “nie,” only to harm the child in the end. We can see from this that when one’s hands are already full, it is better to know when to stop. Relentlessly scheming and sharpening one’s greed makes wealth, status, and power impossible to keep for long.

When gold and jade fill the hall, no one can keep them.

When a house is piled high with gold and jade, no one can guard it forever. This shows that fullness cannot be sustained for long; it is simply the way things must be. A house full of gold and jade may seem to add to a family’s prosperity. But when a great thief arrives, he can carry off chests, baskets, and sacks; even a clever person may not be able to protect them. An elephant invites its own death because of its tusks, and a chicken is slaughtered because it is chosen as a sacrificial offering. If even animals suffer this fate, people should take it as a warning. The versions of Yan Junping and Wang Bi read, “When gold and jade fill the rooms.”

To become arrogant through wealth and status is to bring calamity upon oneself.

“Giving” means to bestow. The wealthy are often approached by people seeking favors, so they are prone to deceive and exploit others. Those of high status are often treated with deference, so they are prone to oppress others. As their oppression grows ever more unrestrained, disaster is bound to follow. Is this not a calamity they have brought upon themselves?

Junping says: Gold and jade, on the one hand, and human life, reputation, and spirit, on the other, are like ice and charcoal: they cannot both be preserved for long. Reputation therefore stains the spirit, while wealth and profit injure the body. To nourish the spirit amid the defilement of reputation and place the body in harm’s way for the sake of wealth and profit is to damage one’s existing achievements and hasten one’s own ruin. If one regards gaining these things as beneficial and losing them as harmful, one’s thoughts become confused, and one’s choices run counter to what is natural.

Junping also says: Accumulating wealth depletes the spirit; gaining a reputation may endanger life. Misfortune is brought on by oneself, not caused by others; blessings are cultivated by oneself, not bestowed by Heaven.

Lu Xisheng says: If a great vessel is already filled to the brim, even if you feel anxious about it, it is better to stop in time. If you hold a high position and have reached the summit, even if you feel uneasy, it is better to step down in time. Exhausting your efforts to pursue power and wealth will not let you keep them for long, even if you obtain them. Coveting enough gold and jade to fill your house will not let you hold on to them forever, even if you possess them. Pride in a high position brings misfortune; pride in wealth only compounds one’s faults. Pride arises from within, and its consequences are borne by oneself. How, then, can one blame Heaven or others?

When your achievements are complete and your reputation has flourished, withdraw and step aside. This accords with the Dao.

This sums up the meaning of the preceding passage. Someone who has achieved great things and gained a prominent reputation, yet does not know when to stop and yield, is not wise. Once all the birds have been shot, the good bow is put away; once all the crafty hares have been caught, the hunting dogs are cooked. Events often reach this point as circumstances unfold. Only those who follow the Dao’s cycles of fullness and decline, and know when to advance, when to withdraw, and how to preserve themselves, can be called “Perfected Ones” (people who have attained a profound state).

When external things accumulate beyond measure, they will inevitably harm life. Rather than single-mindedly pursuing wealth and rank, it is better to hold fast to “Embracing the One” (maintaining unity and holding to the root), thereby avoiding misfortune. That is why the text next speaks of “carrying the corporeal and spiritual souls and embracing the One.”

Can you carry and preserve the souls, bringing them into unity so that they do not separate?

In Daoist thought, the Yang soul is called the “hun.” Rather than single-mindedly pursuing wealth and rank, it is better to hold fast to the root and avoid misfortune. That is why the text next speaks of “carrying the corporeal and spiritual souls and embracing the One.”

Can one unite the hun and po and keep them together as one (that is, preserve a state of purity and harmony) without letting them separate?

Daoists call the yang aspect of the spirit the hun and the yin aspect the po. The hun favors growth and is prone to wander; the po tends toward yin stillness, but can also drift and become confused. The Baihu Tong says that “ying” means being unsettled, and for this reason it is also used to refer to the hun. Older interpretations explain “zai” as “to carry” and “ying” as the hun; some also explain the phrase as protecting yang Qi. The hun is yang essence, while the po is yin spirit: yang essence likes to move and wander, so Daoist immortal texts describe methods for restraining and gathering the hun; yin spirit is prone to drift and confusion, so they describe methods for subduing the po. If the body continually bears the hun and po, while preserving the Qi of great harmony and purity and preventing it from dispersing or separating, life can be nurtured for a long time.

The Daoist teaching of “embracing the One” is like a luminous pearl—the original text says “yi”—that contains its own radiance. How could the radiance leave the pearl? This teaches people to nurture the spirit. The modern interpretation says that to guard the “One Qi,” one should keep the mind and spirit from becoming scattered. When the mind and spirit remain undistracted, the hun and po rely on the body and together preserve the Way of purity and oneness. Can one be like an infant? The following lines are explained in the same way.

Can one gather Jing and Qi and make the body supple, like an infant?

Older interpretations take “zhuan” to mean concentration and devoted attention. “Qi” refers to the subtle, profound Qi of harmony, as well as the Qi of nature. People are born by receiving nature’s harmonious Qi; when Qi descends, the body takes shape, originally without anything mixed into it. If one can devote oneself to this subtle, profound Qi of harmony and forget distinctions and opinions, the Qi will naturally become pure and harmonious, and the body will naturally become supple. It will not be troubled by various harms, and can retain the complete purity and harmony of an infant. This teaches people to nurture Qi.

The modern interpretation understands “Can one be like an infant?” to mean that anyone who wishes to concentrate Qi and attain suppleness should be as pure and supple as an infant. To achieve this is to grasp the method of concentrating Qi and attaining suppleness.

Can one cleanse the mind and make it clear and deep, free of blemish?

An old commentary says that “washing” means cleansing, “clearing away” means dispelling, “mysterious vision” means inward contemplation, and “flaws” means faults. One should wash away the dust and grime in the heart, dispel various emotions and desires, and make both inner and outer realms clear, quiet, and empty, so that the heart can contemplate all things. In this way, faults and flaws in the heart can be removed. This passage teaches people to cultivate the inner life.

The three matters above this passage concern disciplining oneself in personal cultivation; the three below it urge people to govern the state. The scripture says, “Cultivate yourself by these methods, and your De will become genuine; govern the world by these methods, and your De will spread widely.” The present interpretation explains: if people wish to cleanse the heart, clear away its impurities, see clearly what is within and without, and reflect on themselves so that they no longer make mistakes, this is the method of “washing away the mysterious vision.”

In loving the people and governing the state, can you practice Wuwei (non-action)?

An old commentary says that those who govern the state should care for the people as they would infants. They should not handle affairs with harshness or cruelty, and their taxes and forced labor should not harm the people’s natural dispositions. They should give priority to farming and reduce the burdens of routine administration, allowing people to pursue their livelihoods and live in stability. Governing in this way is rule through Wuwei.

The present interpretation explains: if a ruler wishes to nurture the people without harming their natural dispositions, the ruler should govern the state well, give priority to farming, and avoid an excess of complicated regulations, maintaining quietude and practicing Wuwei. This is the method of loving the people and governing the state.

As the Gate of Heaven opens and closes, can you remain like the female?

The “Gate of Heaven” refers to the gate of nature: the portal through which nature operates and brings the myriad things into being. As the Gate of Heaven opens and closes in its transformations, can the ruler remain yielding and still, like the female, without acting recklessly through force?

The “Gate of Heaven” is the gateway through which nature operates. Nature gives rise to the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the Taiji gives rise to Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth give rise to Yin-Yang, which in turn brings forth the myriad things. Since the life and death, coming and going of all things take place through this process, it is called the “Gate of Heaven.” “Opening” means dispersing and giving forth; “closing” means gathering and storing away. When it opens, all things grow; when it closes, all things decline and perish. Though the myriad things are continually born, we cannot see what brings them into being. Though they are continually dying, we cannot see what brings about their death. Birth and death go on, yet no trace of their workings can be discerned. Is this not the operation of nature?

Those who can perceive and follow nature are perhaps only the “Great Person”—someone broad-minded and deeply attuned to the natural Way. The Great Person’s heart embraces Heaven and Earth, and their bearing encompasses Yin-Yang. They make gentleness, stillness, humility, and yielding their way of life, so that changes such as life and death, flourishing and decline, do not unsettle their inner calm. Stillness that is yielding and receptive is a subtle function of nature. Here, those who cultivate themselves and govern the state are being counseled to hold fast to such stillness.

An older explanation says that the “Gate of Heaven” is the gate of the Purple Enclosure around the North Pole, the abode where the ancients said the celestial emperor resided. The North Star lies within the Purple Enclosure, where five emperors take turns governing the seasons and their cycles of flourishing and decline. Thus the Gate of Heaven opens and closes: when it opens, there is Tai, a time of ease and prosperity; when it closes, there is Pi, a time of obstruction and decline. For example, when the Azure Emperor governs in spring, his gate opens and the other gates close. The same pattern applies through the four seasons. The Five Cycles, the system the ancients used to explain the changing currents of Qi between Heaven and Earth, revolve in turn; the calendar and the sequence of seasons continually change, and the fortunes of the world have no fixed course. Only sages understand the Way of Heaven and the workings of destiny. By holding fast to stillness that is yielding and receptive, they are never overturned by change, and so can enjoy lasting success and good fortune.

Some also interpret the passage as a teaching on self-cultivation: the “Gate of Heaven” refers to the nose and mouth, and “opening and closing” refers to breathing. When a person is gentle, still, and balanced, the breath becomes deep, long, and fine; the spirit, too, can settle into calm and serenity, at ease in Wuwei (non-action). In this interpretation, the opening and closing of the Gate of Heaven, and the cycles of flourishing and decline, are ordinary features of the changing seasons. Only by holding fast to gentleness, stillness, humility, and yielding can one avoid being carried away by changes in Yin-Yang or disturbed by changes in cold and heat.

When the mind is clear and far-reaching, and one can see in every direction, can one remain empty and still without relying on one’s own cleverness?

An old commentary says that “clear” refers to the discerning light of wisdom. Even someone who cultivates the self and has sharp insight and keen understanding should remain empty and still, as though they were not deliberately seeking knowledge and experience. A ruler whose virtue shines like the sun and moon, illuminating the four directions and reaching throughout the world, should also restrain the senses and avoid thinking they know everything. The people should be able to go about their daily lives without noticing what the ruler does: this is what it means to have the Dao. This text explains that to gain wisdom, discernment, and understanding, one must first restrain sight and hearing and constantly maintain emptiness, stillness, and unknowing. This is the foundation of clear discernment and understanding.

Let all things grow and be nurtured without claiming them as one’s own; act without taking pride in one’s achievements; bring all things to maturity without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De”—profound virtue that does not show itself.

If those who cultivate themselves and govern the state can accomplish the six things described above while maintaining emptiness, stillness, and unknowing, they will attain clear discernment and understanding. “Giving life and nurturing” means, like the Dao, allowing all things to grow and nourishing them without blocking their source or restricting their nature, but letting them develop naturally. All things grow and act on their own. The sage has nothing to claim as their own, rely upon, or rule over. They forget their achievements and do not cling to the things of the world, entering deeply into the mysterious and profound. This is called “Mysterious De.” Wang Bi says: “Mysterious De” means possessing virtue without displaying oneself as its master; this virtue comes from what is mysterious and profound.

Keep to unity without letting it scatter, and concentrate on harmonizing Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), so that body and mind become as supple as those of an infant. When the breath is harmonized, all things gather around as spokes converge on a hub. Thus the text next says: “Thirty spokes share one hub.”

Thirty spokes converge on a single hub. It is precisely because the center of the hub is empty that the wheel can bear weight and turn.

Here it explains that “being” and “nonbeing” each serve a purpose and depend on one another. The Rites of Zhou: Record of the Trades says that a carriage canopy is round, taking its model from Heaven, while the carriage body is square, taking its model from Earth. Thirty spokes converge at the hub—the part at the center of the wheel where the spokes meet—symbolizing the number of days in a month. The moon continues its unceasing course, and the wheel keeps turning over the ground. A month consists of thirty days, just as a wheel’s thirty spokes converge at a single hub.

The hub is hollow at its center, allowing the wheel to turn; the carriage body is hollow inside, allowing people to ride in it and goods to be carried. It is precisely these empty spaces that give the carriage its functions of motion and containment.

Junping believed that the ancient sages governed the people by following the natural order of Heaven and Earth, without resorting to clever contrivances. People drank from gourds and ate with their hands, living as equals, with no distinctions of rank. Later rulers took action of their own: taxes grew heavy and labor duties multiplied, leaving the people exhausted. The authorities demanded supplies, so the people could not live in peace; men and women had to travel long distances carrying loads they could scarcely bear. Then people of ingenuity invented wheels and harnessed horses and oxen, using carts to transport heavy loads and travel far, thereby easing the people’s hardship.

Later generations carried on these practices and added ever more elaborate ornamentation: carving patterns on the hubs, painting the wheels vermilion, and decorating them with gold, silver, and jade. The cost of a single carriage could impoverish the people. Laozi therefore grieved that artificial contrivances harmed De (Virtue/Power), and pointed out that what is called doing good can also bring about disorder. He used the examples of carts, vessels, and rooms to show that “being” and “nonbeing” depend on each other to fulfill their functions, and through this he admonished the people.

Clay is kneaded and fired to make a vessel. It is precisely because the vessel is hollow inside that it can hold things.

“Shan” means to knead and blend, and “zhi” means clay. Craftspeople knead the clay to make vessels, but what makes a vessel useful for holding things is precisely the empty space inside it.

Junping held that when the Dao and De decline, troubles invade the heart from within, while the Qi of Yin and Yang injures the body from without. People grow weak and thin, beset by illness. Water and fire then rise together, and the five flavors appear. Raw and cooked foods become mixed, and dry and moist things are no longer distinguished. Clever people knead clay into vessels to cook flavors such as sour and salty. Later, this developed into extravagance and excess: hunting without restraint and harming living creatures; killing unborn animals and their young to please the ruler; carving and polishing pearls and jade to make bowls and plates. Things that were originally simple and natural were divided up and fashioned into objects, until matters reached this point.

Doors and windows are cut into walls to build a house. It is the empty space within the house that makes it fit to live in.

“Carving” means piercing through or hollowing out. A half-door is called a “door leaf,” while a window beside a door is called a “side window.” Doors and windows may also be referred to together simply as doors and windows.

In ancient times, people lived in caves. Later, they dug into the earth inside the caves, covered the top with soil, and made doors and windows to turn them into dwellings. The empty space inside a house gives people room to live comfortably and to come and go; in this way, “what is not” can also serve a purpose.

Yan Junping believed that, after people’s hearts changed, all things began to resent one another. Insects and snakes, along with poisonous silkworms, appeared, and birds and beasts began to harm people. Caves could no longer protect people from calamities or preserve their lives, allowing them to live out their days in peace. So the wise built houses: they raised beams, covered them with roofs, made windows through which to look out, and secured the doors so they could be opened and closed with ease. This kept bees and insects from entering and wild animals from getting in. Later, people built grand, towering terraces and palaces, set up passes, and constructed city walls. As a result, soldiers were exhausted, and countless people were killed or injured. In antiquity, this was considered a way to govern; later generations saw it as the source of disorder and calamity. This shows that what is present and what is absent depend on each other and each have their uses, yet both can also bring harm. What matters is how people make use of them.

Thus, what has form can benefit people, while what is formless—the open space within—can also serve a purpose.

The three examples discussed earlier show that “being” and “nonbeing” depend on each other, and neither can be dispensed with. “Being” brings convenience, which is embodied in objects; “nonbeing” allows objects to serve their purpose, which lies in the empty space within them.

An object must have an outer form to serve its purpose through the space within it; that empty space must be contained within the object for its use to become apparent. Thus “nonbeing” reveals its convenience through “being,” while “being” serves its purpose through “nonbeing.” “Nonbeing” connects with the Dao (the Way), while “being” takes shape as a concrete object. What lies above form is called the “Dao”: it has no form, yet must rely on concrete things to show its effect. What lies below form is called the “vessel”: it has form, yet depends on the empty space within it to serve its purpose. So an object cannot do without the formless effect represented by the Dao, and the Dao must rely on objects to make its function apparent.

This is like the spokes in a wheel hub—the part at the wheel’s center that connects to the axle—the contents held by a vessel, or the people who live in a house. In each case, “nonbeing” lets “being” bring convenience, while “being” makes the function of “nonbeing” possible.

Applied to self-cultivation, Shen (spirit and inner clarity) supports life, while stillness and emptiness—an open, quiet mind—are the means of nourishing Shen. “Nonbeing” enables function; “being” brings concrete benefit. Benefit depends on “being,” while function depends on “nonbeing.” Here, “nonbeing” means stillness and emptiness, and “being” means Shen. Shen is a subtle form of “being”; stillness and emptiness are the utmost form of “nonbeing.” The benefit of subtle “being” lies in sustaining life, while the function of utmost “nonbeing” lies in nourishing Shen. The work of sustaining life and nourishing Shen depends on both subtle “being” and utmost “nonbeing.”

The arrangement of vehicles and utensils draws on empty space to make them useful, allowing shaped objects to bring convenience. “Using nonbeing” means emptiness; “benefiting from being” means form—the visible and tangible. That is why the text next discusses the “five colors.”

The five colors dazzle the eyes, the five tones dull the hearing, and the five flavors spoil the palate.

The colors were originally used to portray the Five Phases and to decorate ceremonial robes, distinguishing rank and status. This was their proper use. Later, people pursued splendid brocades and became enamored of vivid colors such as blue-green and yellow. Their minds and spirits followed external things, harming their Jing and Qi and damaging their eyesight. They could no longer see the “color” that is colorless yet encompasses all things. Is this not like being blind?

The five tones were originally used to express the sounds of the Five Phases. Instruments made of metal, stone, silk, and bamboo could communicate the Qi of Heaven and Earth. This was their proper use. Later, people composed the licentious music of the Zheng and Wei regions, taking pleasure in what delighted the ear. They became so absorbed in it that they could not stop; it disturbed their nature and blocked their hearing. They could no longer listen in stillness to the “sound” that is soundless yet encompasses all things. Is this not like being deaf?

The five flavors were originally used to harmonize the Five Phases. Seasonings such as salt and plum were combined to balance flavors and replenish what people lacked. This was their proper use. Later, people grew fond of delicacies such as bear’s paw and pursued the rich sweetness of meat. Eating without restraint muddied the spirit and damaged their innate nature. They could no longer experience in their hearts the “flavor” that is flavorless yet encompasses all things. Is this not like having a disordered sense of taste? Here, “shuang” means “to lose,” and “cha” means “to be deprived of.”

Racing horses and hunting in the fields can make the mind and spirit run wild.

Hunting was originally a regular state practice conducted according to ritual. It served to train people in military preparedness and to teach the people the proper seasons for farming. Each year, the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords hunted three times according to the seasons. Some of the catch was made into dried meat for ancestral offerings, some was used to entertain guests and strengthen relations between states, and some was for the ruler to eat at the proper time. To fail to hunt when one should was considered disrespectful; to hunt out of season was to harm living things. Thus, the spring hunt was called “sou,” the summer hunt “miao,” the autumn hunt “mi,” and the winter hunt “shou,” each with its own season and rules. If people ignored these regulations, raced their horses across boundaries in pursuit of game, became obsessed with hunting without restraint, harmed living creatures and farming, or even climbed dangerous cliffs, their minds and spirits would become disordered. Is this not madness?

Hard-to-obtain goods can lead people’s conduct astray.

Gold, silver, pearls, and jade are all precious goods that are difficult to obtain. If people greedily seek and use them without knowing when they have enough, endlessly searching for more, they will obstruct the practice of the Dao (the Way) and bring exhaustion and disgrace upon themselves.

Junping says: When the five colors become excessive, people throughout the world are dazzled and can no longer see clearly. When the five tones grow too loud, people can no longer hear distinctly. When too much care is lavished on the five flavors, people become difficult to satisfy. When hunting flourishes, people throughout the world become frenzied. When pearls and jade are regarded as precious, people throughout the world are driven to toil. When currency circulates excessively, the world is brought to ruin. The five colors are like awls that wound the eyes; the five tones are like mallets that block the ears; the five flavors are like iron blades that cut the tongue; and hunting is a leader that drives people into frenzy and confusion. Chasing rare and unusual goods from distant places leads the world away from the right path; placing great value on things that are difficult to make causes the world’s customs to decline. These things transform into and give rise to one another without end. They are hard to discern, yet easily scattered; difficult to obtain, yet easily lost. Danger lies hidden within them, enough to plunge people into peril and ruin. In seeking them, people injure themselves; possessing them may instead bring about their own destruction. These words admonish rulers above and instruct the people below.

Therefore, the sage seeks only to satisfy the needs of the body and does not pursue sensory desires. He does not seek things that are endless, hard to discern, easily scattered, difficult to obtain, and easily lost. He acts this way to keep clear of danger and ruin. Thus the sage gives up one side and chooses the other.

Here, “sage” refers to a ruler who possesses the Dao. Such a ruler does not let desires for sights and sounds draw him outward, but instead cultivates an inward, abundant spirit. “Belly” means satisfying the body’s needs and making the inner self settled and full. In this way, one does not pursue external things, and the spirit remains intact. This is why the sage follows “the belly.” “Eyes” refers to becoming absorbed in external appearances, letting the eyes be ruled by desire and the mind and spirit become scattered. In this way, people pursue external things and deplete their inner Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). This is why the sage is wary of “the eyes.” “Give up that and choose this” means abandoning the pursuit of external things and choosing to preserve what is within.

Indulging in sensual pleasures may bring death and humiliation. If one does not value rare and precious goods, honor and favor may be expected. This is meant to help people let go of the desire to seek external things and preserve their inner selves and well-being.

Indulging in sensual pleasures brings death and humiliation; if one does not value rare and precious goods, honor and favor may be expected. Therefore, the discussion now turns to “favor and disgrace.”

“Favor and disgrace are like alarm” means that both favor and disgrace are like things that inspire fear.

“Favor” refers to auspicious things such as wealth, status, and rewards; “disgrace” refers to misfortunes such as poverty, low status, and punishment. Those who have attained the Great Dao regard the body as a temporary dwelling and life and death as growths on it. They do not take success as a source of glory, nor hardship as a source of shame. They know that official rank and reputation come and go, and that external things are merely things entrusted to one’s care. How, then, could they let favor and disgrace weigh on their minds and remain in constant fear? The Jing’s phrase “favor and disgrace are like alarm” speaks of ordinary people. Those of middling wisdom worry about danger even when secure, and think of disgrace even when favored, so they react to both favor and disgrace as if startled. Ordinary people chase after trivial things and therefore fear disgrace; those of middling wisdom look to the root and so remain wary even when favored. Hence the saying, “Favor and disgrace are like alarm.”

“To prize the great calamity as one’s own body” means to regard the greatest calamity as important as oneself.

“To prize” means to honor and cherish. “The great calamity” refers to external things such as official rank, carriages and fine clothes, and precious goods, as well as the material means used to sustain the body. The Perfected One, who has attained the Great Dao, knows that the body does not truly belong to him and does not regard it as especially precious. How much less, then, would he honor and cherish other external things? People today believe that rank and treasures can support their lives, and value them as they value their own bodies. Yet they do not realize that both the body and external things are sources of great calamity and are not worth cherishing.

“What is meant by favor and disgrace? Favor is above; disgrace is below.”

The Kaiyuan imperial edition, a version from the Kaiyuan era of the Tang dynasty, reads, “Favor is below.” This means that when people gain wealth, status, and rewards, they may rely on favor and become arrogant and complacent, thereby bringing calamity upon themselves. When favor leads to calamity, it shows that favor is the source of disgrace; hence the saying, “Favor is below.” The Heshang Gong edition reads, “Favor is above; disgrace is below.” This accords with the meaning of the Jing and is coherent in principle; the explanation below will further elaborate on this point. The Huangfu Mi edition also reads, “Favor is above; disgrace is below,” meaning that gaining is regarded as being above and losing as being below.

To receive favor is like being alarmed, and to lose favor is also like being alarmed. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are like alarm.”

This passage explains “gaining something as though startled.” Ordinary people rely on wealth and status. When they gain them, they tremble with anxiety; when they lose them, they are overcome with grief. They have yet to understand that gain and loss are not entirely within their control, and so remain in constant fear and unease. People of middling insight know that fortune and misfortune can turn into one another. Someone like Jiu Chan, for example, may win favor and splendor, only to face hardship and humiliation later. So even when they prevail or gain something, they should remain alert and wary, as though they had lost something.

The Liezi records that Zhao Xiangzi sent troops to attack the Di state and, after seizing two cities, looked troubled. He said that his ancestors’ accumulated virtue had made such an achievement possible, and that he must not let it make him careless. When Confucius heard this, he praised him: “The Zhao clan will likely prosper, for even in gaining something, he remains as cautious as if startled.”

What does it mean to “regard the great affliction as one’s own person”—to treat oneself as the greatest source of concern? “I have great afflictions because I have this body. If I had no self, what afflictions would I have?” Here, “body” is used to show that people suffer because they regard themselves as supremely important.

“Why do I say this?” This is a repeated question and answer, used to introduce the point that follows. “I” is simply a general way of referring to oneself.

People suffer great troubles because they have a body. The human body has no feathers to protect it from heat and cold, so we must depend on external things to sustain life. But if we cling too fiercely to life and seek to acquire things at every turn, we can more easily fall into danger, and calamities follow. This happens because we are bound by worldly entanglements and cling to the importance of our own bodies.

If we could place ourselves beyond ourselves, no longer clinging to the body or to the mind, and let ourselves flow with nature’s transformations and join with the myriad things, then, when acting, we would seem like withered wood being dragged along, and, when sitting still, like a heap of cold ashes. How could the great troubles mentioned earlier, such as being favored or disgraced, then befall us? Thus it is said: “When I no longer cling to myself, what calamity could there be?”

In the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” Ziqi said to Yanyan: “Now I have forgotten myself. Do you understand?” Forgetting sensory awareness and entering the state of sitting in forgetfulness can already keep various troubles from intruding. How much more so when body and mind become one with nature? Here, “having no body” means forgetting and transcending attachment to the body; it does not mean that the body is destroyed and reduced to emptiness. To interpret “having no body” as destruction and emptiness is to misunderstand Laozi’s original intent.

If someone cherishes the world as they cherish their own person, the world can be entrusted to them. If someone cares for the world as they care for their own person, the world can be placed in their care.

The discussion up to “having no body” broadly explains how people become alarmed and attached because of favor and disgrace, thereby bringing great trouble upon themselves. From “valuing and cherishing” onward, it turns specifically to rulers, who cannot entirely set aside the affairs of the world. This is why the text speaks of entrusting the world to them.

Yet the idea of “entrusting the world” still falls short of the realm attained by a ruler of the highest De. Only someone whose mind and spirit rest in clarity, emptiness, and stillness, whose breathing accords with the void, who follows the natural transformations of all things without mixing in private desires, can restore the ways of high antiquity.

Lu Xisheng says: If gain and loss disturb a person’s heart, and that person is always thinking of himself, then favor and disgrace will never be at rest, and good and ill fortune will never cease. How could such a person serve as the standard for the world and occupy its most exalted position? Only one who regards his own life as precious and puts it to use for the world, who cherishes his own life and puts it to use for the world, truly values the world rather than valuing only himself. In this way, gain and loss no longer concern him, and troubles do not fall upon him. Such a person might seem fit to have the world entrusted to him. Even so, one would not presume to let him regard himself as the world’s ruler, much less possess the world. This is what it means for the Great Dao to prevail, with the world held in common.

The Kaiyuan imperial edition, a version of the Dao De Jing from the reign of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, reads: “Therefore, one who esteems his own person and uses it to govern the world may be entrusted with the world; one who cherishes his own person and uses it to govern the world may have the world placed in his care.”

The Imperial Commentary says: The chapter begins by taking caution against favor and disgrace as its central theme, and closes with the idea of “entrusting.” If people are alarmed by favor and disgrace, it shows they have not yet forgotten them. If they approach the world with a mind that esteems and cherishes, it shows they have not truly forgotten esteem and cherishing. Thus, when disgrace is compared with favor, disgrace seems worse; when esteem is compared with cherishing, esteem seems less important. Those alarmed by favor and disgrace still cling to them in their hearts; those who cherish and esteem still have not made the world something unrelated to themselves. At the beginning, the text asks us to regard being favored as though it were being disgraced. In the end, it asks that both favor and disgrace be forgotten. Forget favor and disgrace, and they can no longer alarm you. Forget yourself, and no source of trouble remains. Forget the world, and there is no longer any talk of “entrusting the world” to someone.

The Wang Bi edition reads: “Therefore, one who esteems his own person and uses it to govern the world may be entrusted with the world; one who cherishes his own person and uses it to govern the world may have the world placed in his care.” Wang Bi explains: Nothing can make such a person lightly abandon himself, and so he is called “esteemed”; nothing can harm his person, and so he is called “cherished.” Such a person does not let favor or disgrace, honor or trouble, harm him. Only then may the world be entrusted to him.

The textual editor considers the version quoted in the “In the World of Men” chapter of the Zhuangzi the most reliable, followed by the Wang Bi edition. For the commentary, the interpretations of Wang Bi and Lu Xisheng are preferable. The Kaiyuan imperial edition may have added or removed wording based on other versions during its textual revisions, and therefore may not preserve the original meaning of the ancient text.

Receiving favor brings surprise, and suffering humiliation brings alarm; neither can help stirring the heart. Only those who turn away from these feelings and follow the Dao know that the Dao has no form or trace. Thus the text continues: “You look at it, but cannot see it.”

When collating the word “look,” editors have added or removed characters on the basis of other versions. But doing so loses the original meaning of the ancient text.

Looking at it, one cannot see it; this is called “Yi.” In an ancient edition, the character “Yi” was written as “Ji,” which suggests something deep and obscure, without image or form. The Book of Changes says, “Ji is the subtle sign at the beginning of a thing’s arising.” Although this interpretation is also plausible, I retain the original reading here and will not discuss it further.

Listening for it, one cannot hear it; this is called “Xi.” Reaching for it, one cannot touch it; this is called “Wei.” Since none of the three can be precisely apprehended by the senses, they merge into one.

The shape of the Dao is difficult to describe, and words can hardly explain it. So the sages, having no choice, reluctantly gave it a name.

The Dao has no fixed color and cannot be seen directly with the eyes, yet all colors arise from it. For this reason, the ancients called it “Yi,” meaning “the Level.” The word suggests flatness and unobstructed openness, describing the Dao as silent, vast, and boundless. It exists within the colors of all things, yet is constrained by none of them.

The Dao has no fixed sound and cannot be heard directly with the ears, yet all sounds arise from it. For this reason, the ancients called it “Xi,” meaning “the Rarefied.” The word suggests something sparse and seldom encountered, like the stillness before anything is struck or rubbed. The Dao exists within the sounds of all things, yet has no sound of its own that can be heard.

The Dao has no fixed form and cannot be touched or grasped by hand, yet all forms arise from it. For this reason, the ancients called it “Wei,” meaning “the Subtle.” The word suggests what is refined and elusive, describing the Dao as having no tangible substance. It exists within the forms of all things, yet is constrained by none of them.

Only those whose cultivation has reached a profound level can, through a spirit-like perception, see colorless color beyond ordinary appearances; hear, through a sensitivity to Qi (vital energy), soundless sound beyond ordinary sounds; and discern, through the mind, formless form beyond ordinary forms. The three names “Xi,” “Yi,” and “Wei” are only reluctant ways of describing the Dao’s workings. How could they be treated as real things and then used as grounds for questions or objections? They should instead be brought together as one, returning to unity in profound stillness.

Junping said: Before a wild goose has hatched, if one cracks open its egg to look inside, there is of course no wild goose there yet. And yet the goose’s form, voice, head, tail, and other features are already contained within it. This is “a goose without the form of a goose.” How much more so before the egg itself has even formed, when the workings of creation are already bringing the goose into being? From this we can understand that before the origin of the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), before Heaven and Earth were born, the forms and sounds of the myriad things already had their beginnings, though they could not be seen or heard. This is clear.

Only by not relying on ordinary sight can one see it; only by not relying on ordinary hearing can one hear it; only by not following traces can one grasp it; only by not explaining it in words can one discern it. Thus, formless form gives rise to Heaven and Earth and is called “Yi”; soundless sound brings forth the five tones and is called “Xi”; and beginnings without discernible traces set the myriad things in motion and are called “Wei.” These are paths into the Dao pointed out by the worthy sages of earlier times. If one can forget ordinary seeing and hearing, truly perceive what one touches with the heart, and merge as one with the myriad things, returning to emptiness and stillness, one’s cultivation has reached its utmost. There is no higher state.

The Dao (the Way) does not appear dazzling above, nor dim below. Its movement continues without end, yet no name can point to it; in the end, it returns to what has no form or image.

Everything that has form and color has boundaries and cannot go beyond its own fixed limits. Only the Dao extends beyond the Nine Heavens without appearing bright, and exists before the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the primordial state before Heaven, Earth, and all things took shape, without appearing exalted. A person who cultivates the Dao may dwell on high and shine alongside the sun and moon, yet the Dao’s light is not dazzling. They may sink beyond the Nine Earths without becoming dim. The Dao moves beneath the Six Extremes—the four directions, above and below—without seeming obscure. Even if a person who cultivates the Dao is in a low place, silent and still among tiles and rubble, the Dao’s clarity remains unobscured.

The Dao moves continuously, without end or interruption. It gives life to and nurtures the myriad things, yet we cannot say that the Dao itself “gives birth” to them: each thing grows of its own accord. It brings about change in all things, yet we cannot say that the Dao itself “changes” them: each thing changes of its own accord. The myriad things grow and change on their own, taking shape and displaying color, but these actions cannot be attributed directly to the Dao. Tracing them back to their source, we ultimately arrive at a state that is deep, difficult to know, still, and silent. This is the subtle principle by which the Dao moves and brings the myriad things into being. Thus it is said: “It continues without end and cannot be named; in the end, it returns to nothing.” Here, shengsheng describes what continues without interruption and has no bounds.

This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the imageless,” and is also called “the indistinct and elusive.”

To say that it returns to nothing does not mean that it is empty and utterly without content. Rather, in a state without form, it can give rise to every form; in a state without image, it can bring forth every image. If we say it exists, we cannot see its form: it is present, yet seems absent. If we say it does not exist, the myriad things are nonetheless formed through it: it is absent, yet seems present. Neither existence nor nonexistence can define it firmly, so it is called “the indistinct and elusive.” “Indistinct” means that it seems absent, but is not entirely absent; “elusive” means that it seems to exist, yet is not a definite, identifiable presence. That is why it is called “the indistinct and elusive.”

Go to meet it, and you cannot see its head; follow it, and you cannot see its tail.

The Dao existed before Heaven and Earth took shape, extending back into remote antiquity. Deep and still, its origins are unknown; face toward it and you cannot see its beginning. It has never ceased from ancient times to the present, and continues beyond countless kalpas. Silent and ever-present, it has no known end; follow it and you cannot see where it stops. This is meant to broaden the mind and teach people to emulate the Dao in its essential nature.

Hold fast to the Dao that has existed since antiquity, and use it to guide all things in the present. To know the root of ancient times is what is called the “Order of the Dao”—the Dao’s guiding principles and standards.

The ancient Dao is the formless, nameless source of Heaven and Earth and the root of all things: the Dao that cannot be seen or heard. Laozi teaches people to cultivate themselves and govern the world by means of it: hold fast to the ancient Dao of Wuwei, in which things unfold naturally, and use it to bring order to the worldly affairs of the present, beset by deliberate action and turmoil. In this way, society can return to a simple and unadorned way of life, and to the Great Beginning—the original state of Heaven, Earth, and all things—so that each thing may abide in its own nature and destiny without altering its inherent De. This is called knowing the guiding principles of the Dao.

The Dao cannot be grasped through sight or hearing. It is elusive and formless, difficult to describe. Perhaps only those truly endowed with De can hold fast to the ancient Dao and use it to bring order to the worldly affairs of the present, beset by deliberate action and turmoil. The text therefore goes on to speak of “those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao.”

End of Volume Two of The Subtlety of the Treasury Chamber of the True Scripture of Dao and De

Volume Three of The Collected Subtleties of the Treasury Chamber of the True Scripture of Dao and De

Compiled by Chen Jingyuan, Master of the Azure Void

Dao Scripture

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and profound, penetrating and far-reaching, beyond comprehension.

This refers to people in high antiquity who were skilled at cultivating themselves and governing the country through the natural Dao. Their De and their influence were hidden and subtle, numinous and mysterious; their insight was wise, far-reaching, and unfathomable, and their sincerity was penetrating. Their bearing was therefore so deep that no one could fully understand them. The Dao is so vast that it seems to resemble nothing at all. Liezi lived in the state of Zheng, yet no one recognized him; this is what those skilled in cultivating the Dao in ancient times were like.

Because they were beyond comprehension, one can only attempt to describe them.

The De and capacity of those who possess the Dao are profound and far-reaching, difficult for others to understand. The commentator feared that later generations would no longer have people like Liezi, who lived in Zheng yet went unrecognized, and so could only attempt to describe what they were like.

It is precisely because the Dao is difficult to know that its appearance can only be described reluctantly.

A person who has the Dao—that is, one who has realized the Great Dao—has deep and far-reaching De and character, and is difficult for others to understand. Concerned that later generations might have no example to follow, the text reluctantly describes such a person’s bearing and guiding principles for conduct. What follows is that description.

Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter.

“Yu” means hesitation. This describes a person of the Dao who follows nature and does not oppose the myriad things, who neither rushes ahead of good fortune nor sets misfortune in motion. Yet whenever taking action or withdrawing, such a person is especially careful. Even when walking on level ground, they are always wary of falling into danger, like someone wading barefoot across a great river in bitter winter, hesitant and uneasy, afraid of sinking into its unfathomable depths.

Watchful, as if wary of the neighbors on all sides.

A person of the Dao often remains in a state of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), and does not act rashly. Whether serving in office or living in seclusion, they think deeply and act with care. They are especially cautious about advancing, withdrawing, and making choices, mindful of scrutiny from both the visible and invisible realms, like someone who has broken a taboo and fears the neighbors will notice. This shows the depth of their vigilance.

Dignified, as if a guest.

A person of the Dao carries themselves with dignity and care, their mind undistracted, like a guest before a host who would never dare behave rudely. This describes being free of affairs and taking no contrived action. Guo Shunzi’s dignified bearing allowed him to apprehend the myriad things and dispel distracting thoughts in others; Tian Zifang therefore admired him. When Li Sheguang was alone in a dark room, he remained as respectful as if in the presence of a ruler and his father; Sima Ziwei praised him greatly for this. These examples all embody “dignified as a guest.”

Open and expansive, as if ice were melting.

Though outwardly dignified, a person of the Dao is inwardly at ease and open. Their wisdom unfolds like ice melting in spring, and all stagnation and obstruction disappear.

Simple and genuine, like uncarved wood.

“Dun” means sincere and generous; “pu” means plain and unadorned, and also refers to the original state of things before they have differentiated. A person of the Dao is naturally sincere and unadorned. Whether speaking or remaining silent, they are calm and at ease, without affectation.

Vast and open, like a valley.

“Vast” means broad and expansive; “valley” refers to an empty place that can contain all things. Here, the person of the Dao is said to possess deep and unadorned virtue and a plain nature, still untouched by artificial refinement. Whether speaking or remaining silent, they are calm and at ease, without embellishment.

The person of the Dao has a broad and inclusive heart, letting good and evil come and go freely, like an empty valley echoing a sound while remaining empty.

“Muddled” means mixed and indistinct; “turbid” means unclear. Here, the person of the Dao is inwardly tranquil, yet outwardly follows worldly ways and blends in with others, like murky water in which beauty and ugliness cannot be discerned. The seven states described above, when applied to governing a country, allow the people to return to simplicity without deliberately seeking knowledge. Applied to self-cultivation, they mean restraining one’s sharpness, blending into the common world, and silently attuning oneself to the Dao.

Who can settle turbid water and make it clear? If left undisturbed, it will gradually become clear.

The heart of the person of the Dao is like a deep spring. When water is muddied, it gradually clears if left to stand for a time. The human heart is the same: when it grows quiet, clarity slowly returns.

Who can remain settled for a long time, then set things in motion? Life will gradually revive.

The person of the Dao does not deliberately display virtue. After remaining settled for a long time, they act in accordance with the moment, and life can gradually unfold. An older interpretation holds that the perfected person appears as muddled and ordinary as anyone else, while inwardly remaining clear, attuned to the substance of the Dao, and gradually advancing in cultivation, returning to the Dao through a state of purity and quiet. Another interpretation offers a caution: if one stays too long with the way of waiting for things to clear gradually, one may become caught in various states. One should therefore act at the right time and seek a higher method of cultivation, allowing life to unfold without attachment to outward forms so that vitality continues without interruption. Another version reads: “Who can quiet what is turbid and let it slowly clear? Who can set what is settled in motion and let life slowly unfold?”

Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness. Precisely because they are not complacent and do not seek to be filled to the brim, they can renew themselves continually even as they decline.

In speaking of people who uphold the Way of “Xu Qing Xu Sheng,” one should conduct oneself with humility and settle the mind in emptiness and stillness. Only by avoiding complacency can one long preserve a simple, lowly state. Even after achieving something new, one can remain unmoved by success, continue to seek progress and cultivate goodness, and not stop at modest gains. This is the profound intent of the sages.

A good person takes the ancients as a teacher. Their understanding and capacity are deep and subtle, their nature honest and unadorned, and their state of mind spacious. They have grasped the principle of emptiness, stillness, and depth, like a secluded valley. This is why the text goes on to say, “Attain the utmost emptiness.”

“Attain the utmost emptiness; steadfastly maintain deep stillness”: reach the deepest state of emptiness and stillness, and hold firmly to it. Here, “attain” means to reach. The meaning is that if a person can free the mind of desires and attachments, they can reach the depths of the Way of emptiness. Therefore, the text goes on to say, “Attain the utmost emptiness; steadfastly maintain deep stillness.”

“To attain” means to reach or obtain. The meaning is that when a person’s heart is free of desires, they can experience the Dao of clarity, emptiness, and harmony, and enter a deep and mysterious realm. If they also maintain inner stillness, their De will become pure and substantial.

The Liezi says, “Nothing is better than stillness; nothing is better than emptiness. Stillness and emptiness are precisely where the Dao resides.” The Xisheng Jing says, “If people can be empty and practice Wuwei, without deliberately seeking the Dao, the Dao will naturally return to them.” Yan Junping says: “The Dao and De can impart and receive all things because they are empty and without form. Heaven and Earth can transform because they are still and clear. Yin and Yang can generate and dissolve things because they move in cycles, back and forth. The sun and moon can shine because they advance and recede. The four seasons allow all things to grow and mature because they have beginnings and endings.

“If emptiness is abandoned, the Dao and De cannot function in this way. If stillness and clarity are lost, Heaven and Earth cannot endure. If Yin and Yang move only forward and never return, they cannot flow freely. If the sun and moon advance but never recede, they cannot shine brightly. If there are endings without beginnings, all things cannot grow. Therefore, whatever has existence must return to nonexistence, and whatever is full must return to emptiness. Do not let fixations accumulate in the heart, or deliberately display your aims. Practice Wuwei without becoming rigid or obstructive; rest at ease, free of worry, as though untouched by external things. Hold fast to what is true and simple, and abandon cleverness and artifice. Let not-knowing be your guide and emptiness your constant state. Then your spirit can attain clarity and respond to the subtle principles of nature.

“When acting, turn your gaze inward; when reflecting, let your mind and spirit return to their source. Set yourself in a state of no-mind, and regard the body as formless. Do not spend your will on anything that harms life, or let anything that harms your nature disturb your spirit. Though you respond to circumstances as they arise, your mind and spirit remain unchanged. The heart may move, but outward influences do not alter your original nature. Look inward to see, listen inward to hear, and adapt as the spirit’s movements change. Above, accord with the way of Heaven; below, engage with the ways of the world. Keep the mind and spirit settled and undisturbed, and do not let the vital energy of life become depleted. Respond to the advancing and retreating, bending and extending of things, and you will follow the Middle Way appropriately.

“‘All things arise together; I observe their return’: all things rise and grow at once, and from this I observe that they will eventually return to their source.”

At birth, people are naturally still and pure; this is the nature bestowed by Heaven. The saying, “Reach the utmost emptiness and hold fast to stillness,” means that through cultivation, people return to the wondrous state of their origin. This does not apply to human beings alone. When all things move together, each begins in stillness, takes shape in the formless, is brought forth by harmonious Qi, and then appears through change. Observe the process by which things return, and you will see that in the end they all go back to a deep, silent state, returning to the traceless and formless and thereby preserving their true nature.

The Book of Changes says, “The Fu hexagram—does it not perhaps reveal the heart of Heaven and Earth?” The heart of Heaven and Earth is stillness, Wuwei (non-action), and the utmost emptiness. Yan Junping, a Daoist thinker of the Western Han, said: Heaven and Earth endure because they follow cycles of going and returning. People recover their clarity by sleeping and resting; birds can fly high because they settle to roost; beasts can travel far because they pause to rest; dragons and snakes reveal their vitality because they lie hidden and recover; and plants grow green again because they return to their roots. When life’s transformations return to their origin, the spirit can settle in peace and open into emptiness; the hun and po souls each find rest, the mind becomes settled, the breath flows smoothly, and the blood vessels are at ease. These are all temporary returns to stillness, yet they suffice to restore the spirit. How much more so when one abides in the utmost Dao for a long time?

All things flourish and grow, but in the end each returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is the return to life’s nature. To return to one’s nature is to follow the constant Dao.

“Luxuriant growth” describes plants and trees flourishing. Some versions instead read “clouds upon clouds,” describing movement or great numbers and referring to birds and beasts. Reasoning from the text’s meaning, plants and animals may differ, but both return to the same root.

“Emptiness” means open, quiet, and free of distraction; “stillness” means peaceful calm. Emptiness and stillness are the common root of plants and animals. Nonbeing is the root of being, and stillness governs agitation. When movement reaches its extreme, it inevitably returns to stillness; when existence reaches its limit, it too must return to nonbeing. The roots of plants and trees grow deep, resting quietly below, so they can grow for a long time. Their flowers and leaves are light and delicate; swaying in the wind above, they wither and fall. If this is true of all things, how much more so of human beings?

Thus the sage uses this as a metaphor to guide the people to quiet the mind’s desires and return to the root of emptiness and stillness, thereby returning to the source of nature and life. The source of nature and life is deep and mysterious, beyond sight and hearing; only those who are wise and discerning can grasp it for themselves. Those who understand it remain with emptiness and stillness whether walking, standing, or sitting. They are not shaken by change, and so attain the constant Dao (the Way), returning to the source of life.

Knowing the constant Dao is called “clarity.” Not knowing it and acting recklessly brings misfortune.

This passage says that the constant Dao (the Way that remains unchanged) is difficult to understand. Those who truly understand it have powers of transformation without limit, a mind and nature that reach everywhere, and a vital energy that connects with all things. They no longer see themselves as separate from the myriad things. Thus they can cross water and enter fire, pass through stone and metal, turn mountains and rivers upside down, and move cities. They can rise through the air without falling, and solid objects cannot obstruct them. Their transformations are endless: this is the state in which spirit accords with the constant Dao.

Next, a practitioner’s body can remain free from decline, their appearance as youthful as a child’s. They dwell in the world for a long time and ultimately ascend to immortality on clouds. This is the state in which the body accords with the constant Dao. Next after that, speech and silence alike conform to the proper measure, while every movement and pause accords with the moment. In action, they follow the changes of Yang Qi without showing their sharpness; in stillness, they accord with the nature of Yin Qi, drawing inward and concealing themselves while remaining clear within. External burdens cannot disturb them, and so they incur no fault. This is the state of being skilled in the use of the constant Dao.

If the fundamental aim is to govern the state, then skill in using the constant Dao is the highest attainment. The saying “Knowing the constant is called clarity” means that understanding the constant Dao brings clear insight. Some versions read “clarity day by day,” meaning that one grows clearer with each passing day; this describes gradual progress. After understanding the constant Dao, one should attain the states described above. Without such understanding, one may mistake wondrous transformations for demonic anomalies, regard longevity as absurd, take emptiness, stillness, and unity, and a return to the root as nothingness, or mistake the harming of life for its ending. If one does not understand but insists that one does, or does not recognize something but claims to recognize it, and lets the mind wander in delusion, one’s actions are likely to invite misfortune. This is what is meant by “Those who cannot maintain De (Virtue/Power) may suffer disgrace,” and also by “reckless action brings danger.”

Those who understand the constant Dao can embrace all things. Able to embrace all things, they act impartially; being impartial, they can become kings. A king should model himself on Heaven; Heaven models itself on the Dao; and the Dao endures without change. Such a person will face no danger throughout their life.

Those who understand the constant Dao can respond to all things and are skilled at helping them. They do not lightly cast anything aside, and so there is nothing they cannot embrace.

Those who truly understand the constant Dao—the great Way that does not change—can respond flexibly to the myriad things and are skilled at helping them. They abandon nothing and embrace all things. They include plants and animals, harbor no selfish motives, remain openhearted, and act impartially. When impartiality and selflessness prevail, the influence of De (Virtue/Power) can reach throughout the world, and people naturally gather around such a person. “King” also carries the meaning of “to go toward.” Once people have gathered around him, Heaven will protect him as well. This accords with the natural order and does not go against the myriad things; for this reason, he is called a True Person—one who accords with the great Dao. Such a person can move between the visible and invisible realms and communicate with the Dao, remaining united with it over time and profound beyond measure. Water and fire cannot harm him, metal and stone cannot damage him, and worldly calamities cannot trouble him. What danger could there be?

To attain emptiness and stillness, preserve purity and quiet, return to the root, and restore one’s original nature: this is to understand the constant Dao. Those who understand the constant Dao follow the same Way as the Supreme One, the ruler of the most ancient times. Thus, the discussion now turns to the Supreme One.

The highest rulers were known to the people only by their existence.

“The Supreme One” refers to the nameless rulers of the primordial age, those described as possessing the highest De without considering themselves virtuous. Their De could not be surpassed, which is why they are called the Supreme One. Though they held the throne, they did not regard themselves as exalted. They let all things follow their own nature, allowing each to preserve its inborn character and life. They guided people without contriving action, and governed the world without leaving traces of human interference. They acted in response to the times and accomplished things in accordance with the circumstances. The people lived within this order day after day without knowing that the Dao was at work; they knew only that there was a ruler. They would say, “We brought all this about ourselves. What has the ruler done for me?”

Zhuangzi said, “In the age of utmost De, people did not honor the name of the worthy or make deliberate use of the capable. The ruler was like the treetop on a high branch, and the people like wild deer. People acted rightly without knowing that this was called righteousness; they loved one another without knowing that this was called benevolence. They acted without leaving traces and accomplished things without giving rise to stories. This was the age of the Supreme One.”

The rulers of the next rank were those whom the people felt close to and praised.

Only after the highest De (Virtue) declined did benevolence and righteousness begin to flourish. Thus, those in the world transformed by benevolence drew close to and attached themselves to those who practiced it; those transformed by the Way and righteousness praised and promoted those who practiced them. Zhuangzi said, “When the sages began deliberately to regulate benevolence and force themselves to practice righteousness, people throughout the world became perplexed.” Once people’s hearts were confused, closeness and praise followed. Zhuangzi also said that Shun possessed a virtue that inspired admiration, and the people loved him. He moved several times, and wherever he went, a settlement grew. Hearing of his worth, Yao recommended him for office and later abdicated the throne in his favor. This is an example of people drawing close to and praising someone.

Further down the scale, people come to fear their rulers and even treat them with contempt and disdain.

When benevolence and righteousness declined, penal laws were established. Once they were in place, prohibitions became severe, and the people feared their rulers. Yet even under severe prohibitions, those skilled in manipulation and deceit led the way in falsifying things. The people followed their example and became dishonest and unreliable. The spread of deceit shows how deeply the people had come to disdain those above them. The Huainan Honglie (an old name for the Huainanzi) explains: “The highest form of governance transforms the people through benevolence and De, and the people do not even realize they are being governed. The next best form makes the people afraid to do wrong.” This describes people drawing close to and praising their rulers. “The next form rewards the worthy and punishes the violent.” This describes people fearing their rulers and also treating them with contempt.

When those above lack sincerity, the people do not trust them.

To care for others sincerely in one’s heart is called “sincerity”; to make good on one’s words is called “trustworthiness.” When sincerity and trustworthiness are complete, the world is at peace; when they are lost, the world falls into disorder. Today, manipulative schemes and deceit are on the rise, and dishonest acts abound because the ruler lacks trustworthiness toward the people, who respond by distrusting him. The way those above instruct those below is like a mirror reflecting a person’s appearance: there is no error between the influence and the response. Wang Bi said, “When caring for the body goes against its nature, illness arises; when assisting the myriad things departs from what is real, troubles appear. A lack of trustworthiness brings distrust in return—this is simply how things naturally work.”

Therefore, rulers should treat their words with care and not issue commands lightly.

Once distinctions such as affection, praise, awe, and contempt have appeared, the Most High’s Wuwei teaching has already been lost, and people can no longer return to the simplicity of ancient times. They still prize verbal instruction and cling to past examples, treating them as means of teaching. Though this takes them far from the Dao, it is still better than refusing instruction, losing trustworthiness, and going so far as to rebel against those above them.

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

A ruler who has the Dao lets his robes hang and keeps his hands folded, following things as they are. Thus his work is accomplished, yet he claims no ownership of it. He is quiet and clear, making no display; thus the task is completed, yet people do not feel that he deliberately arranged it. The people are simple and natural, acting without contrivance, and so they say, “We did it just as we naturally would.” Where, then, could thoughts of affection, praise, awe, or contempt arise?

An earlier interpretation holds that “when trustworthiness is insufficient, distrust arises,” and uses this to explain why people feel awe or contempt. It also uses the idea that people “prize verbal instruction” to explain why they feel affection or offer praise, and finally treats “the work is complete and the task accomplished; the people say, ‘We did it naturally’” as a supplement to statements such as “The highest ruler is one whose existence the people merely know.” This interpretation is as rigid as fixing the bridges of a zither in place before tuning its strings, so it is not adopted here.

The Most High practices Wuwei, and his De is deep yet hidden. Once people begin to love and praise their ruler, the Great Dao has declined. Hence the text next says, “When the Great Dao declined…”

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

Here, “Great Dao” refers to the simple, uncontrived Dao of remote antiquity. “Declined” can mean either that it became hidden or that it weakened and was no longer put into practice. When people’s hearts were no longer simple, the Great Dao became hidden and declined, and deep De could no longer be put into practice. After that, likes and dislikes gradually arose, and the impulse to pursue righteousness and profit grew stronger. As simplicity broke apart, all kinds of artificial devices came into being. This is what “When the Great Dao declined, benevolence and righteousness appeared” means.

The Zhuangzi says, “Fish in rivers and lakes forget one another; people among the ways of the world likewise forget one another in the Dao and its arts.” This serves as a metaphor for an age when the Great Dao prevailed. When people practiced benevolence through universal love and practiced righteousness by judging right and wrong, benevolence and righteousness had appeared because the Great Dao was no longer sufficient. It is like a spring running dry, leaving fish stranded on land, where they can only breathe upon one another and moisten one another with their dampness. This is ultimately no match for forgetting one another in rivers and lakes. The image explains how the Great Dao declined and benevolence and righteousness arose in its wake.

When wisdom arose, great hypocrisy appeared.

When the way of honesty and simplicity disappeared, wisdom came into view; once wisdom appeared, the Great Dao began to decline. Rather than dampening one another with their spittle, like fish stranded in a dried-up rut, it would be better for them to forget one another in rivers and lakes. This illustrates the seven conditions that arise after the Great Dao is abandoned.

When wisdom comes into view, great hypocrisy arises.

When the way of honesty and simplicity disappears, wisdom comes into view; once wisdom appears, great hypocrisy follows. This is how things develop. Zhuangzi said: Horses graze and drink according to their nature, then lift their hooves to rest. When pleased, they rub necks together; when angry, they turn their backs and kick one another. That is the limit of a horse’s natural abilities. Later, Bo Le came to train and control the horses. Bridles and ornaments were fitted to their heads, whips were used to drive them from behind, and crossbars and crescent-shaped forehead ornaments were added. The horses began tossing their heads, dodging and resisting. They grew fierce and cunning, and even learned to bite through their reins in secret. That is how cunning arose.

In ancient times, people lived without knowing what they were doing and walked without knowing where they were going. They felt at ease and content; once full, they played freely. Such was the people’s original nature. Later, sages established ritual and music to regulate people’s conduct and upheld benevolence and righteousness to soothe their hearts. In time, the people began to cultivate cunning and deceit. Sophistry, empty arguments, and disputes over what was defiled or pure, the same or different, all appeared. This is what is meant by “When wisdom comes into view, great hypocrisy arises.”

When relations among family members grow discordant, filial devotion and loving care come into view; when a state falls into darkness and disorder, loyal ministers appear.

“Six kin” refers to fathers and sons, brothers, and husbands and wives. The Book of Rites says: “When the Great Dao prevailed, people loved not only their own kin and cared not only for their own children.” This means that when benevolence reaches a certain depth, people no longer favor only their own families.

Those who truly love others in their hearts will raise their nephews as their own sons and serve their uncles as their own fathers. There is no discord among the six kin, so there is no need to make a show of filial devotion or parental care. In turn, others serve my family as I serve theirs. Thus, people above and below live in harmony, caring for one another without clinging to distinctions of closeness or distance.

If elders cannot teach all children impartially, and the young divide people in their hearts according to rank and kinship, the principles of harmony and proper order are violated. The six kin then fall into discord, and acts of filial devotion, parental care, and support become conspicuous. The sage governs through fairness, and the world becomes like one family. He wanders at ease on Mount Gushe, the legendary abode of immortals, his mind so far-reaching that he even forgets the world. When a ruler governs through Wuwei (non-action), the people transform naturally. How, then, could there be ministers who gouge out their eyes or cut open their hearts to remonstrate?

Thus, though Gusou, Shun’s father, was foolish and stubborn, Shun was still called supremely filial. Zeng Shen of Lu was renowned for his filial devotion. Under Jie of Xia, Guan Longfeng became famous for remonstrating directly; when Zhou of Shang fell, Bi Gan likewise became known for offering counsel. Such things arose only because circumstances left no other choice; they were not what these men wished for.

Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear. Once cleverness emerged, great deceit arose alongside it. To restore a simple and unspoiled way of life, one must end the veneration of sage deeds and abandon cunning and deceit. That is why the text next says, “Abandon sagehood and discard cleverness.”

“Abandon sagehood and discard cleverness, and the people will benefit a hundredfold”: if people cease to revere sages and clever contrivances, the benefits to the people will increase greatly.

The “sage” refers to the wise who establish institutions and laws, create various functions, and leave behind many achievements. To put an end to these is to help people recover their natural, uncarved simplicity. Heshang Gong says that the Three Sovereigns’ way of keeping records by tying knots, without writing, was better than the Five Emperors’ drawings and Cang Jie’s invention of writing.

“Wisdom” refers to schemes and expedient methods, deliberation and calculation, probing people’s minds, and the arts of political maneuvering. To cast these aside is to help people return to Wuwei (non-action). The Dao De Jing says, “Governing a state through cleverness brings ruin to the state.” When achievements and institutions are not displayed, and methods for probing people’s minds and maneuvering for advantage are not used, deceit does not take root and disorder does not arise. The people remain as simple as children, devoting themselves to farming; the benefits to them are more than a hundredfold. Zhuangzi says, “When petty cleverness is removed, great wisdom becomes clear.” He also says, “Without good people, the way of the sage could not be established; without Robber Zhi, the way of the sage could not be put into practice.” Thus people can truly benefit only when they put an end to and cast aside these clever schemes and labels.

Put an end to benevolence and cast aside righteous conduct, and the people will recover filial devotion and kindness.

Benevolence means caring for all things, which is why people draw close to those who practice it. Righteousness means acting appropriately, which is why people praise those who uphold it. But benevolence and righteousness have the drawback of attracting closeness and praise. Once the pursuit of approval and praise becomes widespread, the desire to compete and seek a reputation takes root, and the natural peace within life is lost. When that peace is gone, how can filial devotion and kindness remain? The call to put an end to and cast aside these things is meant to preserve the harmony of people’s nature and life, and thereby restore filial devotion and kindness.

Put an end to cleverness and cast aside profit, and thieves and robbers will not appear.

Here, “cleverness” means skills such as carving and shaping, making machines, and crafting bolts and locks. “Profit” refers to valuables and instruments of exchange or authentication, such as pearls and jade, measures of capacity and weight, and tallies and seals. Machines, locks, weights, and tallies can provide some defense on a small scale, but they are not enough to withstand robbers on a large scale.