《道德真经解》

The sage entrusts the spirit to stillness and Wuwei (non-action). The Dao’s substance is deep and unfathomable, moving throughout the four directions between Heaven and Earth. No one can fully understand its original nature. It responds to the myriad transformations, yet who can glimpse its traces? It moves back and forth, returning its primal source to emptiness and stillness; it creates and nurtures, cultivating its true nature from within. Why, then, resort to so much talk and argument?

The sage reflects in silence. Though ordinary people are dull in their understanding of human affairs, they need guidance before they will act; though the people’s minds and nature are clouded, they need instruction before they can awaken. Thus the sage’s teachings were written in the classics and passed down to later generations as lasting aid. After a thousand years, the transmission of the Dao gradually receded into the distance. Those in later generations who lack understanding struggle to grasp the intentions of the sages of old, while the ignorant cannot comprehend words that express the ultimate truth.

The writings of Lord Lao are clear in their wording but profound in their principles, plain in their language yet mysterious in their meaning. Without explanation and clarification, readers will find them as distant as Heaven, impossible to see clearly. Therefore, I have now come into the world to transmit the Dao and guide people. I cannot help but take up my brush to explain its central meaning, hoping to offer people some direction.

Chapter One: “The Dao That Can Be Spoken”

The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal, unchanging Dao.

Giving life in spring, growing in summer, harvesting in autumn, and bringing things to stillness in winter follow the pattern of all things. Cultivating virtue and accomplishing one’s work are the principles of human conduct; the distinct roles of men and women are the principles of family life; and making laws and institutions clear is the principle of governing a state. These are all common patterns in the world, shared by sages and ordinary people alike.

As for the Dao that can be explained in words, it responds flexibly as things change and is not bound by fixed methods. It hears subtle sounds without relying on the ears, and sees the true appearance of things without relying on the eyes. Those who can perceive what is hidden and subtle can discern wondrous changes in places of profound stillness; those who understand what lies far beyond can grasp the essential truth where it is difficult to measure. In motion, the Dao can respond to every kind of affair; at rest, it does not cling to any single limitation. How could ordinary patterns ever do this?

A Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; a name that can be fixed is not the constant name.

The truest name does not depend on a particular form, for forms always wax and wane. Nor is it bound by numbers or fixed measures, for numbers change, run their course, and give way to others. Thus, when one tries to name the Dao, one cannot grasp it or depict it accurately. Whether one faces it or follows it, one cannot see its beginning or end. Whether one probes downward or looks upward, it is firm and lofty, beyond reach. It does not take on a fixed appearance from external things, yet it is at work throughout all things. It accords with the Dao through constant nonbeing; from this, a name arises, but that name cannot be fixed as the constant name.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the root of the myriad things.

Before the Great Dao had differentiated, Yin-Yang could not explain it, nor could the principles of creation and transformation be used to infer it. Later, primordial Qi (the original vital energy from which Heaven, Earth, and all things are formed) tended toward clarity and lightness; this clear, light Qi condensed to form Heaven. It also tended toward turbidity and heaviness; this turbid, heavy Qi condensed to form Earth. Heaven and Earth thus arose from the two states of clarity and turbidity: the clear is Yang, and the turbid is Yin. Yang generates, Yin transforms, and from them all things come into being.

Viewed from the perspective of “nonbeing,” the Great Dao alone exists, and Heaven and Earth are formed from it; thus, “the nameless” refers to the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Viewed from the perspective of “being,” Heaven and Earth unite to give birth to all things; thus, “the named” refers to the source of all things. “Beginning” refers to primordial Qi, while “mother” refers to physical form. Primordial Qi and physical form are both conditions for the generation of all things. The text reiterates that the nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, and the named is the source of all things; in the end, primordial Qi and physical form both belong to the Dao’s “nonbeing” and “being.”

By abiding in contemplation of “nonbeing,” one can perceive the Dao’s subtlety. By observing from the aspect of “being,” one can see the boundaries and manifestations of things. “Nonbeing” and “being” come from the same source, the Dao; they differ only in name, and both may be called profound and mysterious. Within the mysterious lies a mystery deeper still: the gateway to the myriad wonders.

It comes in a hazy, indistinct way—where does it come from? It departs just as indistinctly—where does it go? It is empty and formless, does not remain in any thing, and does not appear in any particular shape. This is what is called “constant nonbeing”: a state that is always without form or appearance. When it comes indistinctly, it must reveal some sign; when it departs indistinctly, it must also leave some trace. In the emptiness, wondrous Qi (vital energy) gathers. Though no movement can be seen, it can still act. In the stillness, true nature is contained. Though no change can be seen, it can still bring about change. This is what is called “constant being”: a state that is always at work.

“Constant nonbeing” is to be maintained through Wuwei (non-action); “constant being” is to be observed through active practice. Wuwei allows one to reach what is subtle and profound, while active practice enables one to investigate the signs that appear. These two have the same source but different names. Perhaps both can be called “mystery”? “Mystery” means that the Great Dao (the Way) has aspects that can be observed, much as the color of the sky can be seen, though no one can know why it is as it is. “Mystery upon mystery” means understanding the Dao ever more deeply, reaching a still more profound realm. This is why it is called “the gateway to all wonders”: it enables one to enter and leave the Dao.

Chapter Two: All Under Heaven Know

When everyone under heaven knows beauty as beauty, ugliness appears. When everyone knows goodness as goodness, what is not good appears alongside it. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy bring each other to completion; long and short reveal their difference through comparison; high and low depend on each other; notes and tones harmonize with one another; and front and back follow one another.

The Dao is spread throughout all affairs, and the inherent natures of the myriad things consequently become mixed together. The original nature with which people are endowed is later altered by human artifice; the harmony they were originally endowed with also becomes discordant. Thus, what was once considered beautiful may now be regarded as ugly, and what was once considered good may now be rejected. This is how beauty and ugliness come to follow separate paths, and good and bad come to differ from one another.

The sage does not decide that something is not beautiful simply because people call it ugly, nor decide that something is bad simply because people call it not good. The sage simply understands the nature of things and does not follow the crowd in distinguishing beauty from ugliness or good from bad. If all things can be brought into unity, then each nature will have reached its proper state. What, then, would remain of distinctions such as being and nonbeing, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, sound and silence, or what comes before and after? The sage’s teaching is meant precisely to bring about this state.

Thus, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. “Wuwei” means not forcing interference through subjective will; “teaching without words” means guiding others through the example of one’s own conduct and transformation.

The sage cultivates himself through the Dao, then benefits others through his merit and virtue. Because the people lack far-reaching thought, the sage must guide them in reflection; because they lack independent insight, the sage must help them see things clearly. Without guidance through teaching, they may sink into weakness and become still more helpless through ignorance, making it difficult for them to follow the path the sage points out. Therefore, the sage keeps his mind and spirit calm and far-reaching, allowing the people to observe the prevailing tendencies and act; he keeps his thoughts quiet and undisturbed, allowing the people to see changes and respond.

The sage considers that the complexity of affairs can wear down one’s intelligence, so he does not let himself be burdened by them. He considers that excessive speech can disturb one’s original nature, so he speaks little, or not at all. In this way, affairs below are naturally taken care of, while teaching above is established. The people of the world need not be compelled; they follow the teaching of their own accord and thus do not fall into the error of departing from the Dao.

The myriad things arise and grow, and the sage does not reject them.

When the Sage appears, the myriad things rise with him; when the Sage withdraws, the myriad things return to rest. The Sage is the one all things look up to. Thus, when the Sage occupies the highest position, each thing grows in its own way and finds what suits it, without incurring fault by going against its nature. The Sage does not deliberately exercise his mind; he simply follows the inherent patterns of the myriad things. He does not forcefully intervene in their flourishing or decline.

If affairs of state are poorly governed and instruction is not clearly carried out; if one withdraws when action is needed and gives when one ought to receive; if people’s hearts throughout the world are thrown into confusion and the conditions of the myriad things become unsettled, then even when things flourish, none will escape calamity. For the myriad things to flourish without bringing calamity, one must await an age governed by a Sage.

He gives life to the myriad things but does not claim them as his own. He acts, but does not rely on his own ability. When his work is done, he takes no credit. It is precisely because he takes no credit that his accomplishments do not vanish.

For the Great Dao to proceed without bringing calamity, one must await an age governed by a Sage.

He gives life to the myriad things but does not claim them as his own. He acts, but does not rely on his own ability. When his work is done, he takes no credit. It is precisely because he takes no credit that his accomplishments do not vanish.

The Great Dao’s ordering makes no distinction between “self” and external things, nor does it create barriers between high and low. Attending to the intentions of others as if they were your own, the hearts of all under Heaven become like your own. Nurturing the forms of the myriad things as you nurture your own body, their forms become like your own. Why divide intentions into self and other?

The Sage understands the Great Dao and uses it to aid the myriad things. He humbles himself to fulfill others, sets aside his own cleverness to make up for what others lack, and applies his abilities to help those with less ability. In this way, his effectiveness can be boundless and his work can continue to expand; scarcely anything could surpass it. The Sage fears that accomplishments, once full, will overflow, so he restrains them. He fears that what is filled will later diminish, so he reduces it.

Though the Sage is vast and substantial, he does not consider himself fulfilled. Though subtle and unfathomable, he does not consider himself wondrous. He gives life to the myriad things but does not possess them; he acts without deliberate striving; he achieves merit without claiming merit for himself. Thus external things cannot alter him, and the times cannot move him. He abides in the Dao, and so his accomplishments do not vanish.

“Do Not Exalt the Worthy,” Chapter Three

Human nature was originally without distinctions, but later it changed under the influence of custom. All things were originally no different from one another; they appear distinct only because people’s feelings and understanding differ. Influenced by custom, people often admire those called worthy. Biased in how they regard things, they often pursue rare treasures that are hard to obtain. When they admire the worthy but cannot become like them, they are prone to struggle with one another. When they pursue wealth but are never satisfied, they may turn to stealing. Both patterns cause the people to lose their original nature, give rise to deluded thoughts, and indulge their desires. How, then, could they still see the Dao?

It would be better to keep the people’s hearts empty and calm, so that distinctions between worthy and unworthy do not linger in their minds and they do not cling to the division between self and others. Let the people eat their fill, remain unmoved by the splendor of external things, and have their food and clothing secured. Weaken their desire to outdo one another, so they can live gently and do not seek to overpower others. Keep their bodies strong, so they can stand on their own and do not become absorbed in wealth and gain. Then the people throughout the world will not devise cunning schemes or harbor extravagant ambitions. The sage follows what is natural and intervenes as little as possible; thus, nothing in the world remains poorly governed. Therefore, the chapter “Not Exalting the Worthy” aims to restore people’s original nature and return their feelings toward all things to their natural state, ultimately taking the Dao as its foundation.

Chapter Four: The Dao Is Empty

The Dao is empty and formless, yet when drawn upon, it seems never to run out.

When the Dao unfolds, it can fill the four quarters of Heaven and Earth without seeming full; when it gathers itself in, it can…

When the Dao expands, it can fill the four quarters of Heaven and Earth without appearing full. When it contracts, it can recede into the tiniest space without becoming insignificant. In its fundamental nature, the Dao is utterly empty and still, yet all things that come to it receive a response. In its function, its transformations are without end, and it can meet every matter that arises. The Dao does not stand above the highest heights, for if it were too high, things below might not be able to reach it. Nor does it settle near the lowest depths, for if it were too low, things above might not be able to descend to it. Thus the Dao not only never becomes full; it also never remains in one place for long. How could it do this if it were not between Yin and Yang? Hence it is said: “The Dao is empty, yet in use it seems never to be filled.” Here, “surging” refers to being between Yin and Yang, neither excessive nor deficient.

How profound—it seems to be the source of all things.

That which is unfathomably deep is called an “abyss”; that which is subtle and inexhaustible is called the Dao. In its formless, nonexistent state, the Dao is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; when it manifests as existence, it is the mother of all things. To call it the mother of all things means that all things are born from the Dao; to call it their source means that all things take the Dao as their foundation. Since the Dao is the source of all things, why say that it “seems” to be? Because the Dao has no form and cannot be described as any fixed entity, it is said to seem profoundly like the source of all things.

Blunt the sharpness, untangle the confusion, soften the radiance, and mingle with the common world; how deep and hidden—seeming almost to exist and almost not.

To say that a person is within the Dao describes it in terms of its fundamental nature. Hence it is said: “How profound—it seems to be the source of all things.”

One who dwells at ease in the Dao should set aside distracting thoughts, letting the mind settle into stillness amid emptiness, like a horse freed from its reins, so that the source of one’s nature becomes tranquil and clear. Let joy and anger rest in a state of having nothing to do, and rein in likes and dislikes in a state free from thought. In this way, one finds ease in oneself through detachment and responds to things with quietude. Do not make a show of cleverness in your outward appearance; move through the world in harmony, seeming obscure. Do not deliberately set yourself apart from others; follow along with them, seeming dull.

By embodying the Dao in this way, one can understand without deliberately looking, and things can come to completion without deliberate action. One will not be burdened by external things. If you do not wear down your sharpness and simply act on your own impulses, you will inevitably act rashly and damage your nature. If you do not bring order to what is in disarray and simply keep busy dealing with tasks, you will inevitably create too much disturbance and lose sight of what is true. If you cannot restrain your radiance, the Dao will be lost through ostentation and self-importance. If you cannot blend with the common world, reputation will also make you self-important. Then you will be unable to embody the Dao: though it may seem unseen, your actions will struggle to achieve results, and you will remain burdened by affairs. How can those who study the Dao fail to be cautious? Thus, after the four points above, the text continues: “Deep and still, it seems to exist.” The Dao is profound and remote, seeming to exist yet remaining uncertain. The Dao has no fixed form. To say that it certainly exists would not accord with the Dao; hence the phrase “it seems to exist.”

“I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven.” Consider the Dao’s source: it arises from Wuwei (non-action) and is born of stillness and purity. Hold fast to it, and it endures; abandon it, and it perishes. It does not increase through strength or diminish through weakness. This is the utmost of emptiness and the mystery of what is truly constant. Though Heaven and Earth take me as their beginning, the myriad things also take me as their root. The Dao appears where it cannot be fathomed; search for its source, and there is nothing earlier than it. Form arises from things that have form, while the Dao lies before form has taken shape. The Lord of Heaven belongs to the realm of things, while the Dao is above the realm of things. How, then, could the Dao be called a descendant of the Lord of Heaven? Thus it says: “I do not know whose descendant it is; it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven.”

“Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Humane”

Heaven and Earth do not exist by virtue of any fixed form, so I stand at the beginning, before the myriad things had taken shape. Since the Heavenly Emperor is an existing being with form and substance, I stand opposite him beyond form and substance. How, then, could I be called a descendant of the Heavenly Emperor? Thus it is said: “I do not know whose descendant I am; I know only that I existed before the Heavenly Emperor.”

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

Heaven and Earth have no partial affection called benevolence; they treat the myriad things like straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage, too, has no partial affection called benevolence; the sage treats the people like straw dogs used in sacrifice. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty within, yet never exhausted; when it is worked, more and more air comes out.

Heaven and Earth let the myriad things change according to their own natural patterns. When it is time for them to grow, Heaven and Earth let them grow, nourishing them with rain and dew. When it is time for them to decline, Heaven and Earth let them decline and wither, bringing changes such as snow and frost. Heaven and Earth are not burdened by any particular thing or confined by any particular period of time; they simply follow the patterns inherent in things themselves.

Here, the myriad things are compared to straw dogs used in sacrifice. During the ritual, people present them with reverence, expressing solemn care and regard. Once the rites are over, they have served their purpose and are discarded like dirt. This is not a matter of treating them generously at first and poorly afterward, or loving them at first and hating them later. It is simply what follows from the nature of things. The sage treats the people in the same way. When caring for them, the sage is like someone protecting an infant; when showing them respect, the sage is like someone presiding over an important sacrifice. This expresses affection and respect to the fullest.

If someone does not merit care, the sage punishes them and displays authority, regarding their life as lightly as grass. If someone does not merit respect, the sage applies the law and imposes punishment for their offense, treating their life as an ordinary matter. This does not mean the sage is determined to favor punishment or reward; it means the sage follows the nature of things and takes Heaven and Earth as a model.

If things were not so, how could Heaven and Earth contain the myriad things without being exhausted, or respond to countless changes without being stymied? When the myriad things are to grow, Heaven and Earth let them grow, and vitality is never lacking. When the myriad things are to reach completion, Heaven and Earth let them continue to develop. Heaven and Earth have no fixed way of responding, and their effects are inexhaustible, like a bellows. Thus the text continues: “It is empty within, yet never exhausted; when it is worked, more and more air comes out.”

When the sage acts, he follows the Dao; when he is still, he realizes and embodies the Dao. In stillness, he is at one with the Dao, cultivating himself in clarity and tranquility. He does not engage with affairs or come into contact with external things. What harm, then, could words bring? But when he acts and puts the Dao to use, if he says nothing at all, he cannot respond to change, and his practice of the Dao will be hindered. Words therefore have their use, but they must be concise, relevant, and in accord with the Dao—not excessive or empty. Hence it is said: “Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” Is this not the proper principle?

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Does Not Die

The “Valley Spirit,” which is empty and still yet gives life and nourishment to the myriad things, does not perish. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” the deep maternal source that brings forth all things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth and the myriad things. It continues without interruption, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive; when people draw upon it, it is never exhausted.

It is empty and responsive, so its responses are inexhaustible; it is subtle and unfathomable, so its transformations are hard to predict. “Valley” means that it can respond to all things without clinging to any of them. “Spirit” means that it receives countless transformations without remaining fixed in any single source. Because it clings to nothing, its emptiness is never filled—what could it lose? Because it remains nowhere, its transformations never reach an end—how could they cease? This is the sign of the “Valley Spirit that never dies,” also called the “Mysterious Female,” the deep source that gives birth to all things.

The Dao as it manifests in the human body begins in the formless and ultimately takes shape in the formed. Here, “nonbeing” refers to Qi, the energy that constitutes the human body and all things; “being” uses the body as a metaphor. The “Mysterious Female” is the life-giving locus within the body. Human life takes it as its root: it is still and empty yet responds to the body’s workings; it is subtle yet brings the body’s transformations to completion. Qi descends from it and rises from it, circulating without cease. In this way, a thread of true Qi can endure and the true spirit can remain at peace—hence the possibility of long life. When people cannot attain long life, the fault lies not in the Mysterious Female itself, but in their inability to become empty and still.

Chapter Seven: Heaven Is Long and Earth Enduring

Heaven is long and Earth enduring. The reason Heaven and Earth can last is that they do not live solely for themselves; therefore, they endure. So the sage puts himself last, yet comes to stand at the forefront; he sets himself aside, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish concerns? Thus he is able to fulfill himself.

Heaven occupies the highest position and nurtures living beings without claiming them as its own; therefore, it endures. Earth is broad and deep, bearing all things without refusing them; therefore, it persists. The sage is selfless, just as Heaven and Earth do not dwell on themselves. Precisely for this reason, he is able to fulfill himself.

Heaven and Earth endure because Heaven’s nature is exalted, yet it nurtures all beings without claiming credit for bringing them to life; Earth is vast and substantial, bearing all things without ever refusing them. Heaven has covered all generations for a long time without collapsing, and Earth has borne all things, from ancient times to the present, without sinking. This is not because Heaven and Earth deliberately seek to endure or strive to avoid collapse and sinking. Rather, because they do not claim ownership of what they bring forth, they follow their own nature and so endure.

The sage takes Heaven and Earth as a model and, too, hopes to live long. How could the sage dare to place themselves above all others and make every choice for their own sake? So they lower themselves and willingly dwell below; they temper their sharpness and live among the people. Even when their insight is exceptional, they do not rush ahead of others, but often place themselves last. Even when their De (Virtue) is lofty, they do not rise above the people, but conceal their own accomplishments. In this way, they end up being respected even when they place themselves last. By not putting their own interests first, they are able to preserve themselves. Thus they fulfill themselves and endure, like Heaven and Earth. If they cannot refrain from seeking life solely for themselves, how can any of this be possible?

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water is skilled at nourishing all things, yet it does not contend with them. It stays in low places that people dislike, and so it is closest to the Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle by which the universe operates.

In choosing where to dwell, be skilled at selecting low, level, and peaceful places. In tending the mind, be skilled at remaining still, deep, and spacious. In relating to others, be skilled at sincerity and kindness. In speaking, be skilled at keeping your word. In governing, be skilled at bringing order to affairs. In your work, be skilled at making full use of your abilities. In action, be skilled at finding the right moment. Precisely because you do not contend, you incur no fault or resentment.

The Dao originally existed before the myriad things were divided: blended into a single whole, empty and still, without form or distinctions among kinds. Nothing was mixed into it to diminish its purity. Later, the Dao moved from the formless into the formed. In human nature, it appears as goodness; among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), which constitute the myriad things, it appears as water. Goodness and water both draw near to the Dao, so each can serve as a metaphor for the other. This is the origin of “The highest goodness is like water.”

Goodness means following one’s nature: forgetting private concerns and entering stillness, clarifying oneself and benefiting the myriad things. It removes the roots of rivalry and ambition, acts as naturally as if things could be no other way, and does not cling to giving or taking. It waits for the right moment to respond and does not answer unreasonable demands. When still, it gradually grows clear; but without true stillness, it cannot become clear. Its depths are substantial, and so it can reach far. It understands how things work, yet remains humble and reserved. In this way, it displays the benevolence that aids the myriad things, the character that keeps faith as a matter of course, the capacity to govern by following the natural course of things, and the ability to adapt to change. These qualities differ from one another, yet each expresses the Dao, as water does.

In general, this chapter speaks of “the highest De (Virtue/Power) not considering itself to possess De” and “the wise do not contend.” Why should one choose a low place to dwell? Because water always flows to low places. Why should the mind be as still as a deep pool? Because deep water can turn and flow freely. Why should one treat others with benevolence? Because water nourishes the myriad things. Why should one’s words be trustworthy? Because one must not deceive others. Why should governance be effective? It should hold to softness, which overcomes hardness. Why should one act with skill? Like a boat crossing water, one should help people reach their destination safely. Why should one act with a sense of timing? One should advance when it is time to advance, and stop when it is time to stop.

If these behaviors only appear good on the surface, while one still seeks to surpass others, they will inevitably lead to error. How, then, could they draw one near to the Dao?

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

To keep filling a vessel is not as good as stopping in time. To sharpen a blade too keenly makes it hard to keep for long.

The Dao is like something inexhaustible: draw from it, and it does not diminish; pour into it, and it does not overflow. It is not deficient when something is lacking, nor excessive when something remains. It is empty within and cannot be filled; because it is open and spacious, it can contain all things. Why insist on holding on to fullness and treating it as a means of self-preservation? If you insist on remaining full, it is better to stop in time.

Things in the world come and go, new things replace old ones, and changes recur in such profusion that they cannot all be counted. Benefits and harms are intertwined, and cleverness alone cannot calculate them all. If you grow anxious trying to cope with endless affairs, exhausting your mind as you wait for every unpredictable change, even the most ingenious plans and keenest intelligence will eventually run out. Those who follow the Dao do not act this way. They do not let worldly trifles entangle them; they preserve their original nature and do not act recklessly. In this way, they can retain their peace and ease for a long time.

Even when a house is piled high with gold and jade, no one can keep them forever. To live in wealth and privilege while growing arrogant will only bring misfortune upon oneself.

Seen from the perspective of the Dao, the Dao is real and enduring, while particular things are temporary. Seen from the perspective of De, De endures, while external things are fleeting. The Perfected (those who have attained the Dao) nourish De through the Dao and cultivate the Dao through De, always remaining detached from external things and taking joy in the Dao and De. They understand that external things are all temporary. To use the mind and spirit simply to pursue and admire them is to waste one’s energy. Though people regard gold and jade as treasures, to the Perfected they are merely things entrusted to the world and possessed only for a time. What is there to cherish in them? If one insists on cherishing them, will that not invite misfortune?

Once one’s achievements are complete and one’s name is renowned, withdrawing in time accords with the way of Heaven.

Circumstances cannot remain favorable forever. When events reach a certain point, they come to a halt. Nothing can flourish without end; after flourishing comes decline. What is more, in human affairs there is a proper time to advance and a proper time to withdraw. What is fitting may be followed and must not be violated. Whether to leave or remain is also governed by one’s allotted destiny: one should follow it, not resist it. If reason calls for yielding, yet one defies what is right and insists on pressing forward, disaster is sure to follow. If one’s allotted destiny calls for departure, yet one resists it and insists on staying, loss is sure to result.

Success and failure accompany one another; honor and disgrace take turns. They are like head and tail, each answering to the other, while disaster and good fortune lie hidden within one another. How can one rely on pressing forward and expect to enjoy glory all one’s life, without regard for the troubles that may come? Thus, after one’s achievements are complete and one’s name has become renowned, knowing when to withdraw is in accord with the Way of Heaven.

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Soul and Embracing the One

“Can you carry the soul and embrace the One without letting them part?”

After receiving life and entering the world, a person guards the spirit, and Yin-Yang Qi is contained within the body; the transformations of Heaven and Earth are also fully embodied within oneself...

From the moment a person receives life and is born, once their spirit has been nurtured, the two forces of Yin and Yang are both present within them. The complete workings of creation and transformation are also embodied in their physical form. Their nature is naturally calm, balanced, and upright, while their original Qi—the vital energy inherent in life—remains pure. How, then, could anything external disturb them? This is the natural order of life.

Later, the spirit chases after changes in the outside world, and thoughts arise in response to external things. Likes and desires take root in the heart, while toil and demands entangle the body. The calm that was there becomes discordant; what was upright turns crooked. Then the Shen is seized by the Po—the aspect of spirit bound to the body and its desires—and can no longer govern it. In the end, it becomes scattered and loses its hold. This is the path toward death.

Those who attain the Dao understand this. They let go of their attachment to external things and quiet the worldly mind. Knowing that Shen is their master, they can remain settled and undisturbed, and so become clear and penetrating. Knowing that Jing is their foundation, they can remain peaceful and unwavering, and so return to unity. In this way, Shen can become lucid and perceptive without being clouded, while Jing preserves its original nature and remains whole. The inner self is no longer controlled by the Po, and the outer world can no longer make it change. In this way, one draws near to the Great Dao.

How lamentable are the foolish: they turn away from Yang and move toward Yin, deplete their spirit and follow the Po. Every day they rush among countless changes, yet fail to keep to the unity of the utmost essence. After death, they sink into the Yin realm and are reborn as other kinds of beings. This is because they are led by the Po and cannot embrace the original unity and preserve themselves. It is truly heartbreaking, truly heartbreaking!

“By cultivating and nourishing Jing and Qi with undivided focus, and making the body supple, can one become like an infant?”

People must preserve their lives through their own efforts, nourishing the body with Qi. If they fail to cultivate themselves in this way, then upon death they will sink into the Yin realm and be reborn as other kinds of beings. This is because they are led by the Po and cannot embrace the original unity and preserve themselves. It is truly heartbreaking, truly heartbreaking!

“By cultivating and nourishing Jing and Qi with undivided focus, and making the body supple, can one become like an infant?”

If a person wishes to preserve life, they must use Qi—the vital energy of life, as Daoists understand it—to nourish themselves. If they move toward death, they deplete their Qi. A noble person does not use what nourishes their own life to harm others. They therefore devote themselves to cultivating Qi until it is gentle, thereby preserving their original nature.

The nature of a perfected person is accustomed to not acting recklessly. When reckless action arises, sorrow and joy follow. The nature of a perfected person rests in not violating what is natural. When it is violated, violent anger appears. Once sorrow and joy arise, the mind becomes disordered; once violent anger takes hold, the Qi within the body grows agitated. In such a state, it is impossible to preserve one’s original nature.

How can Qi be made single-minded and gentle? The best way is to guide it with one’s will and govern it with one’s spirit. Let the mind rest in stillness and purity, and let thoughts return to a quiet, empty ease. Keep the “Five Thieves”—the sensory desires that disturb the mind and deplete vital essence—from being tainted by external things; restrain “ignorance,” the state of confusion and delusion, within a condition of gentleness and noncontention. Then Qi will naturally become gentle, and even when stirred by external things, it will not act recklessly. Is this not like being an infant?

Can you cleanse the dark mirror and leave it without blemish?

If the inner nature is covered in dust, wash it clean; if it is soiled, remove the filth. If you cannot nourish yourself through stillness and purity, and face external things calmly, how could you do this?

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

The foundation of governing is Wuwei; pretense often arises from deliberate action. When people depart from their nature, they lose their foundation; when they make external things serve them, they harm themselves. If you wish to care for the people and preserve life, how could you govern the state with calmness, following the natural course of things?

In loving the people and governing the state, can you practice Wuwei?

The foundation of governing is Wuwei; pretense often arises from deliberate action. When people depart from their nature, they lose their foundation; when they make external things serve them, they harm themselves. If you wish the people to enjoy their lives in peace and the state to remain secure for a long time, it is best to let them abide in their nature and refrain from imposing action upon them.

When Heaven’s gate opens and closes, can you remain receptive?

All things enter and emerge through Heaven as their gate, while Heaven enters and emerges through the Dao as its portal. The perfected person follows Heaven’s gate, coming and going in the mysterious realm; they wander through the Dao’s portal, ascending and descending in the realm of reality. They understand the waxing and waning of circumstances and change with the fullness and emptiness of all things. They do not act recklessly, but simply rest in a state of mindlessness.

When you understand all things and reach everywhere, can you remain without knowledge?

To illuminate what is hidden is called “brightness”; to reveal what is simple and unadorned is called “clarity”; to move freely in every direction without obstruction is called “reaching everywhere.” To achieve these things may be called having knowledge. But only when you know that there is still what you do not know have you reached the utmost.

The Dao (the Way), the root of all things in the universe, causes them to grow and nurtures them. It gives life to them without claiming ownership, and acts without relying on its achievements.

The Dao has the power to create all things, and so brings them into being. It has the power to nurture all things, and so enables them to grow. Those who truly understand the Dao also know that some principles cannot be fully grasped through knowledge alone. To recognize what one does not know is to reach a higher level of understanding.

The Dao causes all things to grow and nurtures them. It gives life to them without claiming ownership, and acts without relying on its achievements.

The Dao creates all things and brings them into being; it transforms all things and enables them to grow. Yet although the Dao can give life to and nurture all things, only those who understand its principles can grasp what this means. One should not casually regard it as something ordinary.

To let all things grow without ruling over them is called “Mysterious De” (profound and subtle Virtue).

The Dao endures through the ages without decline. Is this not longevity? The Dao does not act deliberately, yet all things transform and grow naturally. Is this not ruling over nothing?

Chapter Eleven: Thirty Spokes

Thirty spokes meet at a wheel hub. Because the hub is hollow at its center, the wheel is useful. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel. Because the vessel is hollow inside, it is useful. Doors and windows are cut out to make a house. Because the house has empty space within, it is useful. Thus, solid form provides convenience, while empty space serves a practical purpose.

A cart moves by means of its wheels, hub, and other solid parts, yet its movement is not obstructed by any one object. A vessel has a shape that can hold things without letting them spill out. A house gives people a place to live, where they can find shelter and stability. These examples show the distinct roles of emptiness and solidity. The same is true of a house: its outer form provides convenience, while the empty space within makes it usable.

The source beyond physical forms is called the “Dao”; concrete things beneath physical forms are called “vessels.” At the level beyond form, “nonbeing” is what makes things useful. Its function is inexhaustible, and it does not decline as the new replaces the old. At the level beneath form, “being” provides benefits, but these are ultimately limited and subject to rise and decline. Thus the scripture says that a cart is useful because it has empty space at its center, a vessel is useful because it has empty space within it, and a house is useful because it has empty space inside.

In terms of subtle cultivation, circulating one’s own Qi (vital energy within the body) is called the “River Cart”; the vessel or inner place that gathers one’s true Qi is called the “Cauldron and Vessel”; and the abode where the spirit is settled is called the “Crimson Chamber.” What are these three, ultimately? Each makes use of “nonbeing” to function.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

Brilliant, variegated colors dazzle the eyes, making it hard to see things clearly; complex music dulls the hearing; and overly strong flavors distort the palate.

People do not lack the wish to preserve their true nature within or to restore their innate nature to its original state. They find it difficult only because they are often lured by external things. The eyes focus on seeing, hoping to use inner clarity to perceive the true colors of things, but become confused by colors from outside and see less clearly. The ears focus on listening, hoping to use inner composure to hear sounds as they truly are, but are disturbed by external noise and hear less clearly. The tongue focuses on tasting, hoping to discern the true flavor in what is mild, but is thrown off by strong tastes and can no longer perceive the food’s natural flavor. When the eyes are clouded, clarity cannot come into play; when the ears are disturbed, composure falls apart; when the palate is distorted, people can no longer be content with what is mild. In this way, all manner of false thoughts arise, and one’s original vitality—the vital energy that is true to one’s nature—is depleted as well. This is the state of ordinary people. How could one speak of the Dao under such conditions?

Racing horses and hunting make the mind and spirit run wild, while rare and precious goods obstruct people’s conduct. The sage seeks only to satisfy inner needs and does not chase external pleasures of sight and sound or material wealth. The sage therefore gives up the latter and chooses the former.

Indulgence stirs up the seven emotions—joy, anger, worry, reflection, sorrow, fear, and alarm—while craving gives rise to the three poisons: greed, anger, and delusion. Innate nature finds expression in the mind, and the mind is the inner aspect of that nature. When innate nature is settled and the mind is clear, one is not busy chasing external things. How, then, could hunting or rare goods become a source of harm? Racing horses and hunting stir the flow of blood and Qi (vital energy), sending it outward and making the mind and spirit run wild. Craving rare goods leads people to ingratiate themselves with others and compromise their integrity to win approval, grasping at gain through cunning; this obstructs their conduct. These are all things the sage does not do. “Fill the belly, not the eyes” means attending to inner nourishment and care rather than pursuing pleasures for the external senses.

Favor and disgrace alike unsettle the heart. People regard great trouble as though it mattered as much as their own bodies. What does it mean to say that favor and disgrace bring alarm? To receive favor is already to occupy a lowly position: when favored, one worries about losing it; when it is withdrawn, one feels afraid. This is what “favor and disgrace bring alarm” means. And what does it mean to regard great trouble as though it mattered as much as one’s own body? We suffer great trouble because we have this body.

When the heart is devoted to the Dao yet remains entangled in external things, it rejoices in glory and is alarmed by hardship. It is constantly troubled by gain and loss, unable to attain an open and spacious state of mind. Those who occupy favored positions and receive stipends thereby gain honor; through their stipends they become prominent among others. They come to love glory and fear hardship, continually burdened by gain and loss and unable to be at ease. Those who receive favor often cling to high rank, growing proud and unrestrained because of their honor. They boast of themselves, prize their own status, and look down on those beneath them; they bask in prominence, consider themselves superior, and are ashamed to be anyone’s subordinate. They amass wealth and fret over their carriages. Is this not treating favor as a treasure? How could this be called disgrace? Once they lose something, they feel that something is lacking in their hearts.

The Perfected Person, one of deep cultivation who follows the Great Dao, is not like this. They take no joy in high rank and feel no sorrow at low status. Even when given generous stipends and seated before a feast of fine foods, they do not rely on these things. Even when eating coarse food, drinking from a gourd, and living in a humble hut of thatch and earth, they are not troubled. They remain at ease when things come and at ease when they go. Why should such things cause alarm? Only those who treat favor as a treasure suffer the greatest disgrace. How could this fail to alarm them?

If I am not attached to my body, what calamity could befall me? Therefore, only one who cherishes their own person yet does not claim it as private property can be entrusted with the world.

People receive their mandate from formlessness and non-action, and only then take shape in the visible world. The body is a temporary combination of conditions such as earth, water, wind, and fire; spirit, original Qi, and blood make up the substance of life. In living and dwelling, people cannot escape the limits imposed by cold and heat; in their movements and work, they are always driven by toil.

Human beings receive life from “nothingness” and rely on “somethingness” to form the body. The body is a temporary gathering of the four elements—earth, water, wind, and fire—and within it unfold the real activities of life: spirit, Qi, blood, and more. Living in the world, we cannot escape the constraints of cold and heat; in acting and working, we can hardly free ourselves from the demands of labor and daily affairs. We also need food and water to sustain the body, and silk or cloth garments to protect us from the elements. In all things, there may be too much at times and too little at others, so worry and hardship are inevitable.

If one can obtain one’s true nature and feelings from Yin-Yang, understand the proper principles of creation and transformation, and let neither joy nor anger linger in the heart; if neither cold nor heat can constrain one from outside; if one can leave behind the body temporarily assembled from earth, water, wind, and fire, cease clinging to “self,” return to the truth of the Nine Transformations—the root of all change—and enter the Dao, then one can reach a state that depends on nothing and undergoes no change. What worries could remain? Is this what the scripture means when it says, “Once I have no body, what worries could I have?”

Chapter Fourteen: Looking, One Does Not See

Look for it, and it cannot be seen: this is called “Yi.” Listen for it, and it cannot be heard: this is called “Xi.” Reach for it, and it cannot be grasped: this is called “Wei.”

The Dao exists beyond the Great Simplicity, the primordial state before the cosmos divided, and has no color. Thus, even Li Lou, whose eyesight was legendary, could not see it. The Dao exists within the Great Void, the vast and formless expanse, and has no sound. Thus, even Shi Kuang, the legendary musician with extraordinary hearing, could not hear it. The Dao exists before names and has no form. Thus, even Wu Huo, famed for his great strength, could not lift it by force. This is why “Yi” cannot be seen, “Xi” cannot be heard, and “Wei” cannot be grasped. These statements refer to the ordinary capacities of human perception.

If one can open the eye of wisdom and contemplate true forms, then one can see; open the mysterious ear and hear subtle sounds, then one can hear; and apply wondrous strength to turn vast forms, then one can grasp them. Ordinary people cannot do this because the five colors obscure their eyes, the five notes block their ears, and the things they see, hear, and do in daily life cloud their minds.

The three—Yi, Xi, and Wei—cannot be pursued to their ultimate source. They blend together and become one whole.

The Dao (the Way) is everywhere, and there is nowhere it is not. No concrete thing can name it, nor can any image serve as its likeness. When it acts to aid the world, there is nothing among the myriad things that is not the Dao. The Dao is one and indivisible within all things. The sage describes it as three distinct qualities—Yi, Xi, and Wei—only to explain it through the modes of perception: sight, hearing, and touch. In the end, they seem different precisely because their differences cannot truly be separated. Blended into one, how could their distinctions be clearly traced?

Above, the Dao is not bright; below, it is not dark. It flows on continuously, beyond naming, and at last returns to a state of nothingness. This is called the shape without form, the image without substance, and also the indistinct, elusive state of seeming to exist and not to exist. Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times, and you can govern the things that exist in the present. Once the Dao is given a name, it returns to a state of nothingness. It is the shape without form, the image without substance—that is, the indistinct and elusive. Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. To know the source from which the myriad things arise is to have grasped the guiding thread of the Dao.

Anything that depends on Yang Qi rises and becomes bright; anything that depends on Yin Qi descends and grows dim. Those that rise brightly draw beings with spiritual awareness toward them; those that descend into darkness cause beings with physical form to avoid them. Thus people throughout the world have come to understand the principle of attraction and aversion.

The Dao is not like this. Though its presence rises, it does not become bright by belonging to Yang. Though what has no physical form descends, it does not grow dim by belonging to Yin. When the Dao arrives, it seems not to move, yet it has already come. How could one welcome it? When the Dao departs, it seems unhurried, yet quickly travels far away. How could one follow it? If we try to trace the Dao to its source, even by searching into high antiquity, we do not know when it began. If we try to examine its end, even by observing the present age, we do not know how it changes.

If we reason from the Dao’s subtle mysteries: above, where there is brightness, things become clear, and light shines upon all manner of things; below, where there is darkness, things become obscure, and Qi arises from within that obscurity. The darkness above can draw people upward toward it; the darkness below can block them off and turn them away. When the Dao comes, I meet it before me with spiritual awareness; when it departs, I follow behind it with my spirit. In a hazy, indistinct state, it seems to have no form, yet can appear as things; in a faint and elusive state, it has no fixed shape, yet presents itself in forms. This does not contradict the original meaning of the scripture. Rather, Laozi’s words are subtle and profound, yet they make the principle clear.

Chapter Fifteen: Those Skilled in the Dao in Ancient Times

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

Ordinary people devote themselves to studying particular things, while the noble person devotes himself to realizing the Dao (the Way). Those focused on particular things are driven by them; their ingenuity and abilities are ultimately limited. Those focused on the Dao use it to nourish themselves, and the Dao’s transformations are inexhaustible.

Thus, the ancients who were skilled in cultivating the Dao concealed themselves in the deepest depths, leaving traces so obscure that they could not be fathomed. They gave full expression to their nature without being constrained by fixed methods, and investigated the principles of things without becoming rigid or stuck. Their words accorded with the Dao, yet were not understood by everyone; their actions fit the principles of things, yet were not grasped by everyone. They sought out the hidden and profound without leaving a trace, seeing clearly on their own. They mastered tangible things and held them firmly in their own hands. They moved freely among the six directions of heaven and earth—the “Six Void Spaces” of the ancients—and accorded with the Way of Heaven, so that no one could imitate them. They responded to the myriad transformations and dealt with things without obstruction. Thus, their subtlety and mystery, their access to what is deep and hidden, naturally made them hard for the world to recognize. This was not because they deliberately concealed themselves or set out to be different, but because the Dao they had realized was so profound that others could not understand it.

Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter; wary, as if keeping watch against neighbors on every side.

With a broad heart, they rested in the Dao and did not waver in thought over good or ill fortune. In stillness, they held fast to the mysterious Dao, the hidden and subtle principles, and did not act rashly out of worry. They did not make hasty judgments in advance, but acted only after encountering things. When faced with a matter…

“Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter; wary, as if keeping watch against neighbors on every side.”

Their minds remain broad and unobstructed as they embody the Dao, without deliberately dwelling on good or ill fortune. They quietly hold to the mysterious Dao, undisturbed by worry or trouble. They make no plans in advance; only when things arise do they respond, and only when circumstances call for it do they act. They wait until the time is right to move, and until the age has need of them to serve. Why, then, make arrangements in advance? This is the meaning of “hesitant, as if crossing a river in winter”: they proceed with the caution of someone crossing winter waters. One crosses a river in winter because circumstances compel it, acting out of necessity—not because one has already guessed at and planned for what may happen. This does not mean being unable to see what lies ahead; it means holding no fixed preconceptions in the heart.

When they do not act rashly, they grow still and withdraw, dwelling in a quiet place and even staying indoors. They live quietly and unobtrusively in the mysterious realm until they reach a state of non-action. They draw themselves in, ever watchful lest they overstep the rules, and use that vigilance to keep themselves alert. They restrain themselves, even keeping to their rooms behind closed doors, as though afraid of disturbing their neighbors. This describes just such a state: like someone afraid to disturb the neighbors, they live quietly and do not go out. It is not that they are afraid to leave home; rather, they withdraw into seclusion and avoid contact with the outside world.

These are two different conditions: one involves refraining from reckless thought, the other from reckless action. Who but the adept practitioners of the ancient past could have achieved this?

Solemn in bearing: A manner that is dignified and serious. Without a dignified appearance, one has no awe-inspiring presence; without composed conduct, one offers no example to follow. How much more should those who cultivate the Dao, dwelling in the mysterious realm and walking the path of truth, speak in accordance with the law and act in accordance with the law? How could they fail to carry themselves with gravity and self-restraint, inspiring reverence in those who see them? A dignified and serious bearing is therefore precisely what is called for.

Melting like ice about to thaw: Like ice on the verge of melting.

Human nature is originally empty, subtle, and still. Only when it is affected by external things does it become full, and thus unsettled. The force that disperses things belongs to Yang; the force that brings things together belongs to Yin. When Yang Qi disperses what has congealed, things open out and gradually return to their original state, growing freely without being driven by external things to gather or scatter. When Yin Qi causes things to congeal, what is empty attaches to what is substantial, and what has dispersed joins together and takes form. What is thick and heavy cannot easily become thin, and what is small in strength cannot easily grow greater. This is the principle of “being”; it does not mean “nonbeing.”

Water offers an example. Sometimes it flows downward and eastward; sometimes it joins the rivers and ultimately reaches the sea; sometimes it rises to form clouds and rain; sometimes it is channeled to form streams and rivers. The deeper the source, the longer the flow; the longer the flow, the farther its nourishment reaches. Water seems to take pleasure in this. But when Yin Qi congeals it into ice, the source is blocked and the flow obstructed, so it can no longer reach everywhere as water does. Those skilled in cultivating the Dao disperse what has become stagnant in their nature and return to clarity. Like ice about to melt, they seek to restore their original state.

So sincere and unadorned, like an uncarved block—

When ornament surpasses simplicity, simplicity perishes; when outward beauty surpasses inner truth, truth can no longer show itself. Those who cultivate the Dao do not flaunt their talents or literary gifts, lest these hinder fundamental simplicity. They do not prize superficial splendor, lest it obscure their inner capacities. They safeguard the purity of their inborn nature and seek to remain unmixed; they gather in what is naturally refined and seek to remain without falseness. They stand on what is substantial and do not linger in shallowness; they preserve wholeness and do not fall into mixture. This is what the classic means by “so sincere and unadorned, like an uncarved block.”

So open and spacious, like a valley—

Calmly content, they nourish the myriad things without claiming them as their own. Deep and empty, clear and still, they leave not the slightest trace, yet do not therefore conclude that all things are nothing. When external things arrive, they respond without clinging to them; when events occur, they accommodate them without obstruction. Their nature is empty and responsive; they do not allow external things to become fixations in the mind. Hence the saying, “so open and spacious, like a valley.”

So muddled and indistinct, like muddy water.

To remain in harmony with the world without showing off one’s brilliance, one must know how to restrain one’s radiance and keep oneself concealed. To live among ordinary people without being burdened by worldly conventions, one must know how to blend in, bring the mind to the utmost emptiness and stillness, and steadfastly hold to tranquility. All things grow and develop together; from this I observe how they return. Though all things flourish in profusion, in the end they must return to their roots.

Returning to the roots is called stillness. To become still is to return to life as it originally was.

If one knows only how to grow outward, but not how to return, growth will reach its limit. If one knows only how to advance, but cannot turn back, one will inevitably decline. Spring comes to Heaven because all things grow and extend outward; autumn comes because all things gather in and return. Growth and outward expansion are life unfolding; gathering in and returning are a return to life’s innate nature. Someone might ask: if life already has an innate nature, why must it return before that nature can be seen? This is because the unfolding of life is active; once in motion, it becomes diverse and unsettled, and the innate nature is easily obscured. It has not truly disappeared. To say that “returning to the roots is called stillness” means returning to one’s innate nature. Earlier it was said that becoming still reveals one’s nature; here it is said that stillness is a return to life. Why? Though life has its original allotment, its innate nature is often obscured and cannot appear. When stillness reveals that nature, life’s original state is restored. This is to fully realize one’s nature first, and then return to Heaven’s mandate.

Returning to Heaven’s mandate is called constancy; knowing the constant Dao is called clarity. Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly brings danger.

Stillness is the root of one’s innate nature. At times, activity arises in response to external things; it does not mean that the innate nature itself is restless. “Constancy” is the constant Dao that appears after returning to Heaven’s mandate. Knowing the constant Dao is called clarity. Not knowing the constant Dao and acting recklessly brings danger.

Stillness is the original state of one’s nature. At times there is activity, in response to external things; this does not mean that nature itself has become restless. Constancy is the substance of the Dao. When it encounters external things and changes in some way, it does so to accord with the times; this does not mean that the Dao itself has changed.

When the sage withdraws and gathers inward, external things do not govern him. When he is quiet and silent, he does not deliberately respond to every shift in the times. Thus nature remains still and does not move recklessly, while the Dao remains constant and unchanged. This is called “returning to one’s destiny”—returning to one’s nature and Heaven’s mandate. What is called “constancy” means guarding stillness without letting oneself rush outward, thereby preserving one’s nature. “Knowing constancy is called clarity” means that when the mind is empty and still, it can see clearly of itself and so understand the Great Dao. By contrast, if one does not understand constancy and acts only in response to change, one will do all manner of things that cause one to lose one’s nature and turn away from the Dao. How could the result be anything but danger? That is why the text goes on to say, “Not knowing constancy, one acts recklessly and meets with misfortune.”

Tolerance leads to impartiality; impartiality makes one fit to be a ruler; the ruler follows Heaven, and Heaven follows the Dao.

The world is full of change, and things differ from one another. When we choose and judge among them, we divide them into large and small, straight and crooked; when we distinguish between them, ranks and differences arise. The sage seeks to bring the myriad things into unity and to harmonize every kind of change. The key is tolerance. How can one achieve it? Simply by understanding the Way of constancy. Through tolerance, one can meet offenses with generosity and impartiality; in responding to all things, one can remain consistent and not stray. One’s fairness is like a balance that cannot be bent; one’s emptiness and stillness are like a valley, able to hold all things without letting them lose their proper measure. In this way, tolerance leads to great impartiality.

Only after attaining great impartiality can one govern the people and establish laws for all under Heaven. Even amid countless affairs, one can handle them in an orderly way; even with all under Heaven so vast, one can keep oneself free from disturbance. This is the practice of cultivating simplicity within and thereby bringing customs back to a state of natural purity. Now, one presents oneself as murky as turbid water. How is that different from this principle?

Who can still turbid water and let it slowly grow clear? Who can settle into stillness and then slowly come alive again?

When clear water is stirred by external things, it becomes turbid. When a settled person is drawn by external things, they too become restless. Turbidity disrupts clarity; if it cannot be regulated through stillness, clarity will be obscured. Restlessness causes a person to lose their composure; if it cannot be guided so that vitality gradually returns, composure will be endangered by restlessness. This is not how one who is skilled in cultivating the Dao should act.

I see it differently. If one takes stillness as the norm and allows the mind to grow clear, what is there to worry about in turbidity? If one sees action as change and lets it gradually accord with vitality, why cling to remaining still? In this way, one does not lose one’s nature in stillness or stray from the Dao in action, and one is not confined to either extreme. What is there to worry about in turbidity? If one sees action as change and lets it gradually accord with vitality, why cling to remaining still? In this way, one does not lose one’s nature in stillness or stray from the Dao in action, and one is not confined to either extreme.

Those who uphold this Dao do not seek fullness or self-satisfaction. Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they can continually renew themselves even when they appear worn down.

Things tend toward decline because they think they have already reached completion; affairs grow stale because they pursue renewal without restraint. Success and failure repeatedly transform into one another, while the new and the old alternate in turn. This is the natural course of things, and something unavoidable in human affairs. Yet those skilled in cultivating the Dao uphold the Dao and accept being worn down; for this reason, their apparent wear always brings renewal. In handling affairs, they do not cling to making things complete by their own efforts; for this reason, apparent failure can instead bring about new success. They endure without decline and achieve things throughout their lives. The reason they never fall into defeat lies nowhere else: they do not seek to be full.

“Chapter on Attaining the Utmost Emptiness,” Chapter Sixteen

Bring the mind’s emptiness and stillness to the utmost, and firmly uphold clarity and stillness; then all things will grow and flourish together.

It gives birth to the myriad things, yet does not claim them as its own. At times, it acts; this shows that emptiness has not yet reached its utmost. It rests in stillness, yet at times it moves; this shows that its tranquility is not yet profound enough.

The Dao stands above the myriad things and responds to their countless transformations, yet does not feel depleted. It holds fast to the One, yet does not feel exhausted. Vast as the cosmos, it has no visible bounds. It continually nourishes living beings and brings them forth, yet shows no sign of action. It is utterly empty and still, deep and ever tranquil. The myriad things enter it, yet it does not feel full; they surge forth from it, yet it does not feel disturbed. Only then does emptiness reach its utmost, and tranquility become firmly established, allowing the myriad things to grow together.

When things appear, at first they have no form; only in the end do their shapes become visible. If emptiness has not reached its utmost, new things will be obstructed. If tranquility is not profound enough, the ceaseless renewal of the myriad things will have no end. If one can settle oneself and give the myriad things a place to return to, then the way of human cultivation has reached its highest point. What more can one do when cultivation has reached its highest point? One becomes attuned to Heaven. A person attuned to Heaven may be said to have reached the utmost, but how could human strength alone master all this? Only by being in accord with the Dao. This, then, is what the chapter says: only by being all-embracing can one be impartial; only by being impartial can one be king; only by being king can one be attuned to Heaven; only by being attuned to Heaven can one be attuned to the Dao.

Chapter Seventeen: The Highest

Of the highest rulers, the people know only that they exist. Those one step below are close to the people and praised by them; the next are feared by the people; those below them are scorned by the people.

When the enlightened rulers of antiquity governed the world, they were deep and quiet, humble in their bearing, and held high office without acting rashly. They followed the natural course of all things in the world and did not use words to interfere with its changes. Through subtle spiritual influence, they guided the people without letting them know where their orders came from. Through their own conduct, they taught the people, so that affairs of state seemed to unfold of themselves. The people felt no instruction had been given, yet the teaching was complete; the rulers made no deliberate effort to govern, yet the world was well governed. People did not have to wait for someone to lead them before responding, nor for punishment before learning to fear wrongdoing. Each day they were shaped by the rulers’ De (Virtue), without knowing it was worthy of trust; each day they lived along the Great Dao, without knowing it was worthy of following. Freely, each found what suited them; contentedly, each found their place. This was governance at its highest: influencing the people through nature. Thus it is said that the people knew only that a ruler existed.

After the Three Sovereigns, the legendary early rulers of antiquity, institutions gradually became more fully established, and rewards and punishments came into use. Some rulers cared for the people as one would protect an infant. Through their De, they won the people’s allegiance as naturally as streams flow together. When rulers comforted the people with kindness, the people drew near to them as they would to their parents; when rulers treated them with benevolence, the people praised them as they praised Heaven and Earth. This was an age when rulers acted deliberately and governed the people through commands. People praised their rulers out of affection and gratitude.

At the next level, things were different. Some rulers imposed harsh laws and punishments, establishing their authority through fear; others turned away from the right Dao and damaged their De, thereby losing the ability to govern. Some people feared the rulers’ power and sought only to escape punishment, even at the cost of shame. Others held the laws in contempt and broke established norms, until they committed offenses. In the end, although the laws inspired fear, the people ceased to fear them; although De was worthy of respect, it too was treated with contempt. Such governance fell short of the age when people praised their rulers out of affection, and it was also unworthy of the realm in which people merely knew that a ruler existed. How could one fail to choose the way of governing with care?

When one’s own sincerity is lacking, others will not trust them. Words must be valued. Once the work is done and the achievement complete, the people will say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

To be honest within and not deceive things outwardly is what is called “trustworthiness.” In the eyes of the sage, trustworthiness is what conveys commands and expresses intentions, allowing them to reach everywhere. If sincerity is lacking, how could others believe? Thus the sage always thinks carefully before speaking and does not speak absurdly; he considers things thoroughly before communicating and does not let his words become deceptive. His commands are as convincing as the outcome of a divination, and his directives take effect as promptly as an echo or a shadow. Only then can he be called trustworthy.

The root of insufficient trustworthiness lies in failing to value words. One who values words does not speak carelessly; one who esteems words does not issue commands lightly. Only in this way can achievements be completed and affairs properly concluded. The people will then feel that everything came about naturally.

Chapter 18: When the Great Dao Falls into Decline

Only after the Great Dao fell into decline did benevolence and righteousness appear. Only after cleverness and cunning arose did serious deceit emerge.

Chapter 19: Cutting Off Sageliness and Discarding Wisdom

When the sage handles affairs, he does not first bring his own preconceptions; when facing external things, he does not harbor private intentions. Without preconceptions, practices such as compassion, care, and restraint will not be deliberately displayed outwardly; without private intentions, planning, deliberation, and subjective views will not arise from within. This is because the sage takes the Dao as the standard for action, speech, and silence.

When all kinds of affairs emerge in profusion and situations intersect with one another, feelings of love and aversion arise accordingly, and the weighing of giving and taking unfolds accordingly. The originally unified great Dao then divides into two extremes, and the function of benevolence and righteousness appears from this.

Human nature loses its naturalness because of excessive knowledge and views, so the sage keeps to simplicity; cunning arises from looking too far ahead and calculating too much, so the sage makes non-display his function. If one does not use simplicity to restrain knowledge and views, one will feel that wisdom is still insufficient and therefore deliberately scheme; if one does not use concealment to gather in and restrain knowledge and insight, one will feel that planning is not yet complete and therefore become cunning. Thus, as cleverness grows in the heart, falseness arises in planning, and people become ever farther from the great Dao.

Cut off the practice of taking oneself as sagely and discard the practice of taking oneself as clever, and the common people will receive a hundredfold benefit.

What is called “sageliness” is being unobstructed in all things; what is called “wisdom” is knowing all things. The sage is able to complete his nature, penetrate himself, realize the great Dao, and master the myriad things. When the scripture says “cut off sageliness,” it means the sage does not dare to claim sagely illumination for himself and does not regard himself as far superior to the multitude. What is called “wisdom” is the ability to illuminate the past, foresee the future, and perceive how things will change. When the scripture says “discard wisdom,” it means not daring to claim cleverness and not thinking that one knows what others do not know. If one considers oneself sagely, those inferior to oneself may depart from their original nature and turn to pretending to be clever; if one considers oneself wise, those inferior to oneself may abandon sincerity and turn to deceit. The sage does not claim or display these capacities, and the common people each act according to their nature; the benefit they receive is then much greater.

Cut off the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, and the common people will return to filial piety and compassion.

The way of Heaven has five constant relationships, and the human world has five constant norms; the father-son relationship is inherently a natural order. At the beginning of the natural human relationships, innate moral knowing naturally manifests, and the capacities endowed by Heaven are fundamentally present as well.

Heaven has five constant ways, and human beings have five constant virtues. The relationship between parent and child is therefore an order established by the Way of Heaven. What the Way of Heaven establishes at the outset is the natural appearance of innate knowing; inborn abilities need no deliberation. Filial devotion and parental care are already present by nature between parent and child—why wait for instruction to guide them? The relationship grows distant because ideas of benevolence and righteousness get in its way. Benevolence means loving others, yet it extends love to those one would not naturally love. Righteousness means what is fitting, yet it treats as fitting what is not naturally fitting. Then all things compete to speak of love, but love is directed where it should not be, and disorder follows. People single-mindedly pursue what is called fitting, but do what is unfitting, and discord follows; feelings of filial devotion and parental care may be lost as a result. So if these ideas can be cut off and cast aside, the people will recover filial devotion and parental care.

If cleverness and deceit are exalted and profit pursued, thieves and robbers will disappear.

Exalting skill without restraint inevitably leads to trouble; coveting profit inevitably gives rise to competition. These are the very roots from which thieves and robbers emerge.

Reveal what is genuine, preserve simplicity, lessen selfishness, and reduce desire.

The farther one follows a stream, the sooner it will run dry; if one cares only for a profusion of leaves, the branches will eventually wither. Now, if we give up following the stream and seek its source, the source will become clear; if we give up the leaves and return to the root, the root will grow firm. Then, after cutting off the three practices mentioned above, where should we turn? We must make our nature clear. That is why the next words are: “See the plain and embrace the uncarved.” When the substance is unstained by dust, it is called “plain”; when the root is undisturbed by ostentation, it is called “uncarved.” With less selfishness, we are not misled by or attached to external things; with less desire, we do not indulge in grasping and thereby harm ourselves. Why do this, if not to remove the roots of what disturbs our nature?

In the middle volume of The True Explanation of the Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue, an anonymous commentator explains “Cutting Off Learning Brings Freedom from Worry,” Chapter 20:

Cut off the pursuit of worldly knowledge, and worries will cease.

Learning is meant to investigate the principles of things. If those principles are not fully understood, one cannot fully know one’s nature. Without knowing one’s nature, confusion and worry follow one after another. “Cutting off learning” here means that learning has reached the point of thoroughly investigating the principles of things, and that one’s nature has thereby been recognized. Once one’s nature is clear, one attains the greatest joy and is free from worry.

How far apart are the respectful “Wei” and the casual “A,” each used in reply? How far apart, then, are good and evil?

In the true realm of the Great Dao, one does not distinguish truth from falsehood. When one recognizes and holds to the goodness of one’s nature, one does not divide good and evil into opposites. When truth is lost, falsehood arises; when goodness deviates, evil appears. Thus truth and falsehood, good and evil, are not far apart. Those who cultivate the Dao should be alert to this.

What people fear cannot simply be left unfearful.

The sage withdraws to a quiet place, living in seclusion and preserving stillness. At ease and untroubled, they delight in following their inborn nature and enjoying what is natural and genuine. Their minds are calm and upright, and they hold to the way of mastering themselves. They see all things clearly without becoming caught up in distinctions. Their aspirations are lofty and they stand apart from the world, yet they do not compete with others over every matter. This is how they preserve their own way and remain unchanged by external things.

If one often follows custom and goes along with the crowd, engaging with external things in speech and action, and experiences life’s troubles just as ordinary people do, then anxiety over good and ill fortune is hard to avoid. These are precisely the things people fear, and so they must remain wary. This, too, is the principle of preserving one’s own way and remaining unchanged by external things.

The crowd is bustling and joyful, as though feasting on a lavish sacrificial banquet of cattle, sheep, and pigs, or climbing a springtime terrace to admire the view.

Though they encounter the great Dao, they do not recognize it; though they follow the Dao, they do not know that they are doing so. The six emotions and senses obscure the inner light, while the five thieves—the desires and external things that deplete one’s nature and disturb the mind—disrupt the inner master. This is the condition of ordinary people. They do not know that they have lost their own nature; they simply follow their desires and take pleasure in them, delighting in external things. In their bustle, they satisfy their appetites and adapt to the fashions of the age, imagining themselves as happy as those feasting on a lavish sacrificial banquet or climbing a spring terrace. They regard the banquet as delicious and the spring terrace as glorious. Can everyone truly experience these two kinds of pleasure? Only those who have reached the utmost joy can.

I alone am cautious and quiet, as if no sign of things had yet appeared, like an infant not yet grown. Ordinary people seem clear-sighted and discerning, while I seem dull; ordinary people are sharp and exacting, while I seem simple and generous.

The dispersal of the Dao (the Way) occurs when unity changes and gives way to division. One’s nature is lost when harmony and ease turn into disorder. When essence is displayed outwardly, its inner substance is bound to suffer; when truth is entrusted to external things, spirit is bound to dissipate. At times, clever contrivances arise amid great falsity, and deceit takes many forms. Then the Dao I preserve can no longer accord with them.

My way is different. I keep harmonious Qi within and do not let clever schemes and calculations arise. I hold fast to unity so that what is true and pure does not scatter. I forget joy and anger, so that my emotions are not stirred by external things. I overcome likes and dislikes, so that fixed ideas do not control me. I let my mind be as it was before the forms of things appeared, as it was when an infant had yet to grow. If one does not preserve one’s nature and realize the Dao, who can do this? Because I preserve my nature, I always seem incomplete; because I realize the Dao, I always seem weak. I use my own lack of fullness to bring fullness to the world, and my own weakness to bring strength to the world. Thus I am always unlike worldly people. Others appear discerning and clever, while I seem dull; others appear perceptive and clear, while I seem muddled and indistinct.

Still and vast—like the sea. Drifting and flowing—as though with nowhere to rest.

To settle oneself in emptiness and stillness, and to meet all things with a deep and spacious heart: this is the Dao’s essence, which is why it is said to be still as the sea. To aid all under Heaven universally and spread throughout all things: this is the Dao’s function, which is why it is said to drift without cease.

Everyone has something to rely on and some ability to put to use; I alone seem dull and simple.

I preserve the Dao, while others pursue external things. External things cannot come into being apart from the Dao, while the Dao remains constant even apart from external things. I dwell in the constancy of the Dao, so why should I be constrained by external things? This means that external things serve me, while I am not ruled by them. Everyone has something to rely on; I alone seem dull and simple. Perhaps this is because I do not treat external things as objects to enter into and seize.

I alone differ from others: what I cherish is drawing nourishment from the “Mother.”

In terms of what came first in time, the “Mother” is what existed before the forms of things appeared. In terms of rank, it is what existed before the Heavenly Sovereign appeared. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, the Dao is their beginning; though the myriad things are many, the Dao is their source and Mother.

In terms of time, the Dao existed before any signs of the myriad things appeared; in terms of rank, it existed before the Heavenly Emperor. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they take the Dao as their root. Though the myriad things are many, they take the Dao as their source and mother. “Mother” means that it gives life to and nurtures all things. I now dwell at ease in the Dao and preserve my life over the long term—is this not for the sake of living? Is understanding the principles of cultivating the Dao and attaining truth not for the sake of preserving life? If one is to live and preserve life, what can one rely on apart from the Dao? Therefore, cherish the Dao as the source of all things.

The Form of Great De, Chapter Twenty-One

The form of great De follows only the Dao.

The Dao cannot be acquired through study. To act in accordance with one’s nature is to follow one’s nature. Thus, those who can act in accordance with their nature are already in accord with the Dao. When the Dao is embodied in me, what I cultivate within myself is truth, and what I put into practice is De. De comes from the Dao and takes shape in people, making it possible to cultivate. Yet the Dao is formless, while De takes visible form. When De is cultivated to its utmost, one enters the Dao; when the Dao’s workings unfold, they appear as De. The Dao and De accompany one another and have never been separable. This is the meaning of the scripture’s words: “The form of great De follows only the Dao.”

The Dao is elusive and indistinct. Yet within the indistinct, there are images; between seeming presence and absence, there are things. In the depths of darkness lies subtle Qi, vital energy. This subtle Qi is real and true, and within it is something that can be trusted. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared; through it, we can observe the origins of the myriad things. How do I know the state of their origins? Through the Dao.

Within the indistinct there are images; between seeming presence and absence, there are things. In the depths of darkness lies subtle Qi, vital energy. This Qi is real and true, and within it is something that can be trusted. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared; through it, we can observe the origins of the myriad things. How do I know the state of their origins? Through the Dao.

When the Great Dao reaches the deepest stillness, it is so quiet that the ear cannot hear it. When it reaches utter emptiness, it is so void that the eye cannot see it. We may try to approach it, but cannot find its beginning; we may try to follow it, but cannot find its end. This is the substance of the Great Dao, always as it is.

When the Great Dao moves from substance into function, we cannot say that it has no name or form at all. Being contains nonbeing, and the forms of the myriad things emerge from a hazy, hidden subtlety. Its substance is called “true nonbeing”; its function is called “true being.” Once forms appear, there are the myriad things; once bodies take shape, each has its own nature and disposition. After forms and things appear, we also speak of “Jing” (essence), the subtle power that gives rise to the myriad things, because true being can bring them forth. The growth of the myriad things does not come about through their own power alone. They enter the process of Creation and Transformation—the generation and changing of Heaven and Earth—and take part in the interaction of Yin and Yang. When true nature becomes responsive, change can occur without deliberate effort. When pure Qi (vital energy) circulates, things can come into being without deliberate generation. The principle behind this creation is profoundly obscure. It does not present itself in clear, visible forms or take shape in sharply defined bodies; rather, it becomes real and trustworthy at the subtlest level. The Great Dao works constantly through what is distant and hidden. These matters cannot be discussed with anyone who has not mastered the Great Dao in cultivation or attained the highest insight.

“Bend and Be Whole” chapter (Chapter 22): By yielding, one can be preserved whole; by bending, one can become straight; by lying low, one can be filled; by growing worn, one can be renewed. Taking little can bring gain, while grasping at much can lead to confusion.

The Dao is spread throughout the world. Those who receive its subtle aspect call what they gain essence; those who receive a lesser part call what they gain coarse. Thus, people and things in the world cannot help but differ in how deeply and when they understand the Dao, and in the degree of their understanding.

The sage is a vessel of the Dao and has received a complete nature. Able to respond to the many different circumstances of the world, the sage’s De is inexhaustible, and everything the sage does can be arranged. This is achieved by no other means: the sage simply follows the inherent principles of things.

People in the world cannot all be upright. If you use your own uprightness to correct others’ crookedness, your own uprightness will inevitably be impaired. Things in the world cannot all be complete. If you rely on your own abundance and cannot accommodate others, your own abundance will inevitably be diminished. All things replace one another, and decline is inherent in this process; if you pursue novelty without end, decline will always arrive in time. Affairs intersect with one another, and confusion is inherent in them; if you try to see everything, confusion will inevitably arise.

The sage understands these principles and so acts in accord with the patterns of things. By yielding, the sage is able to extend; by lowering their position, like a hollow that accommodates all things, the sage is able to become full. Each day the sage renews their De, while often reminding themselves of what they lack. They preserve themselves through simplicity and do not let themselves fall into confusion. In this way, the heart can rest in the Dao, and nothing of the Dao’s whole is absent. In governing affairs, there is nothing that cannot be brought into order. The sage responds to the world’s vastness from a place of smallness, and draws the distant reaches of the four seas toward the Dao from close at hand. Without dwelling in stillness and emptiness, and treating others with generosity, how could this be achieved?

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the One and makes it the rule for the world.

The One is the beginning of the Dao and the origin of Heaven and Earth. Before Yin and Yang had been divided, true nature was free of falsity; before the myriad things had come into being, nature had not yet made distinctions. At that time, there was no opposition between this and that, and no distinction between people and things. This is the purest transformation and the complete, undivided Dao. When such a Dao is put into practice throughout the world, how could it fail to become the standard by which the world takes its measure?

Those who do not deliberately display themselves appear clear-sighted. Those who do not insist on being right or boast of their achievements are able to accomplish great things. Those who do not praise themselves are able to endure. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them and prevail. The saying of the ancients, “Yield, and you will remain whole” (by bending and yielding, one can preserve oneself), applies throughout the world. How could it not serve as a guiding principle?

Those who do not deliberately display themselves appear clear-sighted. Those who do not insist on being right or boast of their achievements are able to accomplish great things. Those who do not praise themselves are able to endure. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them and prevail. The ancients’ saying, “Yield, and you will remain whole”—could it really be empty words? Indeed, only in this way can one preserve oneself and ultimately attain wholeness.

People under Heaven often see clearly when observing others, yet fail to understand themselves. To know oneself is the greatest clarity. It is not that they lack the ability to see themselves clearly; they simply do not dare to do so. People under Heaven are often wise in judging others, yet poor at judging themselves. To know oneself rightly is the greatest wisdom. It is not that they lack the ability to judge themselves; they simply do not dare to do so.

Some people’s achievements benefit all under Heaven, and their kindness reaches everywhere. Others have abilities beyond compare, unmatched by the countless people. But unless they are sages, will their clarity not turn into self-display, keeping them from yielding in order to remain whole? Will their wisdom not turn into self-righteousness, keeping them from lowering themselves and holding to what is right? Boasting of achievements and growing arrogant, they come to believe themselves complete and leave no room for humility or others. Flaunting their talents and chasing momentary glory, they rise to prominence and honor, only to risk decline. Such people are merely ordinary. Sages are the opposite. That is why the text continues: “Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them and prevail.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Few Words and Following Nature

Few words are in accord with nature.

Things with form can be understood by reasoning from their principles; things that speak can be directed with the help of external forces. Perhaps certain events occur because…

Chapter Twenty-Three: Few Words and Following Nature

Few words are in accord with nature.

Everything that has form can be investigated through ordinary reasoning; everything that can be expressed in words can also be put to use through concrete things. Some things are brought about only through human effort, while some changes arise with the right moment. Neither can be called natural. Only what happens naturally without human contrivance, what arrives of its own accord without being summoned, and what can be seen only through wondrous perception and heard only through subtle breath, is truly so. When there is no form or thing, change arises naturally from emptiness; once the myriad things have come into being, change also takes place among existing things. How could such change be deliberately made? It simply follows nature itself. This is what it means for things to come to fruition naturally without human effort, and to change naturally without deliberate creation. Is this not precisely “xi,” the subtle and hard to discern? “Yi,” unseen by the eye, and “wei,” unheard by the ear, share this quality. Here, only “xi” is mentioned as an example that stands for the others.

A violent wind cannot blow all morning; a fierce rain cannot fall all day.

Heaven and Earth bring the myriad things to life and set them in motion, and nothing has greater power to do so than wind. They nourish the myriad things, and nothing has greater power to do so than rain. Wind and rain are what Heaven and Earth rely on and what the myriad things depend upon. They appear only after the Qi of Yin and Yang has interacted and joined. The true state of Yin and Yang is to move in an orderly way, without violating what is constant, and to remain harmonious, without falling into discord. Thus wind and rain arrive in season, come gently, and follow their regular course. If this is so, how could violent winds and fierce rains—abnormal events—occur? They appear only when the movement of Yin and Yang has become disordered. How could such an abnormal state last all morning or all day?

Thus, those who devote themselves to the Dao become one with the Dao; those who cultivate De become one with De; and those who turn away from the Dao and De become one with their own loss of De. The Dao receives those who become one with it; De returns to those who become one with it; and loss comes to those who become one with loss.

It merges deeply with nature and is so still that it seems there is nothing at all. It does not seek through names or objects, nor grasp through outward appearances. It always abides amid transformations without end, in a realm both subtle and profound. This is to follow the Dao without deliberately claiming to do so, and thus to accord with the Dao naturally; it is to embody De without deliberately displaying it, and thus to express De naturally.

If one turns away from emptiness and clings to what is real, abandons the state of undivided wholeness and moves toward division, seeks the name of the Dao and imagines that one has attained it, or pursues the outward signs of De and imagines that one has gained it, then even if one believes one has acquired something, one has in fact lost the Dao and De. To truly attain the Dao without straying from De, and to keep De from being diminished, one should abide in a reality free from attachment, in a realm mysterious and far-reaching, so that every gesture and movement remains aligned with the subtle Dao.

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

Those who rise on tiptoe cannot stand steadily; those who take great strides cannot walk far.

Everyone has their own nature, and each thing has its proper measure. When one’s disposition is unbalanced, one cannot fully embody the Dao; when one exceeds one’s proper measure, one cannot preserve oneself. Thus, the Dao manifests through one’s nature, while nature is nourished by the Dao. If one wants body and mind to return to a state free of names and attachments, and to return to their natural condition, one must first bring one’s nature to peace and stillness. Just as one should not rise on tiptoe if one wants to stand firm, or take great strides if one wants to walk far. If one insists on standing on tiptoe and walking with oversized steps, naturally one cannot keep it up for long. When the body is out of alignment, even standing and walking become difficult. If one’s nature is impaired, how can one establish oneself in the Dao?

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

There is a being formed in wholeness that existed before Heaven and Earth came into being. It is still and vast, existing independently and unchanged by external things; it flows and moves everywhere without ever growing weary.

It appears vast above us, yet is empty and formless; it dwells deep within, yet is indistinct and without shape. Yin and Yang lie concealed within an undivided whole, while the generation and transformation of the myriad things remain hidden beyond our understanding. At that time, pure and turbid had not yet separated, and Heaven and Earth had not yet taken shape. How can we say that concrete things already existed?

Once Heaven and Earth had formed and the myriad things had appeared, the Dao I speak of spread throughout the world, taking on different functions. In saying now that “something came into being in a state of undivided unity,” Laozi gathers the Dao, dispersed throughout the world, back together so that it returns to oneness. Oneness encompasses the myriad things, making them cycle and continue without end, turning without cease and never running short. It endures through the ages without decline. Hence the phrase “independent and unchanging, moving everywhere without danger”: its independence and constancy show that the Dao, undivided, abides above and returns to its root; its all-pervading, ceaseless movement shows that the Dao, undivided, runs through what is below, responding to change and flowing through the world. These two aspects reveal the principle by which the Dao came into being as an undivided whole.

The Dao can be the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know what it was originally called, so I provisionally call it “Dao”; forced to give it a name, I call it “Great.” What is Great moves without ceasing; what moves without ceasing reaches far; what reaches far returns to its source.

In ancient times, the One Qi—the primordial energy that forms Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things—filled the farthest reaches in every direction, yet people did not know its source.

In primordial times, vital energy filled all directions, yet no one knew where its boundaries lay. It stretched boundlessly through the six directions, yet no one knew where it ended. It filled what was above, yet no one knew where Heaven was; it spread through what was below, yet no one knew where Earth was. What kind of presence could this be? When the sages separated Heaven and Earth and all things first came into being, they gave it the name “Dao” and, as a makeshift description, called it “great.” The name “Great Dao” was one the sages used provisionally to explain it; it was not meant to define its essential nature. Because the Dao is vast and without limit, it can be applied to all affairs under Heaven and reach everywhere. It extends through all things in the four seas and reaches everywhere. Because it reaches everywhere, it is called “departing”; because it reaches without limit, it is called “far-reaching.” The Dao moves out to distant places, then returns to its root and reverts to its beginning, making an ending into a new beginning and moving in a cycle. Thus the Dao is both far-reaching and ever returning to its source.

Therefore, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. Among all that is within the universe, there are four great things, and the king is one of them. Humanity takes its model from Earth, Earth takes its model from Heaven, Heaven takes its model from the Dao, and the Dao takes its model from Nature—the inherent state of things as they are.

Heaven and Earth each hold their honored place, while the Dao is supreme among them. All things have their own principles of fulfillment, while the Dao is their profound root. Vast and without limit, the Dao encompasses the entire universe. Among the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity, it is supreme, its greatness beyond comparison. The One transforms into Two, and the two forces of Yin and Yang each take their place: Heaven above is high, distant, and bright; Earth below is deep and boundless. Who could hinder Heaven and Earth in their work of nurturing and sustaining all things? This vastness expresses one aspect of the Dao. Once Heaven and Earth are established, humanity dwells between them, holding an honored place and governing all things with fairness in accord with the Great Dao. To fulfill human relationships and carry out the Way of kingship cannot be called a small matter. Thus the king, too, may be called “great.” To explain further: Heaven comprehends the greatness of the Dao; Earth receives the greatness of Heaven; and the king receives the greatness of Earth. Hence the text continues: “Humanity takes its model from Earth, Earth takes its model from Heaven, and Heaven takes its model from the Dao.” The Dao has nothing higher from which to take its model. It is inherently natural, which is why the text says, “The Dao takes its model from Nature.”

“Why the Heavy Is the Root of the Light,” Chapter Twenty-Six.

The principle underlying all things is this: what is firm appears weighty, and what is weighty can hold fast to its roots. What is at rest can remain tranquil, and what is tranquil can return to its nature. The affairs of the world are in constant, varied change, and from this change arises. The states of all things are diverse and intricate, and from this ingenuity appears. When change multiplies, forms follow one another in succession, making what is weighty seem frivolous. When ingenuity appears, feelings and pretenses become entangled, making what is tranquil restless. The ills of emptiness and shallowness then arise, along with every sign of good and ill fortune, regret and remorse. The weightiness that was there at the outset consequently loses its roots, and the tranquility that was there at the outset consequently has its nature disturbed. This is not the way of goodness.

The noble person understands that weightiness is the foundation of frivolity, so in action does not leave behind the baggage train—the convoy carrying provisions, equipment, and other supplies on a march. Understanding that tranquility governs restlessness, even amid splendid sights the noble person can dwell at ease and remain detached and self-possessed. By following the principles of lightness and weight, restlessness and stillness, the noble person holds fast to the roots and returns to their nature.

A ruler, honored as Son of Heaven and possessing the wealth of all under Heaven, stands at the highest station and ought therefore to be especially steady. If the ruler regards the people of the realm as many and himself as most important, then even as lord of ten thousand chariots, he will treat the realm lightly.

One who is skilled at walking leaves no ruts or footprints.

Traveling by cart allows one to traverse the lands of the Central Plain; walking allows one to climb and cross all kinds of roads. Though these actions can reach their destinations, they are merely good deeds accomplished through human effort. The sage merges his spirit with the utmost depths and conceals the mysterious within what cannot be fathomed. In stillness, he abides with the Dao; in movement, he emerges together with the Dao. Even when he acts, no wheel ruts or footprints can be seen, because the sage’s actions leave no fixed traces. Where there are wheel ruts, movement is hindered; where there are footprints, passage is blocked. The sage acts without stagnation and continues to move; without obstruction, he remains open and free. Even if this continued for ten thousand generations, what harm could come of it? It is because he is devoted to the Dao.

One who is skilled at speaking has no flaws or faults in his words.

The sage cultivates himself through the Dao and also uses the Dao to help all things. In cultivating himself, he quietly communes with the spirit and deeply accords with the mind. At ease amid mysterious transformations, he is silent within the workings of nature. Why, then, would he regard speech as important? When he comes forth to help all things and takes part in practical affairs, thoughts and words arise in turn. He establishes a saying as a standard for the world and proclaims a teaching for ten thousand generations, dispelling the people’s confusion and awakening the foolishness of all under Heaven. Only then must he speak.

Yet speaking is neither better in greater quantity nor in lesser. If many words explain the principles fully, then even words that reach throughout the world are fitting. If few words preserve the guiding rule, then even a handful of words is appropriate. Can such speech not be called good speech? Naturally, it leaves no fault. By contrast, unskillful words invite calamity, and rash actions bring regret. Careless speech gives rise to flaws; cunning and harshness damage benevolence. This does not merely fall short of being faultless; it brings harm.

One who is skilled at planning does not use counters or calculating tools.

If we examine the changes in the world, we find that they are without end. If we try to count all things under heaven, we find that their number cannot be exhausted. Using up our intelligence leaves us weary; using up our strength leaves us depleted. Even if we tried to calculate everything one by one, we could never finish. The sage does not act this way. Instead, the sage grasps the fundamental principle and uses it to guide the myriad changes. The sage takes the self as the basis for knowing all things, setting up no separate, limitless tally beyond the self. When the many things come before the sage, the sage responds through the self. Thus, the myriad changes return to one principle, and all things are understood through the sage’s own awareness. Without leaving the house, the sage can know what is happening under heaven. Why, then, rely on counting rods? This is possible only for one skilled at grasping the root.

One skilled at closing a door needs no bolt to secure it, yet the door cannot be opened.

When the sage emerges to respond to the affairs of the world, the Dao serves as the standard. The sage guides those under heaven who have not yet understood and welcomes those who have not yet reached the Way. The sage therefore teaches plainly and speaks clearly, opening a path so that people can proceed with confidence, and opening a door so that they may enter. But when the sage withdraws into stillness, allowing no words to mingle with affairs and no contact between the self and external things, the sage dwells in silence, hidden so deeply that no boundary can be discerned. In quiet seclusion, the sage keeps to a place no one knows. The outside world is shut out, and the inner self is held fast; the sage withdraws from things and returns to the Dao. At such a time, with no guidance, those who have not understood have nothing to rely on; with no welcome, those who have not yet arrived cannot enter. Though there is no bolt, no one can open the door or pass through it. This is what is meant by “skilled at closing.”

One skilled at tying a knot needs no rope to bind it, yet the knot cannot be undone.

People’s trust sometimes fails, so they need agreements to hold it together. The sage’s trust, however, is vast and deep. Through personal integrity, the sage gathers the trust of all under heaven, conveys it to later generations, and lets it endure without end, so that the people take a single word of the sage as their guarantee. How could such trust ever be undone?

Thus the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is abandoned; always skilled at caring for all things, and so nothing is cast aside.

The sage realizes the Great Dao. The Great Dao makes no distinction between people and things: it wishes them all to live and recoils from their death. If people or things are cast aside at will, what could they rely on? Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people and caring for all things.

A good person is the teacher of one who is not good; one who is not good is a mirror for the good person. If you do not honor the teacher or value the mirror, then even if you are clever, you will fall into great confusion. This is the subtle essence of the teaching.

Once people stray from their nature, the distinction between good and not good arises. By helping those who are not good through good conduct, the good person becomes their teacher. By making goodness visible through the conduct of those who are not good, the latter become a mirror. From the standpoint of the Great Dao, the teacher need not be specially revered, nor the mirror specially cherished. Revere the teacher, and you become attached to yourself; cherish the mirror, and you become attached to others. When the distinction between self and others arises, the mind of discrimination follows, and this becomes an obstacle to embodying the Dao. Only by seeing cleverness as confusion can one grasp the subtle essence. Why is this so? Cleverness brings knowledge, leading people to form opinions outwardly and accumulate thoughts inwardly. They then judge by relying on external things, and their true feelings may consequently be obscured. By contrast, what seems like ignorance can take root from a state of not knowing: outwardly, no fixed form is displayed; inwardly, the mind clings to no particular thing. This is the mystery of the Great Dao.

“Knowing the Masculine” — Chapter 28

Know the strong, yet hold to the yielding, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, constant De will never depart, and you will ultimately return to the state of an infant.

Here, Yang symbolizes strength and Yin symbolizes yielding; Yang tends toward activity, while Yin tends toward stillness. Know the strong, yet hold to the yielding, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, constant De will never depart, and you will ultimately return to the state of an infant.

Yang is masculine and Yin is feminine. Yang tends toward activity, while Yin tends toward stillness and keeping to one’s ground; thus the masculine corresponds to activity, and the feminine to stillness and keeping to one’s ground. The Perfected Person—one whose cultivation has reached a very high level—settles themself through emptiness and stillness, and treats others with generosity and kindness. They do not use what they possess to compete for precedence, but habitually remain in a lowly, humble position. They can receive all things without becoming complacent; their mind is open and unobstructed, without clinging to the self. They follow the transformations of nature without departing from their true nature. Returning to an unadorned nature, they do not mix it with naïve simplicity. Such a person always keeps to the feminine, taking stillness as a valley and fully preserving their inborn nature. Their constant De (Virtue/Power) never leaves them, and their state is like that of an infant.

An infant holds its true nature within and does not display it outwardly. It keeps to unity, undistracted by scattered thoughts. If one knows what is forceful and active yet does not balance it by keeping to the feminine, yielding and still, and instead lets one’s nature fall into attachment to substantial existence, unable to return to emptiness and stillness, how could one be like an infant?

Know what is white, yet keep to what is black, and you can become the model for all under Heaven. As the model for all under Heaven, your constant De will not go astray, and you can return to the Limitless—the boundless, undifferentiated state.

White is the state before the five colors have stained it; from then on, it is liable to be stained at any moment. This is the beginning of color. The Perfected Person is cautious about this, and so keeps to black. Black is the state in which color has formed and no longer changes. Keep to unchanging black, and you can become the model for all under Heaven. As the model for all under Heaven, your constant De will not go astray, and you can return to the Limitless.

White is the state before the five colors have stained it; from then on, it is liable to be stained at any moment. This is the beginning of color. The Perfected Person is cautious about this, and so keeps to black. Black is the state in which color has formed and no longer changes. Yet in terms of direction, black corresponds to the north; in terms of the seasons, it corresponds to winter. When the direction reaches the north, the Qi (vital energy) of the southeast begins to stir; when the seasons reach winter, spring and summer are already being nurtured. From this we can see that all things begin here and are also brought to completion here. The cycle is unending, and transformation flows freely, which is why the Perfected Person keeps to this state. Keeping to it, one can bring things to fruition amid the transformations of all things; when affairs reach their end, they can turn into something new. The myriad people take this as their standard, and all under Heaven take it as their rule; De, too, reaches the Limitless. If one does not keep to black, how could one reach this state?

Know what is glorious and exalted, yet keep to what is humbled and lowly, and you can become the valley of all under Heaven. As the valley of all under Heaven, your constant De will be abundant, and you can return to the uncarved block—the unadorned nature untouched by carving.

The constant Dao seldom displays its radiance, while human nature often dwells amid filth, lowliness, and darkness. If the Dao shines too brightly, the mind cannot withdraw into hidden depths. If human nature can remain true to itself amid filth and darkness, it will guard against the harm caused by extravagance and waste. In this way, one can be broad in spirit yet restrain oneself, and inwardly empty and still while accommodating others. Knowing that prominence and honor are the root of harm to the Dao, I cast them aside; knowing that bearing disgrace and accepting lowliness are the foundations for fulfilling one’s nature, I hold fast to them.

Respond to what arrives from outside without spending what one possesses; provide what is needed for what departs without exhausting one’s inner emptiness. Thus one has abundance to spare and remains at ease and always content, preserving one’s simplicity and constantly returning to the “Great Uncarved Simplicity”—the original, unshaped state. When this nature is fulfilled, it becomes wondrous and discerning.

Once simplicity is divided, it becomes the various implements. When the sage makes use of these implements, the sage can become the leader of all.

What transcends concrete form is called the Dao; this is the state of returning to simplicity. What belongs to concrete form is called an implement; this is the state in which simplicity has divided into objects.

Therefore, the highest form of governance does not divide the myriad things.

The Dao follows what is natural as it moves. How could it dominate and divide the myriad things?

Chapter Twenty-Nine: “When One Would Take Hold”

Those who would take possession of the world and govern it according to their own will, I see, will ultimately fail.

In former times, emperors governed the world while living at ease amid the vastness of mountain cliffs, quiet and composed as they sat and reclined on their mats. They governed the people by following the Dao, yet the people did not notice them deliberately making things happen. They taught through subtle, wondrous means, and people could not see that they were directing them. This is what is called an age of Wuwei (non-action); it was not brought about through deliberate striving.

If things could be accomplished only by taking deliberate action, and completed only by personally managing them; if people obeyed only after receiving orders, and those who disobeyed were killed; if merit alone brought rewards, while a lack of merit brought punishment; if those who did not come to court had to be attacked before they would come; and if those who rejected instruction had to be conquered before they would submit—then this would not be a way one could willingly put into practice, but one adopted only when there was no alternative.

The world is a precious and wondrous vessel; it cannot be forced into submission. To act upon it by force is to ruin things; to insist on controlling it is to lose it. Thus, among the myriad things, some move ahead and others follow; some breathe gently and others blow fiercely; some are strong and others frail; some support and others destroy.

When people regard the world as something they can control by their own will, all kinds of troubles continually arise, and change and conflict follow one another. People struggle with all things, and affairs become sources of disaster. People then grow anxious and weary, seeking peace day after day, yet in the end they cannot attain it.

Only by relinquishing the desire to possess and control the world, holding no attachment to the “self” within, and not treating the things around us as possessions to be claimed, can teaching spread unseen and the Dao and its moral principles emerge without anyone noticing. Ritual and music are ways of governing the people; I use them to cultivate myself. Laws and regulations are tools for managing affairs of state; I use them to set myself in order. When all manner of circumstances arise, I do not try to force them to my will. When affairs and external things arrive one after another, I do not take them all into my hands. This is what is meant by saying, “The world is a sacred vessel; it cannot be forced into action.”

To force action is to invite failure; to insist on holding on is to lose something, because all of this amounts to contending with the myriad things. The movements and transformations of things do not follow a single pattern: some move ahead, and what follows must fall behind. The breaths that blow through the world also differ: just as one sets out to make things warm, a chill wind has already arrived. Strength and weakness take turns; flourishing gives way to decline. These are changes that inevitably follow once things exist. Even if one relies on strength, plans with cleverness, judges with keen discernment, or scrutinizes with quick intelligence, even a sage would exhaust the spirit in doing so. Why, then, should I fix my mind on such things? One should remain in emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), with a clear and open mind, and await the natural changes of things.

Therefore, the sage removes extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Each thing has its proper bounds, and every affair has its proper measure. To go beyond one’s bounds is to be extreme; to reach an extreme without knowing when to stop causes the greatest harm. To exceed the proper measure is extravagance; to be extravagant without knowing restraint leads to the greatest hardship. Excess goes beyond the limits of both. These practices bring no benefit to the sage, so they should all be set aside.

Chapter Thirty: Assisting the Ruler with the Dao

When one assists a ruler through the Dao, one does not use military force to assert supremacy over the world. In this way, one avoids causing disaster, for disaster often returns to befall those who bring it about.

The Dao has both its essential nature and its function. In the state of the Dao’s essential nature, it is still, empty, and luminous. It is neither stirred by worldly affairs nor carried along by changes in the world; it simply abides peacefully in the Dao and finds joy in itself. When the Dao’s function comes into play and one takes part in worldly affairs, concrete matters must be handled: applied to virtue, it puts rule through virtue into practice; applied to government, it brings order to the state; applied to instruction, it teaches the people; applied to changing customs, it advances moral education. Even revising laws and establishing new institutions are ways of using the Dao to assist the ruler in governing all under Heaven.

If those who assist the ruler can act in accord with the Dao, they will win people’s trust through virtue and teach the people in ways that accord with what is right. If some refuse to obey, treat them with benevolence; if some reject instruction, improve government so they may be brought into accord. Why rely on military force to flaunt one’s power throughout the world? Then those who submit will return like streams flowing back to their source, and those who come to offer allegiance will be like children looking up to their father. What fault could there be in their not returning? Hence the saying that follows: “In every undertaking, there is a return.”

Where armies have been stationed, brambles and thorns grow thick; after a great war, there are sure to be years of famine. So those skilled in the use of arms need only achieve their purpose; they do not dare use it to flaunt their strength. They win without boasting, displaying their military exploits, or growing arrogant. They use force only when they have no choice. This is what it means to win without flaunting one’s strength.

The ancient sages used armies only to support good governance; they did not take war as a pleasure. They turned to military force only when there was no other choice. Thus the Yellow Emperor fought Chiyou, and King Wen of Zhou campaigned against the Xianyun: they did not favor the use of arms or seek victory for its own sake, but acted to establish stable rule.

To boast of military skill, display the power of one’s troops, or take pride in military achievements reveals a desire to prevail and ultimately leads to brutality. This goes against the principle of acting decisively without being forceful. Military action serves only to establish good governance; it is not a means to compete for victory or show strength. The sages knew that where armies are stationed, they damage the local vitality of the land, and that after a great war, Heaven and Earth fall out of harmony, often bringing years of poor harvests. If even Heaven and Earth are harmed by war, how could those who wage it escape injury? This is one of the points the sages warned people about.

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

Know the use of strength, yet hold to weakness. Understand that strength brings action, and that action in turn brings good fortune or misfortune; therefore hold to stillness, and you can remain secure. Know what is bright, yet hold to what is dark. Take darkness as the north, and return at last to the beginning; then you can reach a state without end. These two ideas speak of the Dao’s movement and stillness, its ending and beginning.

If one could abide in the time before Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things had yet divided; if one’s true nature were untouched by external things, change did not shift one’s feelings, prosperity and decline could not disturb one’s inner master, and the vigor of youth and the onset of old age could not take away one’s inherent capacities, then one could endure without decline and go on without end. How, then, could such changes entangle one? Things eventually decline after reaching their height of strength because this goes against the Dao; they are therefore bound to perish soon.

Sharp weapons are inauspicious things, and most beings abhor them. For this reason, one who follows the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary times, the noble person honors the left; when going to war, the right is honored. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments for the noble person to use. They are employed only when there is no alternative, and calm detachment is the highest principle. Even after winning a battle, one should not boast. To take pride in victory is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot prevail in the world.

In auspicious rites, the left is honored; in funeral rites, the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right. This means that the commander who leads the troops should handle warfare according to the rites of mourning. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and mourn them. Even victory should be met with funeral rites.

The energy of killing damages harmony, and acting with a martial spirit goes against De. Even if an army kills ten thousand enemies, it will lose a thousand of its own. How much greater the harm when it is defeated? Thus weapons should be regarded as inauspicious things, and one who follows the Dao does not rely on them.

One who follows the Dao can, in a position of leadership, hold fast to “embracing the One”—devotedly keeping to the Dao—and, among the people, bring them stability. Holding fast to “embracing the One” means taking Wuwei (non-action) as one’s guiding principle: following one’s nature, acting with ease and freedom, and remaining in harmony with the Dao. Bringing the people stability means putting institutions and governance to work, acting in response to the times and adapting to circumstances, so that one’s actions draw near to the Dao.

In both respects, warfare is regarded as inauspicious; it is not something to be welcomed. If there is truly no alternative but to use force, calm detachment should remain the highest principle. One should not flaunt military might, but use appropriate means to break the enemy’s courage. One goes to war to stop the enemy’s calamities, not to kill, and counts the fulfillment of what is right as the achievement. One should hold to the root and return to what is real, planning and deliberating carefully again and again in pursuit of victory. Even so, victory is nothing to boast about. To take pride in it is to delight in killing—how could that be called following the Dao?

“Dao Is Ever Nameless,” chapter thirty-two.

The great Dao is constant and nameless. The Dao’s simplicity may seem small, yet nothing under heaven can make it yield. If rulers can hold fast to this simplicity, the myriad things will naturally submit.

The Dao is whole and has never been divided. It is simple, without adornment; pure and genuine, with no impurities to stain its clarity; firm and unchanging, with no force able to damage its integrity. This is what is called the “uncarved block.” The Dao’s simplicity always returns to the nameless and formless. Because it is nameless, a single phrase can grasp it; because it is formless, a single thought can apprehend it. That is why it seems small.

Yet when the Dao manifests, it can meet the myriad changes under heaven; when it spreads out, it can bring forth the functions of all things. Beings with awareness receive it according to their nature, while beings with form change according to their form. Heaven begins from it, and the myriad things are born from it. The Dao is vast and boundless, existing before the image-bearing sovereign—that is, the ruler of the formed world—and standing alone above what is most subtle and wondrous. Who could make such a great Dao yield? If rulers can hold fast to it, the myriad things will naturally submit.

There are four great powers between Heaven and Earth, and the Dao and the ruler each hold one place among them. If a ruler governs the myriad things through this simple Dao, then, however vast the realm and distant the four seas, good people will turn toward goodness without being urged, and evildoers will depart without being punished. Even those with eyes will stretch their necks to catch a glimpse, and those with feet will rise on tiptoe, hoping to come. Those reached by its teaching have no limit, and each who receives its De (Virtue/Power) finds a place in it. Things great and small gather, while people near and far follow like shadows. Is this not the myriad things submitting of their own accord?

From the perspective of the Dao, nothing can make it yield: this is its supreme status. From the perspective of the myriad things, they submit naturally: this is their highest reverence for it. The Dao is supremely high and honored; it cannot be sought through things with form and image, which is why it is called the “uncarved block.” Seek it and it can be found; abandon it and it will be lost. When people seek it, it appears; when they abandon it, it departs. Does this not show why it seems small? Yet this “smallness” is not mere smallness: it contains vastness within the small. That is why nothing under heaven can make it yield, while the myriad things naturally submit.

When the Yin-Yang Qi of Heaven and Earth mingle, sweet dew descends. No one commands them to do this; sweet dew falls naturally and evenly. If people let it go, they lose it; when they should seek it, it comes; when they should release it, it departs. Can this really be a trifling matter? Here, “small” does not simply mean tiny. It means that though it is small, it can accomplish great things. Thus no one under Heaven can make it a subordinate, yet all things naturally submit to it.

The Great Dao is contained within Yin-Yang, and Yin-Yang is also concealed within the Great Dao. Heaven and Earth embody the Yin-Yang Qi of the Great Dao: Yang Qi descends, Yin Qi rises, and when the two mingle, sweet dew takes shape. As the Great Dao first differentiates, it gives rise to “One”—the primordial Qi generated by the Dao. Among the Five Phases, this corresponds to Water; in the human body, it is bound up with life. Through it, Heaven and Earth possess the principle by which all things are generated. Since all things are born from it, they must also rely on it to come to completion. Sweet dew takes shape through the transformation of Qi. Since Qi can transform and give rise to life, there is nothing that cannot take physical form. This process of generation is possible only when Yin-Yang is in harmony and each thing receives what is fitting for it.

As the Great Dao first differentiates, names arise. Once names have appeared, one should know where to stop. Only by knowing where to stop can one avoid danger.

The Great Dao lies beyond particular things: it is simple and without a name. The nameless Dao of simplicity spreads through all things, taking on particular forms; names arise from this. Where there are names, there are actual things; where there are actual things, there are numbers. With numbers come the succession of the new and the old, and the continuing cycle of success and failure. Things then depart from their original state of simplicity. If one does not know where to stop, but pursues names without restraint and searches far and wide, giving names to every form one encounters, one will exhaust one’s spirit without ever being satisfied. One will think too much, wear oneself out, and fall into distress. Is this not dangerous? Those who know where to stop do not fall into danger.

For example, the Dao in the world is like water in streams and valleys flowing into rivers and seas.

At birth, people all receive the Dao in the same way and possess their own nature. But as time passes, the influence of daily guidance and changing circumstances gradually shifts that nature. If people can be brought back to the Dao and their natures reunited, the people will return to the root. What, then, would there be to fear in their not being willing to follow? It is like water in streams and valleys flowing toward rivers and seas: it need not be summoned; it gathers there of its own accord.

Chapter 33: “Knowing Others”

Understanding others is called wisdom; understanding oneself is called clarity.

The affairs of the world are tangled and complex, and hard to discern. Without the wisdom to distinguish among them, what is false will be taken for true. The things of the world are mixed together and hard to tell apart; without such wisdom, what merely resembles the right thing will be taken as correct. To correct all kinds of bias and bring them back to the right path; to understand the shifting circumstances and respond appropriately; to ensure that the foolish dare not pass themselves off as worthy, and that the worthy are neither overlooked nor cast aside—how can any of this be done without knowing how to recognize people? Is this what is called wisdom?

A wise person can recognize others, but may not see clearly what is right or wrong in themselves, or notice their own good and evil. They may do what they should not, while failing to do what they should; they may take a path they ought not to take. Though wise, such a person cannot yet be called clear-sighted. One who is truly clear-sighted can see what is right and wrong in themselves and does not blur error into correctness. They can recognize their own good and evil and do not stubbornly claim that bad conduct is good. Whatever they say accords with human feeling; whatever they do accords with the wishes of the many. Within, they do not twist their own intentions to please others; outwardly, they do not form factions or recommend people in hopes of winning flattery. Such a person knows themselves. Self-knowledge goes beyond knowing others, and so is called “clarity.”

Overcoming others takes strength; overcoming oneself is what it means to be strong.

Meng Ben, famed in antiquity for his courage and strength, against an infant; a rhinoceros and a tiger against bees and scorpions—what is there to compare in their contests? They win through sheer force. There is nothing remarkable about the strong oppressing the weak or the many bullying the few. To restrain one’s selfish impulses and rid oneself of desires; to resist temptation when profit is within reach, and to reflect on one’s own faults when calamity strikes—this is what it means to overcome oneself. It is a higher achievement than overcoming others, and so is called true strength.

One who knows contentment is rich.

When innate nature is obscured by the mind’s habit of making distinctions, desire is never satisfied. When the Dao fills the heart, what one seeks feels sufficient. Thus, one who has attained the Dao does not chase profit or the fame that comes from desire, nor become absorbed in worldly splendor. External things cannot tempt the true heart, and empty reputation cannot shake lofty aspirations. By nurturing true nature, one cares for oneself; by filling the heart with the Dao, one often feels inwardly complete. This is true abundance.

Only those who persevere without giving up can be said to have resolve.

A fine horse’s single leap cannot match an inferior horse walking for ten days. The fine horse may travel far, but not necessarily because it has resolve. The inferior horse relies on steady strength, pressing forward step by step without stopping. Only when it finally arrives can it be said to have resolve.

Only by not losing one’s own nature can one endure.

When true nature is not taken away by external things and one’s original nature is not altered by emotions, one has kept to oneself. By keeping to one’s nature, one can be content with what one already possesses and follow what is natural. This is the way to endure.

To die while one’s spirit remains undiminished is true longevity.

Where there is life, there is death. Since the Dao unfolded into the myriad things of the world, no one has been able to escape life and death. Only by preserving the true numinous spirit within, guarding true nature at the center, and not clinging to external things can one keep them from changing oneself. When the mind and spirit do not scatter outward, the world cannot tempt one. Thus, even when the body decays, true nature remains whole in stillness; even when one’s reputation fades, the spirit of one’s nature endures in the depths. Though the body’s traces no longer appear, the spirit still shines clearly; though the mouth speaks no words, original Qi, the vital energy at the source of life, seems still to express itself. This is to have the body die while the spirit remains undiminished; such longevity is the greatest.

“Vast and Pervasive Is the Great Dao,” Chapter 34

The Great Dao flows everywhere, reaching in all directions.

The great Dao flows through all activity and stillness; there is nowhere it is absent. It responds broadly to all kinds of things and adapts appropriately to each one’s needs; there is nothing it cannot accomplish. Taking from the left does not hinder the right, and taking from the right does not deprive the left. However small a thing may be, it is not overlooked; however large, it inspires no fear. In emptiness, nothing is felt to be lacking; in abundance, nothing is considered complete. This is what is called the great Dao. Is it not vast and all-embracing?

All things depend on the Dao for their life, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim credit. It accomplishes its work without making it its own. It nourishes and shelters all things, yet does not rule over them.

The Dao I speak of existed even when the myriad things of Heaven and Earth had not yet divided, when all was fused into one. Is this not vast and all-embracing?

All things depend on the Dao for their life, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim credit. It accomplishes its work without making it its own. It nourishes and shelters all things, yet does not rule over them.

When Heaven and Earth had not yet divided and all was utterly simple and unformed, beyond emptiness there was only emptiness, pure and unadorned. At that time, who could have made clear what was Heaven and what was Earth, what were the myriad things? No one could have known. Once Heaven and Earth, these two fundamental existences, separated, Yin and Yang appeared in their distinct forms, change unfolded through the four seasons, and the myriad things grew and came to maturity. The Dao then spread throughout them. Yet one cannot therefore say that it did not exist in the past, nor that it possesses anything in the present. In former times…