《道德真经集解(赵秉文)》

The Dao (the Way) can be explained in words, but the principles that can be spoken are not the eternal, unchanging Dao. Nothing in the world is outside the Dao, yet anything that can be clearly explained reveals only one aspect of it. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are all ways of the Dao that can be expressed in words: benevolence has its own standards, as do righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. If benevolence is treated as righteousness, or propriety as wisdom, their boundaries become confused. Speakable principles change with circumstances, while the Dao that cannot be put into words remains constant. Thus benevolence remains benevolence, righteousness remains righteousness, propriety remains propriety, and wisdom remains wisdom.

Names can name things, but names themselves are not eternal and unchanging. The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, and it is even harder to define by name. Once names arise, things are distinguished as square or round, curved or straight; each is different, and they cannot all be treated as one. Yan Zun (courtesy name Junping, a scholar of the Han dynasty) said: “Having a name is not the Dao; having no name is not the Dao. Acting is not the Dao; not acting is not the Dao.” The Dao has no fixed name, yet it is everywhere; it is bound to no particular action, yet nothing lies beyond its power to accomplish.

“Namelessness” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “having a name” is the source from which the myriad things arise. When people remain in a state of desirelessness, emptiness, and stillness, they can perceive the Dao’s subtle depths. When they attend to things that have form and are shaped by desire, they can observe the boundaries and traces through which the myriad things become manifest.

Before it had a name, the Dao—the fundamental principle underlying all things in the cosmos—revealed itself and gave rise to Heaven and Earth. Only after Heaven and Earth each took their proper place did names begin to be established. The Dao dispersed and transformed, giving birth to the myriad things. All things arise through the Dao, and their names are too numerous to recount one by one. Thus, “nameless” refers to the Dao in its essence, while “named” refers to the Dao at work within the myriad things.

The sage takes the Dao as a model and makes it the guiding principle for governing the world. He enters the realm of myriad visible things yet is often able to remain grounded in “nonbeing,” and through this observes the Dao’s subtle and profound aspect. He understands that the Dao is utterly empty and formless, yet ever-present, and through this observes the boundaries and traces through which it appears in things. “Boundaries” refers to the visible limits and first signs of things. To see only these traces without understanding the subtlety within them is to remain shallow and fail to reach what is mysterious and wondrous. To dwell only in subtle, mysterious depths without recognizing how they appear in things is to become overly refined and fail to grasp them.

Sima Junshi says, “The beginning of Heaven and Earth is named ‘nonbeing,’ while the mother of the myriad things is named ‘being.’” Wang Xiu says, “Being and nonbeing are one in essence. Calling them the beginning and the mother is simply a metaphor to aid understanding.” Wang Bi argues that if one observes “boundaries” while clinging to desire, one will be drawn in and immersed among the various things; how, then, could one see their limits? Before Heaven and Earth appeared, who could have named them? When there was no name, the Dao was the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Once names existed, the myriad things could grow; hence “being” is called the mother of the myriad things.

Zhuangzi says that Laozi based his teaching on “constant nonbeing” and “constant being”: to establish nothing as fixed is called “constant nonbeing”; to discard nothing is called “constant being.” “Constant nonbeing” concerns the principles underlying things. Its highest aspect is clear and profound, the most subtle level in the world, so one must observe its mystery. “Constant being” concerns concrete things. At its lower level, it appears distinctly and clearly, encompassing the world’s greatest variety of change, so one must observe its traces. Abandoning “being” can lead one to cling to emptiness; pursuing only the outer details of things can make one forget the root. Great wisdom, therefore, observes both aspects together.

Both arise from the Dao. They differ only in name, and both may be called “mysterious”—profound and subtle.

Viewed in terms of form and phenomena, being and nonbeing seem to be two different things. How do we know that nonbeing can move and transform into being, and that being can return to nonbeing, while the two have always been one? Their names differ, but their root is the same. To recognize that they share one root is to attain the realm of the “Mysterious.”

Whatever extends into depths without end appears dark in color. For this reason, Laozi often used “Mysterious” to convey truths of the deepest reach. Master Guang of the Taiping school said, “Only things that stand in relation to opposites have corresponding names.”

“The Mysterious upon the Mysterious” is the gateway from which the many subtle principles arise.

The Mysterious has reached its utmost, yet the mind still retains the thought, “I know the Mysterious.” “The Mysterious upon the Mysterious” dissolves even that thought, leaving nothing further to add. The many subtle principles arise from here. Master Guang said, “Only when you forget your understanding of the Mysterious is it called ‘the Mysterious upon the Mysterious.’”

Zhao Bingwen said: This chapter explains the ultimate of “layered mystery”—transcending one level after another and letting go even of attachment to the Mysterious. It is not only the Dao that can be spoken of that cannot exhaust the Dao; even the Dao that cannot be spoken of cannot exhaust it. Zhuangzi said that neither speech nor silence can fully express the Dao. The Dao is not contained only in “constant nonbeing”; being and nonbeing alike are insufficient to exhaust it. “Nameless” is merely an approximate way of speaking about the Dao.

“Constant nonbeing” corresponds to what Buddhists call “true emptiness,” while “constant being” corresponds to what they call “wondrous existence.” Neither being nor nonbeing can fully explain the Dao, so the idea of “layered mystery” is used to express it.

Zhenghe said: “Mysterious” is the color of heaven. What color reveals can be seen, but the root that makes color what it is remains forever unseen. “The Mysterious upon the Mysterious” refers to this unseen root. The subtle principle of the Mysterious is also wondrous existence. All things possess this subtle principle: heaven can move, earth can remain settled, human beings can manifest spiritual awareness, and the myriad things can flourish—all through the activity of the Mysterious. Since all this arises from the Mysterious, it is called “the gateway to the many subtleties.”

“Chapter Two: When All Under Heaven Know”

Once everyone in the world agrees on what counts as beautiful, its opposite, ugliness, is established as well. Once everyone agrees on what counts as good, what is not good appears alongside it. Thus being and nonbeing depend on each other to take shape; difficult and easy define each other; long and short reveal their difference through comparison; high and low stand in contrast; notes and sounds answer one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

People judge beauty and ugliness by outward forms and names. But are the beauty and goodness they recognize truly absolute? They fail to see that being and nonbeing, difficulty and ease, length and shortness, highness and lowness, notes and sounds, before and after—all exist through comparison and dependence on one another.

These relative distinctions transform into one another; they are not fixed. Someone who thinks himself high becomes low when someone higher appears. Someone who thinks he is first becomes last when another steps ahead of him. If we simply follow the standards praised by society and treat them as absolute truth, we move ever farther from the Dao (the Way).

Zhao (Sengzhao, a Buddhist scholar) says: “Being and nonbeing produce each other, just as high necessarily corresponds to low. Though being and nonbeing have different names, neither has escaped the realm of being.” This shows that the many distinctions expressed through words and images can be dissolved through the Dao, which transcends the distinction between being and nonbeing.

Guang (a commentator) says: “These six pairs of opposites create the differences among the myriad things. Only by no longer clinging to one side of an opposition can we become one with the myriad things.”

A commentary from the Zhenghe era (the reign name of Emperor Huizong of the Song) says: “The Dao has no distinct form, so how can there be absolute beauty or ugliness? Human nature is originally one, so how can there be absolute good or evil? Beauty has ugliness as its counterpart. That is why it is said that when everyone in the world knows beauty as beautiful, ugliness is established as well. Goodness has what is not good as its counterpart. That is why it is said that when everyone knows goodness as good, what is not good appears alongside it.”

In the time of Taiyi (the state before Heaven and Earth were divided and the myriad things took form), all phenomena were one. Only after the two modes of Yin and Yang emerged did the myriad things stand in relation to one another. These six pairs of opposites give rise to ceaseless change, countless thoughts, and divergent paths. People of the world are thus caught in distinctions and attachments, unable to free themselves.

Thus the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches the people without relying on words. When action is called for, the sage acts, yet holds no intention of acting deliberately; when teaching is called for, the sage speaks, yet holds no intention of deliberately instructing. In this way, the sage goes beyond standards for measuring length and leaves behind distinctions of before and after. Without judging things as beautiful or ugly, good or bad, how could the people of the world easily see through the sage? Lü Huiqing said, “The sage acts throughout the day, yet never thinks of it as deliberate action; speaks throughout the day, yet never thinks of it as deliberate instruction.”

All things arise, and the sage does not turn them away. The sage helps them grow but does not claim them as possessions; acts, but does not rely on that achievement; brings things to completion, but does not take credit for them. All things arise through me, and I do not turn them away. I help them grow and enable them to act, but do not claim them as possessions or rely on my achievements. When things succeed, I do not take credit for them. This is the teaching of Wuwei and wordless instruction: it is both beautiful and good. How could anything evil or bad follow from it?

Precisely because the sage does not claim credit, that credit does not depart. The sage may live in poverty and low status without being troubled by them, or in wealth and high status without being burdened by them. This is what it means not to dwell on one’s achievements. If I do not claim credit for myself, how could credit depart from me? This is the highest way of dwelling in one’s place.

Zhenghe said: “All things arise together. The sage responds to things as they come, turning nothing away. All things take shape, change, grow, and display their colors in their own way—but who truly owns them?” Zhao Bingwen said: “There is a kind of ‘non-action’ and ‘wordlessness’ defined in relation to their opposites, and there is also genuine non-action and wordlessness. If we still set action against non-action, or speech against silence, we are comparing them just as we compare existence with nonexistence, or high with low. Genuine non-action and wordlessness are states without opposites or relations of dependence.”

Chapter Three: Do Not Exalt the Worthy

By not honoring those called worthy, one can keep the people from competing with one another. By not valuing rare and hard-to-obtain goods, one can keep the people from stealing. By not displaying things that might stir desire, one can keep people’s minds from being disturbed. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, the sage keeps the people’s minds from being crowded with desires and ensures they have enough food and clothing. The sage weakens their desire to compete for advantage and profit, and strengthens their sinews and bones.

When the worthy are not celebrated for their reputation, people do not compete out of a sense of being inferior to others. When rare and precious goods are not treated as treasures, people do not steal because they cannot obtain them. When things that stir desire are not displayed before people, their hearts are not thrown into turmoil. Therefore, when the sage governs the people, the sage keeps their hearts from being drawn too strongly by desire and ensures that they have enough food and clothing; the sage curbs their drive to outdo one another while strengthening their ability to sustain themselves.

Celebrating the worthy for their reputation makes people compete because they are ashamed to be seen as inferior. Prizing rare goods makes people want to steal when they lack them. Displaying desirable things leaves people agitated when they cannot obtain them. Everyone under Heaven knows these three practices bring harm. Yet to think that the worthy, precious goods, and desirable things should simply be abolished altogether is itself a mistake. The sage does not refuse to employ the worthy, but does not deliberately celebrate their reputations; does not discard rare goods, but does not prize them above all else; and does not eliminate every desirable thing, but does not deliberately display such things.

In this way, the worthy can still be employed, yet people do not compete for fame. Even when rare goods and desirable things are before them, theft and disorder do not arise. Is this not a way to keep the heart from being stirred by desire while still allowing the belly to be fed, and to restrain the will to outdo others while still allowing the body to grow strong? If reputations for worthiness are deliberately promoted, the value of treasures is inflated, and enticing things are flaunted before the people, their thoughts and desires will swell. But if all these things are abolished instead, people’s will and abilities will weaken. When desire swells, people compete for possessions; when will and ability weaken, nothing can be accomplished.

Zhao Bingwen said: “‘Empty the heart and fill the belly’ means that those in power do not celebrate reputations, inflate the value of treasures, or display enticing things, so that the people have fewer cunning ideas and desires.” Some also explain “empty the heart” as cultivating the Dao-heart. This interpretation is not in itself inappropriate, but it is not what this chapter originally means.

One should constantly keep the people free of excessive cunning knowledge and desire, so that even those who pride themselves on being clever dare not act recklessly.

The sage governs the state with the sole aim of allowing the people to preserve their own nature and the proper course of their lives. Excessive knowledge harms human nature; excessive desire injures what is genuine in people. If this is called governing, what could be more disorderly? Therefore, the people are kept from being led by cunning knowledge and greed, and are not dazzled or tempted by things that are false and extravagant. Then they have nothing to envy, and their minds are calm, without excessive desires. Even those who are clever have no opportunity to put their cunning to use.

Zhao Bingwen says: When the people have nothing to envy, they dare not act recklessly. A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: Those skilled in argument dare not show off their eloquence; the bold dare not flaunt their strength or seek violence; the talented dare not display their abilities; and the clever dare not boast of their insight. This is what is meant by making those with knowledge dare not act recklessly.

Acting in accordance with the principle of Wuwei (non-action), there is nothing that cannot be well governed.

Here, “Wuwei” means following things as they are in their original state, without championing or elevating them, and without deliberately making a display. A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: When the sage governs, does he abandon the people, cut himself off from all things, and withdraw alone to a place where nothing happens? He simply does not act through force or contrivance. When things arise, he observes their return by following their course; when things grow, he helps them come to maturity by going along with their momentum. In this way, what could fail to be well governed?

Chapter Four: The Dao Is Empty

The great Dao is empty and formless, yet in its activity it seems never to be exhausted. It is deep and subtle, like the source of all things.

The great Dao is empty and formless, yet it can act through all things that have form. Heaven and earth are vast, rivers and mountains stretch far and wide, and the Dao is present everywhere. Precisely because it has no form, it seems impossible to fill it. It is deep and remote. The commentators know it to be the source of all things, but do not dare to state this as an absolute, so they say that it is “like” the source of all things.

Blunt the sharp edges, loosen the knots, soften the light, and mingle with the dust of the world; it is deep and subtle, seeming to exist and yet not to exist.

Everyone possesses the Dao, but the sage is able to preserve it. Blunting the sharp edges prevents people from falling into reckless action; loosening anger prevents them from going against the source of all things.

Grind down sharpness, dissolve turmoil, let radiance soften and blend with the everyday world. Be deep and far-reaching, seeming to exist and yet not to exist.

Everyone has the Dao. The sage is simply able to experience it fully and hold fast to it. Sharpness is ground down lest one’s actions become reckless; resentment is dissolved lest one come into conflict with external things. When one acts without recklessness and does not contend with things, troubles from outside recede, and inner radiance appears. This radiance must also be softened and subdued, so that one does not seem unlike the myriad things. Radiance is pure by nature, while the everyday world is full of turmoil; yet even while living in that world, one does not reject anything. In this way, the Dao can be preserved and one can reach a state of deep stillness that remains constant and unchanged. The Dao is always present, but people do not readily perceive it; hence it is said to seem both present and absent.

The Kaiyuan commentary says: The Dao is everywhere. It is present in radiance and in the everyday world, and one may become one with it in either. Yet radiance and dust are only ways in which the Dao appears; its subtle essence is not identical with either radiance or dust. Wang Bi’s commentary says: The Dao exists without possessing; it vanishes from sight without ceasing to exist. Both being and nonbeing are difficult to fathom, so it is said to seem to exist. The Zhenghe commentary says: Sharpness can injure people, and turmoil can throw things into disorder. Grinding down sharpness means not contending; dissolving turmoil means not creating disorder. “Soften its radiance” is like what the Zhuangzi calls “having radiance without dazzling”; “blend with its dust” is like the Zhuangzi’s teaching to accord with the myriad things and flow along with them. When one rests in a settled state, the radiance born of nature appears of itself. The mind and spirit are dim and still, as if one had forgotten oneself, yet one remains naturally present.

I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

Though the Dao is always present, in the end it cannot be given a precise name; yet neither can one say that it does not exist. Hence the question: Could it be from before the Lord of Heaven? The Lord of Heaven is already the earliest of beings, and the Dao precedes even the Lord of Heaven, so nothing comes before the Dao. Zhao Bingwen says: This chapter speaks of the Dao from beginning to end. “Grind down sharpness, dissolve turmoil, soften radiance, and blend with the everyday world,” as well as the later chapter on “not speaking,” describe the state of those who embody the Dao: they transcend opposites and unite with the myriad things. This does not mean blindly following convention.

Heaven and Earth show no favoritism toward the myriad things, allowing them to arise and perish naturally, like the straw dogs used in sacrificial rites. The sage likewise shows no favoritism toward the people, allowing them to live in accord with the natural order.

Heaven and Earth show no partiality. They do not deliberately favor or harm the myriad things, but let them grow and perish naturally, each according to its own nature. When things die, it is not because Heaven and Earth have mistreated them; when they are born, it is not because Heaven and Earth are especially benevolent toward them. It is like a straw dog: during a sacrifice, it is adorned and offered with reverence, not because it is cherished, but simply because it is needed for the ritual. Once the sacrifice is over, it is discarded and left for passersby to trample—not because it is despised, but simply because its time has passed.

The sage treats the people in the same way. When the people are not obstructed by decrees or private intentions, they can preserve their own nature. The sage does not interfere in their lives and deaths, their gains and losses. Though the sage does not deliberately practice benevolence, this way of not obstructing the people in fact embodies deep benevolence. Zhenghe, the commentator, says: “A favor may bring harm, and harm may arise from a favor. When benevolence is imposed on people as a favor, harm often follows.” Heaven and Earth simply assist the myriad things in following their nature, and the sage helps the people do the same. Neither harbors a private aim of bestowing favors or gaining benefits, so neither can readily be described as “benevolent.” The straw dog serves its purpose during the sacrifice, then is discarded when the ritual is over. The myriad things grow naturally, and the people govern themselves. Why, then, should Heaven and Earth or the sage deliberately arrange things?

Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows and its air tube? It is empty within, yet does not run out through use. Once set in motion, it sends forth a continuous flow of air.

Once the bellows and air tube are worked, everything reached by the airflow moves with it. Those who do not understand may suppose that they contain some exquisitely ingenious mechanism. But what do the bellows and air tube themselves do? They are simply empty within and unblocked; once set in motion, they send forth a continuous flow of air. Heaven and Earth give life to the myriad things, let them perish, and shape forms of every kind in just the same way. Zhenghe says: “The bellows are empty, so they can hold things. Because they can hold things, they can respond; thus their response is inexhaustible. If they were packed full, everything would be obstructed.”

Too many words tend to reach an impasse. Better to keep the heart-mind empty, still, and calm.

People see things constantly moving and changing in ever greater variety, but do not realize that this is possible because things are inwardly empty, still, and free of attachment, and so can continually respond to change. Thus Laozi warns: speaking too much often leads to difficulty. It is better to keep the heart-mind centered in emptiness and stillness; then it will not be brought to exhaustion. If the heart-mind is crammed with fixed opinions and desires, everything it encounters becomes an obstacle.

Too many words lead repeatedly to exhaustion. Better to keep to the center.

People see things constantly moving and changing in ever greater variety, but do not realize that this is possible because things are inwardly empty, still, and free of attachment, and so can continually respond to change. Thus Laozi warns: speaking too much often leads to difficulty. It is better to keep the heart-mind centered in emptiness and stillness; then it will not be brought to exhaustion. Lu says: All things depend on Heaven and Earth for their life, yet Heaven and Earth demand nothing from them. The people rely on the sage to govern them, yet the sage does not depend on the people to fulfill himself. This is like the straw dogs used in sacrifice: they are made for the rites offered to the spirits, yet the spirits have no need of them. Precisely because Heaven and Earth and the sage do not use these things for their own ends, they have no private interests. Without private interests, they do not regard themselves as benefactors. Thus Heaven and Earth do not deliberately bestow kindness, yet their kindness is immense; the sage does not deliberately display benevolence, yet achieves great De. The people need not thank the sage for his kindness, nor do the myriad things need to thank Heaven and Earth for their life.

Why can this be said? Look at the space between Heaven and Earth: it is like a bellows, empty and without intention. A bellows, an ancient device for blowing air, is hollow inside and stores nothing in advance, so its breath can keep pouring forth. Heaven and Earth are without intention and act through Wuwei (non-action), so the myriad things grow and change without end. The sage is without intention and acts through Wuwei, so governs the world without relying on empty talk. Words in abundance without substance easily lead action into difficulty. Better to practice Wuwei and speak little: this is how to keep the heart-mind centered in emptiness and stillness.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The Valley Spirit never dies. This is called the Mysterious Female, the deep and generative source that nourishes the myriad things.

Even when one reaches the state of “emptiness,” form still remains; the “Spirit of the Valley” is empty and formless. Since it is empty and formless, it has not yet come into being—how, then, could it die? Calling it the “Spirit of the Valley” describes its De; calling it the “Mysterious Female” (the profound source capable of giving birth to all things) describes its function. The female gives birth to and nurtures all things, hence the name “Mysterious.” People can see all things come into being, but cannot see the source from which they arise. Sun Simiao said, “The Spirit of the Valley is empty and wondrously numinous.” A commentator from the Zhenghe era said: Whatever has form undergoes flourishing and decline; whatever has a fixed allotment meets with success, failure, and destruction. When form and allotment are present, life and death are distinguished—this is the constant pattern of all things. The Spirit of the Valley responds to the activity of all things while remaining forever empty and still; it wondrously brings all things into being while remaining forever silent. In the realm of eternal reality, it is one with the Dao. Unbound by form and untouched by fixed allotments, it continues giving birth without end. That is why it is called “undying.” “Spirit of the Valley” serves as a metaphor for the constancy of the Supreme Dao; “Mysterious Female” explains the mystery of its creating all things.

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

“The gate of the Mysterious Female” means that all things emerge from it; “the root of Heaven and Earth” means that Heaven and Earth arise from it.

The Dao extends on, subtle and elusive, seeming to exist yet remaining unseen; in its use, it is never exhausted.

“Unbroken” means subtle and continuous; “as if it exists” means that it seems to be there, yet cannot be seen. What is like this can be used throughout the day without becoming exhausted. Wang Bi said, “If we say it exists, we cannot see its form; if we say it does not exist, all things are born from it. Thus it extends without end, seeming both present and absent. Nothing cannot be brought to completion through it, and using it does not wear it out.” Zhao Bingwen said this chapter speaks of the Dao as Wuwei and formless, yet giving birth to Heaven and Earth and existing constantly since ancient times. Heshang Gong explained the “Mysterious Female” as the mouth and nose, an interpretation favored by practitioners of health cultivation; Zhao Bingwen considered this explanation too narrow.

Chapter Seven: Heaven and Earth Endure

Heaven and Earth endure,

Though vast, Heaven and Earth still lie within the bounds of form and number, so their longevity too must eventually have an end. When Laozi speaks of Heaven and Earth enduring, he means the things people can see. True, ultimate endurance refers to what is called the “Root of Heaven and Earth”—the source from which Heaven, Earth, and all things arise.

Heaven and Earth can endure because they do not live for themselves alone; thus they are able to last. In the same way, the sage puts himself last and thereby comes before others. He does not put his own interests first, and so preserves himself. Is this not because he is free of selfishness? In the end, he thereby fulfills himself.

Heaven and Earth nurture all things and endure because they do not live for themselves alone; thus they are able to last. In the same way, the sage puts himself last and thereby comes before others. He does not put his own interests first, and so preserves himself. Is this not because he is free of selfishness? In the end, he thereby fulfills himself.

Heaven and Earth nurture all things without living for themselves, as though they stood apart from all things; this is why they can endure. The sage puts himself last and gives priority to others. He does not exalt himself, but benefits others, and stands above the crowd; this is why he can come before others and preserve himself. If Heaven and Earth struggled with all things to survive, and the sage competed with others for what he could gain, then Heaven and Earth would be no more than one thing among all things, and the sage no more than one person among the crowd. What, then, would make them seem wiser? Though the sage is selfless, he does not act this way to secure private gain. Yet his own interests are fulfilled as a result, because this is simply how things naturally work.

Juji says: The sage is one with Heaven and Earth. He puts himself last and does not exalt himself, just as Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves alone. Yet he comes before others and preserves himself, just as Heaven and Earth endure. When he lowers himself, people respect him, and so he comes before them. When he does not put himself first, people protect him, and so he preserves himself.

Zhenghe says: No one can truly secure private gain by devoting himself single-mindedly to pursuing it.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water excels at nourishing all things, yet does not contend with them. It settles in the low places that everyone else disdains, and so is closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle by which all things arise and move).

The Book of Changes says, “The Dao of alternating Yin and Yang is called the Dao.” It also says, “That which carries on the Dao is goodness; that which brings it to completion is nature.” The Book of Changes further says, “Heaven’s One gives birth to water.” Water rests in the low places that everyone else disdains, and so is closest to the Dao.

The Book of Changes says: “The alternation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; carrying it forward and bringing it to fruition is goodness; what gives rise to the myriad things is their nature.” It also says: “The first thing generated by Heaven is water.” Perhaps the Dao moves and manifests as goodness just as Qi moves and transforms into water. That is why it says, “The highest goodness is like water.” Both begin without form and ultimately take on concrete shape, so their underlying principle is the same. The Dao is everywhere and benefits all; water is like this too. But once water becomes something formed, it differs from the Dao. That is why water is said to be “close to the Dao.” Yet among things that can be called good, none is better than water, and so it is called “the highest goodness.”

In choosing where to dwell, be good at choosing low places. In the heart, be good at remaining deep and still. In dealing with others, be good at showing kindness. In speech, be good at keeping faith. In governing, be good at bringing stability and order. In carrying out tasks, be good at using your abilities. In action, be good at seizing the right moment.

Water avoids high places and flows toward low ones, never going against the course of things. This is how it is good at choosing where to dwell. It is empty and still, and unfathomably deep. This is how it is good at remaining deep. It nourishes all things, giving without seeking a return. This is how it is good at kindness. Around something round, it flows in a circle; where it meets something square, it turns along its edges. When blocked, it stops; when it meets an opening, it flows out. This is how it is good at keeping faith. It washes away every kind of impurity and smooths uneven places. This is how it is good at governing. It takes on different forms according to what it encounters, without clinging to a single shape. This is how it is good at making use of its abilities. It freezes in winter and thaws in spring; whether it dries up or overflows, it never loses its proper season. This is how it is good at seizing the right moment.

Water is good at governing precisely because it does not contend over high and low, or level and uneven ground. It is good at making use of its abilities because it takes the shape of what it encounters and does not cling to a single form. It is good at seizing the right moment because it freezes in winter and thaws in spring, and its drying up or overflowing accords with the seasons.

Because it does not contend, it is free of fault and blame.

Some people do good deeds yet still cannot escape criticism, because they contend over something. Water does not contend, and so it possesses seven good qualities without incurring blame.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding a vessel until it is full is not as good as stopping in time. Sharpen a blade too keenly, and it cannot stay sharp for long.

Knowing that fullness must overflow, one may try to keep it in check; but it is safer not to seek fullness from the outset. Knowing that an edge sharpened too keenly must wear down, one may try to anticipate this and avoid it. Yet foresight can never be relied on completely. Though the sage gains something, he does not claim it as his own. How, then, could he become full? He acts in accordance with how things are, so how could he show a sharp edge? With no fullness, there is no need to strive to maintain it; with no sharp edge, there is no need to anticipate its loss.

Zhenghe says: Trying to prevent overflow by maintaining fullness only makes things fuller, until they are in danger of collapse. If you wish to avoid overflow, it is better not to seek fullness. Anticipation is meant to guard against loss, but if it makes you sharper, it will instead bring greater loss. If you wish to avoid loss, it is better not to be sharp.

When gold and jade fill the hall, no one can keep them safe forever. Arrogance after attaining wealth and rank brings trouble upon oneself. Once one’s achievements are complete and one’s name is renowned, one should withdraw. This accords with the natural course of things.

The sun begins to move west once it reaches midday; the moon begins to wane after it is full. The seasons turn in their cycle, and when things have accomplished their work, they recede. If even Heaven and Earth are subject to this, how much more so are human beings?

Zhenghe says: Cherishing gold and jade entangles one in possessions; once entangled in possessions, how could one avoid losing them? That is why it is said no one can keep them safe. Arrogance in wealth and rank damages De (Virtue). Once De is damaged, how could one escape misfortune? That is why the disaster is said to be self-inflicted.

Chapter Ten: Bearing the Body and Soul

Can body and mind be united, and can one hold fast to the One—the Daoist term for the fundamental Way—without letting it disperse?

The distinction between the po soul and the hun soul is this: the po belongs to the body, while the hun belongs to the spirit.

The Po and the Hun differ: the Po is the life energy attached to the body and associated with Yin, while the Hun is the spirit attached to Qi and associated with Yang. The Po belongs to the physical, the Hun to the spiritual. The Book of Changes says, “When essence and energy gather, they become the myriad things; when the soul-energy moves, it brings about change.” From this, we can understand the nature of ghosts and spirits. The Po belongs to the physical, so it is many and remains in place; the Hun belongs to the spiritual, so it is unified and transforms.

“Embracing the Po” means that the Po has a place where it rests. The Dao is everywhere; in a person, it appears as innate nature. The subtle activity of this nature is Shen. When it is called pure and not yet divided, it is called “the One”; when it is gathered and not yet dispersed, it is called “the Uncarved Block,” its undifferentiated original state. Ultimately, all these expressions point to the Dao, each describing it from a different aspect.

The sage is settled in nature and disposition, with spirit gathered and undisturbed by external things. Though the Po dwells in the body, whenever Shen acts, the Po follows without exception. This is called Shen constantly carrying the Po. Ordinary people, by contrast, let external things constrain their nature. Their spirit grows confused and cannot govern itself, so Shen instead obeys the Po. Their ears and eyes are troubled by sounds and sights, and their mouth and nose are burdened by smells and tastes. Whatever the Po wants to do, Shen follows. This is why the Po is said to hold Shen. Teaching people to hold fast to their spirit and guide their bodies, keeping the two from separating, is an important principle of the sage’s self-cultivation. The way practiced by the perfected ones of antiquity—cultivators who attained the Dao—to establish deep and firm roots and live long lives also accords with this.

Lu says, “‘Carrying’ introduces what follows.” A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: “The Po is Yin; it attaches to the body and has a place where it rests, so when Laozi speaks of the Po he uses the word ‘nourish.’ The Hun is Yang; it lodges in Qi and reaches everywhere, so the Book of Changes speaks of the Hun as ‘wandering.’ The sage uses Shen to govern the body and the Hun to restrain the Po. Thus Shen can always guide the life energy and is never instead constrained by the body.”

Heaven’s One gives birth to Water; among the myriad things, Water corresponds to Jing. Earth’s Two gives birth to Fire; among the myriad things, Fire corresponds to Shen. Spirit is born from the Dao, while the body takes Jing as its foundation. Guard Jing and keep it from dispersing, joining it with Shen, and Jing and Shen can unite without becoming confused. Use Jing to gather Shen, use Shen to direct the body, and then use the body to preserve the spirit. When Jing is full and undiminished, Shen can act without harm, and the body can grow without decline. They are never separated, as the sun and moon depend on Heaven and plants and trees take root in the earth.

Can you gather Jing and Qi, keep the mind and spirit (Shen) unified, and reach a gentle state like that of an infant?

When the mind and spirit cannot settle, Qi becomes scattered. The strong are prone to fighting, while the weak are prone to fear, though they often do not understand why. When the mind and spirit are settled, Qi does not move recklessly, and joy and anger each find their proper expression. This is called “concentrating the Qi.” Shen is the utmost of emptiness and stillness; Qi is the root from which physical form first arises. At the utmost of emptiness and stillness, one becomes gentle; when physical form develops to its utmost, one becomes strong. To follow one’s nature completely, without being ruled by the erratic movements of Qi, is called “attaining gentleness.” An infant does not distinguish between what it likes and dislikes, so its nature remains whole. When nature is whole, the breath is faint; when the breath is faint, the body is soft. Gathering the spirit and concentrating the Qi, gentle as an infant—this is the fullest expression of that state.

A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: “‘Still and undistracted’ is called ‘concentrated’; ‘harmonious and not forceful’ is called ‘gentle.’” When an infant rests, it does not know what it is doing; when it moves, it does not know where it is going. It clings neither to right and wrong nor to beauty and ugliness, and so its Qi is concentrated and gentle. Mencius said that stumbling and rushing are both movements of Qi, yet they can in turn disturb the mind. If the mind cannot steadily regulate Qi, Qi may fall into abnormal states such as stumbling and surging, which then unsettle the mind. Once the mind is stirred, it is difficult to settle. The sage meets the world with an empty mind and does not let the mind be driven by Qi. Thus the sage is still and undistracted, harmonious and not forceful. How is this different from being an infant? Hence the question: Can you be like an infant?

Can you cleanse the dust from your mind and make inward awareness clear and far-reaching, so that nothing can obscure it?

The sage is not drawn outward by bodily senses and is not driven inward by Qi, and so can cleanse away all dust completely. The awareness then becomes open and clear, penetratingly discerning all things and understanding that they all arise from their nature. The pure and the defiled are regarded equally, and nothing is allowed to become an obstruction. The sage cleanses away the attachments left by all kinds of action without claiming them as their own, and quietly apprehends the profound principle.

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

Having cultivated oneself, one extends what one has gained to others. Even in caring for the people and governing the state, one responds throughout without a self-conscious mind. If one has a mind intent on deliberate action, caring for the people may instead harm them, and governing the state may instead throw it into disorder.

When the gates of Heaven open and close, can you remain gentle and still?

The “Gate of Heaven” refers to the changes through which order and disorder, flourishing and decline in the world come about. Since one has taken on the responsibility of governing the world, when circumstances open or close and opportunities shift, people often prize what they might gain and worry about what they might lose. They therefore act ahead of time, seeking good fortune. The sage acts in accordance with how things unfold and knows that Heaven’s mandate cannot be forced; so the sage responds only after the moment has come. The Yijing says, “Act before Heaven’s time, and Heaven will not oppose you; act in step with Heaven’s time, and you will not lag behind Heaven.” This means that what we call acting early or late is simply a matter of staying in accord with the constant course of Heaven’s mandate. Otherwise, to act first is to act too soon, and to act later is to act too late; neither is timely. Thus, to “be able to remain the female” (to keep to softness and occupy a position free of contention) means simply to follow the time without losing touch with it.

A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: “Know the strength of the strong, yet hold to weakness. Be willing to remain low, like a stream, and you can become the place to which all under Heaven returns.”

“Clear in understanding and reaching in all directions, can one remain without knowledge?” means: If one understands how things work and reaches everywhere, can one avoid thinking oneself knowledgeable?

To cultivate oneself inwardly and govern the state outwardly, and to follow the Dao even when facing change—is this not possible because of clear understanding and far-reaching insight? “Clear in understanding and reaching in all directions” refers here to the mind: the mind can respond to all kinds of things without holding on to the thought that it knows everything. A person’s mind is originally one. If one sets up another mind that says, “I know,” then there are two. Once the one is divided into two, obscurity and delusion arise.

It is like a mirror reflecting things: when things arrive, they appear in it. Once they have appeared, why would another mind be needed to know that it is reflecting them? This extra thought was not there to begin with. To impose it through subjective intention is the source of delusion.

A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: “Even with intelligence and wisdom, guard them with an attitude of simplicity and unknowing.”

“To give life and nurture; to give life without possessing, to act without relying on one’s merits, to help things grow without ruling them—this is called profound De” means: The Dao brings all things to life and nurtures them without claiming them as its own; it acts without relying on its achievements; it helps all things grow without ruling over them. This is called “profound De,” a virtue that is deep and wondrous.

The Dao has the power to generate and nourish the myriad things, yet it does not possess them, depend on them, or rule over them. Its De is immense, but the myriad things do not perceive it; hence it is called “mysterious De,” a virtue that is profound and concealed. Wang Pang says: From being a scholar to realizing the mysterious and attaining sagehood, this chapter has set out the stages of self-cultivation in full.

Chapter Eleven: The Thirty Spokes

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel. It is precisely because the hub’s center is empty that the wheel can turn. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel; it is precisely because the vessel is empty inside that it can hold things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; it is precisely because the house is empty inside that people can live in it. Thus, solid parts bring convenience, while empty spaces make practical use possible.

Use all the knowledge at your disposal to make implements, yet their actual function often depends on the empty space within them. Without solid form, empty space could not serve its purpose; without empty space, solid form could not offer its convenience. Therefore, sages keep the mind quiet and empty, using “nonbeing” to perceive the subtlety of things, and using “being” to observe their limits and manifestations. To know that “being” and “nonbeing” are one and cannot be separated is to grasp the essential point.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five notes dull the ears; the five flavors distort the palate.

Seeing colors, hearing sounds, and tasting flavors all originate in human nature. Before external things draw us in, our perceptions are naturally pure. But when the eyes are drawn in by the five colors, the ears by the five notes, and the mouth by the five flavors, we become captivated by what we pursue and forget our original nature. Then, though we can see, it is as if we were blind; though we can hear, it is as if we were deaf; and though we can taste, our sense of taste is thrown off. Kumarajiva says: If one does not understand that forms are fundamentally empty and sounds are fundamentally empty, how is this state any different from blindness and deafness?

Galloping about for pleasure and hunting throw the mind and spirit into confusion; coveting rare goods leads to behavior that departs from what is proper. Therefore, sages attend to satisfying the body’s basic needs and do not become absorbed in sensual desires. They set aside the latter and choose the former.

Sages see colors, hear sounds, and taste flavors no differently from ordinary people. They also ride horses on outings and go hunting; they do not deliberately avoid such things, and they make use of rare and precious objects. Yet ordinary people regard these as sources of trouble, while sages remain at ease among them. Why? Because sages value what sustains the body and are not led by desires pursued through the eyes. The eyes crave without limit, but what they see cannot truly be taken in; the belly is satisfied once it has food and does not become insatiable. External things come to us from outside, while a person’s nature gathers within the heart. Lu says: “Value what the belly needs, and you will know contentment; do not let the eyes lead you, and you will not see desirable things as temptations.”

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Humiliation

Receiving favor or suffering humiliation is like being startled; regard great calamity as you regard your own person.

In ancient times, those who understood the Dao were as wary of receiving favor as they were of suffering humiliation, because they knew that favor often marks the beginning of humiliation. They treated their own person with the same caution they gave to great calamity, because they knew that the self is the source of calamity. Thus, when they let go of favor, humiliation had no way to come upon them; when they forgot the self, calamity had no way to arise.

What does “favor and humiliation” mean? Favor itself occupies a low position: when you receive favor, it is like being startled; when you lose favor, it is also like being startled. This is what “favor and humiliation are like being startled” means.

Favor and humiliation are not two unrelated things. Humiliation arises from favor, but people in the world do not realize this. They always regard favor as high status and humiliation as low status. Once they understand that humiliation stems from favor, they know that favor itself occupies a low position. Therefore, when those who understood the Dao in ancient times received favor, they were as wary as if startled. They never rested at ease in their favor, only becoming alarmed when they suffered humiliation. “Like being startled” here does not mean genuine fear; it describes caution and alertness. Guang says: “Only those in whom the distinctions and attachments of ordinary people and sages have both dissolved are free from alarm.”

What does “regard great calamity as you regard your own person” mean? I have great calamity because I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could there be?

Here, “value” means to regard something as important and care about it. According to Guang, when the attachments of ordinary people and sages have both dissolved, there is no longer any alarm.

“Being precious” means regarding something as too difficult to give up. Once a person has a body, the root of great trouble is already present. People fear suffering great trouble, yet they do not fear becoming attached to the body. Seeing that people suffer because of their bodies, the sages use this to teach them that attachment to the body itself is a serious burden. Once this is understood, great trouble is dispelled.

A person’s nature is neither increased at birth nor diminished at death. It is vast enough to fill Heaven and Earth, and subtle enough to pass through water and fire and enter metal and stone; external things cannot harm it. Yet people often worry about losing their nature, while cherishing only the body. When attachment to the body grows deep, external things can bring calamity: life and death, illness and disease trouble us from within, while favor and disgrace, gain and loss entangle us from without. Almost nothing remains that does not become a source of worry.

Those who understand the Dao know that nature cannot be destroyed and that the body is not truly unchanging. They therefore set aside their attachment to the body, and the troubles of the world disappear with it. Only then can one live in the world without being ensnared by it.

Zhao Bingwen said: “In Buddhism, nothing is considered a greater trouble than having a body, and so it advocates extinguishing the self and returning to nothingness. This is merely the attainment of the two lesser vehicles, those of the śrāvaka and pratyekabuddha. If those who speak of the Dao regard freedom from favor and disgrace, and the abandonment of body and wisdom, as the highest attainment, how can they understand the intention of the sages?”

The Zhenghe commentary says: “To command wealth and power, monopolize rewards and punishments, and wield kindness and authority so that all under Heaven revere one as a spirit and honor one as the Supreme Lord—this may be called eminence. Yet the sage does not let eminence become a burden, and so can retain high rank for a long time without calamity. It is like what Zhuangzi describes: cast off the constraints of the limbs, dispel the cleverness of the senses, leave form behind and let go of clever devices, and reach a state in which all things are one. Then one can be at ease wherever one is.”

People trade their nature for external things and are consequently burdened by them, forgetting the power they originally possessed. They also let the body burden the heart-mind, with the result that their spirit is harmed, yet they still cannot let go of the body. Such trouble is indeed great. Death and life are already weighty matters, yet they cannot alter the state of mind of those who understand the Dao. How much less could lesser matters such as gain and loss, fortune and misfortune?

The perfected people of antiquity did not let gain burden the body, nor let the body burden the heart-mind. They saw all things as existing together with themselves and no longer made distinctions between what to accept and what to reject. Such people know that the body is not truly theirs to possess. Above, they move with the transformations of creation; below, they befriend what transcends life and death and has neither beginning nor end. What trouble could they still have?

People regard favor as an honor, but those who understand the Dao are not swayed by favor or disgrace. People delight in high rank, yet it can also bring them fear and worry. External things are inherently unreliable; this is simply how things are. If one can possess external things without treating them as ultimately real, then favor will bring no sense of disgrace, and eminence will bring no cause for worry.

Therefore, only someone who truly values himself more than the world can be entrusted with the world; only someone who truly cherishes himself more than the world can be given its care.

People pursue power and profit and become absorbed in wealth and honor, even facing danger and hardship without regret, because they want a more comfortable life. If the world’s emoluments were given to such a person, and he were also made to bear the burden of governing the world, he would care even less for himself. Even if he gained the world, he would not be satisfied.

Zhenghe says: The world is a weighty vessel; without the Dao, it cannot function. The world is also a wondrous vessel; without the Dao, it cannot be preserved. The sage accords with the Dao, and so governs the world with tolerance and Wuwei (non-action). The people are glad to entrust it to him and do not grow weary of him. Next, someone who knows how to cherish himself and does not debase himself by serving external things can be entrusted with the world; someone who knows how to care for himself and does not injure himself by becoming ensnared in external things can be given the world. Thus it is said: “Use the root of the Dao to cultivate oneself, its surplus to govern the state, and its most minute part to govern the world.” Yet worldly gentlemen often harm themselves and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things. This is truly lamentable.

Guang says: External things can become a source of harm to oneself, while the self itself can become an impediment to cultivating the Dao. Only by forgetting external things can one preserve oneself; only by forgetting oneself can the Dao be complete. Even if one escapes external entanglements, as long as one still holds the thought of cherishing and protecting oneself, one can merely be entrusted with the world. If one forgets both oneself and external things, and takes the Dao as one’s charge, then the world is placed within the world.

Zhao says: If one regards the world’s troubles as one’s own troubles, one can forget the impulse to cherish and protect oneself, and so be entrusted with the world. The ancient sages held the exalted position of emperors and kings, yet regarded themselves as recluses in the mountains and forests. They did not let sights, sounds, wealth, or honor disturb their hearts, and so the world could not become a burden to them.

Chapter Fourteen, “Looked at, It Is Not Seen.”

To look at it and not see it is called “Yi”; to listen for it and not hear it is called “Xi”; to touch it and not grasp it is called “Wei.” These three elude any final inquiry, so they are brought together and called “One.”

What the eyes see is form and color, but the source that enables us to see them is not something the eyes can see. What the ears hear is sound, but the source that enables us to hear it is not something the ears can hear. What the hands touch is sensation, but the source that enables us to feel it is not something the hands can touch. Even the wise cannot fully understand these three by pursuing them separately. They can be understood only when brought together as “One.” Here, “One” means original nature, while seeing, hearing, and touching are its functions.

At first, a person has only original nature. Later, contact with external things scatters the mind and spirit, giving rise to sight, hearing, and touch. These functions operate every day, yet people do not know to return to their source. If the scattered functions cannot be gathered back into “One,” they move ever farther from original nature. Extending this reasoning, the six faculties of perception in Buddhism—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—work in the same way. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says, “Turn back the faculties that stream outward and gather their functions wholly into one; then the six functions will no longer operate separately.” This is what it means.

Zhao Bingwen said: “‘Yi,’ ‘Xi,’ ‘Wei,’ and ‘One’ are all provisional names for the Dao. The subtlety of the Dao’s substance cannot be fully understood by the mind or completely expressed in words. How, then, could it be grasped by looking with the eyes, listening with the ears, or touching with the hands? People take seeing forms and colors and hearing sounds to be knowledge, but this is not true understanding. If one can see without relying on the eyes and hear without relying on the ears, so that seeing and hearing are no longer confined to eyes and ears, then the eyes can be like the ears, and the ears like the nose: the six faculties can become mutually connected. This is like Zhuangzi’s ‘listening with Qi’ and Liezi’s perception independent of the ears and eyes. In this way, the various sensory functions are gathered together as one.”

Above, the Dao does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dim.

Everything with physical form is subject to the changes of Yin-Yang, so it inevitably appears bright above and dim below. Although the Dao is high above, it does not appear bright; although it lies below, it does not appear dim. It cannot be inferred through form or measure. Lu says: Above, the Dao shares the light of the sun and moon without dazzling; below, it rests in silence alongside tiles and rubble without losing its luminous nature.

The Dao flows on without end or interruption, yet cannot be defined by a name; ultimately, it returns to formlessness and nothingness. “Unbroken” means that its movement never ceases. Seeing it move without pause, people assume it must be some real thing, not knowing that in the end it returns to formlessness and nothingness.

This is “the form of what has no form, the image of what is no thing,” also called “elusive and indistinct.” “Form” refers to a clearly visible shape, while “image” refers to a subtle sign. The form of what has no form and the image of what is no thing do not mean that it is wholly nonexistent. Since neither being nor nonbeing can be named precisely, it is called “elusive and indistinct.” Lu says: The Dao flows on continuously and never stops, beyond the grasp of names. Though it undergoes countless transformations, in the end it still returns to formlessness and nothingness. Yet the Dao’s essential nature is subtle and real; it is not simply nothing. It cannot be obtained by seeing with the eyes, hearing with the ears, or touching and grasping with the hands. Thus it is called a form without substance and an image without physical shape. If we say it has form, it is so elusive that it seems not to exist; if we say it has signs, they appear faintly, as though it does exist.

Go to meet the Dao, and you will not see its beginning; follow the Dao, and you will not see its end. The Dao is everywhere, so there is no visible front or back. Lu says: Since we do not know where it begins, we cannot see its beginning even when we go to meet it; since we do not know where it ends, we cannot see its end even when we follow it.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide the things of the present. To know the source of the distant past is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

In ancient times, “things” were regarded as the source from which the myriad beings arose. “Being” refers to the state in which the myriad beings appear in the present, while “nonbeing” is their original source. By grasping the root from which all things arise, one can control for oneself whether to advance or retreat, and whether to move quickly or slowly. Lu says: Only by grasping the ancient, unadorned Dao of Wuwei (non-action) and governing the present-day names and appearances of purposeful action can one return to simplicity and recover the primordial state of the distant past. To know that primordial simplicity is to grasp the guiding principle of the Great Dao. Lü says: “Ancient” does not mean different from “present”; it means understanding where antiquity began. “Present” likewise does not mean different from “ancient”; it means understanding where the present came from. Truly knowing where antiquity began makes clear where the present came from. If one asks after its starting point, there is no starting point; if one asks where it came from, there is no place from which it came. This is what is meant by the fundamental principle without a beginning.

Chapter Fifteen: Those Skilled in the Dao of Ancient Times

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, profound and far-reaching, and difficult to fathom.

When what is coarse and shallow has been worn away, subtlety appears; when subtlety reaches its utmost, it becomes mystery; and when mystery reaches its utmost, it penetrates everywhere, yet remains unfathomable.

Because they were so difficult to fathom, one can only make a tentative effort to describe them: cautious and hesitant, as though crossing a river in winter.

Taking precautions and observing before acting is called “forethought.” Whatever they wished to do, they waited until a response became unavoidable before acting, like someone crossing a river in winter—hesitant and cautious, moving forward as if compelled.

As wary as if watched by neighbors on every side.

Hesitating and not acting lightly is called “wariness.” They were always slow and cautious about things they did not wish to do, as though afraid those around them might see.

Grave and solemn, as if carefully maintaining their bearing.

Whatever they faced, they regarded with reverence and never relaxed or let their composure lapse.

Open and unbound, like ice on the verge of melting.

They understood that the appearance of the myriad beings arises from illusion, and so they neither clung to things nor became stuck in them. A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: Water freezes into ice, and when ice melts it becomes water; originally, they are one. Those obscured by attachment to one side are like water frozen into ice; those who understand that the myriad beings are one are like ice melting…

Knowing that all things arise from the illusory, one will cling to nothing and keep nothing in one’s heart. Zhenghe says: Water freezes into ice, and ice melts back into water; in their original nature, they are one. Those who cling to distinctions and insist on one side are like water frozen into ice. Those who understand that all things are one in their essence are like ice melted back into water.

How honest and simple, like uncarved wood.

When all human embellishment has fallen away, one returns to one’s original nature. Zhenghe says: “Honest” means solid to the utmost degree. Our original nature is already deeply substantial, like wood that has not been worked or made into an object.

How open and spacious, like an empty valley.

The heart is empty, with nothing it cannot receive. Zhenghe says: “Spacious” means vast to the utmost degree. The heart’s source has no boundaries, like an open valley that can receive all things and respond to whatever comes.

How blended and indistinct, like turbid water.

Harmonize your radiance and live among the world, without appearing different from other things.

Who can still the turbid water and let it gradually clear? Who can set what is still in motion and let vitality gradually emerge?

Ordinary people are disturbed by external things, and their original nature becomes turbid and can no longer grow clear. Those who wither themselves use stillness to extinguish their nature, and their hearts become stagnant, unable to bring forth life. Now, knowing that turbidity disturbs one’s nature, let the heart grow still; once still, it will gradually clear of its own accord. Knowing that extinguishing one’s nature is not the right way, let the heart move; once in motion, vitality will gradually emerge. The Book of Changes says: “In stillness, without movement, once aroused by response, one can understand the principles of all things under Heaven.” This is the sense of “movement” here as well.

Hold to this principle: let the heart grow still, and it will gradually clear. Knowing that extinguishing one’s nature is not the right way, let the heart move, and vitality will gradually emerge. The Book of Changes says: “In stillness, without movement, once aroused by response, one can understand the principles of all things under Heaven.” This is the sense of “movement” here as well.

Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness or self-satisfaction.

Fullness arises when things reach an extreme. Turbidity that cannot clear and stillness that cannot give rise to life are what is meant here by fullness.

Because they do not seek fullness, even when things decline, no new afflictions arise.

Nothing in the world does not decline. Because one does not seek fullness, the decline already present does not become a new affliction, but fades away of itself. Pang says: Those who understand this Dao can let turbidity gradually clear through prolonged stillness, and stagnation gradually give rise to life through prolonged movement. They also do not covet fullness or possession, and so no new afflictions arise.

Chapter Sixteen: “Attaining Emptiness and Guarding Stillness”

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

If governance has not yet reached the utmost in stillness, some deliberate action remains unremoved; if inner calm is not yet deep enough, some agitation remains unquieted. Even if a great mountain is moved away, a trace of fine dust remains, and one cannot say that the utmost or the deepest state has truly been reached. To pursue emptiness deliberately and cling to it is still to remain within “being”; to cultivate stillness deliberately and cling to it is still to fall into agitation, to say nothing of other cases. If emptiness and stillness have not reached their utmost, expecting them to be effective is difficult.

Guang says: Emptiness still has something it awaits; to bring emptiness to its utmost is to end this waiting. When waiting has ended, one can dwell among the myriad things while the mind remains empty and still. Stillness is set against movement; to cultivate stillness deeply is to dissolve this opposition. When the opposition is dissolved, one can be amid movement while the mind remains calm. Thus, if emptiness and stillness have not reached their utmost, one cannot understand the Dao.

Zhenghe says: Emptiness makes it possible to contain the myriad things; tranquility makes it possible to respond to every change. If you empty the mind while grasping the truth of things, and preserve tranquility until it is deep, then even amid countless shifting appearances the mind remains clear and open; even amid myriad changes, the mind remains peaceful and settled. This is called “Heavenly Joy.”

All things rise together; from this I observe how they return to their source.

Only by bringing emptiness to its utmost and preserving tranquility deeply can one observe the transformations of all things without being disturbed by them. From this one knows that whatever arises will ultimately return to its source. If you yourself are moving along with all things, you will not be able to see this clearly.

Guang says: All things were originally unformed; later, they came from nonbeing into being and arose together. Lu says: Thunder hidden beneath the earth symbolizes the return of Heaven and Earth; movement contained within tranquility symbolizes the return of the sage.

Zhenghe says: All things grow, and each has a beginning in which it sprouts and a destination to which it returns. When all things rise together, they grow outward along the path of movement. I observe that movement will ultimately return to tranquility, and that whatever grows outward will eventually return to its source; in this way I see the life-giving heart of Heaven and Earth, which never ceases. To encounter all things in this way without changing along with them is called observing their return.

The myriad things flourish and change, but in the end each returns to its own root. They all emerge from their nature and return to it, like flowers and leaves growing from a root and eventually returning to it, or waves rising on the surface of water and finally settling back into the water. The commentary explains: The myriad things arise in profusion like waves forming in a current; returning to the root is like the waves dissolving back into the water.

Returning to the root is called “stillness.” If one has not truly returned to one’s nature, then even stopping one’s actions and quieting one’s thoughts in pursuit of calm is not true stillness. Only returning to the root can truly be called stillness. The commentary explains: The Dao is the source of movement and stillness. The source itself belongs to neither movement nor stillness; transcending both is the highest stillness.

Stillness is called “returning to life’s mandate”—that is, returning to one’s original state of life.

“Life” is the deepest and most subtle level of “nature”—a person’s original nature. Nature can still be explained in words; when it comes to life, it is difficult to speak of. The Book of Changes says, “Exhaust the principles of things, fully develop one’s nature, and ultimately reach life.” The sages study the Dao by first investigating the principles of things, then fully developing their nature, and finally returning to life.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are standards the sages use to respond to worldly affairs. In applying these standards, one must understand why they are what they are. If one does not understand and merely follows their names, one is an ordinary person. Only by understanding their principles and then putting them into practice does one become a noble person. This is called “exhausting the principles.”

Yet devoting oneself to understanding principles is not enough: one must also actively seek, in order to grasp them. Without seeking, one cannot attain them. Everyday affairs continually present themselves. If each one requires strenuous thought before one can respond, one will grow weary and achieve little. The sages are not obscured by external things. Their nature is clear and tranquil, and their actions naturally accord with what is appropriate. They need neither force themselves nor think deliberately; when things arise, they respond to them appropriately. This is called “fully developing one’s nature.”

Yet although this nature is one’s own, clinging to the distinction between “self” and external things brings one close to delusion. The charge entrusted to a ruler is called “mandate,” and the charge bestowed by Heaven is also called “mandate.” To respond to all things through one’s nature, without clinging to the idea that “I” am the one acting, is to attribute this to Heaven’s mandate. This is called “returning to the mandate.”

Returning to the mandate is called constancy.

Once things take form, nothing escapes change and decay—not even vast things such as Heaven, Earth, mountains, and rivers. Only by returning to one’s nature can one become clear and tranquil, and remain unchanged over time.

Knowing constancy is called illumination.

If returning to one’s nature is not regarded as true understanding, then what one gains is merely worldly cleverness. Even if one considers oneself enlightened, it is not true illumination.

Failing to know constancy and acting recklessly brings danger.

Those who do not understand how to return to their nature are moved by external things, and everything they do brings danger. Even if they gain for a time, in the end they lose more.

Knowing constancy, one can embrace all things.

When people lose themselves in illusion, they become self-righteous and assume others are wrong. Not knowing how to return to their original nature, they are stirred by external things, and everything they do brings trouble. Even if they gain some advantage for a time, in the end they will lose far more.

One who understands the constant Dao can be all-embracing.

Lost in illusion, people keep thinking they are right and others are wrong, until all things become their adversaries. How could they be all-embracing? If they understand that all this is illusory, they will feel compassion even for an enemy. What, then, could they not embrace?

One who is all-embracing can be impartial.

When nothing is excluded, distinctions and attachments between self and others fall away. Whom could one favor?

One who is impartial can become a king.

When nothing is treated unfairly, people throughout the world will come to him and pledge their allegiance.

A king accords with Heaven’s way.

When the heart embraces all things, even Heaven cannot surpass it.

Heaven accords with the Dao.

Heaven still has form. The Dao is the highest realm. Even the Dao cannot go beyond this realm.

The Dao endures, and one who embodies it faces no danger throughout life.

Zheng He said, “The Dao passes through ten thousand generations without giving rise to any affliction.” Zhao Bingwen said, “This chapter speaks of returning to the root and restoring one’s nature, with emptiness and stillness as the foundation. What Laozi calls ‘life’ corresponds to what Buddhists call ‘nature.’ Only nature, which undergoes no birth or death, is constant. Understanding one’s nature makes one all-embracing and impartial. Ordinary people take the prolonging of life to be life’s foundation. This is what Zhuangzi meant when he said, ‘If the mind cannot die, what good is restless activity?’”

Chapter Seventeen: The Supreme One

The best ruler is one whose existence is barely known to the people.

He follows the Dao in bringing order to the world, without deliberately governing it. The people do not know why things are as they are; they only know that such a ruler is there.

The next best ruler is one whom the people love and praise.

He governs the world through benevolence and righteousness. People remember his kindness, and his achievements are visible, so they love and praise him. Though this reputation is good, it also gives rise to distinctions between closeness and distance, and between greater and lesser regard.

The next ruler is one whom the people fear and despise.

He uses laws and commands to restrain the people, who are indeed afraid. But whenever the ruler’s power cannot reach them, they despise him.

When trust is lacking, the people do not trust him.

If I truly uphold the Great Dao and govern the world through it, that is enough. If people lack this trust, then adding teachings of benevolence and righteousness, along with punishments and decrees, will only cause them to lose trust.

The sage has complete confidence in the Great Dao, so speaks with great care and does not speak lightly. When matters are settled and achievements complete, the people grow more virtuous day by day and turn away from wrongdoing, yet do not know they have changed under the sage’s guidance. They simply feel that things have always been this way.

Chapter 18: When the Great Dao Falls into Disuse

When the Great Dao flourishes, benevolence and righteousness are already at work within it, though the people scarcely notice. When the Great Dao declines, benevolence and righteousness become conspicuous and are deliberately promoted as guiding principles.

People do not understand that the Great Dao naturally nurtures all things. They think instead that their cleverness and ingenuity can solve everything, and so people begin to treat one another with deceit.

When family members are at odds, filial devotion and loving care stand out. When a state falls into disorder, loyal ministers stand out. When families live in harmony, who is not filial and loving? When a state is at peace, who is not loyal? Yao was not unfilial; it was simply that Shun’s reputation for filial devotion became especially renowned because his father, Gusou, lacked compassion. Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal; it was simply that the loyalty of Long Feng and Bi Gan became especially renowned because tyrants like Jie and Zhou ruled in their time. Fish in a drying pool spit moisture onto one another to keep from perishing, but they would be better off living freely in rivers and lakes, where they can forget one another.

Chapter 19: Abandon Sagacity and Discard Cleverness

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

Without the wisdom of a sage, one cannot understand the Dao. If a person with sage-like wisdom governed the world, would they not follow the Dao in directing the myriad things? People do not understand the roots of sage-like wisdom. They see only its outward, lesser manifestations and assume that it means using cleverness to gain advantage over all things. So they compete to pursue these lesser ends, and the people begin to suffer the harm they bring. That is why it is said: cast aside the vaunted wisdom and cleverness, and the people will benefit a hundredfold.

Cast aside the display of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will naturally return to their proper duties of honoring their parents and caring for their children.

Those who truly practice benevolence do not abandon their parents, and those who truly uphold righteousness do not neglect their ruler. Benevolence and righteousness originally served to fulfill filial devotion and parental love. But as the age declined, people began to exploit these names for private gain. Sons came to defy their fathers, and fathers to mistreat their sons: these are the harms left behind by the names of benevolence and righteousness.

Cast aside cleverness and self-interest, and thieves will have no means to arise.

Cleverness was originally meant to make tasks easier, and benefits to support the myriad things; neither was meant to serve as a tool for theft. But without access to these conveniences and benefits, thieves could not carry out their thefts. That is why the scripture says this.

These three were introduced because embellishment alone was not enough, so people attached them to different things. One should reveal simplicity, preserve one’s original nature, and reduce selfishness and desire. People in the world prize sagacity, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit. They believe that the world is unsettled because it lacks refinement, so some entrust the way of governing to sagacity, others to benevolence and righteousness, and still others to ingenuity and profit, hoping to govern the world by these means. Yet the world becomes even more unsettled. Why not return to the root?

Reveal what is original, preserve simplicity, and reduce selfishness and desire, and people everywhere will each recover their own nature. Even if methods such as sagacity, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit remain, there will be no use for them. Thus it is said: when the ruler practices Wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves naturally; when the ruler cherishes stillness, the people become upright of themselves; when the ruler does not create needless trouble, the people prosper of themselves; when the ruler has no greed, the people become simple and honest of themselves. Is this not a return to the root? Once the people have recovered their nature, those methods of governance, even if they exist, will have no use. This shows that sagacity can reach its highest point, benevolence and righteousness can be brought to perfection, and ingenuity and profit can be applied to their utmost.

Confucius, however, governed the world through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Laozi advocated cutting these off and abandoning them. Some therefore consider their ideas different. The Book of Changes says, “That which is above form is called the Dao; that which is below form is called a vessel.” Here, “Dao” refers to fundamental principles, while “vessel” refers to concrete things and institutions. Confucius thought deeply about later generations. He showed people concrete institutions and methods while keeping fundamental principles implicit: those with limited understanding could follow these methods without being confused by abstract principles and still become exemplary people; those with greater understanding could go further and grasp the Great Dao through them.

Laozi, by contrast, set out to illuminate the Great Dao and was eager to open people’s minds, so he spoke directly of the Dao and said relatively little about concrete institutions and methods. He believed that if students understood only concrete institutions, the Great Dao would be obscured. He therefore called for cutting off benevolence and righteousness and abandoning ritual and music, in order to make the Great Dao clear. The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words; whatever can be said is only an approximate image of it. Those who understand can recognize reality through its images, while those who are unenlightened cling to the images and fall into illusion. Thus, in later generations, some became rigidly attached to Laozi’s words and used them instead to disrupt the world, while those who studied Confucius rarely committed serious errors. Many have also reached the Great Dao through Laozi’s words, whereas those who seek the Dao through Confucius’s teachings often find no clear way forward. Both sages adopted different methods of teaching because circumstances left them no choice: to bring one side fully to light was inevitably to leave the other less fully expressed.

Zhao Bingwen said: “When a stone is cast into the sea, it must sink to the seabed before it can come to rest; until it reaches the seabed, one cannot know how deep the sea is. Likewise, those who speak of the Dao must trace it back to the state before anything had ever existed in order to see the Dao at its furthest reach. The same holds when examining affairs of government. While clearing away old ideas, one should for a time cut off sagacity and abandon benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music. But when order is being established anew, there is no need to discard every concrete thing, let alone sagacity.”

If all learning is cast aside, there will be no more worry.

Learning knowledge increases what one sees and hears day by day. Practicing the Great Dao, by contrast, means reducing the attachments in one’s heart day by day. If one does not understand the root of nature and life, yet keeps seeking more knowledge through study, one may accumulate many things never heard before without being able to bring them together into a coherent whole. Then one uses the standard of the round to damage what is square, and the standard of the straight to damage what is curved. The mind becomes hopelessly confused, and worry grows beyond what one can bear. Laozi feared that those who pursue learning would fall into this predicament. That is why he said, “If all learning is cast aside, there will be no more worry.”

The sages did not simply refuse to learn; they took the Dao as their root. With little learning, they did not feel lacking; with much learning, their minds did not become confused. Their minds were open and free of worry, so why would they need deliberately to cast learning aside?

Guang says: Those who have not cast learning aside calculate what is good and what is bad, hoping to put what they have learned to use. This is merely a limited kind of usefulness. Those who cast aside their attachment to learning understand that life and death are connected, and gain and loss are equal. Wherever they find themselves, they are at ease and content, and so have no worries. This is a state that seems useless yet has great usefulness.

Zhao says: Learning and accumulating knowledge is called “hearing”; casting aside attachment to knowledge brings one close to “the neighbor”—that is, close to the Dao. Only by going beyond both states can one be called truly transcendent. Thus, beyond casting aside learning, there is still further work to be done on the path to a higher state.

How great is the difference between answering respectfully and answering dismissively? How far apart are good and evil?

If those who pursue learning become immersed in what they have heard but cannot bring it together into a coherent whole, they will think that a respectful answer and a dismissive one are entirely different, let alone that good and evil seem to be complete opposites. Only the sages understand that all things are the same in their nature, and that all these distinctions are delusions. A horse and an ox painted in a picture, or a tiger and a pig carved in wood, are not real horses, oxen, tigers, or pigs. If one can set aside distinctions between right and wrong, sameness and difference, who can say just how far apart these things really are?

Once this is understood, one knows that all things can grow together without harming one another, and that different paths can proceed side by side without conflict. There is nothing strange about this.

One must show some reverence for the things people fear.

The sage regards himself and others as equals, dissolves the distinctions between things, and does not cling inwardly to anything. This does not mean he disregards the laws of the world, violates social roles and principles, or cares about nothing. He does what other people ordinarily do, and fears what they fear. He lives within the relationships between ruler and minister, father and son; he observes ritual and music, punishments and decrees. No one in the world can see anything unusual about him. He is not burdened by external things simply because his mind is not constrained by them.

Zhenghe says: “What brings all things to life yet does not share the sage’s worries is the Dao; what shares the people’s fortunes, misfortunes, and troubles is worldly affairs. Those who understand the Great Dao are free of worry within, yet they exercise caution amid concrete affairs. When faced with what everyone fears, if they do not take it as a warning, few will escape calamity. Therefore, the noble person is always mindful of danger, reflecting on himself and correcting his conduct.”

Vast and boundless, as though it would never come to an end.

People are all limited by what they already know, so they often remain within fixed bounds and refuse to cross them. The sage understands both being and nonbeing, and can dwell at ease in any situation; that is why he is called vast and boundless, without end. Zhao Bingwen says: “Su Shi’s interpretation makes sense from the perspective of Confucian social ethics. But from the perspective of the Dao, some things people fear are loved and welcomed, while others are hated and rejected. This still sharply divides good from evil and right from wrong; it has not forgotten good and evil or gone beyond judgments of right and wrong. Only by setting aside preconceptions in learning can one be free of worry. This boundless state is still far from its end. The passage below, which says the sage differs from ordinary people, makes this clear.”

Everyone is full of delight, as though enjoying a lavish sacrificial feast or climbing a terrace in spring to admire the view. I alone am calm and detached, with no sign of joy, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.

People each become absorbed in what they love. They find it as splendid as a lavish sacrificial feast and as joyful as climbing a terrace to enjoy the spring scenery, and so they happily follow along, unaware that something is amiss. The sage sees through the hollowness of these desires and pleasures. Faced with them, he remains calm and detached, unmoved, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile.

Moving along with the current, as though there were nowhere to return to.

It follows the natural patterns of all things without claiming them as its own, so it seems to possess nothing of its own.

Everyone thinks they have much; only I seem always to be lacking something.

Everyone clings to the understanding they already have, each believing they have more than enough. The sage embraces all things without fixating on any one of them. Thus the sage seems detached and unassuming, as though possessing nothing. The Zhenghe commentary says: “Merit reaches throughout the world, yet the sage does not claim it as their own.”

Is my heart truly like that of a fool? How plain and pure it is.

What is called “utterly pure” means seeming dull, though in truth one is not dull. The Zhenghe commentary says: “The sage does not display cleverness, but silently accords with the Dao.”

People of the world seem sharp-witted; only I seem dim. People of the world are adept at discernment; only I seem slow and still.

People of the world regard distinguishing and calculating as wisdom. The sage understands that countless deluded views are not worth arguing over, and so appears dim on the surface, while remaining inwardly calm and unmoved.

The sage seems suddenly to vanish into darkness, silent and still, as though having no fixed place to abide.

“Suddenly, as if obscured” means that the sage’s limits cannot be seen. “Silent and still, as if with nowhere to abide” means that the sage leaves no trace in stillness, so it is impossible to tell where the sage dwells.

Everyone has their own abilities; only I seem slow and ungainly, like an uncouth person.

Everyone has some ability, and so can be put to use by the people of the world. The sage’s Virtue is complete, yet the sage seems to have no particular ability, and thus appears slow and ungainly.

Only I am unlike other people: I cherish drawing nourishment from the Mother of the Dao.

The Dao is the source and mother of all things. People pursue external things and forget the Dao, while the sage lets go of attachment to all things and takes the Dao as their root. This is like an infant who eats no other food, but is nourished solely by the mother’s milk.

End of Fascicle One of the Collected Explanations of the True Classic of the Way and Its Virtue.

The form of great De follows only the Dao.

“Abundant De” refers to flourishing De. The Dao itself has no form; only when it operates and manifests as De does it take on a form that can be seen. Thus, De is the manifestation of the Dao. By extension, the forms that things display are also ways in which the Dao manifests within them.

The Dao (the Way) cannot be seen or touched; it is elusive and indistinct. Yet within this elusiveness, there are images; within what is obscure and hard to discern, there are real things.

The Dao belongs neither to “being” nor to “nonbeing,” so it is described as elusive and indistinct. When the Dao moves and forms images, appearing as concrete things, they too arise from this elusive, indescribable state.

Within the profound darkness lies the subtle essence.

Before being and nonbeing have become distinct, the Dao is elusive and hard to see. When being and nonbeing meet, it takes on a deep and distant appearance. Though it has not yet formed a concrete shape, it already contains a subtle essence.

This subtle essence is real and not illusory; within it is a basis for trust.

Once things take concrete shape, truth and falsehood become mixed together. At the stage of subtle essence, there is no falsehood. After truth and falsehood become mixed, as one divides into two, and two give rise to three, the myriad things become entangled and numerous, making their trustworthy root difficult to grasp. At the stage of subtle essence, it does not deceive us.

From ancient times to the present, the Dao’s name has never disappeared. Thus, one can observe the beginnings and transformations of the myriad things.

Though times change, the Dao has always been present, so it is called “everlasting and never departing.” Precisely because it has never departed, one can observe the transformations of the myriad things. “Fu” means beautiful. Though each thing has its own beauty, none can escape change.

How do I know why the myriad things are as they are? By relying on this principle.

The reason sages understand how things take shape and change is that they observe and follow the Dao, never departing from it. Guang says: The Dao originally had neither name nor form. Later, when the Dao was expressed through De (Virtue/Power), it was called “image,” “thing,” and “essence,” and it was said to be able to observe the beginnings of the myriad things. These are all expressions of De, which also makes the Dao manifest.

Chapter 22: Bending Allows One to Remain Whole

Bending allows one to remain whole.

The actions of sages must follow what is appropriate to the circumstances. Depending on what the situation calls for, one may need to be upright or to yield; what matters is understanding how to respond appropriately.

When acting, the sage always follows the principles of how things work. Sometimes those principles call for taking a straight path; at other times, they call for going around. What matters is whether things can thereby proceed smoothly. The sage does not go against the patterns of things and so is able to preserve himself.

Bending allows one to become straight again. To seek only the appearance of straightness while going against how things work is not true straightness. Acting in accord with those principles, even if it means bending for a time, is the deepest uprightness under Heaven.

Staying low allows one to be filled. People gather around those who are humble and lowly. By remaining low, one can gather people; even without wishing to be filled, one cannot help but be.

Decline allows renewal. Seeing everything clearly and displaying one’s sharpness at every turn does not accord with the Dao. A state that appears indistinct and on the verge of decline is, instead, the source of continual renewal.

Taking little allows one to gain. Ultimately, the Dao is one. Grasp this fundamental principle, and there is nothing one cannot gain.

Taking too much leads to confusion. One may learn a great deal, but without using a single fundamental principle to connect what one has learned, one will fall into confusion.

Thus the sage grasps the fundamental principle and makes it a model for all under Heaven. “Embracing the One” means returning to one’s nature. Bending preserves; being humbled allows one to become straight again; staying low allows one to be filled; decline allows renewal; taking little allows one to gain; taking too much leads to confusion. Since all these principles have “embracing the One” as their root, that phrase sums them up.

Ye says: “That bending preserves, staying low allows one to be filled, and focusing on one thing allows one to gain are matters of principle; that being humbled allows one to become straight again and decline allows renewal are matters of circumstance. One is not humbled in order to seek straightness, yet when bent to the extreme, one must turn straight. One does not decline in order to seek renewal, yet when decline reaches its end, it turns toward new life. Principle and circumstance bring each other about. Sometimes each becomes the beginning or end of the other; sometimes they alternate, bringing gain and loss in turn. Their changes are manifold and inexhaustible. Only the sage can grasp the fundamental principle without swaying along with these changes, and so make it a model for all under Heaven.”

Not drawing attention to oneself allows one to see clearly. The eye cannot see itself, and so it can see other things; a mirror does not reflect itself, and so it can reflect other things. If one is busy looking at oneself and reflecting on oneself, one has no attention left for observing what is outside.

Not insisting that one is right allows one’s understanding to become clear; not boasting allows one to establish achievements; not being self-important allows one to endure. Precisely because one does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with one.

Not deliberately putting oneself on display, assuming oneself to be right, boasting of one’s accomplishments, or setting oneself above others are all ways of avoiding contention. That is why the passage ends with “not contending.”

Could the ancients’ saying, “Yield, and you will be preserved,” really be empty words? In truth, one can preserve oneself and all things, and return to one’s original nature.

People in the world believe that being straightforward is right and yielding is wrong. If one cares only about insisting on what is right and boasts of doing so, one’s conduct will inevitably seem out of step with the times. These, too, have to do with not contending, which is why the passage again ends with not contending.

Could the ancients’ saying, “Yield, and you will be preserved,” really be empty words? In truth, one can preserve oneself and all things, and return to one’s original nature.

People in the world believe that being straightforward is right and yielding is wrong. Yet when acting in accordance with principle and living among others, one sometimes has to yield and accommodate. That is why the passage ends by reaffirming: “Could this really be empty words? In truth, one can be preserved and return to one’s original nature.” “Wholeness” means more than preserving oneself: inwardly, one preserves oneself; outwardly, one preserves all things. Both oneself and all things are thus preserved, and ultimately return to their original nature. The “straightness” thereby attained is a greater form of integrity.

Chapter 23: “Rare Words Are Natural”

Speaking little accords with nature.

When speech arises naturally, it is concise and apt. When it goes against nature and is forced, it becomes excessive and difficult to trust. Thus it is said that the Dao, when spoken of, is bland and tasteless; look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; yet in use, it is inexhaustible. This is “rare words”—speaking little, without many words. Guang, the commentator, says: “‘Rare words’ means speaking without leaving traces of deliberate expression. Though there is speech, it is as if nothing has been deliberately said: one simply follows nature, like the Dao’s breath giving voice of itself.”

A gale does not last through the morning; a downpour does not last through the day. Who brings these winds and rains about? Heaven and Earth. Even changes brought about by Heaven and Earth cannot last long; how much less so those brought about by human beings?

When Yin-Yang—the two forces that stand in relation to each other and act upon each other—are in harmony and do not struggle, wind and rain come in their proper seasons. Their movement is neither hurried nor slow; they cease only when each force has naturally run its course. If Yang Qi grows excessive and rises above, while Yin Qi lies hidden below, then Yin and Yang become blocked and cannot flow freely, bringing violent winds and torrential rain. Even if such conditions seem unstoppable for a time, they cannot last through the day.

The sages of antiquity spoke simply and with restraint, and acted in ordinary, unassuming ways, following nature in all things. Thus they endured without coming to an end. People sometimes grow tired of this approach, thinking it less pleasing than clever words and less striking than bizarre conduct, yet they do not realize that such things cannot last.

Zhenghe says: Heaven and Earth bring forth and nurture the myriad things. The wind lets them unfold and allows their many forms to change naturally; the rain moistens them and lets them grow of their own accord. Heaven and Earth therefore do not deliberately bring life into being or press the myriad things to mature. Each thing is free to develop in its own way between Heaven and Earth, and this is why they endure. When wind and rain come too suddenly, Yin and Yang fall out of balance, and the myriad things may even suffer harm; such conditions cannot last.

Therefore, those who follow the Dao accord with the Dao; those who follow De accord with De; and those who depart from Dao and De accord with what has lost the Dao. The Dao welcomes those who accord with it; De welcomes those who accord with it; and what has lost the Dao welcomes those who accord with it.

Confucius said, “If one sincerely sets one’s heart on benevolence, then those without the Dao will accord with what has lost the Dao, those who uphold De will accord with De, and those who have lost De will accord with what has lost De. The Dao welcomes those who accord with it; De welcomes those who accord with it; and what has lost the Dao welcomes those who accord with it.”

Confucius said, “If someone sets their heart on pursuing benevolence, they will not do evil. That is why even when a benevolent person makes a mistake, they can readily correct it.” If this is true of someone who sets their heart on benevolence, how much more so for someone who sets their heart on pursuing the Dao? If they sincerely cultivate the Great Dao, then what accords with the Dao will attain the Dao, and what accords with De will attain De. Even if, unfortunately, they suffer a loss, though they may lose what they sought, they will surely still gain something through moral cultivation.

Sengzhao said, “What is real accords with what is real; what is false accords with what is false. The lucid awareness of spiritual illumination resonates in the subtle and hidden, and all return to the one mark of reality—the true nature of all things. Here there is no distinction between gain and loss, purity and defilement; clarity and ignorance are likewise equal and without difference.”

“When trust is insufficient, there will be those who do not believe.”

Those who do not understand the Dao have little faith in it. When they encounter frustration, they doubt the Dao and so believe in it even less. Only those who truly understand the Dao do not doubt it because of gain or loss. Pang said, “Once the realm of the Dao falls below ‘the rare’—the subtle, inexpressible state—it loses the inherent constancy of nature and life. Insufficient faith must lead to disbelief.” Zhao Bingwen said, “This chapter discusses the mystery of the Dao. Sengzhao’s explanation should be consulted, but the meaning of the text does not flow consistently from one passage to the next. I would explain it this way: ‘Sparse words are natural’ speaks of the root of the Dao. Only after losing De did the names benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom arise. If one sincerely cultivates the Dao, what is there to gain or lose? It is only because people in later generations lack sincerity that some do not believe. It is like a violent wind or a sudden rain: how could either last the whole day?”

Chapter 24: “Those Who Rise on Tiptoe Do Not Stand Firm”

Those who rise on tiptoe cannot stand steadily; those who take long strides do not travel far. Those who show themselves off cannot see clearly; those who insist they are right are not recognized; those who boast have no merit; those who are arrogant cannot endure.

A person can naturally stand steadily and walk normally. If they think standing and walking are not enough and deliberately rise onto their toes or take exaggerated strides, they are bound to lose their balance. The same is true of showing off, insisting on being right, boasting about oneself, and acting superior.

Zhenghe says: Rising onto one’s toes to stand firm and taking exaggerated strides to go farther both go against the body’s natural condition, making movement more difficult. Showing off reveals that one’s understanding is too limited to grasp things fully, and so one cannot see clearly. Insisting on being right reveals that one’s benevolence is not enough to bring one into harmony with others, and so one cannot make oneself known. Flaunting one’s strengths causes one to lose them, and so brings no benefit. Boasting of one’s abilities causes one to forfeit one’s achievements, and so they cannot endure.

By the standards of the Dao, these practices are like extra food or an additional, useless limb.

When eating, an adequate amount is enough; eating too much does harm. It is enough for the body’s limbs to be whole and sound; any extra growth becomes a burden.

By the standards of the Dao, these practices are like extra food or an additional, useless limb.

When eating, an adequate amount is enough; eating too much does harm. It is enough for the body’s limbs to be whole and sound; any extra growth becomes a burden.

All things abhor what is excessive, so a person of the Dao does not act this way.

Chapter 25: The Whole and Indistinct Thing

There is a whole and indistinct existence that was already present before Heaven and Earth took shape.

The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low. It neither departs nor arrives, and it is neither good nor evil. It is whole and indistinct, formed naturally. As it takes shape in a person, it is that person’s nature; hence it is called “the whole and indistinct existence.” No one knows what gave rise to it. Perhaps it exists in deep stillness and endures without end, and Heaven and Earth come into being within it.

Guang says: The Dao cannot be divided, and so it is called “whole.” It does not claim credit for its achievements, and so it is called “formed.” It has no beginning, and so it is called “prior.” The Dao is an existence within what has no form or substance, standing alone before Heaven and Earth.

Zhenghe says: Heaven and Earth, too, depend on the Dao in order to come into being; hence the words “before Heaven and Earth.”

It is silent and still, empty and without form. It stands alone in the world, with nothing that matches it, yet it has never changed. It moves among the myriad things, circulating without end and never growing weary. It nourishes all things from below, and they all regard it as the source of life. The commentators explain that “stands alone” means it depends on nothing outside itself, while “never changes” means it remains constant. A commentary from the Zhenghe era says that the Dao does not become involved in movement or interact with external things; it simply exists in clear stillness. It remains itself and does not change with the things around it. This describes the Dao’s substance: its workings extend from beginning to end and continue without limit. This describes the Dao’s function: all things rely on it to come into being.

I do not know its name, so I provisionally call it the “Dao.” If forced to give it a name, I would call it “Great.”

The Dao has no name to begin with. The sage saw that everything comes from it and so called it the “Dao”; seeing that nothing can surpass it, the sage provisionally called it “Great.” In truth, no name can describe it accurately. A commentator says that “Great” means it is not bound by measures of size.

What is called “Great” is continually in motion, traveling far; having traveled to the utmost distance, it returns.

If we pursue it from the standpoint of “Great,” it seems to recede without end. Following the direction in which it recedes, we find it far away and difficult to reach. Though it seems to recede endlessly, we need only turn inward and seek it there: by concentrating the mind, we can experience it. A commentator says that once the Dao is provisionally called “Great,” it already seems distant and difficult to grasp. The key is to understand the return: from the name back to reality, and from concrete things back to the principle within them. Another commentator explains that “departing” means the Dao moves on its own and does not stop, while “far” means it transcends all oppositions. It seems close at hand yet immeasurably deep; it seems utterly distant yet can be approached. This is what “returning” means.

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is great. Among all that lies between Heaven and Earth, 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 what is so of itself.

From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), Heaven and Earth and the ruler may be vast, yet none of them can be called truly “great.” People know how vast Heaven and Earth and the ruler are, but they do not believe that the Dao is greater still. So the scripture states plainly: humanity is surpassed by Earth, Earth by Heaven, Heaven by the Dao, and the Dao by Nature itself. If one day people can return to their original nature, then the principles embodied by Heaven, Earth, and humanity can all be fully realized within them.

Lu says: “Within the realm” means that the Dao does not lie beyond the four directions of Heaven and Earth. Guang says: Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—all take the Dao as their model; the branches do not depart from the root. “Nature” means the Dao itself. Calling it “Dao” is merely an expedient name, used to indicate that it is the highest principle of the Chongxuan—the profound and subtle Dao. Zhao says: Someone once asked Yuan Yongzhi, a recluse of Zhongtiao Mountain, about the claim that the Dao has already fallen into words. Once the Dao can be spoken, it is no longer the true Dao.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Heaviness Is the Root of Lightness

Heaviness is the root of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation.

Among all things, the light cannot bear the heavy, and the small cannot steady the great. What is still can bring what moves to a halt; what does not act can restrain what is agitated. Therefore, lightness must take heaviness as its root, and agitation must take stillness as its master.

That is why the gentleman, even when traveling all day, does not leave the baggage cart behind. Even when surrounded by splendid sights, he can dwell at ease, unmoved by external things. This shows that heaviness and stillness must not be forsaken.

How can a ruler who commands ten thousand chariots treat his own person and the affairs of the realm lightly? A ruler bears responsibility for the realm; if he is heedless of himself, he cannot govern it.

Lightness causes one to lose the trust of one’s ministers; agitation causes one to lose the dignity proper to a ruler. Neither lightness nor agitation is suited to governance. If the ruler is frivolous, the ministers know he cannot be relied upon; if the ministers are agitated, the ruler knows they are intent on pursuing their own interests.

Zhao says: The ancients called tall, bright buildings “guan”; high towers are one kind. The scripture says that even amid splendid towers and pavilions, one should dwell at ease, using this to explain stillness. “Rong” is like “Nanrong.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Good Walking Leaves No Tracks

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

One who follows the natural course of things leaves no trace. Heshang Gong says, “Using the buttocks as wheels and a wondrous horse to draw the cart.” Such a cart need not set out at any particular time or arrive anywhere. How could it leave wheel tracks?

One who is good at speaking makes no mistakes in speech. Always speaking at the right moment, one can speak throughout the world without saying anything wrong. Heshang Gong says: When a perfected person speaks, it is like birdsong or the answering ring of a bell. They do not cling to fixed meanings. It is like talking about a dream within a dream: once the words are spoken, they are forgotten. With no attachment to words themselves, how could there be any error?

One who is good at planning needs no counting rods or abacus. The transformations of the myriad things are all present before one; there is no need to calculate in order to understand them. What use are counting rods? Heshang Gong says: It is like dust returning to the earth or drops of water joining the sea; like understanding the myriad things through the Great Dao, or knowing all affairs through a single principle. Why calculate at all?

One who is good at closing a gate needs no bolt, yet the gate cannot be opened. One who is good at tying things needs no rope, yet they cannot be undone. A person whose De is complete treats all things as a mother treats her child: even when she lets go, the child does not leave. Thus, a gate can be closed without a bolt, and things can be held fast without a rope.

Therefore, the sage is always good at helping people and never abandons anyone; always good at dealing with things and never discards anything. Those who rely on an abacus to calculate, a bolt to close a gate, or a rope to bind things can accomplish only so much. The sage does more than show people compassion: the sage knows how to save them. The sage abandons no one. How, then, could people fail to turn toward the sage?

This is called “inheriting the light” (ximing): receiving and passing on illumination. Saving someone in danger is not the greatest act of help. People wander through the cycle of life and death, their vision clouded by external things. If one can pass the Way of supreme clarity on to them, so that those in darkness may understand, then the light continues to spread, like a flame passed from lamp to lamp. That is what it means to be good at helping.

Thus, the good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor the teacher or value the one who offers a lesson, one will lose sight of the principle involved.

The sage has no deliberate intention of instructing the world and so does not regard himself as everyone’s teacher. The people of the world have no deliberate intention of seeking instruction and so do not revere a teacher. The sage not only forgets the world, but can also help the people of the world forget him.

Though wise, he appears confused. This is the subtlety of the Dao (the Way).

The mysterious state attained by the sage may elude even the wise. Guang explains: When treating an illness, one needs medicine; once the illness is cured, the medicine should be put aside. When both medicine and illness are let go, human-made rules and attachments are also forgotten. At the moment of complete awakening, one may seem confused instead. This is the subtle truth.

“Knowing the Masculine” — Chapter 28

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

Know the bright, yet hold to the dark, and you can become the model of the world. As the model of the world, constant De will not go astray, and you can return to the Limitless—the boundless, undifferentiated fundamental Dao.

Know honor, yet hold to disgrace, and become like the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, constant De will be abundant, and in the end you will return to uncarved simplicity and original nature.

Male and female, before and after, are all relative relations that affect me. Black and white, light and darkness, are the same; so are honor and disgrace, noble and lowly. Wanting to be in front and unwilling to be behind, wanting to stand in the light and unwilling to remain in darkness, wanting nobility and unwillingness to be lowly—these are ordinary feelings shared by all things.

Yet the effect of being before or after is less immediate than that of light and darkness; and the effect of light and darkness is less profound than that of being noble or lowly. The sages of antiquity cast aside the illusory in order to recover their original nature. The clearer one’s nature becomes, the humbler the position one holds. The more humbly one holds one’s position, the deeper one’s De (Virtue/Power) becomes; and the deeper one’s De, the more expansive the realm to which one can ultimately return. For “not knowing and therefore not acting” is less complete than “knowing, yet still not acting.”

To know what is strong and yet abide in weakness is to understand one’s nature. When one understands one’s nature, the desire to compete for victory comes to an end. All under Heaven who contend to be first will turn toward such a person, like streams flowing into a valley; none will turn away. Yet this is like an infant: able to receive all things, but not yet able to wield strength. Hence the saying, “Return to the infant.”

To know what is bright and yet abide in darkness is to see one’s nature. One who dwells in darkness yet can discern what is bright cannot escape the gaze of those under Heaven who think themselves enlightened. Everyone will take such a person as a standard. Though able to respond to all things, the principles they follow never deviate, and their efficacy has no limit. Hence the saying, “Return to the limitless”—a boundless, inexhaustible realm.

To know what is glorious and yet abide in disgrace is to recover one’s nature. All illusions have been cast away; even in disgrace, one feels no resentment. One’s heart is as open as an empty valley, and when all things come before them, they respond naturally. When De reaches this state, one’s nature is pure and free of admixture. Hence the saying, “Return to the uncarved”—the simple, genuine state before it was shaped.

Once the uncarved is divided, it gives rise to particular things. The sage puts it to use and becomes a leader of the people. Thus it is said that truly skillful governance does not divide the whole.

After returning to simplicity, the sage differentiates that undivided simplicity into particular implements and institutions, using them to meet the needs of the myriad things. For example, when a ruler establishes different offices and assigns government duties, he arranges them in accordance with the circumstances of things themselves. Although he puts structures in place, he does not divide the whole.

Zhenghe says: “What transcends concrete form is called the Dao; what takes shape in concrete form is called an implement. Once something has concrete form, it has a corresponding name and function. When the Dao remains whole, Heaven and humanity become one; when the Dao disperses into various implements, Heaven and humanity become two.” Zhao Bingwen says: Earlier, the text spoke of “returning to simplicity.” Simplicity is the Dao in its undivided state. Once it is divided, things become separate from one another. For this reason, skillful governance does not divide the whole.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Seeking to Take the World

To try to take the world and rule it by one’s own will, I believe, cannot be done.

The sage comes to possess the world not by actively seizing it, but because the myriad things turn toward him and he accepts it only when he has no choice. In governing the world, the sage does not force things into action. He simply follows the natural state of the myriad things and removes the harms among them. If he actively tries to seize the world and deliberately imposes his will, he cannot truly attain it.

The world is a wondrous, unfathomable whole and cannot be manipulated at will. Forceful action spoils things; insistence on control makes one lose them.

Nothing among the myriad things can be arbitrarily interfered with. Even in a place where only a hundred people live, acting recklessly without following natural circumstances is bound to leave some people at odds and unwilling to comply. How much more so for the world? In a small matter or a place with few people, one might still seize things by force or control them through cleverness. But across the vast world, there is a wondrous ruling power of its own. If the world is not allowed to turn toward one naturally, people will rebel; if it is not allowed to govern itself, disorder will arise.

Thus, among the myriad things, some advance and others follow; some breathe gently and others blow forcefully; some are strong and others frail; some stand firm and carry their burdens, while others topple and are destroyed. Therefore, the sage removes excess, extravagance, and extremes.

Yin-Yang Qi (vital energy) stirs against itself; high and low incline toward one another, and large and small interact. Some move ahead, while others follow behind. Some breathe out warm air and make things warm; others blow out cold air and make them cold. Some increase and strengthen things; others diminish and weaken them. Some sustain them and bring them to completion; others destroy them and make them collapse. These are all ways in which the myriad things change naturally, and they are also developments that circumstances make difficult to avoid.

Yet some foolish people in the world think only of private gain and pursue what they can get, insisting on resisting and defying these changes. In the end, they are either destroyed or defeated. The sage knows that natural change cannot be reversed, so follows its course and waits for circumstances to unfold. At the same time, the sage removes excess, extravagance, and arrogance, so that events do not go too far and harm the myriad things. Then the world is free of calamity. This is the highest attainment of “not acting recklessly.” During the reigns of Yao and Tang, floods and droughts could not be entirely avoided, yet they did not bring about the downfall of the state. The reason lies here.

The Classic of Changes, in the Judgment on the Tai Hexagram, says: “The ruler should measure the patterns by which Heaven and Earth operate, assist Heaven and Earth in adjusting what is fitting for the myriad things, and thereby guide the people.” The Tai hexagram has three yang lines inside and three yin lines outside, symbolizing a time when the myriad things are in a state of harmony and flourishing. The sage fears that harmony might go too far and damage the vitality of things, so measures and assists it to prevent excess. This is what is meant by removing excess, extravagance, and arrogance.

Chapter Thirty: Assisting the Ruler with the Dao

Those who assist the ruler through the Dao do not use military force to impose their strength on the world, for resorting to force often invites retribution.

When the sage uses arms, it is always out of necessity. If there is no necessity and one nevertheless seeks to conquer the world through force, then even if victory comes for a time, calamity will surely return to the victor. King Ling of Chu, Duke Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han either lost their lives or brought disaster upon their descendants. What people despise, the spirits and gods also abhor; no one can escape calamity by such means.

Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow thick. After a great war, there is sure to be a year of famine. When armies pass through, the people cannot work as they normally would, and the fields go untilled. After battle, a killing chill prevails, and crops are damaged. War brings calamities of this kind in most cases.

Where armies are stationed, brambles and thorns grow; after a great war, years of famine are sure to follow.

Where armies pass, the people’s farming is disrupted, leaving fields uncultivated. After the use of arms, a deathly, desolate Qi prevails, and the crops fail. The use of arms always brings such consequences. How much worse, then, to rely on military force to assert dominance over the world?

Thus, one skilled in the use of arms stops once the aim has been achieved and does not dare use force to assert dominance.

“Achieving the aim” means acting decisively. When moral teaching cannot bring people to peace, and orders cannot make them obey, military force is used only as a last resort, when nothing else can be done.

Once the aim is achieved, one stops. One does not boast, flaunt one’s accomplishments, or grow arrogant and self-important. The use of arms arises only from necessity. This is what it means to act decisively without asserting dominance.

Not boasting, not flaunting military achievements, not growing arrogant, and using arms only when necessary: these four practices are ways to avoid asserting dominance.

When things reach the height of their strength, they grow old. This is called going against the Dao. What goes against the Dao soon comes to an end.

After strength reaches its peak, decline inevitably follows; there are no exceptions. Yet a person of the Dao can accomplish great things without becoming complacent, and become full and abundant while still seeming to lack something. Thus, such a person never asserts dominance, and so never grows old or comes to an end. If one relies on military force to assert dominance over the world and reaches the height of strength, can one escape decline?

Chapter Thirty-One: Fine Weapons

Fine weapons are inauspicious things, and people generally detest them. Therefore, a person of the Dao does not use them as ordinary tools.

Arms are used to resolve crises, not as a usual means of action. Therefore, a person of the Dao does not wield weapons lightly.

Thus, in ordinary life, the gentleman gives precedence to the left; in warfare, he gives precedence to the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not things a gentleman delights in using. He uses them only when there is no other choice, and meets their use with calm detachment. Even after victory, he does not think it worthy of praise. To praise victory is to take pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing cannot achieve their aims in the world.

In auspicious ceremonies, precedence is given to the left; in funerary rites, precedence is given to the right. Thus, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander-in-chief on the right, arranged according to the rites of mourning. When many people have been killed, one should feel grief and mourn for them; even in victory, one should observe the attitude of a funeral.

The Dao has never had a fixed name. The uncarved “pu” (one’s unshaped nature) may seem small, yet nothing under Heaven can make it submit. If lords and kings can hold fast to this simplicity, all things will naturally come to them.

“Pu” is human nature. The Dao has no fixed name, and nature cannot be confined by a name. When the Dao unfolds, it is everywhere; when it gathers itself in, it is so minute that it does not fill even the tiniest space. For this reason, though it may seem small, it cannot be controlled. If ordinary people can hold fast to it, even those of low status can cultivate the De of Yao and Shun. If lords and kings fail to hold fast to it, all things will not come to them.

When the Yin-Yang energies of Heaven and Earth join, sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet it naturally moistens all things evenly. The sage responds to all manner of things through the Dao, reaching everywhere like the sweet dew, and so can bring all things to them.

When things begin to be made and classified, names arise. Once names have arisen, one should know where to stop. Knowing when to stop is what allows one to avoid danger.

The sage divides the undifferentiated “pu” into various implements, then establishes names for them according to their forms. Is this done to chase after labels, forget one’s nature, and abandon what is fundamental for what is secondary? The sage still knows how to return to nature, and so can respond to the myriad changes without falling into danger.

The Dao’s presence throughout the world is like streams and valleys flowing into rivers and seas.

Rivers and valleys are where the waters of the world flow and spread; rivers and seas are where they converge. The Dao is the root of all things, while all things are the forms in which the Dao appears. Since they originally belong to the same water, the waters of rivers and valleys eventually flow into the rivers and seas. Since all things originally arise from the Dao, they return to their root.

Zhao Bingwen says that various commentators understand “all things are guests of the Dao” to mean that they are like the waters of rivers and valleys flowing into the rivers and seas. He offers a different interpretation: if that were the intended meaning, the original text should say, “All things are guests of the Dao, as rivers flow into the sea.” Ma Danhuai suspected that the character yu in the phrase “rivers and seas are included in this” was a mistake, and changed it to fu, “flow toward,” but Zhao considers both interpretations incorrect. He argues that this chapter describes how the Dao originally had no name. When it first acquired names, it appeared as the sun, moon, and stars, and as mountains, rivers, plants, and trees. The sage follows these myriad things and establishes leaders to govern them. Though their names differ, they all arise from the One Dao. Water, too, takes different forms throughout the world—rivers, valleys, and seas—yet remains the same water in essence. Those who study the Dao should forget the various names and return to the simple origin that has no name. Ultimately, they must understand how to quiet the mind that makes distinctions and dwell in the Dao.

Chapter 33: Understanding Others Is Wisdom

Understanding others is wisdom; understanding oneself is true clarity.

The commentary explains that distinguishing and recognizing things is wisdom, while dispelling all obscuration is clarity. As long as the mind that makes distinctions remains, one can understand others but cannot truly know oneself. Once obscuration has been dispelled, the mind is no longer clouded by distinctions, and one can know oneself and, in turn, understand others.

Overcoming others counts as strength; overcoming oneself is true power.

Strength may overcome others, but it cannot necessarily overcome oneself. To restrain selfish desires and restore one’s original nature takes more than ordinary strength; this is why it is called true power.

Those who know contentment are truly wealthy.

Whatever one encounters, if one can be content, one will never be poor. Even someone who possesses all under Heaven will feel poor for life if their heart is always dissatisfied.

Those who can persevere in their efforts have firm resolve.

Without competing with external things, they continue to encourage themselves, and external things cannot shake their resolve.

Those who do not leave their root endure.

Things change constantly, and nothing has a fixed, unchanging form, yet the mind never loses its aim. Those who can truly persevere are people of purpose.

They do not contend with external things, but continually strive to improve themselves. Thus, external things cannot take their purpose from them.

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

Things change constantly, but the mind never loses its roots; this is what it means to endure.

Only when the body dies but the spirit does not perish can one be called long-lived.

The changes between life and death are also profound, yet human nature is clear and still, and does not perish. This is what the sages of antiquity meant when they transcended life and death. Master Shi says: “To live without being constrained by life is called ‘enduring’; to die without perishing is called ‘longevity.’”

Chapter 34: The Great Dao Flows Everywhere

The Great Dao—the fundamental Way—is vast and flows everywhere, reaching all places.

The Great Dao is vast and flows everywhere. Nothing is invariably possible, and nothing is invariably impossible; thus, whether above or below, to the left or to the right, wherever it circulates and goes, there is nowhere it cannot reach. Master Guang says: “To say that something is possible is to say that it cannot be fixed or constrained.” The Dao cannot be sought by means of fixed standards, nor grasped through things defined in opposition to one another.

All things depend on the Dao to come into being, yet the Dao does not refuse them or claim them as its own. When its work is done, it does not take credit for it.

In the world, those who can bring all things to life often claim them as their own; those unwilling to possess all things, meanwhile, refuse to let them come to life. Only the Dao both brings all things to life without refusing them and brings them to completion without claiming them as its own.

The Dao covers and nourishes all things, yet does not rule over them. It is often free of self-interest and may therefore be called “small.” All things return to the Dao, yet it does not rule over them, and may therefore also be called “great.” Thus, the sage never regards himself as great, and in this way is able to accomplish true greatness.

The Dao covers and nourishes all things, yet does not rule over them. It has no self-interest and may therefore be called “small.” All things return to it, yet it does not rule over them, and may therefore be called “great.” The sage never regards himself as great, and so is able to accomplish greatness.

If one considers oneself great and sets one’s heart on becoming great, one instead becomes small. A commentary from the Zhenghe era says: “The Dao covers and nourishes all things without displaying any merit as their ruler. It sets all things in motion without revealing any sign of their returning to it, so people cannot see that it is acting as their ruler. The Dao itself cannot be measured as great or small; ‘great’ and ‘small’ refer only to its effects on all things.” Mencius says: “To be so vast as to transform all things is what it means to be a sage.” One who is vast enough to transform all things is not bound by the thought of being great, and can therefore accomplish true greatness.

Chapter 35: Holding Fast to the Great Image

If one holds fast to the Dao as the guiding principle, all things under heaven will return to it.

The Dao has no fixed, visible form and does not fall within “being” or “nonbeing.” It is therefore called the “Great Image”—the formless root that embraces all things. If it appeared clearly in a particular shape, distinctions would arise: people would like what was familiar and dislike what was different. They would move toward what they liked and away from what they disliked, so it could not draw all things under Heaven to itself.

All things turn toward the Great Dao without being harmed; thus they can all be settled, peaceful, and at ease.

As soon as distinctions arise, there will be what is the same and what is different. People like what is the same and dislike what is different. They move toward what they like and away from what they dislike, so this is not enough to draw all things under Heaven to the Great Dao.

All things turn toward the Great Dao without being harmed; thus they can all be settled, peaceful, and at ease.

When there is liking and disliking, there are distinctions between what benefits us and what harms us. Once both liking and disliking have disappeared, nothing in the world will be harmed. Thus, all things that return to the Great Dao are settled, peaceful, and at ease.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop. The Great Dao, when spoken of, is bland and without flavor; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard, yet its use is inexhaustible.

Playing music and setting out fine food to welcome people is certainly enough to make passersby stop. But once the music ends and the food is gone, people leave them behind and go on their way. If one upholds the “Great Image” in governing all under Heaven, people will not know how to like it, much less how to dislike it. Though the Great Dao has no scent, taste, color, or sound to delight people, its use is inexhaustible.

“Seeking to Draw Something In” Chapter (Chapter 36)

If you wish to draw something in, you must first let it expand. If you wish to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong. If you wish to discard it, you must first let it rise. If you wish to take something from it, you must first give to it. This is called “subtle insight”—discernment that reveals itself through the smallest things.

If one has not first given something to the other and is already eager to take it away, the situation will not have developed to its fullest, and the reasoning will seem inadequate. When circumstances have not reached their limit, taking is difficult; when the reasoning is inadequate, people will not be convinced. Yet this way of acting already comes close to the use of stratagems. How is it different from Guan Zhong or Sun Wu? The outward conduct of a sage and an ordinary person may sometimes resemble each other: the sage follows the course of things, while the ordinary person uses cunning. Following the course of things is like a doctor who knows how to prescribe medicine according to a patient’s condition; using cunning is like a merchant who knows how to seek out opportunities for profit. To know how to draw in before extending, how to appear weak before becoming strong, how decline is followed by renewal, and how taking is contained within giving—who could do this without understanding the subtle signs of change? This is why it is called “subtle insight”: the wisdom to perceive the faintest signs.

The soft and yielding can overcome the hard and strong.

The sage knows that strength cannot be relied upon, so places himself in a position of weakness. The strong in the world jostle and fight with one another, while I remain weak and wait calmly for events to change. When the powerful have been damaged and the weak have also fallen one after another, I do not contend with them. I simply sit and watch them decline. This is what is called victory. Even so, does the sage deliberately act this way in order to defeat others? He simply understands that circumstances follow their own course and rests calmly within it.

Fish cannot leave the deep pool; the state’s vital powers and means must not be casually revealed to others.

Fish have no sharp claws or teeth with which to overcome other creatures. Yet while they dwell in deep water, even a strong person cannot catch them. Once they leave the deep pool and reach dry land, they are merely clumsy fish. What can they do then? Fish have no sharp claws or teeth with which to overcome other creatures. Yet while they dwell in deep water…