《唐玄宗御注道德真经》

Tang Xuanzong’s Imperial Commentary on the Dao-De Zhenjing is the imperial commentary that Tang Xuanzong (Li Longji) wrote for Laozi. The preface at the beginning of the volume says: In former times the Prime Sage (Yuan Sheng, referring to Laozi) reluctantly set down wondrous words, opening the true lineage of Daoism and enlightening later generations. Though his surviving writings remain, their essential meaning has often been departed from; in gathering their central purport, even Shu Yan (Yan Zun of Shu in the Han dynasty, who once commented on Laozi) still has shortcomings; in excerpting chapters and sentences, even from Heshang Gong (an early commentator on Laozi) onward there are omissions; the other commentators gradually declined and are not worth counting. How then could the wondrous purport of Xuanyuan (the Tang title for Laozi, the “Mysterious Origin Emperor”) be allowed to fall away? Tang Xuanzong humbly calls himself shallow and meager; moved by this text and having inherited the blessings of his ancestors, he feared losing the principle of Wuwei (non-action). Whenever there was a quiet banquet, he would inquire into the mysterious pass, and he wrote annotations as they came to mind, not daring to establish a school of his own but only to supplement omissions. Now that it is completed, he asks the ministers and officials, the common people, and the Daoist and Buddhist communities: if anyone can enlighten me as Bu Shang (Zixia, a disciple of Confucius) enlightened Confucius, or as Master Zuo pointed out faults, I crave good words and await them with an open mind; if their words accord with this, there will surely be generous reward. Flattering ministers who style themselves sage and wise—fortunately this is not that sort; marketplace boasting is also a minor path. Since there is no taboo, all may speak frankly; do not let later generations sneer and add to my lack of virtue.

Dao Jing, Part One, Chapter One: “The Dao That Can Be Spoken”:

“The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.” The commentary says: The Dao is the wondrous function within utmost emptiness; name is the designation obtained by the myriad things. Its wondrous function can be applied to things, and so it is said that “the Dao can be spoken of”; names are produced by that wondrous function, and so it is said that “it can be named.” Its application has no fixed place, and so it is not fixed to any one “Dao”; things differ and names vary, and so it is not fixed to any one “name.” Therefore it is only forced to call it “Dao,” while the Dao in itself is eternally nameless.

“The Nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the Named is the mother of the myriad things.” The commentary says: “Nameless” refers to the wondrous root; the wondrous root manifests Qi (vital energy) and initiates Heaven and Earth, and because Heaven and Earth begin from it, it is called “Nameless.” “Named” refers to its function; its function completes and nurtures the myriad things, and because the myriad things receive its nourishment, it is called “Named.”

What people call beauty and goodness all spring from the desiring mind. Once the heart wants something, even what is originally ugly and base may be treated as beautiful and good. Thus “all know” (jie zhi) means that each person takes what he regards as beautiful to be beauty and what he regards as good to be goodness. Beauty and goodness have no fixed standard; they are entirely delusive clinging. It is because people fixate on having and not-having, distinguish difficult from easy, and set the wondrous against the worn in mutual rivalry and struggle that the Great Sage (the sage who has attained the Dao) weighs these matters, knows deeply that they are all empty, and therefore says that when beauty is prized, the base appears (e yi).

Hence having and not-having give birth to each other, difficult and easy complete each other, long and short define each other, high and low lean on each other, tone and voice harmonize with each other, and before and after follow each other.

These six opposites alternate as names; like beauty and ugliness, they do not arise from things’ own nature but from delusive clinging, and so all such distinctions appear.

Therefore the sage abides in the work of wuwei (non-action) and practices the teaching without words.

The work of wuwei is not that there is some separate task to perform; the word “work” is only borrowed, hence “abides.” The teaching without words is forgetting speech; the word “teaching” is only borrowed, hence “practices.” Wuwei and not speaking are not another layer of artificial contrivance.

When the ten thousand things rise and act, the sage does not refuse them. Each thing is allowed to move on its own, without needing to thank the sage.

He nurtures the ten thousand things but does not possess them, acts but does not rely on his acting, and when the work is done does not dwell in merit. Each thing completes its life without being owned; each obtains what it does without being leaned upon. In this way the achievement of great peace is fulfilled. Even then one must grow more cautious day by day and not settle into idle ease.

Because he does not dwell in merit, merit does not leave him. Because he dares not rest in ease but daily deepens his de (Virtue/Power), he forgets merit yet merit remains—so by not claiming merit, he does not lose it.

Chapter Three, Not Exalting the Worthy (Bu Shang Xian): Do not exalt the worthy (those held up as capable and “worthy”), so the people do not contend with one another over them.

When worthies are exalted, traces are left for others to follow; when people chase those traces, rivalry arises. If those with talent and virtue and those without each keep to their proper place, strife will not occur.

When rare goods are not prized, the people will not become thieves.

What are called “goods hard to obtain” are things that were never part of one’s nature and proper station—things one cannot obtain by striving, hence “hard to obtain.” When someone is discontent with their station and tries to imitate what they lack, they have already lost their true nature and proper role—is that not a kind of theft? When each thing follows its own nature and each person’s actions match their capacity, people will not prize rare goods, and the genuine truth of life will not sink into thievery.

When nothing is displayed that stirs desire, the heart will not be confused.

With no traces of exalting the worthy and no pursuit of rare goods, there is nothing visible to grasp or covet, and the heart is not led astray.

Therefore the sage—one who has attained the Dao and governs the world—governs the people by keeping their hearts empty and still.

When the heart is not disturbed by desirable things, it is empty and still.

He keeps their bellies full.

When Dao and De fill them inwardly, there is no boasting and no chasing outward traces—like stopping when full, without further craving.

He keeps their wills soft.

With the heart empty and still, the will does not stiffen into rivalry.

He keeps their bones and sinews strong.

When the belly is full inwardly, bones and sinews are strong.

He constantly keeps the people without that kind of knowing and without desire.

That is: he constantly keeps them from the knowing that fuels rivalry and from greedy desire.

Even those with cleverness dare not act rashly.

By guiding all with clarity and stillness, so that none have excessive knowing or desire, even the occasionally clever dare not act arbitrarily.

Acting through wuwei (non-forcing, not imposing arbitrary action)—nothing is left poorly governed.

Within wuwei, each person keeps their nature; plain, undyed teaching can truly transform the multitude.

Chapter 4: “The Dao Is Empty” (Dao Chong)

The Dao is empty; in using it, it seems never to brim full.

This means: the Dao moves and sends forth harmonizing, empty-and-soft qi (vital energy) to generate the ten thousand things; though it generates, it never overflows. “Or seems” (huo si) is used because one dare not speak of the Dao in flat, definitive assertion.

How deep—it seems the ancestor of the ten thousand things.

"Yuan" (the abyss) means profound depth and tranquil stillness. The Dao ceaselessly gives birth to the ten thousand things, yet never becomes full in itself. Its subtle root is far-reaching and deeply still, so it seems to be the sovereign of all things.

It blunts sharp edges and unties tangles. The Dao takes emptiness, softness, and balance as its foundation, and so can subdue what is sharp and dissolve what is chaotic. If one tries to return to it by forcing worldly learning, entanglement only tightens.

It harmonizes with light and mingles with dust. The Dao is nowhere absent, yet wherever it is present is often "nothingness." Whether in light or in dust, it becomes one with them; though one with light and dust, the subtle root itself is neither light nor dust.

Clear and deep, it seems almost to endure. Harmonizing with light and mingling with dust, the subtle does not mix into them, and so it is limpid and bright, as if something remains.

In light or in dust, it is one with them; though that oneness is light and dust, the subtle essence is not light or dust. Harmonizing light and mingling dust while the subtle body stays unstained, it is thus deep and clear, as if it abides.

I do not know whose offspring it is—it seems to precede the Sovereign. I do not know from where the Dao arises; this shows the Dao is not something that was produced, so it has no father—it only seems to come before the "Emperor." The Emperor is the lord who generates the ten thousand things; "xiang" (image) means likeness, as if.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth

Heaven and earth are not benevolent—they treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs; the sage is not benevolent—he treats the people as straw dogs.

"Not benevolent" means not handing out favors of benevolence. A straw dog is a dog made of straw (used in ancient ritual, then discarded). A real dog can guard and thus earns the grace of protection; a straw dog only has the shape of a dog and cannot bark or warn, so there is no benevolent feeling toward it. This means heaven and earth regard people as people regard straw dogs—neither exalted nor expected. To expand: the highest benevolence (ren) has no partial affection—how much more would one speak of universal love? Once there is partial love, one cannot reach the utmost and it becomes private favor. Not treating only one's kin as kin, all under heaven are kin; not treating only one's children as children, all under heaven are children. Therefore the ultimate benevolence of "no partial kin" is the greatest closeness—how is that "universal love" in the ordinary sense?

Between heaven and earth—is it not like a bellows? "Tuo" is the bellows. (The text repeats the line about children and kin.) Between heaven and earth—is it not like a bellows?

The bellows is the wind box; the flute is the pipe. Both rely on inner emptiness and no deliberate intent—once they move, there is response. Heaven and Earth nurture the ten thousand things without partiality, also because they are empty and without a fixed mind.

Empty yet not bent or blocked, when set in motion, sound pours out without end. The bellows and flute are just so: empty without being crushed or worn, and once moved, the sound grows ever more. This illustrates how when the sage’s heart holds no favoritism, there is no occasion to be thwarted; in responding and applying, there is no exhaustion—it can be said that one movement yields ever more without limit.

Speak too much yet receive no response, and you fall again and again into difficulty. Try to love all things equally yet cannot cover everything, and instead invite resentment. Therefore it is better to hold the middle way—then naturally all is sufficient.

Chapter 6: The Valley Spirit

The valley spirit does not die. Gu (valley) means empty yet responsive; shen (spirit) means subtle and beyond measure; si (die) here means to cease. The echo in the valley—you do not know what sets it off; when touched, it responds; the response is wondrous as shen, and never stops. This shows that the utmost Dao is empty yet nurtures the ten thousand things; its subtle function cannot be named—hence the image of the valley spirit.

This is called the Mysterious Female (xuan pin). Xuan is depth; pin is mother. The valley spirit meets the ten thousand things; its working is empty and without fixed direction, deep and inexhaustible—it can nurture the ten thousand things like a mother. So names such as valley spirit and Mysterious Female point to the Dao’s power to nurture and sustain.

The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. The deep, empty mother nurtures the ten thousand things; all things emerge from here—hence it is called the gate. Heaven and Earth have form, so this is taken as the root from which transformation is received.

Its working is continuous and fine, faintly as if present; in use it does not weary. Because the empty mother’s operation is subtle and hard to see, as though it exists yet comes from no deliberate mind, it does not grow tired.

Chapter 7: Heaven and Earth Endure

Heaven and Earth endure long—meaning Heaven and Earth can last.

Heaven and earth are long-lasting because they do not live for themselves and therefore endure. Heaven and earth nourish the myriad things and their virtue and efficacy are vast, yet they remain long-lasting because they receive from the Dao (the source of all things) and do not boast of their role in generating the myriad things.

Therefore the sage puts himself last and yet comes to the fore; he treats his person as external and yet it is preserved. By putting himself last, people gladly advance him, so he leads; by treating his person as external, he forgets gain and loss in his heart and remains calm and free from desire, so his person is preserved.

Is this not because he is without selfishness? Thus he can achieve himself. Heaven and earth forget the merit of nourishing—this is selflessness, and thereby they endure, which is achieving themselves; the sage puts himself last and treats his person as external—this is selflessness, and thereby he can lead and be preserved, which is also achieving himself.

Chapter 8: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. To illustrate the supreme goodness of the perfected person (one of the highest cultivation), water—whose nature is close to the Dao—is used as a metaphor.

Water benefits the myriad things without contending with them; it rests where others dislike to stay, in low places—therefore it is close to the Dao. “Close” means near to.

“Dwelling in a good place”: one of highest goodness establishes himself in softness, as water stays in low places and moistens all. The earth acts through humility; water likewise flows downward.

“Heart like an abyss”: the mind is deep and still, as water gathers and becomes a deep pool.

“Giving with the highest benevolence”: giving accords with the highest ren, as water nourishes all kinds of things.

“Words of good faith”: speech is trustworthy, as water passing through dangerous places still keeps its trustworthiness.

“Government that governs well”: in office one governs skillfully, as water cleanses the myriad things and makes them pure.

“Action with good ability”: in affairs one is adept at following and employing what is apt, as water takes the shape of any vessel—square or round—without sticking to one form; and as water passing through dangerous places still keeps its faith.

“Movement at the right time”: in movement one is timely, as water follows the seasons in rising and falling, cold and warm.

Only because it does not contend is there no blame. The sage in his goodness does not contend with others, so he incurs no blame—this is the meaning of “the highest good is like water.”

In governing affairs, be like water that washes all things until they are clear and still.

In handling tasks, be good at following the way things are and entrusting work accordingly—like water, which takes the square or round shape of its vessel and does not get stuck on things.

In acting, fit the moment: when something outside stirs you, respond without missing the season—like water that melts in spring and freezes in winter.

Because you do not contend, you have no fault. A person of highest goodness keeps the mind empty and follows the ten thousand things like water: when blocked it stops, when opened it flows. Neither going against things nor picking fights, there is no place to invite blame or error.

Chapter 9, “Holding It While Full”

Insisting on holding fullness is not as good as stopping. If you clutch at being full and refuse to let it spill or slip away, amassed goods become a burden—regret and clinging are sure to follow, so it is better to stop. “Stopping” means ceasing.

Scheming to make yourself sharp cannot be kept for long. If you plot to be sharp and chase glory and fame, once wealth and rank arrive pride is inevitable—and from that come disasters—so sharpness cannot be maintained by deliberate scheming.

Gold and jade fill the hall, yet no one can guard them forever. This means fullness is hard to hold for long.

When rich and honored, yet still arrogant, you store up trouble for yourself. This means sharpness cannot be kept by scheming alone. Pride still rises from within; calamity is not handed to you by others.

When achievement is complete and fame is won, withdraw—that is the Dao of Heaven. One whose merit is done and name established should step back from the high place, like Heaven’s Dao which has emptiness and fullness, each in its season—then there is no worry.

This is the chapter “Carrying Ying and Po.”

One who has achieved success should withdraw and leave the lofty position; like the Dao of Heaven’s fullness and emptiness in their times, there is then no affliction.

Chapter 10, “Carrying Ying and Po”

The body carries ying and po (the yin spirit at the first coalescing of form is called po; after birth it is called hun). Po belongs to yin and is empty; hun belongs to yang and is full. The body bears empty po and must constantly nourish it so yang qi returns. When yang qi fills po, it becomes hun; when hun can move, life is complete. “One” means undivided. Restoring yang qi and completing life must not be stained by mixture—so hold to the One: can you keep from leaving the body?

Concentrate the spirit and gather qi until it is soft—can you be like an infant?

When the spirit is focused and qi is gathered and made gentle, the person is like a newborn who has not yet learned to smile—soft, supple, without sharp edges. This is the state the text asks whether you can sustain: not forcing, not brittle, not “sharp” in the sense of Chapter 9.

Can you polish and clear the mirror of the mysterious pass without blemish? The “mysterious pass” (xuan guan) is the inner gate where spirit and qi meet; polishing it means keeping perception clear without dust of desire or fixation—can you do that without flaw?

In loving the people and governing the state, can you practice non-action (wuwei)? Love the people without possessiveness; govern without meddling—can you act through non-action?

When the gates of Heaven open and close, can you be female? Heaven’s gates are the nostrils—breathing in and out, opening and closing. To be “female” here is to be receptive, soft, and yielding in that rhythm—can you?

When understanding reaches everywhere, can you know without relying on knowledge? Penetrating all directions yet not clinging to clever knowing—can you?

Give birth and nurture, produce without owning, act without depending on merit, lead without dominating—this is mysterious virtue (xuande). Bear and raise the ten thousand things yet do not claim them as possessions; achieve yet do not boast; guide yet do not control—this is the deep virtue the chapter names.

By single-mindedly guarding chong qi (empty yet harmonious vital breath), making it soft and yielding, one can be like an infant, free of discrimination and calculation.

“Wash the xuan lan (mysterious inner gaze); can you be without flaw?” Xuan lan is the heart’s contemplation; ci is blemish or fault. When the inner gaze is cleansed and made clear, flaws can be absent.

In loving and nurturing the people and governing the realm, can one act with wuwei (non-action)? If so, the people will transform of themselves. From ying po (spirit and soul) onward, the text is teaching self-cultivation. Only when the person is cultivated and de (virtue/power) is complete can one become a ruler.

The tian men (Heaven’s Gate) is where the mandate’s cycles emerge; opening and closing refer to order and disorder. A ruler who receives the mandate in season, keeping to the ci (feminine/receptive) and quiet clarity, can long preserve Heaven’s favor. Another reading: in the Yi, one closing and one opening is change. The sage grasps the times; responding to change has no fixed rule. Not forcing success with the xiong (assertive/male), but keeping to ci, is like the tian men opening and closing—reducing what is full and increasing what is modest.

When the ruler keeps to ci and quiet clarity, the people gladly support him; his de is as clear as the sun shining in all directions. He must still forget merit and not play the master—hence “can you be without knowledge?”

Let the ten thousand things each grow according to their nature and be nourished: nurturing without claiming ownership, acting without leaning on merit, holding rank without playing the master. When the ruler can do this, it is the far-reaching xuan de (mysterious virtue).

Chapter Eleven: Thirty Spokes

Thirty fu (spokes—the original text writes fu for fu) gather on one gu (hub); because of the empty center, the wheel is useful. This means being and non-being rely on each other to be complete. Thirty spokes describe making a wheel; gathering on one hub is using the few to command the many. The solid parts—the shaft, the box—together make the cart; the cart’s emptiness is what allows use. Without those solid parts, emptiness would have nothing to stand on.

This passage explains that the efficacy of “being” (you) and “non-being” (wu) mutually rely on each other in order to hold true. The image of thirty spokes concerns making a wheel: they all converge on one hub, so the few governs the many. The solid parts—the hub, shafts, and carriage body—together make a cart, and it is precisely because the interior is empty that the vehicle can be used. Without hub and body there is no usable cart; if the inside were not empty, hub and body would be useless.

“Kneading clay” (shan) means mixing earth; “clay” (zhi) is soil. The potter kneads earth to make a jar or bowl; it is precisely because the vessel is hollow inside that it can hold things.

Doors and windows are cut to make a room. In antiquity people dug earthen pits for dwellings and also set doors and windows—hence “cutting.” It is precisely because the room is empty inside that it can be lived in.

Thus the solid part supplies convenience, and the empty part performs the function. Visible form finds its advantage in “non-being,” taking “non-being” as benefit; the empty aspect deploys “being,” taking “being” as use. What is above form is called the Dao (the root source); what is below form is called the vessel (qi). To display the working of the utmost Dao, one borrows physical form to make it manifest—using the coarse idea that “non-being is advantageous” to clarify the subtle point that “non-being operates through being.”

Chapter Twelve — “Five colors”: The five colors make the eyes blind; the five tones make the ears deaf; the five flavors spoil the mouth’s taste. When the eyes delight in blue and yellow, the ears drown in the gong and zhi pitches (tones within the five notes), and the mouth craves the flavor of livestock and game, excess will leave the body deaf and blind.

“Racing and hunting in the fields makes the heart go mad.” Rushing after worldly affairs and clinging to deliberate action (youwei)—like hunting only to kill and capture—fighting day after day in the mind, chasing the outer world, until body and senses are deaf and blind.

Racing and hunting makes the heart go mad: striving in the world, insisting on contrived doing, hunting only for the kill; day after day the mind contends and the spirit races after externals—reflect quietly and this is the sickness of madness.

“Goods hard to obtain obstruct human conduct.” What is not in one’s allotted nature (xingfen) cannot be gained by seeking; wrongly chasing rare objects will harm practice of the Dao.

Therefore the sage (one who has attained the Dao) “nourishes the belly, not the eyes”—therefore “leave that, take this”: keep the belly that can receive and sustain, discard the eyes that look on in delusion.

Chapter Thirteen — “Favor and disgrace.”

“Favor and disgrace are like shock”: If one clings to favor and disgrace, grasping them brings trembling unease, and letting them go brings grief. As long as one has not forgotten favor and disgrace, both will cause alarm.

“Treat great calamity as one treats the body”: The body is the root of calamity. To prize and fixate on one’s body is like treating great calamity as weighty. One might expect the line to read “treat the body as one treats great calamity,” yet the classic says “treat great calamity as one treats the body”—to show that the very thought of prizing the body together in the mind is itself great calamity. Once that prizing exists, the body becomes great calamity; hence “treat great calamity as one treats the body.” “Like” (ruo) means “as if.” The two sentences above formally state the theme.

“What is meant by favor and disgrace? Favor is lowly”: Having already marked that favor and disgrace both resemble shock, the text asks what favor and disgrace are, lest people not understand. When people gain favor they become proud and self-satisfied, and there is none who does not thereby invite harm. Thus favor is the root of disgrace, so the answer is: favor is lowly.

“Gaining it is like shock, losing it is like shock—this is called favor and disgrace like shock”: Favor and disgrace arise in cycle; favor is the source of disgrace. Ordinary feelings are deluded and attached, fearing disgrace but not fearing the gaining of favor. Therefore the sage warns: when you gain favor, you should be as alarmed as when you suffer disgrace; then when you lose favor and suffer disgrace, you will likewise heed the warning and be as fearful as when you had favor. Hence the summary: this is called “favor and disgrace like shock.”

“What is meant by treating great calamity as the body?”: Fearing that people will not grasp that the body is the root of calamity, the text poses this question.

“The reason I have great calamity is that I have a body”: The form of the body is illusory and originally not truly real. It becomes the root of calamity because I am attached to having this body, and then there are pain, illness, cold and heat—hence calamities that come with having a body.

“When I no longer have a body, what calamity would I have?”: If one can understand that the harmonious Qi (he he qi) entrusted by Heaven and Earth—the vital harmony Heaven and Earth bestow that composes life—is not privately owned, leave behind form and discard cleverness (li xing qu zhi), awaken that the body is not a real body to cling to, and connect with the great pervasion (unity with the Great Dao), what calamity would remain?

“Therefore one who honors the body as one honors the world may be entrusted with the world; one who loves the body as one loves the world may be trusted with the world”: Thus one who can treat the world with the same reverence with which one reveres one’s own person may have the world placed in his care; one who can treat the world with the same cherishing with which one cherishes one’s own person may have the world entrusted to him.

This chapter first sets out a warning about favor and disgrace, then closes with the theme of entrustment. It says: “Favor and disgrace are alarming”; if one has not yet fixed on the body and is one with the Great Thoroughfare, what calamity could there be? Therefore, only one who can hold himself precious and yet act for the sake of the world may have the world entrusted to him; only one who can cherish himself and yet act for the sake of the world may have the world committed to his care.

The chapter opens with the admonition about favor and disgrace and ends in entrustment. “Favor and disgrace are alarming” means one has not yet forgotten favor, disgrace, honor, and attachment. Because honor and attachment are not forgotten, when disgrace is set beside favor, disgrace seems inferior to favor; when honor is set beside attachment, honor seems inferior to attachment. One who is startled by favor and disgrace still keeps favor and disgrace in mind; one who still retains honor and attachment has not yet humbly forgotten the world. So the text first has people treat receiving favor as equally alarming as receiving disgrace, then asks them to forget favor and disgrace altogether. Here it only borrows the more proximate terms “entrust” and “commit” to explain the utmost of forgetting both sides. Forget favor and disgrace, and nothing remains to alarm; forget the self, and the root of calamity is gone; forget the world, and even such near-at-hand names as entrustment disappear.

Chapter Fourteen: What Cannot Be Seen

Look at it yet you do not see it—this is called yi (even, level). This explains the Dao. Yi means plain and level. The Dao is not color, so looking does not reveal it; yet within colorlessness it can manifest color—hence it is called yi.

Listen yet you do not hear it—this is called xi (rare, faint). Xi is the most subtle sound. The Dao is not sound, so listening does not catch it; yet within silence it harmonizes alone—hence it is called xi.

Grasp it yet you cannot hold it—this is called wei (subtle). Tuan means to hold fast; wei means subtle and fine. The Dao has no form, so it cannot be grasped; yet within formlessness it can show form—hence it is called wei.

These three cannot be pursued to the end, so they merge into one. The three were meant to inquire into the Dao, but the Dao is not sound, color, or the law of visible form; inquiry cannot reach the Dao and yields only yi, xi, and wei. The Dao itself is not yi, xi, or wei, so the three blend again into unity.

Its upper part is not bright; its lower part is not dark.

Things that occupy a position above are necessarily bright; those below are necessarily dim. Only the Dao, though above, is not ordinary “above,” so even in the upper position it is not bright; though below, it is not ordinary “below,” so even in the lower position it is not dim.

“Indistinct and indistinct—it cannot be named; it returns again to no-thing.” Sheng sheng means movement that continues without break. The Dao is neither bright nor dim; its motion has no end, and the power by which it generates the myriad things cannot be given a fixed name. It is not a thing produced by any particular thing, so it constantly gives birth to the myriad things yet never becomes a thing itself. The mysterious root is clear, deep, and unmoving; hence the text says it returns again to no-thing.

“This is called the form of the formless, the image of no-thing—this is called huanghu (dim and elusive).” This means a shape without shape, an image without substance—neither properly called being nor non-being. The subtle root is clear and still; hence it returns to no-thing; being and non-being are both hard to name, so it is called huanghu—as if present yet absent, hard to grasp or distinguish.

“Meet it and you do not see its head; follow it and you do not see its tail.” It has no beginning, so meeting it you cannot see a head; it has no end, so following it you cannot see a tail.

“Grasp the Dao of antiquity to govern the affairs of the present.” Hold fast to the wuwei (non-action) of old to steer today’s affairs of action, and you can return to simplicity. Wuwei is not forcing or contriving.

“To know the beginning of antiquity—this is called the thread of the Dao.” To know how the Dao operated at the primordial beginning is what is meant by the guiding cord of the Dao’s begetting and nourishing the myriad things.

On Those Skilled in the Way in Antiquity (Chapter 15): “Those skilled in the Way in antiquity were subtle, mysterious, and penetrating—deep beyond knowing.” Gu is “of old”; shi is “one who acts.” This speaks of people in former times who were good at acting in accord with the Dao: they thoroughly examined and illumined subtle words and the mysterious Dao; their virtue and bearing were so deep that others could not fathom them.

“Because they could not be known, one forced a description of their appearance.” Precisely because their measure of de was hard to know, the text reluctantly sketches their outward manner to explain—referring to what follows.

“Cautious, as if crossing a stream in winter.” Yu means ease and composure. The skilled person toward the world’s norms is like crossing a river in deep winter: the multitude clings and is attached, hence afraid; the adept is not stained, hence at ease.

“Yu” (ease and unhurriedness) describes a state of leisure and composure. When a person of virtue lives amid the affairs of the world—all the myriad things of ordinary life—it is like crossing a river in winter: most people cling and grasp, so they fear; one who is not stained by attachment can therefore remain at ease and unhurried.

“Like one who still fears the neighbors” means hesitation—slow to decide and hard to resolve. The text has just said that the person of virtue is at ease because they do not cling; yet when you watch how they act, they are extremely careful and hesitant, as if today one still dreaded the admonitions of those next door.

“Dignified as a guest, dispersed as ice about to melt”: though dignified like a guest, there is no artificial posing, and no fixation on outer things; open and unobstructed, like spring ice beginning to thaw.

“Simple—how like uncarved wood”: though already as open as melting ice, they do not boast, and can still be substantial and thick, like plain timber that has not been carved or split into categories.

“Vast—how like a valley”: virtue’s measure is wide and empty, holding nothing back, like an empty valley.

“Muddied—how they seem turbid”: they harmonize their light and blend with the dust (heguang tongchen—softening their own brilliance and mingling with the ways of the world), so they look turbid, yet inwardly they are clear.

“Who can, in turbidity, use stillness to clarify it—gradually it clears?” Shu means “who.” Who can, amid turbidity, use quiet and settling to let it slowly clarify on its own?

“Who can, in that settled clarity, abide long and then move—gradually life emerges?” Who can, in that clarity, abide for a long time, then pursue a superior method (a higher path of cultivation), moving in practice so that the nature of quiet clarity does not stick to the method, but slowly stirs and manifests? Sheng here means stirring and manifesting.

“Those who preserve this Dao—gradually life emerges”: the same idea—who can, in clarity, abide long, seek the superior method, practice in motion, so quiet clarity does not cling to the method, but slowly stirs forth? Sheng means stirring forth.

“Those who preserve this Dao do not wish to be full.” To keep this way of gradual clarification and gradual manifestation, one must hold to nothing and linger on nothing. If one clings to clarity or grasps at “life,” that is fullness, and this Dao is lost. Hence “do not wish to be full.”

“Only because they are not full can they be worn yet not replaced, not newly completed.” Only one who is not full can treat each fresh insight as still shallow in what they do, and not get stuck because something new has been achieved.

Chapter 16, “Attaining the Utmost of Emptiness”: “Attain the utmost of emptiness; guard stillness with single-minded depth.” Bring emptiness to the extreme; hold stillness solid and true.

Ultimate emptiness is the subtle root—the delicate wellspring of the Dao. Every person at birth receives this root of ultimate emptiness; once a body forms and one begins to take in outer things, that subtle root scatters. If you now want it to return to you for certain, you must renounce the dusty realm—the state of being dragged and stained by the mundane—and hold to feminine stillness with depth and sincerity; then the way of ultimate emptiness will come to you on its own.

“All things arise together; I contemplate their return.” Laozi asks: how do we know that guarding feminine stillness reaches ultimate emptiness? Simply look at the myriad actions and doings of things: when they turn back toward the root, they always do so in stillness—thereby we know.

“When things flourish in abundance, each returns to its root.” We can see that the return of the ten thousand things habitually lies in stillness: though flowers and leaves may be lush and tangled, their nature always turns back to the root. “Flourish in abundance” (yunyun) speaks of motion. The ten thousand things move in all directions; when they return, they are always within the root.

“Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to the mandate.” Things like flowers and leaves, in their nature returning to the root, become still. When a person can return to the root and reach stillness, that is recovering the life and nature originally received at birth.

“Returning to the mandate is called constancy; knowing constancy is called clarity.” Guarding stillness and returning to the mandate is constancy. One who knows how to hold to this constant way becomes all the more clear-sighted.

“Not knowing constancy, reckless action brings disaster.” One who cannot long preserve inner power may invite disgrace; departing from the constant way and acting rashly, great misfortune is sure to come.

“Knowing constancy is being receptive.” Knowing how to hold to true constancy, the mind is empty and still, like a hollow valley—nothing it cannot hold.

“Being receptive leads to impartiality.” Able to embrace and respond to the ten thousand things, when meeting things one raises no private motive, one reaches the utmost; without selfish or crooked thoughts, one is impartial.

“Impartiality leads to kingship.” Able to be impartial and selfless, one becomes the place to which the ten thousand things turn.

“Kingship leads to Heaven.” Able to be the refuge of the ten thousand things, one further aligns with Heaven.

When all things gladly defer to him, as heaven covers all things, he shares the same virtue as heaven.

Heaven embodies the Dao: only when a ruler’s virtue is like heaven’s can he put the Dao into practice.

The Dao endures long: only when the Dao is carried out in the world can one long enjoy blessings and the fortune of the state.

Until death, no peril: walking the Dao together with heaven, even until the body dies, one will not long be in danger.

Chapter 17: The Highest Rulers

The highest rulers—those of plain, ancient times. “The people only know they exist” means subjects know only that there is a ruler above them, and revere him as they revere heaven; the ruler leaves no trace of deliberate teaching or contrived action, so people have no concrete virtue by which to praise him in words.

Next, people draw close and praise him: as virtue declines, the ruler promotes good teaching and benevolence shows; people then draw near to him. When his merit is great, people praise him.

Next, people fear and despise him: as virtue declines further, the ruler has many bad policies people can hardly bear, so he drives them with punishments and they fear him. When each side hides private motives and deceives the other and the ruler cannot see clearly, they slight him.

When trust is insufficient, distrust arises: people fear and despise him because the ruler himself lacks sufficient trustworthiness, and only then do untrustworthy people appear below.

Still, they value his words: people draw close and praise him because the ruler has words of virtue and teaching, so they value what he says and draw near and praise him.

When tasks are accomplished and affairs succeed, the people say, “We did it naturally”: success achieved without clinging, affairs completed without forced action; the people benefit from it day after day yet do not know where it comes from—they only say it was always so, accomplished of itself. The earlier line “success achieved without holding on, serving people in affairs” means not claiming success as one’s own but simply doing the work and treating people—this is “the highest rulers; the people only know they exist.”

Chapter 18: When the Great Dao Is Abandoned

When the great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear: only after the great Dao is cast aside do benevolence and righteousness stand out.

When sincerity and depth gave way to shallowness and plain authenticity was lost, the Dao (the Way) could no longer be lived as before. Only then did people elevate benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi), and limited, partial “achievements” began to appear. It is like fish moistening one another with spit when water runs dry (rú mò)—a response to lack, not abundance; decline and ruin arise from forced effort and contrivance. The sage’s heart in saving the world is always the same; because times are sometimes calm and sometimes perilous, the outward traces of action cannot look identical.

Once cleverness and “wisdom” appear, deep falsity follows. People use such wisdom to set up laws and standards; as soon as norms are fixed, cunning and fraud arise, and great hypocrisy appears. Even talismans and seals of office—the credentials by which rulers mobilize troops and prove authority—can be stolen and forged. Can this be doubted?

When the six kin are not in harmony, “filial piety” and “kindness” become visible labels. Father, mother, husband, wife, brothers and sisters are the six kin; when closeness and distance lose their proper order, that is disharmony; when each person cares only for their own kin and children, that is what gets called filial piety and kindness. All of this happens because the Dao has been lost, so one-sided names and virtues are needed.

When the state is in turmoil, “loyal ministers” stand out. In great peace, ruler and subjects are content with one another—why seek special reputations? In chaos, some face danger and give their lives; only then do loyal ministers become conspicuous.

Chapter Nineteen is titled “Abandoning Sageliness and Abandoning Wisdom” (jué shèng qì zhì).

Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom, and the people will gain a hundredfold benefit. Remove the traces of the sage’s verbal teaching, and education returns to wuwei (non-action, acting in accord with nature without forcing); cast aside the uses of ordinary cleverness and artifice, and people become plain and sincere. Plainness prevents crafty falsehood; wuwei stops boasting and frantic pursuit. People hold the natural breath of harmony within, and things do not die prematurely—this is the hundredfold benefit.

Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness, and the people return to broad filial piety and kindness. Cut off indiscriminate “universal love” benevolence and discard righteousness used to judge right and wrong, and people revert to a wide, natural filial piety and kindness.

Abandon craftiness and discard profit-seeking, and thieves will not arise. If people show off partial talents and clever tricks, contention for gain follows; abandoning craftiness ends strife; abandoning profit-seeking leads to self-sufficiency, and self-sufficiency means no one becomes a thief.

If these three points are only painted on the surface, they are still not enough; therefore people must be given something to rely on inwardly, holding to abandonment in the heart: abandon craftiness and there is no contention; abandon profit and there is self-sufficiency; self-sufficiency means one will not become a thief.

What was said earlier about the three matters only calls for cutting off and abandoning; it has not yet indicated how one should cultivate, so those words alone are not enough to instruct people. Therefore the text goes on to point out where one should turn—that is what the following lines mean.

“Manifest the true and pure original nature, hold fast to simplicity and plainness, reduce selfishness, and restrain desires.”

See the genuine substance, embrace simplicity, lessen selfish deviation, and lessen greedy longing.

Huangdi Yujun Yuzhu Daode Zhenjing, juan 2, Lower Dao Section, “Juexue Wuyou” (Chapter 20).

“Abandon learning, and there is no worry.”

Cut off worldly learning pursued with deliberate intent, and the simple original nature will not be scattered; with less selfishness and fewer desires, there is no sorrow.

“‘Yes’ in respectful reply and ‘Ah’ in careless reply—how far apart are they? Good and evil—how far apart are they?”

“Yes” (wei) is a respectful assent; “Ah” (a) is a careless assent. Both come from the mouth, so the text asks how far apart they can be. Yet respectful assent counts as good, careless assent as evil. This is a metaphor for worldly learning: cut it off and there is no worry; fail to cut it off and calamity arises. The difference lies only in whether the mind can turn back and reflect upon itself—how could they truly be far apart?

“What people fear, one cannot fail to fear.”

What ordinary people fear is carelessness and evil; what those who possess the Dao fear is worldly learning and deliberate action (youwei). All of these must be cut off, so one cannot fail to hold them in awe.

“Vast and dim—there is no end.”

If one does not know fear and does not cut off worldly learning, the inherent upright nature of living beings is wasted away, with no moment of rest.

“The multitude are all exuberant, as if enjoying the grand feast (ox, sheep, and pig all present), as if climbing a high terrace in spring to look out.”

The multitude chase worldly learning and purposeful deeds, bustling after outer circumstances, like facing a lavish banquet or longing to mount the spring terrace—every move breeds greedy desire.

“I alone am calm and still; desire has not yet shown its trace, like an infant who cannot yet laugh.”

I alone am tranquil and quiet; toward desire there is almost no trace at all, like an infant who cannot yet laugh as a small child does.

“I drift along, as if I have nowhere to return.”

The perfected person (zhiren, one united with the Dao who acts without private intent and responds to things as they come) has no fixed mind. In action he follows outer things, taking nothing and giving nothing, like a traveler who has no fixed place he must return to. “Drifting along” (cheng cheng) describes the back-and-forth motion of coming and going.

“The multitude all think they have more than enough.”

Everyone else is sunk in worldly business, flaunting their cleverness, thinking themselves already full, and showing it off as brilliance and grandeur. I alone seem to have lost something, often feeling insufficient, as if something were forgotten. I truly keep a foolish heart—simple and undifferentiated. Am I really a fool to have forgotten this much? It is only that my nature is plain and thick, so I look as though something were missing.

Worldly people shine and stand out; that is boasting of cleverness. I alone look dim; I hold back my edge and hide my light. Worldly people are finicky and sharp-eyed; that is setting up laws and splitting hairs. I alone seem dull and blocked; my heart is simply broad. Suddenly as if plunged in obscurity, quiet as if without end: outwardly I seem dark, inwardly I am still, cut off from conventional learning, as if there were nowhere to hold fast.

Everyone has something to lean on and something to do. In the world each pursues his own aim, chasing outer conditions and vulgar learning. I alone seem stubborn and crude. “Stubborn” means not calculating distinctions; “crude” means looking shallow and inadequate. Inwardly I have already awakened; outwardly I only seem lacking—hence “seem.”

I alone am not like others. Others have desire; I have no clinging or defilement. Others turn from the Dao; I align with the Dao. What I value is seeking nourishment from the “Mother”—the Mother is the Dao that bears and nurtures the ten thousand things.

“Seeking nourishment from the Mother” means valuing a state like that of an infant, without the desire to scheme or grasp. The earlier passage says “like an infant that has not yet learned to smile,” and a later one says “one whose De is thick is like a newborn child” (chizi). Precisely because of this, such a person stands apart from ordinary people. Originally the characters for “seek” and “from” were not in the text; they were added later. When sages expounded the teaching, they need not have been coy about wording; today, when the teaching is transmitted, people are more guarded. The principle must be made clear and the meaning must not be altered; in the actual phrasing, the lines must read smoothly and securely. That serves present readers and preserves the ancient sense—that is what we should aim for. Sima Qian said that Laozi spoke somewhat more than five thousand words, meaning he explained the Way and then stopped—one should not treat “five thousand” as a fixed word count.

Chapter Twenty-One: The Countenance of Great De (Kongde zhi rong)

The countenance of great De (Kongde)—only the Dao is followed.

Kong means “beyond the ordinary”; cong means to follow. Here the text asks: how does one of the highest virtue carry oneself? It means that what the person of De does is only to follow that Dao of utmost emptiness and stillness (the Dao at the limit of xu and ji).

The Dao as a “thing”—only elusive, only indistinct.

This describes the Dao that great De follows: it is neither sheer being nor sheer nothingness; its empty, subtle functioning is hard to name, hence “elusive and indistinct.”

Elusive and indistinct—within it there is a semblance (xiang).

Hu means non-being; huang means being. What first shows a trace is called xiang (semblance). From non-being into being, within it all forms faintly appear.

Indistinct and elusive—within it there is a thing.

“Thing” is the same “thing” as in “the Dao as a thing” above. From being back to non-being, it returns to the Dao, hence “within it there is a thing.”

Dark and deep, dim and remote—within it there is essence (jing).

Between the huang and hu of being and non-being, so remote and hidden that it cannot be fathomed, the power that generates the myriad things—its subtle wonder—still abides.

That essence is most real—within it there is trustworthiness (xin).

This jing is utterly genuine; within it there is xin that can be verified and relied upon.

In profound depth and hidden subtlety, the subtle essence itself originally contains no falsity or admixture. Once the myriad things are touched and connected, it necessarily responds; and in its functioning there is never error—hence it is said to “have trustworthiness,” meaning it is true and reliable.

“From antiquity to the present, its name does not depart” means the Great Dao has been generating the myriad things from ancient times until now. Only when things receive the Dao’s efficacy do they establish names by that efficacy. The work of generating and transforming is the same in past and present, so the name of that efficacy never vanishes.

“By it to examine the beginnings of the multitude”: yue (to examine) means to scrutinize; fu means origin or beginning. The supreme Dao, in its operation, examines the beginnings of the myriad things so that each may complete its generation and transformation.

“How do I know that the beginnings of the multitude are so? By this” asks: on what basis do I know the beginnings of the myriad things are like this? The answer is: by this Dao. All things receive their endowment from the Dao, and only then possess such wondrous generative power.

Chapter 22, “Bending Leads to Wholeness”:

“Bending leads to wholeness”: yielding oneself to meet affairs yet leads to preservation intact.

“Crookedness leads to straightness”: lowering oneself to complete others yet leads to uprightness.

“Emptiness leads to fullness”: guarding the virtue of humility, one is often full.

“Worn leads to new”: content in plainness and lowliness, one renews day by day.

“Less leads to gain”: holding fast to the One (the unity of the Dao) without losing it, nothing is lost.

“More leads to confusion”: when paths of deliberate action multiply, confusion and disorder follow.

Therefore, “the sage holds the One as the model for the world”: the sage holds to simplicity and unity, and so becomes the world’s pattern—that is, its standard and example.

“Not self-displaying, hence bright”: one who does not parade virtue, often yielding to meet affairs, finds virtue whole and naturally manifest.

“Not self-approving, hence distinguished”: one who does not insist on being right, but lowers oneself to complete others, finds uprightness naturally shining forth.

“Not self-boasting, hence has merit”: one who does not praise oneself therefore keeps merit.

If a person does not boast or claim credit for achievements, merit in the end returns to that person.

Because one does not exalt oneself, one can endure. If one can long remain humble and plain, without showing off, others will gladly honor one’s strengths.

Precisely because one does not contend with others, under heaven there is no one who can contend with such a person. One who does not compete with external things—who is left to oppose? This means that whether people are worthy or unworthy, none can overcome one who does not contend.

The ancients said, “What is bent becomes whole” (qu ze quan)—was that empty talk? Wholeness truly returns to such a person. The saying that bending can lead to completion—is it false? One who can truly bend will have the complete principle return to them. If the principle can return to oneself, the meaning is the same.

Chapter Twenty-Three: “Few Words Accord with Nature” (Xiyan Ziran)

“Few words accord with nature”: Xiyan means speech close to forgetting words. The text says “xi” (rare/few) rather than “forgetting words” to show that one must still use language to explain the Dao; one cannot discard language entirely. Once one realizes the Dao, words naturally fall away—hence “xi.” If one can use language to awaken to the Dao yet not cling to language, that accords with nature (ziran).

A violent wind does not blow all morning; a cloudburst does not rain all day. When wind and rain are fierce and sudden, they are brief and harm the ten thousand things. Likewise, if teaching is held rigidly and frozen in literal wording, one loses the Dao and falls into confusion.

What brings this about? Heaven and earth. Even heaven and earth cannot make violence last; how much less can human beings? Heaven and earth are vast; if they act in fierce, short bursts, they injure the ten thousand things and still cannot sustain it. Compared to people: if one clings to words and freezes teaching in form, one harms the Dao yet still hopes for full awakening—how could that be possible?

Therefore those who devote themselves to the Dao should not cling to or freeze teaching in verbal form.

Those who accord with the Dao are one with the Dao. Those who realize the Dao awaken to it and forget words—they become identical with the Dao.

Those who accord with De (Virtue/Power) are one with De. De is the name for the Dao’s functioning; if one embodies the Dao without claiming merit, one’s conduct matches the Dao’s operation.

Those who accord with “loss” are one with loss. (In the Daodejing tradition, this refers to those who have drifted from the Way—they align with decline and separation from the Dao.)

Those who cling to words and are bound by teachings cannot fully awaken; without awakening they lose the Great Dao (the root and constant pattern of all things), and they themselves become the same as “loss.” As for “function,” if a person can grasp the Dao and forget merit, what they do will align with the workings of the Dao.

Those who are the same as loss will in the end also be loss.

Clinging to words and staying stuck in teachings, one cannot awaken; without awakening one is lost in the Dao, and one becomes the same as loss.

Those who accord with the Dao, the Dao also gains them; those who accord with De (virtue that follows from the Dao), De also gains them; those who accord with loss, loss also gains them.

The fangzhu (a vessel that collects dew) can draw water; the yangsui (a bronze mirror that gathers sunlight) can draw fire. Things of the same kind respond to one another—by this one can clearly judge.

When trust is insufficient, distrust comes in return.

Clinging to words and stuck in teachings without awakening is insufficient trust; when one is the same as loss, loss is also glad to come—this is what it means to have distrust.

Chapter Twenty-Four: “One Who Stands on Tiptoe Does Not Stand Firm”

One who stands on tiptoe cannot stand steady; one who takes huge strides cannot go far.

“Standing on tiptoe” means lifting the heels to peer about; “striding” means taking big steps while carrying something along. This is a metaphor: seeking wisdom by showing oneself off will never be attained—how is that different from wanting to stand long on tiptoe or travel far by giant strides?

Those who show themselves off are not wise. Flaunting ability and parading oneself—as soon as they act, emptiness shows, so they are not clear-sighted.

Those who insist they alone are right cannot shine. Only accepting oneself and rejecting others instead becomes a place where resentment gathers, so they do not stand out.

Those who boast of themselves have no merit. Insisting on claiming merit for oneself, outer things will not respond, so there is no achievement.

Those who praise themselves cannot last long. Showing off one’s talents and conduct, one is looked down on, so one does not endure.

From the perspective of the Dao, these are called leftover food and surplus actions—things too would dislike them, so those who have the Dao do not act this way.

Conduct of the “showing oneself off” kind, judged by the Dao, is like leftover food and actions as redundant as a wen (a superfluous growth). Even things dislike such behavior; those who have the Dao will not place themselves in it.

Chapter Twenty-Five: “There Is Something Formed in Unity”

There is a undifferentiated whole that already existed before Heaven and Earth arose.

There is a thing—something formed from undifferentiated unity—that holds and nurtures all things; tracing the source of its generative and transforming power, we find it existed before heaven and earth appeared.

It is silent and vast, existing alone and never changing, circulating everywhere without falling into danger—it can serve as the mother of the world. The substance of this “thing” is empty and still; its subtle root is clear and eternally tranquil, hence it stands alone without alteration; its operation extends through all beings, hence it moves everywhere without peril. All things are born through it and receive its generous nourishing virtue, so it can be the world’s mother.

I do not know its name. Seeing that something is coming into being yet remains hidden and nameless, I use “penetrating life” (tongsheng) to mark its De and give it the designation “Dao”; I also use “embracing” to point to its substance and reluctantly call it “great.”

Great is also called passing away; passing away is also called far; far is also called returning. Its subtle function has no fixed direction—the names forced upon it cannot confine it. Pursuing it from “great,” it has already passed; pursuing further along where it has gone, it is distant and unreachable. If one can awaken to it, it is close at hand in body and mind, and can be realized here.

Therefore the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is great. Speaking of what makes each great: what attains the One (holding fast to this sole Dao) are heaven, earth, and the king. Heaven’s greatness lies in covering; earth’s greatness lies in bearing; the king’s greatness lies in modeling himself on earth and taking heaven as model while carrying out the Dao—so the king is also great. Within the cosmos there are four greats, and the king occupies one of them; that earth and the king are also great is explained on this basis.

The king is the ruler of human beings; the rise and fall of the ten thousand things depend on him. The classic intends to offer a warning, hence it says the king stands among the four greats—to admonish rulers that they must have something to model themselves on, namely what follows below.

Human beings should model themselves on the earth, the earth should model itself on heaven, heaven should model itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on ziran—what is so of itself, without forced artifice. Here “human being” means the ruler. In governing the people, the ruler should first emulate the earth’s stillness; having done so, he should further emulate heaven, turning and nourishing the myriad things; once the myriad things have come into being, he should still emulate the Dao, remaining pure and still in wuwei (non-action), letting things transform and nurture themselves. When the ruler acts thus, he accords with the natural character that the Dao itself takes as its model.

Chapter 26, “Heavy Is the Root of Light”

Heaviness is the root of lightness, and stillness is the master of restlessness. Heaviness restrains lightness, hence it is the root; stillness can govern restlessness, hence it holds the lead.

Therefore the noble person may travel all day yet never parts from the heavy baggage train—the wagons loaded with supplies. “Baggage” means the wagons; “heavy” means what those wagons carry. Those inclined to levity and haste should value heaviness and stillness, just as on a journey one must keep to the supply train: lose the baggage and one faces cold and hunger; cherish lightness and impulsiveness and calamity arises.

Even when there are splendid palaces and towers, one should dwell at ease, standing aloof from them. The ruler holds to heaviness and stillness; though there is splendor worth beholding, he must still live at leisure and not set his heart on such externals.

Why would the lord of ten thousand chariots—the sovereign of a great state—treat his own person lightly in the eyes of the realm? “How can this be?” is a sigh of grief and lament. The realm is the most exalted position of all. This means: how can the ruler, indulging private desire and using himself rashly, lose the throne thereby?

Rashness loses the ministers; impatience loses the ruler. When the ruler acts with disrespect, hearts scatter and he loses his ministers; when ministers are impatient and grasping, the ruler disdains to stand with them and they lose their ruler.

Chapter 27, “Good at Moving”

Skill in walking leaves no rut-marks. Amid the myriad things one discerns true nature—what is originally real—and walks without clinging to the form of walking; hence it is called good moving. When heart and Dao accord thus, no track can be traced.

Skill in speech offers no flaw that others can fault. One who understands verbal teaching is not bound or blocked by words and phrases, sets aside surface appearance to seek the original intent, and once the principle is verified forgets the words—then speech joins the Dao and no blameworthy flaw remains.

One who thoroughly understands the teaching conveyed in words is not detained or attached by those words; setting aside outward form, one seeks the meaning within. Once the Way is verified in experience, words may be set aside—hence in verbal teaching there is no flaw or fault.

One skilled at reckoning needs no counting rods. Such a person sees that things do not originally split into two opposing paths; one principle runs through the whole without spawning extra views, so there is no laborious calculation—clarity comes of itself. Since nothing is calculated, is this not “good”?

One skilled at shutting needs no bolt or lock, yet the door cannot be opened. Words and deeds are forgotten together; one does not enter divergent gates. The heart has no confusion from boundaries, and the outer world offers nothing to drag the mind. Though there is no lock, how could it be opened?

One skilled at binding needs no rope, yet the knot cannot be undone. Recognizing true nature has always depended on emptiness and forgetting. When emptiness and forgetting are present, the heart aligns with the Dao. Though there is no rope, how could it come loose?

Therefore the sage is always good at saving people—no person is abandoned; always good at saving things—no thing is discarded. The sage often teaches through these five kinds of “goodness” (good conduct, good speech, good reckoning, good shutting, good binding), so nothing is cast away.

This is called xi ming (hidden illumination): applying it in concealment is “xi.” The five good acts hinge on forgetting; with forgetting, nothing is discarded. More than that, one must forget and also release attachment; after forgetting and releasing, no trace remains—hence it is called secret application. Within that secret application one can penetrate—therefore it is called illumination.

Thus the good person is teacher to the not-good, and the not-good person is resource for the good. “Teacher” means a model one may follow; “resource” means something one may take and use. The good may be emulated; the not-good may be put to service.

Not honoring one’s teacher and not cherishing one’s resource—the deep point of this chapter is to forget both sides together. If teacher and resource still remain, one has not reached the ultimate. Honoring the teacher is because the appearance of learning still stands; when that appearance is empty, naturally nothing needs honoring. Cherishing the resource is because the appearance of teaching still stands; forgetting teaching within teaching, one no longer cherishes. When honoring and cherishing are both forgotten, the Dao completes the transformation by itself.

Though one has wisdom, if one still falls into great confusion, that is called the crucial and subtle principle.

Those who are good at being scholars do not display their skill; those who are good at speaking do not slip into fault-finding. When both teacher and resource are set aside and no longer clung to, this is called Xuande (profound virtue that does not show itself). Ordinary people do not understand this and instead take it for great confusion. The sage says: though one clearly knows that the world calls this great delusion, viewed through the Dao, it is precisely what is subtle and essential. To recognize this so-called great delusion is called yaomiao (the essential and subtle).

Chapter Twenty-eight: “Knowing the Male”

Know the male, yet hold to the female, and you become the valley of the world. Being the valley of the world, Changde (constant virtue) does not leave the person, and conduct returns to that of an infant—soft and pure. The fault of the male lies in relying on strength to act; therefore, knowing the male, one should all the more keep to the female. With virtue of humility, the myriad things come to attach themselves, like a valley stream. Thus true, constant virtue does not leave the body; embracing the Dao and holding chonghe (harmonious emptiness), one’s actions return to infancy.

Know the bright, yet hold to the dim, and you become the model of the world. Being the model, Changde is not in error, and one returns to Wuji (the boundless origin). By keeping to female softness and quiet clarity, Changde does not leave the person. Though virtue is already clear, one should still be like dimness and not show off—only then does one become the world’s pattern. When Changde is applied, it never misses; its use has no end, and so one returns to Wuji. Te here means error or deviation.

Know honor, yet hold to disgrace, and you become the valley-stream of the world. Being the valley-stream, Changde is sufficient, and one returns to Pu (uncarved simplicity). Though virtue is noble and glorious, one still constantly keeps to lowliness and humility; when external things stir, one responds, like an empty valley echoing. Receiving with emptiness, one accepts without exhaustion, Changde becomes complete, and one returns to the Dao. Pu is the Dao.

When Pu is scattered, it becomes the various vessels/things. The sage uses them and becomes chief among the officials. When virtue is stored within and merges with oneself, one returns to Pu; when Changde is applied outward, it spreads and becomes the myriad things. Once it enters formed things, there must be fine and coarse. The sage is skilled in using this and becomes the leader who governs all kinds of talent.

Therefore the greatest cutting is cutting that does not split apart.

When the sage governs the people through the Great Dao, his touch is as gentle as spring. The people receive his grace yet need not thank him; animals and plants thrive without being cut or harmed.

Chapter 29: Not Taking Action

If someone tries to seize the world and force himself upon it, I say he will not succeed. The world is the most exalted seat. One who has the Dao waits until the turn of the mandate (the order of imperial succession fixed by Heaven) falls to him. If a violent man tries to take the throne by force and make himself ruler, Laozi warns: I say he will not succeed.

The world is a sacred vessel (the throne entrusted by Heaven and Earth), not something to be grasped by force; whoever tries will fail. This most exalted seat is the vessel of Heaven and Earth, hence it is called a sacred vessel—it cannot be won by arms, and so it is said, “Those who act upon it ruin it.” This is a warning to treacherous, rebellious ministers.

What you clutch too tightly, you lose. When the mandate is already yours and the throne is already gained, yet you still try to hold it in a death grip, mistreating the divine sovereign (the one who receives the mandate to rule and preside over sacrifice to the spirits), Heaven sends calamity upon the violent and debauched—and he too will lose the throne. This is a warning to emperors.

Thus in things, some lead and some follow; some are warmed, some are chilled; some grow strong, some grow weak; some are fit to bear and succeed, some are broken and cast down. The point is: forcing things leads to failure, clinging leads to loss. Things may walk ahead or trail behind; may be warmed or chilled; supported they grow strong, suppressed they grow weak; with the Dao they can succeed, without virtue they are ruined and abandoned.

Therefore the sage avoids extremes, extravagance, and excess. Seeing that things lead or follow, he knows that those who cling must lose—so he merely strips away what goes too far.

Chapter 30: Using the Dao to Assist the Ruler

One who uses the Dao to assist a ruler does not rely on military force to dominate the world, for the business of arms easily rebounds upon oneself. If a minister can assist his ruler with the Dao, he should bring people to willing submission through virtue, not contend for the world with the might of armies. Why? Because weapons are ill-omened tools.

A minister who can assist the ruler by way of the Dao should use virtue to bring people to gentle submission, and must not rely on the coercive power of arms to throw weight around under Heaven. Why? Weapons are inauspicious tools, and warfare is a perilous affair. Once troops are raised against one another and armies clash, the other side is bound to respond; when matters easily invite retaliation, victory and defeat cannot be foretold.

Where armies encamp, brambles and thorns spring up. After a great host passes through, years of famine and disaster are sure to follow.

Wherever armies go, fighting disrupts farming as soon as it begins; when agriculture is neglected, thorns and weeds take over. The killing qi of war draws calamity, and floods and droughts follow in succession. When farming is harmed first and disasters arrive after, famine years inevitably appear.

Therefore one who is good at assisting in government seeks only to reach the goal and then stop, and dares not use that success to show force. Reaching the goal without self-praise, without displaying martial achievement, without arrogance—

One skilled at assisting is resolute only in checking the enemy; the aim is to settle the people and unite the multitude, and one must never seek victory to show strength. Thus, though one firmly checks the enemy, it is only so that the enemy no longer raids as a marauder; one must not boast of merit and display prowess, lest pride and self-satisfaction follow. Pride leads to ruin, so one must take this deeply to heart. Acting from necessity when the goal is reached—this is being resolute without relying on force.

When enemies advance and fighting cannot be avoided, only then does one use arms to stop them. In this way, resolution lies in responding to the enemy, not in leaning on military might to show strength.

When a thing reaches the peak of strength it declines and ages—this is called not accord with the Dao; what is not accord with the Dao perishes early.

When a thing deploys its full strength, it is like an army leaning on overwhelming force. When a thing is too strong it decays; when troops are too strong they fail—this is called not accord with the Dao. One should stop early and not go further.

Chapter Thirty-One: “Fine Weapons” (Fu Jia Bing)

To delight in the use of arms is to favor an inauspicious instrument. Even among the ten thousand things there are those that loathe it, so the person of the Dao does not take their stand there.

“Jia” means to delight in; “bing” here means stratagem. Ordinary people polish their words and display sincerity, yet cannot treat virtue as the talent held within; instead they delight in military stratagems. The use of stratagem lies only in attack, seizure, and killing—hence it is a poor instrument. Even the ten thousand things have what they detest, so the person of the Dao does not immerse themselves in it.

Therefore, in ordinary life the noble person (junzi) regards the left as honored; when employing troops, they regard the right as honored. The left belongs to Yang: Yang qi is mild and can give rise to the myriad things, so in daily dwelling the left is valued. The right belongs to Yin; when Yin qi congeals it turns severe and killing, and so in warfare the right is valued, and people also take their place on the right.

Weapons are inauspicious tools—“inauspicious” here means not good. Those who delight in warfare exalt killing, so weapons are ungood instruments. They are not tools that the noble person uses. The noble person takes De (Virtue/Power) as their capacity and instrument and does not set store by military stratagems. One resorts to weapons only when there is no alternative; to remain tranquil and plain—to be restrained and not compete aggressively—is best. When peoples from beyond the Central Plains invade inward, one is forced to use arms; to be skilled at winning without contentious striving is precisely to take tranquility as paramount.

Having won, one does not treat victory as something fine. If one treats winning as fine, that is taking pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing cannot realize their aspirations under Heaven. When one defeats the enemy, one must pity those people, and therefore does not regard victory as a beautiful thing. Victory necessarily means killing many; if one treats winning as fine, one is fond of killing many. Those fond of killing many—people will surely refuse to submit. And still to wish to succeed in the world—is that not difficult?

Auspicious occasions take the left as superior; mournful and funerary affairs take the right as superior. The lieutenant general (deputy commander) stands on the left; the commander-in-chief stands on the right. The lieutenant general, lower in rank, stands on the left because he is not primarily responsible for killing; the commander-in-chief, higher in rank, stands on the right because he presides over military planning. This means treating the use of arms with the rites of mourning. Mourning rites honor the right; with the commander-in-chief now on the right, placement follows funerary custom.

When many have been killed, one should weep for them with a heart of grief. Life is inherently precious, yet in battle it is slain; compassion in the heart cannot bear it, and so one grieves and weeps in sorrow. Even when one has won the battle, one should handle the outcome with mourning rites.

The brave and strong, when victorious in battle, receive enfeoffment and are seated on the right. Honoring the right is inauspicious, so it is treated with funeral rites. If weapons are regarded merely as inauspicious implements, why must one rely on plain white mourning dress (gao su) as the basis for that attitude?

Dao Constantly Without Name, Chapter 32: “The Dao is constantly without name.” The Dao takes responding to the uses of things as its constant; it can always follow things in response, and the way of responding is not single or fixed—hence, in this constant sense, the Dao has no fixed name.

Pu (the uncarved block) is small, yet none under heaven dare treat it as a subject. Pu is the subtle root (the wondrous foundation). The subtle root is pure and unified as one, hence it is called small; when that one is used to bring forth the myriad things, it becomes utterly vast, so no one dares to treat the Dao as a subject to be commanded.

If lords and kings can hold fast to it, the myriad things will of themselves come to submit. If lords and kings hold fast to the Dao’s purity and unity, without reckless interference yet naturally nurturing and transforming, the myriad things will on their own become submissive.

When heaven and earth unite in harmony, sweet dew descends; no one commands it, yet all are naturally equalized. If lords and kings embrace and hold purity and unity, it is like the earth level and heaven complete, heaven and earth interacting in harmony—then sweet dew falls. Once sweet dew has fallen, common wormwood (xiao) and orchid alike receive the moisture; without relying on commands and edicts, things are naturally balanced and equal. This is a metaphor for lords and kings measuring the myriad things and dispensing fairly.

“When regulation first begins, names arise; once names exist, they are already complete.” When the human ruler employs the Dao to bring peace to the world, only then can he begin to govern and control things that have names; those things then all belong to the lords and kings. “Already” (ji) here means “all” or “entirely.”

“He too will know when to stop; knowing when to stop, therefore there is no peril.” When lords and kings can govern and control things with names, those things will also know to attach themselves and stop at the lords and kings; knowing to attach to a ruler who possesses the Dao, there is therefore no danger or peril.

If lords and kings can govern things that have names, those things will know to attach themselves to and rely on the lords and kings. They know to depend on a ruler who possesses the Dao, and so they do not meet with ruin or extinction.

The Dao in the world is like the relationship between valleys and streams and the great rivers and seas.

Heaven sends down sweet dew as an auspicious sign for one who possesses the Dao. So one compares a ruler who possesses the Dao: he governs the world through you (letting things be as they are, without imposing force), and Heaven responds to him, as valleys and streams and the great rivers and seas flow into one another.

Knowing Others Is Wisdom — Chapter Thirty-Three

To know others is called wisdom; to know oneself is called clarity (ming).

Wisdom is using talent and effort to know external things; clarity is using penetrating, all-embracing light to see what is hidden and subtle. Wisdom always has what it does not know; clarity has nothing it does not illuminate.

To surpass others counts only as having strength; to surpass oneself is true strength.

One who can subdue others may be called merely strong; one who can overcome one’s own mind and bring it back to softness and yielding can achieve true strength.

One who knows contentment is rich; one who strives to practice is resolute.

Knowing where to stop and being content, without greed, may be called rich; exerting oneself in action without slackening may be called having resolve and integrity.

One who does not lose the place where one should stand can endure long.

Being both content and diligent in practice, and not losing one’s constant station, is to remain long in the Dao.

One who dies yet does not perish is truly long-lived.

Death is the end reached according to one’s station and allotted span; wang (perishing) is premature death against one’s fate; longevity is the full completion of one’s term of life. Those who only know others and only seek to surpass others inevitably invite disaster; those who are content and also diligent in practice, whose every move accords with Heaven’s constant way—those who obtain Heaven’s constancy die without perishing; when the term of life is complete, that may be called longevity.

The Great Dao Flows Everywhere — Chapter Thirty-Four

The great Dao spreads and flows widely; it may be on the left or on the right.

The great Dao is bound to nothing, yet it can respond to and receive the ten thousand things; whether on the left or the right it shows no partiality, and no single name can fix or limit it.

The ten thousand things rely on it to live, and it does not refuse them; when achievements are complete, it does not claim them as its own.

This means: the ten thousand things depend on the empty, yielding function of the Dao (the Dao’s emptiness that can give birth and transform) to be born and change; the Dao does not treat this as toil and refuse it; when function is fully accomplished, it still does not count it as belonging to itself.

It cherishes the ten thousand things; the ten thousand things rely on it to live, and it does not refuse them; when work is done, it does not call it its own.

All things come into being and change through the Dao’s empty, inexhaustible functioning—the Way acts without treating that as toil or shirking it; when the work is done, it does not claim the credit as its own.

The Dao cherishes and nurtures the ten thousand things yet does not set itself up as their master; it is often without private desire, so it can be called “small.” It raises every kind of thing without acting as their lord and has no demands on the ten thousand things, hence it can be named small; at the same time, one cannot truly call it small.

The ten thousand things turn toward it, yet it still does not play master, so it can be called “great.” Precisely because it loves and nourishes them, things come to gather; though beings differ in countless ways, the Dao does not dominate them, so it can be named great. It is neither small nor great, and therefore hard to name.

Thus the sage—the ideal ruler who embodies the Way—never takes himself to be great, and thereby can fulfill greatness. The sage follows the Dao and forgets personal merit, never presenting himself as luminous and vast, and so can accomplish what is luminous and vast.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Holding Fast to the Great Image

Hold fast to the Great Image, and all under heaven will come and go toward it. The Great Image is the great Dao. When a ruler holds to the Way to govern the world, the ten thousand things will gather and turn to him.

When things turn to him without being harmed, they can rest in peace and well-being.

Music and food can make a traveler pause by the road. “Music” is yue; “food” is er (bait, fare). Where there is music and food, passersby stop for them; likewise, when a ruler holds the Way and the world is tranquil, all things will also turn to him. Therefore the ruler who grasps the Dao is quiet and plain, almost tasteless—first removing nitpicking governance, until at last the people are transformed into simplicity; what follows therefore says: the Dao’s efficacy is never exhausted in use.

Once the Dao is spoken from the mouth, it is so bland it almost has no flavor.

The ruler teaches through Dao and De (Virtue/Power) and through tranquility and purity (qingjing). As soon as such teaching is spoken, it is so bland it almost has no taste; unlike worldly instruction in words, it does not draw reactions of closeness, praise, fear, or disdain.

Look at it and you cannot see it; listen and you cannot hear it clearly; use it and you cannot exhaust it.

This means: to guard tranquility and purity by means of Dao, at first one does not rely on verbal teaching, so there is nothing to see and nothing to hear; yet plain, unadorned custom spreads widely, the ten thousand things flourish, and over a full year there is still surplus—therefore its effect cannot be used up. “Ji” means exhausted, used up.

Chapter 36, “When You Wish to Shrink It” (Jiang Yu Xi Zhi)

When you wish to shrink it, you must first let it expand; when you wish to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; when you wish to discard it, you must first let it flourish; when you wish to take it, you must first give it. This is called “subtle illumination” (wei ming): the principle is hidden and subtle, yet the outcome is clear and bright.

The classic says, “Straight words seem like their opposite” (zheng yan ruo fan). The Yi (Zhou Yi, Book of Changes) says, “Xun uses yielding to exercise expedient adaptation” (xun yi xing quan). Quan (expedient means) looks as if it violates the usual rule yet in fact accords with the Way and its norm. When the noble person uses quan, what matters is that it fits the Way; when the petty person uses it, it becomes deceit and trickery. Confucius said: “One may share with him in holding to the constant Way, but not necessarily in penetrating expedient adaptation.” That saying is trustworthy. So in the previous chapter the Old Master (Laozi) spoke of “holding the great image” (zhi da xiang)—that is the “substance” (shi: the root, teaching as it truly is); this chapter goes on to shrink and expand—that is “quan” (expedient practice). The point is to weigh the root capacity and temperament of living beings, set quan and shi in apparent opposition yet mutual clarification, and bring them at last into the terrain of xingming (nature and life). Those who are deluded say this does not match the original intent of Dao and De—truly lost and unaware. Therefore, to shrink the passions of living beings, one first lets them go free, pushes the heart of extravagance to the extreme, so that they trap themselves in love and desire—and only then applies restraint. The logic of strong and weak, discard and flourish, take and give, is much the same. This Way is extremely hidden; its effects are plain and evident—hence it is called “subtle illumination” (wei ming).

Softness can overcome hardness.

Being supple like Xun (one of the eight trigrams, connoting yielding compliance) enables one to deploy adaptive strategy; once strategy is put into practice, it can restrain and govern things. Therefore it is known: the soft side necessarily overcomes the hard.

Fish must not leave the deep pool; the state’s sharp tools must not be shown to people.

“Leave” means to lose. “Sharp tools” refers to the way of strategic power (quandao—the art of adapting and mastering things). This means strategic power must not be displayed to unsuitable people. Hence the analogy: if fish leave the deep pool, they will be caught. Strategic power surpasses hardness.

Fish must not leave the deep pool; the state’s sharp tools must not be shown to people.

“Leave” means to lose. “Sharp tools” refers to the way of strategic power. This means strategic power must not be displayed to unsuitable people. Hence the analogy: if fish leave the deep pool, they will be caught; if strategic power is shown to unsuitable people, it will be taken in secret and used as means of fraud and cunning.

Chapter 37: The Dao Is Constantly Without Action

The Dao is constantly without action (wuwei), yet nothing fails to be accomplished. If lords and kings can hold fast to it, the ten thousand things will transform themselves.

The mysterious root is clear and still, therefore constantly without action. The ten thousand things rely on it to come into being, and thus nothing is left undone. If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao in wuwei, the ten thousand things will transform on their own; when the ruler is without action, the customs of the people become plain and sincere.

After transformation, if desire arises again and one wishes to act with purpose, I will use the nameless simplicity to settle it.

This means: the people have already followed the ruler’s teaching and are themselves without action and clear and still, yet they wish to move and turn toward purposeful action; if I can hold fast to the Dao in wuwei, the ten thousand things will transform themselves, the ruler is without action, and the customs of the people become plain and sincere.

After transformation, if desire arises again and one wishes to act with purpose, I will use the nameless simplicity to settle it.

This means: the people have already followed the ruler’s teaching and are themselves without action and clear and still, yet they wish to move and turn toward purposeful action; I will use the nameless simplicity to quiet them. Nameless simplicity is the Dao—the uncarved, nameless suchness.

Toward nameless simplicity, do not grasp again; without grasping, returning to clarity and stillness, the realm under Heaven will right itself on its own.

This means: once the ruler has used nameless simplicity to pacify the people, one must not cling to it and leave visible traces, lest people follow the traces, lose the root, and fall back into purposeful action. Therefore toward this nameless simplicity one must forget it as well: do not treat “no desire” as something to desire—let “no desire” itself dissolve. Light and still, clear and quiet, and the realm under Heaven naturally becomes level and upright.

This is volumes two and three of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang’s (Li Longji) commentary on the Dao De Jing, moving into the upper portion of the De Jing and Chapter 38, “Superior Virtue Is Not Virtue.”

The scripture says: The highest De does not insist that it is De, and therefore it truly has De; the next grade of De clings to “De” and refuses to let it go, and for that reason it can hardly count as De.

De is the functioning of the Dao. Zhuangzi said: What each thing receives by which it comes to be is called De. As the age shifts between simplicity and decadence, De divides into higher and lower. In high antiquity people’s hearts were plain; the work of De did not show itself, and there was no name of De to speak of—hence “not De”; yet the De of that plainness was not lost, and again through Wuwei (non-action) the world was made clear—hence “therefore it has De.” Later De gradually declined; merit and activity became somewhat visible; inwardly one could still embody the Dao, but in conduct one had already fallen into deliberate action; De could be held to and named—hence “does not lose De.” When conduct carries traces of self-display and possession, it is coarser than upper De—hence “therefore it has no De.”

The text also says: Upper De is Wuwei, and it is not a deliberate performance of Wuwei.

To know Wuwei and then purposely practice Wuwei is still not the highest; not treating Wuwei as a technique but being Wuwei naturally is the ultimate. Thus the Wuwei of upper De is not greed for the reputation of Wuwei; the heart simply holds simplicity, and one happens to be Wuwei—hence “and without taking it as a means.” This is Wuwei in both mind and action.

The scripture says: Lower De takes action, and it acts with a purpose.

What lower De calls “acting” means that though the heart still rests in Wuwei, its efficacy has already appeared and conduct has fallen into deliberate action—so it is called “acting.” That is, lower De still starts from Wuwei, yet there is a reason it must act: the heart remains Wuwei, but conduct is already purposeful action.

The text continues: Upper benevolence (shang ren) will do what benefits others, yet not from private motive, and does not treat benevolence as a means to seek fame or reward.

“Ren” (humaneness) is the name for universal love. When lower De declines, superior humaneness appears; what is practiced is this kind of all-embracing humaneness, hence it is said to be “doing” (wei). Practicing humaneness without clinging to the label of humaneness is also an attempt to reach Wuwei (non-action), hence “yet without taking it as a deliberate project.” Here the inner mind still has activity, while outwardly it seems as if there is none. Moreover, when superior humaneness is called Wuwei, that is only in the sense that its conduct aims at Wuwei; thus it is merely one step above superior righteousness (yi) and cannot yet be discussed on the same footing as the “having activity” of lower De.

“Yi” (righteousness) is what fits for judging right and wrong. Because it must judge and cut away what is wrong, it is said to be “doing.” Since there is a basis for rejecting the wrong and severing what is improper, so that each thing gets what suits it, it is said to be “and with deliberate purpose.” Here both inner intent and outward conduct belong to purposeful action.

When the six bonds of human relations (father’s brothers, brothers, clan members, maternal uncles, teachers and elders, friends) fall out of harmony, ritual (li) is instituted to remedy the situation, hence “doing.” Ritual requires give-and-take; if the other party does not respond, it fails to conform to ritual. When one performs ritual toward another who does not respond, one may roll up one’s sleeves in anger and force the other to comply.

Therefore, only after Dao is lost does De appear; only after De is lost does humaneness appear; only after humaneness is lost is righteousness established; only after righteousness is lost does one resort to ritual. “Losing Dao” here means losing superior De; superior De is united with Dao, which is why it is called losing Dao. Whether we speak of Dao, De, humaneness, righteousness, or ritual is merely different names arising as the times are smooth or harsh. Thus when Dao declines, De shows; when De declines, humaneness remains; when humaneness perishes, righteousness is fixed; when righteousness is exhausted, ritual is used to save the situation—all of this is expedient adaptation to circumstances. In an age of simplicity, to preach ritual heavily is either arrogance or disorder; in a decadent age, to discard ritual is either folly or perversity. If one understands this and reforms accordingly, one should withdraw from ritual and practice righteousness, withdraw from righteousness and practice humaneness, withdraw from humaneness and practice De, and further forget De and unite with Dao. When people return to simplicity, that is the Wuwei of superior De.

"Ritual" is a sign that loyalty and trust have already grown thin, and it is also the beginning of disorder.

Those who formulated ritual did so because loyalty and trust had decayed and grown thin; they took ritual as the foremost means to rescue disorder. Ritual is applied to settle those above and govern the people—it is not merely about jade and silk and such gifts.

"Foreknowledge" is the ornament of the Dao, and also the start of folly.

"Knowledge" (shi) refers to human nature-and-awareness (xin-xing and perception). The meaning is: before human nature-and-awareness naturally manifests, one already fixes this outward constraint called ritual. Though one intends to follow the times, one has in fact lost simplicity; hence it is called the ornament of the Dao. Ritual was originally meant to save disorder; what is valuable is making people harmonize together. Those who lose ritual's original intent exalt jade and silk and prize bowing and kneeling—such people are the beginning of folly.

Therefore the great person stands in what is substantial, not in what is thin; rests in the real, not in ornament.

Deliberate contrivance is the thinness of the Dao; ritual and righteousness are the ornament of De. Therefore the sage does non-action (wuwei) affairs—this is standing in substantiality, not in thinness; he reins in the outward performance of ritual and righteousness—that belongs to ornament—and rests himself in what is real.

Therefore he abandons that side and takes this side.

He abandons ornament and thinness, and takes substantiality and the real.

Chapter 39: "In Antiquity, Those Who Obtained the One"

In antiquity, those who obtained "the One":

"The One" is the harmony of the Dao—that is, the harmonizing qi (chong qi, the blended qi of yin-yang union). Because its subtle efficacy settles upon the myriad things and returns to oneness, it is called "the One."

Heaven obtaining the One becomes clear; earth obtaining the One becomes tranquil; spirit obtaining the One becomes numinous; the valley obtaining the One becomes full; the myriad things obtaining the One grow; the lord and king obtaining the One become the standard and rectitude of the realm. All these are accomplished thereby.

The myriad things obtain the Dao's efficacy and only then rely on that efficacy to establish names. Where the Dao is, the name stands; once efficacy is lost, substance is also lost. Therefore heaven's clarity, earth's tranquility, spirit's numinosity, and the valley's fullness all depend on this subtle efficacy to be realized—hence it is said "they reach this."

If heaven cannot preserve clarity, it may crack apart; if earth cannot preserve tranquility, it may split; if spirit cannot preserve numinosity, it may cease; if the valley cannot preserve fullness, it may run dry; if the myriad things cannot receive nurture, they may perish; if lord and king cannot preserve honor and loftiness, they may fall.

To obtain “the One”—the fundamental origin of the Great Dao—one must not boast of its efficacy. Hence the warning: if heaven relied on its clarity and boasted of it, it might crack; if earth relied on its repose and boasted of it, it might burst and leak; if spirit became self-important, its responsiveness would cease; if valleys became self-important, their fullness would dry up; if the ten thousand things became self-important, their vitality would perish; if lords and kings flaunted their nobility, they would fall and be ruined. The sage’s teaching in the world is fundamentally for all beings. Though the text reaches upward to compare heaven’s clarity and earth’s repose, in the end it comes down to this: lords and kings must guard the feminine (shou ci)—stay soft, yielding, and humble—and act in accord with the Dao. That is why the text continues as it does.

Thus nobility takes lowliness as its root, and high position takes the lowly as its foundation.

Lords and kings are noble and sit above; the people are lowly and stand below. Those who govern should take the people as their root and foundation, working diligently and humbly to gather them, so they gladly accept plain, easy teaching and do not scatter and drift apart.

Therefore lords and kings call themselves “solitary,” “frail,” and “unworthy” (gu, gua, bu gu)—all self-deprecating names meaning isolation, few virtues, and lack of worth. Is this not taking lowliness as the root? Indeed it is. “Is it not so?” (fei hu) makes the point explicit: they truly take the lowly as foundation. These names are what ordinary people dislike; when lords and kings use them for themselves, they are rooting themselves in humility.

Thus, if you merely count a carriage’s parts, there is no carriage. Parts assembled make the carriage; wheel and shaft are the carriage’s foundation. If you chase nobility alone, nobility itself vanishes—the lowly position is the root of nobility. One should preserve the shaft to steady the carriage, and likewise guard lowliness to secure nobility. To warn lords and kings that the lowly is the root, the text brings in this analogy of the carriage.

Do not be lustrous and prized like polished jade (lulu); be plain and solid like stone (luoluo). Lulu is the look of jade; luoluo is the look of stone—the meaning is still to take the lowly and plain as foundation.

“Reversion is the movement of the Dao” (Fan zhe dao zhi dong)—Chapter 40: return and reversal are how the Dao moves.

This explains the principle of quan (expedient adaptation, situational flexibility). “Fan” (reversal) means fan jing he yi—outwardly going against the ordinary norm, yet inwardly conforming to true righteousness. Fan jing he yi is how the sage applies expedient adaptation; to apply expedient adaptation is the movement of the Dao—hence “the reversal is the movement of the Dao.”

“Weakness is the function of the Dao.”

This explains the principle of shi (the real, the constant Way). “Weak” means soft, yielding, and cijing (gentle and still, not contending with others). Softness, yielding, and stillness are how the sage abides in the real principle; abiding in the real principle is the Dao’s ordinary functioning—hence “weakness is the function of the Dao.”

“All things under heaven are born from being; being is born from non-being.”

Shi (the real) relative to quan (expedient adaptation) is like non-being giving rise to being. Therefore one who practices expedient adaptation should value returning from adaptation to the functioning of the real; whatever “is” (you) must always depend on “is not” (wu). Yet the utmost Dao is empty, unfathomable, and still, beyond all names; the nature of all dharmas is empty (faxing kong)—things do not depend on one another. Only when both quan and shi are forgotten, when you and wu are extinguished together, and when the numerable and the innumerable are no longer distinguished, can one be said to have transcended.

Chapter 41: When the Highest Person Hears the Dao

“When the highest person hears the Dao, he diligently puts it into practice.”

Because he has already awakened, he practices it diligently.

“When the middling person hears the Dao, he sometimes keeps it, sometimes loses it.”

The middling person can rise or fall, so he harbors doubt; once doubt arises, the Dao seems to him now present, now absent.

“When the lowest person hears the Dao, he laughs loudly at it.”

The lowest person is deluded and does not believe, so he mocks it.

“If he did not laugh, it would not be sufficient to be the Dao.”

If the lowest person did not laugh at it, it would not be worthy of being called the mysterious utmost Dao.

“There is a saying to this effect.”

Jian means to set up. The intention in setting forth words is to show that these three kinds of people differ in their attitude toward the Dao.

“The bright Dao seems dark; advancing in the Dao seems like retreat; the smooth Dao seems rough.”

The highest person practices the Dao diligently: the Dao is inherently clear, yet appears obscure; inherently forward, yet appears to retreat; inherently level, yet appears flawed or uneven (lei refers to unevenness, blemish). Hence the middling person is doubtful and the lowest person laughs.

“The highest De is like a valley.”

The highest De (de) looks instead like a low, empty valley.

When the inner mind is empty and still, and one follows along with outer conditions, one can thereby embrace the ten thousand things. What is most white may look as if stained: within purity, it can yet contain what is soiled. The greatest De may look as if it falls short: great merit is already complete, yet one still keeps humility. Establishing virtue may look like idleness and hiding one’s skill: having achieved merit, one does not parade oneself. What is utterly genuine may look as if it has been altered and mixed: in truth it is simple and single-minded, only reining in its light and harmonizing with things. The greatest square has no corners: it does not raise sharp edges in small matters. The greatest vessel is completed last, and does not chase immediate effect. The greatest sound is faint: it does not adorn itself with petty words. The greatest form has no shape, so it can accord with the myriad kinds of things. The Dao is hidden and has no name: its function does not show, so it cannot be named. Only the Dao is good at giving and at completing the ten thousand things. Though hidden and nameless, in reality it is supremely good; with the subtle efficacy of Chonghe (empty, still, and harmonious), it assists the ten thousand things and brings them to maturity.

Chapter Forty-Two is titled “The Dao Gives Birth to One.”

As for the name of the Dao: its function does not appear, so it has no name. Only the Dao is good at giving and completing the ten thousand things; though hidden and nameless, in reality it is supremely good, and with the subtle efficacy of Chonghe it assists the ten thousand things and brings them to full growth.

The Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three. Here “One” is chong qi (qi of empty harmony and union). This means that when the Dao first stirs, it first sends forth this subtle, harmonious qi; for generating the ten thousand things that is not yet enough, so yang qi is further produced; yang qi cannot generate alone, so yin qi is further produced. On top of the “One” that is chong qi, layer is added—hence “One gives birth to Two”; on top of the “Two” that is yang qi, layer is added again—hence “Two gives birth to Three.”

Three gives birth to the ten thousand things. Yin and yang mutually nurture each other, chong qi harmonizes between them, and only then do the ten thousand things flourish and mature—hence “Three gives birth to the ten thousand things.”

The ten thousand things carry yin on their backs and embrace yang, taking chong qi as harmony. Because the ten thousand things are originally generated from yin qi, yang qi, and chong qi, they carry yin and embrace yang, inwardly nourishing chong qi, and thereby become gentle and soft.

What people dislike are only the designations “orphan,” “widower,” and “ungood” (bugu means “not good”; together with orphan and widower these were humble titles ancient kings used for themselves), yet kings and dukes use them to refer to themselves. The ten thousand things all take chong qi as their root; to hold fast to the softness of chong qi and guard that root, one must be humble and yielding. Though kings and dukes stand in the highest rank, they still call themselves orphan, widower, and ungood—precisely because humility and softness are their root.

Therefore, sometimes when a thing is diminished, it actually gains; sometimes when it is increased, it suffers loss. One who humbles himself and yields will find others supplementing him; one who greedily seeks increase will find others diminishing him. What others use to teach, I also use this principle to teach.

Laojun (Laozi, revered in Daoism as Taishang Laojun) said: If a ruler wishes to establish teaching to instruct people, he should teach by the doctrine of softness and humility that I speak of. Those who are qiangliang (overbearing and belligerent) do not meet a good end. When the qiangliang act, they immediately oppose outer things; seeking increase they instead receive diminishment, and outer things also strike back at them—hence they do not die well. I take this principle as the root of teaching. I have seen the overbearing perish and the soft preserve themselves; therefore I take the teaching of softness as the root of all instruction.

Chapter 43, “The Softest in the World”: The softest thing in the world can traverse and master the hardest in the world. The softest in the world is the human being’s zhengxing (original pure nature). If one rushes about worldly affairs, is stained by the dust of the world, and blocked by desires, one becomes the hardest and most stubborn thing in the world.

“Non-being” (wu you) can enter where there is no gap (wu jian); therefore I know the benefit of wuwei (non-action). Non-being means not clinging to the dusty realm, keeping the heart empty of all things; no gap means the nature of the Dao is pure and still, its subtle body blended into one without any crevice. When one is not disturbed by desire, heart and realm are both pure and empty of all things, the heart merges with the Dao and enters the state without gap. Therefore the sage says that when body and mind are pure and still one can accord with the Dao; thus deliberate, purposive teaching is inferior to the benefit of wuwei. Teaching without words and the benefit of wuwei—few under heaven can match them. This means that among all teachings under heaven, few can compare.

Chapter 44, “Fame or the Body—Which Is Closer?”: Fame and the self—which is more intimate?

Fame is merely an appendage of substance. When people chase fame, they lose themselves instead. The scripture asks which is more intimate—name or self—to urge people to discard merit and reputation and preserve their true nature (their original self).

Which matters more, the body or goods? Those who pursue fame go on to pursue wealth; when wealth is in hand, the person is gone. Such questions are meant to make people set aside pearls and jade and treasure, and instead preserve harmony (the coordinated peace and ease of body and mind).

Which is more harmful, gaining or losing? The question is: which hurts the self more—gaining fame and goods, or losing fame and goods?

Therefore, excessive attachment always leads to great depletion; amassing much always leads to heavy loss. One who loves reputation too much must weary the spirit—is that not great depletion? One who hoards goods must burden the self—is that not heavy loss?

Knowing contentment brings no disgrace; knowing when to stop brings no danger—then one can endure long. Those who know contentment are not excessively attached; those who know when to stop do not hoard much. Without disgrace or danger, they can endure long.

Chapter 45: Great Accomplishment Seems Incomplete

Great accomplishment seems flawed, yet its function does not decay. When learning and De are fully achieved, one still often seems to carry blemishes (dianque—flaws in jade). Humility alone brings benefit; hence it is said to have no time of exhaustion.

Great fullness seems empty, yet its function is not used up. When salary and rank are full, one still often seems hollow and humble (chong—empty, modest, yielding). Frugality without wasting wealth is why what is used is never lacking.

The greatest straightness seems bent: straight without excess, so it looks like bending.

The greatest skill seems clumsy: craft does not overstep its place to harm what lies outside duty, so it looks like awkwardness.

The greatest eloquence seems tongue-tied: one does not adorn things with petty talk, so it looks like slowness of speech (ne—clumsy speech).

When restlessness wins, there is cold; when stillness wins, there is warmth. Stillness is the standard of the world. Overcome by restlessness, one grows cold—cold means thin and weak. Overcome by stillness, one grows warm—warm means harmonious and compliant. So what seems bent is the greatest straightness, and stillness is the right Way.

Chapter 46: When the Way Prevails in the World

When the Way prevails in the world, swift horses are taken out of racing and used to haul manure and fertilize the fields. A ruler who has the Way practices wuwei (non-interference, not meddling blindly) in teaching; because he does not grasp for himself, there is no war, swift horses are no longer driven on campaigns, and the people can fertilize and tend their fields in peace.

When the Way does not prevail in the world, warhorses foal in the open countryside. A ruler without the Way indulges desire and launches attacks, so soldiers and horses multiply along the borderlands.

No fault is greater than “what can be desired”: as soon as the heart sets on something that can be coveted, the fault is great. No misfortune is greater than not knowing when one has enough: ceaseless taking makes misfortune great. No disaster is greater than “wanting to get”: among great calamities, none surpasses desire; whenever there is wanting, one insists on having it all satisfied—and when everything is obtained, disaster goes deeper still, which is why it is called disaster (jiu).

Therefore, the contentment that comes from knowing when one has enough is the contentment that lasts. Having ample possessions is not true contentment; inner sufficiency is contentment. When the heart is content, that sufficiency can be maintained constantly.

Chapter 47: Not Leaving the Door

Without leaving home, one can know the world; without looking out the window, one can see the Way of Heaven (the patterns of heaven and the principles of nature’s course). The ruler sits at ease in wuwei (hands folded, quiet, not troubling the people); when edicts need not go beyond the door, that is understanding how to govern the world. When human affairs are harmonious, heavenly signs align accordingly—so there is no need to peer through the window; the Way of Heaven is known of itself.

The farther one goes outward, the less one truly knows. If one cannot practice wuwei, even when orders reach farther, one understands less of the way to govern the world.

Thus the sage knows without traveling abroad: he does not leave the house, hence “does not go”; through wuwei and simplicity he grasps the principles of governance. He can speak of things without seeing them with his own eyes: he does not look through the window, hence “does not look”; when hearts are united and Heaven responds, he can describe a scene of great peace. He achieves without forcing: without lecturing, the world is transformed of itself.

Chapter 48: Pursuing Learning Increases Daily

This chapter is titled “Pursuing Learning Increases Daily,” meaning that engaging in study adds a little more each day. Not looking out through the window is why it is called “not seeing”; when people are harmonious and Heaven accords, one can speak of that age of great peace.

Without relying on words to teach, the world can naturally be transformed and brought to completion.

Chapter 48: For Learning One Increases Daily

Those who pursue learning increase day by day; those who pursue the Dao decrease day by day.

Students of learning daily expand what they know and see; seekers of the Dao daily reduce their cultivated effort and conduct. Expanding knowledge and experience is the path by which study goes deeper step by step; reducing cultivated effort and conduct is the gateway to awakening to the Great Dao. Therefore one first accumulates practice through continual increase, then releases and reduces that practice in order to realize the Great Dao.

One reduces and reduces again until one reaches Wuwei (non-action)—acting without contrivance. Once Wuwei is attained, nothing remains impossible to accomplish.

Students of learning accumulate practice; seekers of the Dao forget it and strip it away. Even after practice has been reduced, the mind may still hold the thought “I should reduce further”; when that thought too is released, one reaches the stillness and non-striving of Wuwei. Then one is like a mirror reflecting whatever appears—responding to what comes, with nothing that cannot be answered—hence the saying that nothing fails to succeed.

To gain the realm under heaven, one usually relies on clarity and stillness and on not stirring up affairs.

By being able to practice Wuwei and not disturb others, the hearts of the people under heaven turn toward you, and so the realm can be gained.

Once one busies oneself with meddling and interference, one is no longer fit to gain the realm.

Much meddling brings turmoil and exhaustion; turmoil and exhaustion wear down the people’s lives—therefore one is not fit to gain the realm.

Chapter 49: The Sage Has No Fixed Heart

The sage has no fixed, unchanging heart of his own; he takes the hearts of the people as his heart.

The sage’s heart responds as outer things stir it; the response depends on what is felt, so there is no fixed heart. Though the heart is not fixed, his intention is solely to lead people toward goodness; therefore he constantly treats the hearts he would awaken in the people as if they were his own.

To the good I am kind; to the not-good I am also kind—thus the virtue of kindness is perfected. To the trustworthy I am trusting; to the untrustworthy I am also trusting—thus the virtue of trust is perfected.

If I wish people to be good and trustworthy, I meet them with kindness and trust as circumstances allow; toward those who are not good or not trustworthy, I still use kindness and trust to teach, so that the people feel my De (virtue/power) and in turn become good and trustworthy.

When the sage dwells in the world, he is cautious and restrained, and for the sake of the world he lets his own heart return to simplicity and undifferentiated wholeness.

Those who govern the world and guide the people—the sages—often apply their minds with careful attention so that virtue, goodness, and trustworthiness can take root; yet the sage’s own heart remains gathered and still, and the light of De shines complete and clear. Without distinguishing self from other, with a single unified mind, they give themselves entirely to the world—hence it is said, “for the world, they muddy their hearts.”

The people all focus their ears and eyes on them. Moved by the sage’s De toward what is good, they turn their full attention to seeing and hearing the sage.

The sage treats them all as children. The sage holds the people of the world in mind like a loving mother; in whatever way they look upon the people, they see them as infants.

This is Chapter 50, “Emerging from Life, Entering into Death.”

“Emerging from life, entering into death”: to awaken is to emerge and enter into life; to be deluded and clinging is to enter into death. This is the main theme the chapter sets forth.

“Those who live out their lives are three in ten; those who die prematurely are three in ten”: speaking broadly of living beings, those who, when it is time to live, can rest in life and accord with the way of life, and who, when death comes, can follow death and accord with the way of death—such people are roughly three out of ten.

“In human life, those who in moving go toward the place of death are three in ten”: some nourish life to excess; intending to preserve life, they instead harm it. Because they hold this life tightly in the mind, every move they make tends toward the place of death. Thus the way of life is lost and the way of death is not complete either. Such people are likewise three out of ten.

“Why is this? Because they pile up life upon life”: this asks why they go toward the place of death. The reason is simply that they weigh gaining this life too heavily.

It is said that those skilled at nurturing life walk on land without meeting rhinoceros or tiger, and enter an army without being harmed by weapons. The rhinoceros finds no place to thrust its horn, the tiger no place to extend its claws, and weapons no place to admit their blades.

Those who are skilled at regulating and preserving life have minds that are clear, bright, and tranquil, without thoughts of grasping or possessing; nothing external can harm them. When they walk on land, they do not need to fear meeting tigers or rhinoceros-like beasts; when they enter an army camp, they are not wounded by armored soldiers. This is because they do not harm external things, and external things in turn have no intent to harm them—so there is no place for a rhinoceros to butt with its horn, a tiger to extend its claws, or weapons to strike the body.

Why is this so? Because they do not fall into ground where death is inevitable.

Why do rhinoceroses, tigers, and armed soldiers find no opening? Because they follow natural change, have no private selfishness, and do not treat death as death—so external things cannot injure their lives. Hence it is said “no ground of death.”

Chapter 51: Dao Generates Them

Dao generates the ten thousand things: when the subtle origin stirs, harmonious Qi descends. De (Virtue/Power) nourishes the ten thousand things: through this they come to birth and all kinds are reared. Things endow form: Qian (Heaven) initiates, Kun (Earth) completes, and the ten thousand things first gain shape and place. Circumstance completes the ten thousand things: the seasonal force of cold and heat each in its turn lets all things finish their course.

Therefore nothing among the ten thousand things fails to honor Dao and value De. The ten thousand things rely on Dao and De to be generated and nourished, and so they honor them. Dao’s honor and De’s worth are not granted by anyone conferring rank—they are constantly so by nature. The nobility of Dao and De does not depend on titles or appointments; it is naturally exalted because the work of generating and nourishing extends to all things and endures.

Thus Dao gives birth to things, and stores, grows, educates, completes, ripens, tends, and shelters them. Therefore people all honor Dao and value De. It generates and nourishes yet does not claim ownership; it acts yet does not rely on its merit; it rears yet does not dominate—this is called profound De (xuan de, mysterious virtue). The detailed explanation is as in the chapter “Carrying soul and body” (Chapter 10): that chapter says human cultivation should take Dao as model; this chapter shows that Dao’s function is the same for humans.

Chapter 52: The World Has a Beginning

The world has a beginning; it can be taken as the mother of the world. This “beginning” is chong qi—the harmonious Qi of yin and yang joining. This subtle Qi generates the ten thousand things and has the virtue of lush nurturing, so it can be the mother of the world. Once you have grasped this mother, you can thereby know the children she bears (the ten thousand things).

When the myriad things have already been nourished by the harmonizing qi and flourish in growth, from this one can know: the human person is itself a child born of chong qi—the harmonizing qi formed where yin and yang meet.

Once you have recognized this child, you must still turn back and hold fast to the mother that bore it; the mother is that wondrous harmonizing qi. If you can keep hold of it until the body dies, you will not be in danger. Since you know the body is the child of chong qi, you ought to keep that wondrous qi and not let it scatter; then until life’s end you will not fall into peril.

Block the openings of fond attachment and close the gateways of calamity, and through life you will not know toil and hardship. Dui is fond attachment. When the eyes crave fine form and the ears crave sound, the six senses each have their cravings, and calamity arises—so they must be blocked. If you do not indulge the six senses in craving, the gate of calamity is shut; therefore you need not toil and rush about all your life.

If you open those openings and indulge sight and hearing to fulfill craving, calamity will come again and again, and through life there will be no saving you.

To notice when something is still very subtle and at once correct your conduct—this is called clarity (ming). To hold to softness so that others cannot harm you—this is called strength.

To see the small is clarity; to keep to the soft is strength. If you boast of your clarity and flaunt your strength, you lose the original aim of keeping to the soft and seeing the small. Therefore you should use the light to shine outward, then turn back and hold to inner clarity—only then can you long be free of calamity’s drag.

Not bestowing disaster upon yourself—this is called secretly applying the constant Dao. Yi means to bestow. Turn inward and keep to the original clarity, and nothing will add disaster to you; to act thus is to apply the true, constant Dao in hidden fashion.

Chapter 54, titled “One Who Establishes Well Is Not Uprooted.”

Laozi says: If I rely on blunt straightforwardness and boast of my knowledge, wanting to carry out the great Dao, this is already at odds with the Dao. Therefore every act one undertakes is something to be feared.

The great Dao is very level and plain, yet the people much love taking bypaths. The Dao is naturally easy and smooth—hence the fear of acting while leaning on knowledge; yet people are full of scheming minds, single-mindedly greedy for shortcuts, just like travelers who love crooked side paths. The harm of crooked paths is taken up below.

The court is regulated to extreme refinement. Honoring worth and boasting clever craft gives rise to cunning. Chu means to regulate or put in order.

Fields are severely overgrown and wasted. Those who eat without proper occupation abandon farming.

Granaries are quite empty. The fields yield no harvest and there are no stores.

They wear colorful embroidered garments. Carved brocade injures real work and practical benefit.

They wear sharp swords at the belt. They do not cultivate civil virtue; they only emphasize military readiness.

Their food is heavy and cloying. They stew fatty meat, slaughter fresh livestock, and pursue rich, heavy flavors. Yan means eating to fullness and surfeit.

Goods and wealth still lie in surplus—hoarded treasures amassed, many rare curios.

This is called the robber’s show of splendor—not the Dao! Boasting of knowledge—one move becomes harm; conduct like theft, yet self-praising. Flaunting robbery is not the Dao, hence the lament. Zai is an exclamatory particle.

A ruler who establishes a foundation in the Dao and De and holds fast to them will see his achievements extend to later generations. When people are moved by his virtuous governance, they even cherish the sweet pear tree on which he once rested (from the Book of Poetry: the people remembered Duke Shao and loved that tree so much they would not cut it down)—how much more do they cherish his descendants? In imperial sacrifice, an ancestor who achieved great merit is honored as “zu,” and one who embodied virtue is honored as “zong.” The rise of Zhou began with Houji (the Zhou ancestral figure, said to have taught the people agriculture) and was completed under King Wen and King Wu of Zhou. In Zhou ritual, Houji was sacrificed to in the suburbs, and King Wen in the ancestral temple. Thus although divination said Zhou would pass through thirty generations and seven hundred years, and after temples were closed so many ancestral tablets had to be placed outside the temple that Houji’s suburban rites and King Wen’s temple sacrifices never ceased. “Chuo” means to stop.

When one cultivates De in oneself, that De becomes genuinely pure. When the whole household cultivates it, De is ample and more than enough. When the whole village cultivates it, De can last. When the whole country cultivates it, De becomes rich and full. If all under Heaven cultivate it, the reach of De becomes universal and complete.

Therefore, by the method of self-cultivation one observes a person: whoever can be still and clear has De that is real and true. By the method of ordering a household one observes a family: whoever can live in harmony has De to spare. By the method of governing a village one observes a village: whoever can keep order in mutual accord has De that endures. By the method of governing a state one observes a country: whoever can be frugal and diligent has De that is abundant. By the method of ordering all under Heaven one observes the world: whoever can practice wuwei (non-action, not forcing or acting against the natural course) has De that is universal. How do I know the world is like this? By this layered observation from the body up to all under Heaven.

Chapter 55, “Thick Virtue Within”

When the Dao and De are stored up thickly within, it can be compared to a newborn infant. The zhi ren (person of highest attainment), with De deeply held in the heart, acts like an infant—pure and harmless. Therefore venomous insects do not sting him, fierce beasts do not seize him, and birds of prey do not strike him.

A person of utmost attainment has reached a wondrous realm in which external things cannot harm them. Because they harbor no intent to harm external things, they never find themselves stung by venomous insects or attacked by wild beasts. This shows how deeply such a person embodies De (Virtue/Power).

An infant’s sinews and bones are soft, yet its fists grip firmly; though it does not yet understand sexual union, the qi of the root of life stirs on its own—because its essential qi (Jing and Qi) is utterly full. It cries all day yet its voice does not grow hoarse—because its purity and harmony are utterly complete. Though the red infant’s sinews and bones are soft, it can hold its fists tight; though it does not yet know the pairing of Yin and Yang, within it is already stored the root of qi. That spontaneous stirring is precisely the expression of essence refined to the utmost. Crying all day without a hoarse voice is like harmony refined to the utmost. This is the wholeness and harmony that the red infant preserves intact.

To understand this harmony is called “constancy.” To hold to gentleness and softness as an infant does is to know how to act in accord with constancy. To know constancy is called “clarity.” To guard harmony while understanding constancy—this is what is called being clear-sighted.

Seeking to add to life is called “omen.” An omen is a sign of fortune or misfortune. If one does not know how to hold to constancy but oversteps one’s place to pursue lengthening life, one instead enters the realm of death—this is called ill omen. Using the mind’s force to drive qi is called “coercion.” The mind discriminates right and wrong, but qi itself has no such discrimination; if one enslaves the mind to command qi, one is a violent, overbearing person. When things reach full strength they decline—this is called not according with the Dao (the Way). Not according with the Dao, one perishes early. Whenever things peak in strength they tend toward decline; hence the warning: to boast of strength and rely on hardness is not according with the Dao and should be stopped early.

Chapter fifty-six, “Those Who Know Do Not Speak.” One who truly understands does not rely on disputation; one who relies on disputation is not one who truly knows. “Know” here means understanding; “speak” means disputation. “Block the openings” (sai qi dui): one who understands has no greedy attachment to methods and affairs and no clinging obstruction in speech—hence “block the openings.” “Close the gates” means to shut the doorways.

Since a person has no attachment or clinging (the contamination and fixation born of craving), the gates of appetite and desire are closed.

Grinding away sharp edges, undoing tangles, softening glare, and mixing with the dust—this is called “xuantong” (mysterious unity with the Way, with no separation between self and other). The commentary on these lines is already given in detail in the earlier chapter “Dao Chong” (on the Way’s emptiness and inexhaustible use). There the focus is the Way; here it is the person: one who apprehends and lives the Way shares the same De as the “mysterious.”

Therefore one cannot treat him with special closeness: xuantong has no private bias, so there is nothing to cling to exclusively. Nor can one keep him at a distance: he dwells in harmony with the multitude, so he cannot be cast off. One cannot use profit to manipulate him: he has no greed, so gain cannot move him. Nor can one harm him: he does not contend, so injury cannot touch him. One cannot exalt him as noble: he embodies the Way’s spontaneity and does not rely on rank for worth. Nor can one treat him as base: he is pure without dregs, so he cannot be demeaned.

Thus he is honored throughout the world. When insight is thorough and nothing obstructs it, words may be forgotten and principle flows freely; sharpness and turmoil are fully resolved, and radiance has already mixed with the dust. Since neither closeness nor distance can measure him, and neither nobility nor baseness can judge him, he becomes the most honored person under heaven.

Chapter Fifty, “Governing the State with the Way”: this chapter, titled “Governing the State with the Way,” treats governing the nation by the correct Way.