《御定道德经注》

I have heard that the Dao existed before Heaven and Earth and is the root of all things. It gives life without end and changes without limit, yet no name can encompass it. Only those who have attained the highest state can allow the Dao to gather within them. Their De is therefore called “Mysterious De,” and their words become sage teachings.

Laozi’s Dao runs through the way of Heaven and the affairs of human life, and his virtue surpasses the ordinary. He wrote more than five thousand characters to explain the purpose of clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). Yet few people truly understand what he says about cultivating oneself and conducting oneself in the world. I once read his admonition to Confucius: “A son should not think only of himself; a minister should not think only of himself.” When Confucius answered Zengzi’s questions about ritual, he often said, “I heard Lao Dan speak of these things.” Is this not because when people achieve clarity, stillness, and Wuwei, feelings of loyalty and filial devotion arise naturally, and ritual and music can be brought together to teach and transform the world? Confucius had good reason to praise Laozi as a dragon.

Since the time of the Lord of the River, many people have written commentaries on the Dao De Jing. Some interpret it as a method of cultivation; others treat it as a book of political strategy. These are shallow attempts to fathom a sage, and so they misunderstand Laozi’s original meaning. Commentaries from the Kaiyuan and Hongwu eras each offer their own interpretations, but neither has yet explained the work’s full intent. I believe the sages’ words are profound and mysterious, while later scholars have differed in their interpretations. Unless we assess them against reason and principle, errors may only multiply. I have therefore consulted a wide range of interpretations, removed what is excessive or incidental, and compiled them into a commentary. I have tried to make the principles clear and the writing concise and accessible. I cannot be certain that it truly accords with the scripture’s meaning. Yet the Laozi is neither a teaching of emptiness and extinction nor a treatise on political stratagems and techniques. The principles of everyday conduct, self-cultivation, and governing the state presented in this commentary may well accord with the scripture’s original intent.

I have placed this preface at the beginning of the volume to explain the work’s overall purpose.

Written on the first day of the second month, in the year of Bing Shen, the thirteenth year of the Shunzhi reign (1656).

The Imperial Commentary on the Dao De Jing holds that the Dao De Jing does not advocate nihilism, annihilation, or schemes and manipulations. It also teaches principles for everyday conduct and dealing with others, as well as ways to cultivate one’s nature and govern the state. Through this, the essence of Laozi’s thought becomes clear.

Since the Elder of the Riverbank, more than eighty works have been written to annotate or explicate the Dao De Jing, provide phonetic glosses, divide it into chapters and sentences, or compose commentaries—over three hundred volumes in all. Its commentators include distinguished officials such as Yang Hu and Su Zhe; eminent scholars such as Wang Bi and Wang Su; recluses such as Yan Zun, Sun Deng, Tao Hongjing, Dai Kui, and Huangfu Mi; and Daoist figures such as Ge Hong and Du Guangting. Emperor Wu of Liang, Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, Emperor Huizong of Song, and the Ming Taizu also wrote commentaries. Their interpretations vary in depth, and their grasp of Laozi’s original intent differs in where it agrees and diverges; at times that intent is made clear, at times it remains obscure. This imperial commentary draws on the views of many schools and presents them in concise, clear language. It helps deepen understanding and clarify principles of governance, and does more than explore the teachings of stillness and Wuwei (non-action).

The first chapter of the upper section of the Dao De Jing says, “The Dao that can be put into words is not the constant Dao.” The commentary explains that the first “Dao” refers to a path or principle that can be put into practice, while the “constant Dao” refers to the Dao that is real and enduring, unchanged amid transformation.

If the Dao (the Way) could be explained in words, it would not be the constant and eternal Dao. If a name could be fixed in words, it would not be the constant and eternal name of the Dao. Here, “Dao” means a way that can serve as a guide for conduct; “name” means a designation that can be expressed in words.

The Dao without a name, which cannot be spoken of, is the origin of Heaven and Earth. The Dao that has a name and becomes manifest is the foundation from which all things grow and change. Here, “nameless” refers to the Dao itself, while “named” refers to the forms that the Dao brings forth and makes manifest.

Thus, by continually observing from the state of “nonbeing,” one can perceive the Dao’s hidden, subtle aspect; by continually observing from the state of “being,” one can perceive the scope and bounds of the Dao as it appears. “Nonbeing” and “being” both come from the Dao, though they are called by different names in different circumstances. Both are equally profound and mysterious, and may be called “Mystery.”

The Mystery is already beyond our depth and understanding. To speak of “Mystery upon Mystery” is to say that even the name “Mystery” is not enough to describe the Dao. The Dao is the gateway from which all wonders arise. Any Dao that can be prescribed as a guide for conduct is not the constant and eternal Dao; any name that can be spoken is not the Dao’s constant and eternal name.

The nameless Dao is an undivided whole, without any particular form, and Heaven and Earth begin from it. Once the Dao manifests as things with names, its nourishing and transforming activity has no end, and all things come into being from it. The Dao encompasses both “nonbeing” and “being.” Those who attain the Dao turn inward to observe their minds and discover that the mind is not fixed or unchanging; they turn outward to observe their bodies and discover that the body, too, is not fixed or unchanging. This is “constant nonbeing,” through which one perceives the Dao’s subtle aspect. As for the Dao taking shape in the Five Constant Virtues of Confucianism—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—and in all kinds of conduct, since all things embody the Dao and nothing is ever apart from it, this is “constant being,” through which one perceives the scope of the Dao as it manifests.

“Being” and “nonbeing” are not two entirely separate things. Both come from the natural Dao; they are simply given different names in different circumstances. Some people in the world take “being” to be the Dao, some take “nonbeing” to be the Dao, and others cling to claims such as “neither being nor nonbeing” or “both being and nonbeing.” All these views grasp at distinctions and fail to recognize that being and nonbeing are originally fused as one.

Being and nonbeing merge completely; this is called “Mystery”—a profound and subtle realm that words cannot express. Yet “Mystery” alone cannot fully describe it, so it is called “Mystery upon Mystery.” This is the source from which all wonders arise, and among the principles of the world, nothing surpasses it.

[Commentary] When everyone in the world knows what beauty is, the distinction between beauty and ugliness arises with it. [True beauty cannot be grasped through knowledge and discriminating thought; once everyone agrees that something is beautiful, it is no longer beauty in its natural state.]

When everyone in the world knows what is beautiful, ugliness comes into being alongside it. When everyone knows what is good, what is not good comes into being alongside it. True beauty and goodness are not determined by the mind that makes distinctions. The more firmly beauty and goodness are treated as fixed standards, the more firmly ugliness and what is not good are defined alongside them.

Thus being and nonbeing arise in dependence on each other; difficult and easy take shape in contrast; long and short become apparent through comparison; high and low reflect one another; sounds answer one another; and front and back accompany one another. Things in the world often appear through their opposites: wherever one side exists, its counterpart exists as well.

For this reason, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action), following the nature of things without imposing needless actions, and teaches through “teaching without words,” guiding others through personal conduct rather than verbal admonition. When the myriad things arise and move, the sage does not obstruct them. The sage gives life to them and nurtures them, yet does not claim them as possessions; acts, yet does not rely on personal ability; and brings things to completion, yet does not take credit. Because the sage does not claim credit, the achievements are not erased.

The commentary explains that what people call beautiful or good often comes from their individual feelings and preferences, and is not necessarily truly beautiful or good. Human nature is broadly similar, but people’s feelings differ. When they encounter things in the world, their varied feelings intermingle, giving rise to different likes and dislikes. People may see only beauty without realizing that the idea of “ugliness” arises alongside it; they may see only goodness without realizing that the idea of “what is not good” likewise arises alongside it.

The sage understands these relationships of opposition and therefore returns to one’s nature, dissolves rigid attachments of feeling, and acts in accord with the natural Dao. What is beautiful is indeed beautiful, yet what was originally regarded as ugly can also be transformed. What is good is indeed good, yet what was originally regarded as not good can also be transformed. In this way, nothing is cast aside and no one is abandoned. All things are allowed to follow their own nature and flourish, as though no one had deliberately arranged it.

When all things arise together, the sage follows their development without hindering them. As all things grow, the sage nurtures them in keeping with their course and does not claim ownership. The sage acts only by responding to the myriad things, without relying on personal ability. When something is accomplished, it is simply completed at the right time; the sage does not claim the credit. Because the sage does not take credit, all things turn to the sage as they would revere Heaven and Earth and draw near to their parents.

When so-called worthy and capable people are not held up for admiration, the people will not compete with one another. When rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not become thieves. When things that can stir desire are not displayed, people’s minds will not be thrown into disorder. The commentator explains that praising the reputation of the worthy makes people ashamed of being less than others and leads them to compete for fame. Prizing rare goods makes people anxious when they cannot obtain them, and leads them to steal. Both rivalry and theft arise from seeing things that stir the heart.

Therefore, in governing the people, the sage keeps their minds calm and their desires few, while ensuring that they have enough food and clothing. The sage softens and restrains their ambitions while keeping their sinews and bones strong. In the commentator’s view, when fondness for things diminishes, the mind can become empty and still; as desire recedes, right principle becomes apparent. When ambitions are not indulged, desire naturally lessens, and people can strengthen themselves.

The sage constantly ensures that the people do not flaunt their cleverness or give free rein to their desires. Even those with knowledge dare not use it as an excuse for reckless conduct. The phrase “govern through Wuwei (non-action)” means governing in a way that follows nature and avoids contrived action; then nothing under Heaven is left unguided.

The commentator further explains that the sage does not reject the talented or refuse precious goods. Rather, the sage does not deliberately glorify people’s reputations or inflate the value of goods, lest the people be stirred to compete for fame and profit. In this way, the people return to natural simplicity: they neither contend for fame nor steal. The sage does not awaken boundless cleverness and desire in the people, but guides them back to simplicity. Even those who possess knowledge then dare not act recklessly, and the realm settles into Wuwei and peace. To achieve this, the sage, too, does not presume to possess profound knowledge and does not regard the things of the world as objects of desire worth pursuing.

The Dao is empty and profound. In its use, it is never exhausted, and nothing can fill it. Deep and remote, it seems to be the common source of all things.

Draw in the sharp edge of thoughts that race outward, untangle the disturbances that external things bring to the spirit, and let your own light shine gently without display. Move among people in the world without seeming different from them. The Dao is clear and profound: it seems truly to exist, yet remains hard to grasp.

I do not know where the Dao comes from. It seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven—the deity who governs the creation and transformation of all things.

The way of “Wuwei” (non-action) is originally utterly empty and formless, yet it can respond to all things in the world. Heaven and earth are vast, and the people and myriad things are many. The Dao is present everywhere; the more it is used, the less it is exhausted. Things can become full, but the Dao is never filled. All things are born from the Dao, which is like an abyss, as though it were the root of all things.

Everyone has the Dao, but only the sage can preserve it. How is it preserved? Holding back one’s sharpness prevents reckless action; resolving disturbances prevents entanglement with external things. In this way, impurities recede and brightness appears. But to flaunt one’s brightness deliberately is to set oneself apart on purpose. So one should “blend with its light”: let pure brightness merge into the dusty, bustling world, so that one can respond to things everywhere. This does not mean abandoning all things in pursuit of the Dao. Preserved in this way, the Dao remains clear, still, and enduring. Though it endures, people can scarcely recognize it; hence it is said to “seem to exist and yet not exist.” The Dao exists, yet in the end it is difficult to name, and its origin is unknown. Still, one cannot say that it does not exist; hence it seems to precede the “Emperor,” the ruler of all things. All the transformations of things occur after the Emperor, while the Dao precedes the Emperor. Nothing, then, came before the Dao.

Heaven and earth show no partiality; they treat all things as “straw dogs”—dogs made of straw for use in sacrifice and discarded once the rite is over. The sage, too, shows no partiality and treats the people as straw dogs.

Isn’t the space between heaven and earth like a bellows? The “tuoyue,” an ancient bellows, has a boxlike outer frame and an opening inside through which air is blown. Though hollow within, it does not run dry; once set in motion, air keeps pouring out. Because it is empty, it is never depleted, and once it moves, it produces effects without end.

Too much talk often leads to difficulty. Better to hold fast to the “center”—that which is neither partial nor biased, namely, the Dao.

The Dao (the Way) existed before emperors and kings, and people do not know where it came from. Thus, the sage governs through Wuwei (non-action), yet nothing is left unguided. When his work is done, he does not take pride in his achievements. How could he harbor the thought, “I have the power to bestow favors on the people”?

Heaven and Earth embody the Dao. When they bring forth and nurture the myriad things, they allow them to grow naturally and do not regard themselves as their parents. The sage embodies the Dao as well: when he governs the world, he does not rule by force, yet the world is governed. Why is this so? The myriad things and Heaven and Earth are originally one; the people and the sage are likewise originally one. Heaven and Earth and the sage feel no inward desire to bestow favors, nor do they regard the myriad things and the people as recipients of favors. They regard themselves as straw dogs—straw figures used in ritual and discarded afterward. Accordingly, they regard the myriad things and the people without distinction. Precisely because they do not consider themselves benevolent, their benevolence has no end.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? It is empty, yet does not collapse; when set in motion, it sends out an unending flow of air. The sage who embodies the Dao of Heaven and Earth harbors no thought of “I can bestow favors,” nor does he regard the myriad things and the people as recipients of favors. He regards himself as a straw dog, and regards the myriad things and the people in the same way. Precisely because he does not consider himself benevolent, his benevolence is inexhaustible.

Therefore, one who embodies the Dao practices Wuwei and does not cling to words when speaking. This can be understood. Words are voiced, but their source cannot be explained by words themselves. Everyone has this source, yet people often prize verbal expression alone and end up in difficulty. This is because their minds cling either to “being” or to “nonbeing,” to acquiring or to relinquishing, and so they cannot accord with the Dao. Only by clinging neither to being nor nonbeing, and attaching oneself neither to acquisition nor relinquishment, can one accord with the Dao. This is called “guarding the center”—maintaining a state free of bias. So rather than speak at length and repeatedly fall into difficulty, it is better to guard the center and avoid becoming trapped.

Chapter Six

The Valley Spirit never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female, the deep and generative motherly source from which all things arise. The valley is a metaphor for emptiness: it is empty and yet able to contain; it contains the myriad things without possessing them. Its subtle mystery is beyond measure, which is why it is called the “Valley Spirit.” The Dao is constant and imperishable, so it is said to “never die.” The female has the power to give birth to the myriad things; like what is called the “mother,” she can give rise to them without end.

The Valley Spirit—the wondrous working of the Dao, empty like a valley yet able to contain all things—never perishes. This is called the Mysterious Female, the deep maternal source that brings all things into being and transforms them. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues without end, seeming to exist yet difficult to perceive; use it, and you will never feel exhausted.

People know that Heaven and Earth give rise to the myriad things, but they do not know that Heaven and Earth themselves were originally born from the Dao. How can the Dao’s mystery be understood? A valley offers a comparison: it is empty, yet still has form; the Valley Spirit, by contrast, is empty and formless. Since it is empty and formless, it cannot be said to be born—so how could it die? Neither born nor dying, it can nevertheless enable all things to arise and flourish without end. This is the Mysterious Female. It is the source where being and nonbeing unite to bring forth and transform; Heaven and Earth are born from it, so it is called their root.

Say it does not exist, and yet it continues without end, never once ceasing. Say it does exist, and still you cannot see where it is. A person who reaches this state can make the formed body still and empty like a valley, and the formless mind and spirit quiet like the Valley Spirit. In using it, one does not apply the mind deliberately, but simply accords with the Dao. What could be tiring about that?

This chapter can also be taken as a basis for self-cultivation, though Laozi’s original meaning was not focused specifically on cultivation.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They can do so because they do not live for themselves alone; this is why they are able to exist for so long.

“Not living for themselves” means that Heaven and Earth simply nurture all things without cherishing themselves. The sage is the same: by putting himself last, he comes to stand before everyone; by setting himself aside, he is able to preserve himself. “Standing before” means that no one can surpass him; “preserving himself” means that external things cannot harm him.

Is this not precisely because he has no selfish concern? In this way, he brings his own fulfillment. Here, “selfishness” refers to concern for oneself. The sage can stand before everyone only by putting himself last, and preserve himself only by setting himself aside. Thus, he brings his own fulfillment.

The previous chapter explained how the Dao gives birth to Heaven and Earth. This chapter explains how Heaven and Earth nurture all things, and how the sage brings fulfillment to the people. Nothing endures longer than Heaven and Earth. They endure because Heaven bestows and Earth nurtures: their giving to all things never ceases, and their nurturing of all things is unfathomable. They never begrudge what they give, nor tire of what they nurture. This is what it means not to live for themselves. All things depend on Heaven and Earth for their life, and so Heaven and Earth endure.

The sage is the same. He understands that his original nature is true and unchanging, and his heart is as vast as Heaven and Earth. He therefore does not regard himself as precious. He acts from his original nature, knowing that whatever ought to be done must be done. Every action brings goodness and benefit. Because he does not put himself at the center of his concern, among all those in the world who value themselves, no one surpasses him. Thus, a person of great De (Virtue/Power) is sure to receive salary, status, renown, and long life. This is how putting himself last allows him to stand before everyone, and setting himself aside allows him to preserve himself.

The sage’s heart is clear and penetrating, fair and broad, without selfish concern. He does not act this way in order to bring fulfillment to himself; yet his own life is fulfilled as a result. This is simply what follows from the natural course of things.

The highest form of goodness is like water. Water nourishes all things without competing with them. It stays in low places that people dislike, and so is closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle by which all things operate).

Water rests in low places, so it occupies the right position; this is called “being good at choosing one’s place.” It is empty, still, and profound, beyond measure; this is called “being good at keeping a deep heart.” It nourishes all things and gives generously without seeking anything in return; this is called “being good at giving with benevolence.” It responds to whatever it encounters: it turns where things are round, bends where they are square, stops when blocked, and flows out when there is an opening. It always accords with the circumstances; this is called “being good at keeping one’s word.” Like washing away what is filthy and leveling what is high and low, it brings things into order; this is called “being good at governing.” It adapts to the shape of things without remaining fixed in one place; this is called “being good at handling affairs.” Its movements accord with the seasons: it freezes in winter and thaws in spring, and its rising and falling never lose their proper measure; this is called “being good at moving at the right time.”

Water has these seven strengths, yet it does not compete. Therefore, it has no faults and provokes no resentment. The sage takes water as a model: placing himself behind others and not making himself the center; not treating good deeds as a means of gaining victory. The “highest goodness” spoken of here is the goodness embodied by the Dao, not the kind of goodness praised by everyone in the ordinary world. The sage rests in a fitting place, keeps a calm and profound heart, extends benevolence throughout the world, speaks with care and reliability, governs the state in an orderly way, handles affairs appropriately, and acts in accord with the moment. People who do good yet still attract criticism often do so because they compete to prevail. The sage possesses many virtues but does not pride himself on his abilities. He therefore does not contend with the world, and so incurs no resentment.

Holding tightly to something and continuing to increase it is not as good as knowing when to stop. Repeatedly hammering something until it becomes sharp does not make it easy to keep that way for long. [When a vessel is full, it is likely to overflow. Fearing that it may spill, one braces it from both sides; this is called “holding.” When an object is too sharp, it is likely to break. Fearing that it may break, one regulates its proportions and reshapes it; this is called “tempering.”]

No one can keep a hall piled high with gold and jade. [This warns people against greed.] After becoming wealthy and powerful, pride and arrogance only bring disaster upon oneself. [This warns people against conceit.] Once one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has spread, one should withdraw and yield one’s position. This is in keeping with the Way of Heaven. [To remain humble and yielding even after achieving success and fame is to follow the Way of Heaven.]

This chapter explains how to preserve oneself. Knowing that anything filled to the brim must overflow, it is safer not to let it become full than to wait until it is nearly full and then struggle to hold it back. Knowing that anything sharpened to its limit must break, it is better to keep it within bounds than to make it excessively sharp; only then can it last. Thus, one can keep wealth for a long time only by remaining prosperous without becoming overfull. If one simply amasses wealth until it fills the hall, no one will be able to keep it. Only by holding a high position without putting oneself in danger can one retain honor for a long time. If one hones one’s power and grows arrogant and complacent, one will instead bring disaster upon oneself. Therefore, only by remaining humble and yielding after one’s achievements and reputation have been established can one avoid pursuing things for selfish ends and thereby fulfill oneself. Perhaps this is what it means to follow the Way of Heaven.

Chapter Ten

When body and mind are united and the spirit is nurtured, what fault could there be? Yet only by remaining humble and yielding after one’s achievements and reputation have been established can one avoid pursuing things for selfish ends and thereby fulfill oneself. Perhaps this is what it means to follow the Way of Heaven.

Can the hun and po in the body be brought together as one and kept from separating? Can the breath be regulated with single-minded focus until it is gentle, like that of an infant? An infant has little awareness or discrimination, and its breath is focused and gentle. Can the mind be cleansed of stray thoughts, made clear and subtle, and left without a flaw?

Can you care for the people and govern the state by following things as they are, without forcing action? If you care for the people only through personal feelings, your care can never extend to everyone; if you forcefully manage every matter, the state will be hard to settle. With stillness and Wuwei (non-action), the people will change of their own accord.

As the gates of the mind open and close, can they remain soft and still? Here, “Heaven’s Gate” refers to the mind: thoughts come and go and change, though their form cannot be seen. “Being the female” means keeping still to nurture activity. Can you be clear and open both inwardly and outwardly, with an empty and lucid mind, yet remain free of attachment to distinctions made by knowledge?

Let all things grow and be nurtured without claiming them as your own; act without relying on your accomplishments; help all things mature without ruling over them. This is called Xuande (profound and subtle virtue). “Not ruling” means not believing yourself capable of controlling all things. Though you possess deep virtue, do not use it to control them.

The hun belongs to Yang, and the po to Yin. The po gives shape to the body, while the hun brings life forth. The classic repeats that to nurture all things without possessing them, to act without relying on one’s accomplishments, and to help all things mature without ruling over them is Xuande.

The hun is a person’s Yang Qi, and the po is a person’s Yin Qi. The po belongs to the physical body, while the hun belongs to the spirit. The sage’s mind and nature are settled, and the spirit is gathered and concentrated. The sage is not led astray by external things, so the spirit can always settle and govern the body. Ordinary people, however, are controlled by external things; their minds and spirits grow confused and cannot find stability. Their eyes and ears are troubled by sights and sounds, while their noses and mouths are wearied by smells and tastes. In this way, the desires of the body come to constrain the spirit. To teach people to “embrace the spirit and carry the po” is to preserve the spirit, allowing it to settle the body so that the two do not become separated. This is the sage’s way of cultivating the self in pursuit of peace and long life.

When the spirit cannot settle, Qi becomes disordered. The forceful are prone to fighting, while the weak are prone to fear, yet they do not understand why. When the spirit is settled, Qi becomes focused and does not scatter, reaching a state of softness and harmony in which it does not clash with external things. Who can be like this, apart from an infant? The sage is not drawn outward by bodily desires or ruled inwardly by changes in Qi, and so can perceive the profound principles with detachment.

If one remains attached to “mysterious insights,” one becomes trapped by one’s own views. Attachment to “being” brings entanglement in being; immersion in “nonbeing” leads to entrapment as well. One must therefore also cleanse away attachment to the mysteries of the Dao, so as not to be bound by one’s views.

If these words are misunderstood, could they not turn cultivation into nothing more than a pursuit of emptiness and extinction? The scripture’s phrase “carry the hun and po” does not mean sitting in silence and doing nothing. It means that even while loving the people and governing the state, one can follow things’ natural course and refrain from meddling. This is “acting through non-action” (Wuwei). “Focus the Qi and attain softness” does not mean suppressing or shutting off mind and body. It means being able to remain soft and receptive, like the opening and closing of the Gate of Heaven. This is “the masculine guarding the feminine.” “Cleanse away the mysterious mirror” does not mean being dull and unaware. It means that although one can see clearly in every direction, one does not pride oneself on one’s intelligence or make distinctions recklessly. This is “knowing without knowing.”

The sage’s way is sufficient to nourish all things, yet the sage does not claim merit for this, nor rely on authority or dominate them. Without profound, far-reaching Mysterious De—deep and weighty Virtue—who could do this?

Thirty spokes converge at a hub—the center of the wheel that holds the axle. It is the empty space within the hub that lets the wheel turn, allowing the cart to serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel; it is the hollow inside that lets the vessel hold things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; the space within lets people live there, while the doors and windows allow entry and exit and let in light.

Thus, solid form provides convenience, while the empty space within it enables it to function.

This chapter explores how “being” and “nonbeing” bring one another into being. People often notice only what tangible things can do, overlooking how empty space allows them to function. The wheel, the vessel, and the house all show this. From this we can infer that without tangible things, empty space has no means to serve a purpose; without empty space, tangible things cannot fully serve theirs. Being and nonbeing depend on each other and cannot be separated.

The five colors can dazzle the eyes; the five notes can make hearing dull; the five flavors can throw taste out of its natural balance. Riding at a gallop and hunting can make the mind and spirit run wild. Rare and precious things can harm a person’s De.

Therefore, the sage values inner fullness and does not pursue outer desires. “Belly” here refers to what is within, and “eyes” to what is outside: the heart can take things in without grasping at them or clinging to them, while the eyes are always seeking to possess; the more they see, the more they feel they lack. So the sage lets go of outward craving and draws on inner fullness.

This chapter says that the key to the sage’s careful self-preservation is keeping one’s nature settled within. When the heart has a guiding center, one can see every color, hear every sound, taste every flavor, hunt at the proper time, and make use of precious things without being beguiled by them, always remaining aligned with the right path. When the heart has no center, it is pulled about by external things: colors bewilder the eyes, sounds dull the ears, flavors upset the sense of taste, hunting stirs the mind and spirit, and precious goods damage De. As external things overflow, one’s true nature is lost. The sage holds fast to the heart and does not blindly pursue external things, allowing the heart to receive all things without being unsettled by contact with them. Hence the saying, “nourish the belly, not the eyes”: let go of outward craving and draw on inner fullness, and the heart will become deeply quiet and clear, undisturbed.

Chapter Thirteen: Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled.

“Favor” means honor and high status; “disgrace” means low standing and humiliation. “Like being startled” describes a state of inner unrest. Both receiving favor and suffering disgrace can make a person uneasy.

Both favor and disgrace bring the unease of someone startled. “Favor” means honor and esteem; “disgrace” means low status. To feel uneasy when favored is like feeling uneasy when disgraced. This shows that one should regard favor and disgrace, gain and loss, in the same way.

What does it mean to say that favor and disgrace are both like being startled? Favor places one in a high position, while disgrace places one in a low position. People know that disgrace means low status, but they do not realize that disgrace often comes from favor. Seen in this light, disgrace is not truly a fall, while favor itself calls for caution. To feel uneasy when gaining favor and also when losing it is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are both like being startled.” Once we understand that favor itself carries danger, we will not become complacent when it comes. And when it goes, we can remain as calm as when it came, and not be harmed by its loss.

What does it mean to “regard oneself as a great affliction”? I have great afflictions because I have this body. The body brings inner troubles such as illness, while gains and losses in favor stir the spirit from outside. These afflictions all arise because this body exists. When I no longer cling to myself, what afflictions could remain? Here, “having no body” means forgetting one’s attachment to the body and the self, not that the body disappears. Recognizing that the body is not enduring or ultimately real allows us to let go of attachment, and our afflictions then diminish.

Therefore, one who cherishes himself and places the world first can be entrusted with the world. One who can care for himself while placing the world first can also be entrusted with it. Because he does not claim the world as his own, the world can be entrusted to him.

Because the sage does not let external things harm the inner self, the sage guards that inner self, treating both favor and disgrace as reasons for caution, and the body as something to handle carefully, as though facing a great calamity. Why is this so? Favor and disgrace are not, in themselves, entirely separate things; receiving favor is often the precursor to disgrace. So one should be apprehensive when receiving favor, and apprehensive when losing it. In this way, one does not become complacently absorbed in favor and will not be thrown into panic by disgrace.

Having a body is the very source from which great calamity arises. If one can forget oneself and not let fortune or misfortune stir one, as though no longer attached to this body, calamity will naturally have no way to arise. Extending this principle, if a person cherishes the world as carefully as they cherish themselves, the world can be entrusted to them; if they cares for the world as they care for themselves, the world can be placed in their keeping. This shows that only by not claiming the self as one’s own and not clinging to it can one move through the world without being burdened.

Look at it, yet it cannot be seen; hence it is called “Yi” (plain and without form). Listen for it, yet it cannot be heard; hence it is called “Xi” (silent and soundless). Try to grasp it, yet it cannot be caught; hence it is called “Wei” (subtle and difficult to apprehend). These three descriptions cannot be pursued to a clear conclusion, so together they can only be called the Dao. Though their names differ, in the end they cannot be separated from one another.

Above, the Dao does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dark. It flows on without end, yet no name can describe it. Cling to a name in search of it, and in the end you return to the formless and immaterial. This is called “the shape without shape, the image without image”—the “blurred and elusive,” as if present and absent, changing beyond measure.

Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide the affairs of the present, and you can know the original source of all things. This is the Dao’s guiding principle: to grasp its fundamental laws.

The Dao has no trace, sound, or scent. It came into being before Heaven and Earth and cannot be seen, heard, or grasped. It fills Heaven and Earth, yet cannot be held fast. Face it, and you find no front; follow it, and you find no back. The Dao is confined neither to the past nor to the present. Yet tracing where all things came from may be called knowing the ancient beginning; observing their existence now may be called knowing the present. Those who attain the Dao grasp what has existed since ancient times and use it to respond to the present. Thus they can know the origin of all things, and within this lies the Dao’s guiding principle.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao (the Way) were subtle and mysterious, far-reaching and profound, beyond fathoming. Because they were so difficult to understand and describe, they could only be explained through a few images: cautious as if crossing a river in winter; hesitant as if wary of people all around; solemn as a guest; careful as if ice were about to melt; simple and substantial as uncarved wood; open and spacious as a valley; indistinct and undivided, seemingly mixed in with ordinary people.

Who can let the murky settle slowly and grow clear in stillness? Who can let what is settled gradually change through a long process of movement? “Slowly” means following the natural course of things, without rushing to force an outcome.

Those who keep to the Dao do not seek fullness. Because they remain empty and never become self-satisfied, they can make room for what is already there instead of hastening to create something new. Here, “empty” means a state of not being self-satisfied and of being able to receive.

This chapter says that the one who has attained the Dao puts emptiness to use. Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao progressed gradually into the Great Dao: from subtlety to mystery, and from mystery to understanding that reaches far and deep.

This chapter speaks of how those who attain the Dao make use of emptiness and stillness. In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao aimed to attain the sage’s state and fathom the mysteries of the spirit. Their practice progressed from the shallow to the profound, reaching a realm of subtle mystery. The more deeply they understood the mystery, the more far-reaching its principles became, until they were beyond measure. Since they were unfathomable, how could their manner be clearly described?

If we try to portray them, they acted as though compelled by necessity, like someone crossing a river in winter, cautious at every step. They seemed wary of being seen, as if constantly on guard against their neighbors. Their bearing was grave and respectful, like that of a guest. Their inner state was cautious and apprehensive, as though treading on thin ice. They were plain, as if uncarved; open-hearted like a valley, able to contain all things; and deep and simple, as if murky, with no clear distinction between themselves and the things of the world. These seven qualities are difficult to compare with anything by ordinary standards.

Perhaps “murky” means that they can settle into stillness and let the muddiness gradually clear. Those in the world are troubled by turbid Qi; who else can rest at ease amid turbidity as they do? Perhaps “stillness” also means that they can move from stillness into action, allowing life to gradually emerge. Those as inert as dead wood believe that composure means extinguishing their nature. Who else can remain so settled and yet, when stirred into action, gradually brim with vitality?

Those who can preserve this Dao keep their hearts empty and free of complacency. They look only to what is old and do not seek novelty. By holding to what is fundamental and not deliberately chasing change, they can make a thousand years seem like a single day. In this way, the Dao can be fully realized.

Bring the mind’s emptiness and stillness to their utmost. “Bring to” means to extend something to its limit. When emptiness and stillness reach their extreme, all things return to rest in the void. Hold fast to tranquility and let it grow deep and steady. When stillness reaches its extreme, the movement and changes of all things are contained within it.

All things arise together, and I observe how they return to their source. They flourish without end, yet each returns to its root, just as leaves and blossoms grow from a root and in the end return to it. When the many things arise in profusion, holding fast to deep tranquility makes it possible to see clearly how they return.

Returning to the root is called “stillness.” Deliberately suppressing action and forcibly stopping thoughts is not true stillness; true stillness comes from returning to one’s natural nature. Stillness is a return to one’s original state of life. At birth, people are naturally still: this is the nature bestowed by Heaven. To become still and let one’s nature emerge is to return to one’s Heaven-given destiny.

Returning to one’s Heaven-given destiny is the constant Dao (the unchanging order). Knowing the constant Dao is called clarity. Only when nothing obscures the myriad things can clarity emerge. If one does not know the constant Dao, one acts recklessly and invites danger.

Knowing the constant Dao makes the heart and mind broad enough to embrace all things. One who knows it is no longer attached to the distinction between self and others, or confined by preconceptions of good and evil, and can therefore embrace all things. To embrace all things is to attain impartiality; impartiality is enough to govern the world. Governing the world in accordance with what is just brings one into harmony with Heaven; to be in harmony with Heaven is for the Dao to fill one’s being. The Dao is constant and unchanging, and so it endures. One who follows it throughout life will not fall into danger.

Preserve the Dao without becoming complacent; what matters is bringing the mind’s emptiness and stillness to their utmost. When the mind is empty and still, it can be in harmony with Heaven.

Hold fast to the Dao without seeking fullness or excess. The key is to bring the mind to emptiness and stillness. When the mind reaches the utmost emptiness and stillness and can remain quietly focused, all things become clearly visible to contemplation. In observing how things come forth, one must also see how they eventually return.

Though things are many, each in the end returns to its root. This is called “returning to the root.” Once they have returned to the root, movement reaches its limit and gives way to stillness. In the deepest stillness, things’ original patterns reappear; this is called “returning to one’s destiny.” What becomes clear through this return is the enduring, unchanging principle. Only one who recognizes this constant principle can be called truly understanding.

Those who do not understand this constant Dao are prone to delusion and reckless action, and so depart from the Dao and enter dangerous paths. Understanding the constant Dao allows the mind to become as vast as Heaven and Earth, embracing all things. Able to embrace all things, one can act with impartiality. A ruler governing the realm should likewise follow this impartial way. To govern the realm justly is to accord with the way of Heaven and Earth. The way of Heaven and Earth is the Dao—the constant, unchanging way. If one can grasp this constant Dao, one can walk in the Dao throughout one’s life. What danger could there be?

The highest kind of ruler is one whose presence the people scarcely notice. “They know he is there” means that ruler and people live in peace, each scarcely aware of the other; the people do not know how this stability came about. The next kind of ruler is one whom the people love and praise. This is because, after the Great Dao declined, benevolence and righteousness began to be made explicit: the people grew close to his benevolence and praised his righteous conduct. The next kind is one whom the people fear. When benevolence and righteousness can no longer be put into practice, punishments and decrees arise, and the people are made afraid of his authority. The next kind is one whom the people slight and despise. When laws and penalties are no longer enough to restrain people’s hearts, the ruler turns to political manipulation, and the people treat him with contempt.

When a ruler lacks trustworthiness, the people do not trust him. If the ruler has no settled view of how to govern and keeps changing his methods, the people will cease to believe him. The sage governs the world with confidence and integrity, yet still gives great care to speech and does not speak lightly. He lets the people benefit naturally through Wuwei (non-action), and they trust him of their own accord. When the work is done and the achievements complete, the people all say, “We were this way all along.”

This chapter discusses the troubles that arise as the age gradually declines, and explains that good governance lies in following what is natural. In an age when the Great Dao prevailed, there were no labels such as “benevolence” and “righteousness,” yet people naturally acted with benevolence and righteousness. They lived in peace, unaware of who governed the world. Later, the people began to love and praise their ruler; after that, they began to fear him; and later still, they began to slight him. The world’s decline stems from rulers’ lack of trustworthiness, which gradually causes the people to stop trusting them. The sage governs the world through the Dao and is deeply trustworthy, yet does not issue words carelessly or interfere deliberately. The people benefit without realizing it. Once the work is complete and everything is in order, the people grow better day by day without knowing who brought it about; they simply feel that things were always this way. This is precisely what the Analects means by “What has the emperor’s power to do with me?” The people feel that the emperor’s power has nothing to do with their lives. Such governance belongs to a flourishing age.

When the Great Dao flourished, there was no special talk of benevolence and righteousness, yet they were naturally reflected in people’s conduct. Only when the Great Dao declined were benevolence and righteousness singled out. As wisdom came to be prized, deceit and artifice also increased. Only when families fell into discord did people acquire titles such as filial son and loving father; only when the state was in turmoil did loyal ministers stand out.

This chapter explains that as the ways of the world descend into decline, they move ever farther from the Dao. The Dao is hidden and formless, so there is no need to proclaim benevolence and righteousness. Once people begin to distinguish and esteem these qualities, their names become prominent, and the Great Dao has already begun to wane. After it declines, people turn to clever schemes and stratagems, deceiving one another and competing for advantage; thus falsehood steadily grows.

In a well-governed age, people care not only for their own relatives and cherish not only their own children, so families are naturally harmonious. Only when everyone cares solely for their own relatives and children do filial devotion and parental kindness become qualities singled out for praise. Thus, the titles of filial son and loving father arise only after close family ties have fallen into discord. When the Dao prevailed and ruler and ministers shared one mind and virtue, there was no need to call anyone a loyal minister. Only after the state fell into turmoil did the reputation of the loyal minister emerge. Through this, the scripture shows that as the world’s ways grow ever worse, they move ever farther from the Dao.

Put an end to the pursuit of “sagacity and wisdom,” and abandon clever schemes and calculations; the people will gain a hundredfold. Sagacity and wisdom are indeed needed to understand the Great Dao, but if the people become attached to these labels, they will indulge their minds and chase after cleverness, bringing harm instead.

Put an end to attachment to the labels “benevolence and righteousness,” and the people will return to their natural dispositions: filial devotion to their parents and loving care for their children. Benevolence and righteousness are already contained within the Great Dao, but when people invoke them to seek personal gain, unfilial conduct and lack of compassion arise.

Abandon cunning and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will no longer appear. Cleverness can make tasks easier, and profit can be used to help others; yet theft, too, depends on cleverness and profit.

These three categories of labels—sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit—arose only as the ways of the world grew increasingly showy. They are not enough to govern the world, so people must be given something to return to. What this means is “showing one’s uncarved nature and embracing simplicity, reducing selfishness and curbing desire”: reveal what is plain and unadorned, preserve what is simple and unprocessed, reduce selfish thoughts, and lessen desire.

Those who possess the Dao observe that worldly ways are steadily declining and moving ever farther from the Great Dao. They therefore see these labels themselves as the problem. Once the label “sagacity and wisdom” appeared, the world’s troubles began to multiply. It is better to cast these labels aside so that the people may benefit naturally. Once the labels “benevolence and righteousness” appeared, people began arguing over who was filial and who was not, who was compassionate and who was not. It is better to cast the labels aside, so people no longer cling to distinctions and return to filial devotion and compassion. Once the label “cleverness and profit” arose, thieves appeared along with it. It is better to cast cleverness and profit aside, so the people no longer rely on them to steal.

These three categories of labels are all products of increasingly showy ways of life. From the perspective of those who possess the Dao, showiness cannot govern the world; it is better to lead the people back to what is genuine. Thus, let people follow the way of “showing their uncarved nature and embracing simplicity, reducing selfishness and curbing desire,” and the world will settle of its own accord. Is this not the way of governing in antiquity?

Chapter Twenty

Put an end to the pursuit of learning and knowledge, and there will be no worries. “Putting an end to learning” means learning to stop clinging to external knowledge and distinctions, and reaching a state in which nothing is pursued. When the mind is free of deliberation and actions are free of contrivance, and people preserve simplicity and reduce selfish desire, the world will settle of its own accord. Is this not the way of governing in antiquity?

Only by casting aside worldly learning and cleverness and returning to a state free of thought and action can one be said to have “cut off learning”; then there is no anxiety. How great is the difference between the respectful “yes” and the dismissive “uh”? How far apart are good and evil? In truth, the distance between them is not great.

What others fear, the sage too must treat with care. Yet what the sage fears is vast and boundless, without end. The multitude are immersed in delight, as though attending a lavish feast or climbing a terrace to admire the spring scenery. I alone am quiet and detached, with no thoughts yet stirred, like an infant just born and not yet grown.

I seem to be riding in a carriage without knowing where it is headed; I seem to advance, yet also to retreat, with no fixed destination. Everyone else seems to have gained something, while I alone seem to have forgotten something. My mind truly seems like the mind of a fool: bewildered and without pretensions.

The multitude appear clever and quick-witted, while I alone seem dull. They are sharp and exacting, while I alone am broad-minded and calm. I am so indistinct that I seem unable to see anything, and so still that I seem to have nowhere to dwell. Everyone else has a particular skill; I alone seem slow and ordinary. I differ from the multitude in cherishing only the root that nurtures all things: the “Mother,” meaning the Dao, for the Dao is the source of all things. The sage takes the Dao as the root, just as an infant depends on its mother for nurture.

One who has truly attained this state gives up sage wisdom, benevolence, righteousness, and clever gain, and returns to simplicity. Such a person no longer clings to worldly learning. Letting go of the pursuit of knowledge and deliberate action is what “cutting off learning” means here.

The Perfected Person, whose cultivation has reached the highest level, has cast aside notions such as sagely wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and clever profit-seeking, returning to simplicity and original nature. What is there left for them to learn about the world? Only when one no longer clings to what one has learned has one truly gone beyond learning; then nothing among the myriad things is cause for worry.

People are troubled and full of worries because they cannot let go. Their attachment to distinguishing good from evil is especially pronounced. To think that good is superior to evil is like thinking that “wei” is better than “e” (two different ways of replying in ancient times), without realizing that there is little difference between them. Better to set aside even the label “good,” and let the heart become spacious and clear, free of burdens.

The sage, however, does not simply follow every impulse or act without restraint. The things people fear, the sage also regards with care; indeed, the sage is mindful of everything, as though apprehension had no end. This is because ordinary people are intoxicated by the pleasures of the world, rejoicing as though they were enjoying the peace of a settled age or climbing a high terrace to admire the spring scenery. The sage is not like this. In stillness, the sage rests peacefully in simplicity, with not a single thought stirring, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. In action, the sage moves freely and without fixed purpose, seeming at once to move and to be still, clinging to no destination and leaving no deliberate trace. This is what sets the sage apart from everyone else.

Ordinary people always believe they have some strength, and so seem to have something to spare. The sage embraces all things, yet the heart remains empty, clear, and unobstructed. Thus the sage stands apart from the world, as though possessing nothing. Should we call this the mind of a fool? Why does it seem so deep and simple, as though it knew nothing? Others appear clever and perceptive, while the sage seems dull; others are skilled at examining and judging things, while the sage follows their natural course and does not act upon them. Everyone gives voice to their own opinions, seeming to put their abilities to use, while the sage appears slow and unpolished, making no deliberate effort.

The sage differs from ordinary people because the sage has let go of learning and distinctions, taking the Dao as the foundation, as an infant depends on its mother’s nourishment. What could an infant who depends on its mother have to worry about?

The state in which great De (Virtue aligned with the Dao) appears can only follow the Dao. The Dao has no form; anything that can be described belongs to the realm of De. Yet every expression of great De also comes from the Dao.

The Dao is hard to grasp, as though it were there and not there. In its haziness, images appear; look more closely, and it seems formless and shapeless, yet real things are within it. These images and things are what is meant by “the form of the formless” and “the image of no particular thing.”

The Dao is deep and hidden, beyond sight, yet it contains subtle Qi (vital energy). This subtle Qi is real, not illusory, and within it lies a trustworthy foundation. From ancient times to the present, the Dao’s name has never vanished, enabling it to reach through to the source of all things. The source of all things is where they first come into being; the Dao is like a gate through which they all emerge.

How do I know that the source of all things is as I have described? I know by this principle: to understand why all things are as they are, we must begin with the Dao, their source.

Set aside external things and abandon clever schemes and ingenuity, even appearing dull and unlearned: this is precisely the expression of profound De (Virtue/Power). Where does this De come from? It comes only from the Dao (the Way).

The Dao is elusive and indistinct, seeming both to exist and not to exist. When, within the indistinct, it comes into view as elusive, it is not wholly obscure; this makes us feel there may be something there. There truly is an “image” (a form or sign), but this image only gives the impression of something; it is not a concrete entity. When, within the elusive, it turns indistinct again, it is not wholly clear; this makes us feel there may be nothing there. Yet there truly is a “thing” within it, though it is difficult to discern—seemingly nonexistent, yet in fact present.

The Dao does not merely give us the impression, through conjecture, that something is there. It also contains Jing (essence), a subtle yet real substance. Jing is the pure, undivided part of what is attained through the Dao. Though difficult to see, it truly exists.

Among all things under Heaven, nothing surpasses the Dao in being genuine rather than false, trustworthy rather than mistaken, and constant rather than changing. Thus, although past and present differ, the Dao has never departed. Because it has always remained, we can see the beginnings of the myriad things and recognize it as their source. The sages can observe the beginnings of things and know where they come from because they have understood and followed the Dao.

If you can bend and adapt to the way things are, you can preserve yourself. Even if you suffer an injustice for the moment, as long as you act in keeping with what is right, in the end you will remain upright and find your way forward. Low-lying places draw together all the waters and so become full; what looks dim, worn, and close to ruin is often where new life begins.

The Dao is one. Grasp its root, and there is nothing you cannot understand. If your learning becomes scattered and complex, yet you cannot use this root principle to make sense of it, you will fall into confusion. Thus the sage holds fast to “embracing the One”—keeping to the root of things, the Dao—and makes it the standard for all under Heaven.

The sage does not deliberately put himself on display, and so can see things clearly. He does not insist that he alone is right, and so his understanding becomes clear. He does not boast of his achievements, and so his work is accomplished. He does not pride himself on his position, and so it endures. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

The ancients said, “By bending, one can remain whole.” Could this be empty talk? Indeed, one can remain whole and ultimately return to the Dao. To remain whole means preserving oneself as well as bringing other things to fulfillment. When oneself and all things are preserved and return to their nature, that is what it means to remain whole in the fullest sense.

By understanding the original state at the root of all things, one can hold fast to “embracing the One”—keeping to the Dao and preserving inner unity. When one embraces the One, one can bend with changing circumstances: accepting what is difficult, remaining humble, and being content with what is old. Things cannot remain bent forever, so after bending they return to wholeness. Nor can they remain oppressed forever, so after being pressed down they rise again. What lies low will gradually fill; what is old will be renewed. Taking less can bring gain, while grasping for more can lead to confusion. This is the way of following nature.

The sages of old could serve as guides for all things precisely because they held fast to the Dao. They remained in harmony with it: they did not put themselves forward, but let others bring them to light; they did not insist they were right, but judged by the rights and wrongs inherent in things; they did not claim credit, but helped others earn it; they did not boast of their strengths, but recognized the strengths of others. Because they did not contend with all things, no one under Heaven could contend with them.

The sage acts in accordance with how things are, thereby already attaining wholeness. By cultivating himself through softness and yielding, he ultimately achieves an even greater wholeness.

Few words accord with nature. The workings of Heaven and Earth are naturally so. What is called “natural” is not complicated; the principles of Heaven and Earth are simply this.

A gale cannot blow all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. Who makes them so? Heaven and Earth. Even the gales and downpours brought about by Heaven and Earth cannot last long—how much less can human beings? The stretch from dawn to noon is called “the whole morning”; from morning to evening, “the whole day.” Gales and downpours depart from the ordinary state, and so cannot endure.

Thus, those who follow the Dao (the Way) accord with the Dao; those who follow De (Virtue/Power)—who respond to the Dao and thereby accomplish something—accord with De; and those who have lost the Dao accord with having lost it. Here, “Dao” carries the sense of operating and putting into practice, while “De” carries the sense of attaining and accomplishing. Those who follow the Dao can let go of attachment to self: when it is time to act, they act without resistance; when it is time to gain, they gain without resistance; when it is time to lose, they lose without resistance. “Accord” means to follow without opposing.

The Dao gladly accepts those who accord with it; De gladly accepts those who accord with De; and the loss of the Dao gladly accepts those who accord with that loss. To accept calmly what should be done, gained, or lost is to understand the Dao.

When faith in the Dao is insufficient, disbelief arises. What matters in entering the Dao is being able to believe; if faith is insufficient, one will be unable to believe.

The reason sages do not contend is that the principles of Heaven and Earth operate naturally. The Way of nature is not complicated; it contains all the principles of Heaven and Earth. Few people believe this. Instead, they like to impose their own designs. Once they deliberately contrive things, they are bound to abandon them halfway—how could such efforts endure? The fact that gales and downpours cannot last makes this clear.

Those who follow the Dao are different: they respond to nature and do not cling to gain or loss. They trust that gain and loss, adversity and prominence, will arrive of their own accord, and do not impose their private intentions upon them. Thus, whatever they encounter, they can follow and accept, and meet it calmly. Those who do not understand the Dao have little faith in it. When things go badly, they grow doubtful and believe even less. Only those who truly trust the Dao can face doubt without wavering.

Standing on tiptoe, you lose your balance; taking oversized steps, you cannot walk far. The commentary explains: “to rise on tiptoe” means lifting the heels, while “to stride” means taking steps that are too large. Standing is already enough, but if you try to seem taller by rising on tiptoe, you become unsteady. Walking is already enough, but if you try to go faster by taking oversized steps, you hinder your progress.

Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who insist they are right do not gain recognition; those who boast have no merit; and those who exalt themselves cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, these behaviors are like leftover food and excess growths: anyone might find them repellent. So those who have the Dao do not act this way.

Sages follow what is natural. They do not show themselves off, insist they are right, boast, or exalt themselves, because they see the harm that comes from competing to prevail. People can already stand and walk. If they feel they are not standing tall enough and rise on tiptoe, or feel they are not walking fast enough and take oversized steps, they lose the ability to stand steadily and walk smoothly. The same is true of showing off, insisting on being right, boasting, and exalting oneself: in the practice of the Dao, these are like excess leftover food and growths. People in the world prize such displays and pursue them too, like those who crave leftovers. Human nature has no need for them, yet people constantly embellish themselves with them, like growths on the body. Leftover food and excess growths can be repellent, so those who have the Dao do not cling to them.

There is a single, undivided existence that was already present before Heaven and Earth took shape. It is silent and still, empty and without form. It exists independently and does not change; its movement extends everywhere and never comes to a halt. It may be regarded as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know what it was originally called, so I can only call it the Dao.

“Still” means without sound, and “empty” means without form. It is vast and has no equal, so it is called “independent”; it has remained the same from ancient times to the present, so it is said to “not change.” It is everywhere, so its movement is said to “extend throughout”; it reaches everywhere and moves without ceasing, so it is said to “never falter.” It is called the “Mother of all under Heaven” because all things under Heaven are born from it. Since its original name cannot be known for certain, it cannot be given a precise name.

As a makeshift name, it is called “Great.” Great means that its movement never ceases and has no end. Moving without end, it reaches far; reaching far, it eventually returns to its root. When the Dao’s activity unfolds, it fills the four directions of Heaven and Earth; when it draws inward, one cannot tell where it is. So “Great” is not an adequate name for it either; it can only be named provisionally. Though the Dao’s movement reaches far, it never leaves its own root. Thus “far” ultimately means “return”: a return to the root.

Therefore, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great. In the cosmos there are four things that are great, and the ruler is one of them. Here, “ruler” means a sovereign who embodies the highest expression of the human way. Human beings take Earth as their model; Earth takes Heaven as its model; Heaven takes the Dao as its model. The Dao takes as its model what has no human-imposed rules: this is “naturalness.” Thus it is said that the Dao follows naturalness.

This chapter explains that the Dao is supremely vast, and that a ruler can model himself on it.

The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low; it is a single, undivided whole. In human beings, it is expressed as their nature. Hence the saying, “There is something formed in a state of undifferentiated wholeness.” No one knows where it came from, for it is profound, still, and enduring; Heaven and Earth both arise from it. Silent and empty, without form, it exists independently. Nothing can rival it, and it has never changed. It moves through all things without ever being exhausted. It nurtures all things from below, so they all regard it as their mother.

The Dao originally had no name. Seeing that everything comes from the Dao, the sage gave it the designation “Dao.” Seeing that nothing could surpass it, the sage provisionally called it “Great.” Though vast, the Dao’s movement has no end, so it is called “passing on.” It reaches everywhere, so it is called “far.” Yet the Dao is also wholly present in a single thought, so it is called “return”—meaning a return to the source. Such is the vastness of the Dao.

Thus, there are four great things in the world: the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the ruler. The ruler should model himself on Earth’s selfless capacity to bear things, on Heaven’s selfless covering of all things, and on the Dao’s selfless creation of all things. If the ruler can keep joy and anger, sorrow and pleasure within proper measure, he can bring stability to Heaven and Earth and nurture all things. In this way, it is not difficult for the ruler to accord with the Dao.

“Gravity” is the root of “lightness,” and “stillness” is the master of “restlessness.” The root is the foundation on which something depends for its existence; “restlessness” means excessive action and anxious agitation. Gravity can steady frivolity, and stillness can restrain agitation. Thus it is said: “Gravity is the root of lightness; stillness is the master of restlessness.”

Therefore, the sage, even when traveling all day, does not leave behind the baggage cart—the ancient vehicle that carried clothing, food, and equipment. Even when splendid scenery lies before him to admire, he remains at ease in quiet repose, detached from external things and unburdened by them.

As the ruler of a kingdom with ten thousand war chariots, how can one treat the affairs of the realm lightly? Lightness means losing the root; restlessness means losing the master. This passage speaks of the principles of governing the realm: one responds only after being moved, and the response arises from that prompting. Thus gravity is the foundation of lightness. Stillness can govern external things, while restlessness is governed by them; therefore stillness is the master of restlessness.

Even when the sage travels all day, he keeps his actions as simple as possible yet does not leave behind the baggage cart. This shows that lightness cannot be without gravity as its root. Even when splendid scenery offers comfort, he must have a quiet place to dwell in. This shows that restlessness must be tempered by stillness. How much more, then, should the ruler of a kingdom with ten thousand war chariots remain still and grave? Only when circumstances compel him to act and action is truly unavoidable does he act; this is what it means to be grave. To refrain from acting recklessly is what it means to be still. Otherwise, if he is entangled in trivial affairs, even a small matter can govern him. How, then, could he govern the realm?

Chapter 27

One who is skilled at walking leaves no cart tracks or footprints, because he follows the way things are. One who is skilled at speaking makes no flawed or mistaken statements, because he waits for the right moment to speak. One who is skilled at planning uses no counters or counting rods, because the circumstances of all things are already clear before him.

Those skilled at walking leave no wheel tracks or footprints [because they follow the natural course of things, they leave no trace]. Those skilled at speaking make no mistakes in what they say [because they always speak at the right moment, their words may spread throughout the world without ever being ill judged]. Those skilled at planning need no counters or calculating tools [because the condition of all things is clear before them; they know without calculation, so why would they need to reckon things out?].

Those skilled at closing need no bolt, yet the door cannot be opened. Those skilled at tying need no ropes, yet what they bind cannot be undone [“bar” means a horizontal door bolt, while “latch” means a vertical one; “tying” refers to binding. Those fully endowed with De treat all things as a mother treats her child. Even when they let things be, nothing leaves them. Thus they can close without a bolt and keep things in order without binding them].

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is abandoned; always skilled at helping things, and so nothing is abandoned. This is called “concealed illumination” [the sage’s constant goodwill helps everyone, allowing all to receive instruction; with the same constant goodwill, the sage helps all things, allowing them all to be nurtured and transformed. “Concealed illumination” means that the sage keeps insight within and does not display it].

Thus, a good person can be a teacher to one who is not good, and one who is not good can serve as a lesson for a good person. If you do not honor your teacher or value your lesson, then even if you think you understand, you are deeply confused. This is a profound principle [a good person can teach someone who is not good, and someone who is not good can still help a good person. Yet the sage does not cling to external things: though a good person can serve as a teacher, the sage does not regard the teacher as something to boast about; though someone who is not good can serve as a lesson, the sage does not regard that lesson as something to cherish. The sage’s subtle state cannot necessarily be fully expressed even by those who understand the Way, and so it is called “the essential mystery”].

This chapter explains that the sage’s conduct may seem quiet and restrained, yet it holds a profound meaning that is hard to put into words. Skill in action, speech, planning, closing, and gathering things in—these are all forms of constant goodness. True constant goodness neither increases when people are many nor diminishes when things are few.

People and all things each have their own nature, yet they may lose the constant nature that is true to them. The sage therefore always uses “true constancy”—the principle that is both genuine and enduring—to aid people and all things. In aiding people, the sage abandons no one; in aiding all things, the sage abandons nothing. People and all things inherently possess clarity, but the sage, through insight into the constant Dao, aids them where they are connected to one another. This insight remains concealed and unseen, and so is called “hidden clarity.”

Thus, the good person is a teacher to the person who is not good; the person who is not good also serves as a lesson and support to the good person. What reason is there to cast the person who is not good aside? The sage forgets the self and forgets external things, seeing neither the self as a teacher deserving reverence nor others as resources to be used. In this way, distinctions between good and bad dissolve, and all things return undivided to the Dao. Even a wise person may not be able to explain this fully. Is this not a return to the root and a return to the source, a solitary apprehension of the Dao’s mystery?

Understand strength while keeping to weakness, and one can become the stream of the world. A stream receives all waters; the De of the constant Dao is therefore never lost, and one returns to the childlike state of natural innocence.

Understand brightness while keeping to obscurity, and one can become the model for the world. As the world’s model, the De of the constant Dao will not go astray, and one returns to the state of the Limitless (the boundless, undifferentiated source). At the Limitless, even the word “child” is no longer an adequate description.

Understand honor while keeping to lowliness, and one can become the valley of the world. A valley receives all things; the De of the constant Dao is thereby made abundant, and one returns to the uncarved block (the authentic state, whole and untouched by shaping).

The passage “understand honor and keep to lowliness” is repeated in the original. Honor means dignity and prominence; disgrace means being low and subordinated. A valley, too, is where many waters gather. Abundant constant De means more than simply having no faults. The “uncarved block” refers to an authentic, complete state in which all things remain whole and undifferentiated.

Once the uncarved block is broken apart and carved, it becomes various implements. When a sage puts the Way of the uncarved block into practice, the sage can become a leader who governs the world. Thus the greatest form of governance does not divide things apart.

This passage describes how a sage governs tangible things by means of the formless Dao, in keeping with the mysterious Way. Some affairs in the world cannot be accomplished through weakness alone; some cannot be governed through obscurity alone; and some cannot be completed from a low position alone. The sage therefore understands strength, brightness, and honor, while also keeping to weakness, obscurity, and lowliness. By holding to these qualities, the sage can receive the world like a valley and become its model; the world then turns toward the sage. The fundamental reason is that the sage has not departed from the De of the constant Dao.

The child, the Limitless, and the uncarved block are all aspects of the Dao that people originally possess, which is why the scripture says to “return.” Once the uncarved block is broken apart, it becomes implements: the Dao is the fundamental source beyond form, while implements are concrete things within the realm of form. A sage governs concrete things within the realm of form by means of the Dao beyond form, taking the Way of the uncarved block as the basis of governance. In ordinary making and control, things are inevitably divided apart. The highest form of governance makes no divisions. This is “the greatest carving does not cut”: it means holding to the Way of the uncarved block, so that the people naturally return to what is right.

Chapter 29

I do not think those who seek to seize the world and rule it by force will succeed. The sage possesses the world not by taking it, but because all things naturally turn toward him. Nor does the sage force the world into being; he follows the way things are. Whoever tries to seize and control it cannot attain it.

The world is a wondrous vessel; it cannot be forced. Those who act by force will fail, and those who insist on holding it will lose it. For force damages the natural state of things, while clinging to control makes one miss the moment when things change.

All things in the world have their own natures: some lead, others follow; some are warm, others cold; some are strong, others weak; some move, others rest. They differ from one another, each with its own natural state. Therefore, the sage removes what is extreme, extravagant, and excessive. To “remove the extreme” means to care without going too far; to “remove extravagance” means to be frugal; to “remove excess” means not daring to place oneself ahead of the world.

The sage governs the world through simplicity, without breaking apart the wholeness inherent in things. He governs by not disturbing the people or acting recklessly. The world, this wondrous vessel, can be guided only by following the Dao. The Dao does not act by force of subjective intention. If one violates this principle, one’s governance strays from the right way. Those who force things to succeed may instead cause them to fail; those who insist on obtaining something may instead lose it. All things have their own natures. Guide them in accordance with their circumstances, and matters will proceed with ease and order. Force them against their natures, and one will only create needless toil and greater disorder. Thus the sage removes what is extreme, extravagant, and excessive, preventing these from harming all things; then the world will have fewer calamities.

Chapter 30

Those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not rely on military force to assert their strength over the world. Actions undertaken through violence often bring retaliation. Where armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles grow; after a great war, famine is sure to follow. “Good at bringing a return” means that warfare provokes retaliation, and the calamities of war tend to recur in an unbroken cycle.

Those who assist a ruler by means of the Dao (the Way) do not rely on military force to flaunt their strength or dominate the world. Wherever armies pass, brambles spring up; after a great war, years of famine are sure to follow. [“What goes around comes around” means that using weapons against others will eventually invite retaliation. Where armies are stationed, the people cannot farm as usual. The destructive force of war also harms crops and leads to poor harvests.]

A skilled commander needs only to achieve the aim of defeating the enemy; they dare not use that victory to flaunt their strength. [A skilled commander seeks only to defeat the enemy decisively. The use of force is a last resort, not a means of showing off power.]

After victory, they do not boast, take credit, or grow arrogant. They use force only when there is no other choice: this is victory without flaunting strength. [They do not boast of their abilities, display their achievements, or act arrogantly on the strength of their position. They truly use force only as a last resort; this is how to win without relying on might.]

When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to age. This is called being contrary to the Dao. Whatever is contrary to the Dao soon perishes. [Once things become strong, they grow old: this is the natural course. The Dao prizes keeping to the soft and taking softness as strength. So conduct contrary to the Dao should be stopped in time, rather than continued.]

A ruler should follow the path of Wuwei (non-action), so those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not rely on military force to dominate the world. When the world is governed through the Dao, people are naturally willing to follow; when force is used to compel them, it provokes resistance. What is more, neither the timing nor the terrain will always favor one’s side. Thus, a skilled commander seeks only victory and does not treat war as a means of flaunting strength. Even after winning, they do not boast, parade their achievements, or grow arrogant. They use force only when there is no other choice, not to display their power. The Dao takes softness as strength, allowing things to endure without falling into danger. If one abandons softness and instead prizes hardness, that hardness will eventually decline. This is no path to lasting success, so one should stop in time and not rely on force to dominate the world.

Those skilled in the use of arms regard weapons as inauspicious things, which people generally detest. For this reason, one who has the Dao does not make warfare an ordinary practice. Only when there is no other choice does one use it to relieve a crisis.

In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; in warfare, he honors the right. The left belongs to Yang and symbolizes growth and life; the right belongs to Yin and symbolizes death and destruction. Weapons are inauspicious things, not something a gentleman takes pleasure in using. They are employed only when there is no other choice. In warfare, one should remain calm and detached; even in victory, one should not regard victory as something admirable. To rejoice in victory is to take pleasure in killing. One who takes pleasure in killing cannot realize their aspirations under Heaven.

For auspicious occasions, the left is honored; for inauspicious ones, such as funerals, the right is honored. In warfare, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme general on the right. In military rank, the deputy general should be subordinate to the supreme general, yet here stands in the more honored position on the left. This is because the army follows the rites for inauspicious occasions, and funerary rites esteem Yin. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even after winning a battle, one should observe the rites for inauspicious occasions.

This chapter says that warfare is a means a ruler adopts only when there is no other choice. Those who make warfare a regular practice treat weapons, these inauspicious things, as something to celebrate, but one who has the Dao does not. People ordinarily honor the left, while in warfare they honor the right precisely because war is inauspicious and not something a gentleman desires. When fighting cannot be avoided, one should remain calm and restrained, for stillness is the foundation of victory. Even after winning, one should not rejoice. To celebrate victory is to become someone who takes pleasure in killing. How could such a person fulfill their ambitions under Heaven? Thus, warfare follows the rites for inauspicious occasions: when many people have been killed, one grieves and weeps; even in victory, one still observes these rites. This shows that warfare arises only from necessity and is never cause for celebration.

The “Dao is always nameless” refers to the “constant Dao” described in Chapter One. “Nameless” means that it has no fixed name. Though the Dao has no form or name, it can be compared to the uncarved block.

The uncarved block seems small, yet nothing under heaven can control it. Here, the uncarved block refers to the Dao before it has been carved or divided. If the feudal lords and kings can hold fast to this uncarved state, all things will naturally submit to them. The Qi of Heaven and Earth will mingle, and sweet dew will fall. No one needs to command it; it will naturally spread evenly in every direction.

As all things begin to take shape, the uncarved block divides into different implements, each with its own name. At this point, one should also know when to stop: do not let names lead you away from the root. Return to the uncarved block—that is, return to the Dao. Those who know where to stop will not fall into danger.

The Dao moves through all under Heaven like the relationship between rivers and valleys and the great rivers and seas: streams branch into valleys and eventually flow into the great rivers and seas. Though all things have their own forms and names, they still take the Dao as their root and return to the nameless uncarved block.

To understand others shows wisdom; to understand yourself shows true understanding. To overcome others shows strength; to restrain your own selfish desires shows true power. To know contentment is to be rich. To pursue nothing outside yourself, but simply to act and persevere without giving up, is to have resolve. If you do not lose your proper place and calling, and do not change with external things, you can endure. Though the body dies, your true nature remains clear and undying: this is longevity.

This chapter describes the sage turning inward and taking himself as his foundation, and so finding sufficiency within. As long as the mind that makes distinctions and keeps score remains, you may see others clearly but still fail to recognize yourself. Only by understanding the constant Dao (the Way) can you truly know yourself. You may defeat another person in a contest, but that does not mean you can overcome yourself; the strength to restrain selfish desires cannot be achieved through brute force alone. Those who crave more always feel they lack enough; to feel no lack within is to be rich. Those who chase external things are easily controlled by them; if you simply put the Way into practice yourself and do not grow weary, your resolve cannot be taken from you. All things are constantly changing, yet the mind does not lose its foundation: this is endurance. Life and death are great transformations, yet true nature never disappears: this is longevity. To endure and live long—is this not a state that transcends life and death? The Way practiced by the Perfected One, a person of the highest cultivation, accords with all things.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Great Dao (the Way), vast and pervasive, flows everywhere, to the left and to the right, bound by nothing. It cherishes and nourishes all things. They depend on it to grow, and it does not refuse them; when things are accomplished, it does not claim the credit. It loves and nurtures all things but does not rule over them, for it has no intention of controlling them.

The Great Dao is always free of desire and still and empty, and may seem small. All things return to it, yet it does not reveal itself as their ruler. It embraces everything, and so may seem vast. Thus the sage never claims greatness, and is therefore able to achieve true greatness.

This chapter explains that the Dao’s substance has no fixed shape or direction, so it seems to depend on nothing and extend in all directions. All things are born from the Dao, yet the Dao never refuses them, claims ownership of them, or takes credit for their existence. It nurtures all things without seeking to rule them. Because the Dao is empty and still, belongs exclusively to nothing, and desires nothing, it may seem small; yet all things return to it and honor it as their source. It can also be called vast and boundless. Great and small are not fixed labels. Because the Dao does not claim greatness for itself, it achieves its vastness. The sage, too, does not think of himself as great, and so is able to accomplish great things.

Chapter 35

Hold to the “Great Image” (the Dao, which has no concrete form), and the people of the world will return to it. Those who return to the Dao will come to no harm and will find peace, harmony, and ease.

Music and fine food can make travelers stop along the way. But the words of the Dao are plain and flavorless: look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. Use it, and it is never exhausted.

All things rely on the Dao for their life. So when the sage holds to the Dao, the world naturally follows. Those who follow it suffer no harm and find peace and harmony. By contrast, music and fine food can only make passersby pause for a while. The Dao’s words may seem plain, yet their effects endure without end. This shows that quiet simplicity and Wuwei (non-action) express the “Great Image.”

Chapter 36

If you would make something contract, you must first allow it to expand. If you would weaken something, you must first strengthen it. If you would discard something, you must first let it rise. If you would take something away, you must first give it.

This is called “subtle insight”—a discernment that emerges from the minute. The soft and weak overcome the hard and strong. Fish cannot leave the deep water; a state’s powerful instruments must not be displayed lightly.

“To contract” means to make something smaller, while “to expand” means to make it larger. Weakening and strengthening, discarding and raising up, taking and giving all describe how things transform into their opposites. A fish that leaves the deep water is easily brought under control; likewise, openly displaying a state’s powerful instruments can invite danger.

If you want something to contract, you must first let it expand fully. If you want to weaken something, you must first let it grow strong for a time. If you want to discard something, you must first let it rise. If you want to take something, you must first give it. This is what is meant by “subtle illumination”: a principle that seems hidden but is, in fact, clear.

The soft can overcome the hard; the weak can overcome the strong. Fish cannot leave deep water, and a state’s powerful instruments should not be shown casually to others.

This chapter discusses the cycles of flourishing and decline in all things, and explains how the sage governs the heart and acts in accord with the way things unfold. “Is about to” refers to something that has not yet happened; “must first” refers to a corresponding tendency that has already begun to appear. When you see something flaunting itself, you can foresee that it will contract; when you see it growing strong, you can foresee that it will weaken; when you see it rising, you can foresee that it will fall. When someone gives, you should also consider that this may be accompanied by a later attempt to take something back. These changes are as inevitable as the sun gradually sinking westward after noon, or the moon waning after it is full. Though the pattern is subtle, it is entirely clear.

Those who look only at outward circumstances often believe that strength can suppress weakness. Those who understand the principle know that weakness will ultimately overcome strength. People cannot do without gentleness, just as fish cannot do without deep water. Hidden in deep water, fish live freely and at ease; if they leap onto dry land, they can scarcely survive. The sage withdraws into humility and yielding, yet can transform the forces at work between Heaven and Earth. Why, then, would the sage reveal their “powerful instruments”—the means or abilities by which they can prevail? The harm brought by strength can exceed that of weapons, which is why the text uses “powerful instruments” as a metaphor.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Dao always follows its own nature and does not act willfully, yet nothing remains unaccomplished. If rulers can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will transform and develop naturally. If desire and restless striving arise amid their transformations, I will use the “nameless uncarved block”—the Dao in its natural simplicity, untouched by human shaping—to settle them. The nameless uncarved block will also put an end to people’s restless cravings. When the heart is free of desire and grows still, the world will naturally return to what is right.

This chapter explains that the Dao takes Wuwei (non-action) as its essence and “nothing left undone” as its function, with both ultimately returning to “forgetting both”—that is, refusing to cling even to the distinction between non-action and action without omission. To act through non-action while leaving nothing undone means to accomplish things without a deliberate intent to act.

If rulers can hold to the Dao of non-action and do not deliberately seek to instruct and transform all things, all things will change of their own accord. Their transformation begins in non-action, but human contrivance gradually emerges. Once deliberate action begins, disorder and complications easily follow. Seeing this, the sage steadies things at the very moment contrivance first arises, using the “Uncarved Simplicity without a name.” This refers to a state that has not been shaped by human artifice, but remains simple and natural. Yet if the mind holds the thought, “I will use simplicity to govern,” simplicity is no longer its original simplicity. Only by letting go even of the thought of using simplicity can one reach profound stillness. All unrest in the world is caused by desires. Without desire, things can settle naturally into stillness and non-action. How, then, could the world fail to return to the right course?

Chapter 38 of the Daodejing (Classic of the Dao and De) says: “The highest De does not consider itself to possess De, and so it truly has De. Inferior De does not let go of its attachment to De, and so it does not truly have De.” Here, “not possessing De” means not deliberately proclaiming oneself to be virtuous.

Those of the highest De do not deliberately display their De, and so truly possess it. Those of lesser De constantly try not to lose their De, and so cannot be said to possess true De. Here, “not possessing De” means that a person and De have become one, with no deliberate distinction between them. “Not losing De” means clinging to the effort to preserve it, a state that has not yet reached this level.

Those of the highest De follow things as they are, with no deliberate intent to do anything. Those of lesser De also act, but with a clear purpose. “Acting with intent” means doing something deliberately; “acting without intent” means acting without a self-conscious purpose.

Those of the highest humaneness act, but without a deliberate wish to gain anything. Those of the highest righteousness act with the conscious aim of doing what is right. When it comes to the highest ritual propriety, if someone performs a ritual and no one responds, they roll up their sleeves and forcibly pull others into compliance. “No one responds” means that people do not answer the call; “rolling up their sleeves and pulling others along” describes reaching out and compelling them to follow.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of humaneness; only after humaneness is lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual propriety. Ritual propriety means that loyalty and trust have grown faint, and it marks the beginning of disorder. “Foreknowledge” means using cleverness to judge matters in advance. Such cleverness is merely a showy surface, and the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person takes their stand in what is substantial and does not dwell in what is shallow. They abide in what is real and do not pursue what is showy. So they set aside outward ritual adornments and choose the Dao within.

The commentary says: “Substantial” and “real” refer to inner cultivation; “shallow” and “showy” refer to outward forms. Setting aside external rules such as ritual propriety and righteousness and turning toward the Dao is the choice this chapter describes. The Dao is present everywhere; the Dao received by a person is called De. The De of the highest kind is De that comes from attaining the Dao, while lesser De arises only after the Dao has been lost. Those of the highest De do not deliberate or force matters; De is naturally abundant in them, which is why they are said to “possess De.” Those of lesser De strive to obtain it and seek only not to lose it, which is why they are said to “lack De.” Those of the highest De do not lose the Dao, yet have no deliberate intention to follow it. Those of lesser De do not lose De, yet their actions bear the trace of deliberate effort. Humaneness and righteousness also both involve action. The difference is that humaneness is valued when it acts without deliberate intent, while righteousness earns merit through conscious practice. Ritual propriety, for its part, has the most detailed rules of conduct.

In later times, people even rolled up their sleeves and forcibly imposed ritual and law. The more forcefully they imposed them, the farther they moved from the Dao. Thus, as people gradually descended from the Dao to ritual, ritual was used to promote loyalty and trustworthiness and to curb disorder. When people were pressed to observe ritual and law but refused to comply, punishments and warfare were brought into play one after another. Ritual then became the beginning of waning loyalty and trust and rising calamity and disorder.

This is like using cleverness to guide the dull-witted: the more cleverness is applied, the more easily people are confused and thrown into disorder, losing their original nature and falling into empty show and falsehood without substance. Cleverness thus becomes the flashy adornment of the Dao and the beginning of ignorance. The great person therefore dwells in what is substantial and does not remain in what is shallow; rests in what is real and does not pursue what is showy. They cast aside hollow benevolence and righteousness, reject contrived ritual and cleverness, and devote themselves to returning to the Dao’s wholeness and original truth. This is called leaving one side and choosing the other.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Of old, all things that attained the One each fulfilled their proper state. The One refers to the Dao. Heaven attained the Dao and became clear; earth attained the Dao and became tranquil; spirits attained the Dao and became numinous; valleys attained the Dao and became full.

In ancient times, all who attained “One” found their proper place through it. “One” is the Dao (the Way): through the Dao, Heaven became clear and bright, Earth became stable and peaceful, spirits became subtle and numinous, valleys became abundant, all things grew, and rulers became models of right conduct for the world. These effects ultimately all return to the same Dao.

If Heaven could not remain clear and bright, it might collapse. If Earth could not remain stable and peaceful, it might shake and grow unsettled. If spirits could not remain numinous, they might dissipate. If valleys could not remain abundant, they might dry up. If all things could not grow, they might perish. If rulers could not uphold what is right, they would lose their honored position and might fall.

Honor takes lowliness as its root, and height rests on what is low. Rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”—terms of self-effacement. Is this not a way of placing themselves in a low position? It shows that honor takes lowliness as its root.

Take apart and count the parts of a cart, and you will find wheels, spokes, hubs, and the crossbar, but no single thing called “the cart.” The Dao is like this: it cannot be identified as any particular object. The subtlety of attaining the Dao is neither conspicuous like a piece of fine jade nor isolated and distinct like a stone.

Chapter 40

The Dao (the Way) moves by turning back and returning to its root; its action is expressed through softness and weakness. All things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.”

The previous chapter said that the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the high takes the low as its foundation. Here, the source of all things is explained further through movement and stillness, strength and weakness. Returning to one’s original nature leads to stillness. Yet when things are stirred by an encounter, they can respond to the transformations of the world; this is the beginning of movement. The Dao is formless and soundless, the softest thing under Heaven, yet it moves throughout Heaven and Earth, and nothing is stronger than it. Hence the saying: “Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao.” All things arise only after Heaven and Earth come into being, so they are said to arise from “being.” Yet Heaven and Earth themselves originated in the Great Void, so “being” is said to arise from “nonbeing.” “Being” and “nonbeing” give rise to one another, and ultimately both return to the Dao. This also echoes the first chapter of the Daodejing, which speaks of “the named” and “the nameless.”

Chapter 41

When people of the highest kind hear of the Dao, they diligently put it into practice. When people of the middle kind hear of the Dao, they sometimes believe and sometimes doubt. When people of the lowest kind hear of the Dao, they laugh out loud. If the Dao were not laughed at, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. Diligent practice means hearing it and believing firmly; believing sometimes and doubting sometimes means being only half-convinced.

Thus the ancients expressed it this way: the clear Dao seems obscure; the path forward seems to lead backward; the level road seems rough. This means the Dao often runs counter to worldly judgments, like “blending its light and becoming one with the dust”—toning down one’s brilliance to live among others. The highest De (Virtue/Power) is as open and receptive as a valley. The whitest thing seems stained. Abundant De appears deficient; the way De is established seems careless and slipshod. What is genuine seems to have changed.

The greatest square has no corners—here, “great square” means the Great Void, and its “corners” are boundaries such as east, west, north, and south. The greatest vessel is completed only at the end; the grandest sound seems faint; the greatest image has no definite form. The Dao is hidden and formless, with no name that can confine it. Only the Dao can provide for people when they are in need, and ultimately bring things to completion. “Lending” means giving in response to someone’s need, with what is given eventually returned.

This chapter says that it is difficult for people in the world to truly believe in and understand the Dao, so it cites the words of the ancients about the Dao to explain it.

People of the highest understanding can see signs before things appear and discern what has already become visible. When they hear of the Dao, they put it into practice diligently. Those of middling understanding stand between signs and appearances. After hearing of the Dao, they are half convinced and half doubtful, sometimes remembering it and sometimes forgetting it. Those of lesser understanding see only the surface, not the signs. When they hear of the Dao, they laugh. Only when the lowest among them laugh at it does the Dao’s profundity become clear; if it were not mocked, it could not be called the Dao.

Did the ancients not say this? The bright Dao looks dim, yet nothing escapes its light; it simply does not make a point of distinguishing things. The advancing Dao looks as if it were retreating, as though it had stopped and would go no farther, yet nothing is faster than it. The level Dao looks uneven because it follows changes in right and wrong without distinguishing one side from another. A person of deep De (Virtue/Power) is like a valley: always in a low place, able to hold all things without becoming self-satisfied. The purest white looks stained; even amid turbidity, it is never truly defiled.

Great De looks as though it were incomplete, for it nourishes and transforms all things without displaying its intention. Strong De looks as though it were slack, for it does not deliberately show its strength. A simple and genuine person is not constrained by external things and can therefore follow the Dao; outwardly, such a person may seem changeable and unpredictable. The vast, boundless emptiness shows no edges, so the greatest square appears to have no corners.

Like a craftsperson who is not skilled enough to rush toward a finished result, the Dao shapes and brings forth the world; thus the great vessel is often completed late. It moves all things through teaching without words and seeks no petty talk, so the greatest sound is heard as silence. It acts in accord with Wuwei (non-action), and others cannot see its effects, so the greatest image has no form. It follows the Dao of Wuwei, and no one can discern its substance, so the Dao is hidden and nameless.

Only the Dao is skilled at sustaining and giving to all things, as though lending to them, yet it asks for nothing in return. All things are brought into being through it, yet they do not know this is the Dao’s grace. Thus it is said: “Only the Dao is skilled at giving, and in this way brings all things to fulfillment.”

The Dao gives rise to “one”; from “one” comes “two”; from “two” comes “three”; and from “three” come the myriad things. Before the Dao transformed and gave birth to the myriad things, even “one” did not yet exist. Once there was “one,” there was also “two.” For example, where there is Yang, there is Yin. When Yin and Yang merge, they form a third state: “three.” From “three,” the myriad things come into being. Everything turns its back on Yin and faces Yang. The two Qi energies, Yin and Yang, mingle in emptiness and form harmony. The parts behind things tend toward still, Yin qualities, while the front, including the eyes, mouth, and nose, tends toward active, Yang qualities. Between Yin and Yang, empty and flowing Qi allows the two to harmonize.

People dislike only such titles as “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy,” yet rulers and nobles use them for themselves. This is also a metaphor for people who follow the Dao willingly taking lowly, humble positions. Thus, things sometimes gain by being diminished, while at other times they are harmed by being increased. This means that fullness easily invites loss, while humility brings benefit. What others have taught me, I teach to others in turn: the domineering and aggressive meet an untimely end. I will take this as the foundation of my teaching. “Beam” refers to the timber that supports the roof ridge, and here conveys the sense of rigidity. The mother governs nurturing, while the father governs instruction; thus “mother” is used in speaking of giving life and raising, and “father” in speaking of teaching.

This chapter says that the Dao functions through emptiness and offers a grave warning against self-satisfaction and excess. The Dao exists before anything has taken shape. Everything in the world, from “one” to “three” and on to the myriad things, comes from the Dao; therefore, nothing among the myriad things is without the Dao. Everything turns its back on Yin and faces Yang, and empty, flowing Qi is also needed to bring them into harmony. This shows that emptiness is a condition for the transformation and birth of the myriad things. The ancients had rulers and nobles call themselves by lowly titles to emphasize the value of humility. Once we understand that diminishing can bring benefit and increasing can bring harm, we can better appreciate the subtle wonder of stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action). The ancients taught this principle, and I teach it in turn: the domineering meet an untimely end. I regard this saying as the foundation of my teaching.

The softest thing in the world can master the hardest thing in the world. “Nonbeing”—things without form or substance—can enter places with no openings. From this, I understand the benefit of Wuwei (non-action) and the power of teaching without words. Few people in the world can reach this understanding.

Those who study the Dao (the Way), if they recognize that domineering forcefulness should be guarded against, will understand that among the principles of the world, the use of softness is the most subtle. Hard things break easily, while soft things often endure. The softest thing acting upon the hardest thing is like water penetrating stone: softness, it is clear, can overcome hardness.

What clings to form can enter only another thing with form, and the two will resist each other. When the formless enters the formed, it is like Qi (vital energy) permeating the whole body: it is clear that the formless is difficult to resist. From this we see that Wuwei yet leaves nothing undone is the highest principle; without words, teaching is naturally carried out; without deliberate action, accomplishments naturally come to fruition. Who in the world can match this understanding?

Chapter Forty-Four

Which is closer to you: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or possessions? Which is more harmful: gain or loss? Excessive attachment will surely bring great expense; the more you store and accumulate, the greater your loss when it comes. Those who know contentment will not suffer disgrace; those who know when to stop will not fall into danger. In this way, they can endure.

This chapter says that those who study the Dao should turn inward and learn to be content, rather than constantly seeking things outside themselves. Pursuing reputation and possessions often harms a person. One should ask whether life is closer than reputation and more important than possessions. Even if you gain reputation and possessions, but lose the life and peace you already had, which is more harmful: what you gain or what you lose? Excessive attachment will therefore bring great expense, while storing and accumulating too much will surely lead to heavy losses. Only those who are content will stop making endless demands; without excessive desires, they will not suffer disgrace. Those who know when to stop will not keep pressing ahead; without pressing ahead, they will not fall into danger. This is an important principle for protecting oneself and prolonging life.

Great fulfillment seems to have something missing, yet its function does not wear out【Once something has been completed, people often come along to spoil it; one who seems to lack something does not claim to be complete】. Great fullness seems empty, yet its function is never exhausted【When a vessel is full, it often invites loss; one who seems empty does not display their fullness】.

The most upright seems somewhat bent【One who acts in accordance with principle may appear to yield and maneuver, yet remains upright in substance】; the most skillful seems somewhat clumsy【One who follows the natural course of things may seem clumsy, yet is skillful in truth】; the best at making distinctions seems unable to speak well【One who speaks in accordance with reason can clarify things even with few words】.

Restlessness can withstand cold【When restless, one’s Qi and blood are vigorous, making it possible to endure the cold】; stillness can withstand heat【When still, one’s breath and Qi gather inward, making it possible to endure the heat】. Stillness and clarity are the standard for all under Heaven【Clarity is superior to murkiness, and stillness to agitation; govern all under Heaven through stillness and clarity, and the world will naturally settle】.

This passage speaks of the subtle benefit of abiding in emptiness and stillness. Whenever something is accomplished, it suffers some loss; what is truly complete always seems to lack something, and so its function does not wear out. Whenever something is full, it becomes empty; what is truly full always seems empty, and so its function is never exhausted. The most upright often appears somewhat bent, because bending can preserve what would otherwise be lost. The most skillful does not boast, and so seems clumsy. The one best at clarifying things does not speak at length, but responds in accordance with reason. Cold and heat are changes in the climate between Heaven and Earth. When people are restless for a time, they can withstand the cold; when they are still for a time, they can withstand the heat. If momentary agitation and stillness can each have their effect, it is not hard to understand how stillness and clarity can bring peace to all under Heaven. And what is there to doubt about the changes between completion and lack, fullness and emptiness?

Chapter Forty-Six

When the Dao prevails under Heaven, warhorses are withdrawn and put to work tilling and fertilizing the fields【“Withdrawn” means taken out of service; “fertilize” means applying manure to the fields】. When the Dao does not prevail under Heaven, warhorses breed in the countryside【“Warhorses” refers to horses used in battle, and “countryside” to the fields beyond the city】.

No fault is greater than craving what one desires【Once the mind decides something is desirable, it pursues it without regard for what is right】; no misfortune is greater than not knowing when one has enough【One who is never satisfied keeps demanding more and will ultimately harm others】; no failing is greater than being bent on acquiring more【Insisting on getting what one wants makes desire burn ever more fiercely】. Therefore, only those who know contentment and are content with contentment can remain satisfied【Human nature is inherently neither deficient nor excessive; one who can rest in this will find satisfaction everywhere】.

There is no greater failing than being single-mindedly intent on getting more. The stronger one’s desires, the more fiercely one clings to the thought of having to obtain what one wants. Thus, those who know contentment often feel that they already have enough.

Human nature is originally neither lacking nor excessive. Whoever can rest in their own nature will feel that nothing is missing, whatever their circumstances.

This chapter explains in depth how desire obstructs the Dao (the Way), and urges people to know contentment. When the world is in accord with the Dao, people are content to farm. Even swift horses are used only to pull carts carrying manure and plowing the fields. When the world is out of accord with the Dao, war breaks out, and warhorses are born on the outskirts of the land. The people then lose their stable lives and livelihoods.

Tracing war back to its roots, we find that it always begins with greed. Thus, the greatest offense is coveting desirable things. Greed leads to discontent, and so the greatest misfortune is not knowing when one has enough. Those who are never content still feel they lack enough, even when they already possess a great deal. Single-mindedly seeking more brings resentment and calamity. Therefore, no failing is greater than insisting on obtaining what one wants. From this we can see that those who know contentment find their satisfaction enduring.

Without leaving one’s door, one can understand the state of the world; without looking out through a window, one can understand the Way of Heaven—the patterns by which Heaven and Earth move. The farther one travels, the less one knows. Heaven and Earth are vast, and cannot be fully understood through what the eyes can see. Wherever one’s steps reach, one sees only the features of that place; however far one travels, one cannot see everything.

Therefore, the sage understands things without traveling and can name things and discern their qualities without seeing them with their own eyes. This is because the sage’s heart is in accord with the Dao, and so things both near and far are clear. The sage does not act deliberately, yet things come to completion naturally. When cultivation reaches this state, there is no need to force anything; things complete themselves.

This chapter discusses human nature and the workings of the great Dao. Although the world is vast, the principles of human affairs and the nature of things can ultimately be understood at their root; one can learn something without leaving home. Though the way of Heaven is concealed within the transformations of Yin-Yang, it too can be discerned at its root; there is no need to lean out the window to glimpse its signs. If one insists on going out in search of knowledge, one can travel only so far and learn only so much. That is why the farther one travels, the less one knows. The sage does not rely on roaming about, but follows the Dao; does not depend on looking outward, but attends to the heart-mind. In this way, the sage can understand the affairs of the world and speak of the mysteries of the way of Heaven.

In the pursuit of learning, something is added each day, in order to increase one’s knowledge. In cultivating the Dao, something is removed each day, in order to rid oneself of deluded thoughts. Deluded thoughts are gradually stripped away until one reaches Wuwei (non-action), the state of not forcing things through private intention. When delusion is gone and one’s original nature is revealed, one can act without contrivance, yet nothing remains unaccomplished. Wuwei brings the heart-mind to stillness, and the activity of all things arises from stillness. For this reason, those who gain the world always take having nothing to do as their foundation. “Gaining the world” means that the world turns toward and follows its ruler; when it comes naturally, the ruler need not seek it deliberately. If the ruler holds the intention of gaining the world, many actions and disturbances will arise, making it impossible for the world to follow.

This chapter stresses that the great Dao does not lie in deliberate action. Learning seeks knowledge, so knowledge increases day by day; cultivating the Dao seeks to dispel delusion, so deluded thoughts diminish day by day. By continuing to let go of deluded thoughts and reaching Wuwei, one can remain true to oneself, govern the world, and let the myriad things grow naturally. This is precisely acting without contrivance, with nothing left undone. Only by following the natural tendency of the world to turn toward its ruler can a ruler win the world’s allegiance; deliberate action and ceaseless disturbance make this difficult to achieve.

The sage has no fixed opinions, but takes the hearts of the people as his own. I treat the good with kindness, and I also treat the unkind with kindness; in this way, the depth of De (Virtue/Power) is made manifest. I trust those who keep faith, and I also trust those who do not; in this way, the sincerity of De is made manifest. The “goodness” and “trust” spoken of here mean that the sage treats everyone alike through De, not that he behaves this way toward only one person.

Living in the world, the sage is always anxious and tireless in helping people everywhere smooth the sharp edges in their hearts and return their minds to simplicity. The people watch and listen intently to the sage, but he regards them all as infants, treating them with a pure and impartial heart.

This chapter speaks of the subtle power of the sage’s freedom from self-interest. The sage has no fixed opinions. Like a mirror, he does not impose an image in advance, but reflects whatever appears before it. Goodness and unkindness, keeping faith and breaking faith, are the people’s own ways of acting; the sage responds to all of them with kindness and trust. Thus his goodness and trust do not change according to whom he faces. He works tirelessly to return the hearts of people everywhere to simplicity, so that those who are good and faithful do not become conceited, and those who are not do not give up on themselves. The people watch the sage closely to discern what he approves of and dislikes, but he treats them all as infants: he does not boast of his own actions or grow resentful over the conduct of others. When people set aside their impulse to distinguish and judge, the world becomes peaceful.

Those who move toward birth and those who enter death: “move out” means to transcend and depart, while “enter” means to lose one’s way and sink into decline. One group of people, amounting to three in ten, moves toward life; another group, also three in ten, moves toward death. Of human life…

Life and death are the two states of human existence. Birth is a release from delusion and confusion; entering death is a descent into obscurity. Among people, about three in ten belong to the long-lived, about three in ten die young, and another three in ten could have lived but move toward death through reckless action. Why is this so? Because they cling too fiercely to life and insist on protecting themselves, thereby harming themselves instead.

It is said that those skilled in nourishing life encounter neither rhinoceroses nor tigers when traveling on land, and need not evade weapons when entering battle. The rhinoceros has no place to gore them with its horn, the tiger has no place to use its claws and teeth, and weapons have no place to pierce them. Why? Because they have not entered a place of death.

This chapter teaches that the way to nourish life lies in not clinging to life or death. Following the Dao and drawing on the essence of all things to nourish oneself may be called moving toward life. Indulging in sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, by contrast, harms oneself and may be called moving toward death. Those who know that life and death differ yet continue to act recklessly, eventually exhausting their lives, are people who move toward a place of death. In broad terms, about three out of ten people are long-lived, three die young, and another three move toward death through reckless action. Anyone who clings to being alive will ultimately be unable to escape death. This is precisely because, in cherishing and protecting life too fiercely, they lead themselves into a place of death.

Thus, those skilled in nourishing life do not cling inwardly to their own bodies or outwardly to material things. Then tigers, rhinoceroses, and weapons have no means of harming them: there is nowhere for horns to gore, claws to strike, or blades to pierce. To be “in no place of death” means not to have fallen into circumstances that can bring about death.

Chapter Fifty-One

The Dao gives birth to and nurtures all things. The Dao is empty and profound, the source from which all things arise. De (Virtue/Power) stores and nourishes all things, enabling them to grow amid an energy that is harmonious and abundant.

The Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle governing the movement of all things, gives rise to them. The deep and mysterious Void is the source from which all things come into being. De (Virtue/Power), the Dao’s function and manifestation, nurtures all things. The all-pervading, intermingling Qi of Great Harmony provides the conditions for their growth, and each thing takes on its own distinct form.