《老子指归》

Zhuangzi says: “Long ago, Laozi wrote this work to describe the origins of the transformations of all things, taking Dao and De as its foundation. The scripture is divided into two parts, upper and lower, corresponding to Heaven and Earth: the Upper Scripture corresponds to Heaven, and the Lower Scripture to Earth.

“The principle of Yin is based on the number eight, and the principle of Yang on the number nine. Using Yin to govern Yang gives seventy-two chapters; using Yang to govern Yin divides them into the Upper and Lower Scriptures. The Upper Scripture multiplies five by eight, giving forty chapters, and begins anew from there. The Lower Scripture multiplies four by eight, giving thirty-two chapters, and ends there.

“Yang follows odd numbers, and Yin follows even numbers, so the Upper Scripture is presented before the Lower Scripture. Yang is expansive, while Yin is subtle, so the Upper Scripture has more chapters and the Lower Scripture fewer. Yang moves to the left, and Yin to the right, so the chapters of the two scriptures proceed back and forth, interweaving with one another. As they pass and meet repeatedly, they ultimately merge into a single whole. In the depths of primordial chaos, Dao occupies the guiding position.

“Throughout the two scriptures, corresponding symbols and examples are repeatedly set out to reveal the first stirrings of principle. The Lower Scripture is the gate, and the Upper Scripture is the door. When the wise see the patterns presented in the scriptures, they can understand the numerical principles of Heaven and Earth, the guiding order of Yin and Yang, the harmony between husband and wife, the bonds of affection between father and child, and the rites between ruler and minister. All things can then flourish.”

“Zhuangzi” here refers to Yan Junping. His surname was Zhuang; during the Eastern Han, it was changed to “Yan” to avoid the taboo on the name of Emperor Ming of Han, Liu Zhuang.

The Laozi Zhigui explains the arrangement of the chapters in the Laozi through the numbers of Yin and Yang in the Zhouyi. The “Appended Statements, Part One” chapter of the Zhouyi says: “The numbers of Heaven are one, three, five, seven, and nine; the numbers of Earth are two, four, six, eight, and ten.” It also says: “Heaven is exalted, Earth is low; thus Qian and Kun are established.” Qian refers to Heaven, and Kun to Earth. Since nine is Heaven’s number and eight is Earth’s, nine belongs to Yang and eight to Yin. The Laozi Zhigui calls this arrangement “the Yin pattern has eight, the Yang pattern has nine.”

“To arrange the Yang by means of Yin” means using the Yin number eight to set out the rows and the Yang number nine to set out the columns. The Laozi Zhigui holds that the Laozi comprises seventy-two chapters in all, divided into two scriptures, upper and lower. With eight as the number of rows and nine as the number of columns, eight times nine makes seventy-two. Hence it says, “The Yin rows organize the Yang, and so there are seventy-two chapters.”

The vertical dimension is called rows, and the horizontal dimension columns. The Yang number nine cannot be divided evenly; it can only be split into five and four, assigned respectively to the upper and lower scriptures. Hence it says, “The Yang rows organize the Yin, and so the text is divided into upper and lower parts.” The upper scripture has more chapters: using five as the number of rows and eight as the number of columns gives forty, since five times eight is forty. Thus, “the upper scripture has forty chapters and begins anew.” The lower scripture has fewer chapters: using four as the number of rows and eight as the number of columns gives thirty-two, since four times eight is thirty-two. Thus, “the lower scripture has thirty-two chapters and comes to an end.”

In the divination method of the Zhouyi, odd numbers are Yang and even numbers are Yin.

Preface to the Laozi Zhigui: “Junping discusses the chapter divisions of the two scriptures.” Junping refers to Yan Junping, a Daoist scholar of the Western Han dynasty. “The contents of the two scriptures” refers to the arrangement of chapters in the upper and lower parts of the Laozi.

Zhuangzi (that is, Yan Junping, a native of Chengdu in Shu Commandery during the Western Han) said: Long ago, Laozi wrote the Dao De Jing, explaining the source of change in all things. He took Dao and De as its foundation, placed the scriptures first in the arrangement, and used Heaven and Earth as symbols. The upper scripture corresponds to Heaven, and the lower scripture corresponds to Earth.

The Yin number is eight, and the Yang number is nine. Applying the Yang number through the Yin number gives seventy-two chapters. Applying the Yin number through the Yang number divides the text into an upper and a lower scripture. The upper scripture uses five times eight, giving forty chapters, after which the count begins again. The lower scripture uses four times eight, giving thirty-two chapters, and brings the work to its close.

Yang is odd and Yin is even, so the upper scripture comes first, followed by the lower scripture. The Yang Way is vast, while the Yin Way is subtle; therefore the upper scripture has more chapters and the lower scripture fewer. The Yang Way moves left, and the Yin Way moves right. Thus the upper scripture is said to turn back as if coming toward us, while the lower scripture is said to reverse course and go away. They repeatedly cross and interweave, finally merging into one and returning to a deep, undifferentiated state. Dao dwells within them and becomes their governing principle.

The scriptures overlap, correspond, and confirm one another, revealing the clues within them. The lower scripture is like a gate, and the upper scripture like a door. When wise people discern the correspondences and confirmations in the scriptures, they can understand the patterns of Heaven and Earth, the principles of Yin-Yang, the harmony between husband and wife, the affection between father and son, and the rites governing ruler and minister. From this, they can understand the generation and flourishing of all things.

The Laozi Zhigui explains the arrangement of chapters in the Laozi through the Yin-Yang numbers of the Zhouyi. The “Appended Statements, Part One” of the Zhouyi says: “Heaven is one, Earth is two; Heaven is three, Earth is four; Heaven is five, Earth is six; Heaven is seven, Earth is eight; Heaven is nine, Earth is ten.” It also says: “Heaven is honored and Earth is low; Qian and Kun are thereby established.” Here, Earth is paired with Kun and eight with Yin, while Heaven is paired with Qian and nine with Yang. Thus the Zhigui says, “The way of Yin is eight; the way of Yang is nine.”

“To arrange Yang by means of Yin” means to use the Yin number eight for the rows and the Yang number nine for the columns, forming a grid. The Zhigui holds that the Laozi has seventy-two chapters in all, divided into two parts: the Upper Classic, with forty chapters, and the Lower Classic, with thirty-two. This arrangement is based on the numbers of Yin and Yang: eight multiplied by nine equals seventy-two. Hence it says, “Yin forms the rows and Yang the columns; therefore there are seventy-two chapters.”

Vertically are the rows, and horizontally the columns. The Yang number nine cannot be divided evenly, but can only be split into five and four; thus the text is divided into the Upper and Lower Classics. This is what “to arrange Yin by means of Yang; therefore it is divided into upper and lower” means. The Upper Classic is longer, with five rows and eight columns, for a total of forty chapters; hence the phrase “the Upper Classic has forty and begins anew.” The Lower Classic is shorter, with four rows and eight columns, for a total of thirty-two chapters; hence “the Lower Classic has thirty-two and comes to an end.”

In the Zhouyi divination method, odd numbers are Yang and even numbers are Yin.

Laozi Zhigui, Volume One, first collated edition. Chapter title: “The Chapter on Superior De That Is Not De.”

The highest De (Virtue/Power), which emerges naturally through accord with the Dao (the Way), does not deliberately proclaim its own virtue; for that reason, it truly has De. The lesser De is always afraid of losing its virtue and deliberately clings to the name of virtue; for that reason, it has no true De. The highest De follows its nature and yet nothing is left undone. The lesser De acts deliberately, always with a particular aim. The highest benevolence does good without seeking anything in return. The highest righteousness acts with something to gain. The highest ritual system strives to be put into practice, but no one responds; so it raises its arms and forces others to comply.

Thus, only when the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only when De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only when benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; only when righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown weak, and the beginning of disorder. What is called foresight is merely the Dao’s outward ornament, and the beginning of foolishness.

Therefore, the great person takes their stand in what is substantial and does not linger in what is shallow; they rest on what is real and do not pursue what is showy. They let go of the former and choose the latter.

Heaven and Earth came into being through the Dao, and all things grew through it. The Dao is the root of all things; De is their beginning. The divine powers are the revered masters of all things, and Great Harmony—the primordial Qi in its most harmonious state—is their ancestral source. The Dao has depths and degrees of subtlety; De varies in abundance; the divine powers differ in clarity and turbidity; and harmonious Qi, too, has higher and lower levels. Clear Qi rises to become Heaven, while turbid Qi gathers to form Earth. Yang Qi gives rise to men, and Yin Qi gives rise to women.

People and other things receive different endowments and thus obtain more or less. Their innate natures may be refined or coarse; their lifespans long or short; their feelings good or bad; and their intentions broad or narrow. Thus some become petty people and others exemplary ones. As all things change and divide, many different kinds come into being. Hence there are people of the Dao, people of De, people of benevolence, people of righteousness, and people of ritual propriety. Someone asked, “What have these people done to receive such different names?”

Zhuangzi said, “Those who are empty and still, practice Wuwei (non-action), and awaken and guide all things are called people of the Dao. Those who are tranquil and responsive, and do not force things, are called people of De. Those who care for all things and give generously without limit are called people of benevolence. Those who distinguish names and roles, set things right, and act in accordance with what is right are called people of righteousness. Those who are humble and yielding, respectful and self-possessed, and protect harmony are called people of ritual propriety.”

All five kinds of people cherish life, honor abundant De, and value an illustrious reputation. Each carefully attends to their own nature and feelings, makes use of their intelligence and abilities, develops their strengths, and is content with the place suited to them. Because their aims differ, some follow things while others turn away from them; some act in one way, others in another. Their paths of change diverge, and the names they establish differ as well. De has high and low degrees; the age may flourish or decline; customs vary, and the people’s fortunes are not the same. Thus some ages are murky and profound, beyond naming; some are benighted and obscure, yet are called “August”; some are expansive and abundant, and are called “Emperor”; some are open and bright, and are called “King”; and some have far-reaching influence, though unevenly, and are called “Hegemon.” These are merely names that can be spoken.

Yet a Hegemon is not truly a Hegemon, nor a King truly a King, nor an Emperor truly an Emperor, nor an August Ruler truly an August Ruler. What is called “being” is not fixed being, and what is called “nonbeing” is not absolute nonbeing. Things change in countless ways and accumulate in layers; even their billions of kinds cannot be named one by one. How can this be explained? It is said that across the dynasties, seventy-two different sets of rites were used by those who ascended the throne and performed the Fengshan ceremony on Mount Tai, offering sacrifices to Heaven and Earth. Among these, some traces were faint and hard to discern, and cannot all be described. Does this not show that people’s natures and fortunes differ, and that their achievements and reputations differ as well?

Thus, a ruler who possesses the highest De has body and mind joined with the Dao. His spirit moves in harmony with the transformations of all things, and his De works in the depths, beyond form. The people of the realm make him their king, yet scarcely notice what he does. His beneficence extends to all things, and they all say that everything is simply as it is. A ruler who possesses the next degree of De acts in accordance with De. His spirit moves along with the transformations of all things, and his De corresponds to the vastness of Heaven. The people of the realm acclaim him as king; some can see and hear what he does. His beneficence reaches all things, then ultimately returns to the ruler. Why is this so?

A ruler of supreme De (Virtue/Power), whose conduct has reached the highest level, receives the Dao’s subtle mysteries by nature, and gains the One—the fundamental essence of the Dao. His nature and life accord with nature; his emotions and thoughts embody the numinous, his actions conform to great harmony, the balanced state of Yin-Yang, and his choices follow the Way of Heaven.

His spirit is free of deliberate calculation, and his will of worry. His insight is far-reaching; he is calm, unassuming, empty, and still. In action he seems formless; at rest, as if not yet born. His achievements are as vast as Heaven and Earth, yet he conducts himself with the natural ease of an infant. He forgets his outward form and gathers in his inner will, thus aligning himself with the Dao. His state is all-embracing and profound, beyond the understanding of all under Heaven. He rises above the ordinary world and roams in the furthest reaches. Yin-Yang obeys his direction, and the ghosts and spirits make plans on his behalf. His body and mind change with the Dao, moving without limit above and below; in every advance and retreat, he follows the transformations of all things.

Thus, calm and unassuming, he governs through Wuwei (non-action), and his De fills the hidden depths. He is still and quiet, yet his teaching circulates without end. His beneficence cannot be measured, its depth cannot be fathomed; it embraces all and reaches every realm. Human wisdom cannot explain his teaching, and words cannot guide the customs of the world. People everywhere respond in a clamor, all shaped by his teaching and immersed in harmony. Such a person acts through fundamental non-action, surpassing ordinary understanding; people do not even know who brought all this about.

A ruler at the level of “lower De” has received the Dao’s pure Qi, and his life has attained the lower level of the Dao contained in the “One.” His nature and life draw close to the natural order; his feelings and thoughts nearly reach the divine. His conduct approaches great harmony, and his choices accord with supreme De. He entrusts his spirit to the Great Void, a state of luminous emptiness without obstruction, and hides his roots in the dark and profound source. In action, he returns to softness and weakness; in stillness, he settles into peace. He follows established measures and, like a clear mirror, reflects a lucid realm. His transformations are subtle and elusive, and when responding to things, he does not cling to fixed forms. His state is faint, remote, obscure, and hard to grasp, almost beyond description. He follows the workings of Heaven and Earth, becoming constant along with the transformations of all things. His De is abundant and its blessings spread in every direction.

Before virtue had become manifest, the people throughout the land were simple and unknowing. The four seas formed an undivided whole, and society was broad and tranquil. Ruler and people alike lived in rhythm with the seasons, while humans and all things dwelt in mutual ease. At that time, the Great Dao had not yet divided, and pure De had not been cut apart. Within the bounds of Heaven and Earth, it was as if only one person lived alone. He devoted himself to reducing, never seeking to add; he cultivated himself without deliberate contrivance; he did little, and the principles he upheld were few.

The people were simple, generous, loyal, and trustworthy. Customs were peaceful and cautious, quiet and unadorned. They kept water plants as provisions, dressed in coarse cloth and animal hides, used great trees as halls, and made natural caves their homes. The ruler was like Heaven and Earth, and the people like grass and trees. All received the Dao and accorded with De, living peacefully and at ease, without desire. Yin and Yang were in harmony, and all things flourished. With no commands to constrain them, the land naturally came to follow the ruler. Auspicious plants such as fine grain and red grasses grew; divine dragons and phoenixes lived alongside people. Sweet dew fell and did not dissipate, while a harmonious breeze blew without cease.

At that time, benevolence and righteousness were not deliberately proclaimed; within Heaven and Earth, people were naturally as close as family. Nor were there elaborate systems of ritual: throughout the four seas, everyone was as close as a brother. Though intimate, they did not deliberately seek harmony; though they respected one another, they were not bound by formal courtesies. Heaven and Earth, people, and all things formed an undivided whole, attuned to the hidden and profound Dao.

A ruler at the level of “upper benevolence” has a nature that is simple and pure.

A ruler who governs the world through the highest form of benevolence has a nature that is pure, generous, and clear, as bright as flawless white jade, and is widely learned. His mind is empty and still; his spirit and Qi (vital energy) are calm and harmonious. He oversees the affairs of Heaven and Earth, embracing everything without exception. He grasps the essentials in the smallest details and infers the unseen principles from what is visible before him. He knows how to preserve life and dwell securely in De (Virtue), and cherishes the people as his own children.

He clearly discerns the myriad things and responds to change, answering as soon as signs appear, with perfect precision, like a shadow following its form. He understands the patterns of the seasons and the principles of the land. He can distinguish what is fitting for each thing, awaken the people’s wisdom and experience, and bring enterprises to life and well-being to grow, benefiting all. He values inner foundations and simplifies outward complications, guiding people to draw close to one another. He reflects again and again, tracing matters back to their roots, so that people in different regions can all understand his way of governing.

Laws and prohibitions are fair and mild; commands are generous and gentle; and policies suit their time. Thus the people throughout the world rejoice. Thunder and lightning do not rage violently, nor do wind and rain descend without warning. Plants and trees do not wither, and the people do not die before their time. All creatures that walk on limbs and breathe through mouths can enjoy their lives in peace; flying insects and creeping things, too, each find their proper place. The old and the young can roam freely, while adults farm and raise silkworms. People live to see their great-grandchildren, and even when the old grow white-haired and lose their teeth, they still enjoy a secure life.

The ruler is like a parent, and the people are like infants. His beneficence extends across the four seas. Though he possesses the world, he does not claim it as his own.

A ruler of superior righteousness, one who governs the realm through benevolence and righteousness, is by nature calm and upright. He understands human feelings and can discern benefits and harms. He is intelligent and sound in judgment. His mind is as impartial as a compass and square; his aims are guided by standards as precise as a ruler and scales. His composure is still as water, and his conduct is straight as a plumb line. He is willing to establish great achievements and win an illustrious name, glad to initiate good fortune, and averse to setting calamity in motion.

He wields power and adapts flexibly, using it to assess the times and the conditions of the world. He honors benevolence and virtue and encourages righteous conduct as the means of governing the people. He arranges the myriad things according to the patterns of Heaven and Earth, serves his parents as though revering the spirits, and governs the people with the caution of one approaching an abyss. His beneficence extends to all states, and he decides affairs by the way of centeredness and impartiality. He is imposing without being tyrannical, seeks harmony without excess, is strict without cruelty, and discerning without harshness. He examines the beginnings and outcomes of affairs, establishing the framework of governance by which to guide the people.

His advances and withdrawals accord with the times; he bends and extends as circumstances change. He adjusts government to unfolding events and adapts ritual institutions to changing customs. His commands are always trustworthy, his systems and divisions clear, his guiding principles of governance thorough and free of omissions, and his laws upright without being excessively severe. He assigns the various affairs to his ministers, while keeping authority and final decisions in his own hands. The court must be upright and stable, carefully following the Way of governance. It should honor good conduct and expose wrongdoing.

He establishes five rules and ensures they are kept firmly in mind. He reveres what is fundamental and gives weight to beginnings, so that names and roles always accord with reality. He judges affairs according to proper measure and handles them in keeping with their underlying principles. Thus power arises and authority expands, until his prestige resounds throughout the four seas. He sets aside private interests and follows the people’s wishes, benefiting them without burdening them with harsh demands. Even the slightest wrongdoing is censured, and even the smallest good deed is praised. His kindness extends inward to the royal house and outward to all things and all people. He inherits the ills of the past and transforms them, preserving what is on the verge of perishing and continuing what has been cut off. He supports the weak and nurtures the young, restoring the flourishing of benevolence. Families with fiefs can pass their lines on to heirs, and their descendants continue without end.

Rulers who govern through ritual propriety and instruction are gentle and yielding in temperament, open-minded, and measured in their aims and desires. They conduct affairs by balancing Yin and Yang, and issue orders in accordance with the changes of the four seasons. They establish all manner of rules and laws to win people’s allegiance. They honor the ruler and the father, placing ministers and children in subordinate positions; set right the relations between upper and lower; clarify ranks and status; order the young and old; distinguish the roles of husband and wife; harmonize human relationships; and follow the proper way of dealing with friends.

They bring people to submit to and observe the various regulations, and assign ranks to different kinds of work. Those who abide by the rules are praised and entered in the records, while those who act without restraint are stripped of office and demoted. They tolerate the powerful and accommodate local customs, guiding people along a moderate and balanced path. They go along with people’s feelings and desires, then regulate and restrain them. They suppress emotions and curb human nature, guarding against problems before they arise. They steer people and constrain customs so that no one can indulge to excess.

They forbid people from doing what is impossible, and compel them to do what lies beyond their abilities. As a result, they exhaust the mind and damage human nature, while multiplying affairs and draining resources. This may bring temporary order to disorder and turn danger into safety for a time, but it also makes people crafty and calculating. Simple honesty gradually disappears, the Dao is cast aside, and benevolence and Virtue cannot flourish.

Then Heaven’s intentions fail to accord with the world, and the four seasons lose their regular course. Thunder, lightning, wind, and frost bring harm, and all things are laid waste. When fathers and sons suffer bereavement, the seasons do not thereby become more harmonious. Though the world is desolate by day and night, people’s customs do not change. Bells and chimes ring out, yet popular customs do not improve. Refined music is sung again and again, but social customs remain unmoved.

Rulers yield and decline office, yet people do not trust them. They persist in gentleness and willingly take the lower place, yet people do not draw near. They display high rank and offer rewards, yet worthy people still refuse to come. They roll up their sleeves, hold a gui—a jade tablet symbolizing rank in ancient ritual—and speak frankly in remonstrance, yet even exemplary men are unwilling to join them. Why is this? Because their words are abundant and their manners impressive, but within themselves they do not truly practice sincerity.

Therefore, the foundation of an emperor’s rule over the world lies in the Dao (the source of all things and the principles by which they operate). Only after losing the Dao does one fall back on De; after losing De, on benevolence; after losing benevolence, on righteousness; and after losing righteousness, on ritual. When ritual, too, is lost, the world falls into disorder. These five were originally one whole. They are the key to the varying successes and failures of rulers in the world.

People’s actions often fail to achieve the results they seek, and what they pursue may elude them. If they do not strive to follow nature, but instead chase after shallow codes of ritual, they will gradually lose the Dao, De, benevolence, and righteousness. In the end, ritual will also decay, and the world will fall into disorder.

Ritual is often at odds within itself: the more splendid its outward appearance, the more its inner substance may be damaged; the more its lesser details flourish, the weaker its foundations become. Ritual is shallower than loyalty, and power weaker than authority. Trust falls short of the Way, and what is gained cannot match benevolence. Ritual is the lowest form of governance and the beginning of disorder. Deceit and hypocrisy arise from it, as do resentment and strife.

Thus, establishing systems of ritual and music, revising calendars and dress, prescribing forms of bearing and movement, requiring every action to follow fixed rules, and forecasting the future in advance to judge gain and loss—these are merely outward embellishments of the Dao and minor details of De. They are rules suited to a particular time and methods intended for a particular place. They cannot meet the world’s endless changes or apply everywhere, where customs differ. Hence disorder arises from them, and so too do ignorance and confusion.

How can this be explained? Zhuangzi says that the workings of Heaven and Earth respond to events, and events in turn change as circumstances shift; change has no fixed moment. Therefore, events cannot always be handled according to precedent. If one clings to established rules, disorder will arise, and ignorance and confusion will take shape.

How can this be explained? Zhuangzi says: “The workings of Heaven and Earth depend on things themselves. Events unfold as things change, and change has no fixed time. So events cannot be arranged in advance, and change cannot be planned beforehand. Pain cannot be rubbed away before it occurs, nor can an itch be scratched in advance. The five flavors cannot be blended with measuring vessels, and zithers cannot be tuned with a ruler.

“The subtlest principle is too subtle to be expressed in words; the most profound marvel cannot be passed on. Utmost loyalty and trust are not produced by the embellishments of ritual, and the harmony and sequence of the right moment cannot be mastered by counting.

“If one relies on cleverness and learning, with thoughts rising in endless succession, hoping to see clearly the framework of Yin energy and grasp the laws of Yang energy, understand the movements of ghosts and spirits, comprehend the principles of the myriad things, look up to see Heaven’s inner foundation and down to see Earth’s, constantly instruct the people, and rush to handle each matter as it arises, hoping by these means to bring about peace and order, there is no such way.

“The ruler’s governance of the myriad things is like the spirit dwelling within the human body, or water resting in a courtyard well. Human effort cannot make the well water clear, and thought cannot make the spirit tranquil. Between Heaven and Earth, the myriad things all come forth together; human intervention cannot bring them to rest.

“Therefore, when a great person puts teachings into practice, they should observe the Dao (the Way) and hold fast to De (Virtue/Power), keeping the mind and spirit empty, still, open, and unobstructed. When their work is complete, it seems as though something remains unfinished; though they possess things, they seem not to claim them. In stillness they have no fixed form; in motion they make no sound. They are loyal and trustworthy, sincere and unadorned, and do not put themselves first. Deep and still, they do not show their sharpness, and they put simplicity first. They diminish scheming and abandon preconceptions, make no display of authority, and do not force action, changing with circumstances like a dragon or snake.

“They do not cling to ritual and reputation, but return to Wuwei (non-action) and doing nothing. They respond to the times and meet change without setting a course in advance. They grasp the subtle foundations and hold to the essentials, moving with the passage of time. Their taking and relinquishing, bending and extending, all move together with change. They seek the causes of disorder and error within themselves; they do not deliberately seek blessings and good fortune from others.”

(3) “Fei ye ye” should read “fei ye ye.” The Congshu Jicheng edition reads “ye fei ye.”

(4) The character has been emended on the basis of the Jindai and Xuejin editions.

(5) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “huanghu.”

(6) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “shihao.”

(7) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “bing.”

(8) The reading “ye fei ye” follows the Jindai and Xuejin Jicheng editions.

(4) The character has been emended on the basis of the Jindai and Xuejin editions.

(5) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “huanghu.”

(6) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “shihao.”

(7) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “bing.”

(8) The character has been emended on the basis of the Jindai and Xuejin editions.

(9) It is suspected that the original text should read “en.”

(10) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “yan.”

(11) The Jindai and Xuejin editions read “yi.”

(12) The Yilan edition reads “zhong.”

(13) The character has been emended on the basis of the Yilan, Jindai, and Xuejin editions.

(14) The character has been emended on the basis of the Yilan, Jindai, and Xuejin editions.

(15) The Jindai and Xuejin editions omit the phrase “yu bian ju cun” (“existing together with change”).

Attain the One.

In ancient times, all things found their proper place through their unity with the Dao (the Way): the sky became clear, the earth became peaceful, the spirits became wondrously effective, the valleys became abundant, and the lords and kings became standards for all under Heaven. Consider what would follow if these things lost what the Dao gave them: if the sky could not remain clear, it might collapse; if the earth could not remain peaceful, it might quake; if the spirits could not remain wondrously effective, they might lose their power; if the valleys could not remain abundant, they might dry up. If the lords and kings could no longer serve as standards for all under Heaven, yet still placed themselves in exalted positions, they might be brought down.

Thus, the noble take the lowly as their root, and the exalted take the humble as their foundation. When lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—all humble titles—are they not placing themselves below others? Is this not making the lowly their root? A carriage with a visible form, after all, is made from an unseen design. Do not shine like fine jade, nor stand aloof and hard like a stone.

Reversal is the way the Dao moves; softness and weakness are how it works. All things under Heaven arise from being, and being arises from nonbeing.

“Oneness” is a derivative form of the Dao (the Way). It is the mother of divine workings—the wondrous powers of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things—the source of Great Harmony, the most harmonious fundamental state, and the ancestor of Heaven and Earth. In relation to divine workings, it is “nothing”; in relation to the Dao, it is “something.” It appears vast beside divine workings, yet minute beside the Dao.

As a form of existence, Oneness is empty yet real, nothing yet something. It is round, but has no boundary drawn by a compass; square, but has no shape fixed by a carpenter’s square. It stretches on without end, seeming both present and absent, with no beginning or point of origin. It neither floats nor sinks, neither moves nor comes to a halt. It acts, yet seems not to act; it gives, yet does not call itself a giver. It embraces change and bears, orders, and distinguishes the myriad things. It is “nothing within nothing,” and also “the beginning of beginnings.” It has no division between inside and outside: undifferentiated and boundless, it may be on the left or on the right.

Emptiness is its constant state, and stillness its foundation. It reaches throughout the myriad heavens and moves across countless regions. All things depend on it for their existence, yet it has no visible form or sign. It exists alone in the depths and rests alone in mystery. It is everywhere, complete and seamless, simple and steady, never changing at will. Blended into darkness, vast and boundless, it is present everywhere. It molds divine workings without being the same as them; it brings forth Heaven and Earth without dwelling within them.

All things receive from it without diminishing it, and return to it without adding to it. It is neither curved nor straight, neither before nor after. It is so high that it has no limit, so subtle and deep that it cannot be measured. Its heights and depths defy even faint conjecture, and its spread in every direction cannot be gauged.

It unfolds without limit, bright and radiant as it comes forth into manifestation. Yet once manifest, it does not change along with the myriad things; as they change, it does not begin along with them. It does not itself give birth, yet all things arise naturally; it does not act deliberately, yet all things come naturally to completion. Beyond Heaven and Earth, down to the smallest fraction, the Qi (vital energy) received by the myriad things differs, as do their forms and kinds. Yet all are born by receiving a portion of Oneness and brought to completion through its transformations.

Thus Oneness is the key that guides the myriad things and brings about change. It is the standard followed in every direction and the measure by which all transformations are assessed. “Oneness” is its name; De (Virtue/Power) is its title. “Nonbeing and being” is its dwelling; Wuwei (non-action) is its way of acting; formlessness is its law. Returning is its fundamental pattern, harmony the destination of the myriad things, and softness and weakness its way of working. Therefore, one who understands Oneness can meet transformations without exhaustion and keep the workings of affairs in order. One who does not understand it will meet misfortune at times and good fortune at others; a ruler will bring the state to ruin, and one who guards their own life will lose it.

Thus, in ancient times, those who attained the nature of “the One of the Dao” each followed their own nature, expressing different functions.

Heaven attained “the One of the Dao.” Its nature was clear and pure, but Heaven did not deliberately seek clarity and purity. It had no thoughts or intentions, did not act recklessly or stir without cause, and simply followed its nature. Deep and still, it was not constrained by any fixed form, and so preserved its vital energy. Yin and Yang therefore moved of themselves, and change harmonized naturally. Heaven thus moved with strength, rising without cease, clear and open, bright and pure, abundant in its purity and unmixed with the myriad things. Its course was indeed vast and even, its radiance unceasing; it gave all things their beginning. Clouds gathered and rain fell, and the many kinds of things thereby took shape. Heaven became the root and source of life for all things. It was distant and vast, with nothing beyond its shelter.

Earth attained “the One of the Dao.” Its nature was tranquil and richly grounded, but Earth did not deliberately seek tranquility. It had no awareness or distinctions, did not act recklessly or stir without cause, and simply followed its nature. It set no limits or calculations, sought neither protection nor gain, and so preserved its vital energy. Mountains and rivers therefore formed naturally, and firmness and softness each found their proper place. Earth yielded and was gentle, yet upright and square; it was boundless, deep, and still, providing the foundation on which all things could grow. Nothing lay beyond its capacity to bear.

Spirit attained “the One of the Dao.” Its nature was wondrous and subtle, but Spirit did not deliberately seek wondrous subtlety. It did not deliberate or act recklessly, but simply followed its nature. It made no plans or calculations, and clung neither to a direction nor to control; in this way it preserved its vital energy. Decline and growth therefore arose naturally, while continuance and extinction each found their proper place. The aged could regain their vigor, the dead could grow anew, the blocked could again find passage, and the ruined could flourish once more. Change had no end, and cycles turned without limit. All kinds of things depended on it for their existence, yet did not lose their own proper balance.

The valley attained “the One of the Dao.” Its nature was abundant, but the valley did not deliberately seek abundance. It did not crave or act recklessly, but simply followed its nature. It gave nothing in the name of benevolence and righteousness, nor did it set out to give anything, and so preserved its own vital energy. Emptiness and fullness therefore alternated naturally, and flourishing and decline came into balance of themselves. The valley’s Qi rose through the forests and mountains and transformed into marshes and pools, becoming the De that connects all things. It flowed in a steady trickle, continuous and unbroken, spreading far and wide and lasting without end, until at last it filled the rivers and seas, deep and vast beyond measure.

Rulers and kings attained “the One of the Dao.” Their nature was upright, but they did not deliberately seek uprightness. They cast aside self-interest and personal will, refrained from reckless action and movement, and so followed their nature. They let go of reliance on their own cleverness and discernment, remained empty and still, and responded naturally, thereby preserving their vital energy. Peace then arose of itself, and all things naturally returned to the right way. Rulers and kings could thus embody the Dao and accord with De, aligning themselves with the patterns of Heaven’s Dao. They guarded their spirit and practiced harmony, embraced all things, and spread their fame far and wide as they nurtured and transformed the myriad things, filling heaven, earth, and every quarter. They could guide the workings of Heaven and Earth, make the radiance of the sun and moon shine forth, govern the world and shape its customs, and bring all under Heaven into unity.

These five kinds of things, so long as they grasp and follow the Dao (the fundamental principle shared by all things), help one another without ceasing, achieve their purpose without being damaged, circulate without interruption, and shine without going out. Why is this so? Because their nature and life follow their own course, and all their actions take the Dao as their guide.

If Heaven were to act on its own and go against the Dao, what was originally lofty would become low, and what was originally clear and bright would be broken. Yin and Yang would fall into disorder, the guiding principles would be severed, the Qi of harmony would be obstructed, the sun, moon, and stars would lose their brilliance, thunder would strike wildly, and all things would lose their proper ways.

If Earth were to act on its own and go against the Dao, what was originally straight would become crooked, and what was originally peaceful would become turbulent. Mountains and rivers would collapse and split apart; the qualities of firmness and yielding would be damaged; the transformation of Qi would be blocked; the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) would be impaired; the grains would wither; and living beings would suffer illness and plague.

If spirits were to act on their own and go against the Dao, what was originally free-flowing would become constrained, and what was originally wondrous and subtle would come to a halt. Change would lose its order, becoming stagnant and blocked before gradually ebbing away. Flourishing and decline would fall out of balance, while relaxation and tension would lose their regulation.

If the valleys were to act on their own and go against the Dao, what they originally possessed would be lost, and what was originally abundant would run dry. Emptiness and fullness would repeatedly turn upside down, and even the waters that nourish all things would be unable to flow in.

If lords and kings were to act on their own and go against the Dao, what was originally honored would become lowly, and what was originally upright would be overturned. All under Heaven would fall into chaos and confusion, with calamities arising from their own actions. The officials would lose their proper standards, and names would no longer match realities. The people would cease to rally around them, and the order between Heaven and Earth would be severed.

These five things are pure and good by nature and in their life-force. Their transformations reach the utmost, yet whether advancing or retreating, bending or extending, they never depart from the proper measure. Only by holding fast to this foundation can they survive; lose it, and they perish. How much more so for someone who is not a sage, yet seeks to rule the people—casting aside proper measure and acting however he pleases?

Thus the patterns of Heaven and humanity, and the transformations of the myriad things, all include reversals: what is scarce may become abundant, what is lowly may become exalted, what is high may become low, and success may turn into failure. Adding something may instead bring loss; what seems beneficial may instead invite calamity. Being on the opposite side of something may bring its return, while single-mindedly pursuing it may cause you to lose what you seek.

Therefore, wise rulers and sage sovereigns, though they stand above the people and hold exalted rank, extend their kindness to all things. They move the four seas through De and gain protection through the Dao; Heaven and Earth support them, the myriad things rally to them, and spirits and gods assist them. They discipline themselves and uphold their integrity, yet call themselves “lonely one” and “solitary one.” They dwell in lowliness and remain humble, personally bear hardship, restrain their desires and curb their ambitions, and strive to place themselves beneath the people. Because they do not presume upon their rank, they can hold the authority entrusted to them by the people. Because they do not place themselves above others, they can remain above the people for a long time. Because they do not covet possession, they are left with nothing lacking. Because they do not act recklessly, they can govern the myriad things. The myriad things change in countless ways, but the ruler does not entangle himself in them; thus he can become their foundation.

This principle applies not only to governing a state; it applies to all matters. For example, when a craftsperson makes a cart, they must determine its forms—round or square, short or long, curved or straight, lengthwise or crosswise—and labor diligently throughout the year. Only then can they become the foundation of cartmaking.

This applies not only to the kingly way; it is true of everything in the world. When a craftsperson makes a vehicle, they must shape the wood into circles and squares, short and long pieces, curves and straight lines, and parts that run lengthwise and crosswise. They spend their whole life laboring over these intricate steps. Only when the work is complete can the vehicle travel.

Jade is scarce and small; stone is abundant and large. Because stone is plentiful, it is considered low in value; because jade is rare, it is considered precious. Jade and stone belong to the same class by nature, yet one is treasured and the other discarded because of their differing abundance. This shows that worth and lowliness depend on quantity, while success and failure depend on whether one takes action.

Thus the sage understands how opposites work together. They preserve themselves through a balanced way, advancing and withdrawing with the rise and fall of the times, and adapting to the changes of things. They do not fix themselves as stone, nor as jade, but remain between jade and stone: neither too much nor too little, neither precious nor base. They take “One”—the fundamental principle shared by all things—as their guiding thread, and the Dao—the fundamental pattern by which all things move—as their support. In this way, they grasp the great currents of the world, and their power is unmatched. They enable all things to be preserved and grow, and their beneficence cannot be measured. They may occupy an honored position without worry, or a lowly one without misfortune; they may stand high without danger, or remain low in even greater safety.

The sage understands the cycles of change, settles into stillness and silence, sees into being and nonbeing, and returns to the original state of all things. They do not treat themselves as something to be deliberately fashioned, and so their numinous nature is not lost. They do not treat the world as something to be arbitrarily controlled, and so the world, together with them, stays clear of danger; even in a low position, they are more secure. The sage understands the cycles of change, settles into stillness and silence, sees into being and nonbeing, and returns to the original state of all things. They do not deliberately fashion themselves, and so the numinous does not depart. They do not deliberately control the world, and so the world, together with them, remains secure.

Why is this so? Because they act in accordance with the Dao and follow the principle of “One.” The Dao’s fundamental law lies in the vast principle of “One.” Change arises through reversal, and harmony is the constant even in the smallest things. Things rise from stagnation and are preserved through decline. Heaven and Earth arise from Great Harmony—the primordial state of undivided concord—and Great Harmony arises from the Empty Mystery, the profound state of stillness and emptiness.

The highest kind of person hears of the Dao, the fundamental order of the universe and the way of cultivating oneself, and diligently puts it into practice. The middling kind hears of the Dao and responds inconsistently, seeming at times to remember it and at times to forget it. The lowest kind hears of the Dao and laughs aloud. If it were not laughed at, it would hardly deserve to be called the Dao.

Thus, an ancient saying puts it this way: the bright Dao seems dim; the way forward seems like retreat; the level path seems uneven. The highest De is like a low valley. The purest white seems stained. Abundant De seems deficient; strong De seems indolent. What is genuine and unadorned seems altered. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed only at the end; the greatest sound seems faint; the greatest image has no fixed form.

The Dao lies hidden and has no fixed name. Only the Dao excels at giving to and bringing all things to completion.

The Dao, De (Virtue/Power), and Heaven and Earth each reveal distinct patterns. Among the myriad things, some are high and some low; their breaths are long or short. Each thing busies itself with what it likes and worries over what troubles it. It sees only what it can see and hears only what it can hear. Their choices and rejections often conflict, and they differ in what they fear and what they love.

Thus small birds such as quail and kestrels do not fly high. They spend the whole day hurrying about, with their thoughts fixed on tender shoots of mugwort. Swans soar high, traveling east and west through the vast spaces between Heaven and Earth, yet their thoughts remain on ponds. The luan and phoenix soar ten thousand ren into the sky, roaming at ease in the clear, empty realm, yet still find it not high enough. They stretch their necks and spread their wings, passing through blue clouds and drawing near the sun and moon. Flying far away, they may go a long time without eating, traveling across the Nine Provinces and alighting in the eight directions; only then do they feel at home. Each of these three kinds of birds has a way of life suited to it, and each takes pleasure in it.

The boundless wilderness and springs plunging thousands of xun deep are where divine dragons return and little fish depart. High mountains and great hills, deep forests and ravines, flourishing trees and spreading branches are the favored surroundings of swans and tigers and leopards, but places that chickens and dogs detest.

It is lamentable that the customs handed down since the Three Dynasties, along with the teachings and writings passed down by the Confucians and Mohists, have led people to recite the Poetry and Documents, practice ritual, sing the elegant hymns and eulogies, play the qin and se zithers, honor benevolence and righteousness, take purity as their guiding principle, investigate ancient events, master the arts of calculation, distinguish right from wrong, and examine gain and loss. They seek security for themselves and a shining reputation, then pass their learning on to their local communities. These are the pursuits esteemed by people of middling ability, but rejected by those of the highest ability.

Some withdraw into quiet contemplation and strain to memorize the myriad things. They invent embellishments to cover their errors and use empty words to blur the distinction between names and realities. They maneuver among advancement and retreat, rise and fall, honor and disgrace; observe the proprieties of the inner quarters; accommodate themselves to current fashions; and bow, turn, advance, or withdraw, seeking only to suit the age. They attach themselves to wealth and rank, comply with the powerful, and cater to the eyes and ears of the crowd. In this way they win esteem and favor, becoming models for the common customs. These are the pursuits followed by people of low ability, but rejected by those of middling ability.

Thus each set of rules has its own use, and they do not necessarily obstruct one another. How could people of different natures ever feel at ease together? The worthy and the sage do not regard one another as their kind; the foolish and the wise cannot be blended into a single group. Great people delight in serenity, while lesser people take pleasure in anxious striving. The multitude often cannot understand great undertakings, while people with cramped and bustling lives may not necessarily obstruct one another.

Sages do not compete with ordinary people for superiority, and the foolish and the wise need not be lumped together. Great people delight in quiet simplicity, while small-minded people take pleasure in bustle and anxiety. Ordinary people often cannot understand great undertakings, and trivial, busy affairs cannot bring joy to a true gentleman. Birds and beasts move together, yet each heads in a different direction; the various kinds of scholars govern worldly affairs, yet each has a different destination.

Therefore, cast aside clever contrivances and all manner of deliberation, return to what is true and unadorned, and wander in Great Simplicity—the original state of unformed purity. Regard external things lightly, and do not rise and fall with the ways of the world. Stand apart, untainted. Let joy and anger disturb neither the heart, nor gain and loss sway the mind. Treat honor and lowliness as one, and regard life and death with the same equanimity. Act as though doing nothing, and contemplate the subtle principle. Let the spirit grow calm and still, leaving no trace of deliberate self-display. Hold fast to De, contain harmonious Qi, and follow the course of change back to nature. This is the state revered by the Great Sage and sought by the highest person. Those of middling ability are bewildered by it; those of little ability laugh at it.

Thus, what people of middling ability hear is not the most subtle Way, and what people of little ability see is not the most complete state. The very thing that bewilders the former and draws laughter from the latter is the highest level of beauty and goodness. When grand words are spoken, profound principles unfolded, innate nature made clear, and hidden mysteries probed to their depths, people of middling ability are bewildered and those of little ability laugh. But when shallow words and persuasive talk shift repeatedly, seeking blessings and undertaking profitable ventures until success is achieved, then people of middling ability begin to discuss them, and those of little ability think they understand.

It is not that they delight in calamity and dislike good fortune, or value disaster and look down on blessings. Their nature is simply far removed from such principles, and their feelings run contrary to them. It is as though they were in the Yellow Springs, yet expected to hear and see things in the Nine Heavens above: the two are so distant, almost cut off from one another, that they cannot possibly perceive them.

Thus, the sage sets forth the teaching of “having.” Here, “having” means that true understanding of the Dao belongs only to those who know how difficult it is to grasp, who can follow the patterns of nature and encompass the roots of all things. Ordinary people cannot readily understand this.

Why is this so? The Dao followed by the sage is deep and subtle, vast and unfathomable, at once obscure and bright. It is empty and still, and all things come from it; the minute and the immense alike have no fixed form. If one pursues it to the utmost, knowledge cannot hold on to it. If one refines and summarizes it, words cannot make it clear. If one divides and unfolds it, writing cannot convey it in full. Why? Because the Dao is silent and formless, yet all things emerge from it.

The Dao advances as if retreating; it seems to vanish, yet also seems to remain. To govern the world, one must return to oneself: stillness and purity are the gate to emptiness, and emptiness is the gateway to the Dao. Calm indifference is the foundation of the spirit; stillness is the source of harmony. Restraint is a way to nourish Qi, while work on the subtle details brings things to completion. To dwell securely in the formless, one must come before formed things. Set aside the affairs of the world and cultivate oneself first: nourish the Shen and gather harmony, governing one’s own heart. The heart is the ruler of the body, just as the body is the center of a state. Then the world will respond of its own accord, as naturally as things follow their own nature.

Thus, the level and easy Dao may seem like ordinary things, yet it can bring forth an order that is upright and subtle. It calls for removing man-made institutions and devices, and setting aside man-made distinctions. Follow the people’s wishes and let them live according to their nature. Do not disturb them with ornate writing, and remove steep barriers and obstacles. Tear down checkpoints and gates so that treachery has no chance to take root; destroy walls and empty prisons so that people can restrain themselves. Let the soldiers rest and put away the weapons, thereby dissolving divisions imposed by human beings. Then the world will gather like a marketplace, and people from every direction will come to join it, as streams flow into the sea.

Dao and De are like a valley: they give without deliberate intent and take nothing in return. They favor no one and do not scheme to benefit anyone; they neither seize a place for themselves nor deliberately abandon it. Through Wuwei, their blessings flow everywhere. Without deliberately practicing benevolence, they nourish deeply. They nurture all living beings and are the mother of the world.

The highest and brightest De (Virtue) appears clear and pale, yet often seems inwardly apprehensive. Without restraint, its power grows stronger; without relying on external things, its authority becomes weightier. Its virtue joins with the creative workings of Heaven and Earth, and all things under Heaven draw close to it. It moves between the manifest and the hidden without making beauty its aim. Only by leaving merit and fame behind can it shine for long.

Those of deep virtue are generous and plain, seeming empty within, as though they lack something. They leave no outward trace and pay no heed to their appearance. They simplify their feelings, follow their nature, and return to a childlike innocence. Through Wuwei (non-action), they do nothing, seeming foolish or unable to hear. Their bodies hold fast to the One, guarding their root, while their spirits respond to countless changes. They do not reveal their transformations or display their likes and desires. They seem cut off from the world, dwelling alone with the Dao.

Cultivating virtue looks like idleness and inaction, yet nothing is beyond its reach. Keep the people’s eyes and ears from being dazzled by external things, and their spirits clear. Cut off excessive desires and help the people preserve their unity. Though the spirit can respond to countless changes, those changes remain unseen, and likes and desires stay hidden. It seems cut off from the world, dwelling alone with the Dao.

Cultivating virtue looks like idleness and inaction, yet nothing is beyond its reach. Keep the people’s eyes and ears from being dazzled by external things, and their spirits clear. Cut off excessive desires so that the people’s nature may be fulfilled; lessen their pleasures so that they may live longer; set aside concern for fine clothes and colors so that they no longer chase after external things; quiet the people’s thoughts and intentions so that they may be at peace.

The Dao in its plain truth seems to change, yet it is the hidden principle the people follow. Let the Dao give life to all things and De nourish them; let spirit guide them and norms bring them into harmony. Let all things depend on Heaven and Earth, receive the light of the sun and moon, and change with Yin-Yang. Let them take water and grain for nourishment. Govern them through the formless and sustain them through the limitless. The people of the world submit in peace, the lands within the four seas are tranquil, and all things flourish and grow. Yet this seems to come neither from its merit nor from its virtue. It is great, yet seems small; rich, yet seems plain.

The greatest square has no fixed bounds and can contain everything. It reveals squareness without shape, and straightness without straight lines; it has no borders and no fixed pattern. When squareness is not imposed, each thing finds its proper place; when nothing is constrained by straightness, Heaven and Earth move naturally. It is present in the Yin of action and in the Yang of obstruction. With harmony at the center, the principles of things become clear of themselves. It is one with Heaven and endures as long as Earth.

Therefore, the greatest vessel is completed only at the end, containing all things. The Dao’s transformations leave no trace, and its creation of the myriad things gives no visible sign. It moves without sound and acts without fixed form. Its might and virtue cannot be seen, and its achievements cannot be directly discerned. Calamities dissipate in what is hidden and far-reaching; blessings arise from that same hidden depth. The Dao is still and unassuming, yet it is everywhere and encompasses all. Its transformations leave no trace, and its creation gives no visible sign; it moves without sound and acts without form; its might and virtue are unseen, and its achievements imperceptible. Calamities dissipate in what is hidden, and blessings arise from what is hidden. It is still and unassuming, and so it is naturally as it is. This is called the highest art. All things are born from it, yet no one knows how they come to be. It continually brings all things to completion, and so it endures.

Therefore, the greatest sound seems rare, as though it were silent; it conveys through not speaking. Through not speaking, the Dao’s mystery is conveyed. All things remain still, yet all under Heaven can move freely and harmoniously. There is no sound, yet all things are stirred; there is no melody, yet all things respond to one another. Heaven and Earth, people and things, seem to answer together without prior agreement, like an echo answering a sound.

The greatest image has no fixed shape, and the greatest form has no appearance that can be delimited. When it moves forward, all things are preserved; when it withdraws from sight, all things tend toward decline. Heaven and Earth rise and bow with it; Yin-Yang bend and extend with it. All things imitate and embody it, as a shadow follows the body.

Thus, the Dao flourishes without a name, and De (Virtue/Power) is abundant without needing a posthumous title—a title used to describe someone’s virtue. Its achievements are supreme and immeasurable, yet all under Heaven do not consider them worth exaggerating. Its beneficence reaches across the four seas, yet all under Heaven do not regard it as something to be revered. It illuminates Heaven and Earth and the six directions, then ultimately returns to darkness and formlessness. Why is this so? The Dao’s creation begins in the formless and traceless, then takes shape among the myriad things. It exists where there seems to be nothing, and gives to all things without regarding itself as the giver. When it moves, all things are brought to completion; when it is still, all under Heaven is at peace.

The Dao gives rise to “One,” the undivided source. “One” differentiates into “Two,” Yin and Yang. Their interaction forms “Three,” the Qi created by the joining of Yin and Yang, from which all things come into being. All things bear Yin and embrace Yang; as the two kinds of Qi mingle, they come into harmony.

People dislike the humble titles “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy one,” yet lords and kings use them for themselves. Diminishing can sometimes bring gain, while adding can sometimes lead to loss. Others teach this principle, and I teach it too. Those who act with force and arrogance meet an untimely end; I take this as the foundation of instruction.

The Zhigui says: Within emptiness lies an emptiness deeper still, which opens the way for all things and receives them. Though formless and inactive, it enables things to come into being from nonbeing. Emptiness can shape and transform all things. Thus the Dao, which first brings all things into being, also becomes the foundation of instruction.

The nothingness deeper than “emptiness” opens and guides the myriad things, from which they receive their endowment. It is not itself “being so” in the ordinary sense, yet it enables the myriad things to come into being as they are. Within nothingness there is a kind of nothingness that shapes and transforms the myriad things. It brings life to its first stirrings, yet does not create life in the ordinary sense of doing so itself. The subtle nothingness where being and nonbeing mingle cannot be altered even by the spirits. It enables the myriad things to exist, yet does not preserve them through some force. Between being and nonbeing there is also an exceedingly subtle and mysterious activity that sets the myriad things in motion and gives them form, yet does not itself complete their forms for them.

Thus, deep nothingness gives rise to nothingness; deep nonbeing gives rise to nonbeing; and “nonbeing” gives rise to things with form. Whatever has form belongs to the category of things. Each of the myriad things has its own source, and things of the same kind each have their own ancestral origin. Heaven and Earth are the greatest among the myriad things, and humanity comes after them.

In the generation of Heaven, Earth, and humanity, form depends on Qi (vital energy); Qi depends on harmony; harmony depends on the spirits; the spirits depend on Dao and De (Virtue/Power); and Dao and De depend on nature. In this way, the myriad things are able to exist. Therefore, the source that makes Heaven what it is cannot be Heaven itself, just as the source that makes a human being human cannot be the human being themself. How do we know this? Zhuangzi says: Where does the human body come from when it gathers into form? Where do hearing, sight, and sensation come from? And who brings about the changes of life and its end? From this, it is clear that form arises from nonbeing and the real from the empty.

Thus, before “nonbeing,” there is no beginning that can be traced, nor can it be treated as some concrete thing to preserve. It has no form or sound and cannot be seen with the eyes or heard with the ears. How it receives its endowment from nonbeing and passes the root on to things with form cannot be put into words. This profound source, which transcends both “nonbeing” and “the nonbeing of nonbeing,” is the primal beginning on which the beginnings and endings of the myriad things depend. It is the source from which they emerge and the support that enables their nature and life to take shape. It has no fixed name; it is called the Dao (the Way).

The Dao itself is empty and formless, and so it can give rise to “One,” the earliest state in which the myriad things have not yet differentiated. There is a presence in which all is undivided chaos, appearing and arising in a hazy, indistinct way. It is light but does not disperse, heavy but does not stagnate. It shows a Yang aspect without an outer form, and a Yin aspect without an inner substance. It has neither above nor below, neither left nor right. It extends everywhere without boundaries: the guiding principle and order of the Dao.

It contains emptiness, with no particular things within it. Formless and nameless, boundless and vast, confused and undifferentiated, it is so deep and hidden that it cannot be examined. It lies beyond sound and color, and nothing can be compared to it. Point toward it, and no direction can be found; reach out to touch it, and nothing can be grasped. It is immense and without end, beyond the reach of words. Vast and undivided, it is one with the myriad things, with neither end nor beginning. It is where the myriad things dwell, and the beginning of the Great Beginning—the primordial state before Heaven, Earth, and all things took shape. For this reason, it is called “One.”

Through emptiness and nothingness, “One” gives rise to “Two.” Two presences arise together, subtle and fine, ceaselessly generating. They change along with things, flowing smoothly without fixed form. They grow and move without exhaustion, their radiance appearing amid deep darkness. They have no fixed direction and cannot be grasped, yet they contain Heaven and Earth, and no one can see their source. They cannot be pursued through sound or escaped through bodily form, and so they are called the “spirit powers,” whose workings are hidden and unfathomable. When they make a thing exist, it exists; when they depart, it perishes. What neither wisdom nor strength can reach or command is called “Two.”

“Two” is deep and dark, with no fixed direction and beyond grasp, yet it contains Heaven and Earth, and no one can see its source. It cannot be pursued through sound or escaped through bodily form, and so it is called the “spirit powers.” When it makes a thing exist, it exists; when it departs, the thing perishes. What neither wisdom nor strength can reach or command is called “Two.”

Through formless, empty nothingness, “Two” gives rise to “Three.” Three presences come into being together, indistinct and vast. Look for them and no form can be seen; listen for them and no sound can be heard; touch them and no trace can be found; gaze from afar and no entrance can be seen. They cannot be weighed or measured. Deep and distant, they are vast without limit. One is clear, one turbid, and they move together with harmonious Qi (vital energy). Heaven, Earth, and humanity begin from them, though their forms and boundaries have not yet emerged. Their source is rooted in “One,” and they receive their charge from the spirit powers. This state is called “Three.”

Through emptiness, “Three” is able to give rise to the myriad things. The clear and turbid separate; high and low are set in order; Yin and Yang begin to distinguish themselves; harmonious Qi flows; the sun, moon, and stars move; and the many kinds of life come into being. Everything that has form and can be followed and observed, and everything with sound and color that can be seen or heard, is called a myriad thing.

The arising of the myriad things takes emptiness as its root and nonbeing as its beginning. Yin and Yang turn away from one another; high and low are arranged in sequence. Yin and Yang thus begin to divide, harmonious Qi flows, the sun, moon, and stars move along their courses, and all kinds of life appear. Everything that has form and an observable shape, that has sound and color and can be heard or seen, is called a “myriad thing.”

The arising of the myriad things takes emptiness as its root and nonbeing as its beginning. They turn their backs on Yin and face Yang, gravitating toward softness and distancing themselves from hardness. They remain still and clear, do not act rashly, and do not let the mind give free rein to contrivance. In this way, their forms unfold and their nature and life find free passage. They contain harmonious Qi, yield in weakness, and accord with things, while the Dao itself has no form. Thus emptiness and nonbeing, formlessness, subtlety, and softness are the roots from which Heaven and Earth arise and the myriad things come into being. Though people despise them, they are what lords and kings use to humble themselves. They are the source of the myriad things and the basis for accomplishing one’s work.

Therefore, a wise ruler, though occupying the highest position and wielding great power, calls himself lonely, lacking in De, and incapable. He gives up pursuit and avoids desire, makes himself small rather than great, accepts a low position, and takes pleasure in diminishing himself. His actions leave no trace, and his arrivals reveal no footprints. He acts before good fortune appears and remains still when calamity has only just begun to take shape. He practices Wuwei (non-action) and keeps affairs few, so all under Heaven settles of itself. He does not make a point of seeing or hearing; instead, he maintains harmonious Qi and preserves stillness. His spirit therefore grows and rests, and his body naturally becomes upright. His advances and withdrawals follow their proper measure; he does not alter his conduct. His influence through De spreads like the wind as he governs the people. Heaven and Earth protect him, and the myriad things turn to him.

The people, however, are not like this: what they see and hear… They maintain harmonious Qi and preserve stillness; their spirit therefore grows and rests, and their bodies naturally become upright. Their advances and withdrawals follow their proper measure; they do not alter their conduct. Their influence through De spreads like the wind as they govern the people. Heaven and Earth protect them, and the myriad things turn to them.

Most people, however, do not act this way. They regard relying on what they see and hear to understand things as a weakness in knowing, because this allows them to deal only with what has already happened and leaves them unable to see the signs of change before they appear. So they esteem hardness and strength. Holding great power, they build up their influence and display their might, yet cannot control the many affairs before them. Within, they lack the far-reaching way of softness and weakness, and grow ever more distant from the roots found in the minute and the few. Their actions go against the Dao, and even in stillness they fail to accord with the principles of Heaven. Their minds and spirits grow confused; all kinds of affairs arise at once. Their thoughts become muddled, and joy and anger lose all measure. Good fortune flows out through the gate, while calamity and strange misfortune enter the home. Once Heaven’s net—the laws of the Dao of Heaven—has spread, there is no escape. Trouble surges in, and only then do people grieve and awaken. They bow low and speak humbly, uttering good words only as death approaches. Even if they wish to correct their faults and begin anew, they have already turned away from the roots found in the minute and the few. The natural Dao no longer receives them; they drift ever farther from the path of life, until their state is destroyed, their families ruined, and calamity falls upon their descendants.

Thus, the teaching of most people is to turn ignorance into cleverness and weakness into strength, to abandon the minute in pursuit of the conspicuous, to turn away from what is hidden in pursuit of what is manifest, and to compete for illustrious favor—only to die amid wealth, splendor, and fame. The teaching of the sages is the opposite: through “ignorance” they attain wisdom, through humiliation they attain honor, through the minute they attain the conspicuous, through the hidden they attain the manifest, through the few they attain the many, and through softness and weakness they attain strength. They remove selfishness and set aside intention, devoting themselves to namelessness and desirelessness. They do not seek knowledge and understanding through discriminating thought, but return to the deep and mysterious realm.

Paths and aims differ: some endure, while others lead to ruin. Thus the once powerful states of Qin and Chu perished through authoritarian force, while after the Han dynasty arose, it flourished by following the way of harmony. The overbearing turn away from the Dao; the domineering distance themselves from the spirits. Once the life-giving sovereign has withdrawn, how can anything endure for long? People do not look for the cause within themselves, but instead blame fate and accuse Heaven. The sages grieved for them and made this the foremost lesson in their teachings, setting it down clearly on bamboo slips and silk to warn those who came after. Later generations continued to go against these principles, and so suffered calamity.

The softest thing in the world can pass through the hardest things in the world. What has no form or substance can enter places without gaps. From this I know that Wuwei (non-action) is beneficial. The way of teaching without words, and the benefit of following nature without acting willfully—few in the world are able to practice these.

When the numinous subtlety of Dao and De reaches its utmost, even the spirits must submit to it. When the spirits reach the realm of utter nonbeing, Great Harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are balanced and all things blend in accord—must also heed it. The Qi of Great Harmony separates into clear and turbid, reaching a state of utmost softness. It has no fixed form, yet contains Heaven and Earth and encompasses Yin and Yang. It governs the myriad things, bringing each into its proper order and binding them together.

At times Dao lies beyond Heaven and Earth; at other times, it is within Heaven. Humans and all things depend on it for life, yet no one can see or hear it. Subtlety is not enough to name it, and weakness is not enough to define it. The sages can only sense its presence within themselves, then use tangible things to describe it. Thus they call it “the utmost softness” and “formless.”

Formless Dao does not rely on hardness to overcome hardness, nor on strength to overcome strength. It can therefore wear down Heaven and Earth and melt copper and iron. It rushes like the wind, swift as a flash of lightning, traverses the paths of the sun and moon, and extends throughout above and below. It moves lightly, proceeds in tranquil steadiness, and can enter a realm where no thing exists.

How can we show that this is truly so? The echo of a sound cannot be exhausted because it is itself soundless; a shadow cannot be pursued to its end because it has no substantial form. Water, by its softness and flow, can pass through metal and stone and make all things sink. The Earth, meanwhile, … ultimately returns to nothing.

Why can this be said? Echoes cannot be exhausted because they have no sound of their own as their root; shadows cannot be followed to their end because they have no fixed form. Water is soft and weak, yet it can pierce metal and stone and carry all things. The earth is yielding, yet it can accomplish great things and surpass grasses and trees. The tongue and ears remain unharmed, while sharp horns and teeth break. From this we can see that softness and weakness can wear down hardness, and emptiness can govern fullness. This is not the result of deliberate action; it is simply the natural way of things.

Therefore, if a country has a small territory and few people, insufficient military strength and scarce provisions, it should think far ahead, keep its desires few, and preserve the spirit in clarity and stillness. In this way, it can accord with the Dao of Heaven, regard the people as its own children, deepen its De and flourish in its teaching, and spread its kindness widely. Officials will be loyal and soldiers trustworthy; the ruler will remain mindful of danger, and the generals will exercise caution. The country will take softness and weakness as its way and remain behind the people for a long time. Even if it suffers humiliation and occupies a low position, it can become an object of trust among the feudal lords. The lords will turn to it like infants, and people throughout the realm will come seeking refuge, as though returning to their parents.

When people and the myriad things are of one mind, authority arises naturally. The strong cannot oppress such a country, and great states cannot seize it. Prosperity and decline alternate, and strength and weakness transform into one another. With Heaven and Earth assisting and the spirits giving support, when the time comes, it need not force control in order to become ruler of all under Heaven. Why is this so? Because, like an infant, it conducts itself through the Dao’s softness and weakness, dwelling in a lowly position and seeking little.

Conversely, if a country has a vast territory and a large population, abundant resources and a powerful army, fierce officials and bold soldiers, an able ruler and stern generals; if rewards are lavish and punishments severe, and policies harsh and oppressive; if officials tremble in fear, as though constantly standing before the ruler; and if, relying on its favorable circumstances and terrain, it asserts supremacy over all under Heaven, scorns its enemies, delights in warfare, readily mobilizes great armies, adapts to circumstances and devises stratagems, exalts itself above Heaven and Earth and shows contempt for the myriad things, forces the feudal lords into submission, and makes everyone place their lives in its hands—then its might will overawe lands beyond its borders. It will constantly regard itself as exceptional, making people fearful and all things uneasy, until its authority shakes Heaven and Earth.

Yet if such a country does not take the Dao and De as its foundation, the spirits too will depart. Many small, weak forces will unite against it; the people will no longer rally to it; and in the end the ruler will die, the state will perish, and the ruling clan will scatter. Why is this so? Because it clings to hardness and force, while continually accumulating arrogance and greed.

The Dao is the wondrous presence contained within “nonbeing,” pervading places where there are no divisions and operating in a realm beyond the constraints of any fixed principle. It illuminates the realm of deliberate action and clarifies the realm of Wuwei (non-action). It enters and leaves places without boundaries, passes through concrete things such as pearls and jade, yet leaves no trace. How can this be explained? However sharp a visible object may be, it cannot enter a realm without form or trace, beyond all limits. The spirit (inner spiritual power) resides within the body. It departs without passing through a gap and enters without needing an aperture; in the time it takes to bow or look up, it can travel a thousand miles.

From this we can see that deliberate action often leads to loss and makes it difficult to achieve results, while acting through Wuwei allows things to be accomplished continuously, with effects that never run out. Heaven and Earth take shape through it; the myriad things and humankind arise through it. Audible sounds grow difficult to hear at a distance of a hundred miles, yet sound without sound can move what lies beyond the heavens and shake the four seas. Meanings expressed in words may not be understood across different kinds of beings, while meanings conveyed without words can transform Yin-Yang, and bring Heaven and Earth into mutual resonance. Dao and De (Virtue/Power) operate through Wuwei, and Heaven and Earth are brought into being; Heaven and Earth utter no words, yet the four seasons turn of themselves. These are proofs that the spirit and the myriad people can attest to, and clear evidence of how nature operates.

Thus, the sage seeks the Dao and De with a mind that is empty and still, and preserves the spirit with calm Qi. The sage gathers in the hearing and does not pursue sounds beyond silence; lets go of the mind that distinguishes light from dark and does not cling to seeing what has no form. Observing the changes of Heaven and Earth and discerning how the myriad things move of themselves, the sage sees that deliberate action is the beginning of disorder, while Wuwei is the foundation of good governance; many words are the gate of calamity, while silence is the gate of well-being.

Therefore, abandon the fashion of proclaiming sagacity and clever schemes, and put aside the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness. Awaken in people the wish to turn toward the Dao and encourage the will to follow Dao and De. Let the spirit move naturally, nurture peaceful Qi, and follow the seasons and the lay of the land. Yin and Yang each fulfill their roles, and the four seasons turn of themselves. In this way, the roots of disorder are cut off, and the myriad things each find their proper place.

When the rulers of the world remain tranquil and detached, the people are free from disturbance and worry. They teach through “words without words,” transform people without deliberate contrivance, and set an example through the Dao beyond form and image, guiding people back to its mysterious principles. They quiet the people’s desires, follow their inborn nature and life, and keep them from being lured by clever knowledge, so that they may live long.

Therefore, when I do not speak rashly, Heaven and Earth follow their own nature. When Heaven and Earth follow their own nature, Dao and De move naturally as well. I, Heaven and Earth, and Dao and De arise together, each spurring and enriching the others. Peaceful Qi fills the world, and Great Peace gradually takes shape; people and the myriad things dwell together, and all under Heaven becomes one. The gates of disorder are closed, and the people under Heaven are as simple and unknowing as newborn children. There is no humiliation in the world, nor do people contend over good and ill fortune. Clever schemes are blocked, and the natural Dao flows freely. Every household receives blessings from the spirits, and everyone possesses the efficacy of sage wisdom.

At such a time, the ruler is like Heaven and Earth, and the people are like infants. They drink in the ruler’s bounty and enjoy the harmony the ruler brings. Yin-Yang moves and circulates, and people expand and contract in accord with the changes of the Dao. The ruler stands above them like a father, yet seems both present and absent.

The people of the world are unknowing and at ease, responding to one another in harmony and joy, like newly hatched birds, innocent and free of action. They do not rejoice at being born, nor grieve at dying. Quiet and serene, they preserve both life and nature. They ask nothing of the world, yet every blessing comes of its own accord. Why is this so? Because the ruler issues no commands, and the Dao, too, follows its own course and acts through Wuwei (non-action).

The key to Wuwei, the hinge of silence, lies in what is subtle and mysterious, dwelling in a realm too deep to discern. Its wondrous hiddenness is the beginning of the Dao; its subtle mystery is its foundation. Its arising has no root, and its comings and goings have no gate. It is always between action and inaction, the source of seasonable harmony. Thus, the Dao can be heard but not revealed, seen but not explained, experienced but not transmitted, and put to use but not spoken of.

Grasp its essentials and put them into practice; seize the key and return to the root. It is easy to explain to the wise, but difficult to make clear to those of shallow understanding. Why? It is vast and far-reaching, beyond the reach of ordinary people. It rises upward and seems to turn back, beyond their entry. It is subtle, distant, and immense, beyond the hearing of the world. It is hidden in darkness, beyond the practice of worldly rulers.

Name and body: which is closer? Body and possessions: which is more precious? Gain and loss: which brings greater harm? Therefore, excessive attachment to possessions must surely bring one…

The fundamental nature I possess from birth, which constitutes the self, is Dao and De (the Way and Virtue). What I depend on to live is spirit. What takes shape through me is Great Harmony. What provides a place for me and gives form to me is Heaven and Earth. These forces together bring me into being, but I cannot make them operate as they do. Therefore, Dao and De are most worthy of emulation; spirit is most worthy of following; Great Harmony is the broadest model; and Heaven and Earth are the grandest manifestation. Dao and De operate constantly, bringing forth life without end. Great Harmony, formed by the intermingling of clear and turbid Qi (vital energy), changes continually without limit. The workings of Heaven and Earth endure without decline, and Yin-Yang turns and moves without ceasing.

From this it follows that death is the greatest calamity and life the greatest blessing. Thus the sages investigate above the true meaning of Dao and De, and observe below the intent of Heaven and Earth. Even the utmost height and renown, prosperity and good fortune, depth and grandeur, honor and favor cannot compare with life. The array of all things, rare treasures, gold, jade, pearls, and gems, abundant profits and enormous gains cannot compare with one’s own person. Nothing does more to disrupt the age and endanger the state, violate the principles of Heaven and Earth, and harm oneself than the pursuit of fame. Fame makes people arrogant and self-satisfied, inflates their desires, impoverishes the people and weakens the state, unsettles the spirit and stokes cravings. It leads people away from the Way of Heaven and drives them to compete in thievery, estranging people throughout the world and bringing continual warfare. When someone sets conflict in motion in this way, it may bring harm to countless states, cost rulers and common people their lives, and bring calamity upon all things. Nothing causes such consequences more than greed for wealth.

Gaining fame and wealth can sometimes bring disaster, and sometimes be a blessing. If one cares only about pursuing reputation and possessions, one loses virtue. The spirits then cease to protect them, their life comes to an end, and even Heaven cannot save them. Yet those who lose fame and wealth may instead receive the protection of virtue and the aid of the spirits. Their reputation then naturally flourishes, and their wealth becomes sufficient to stand alongside Heaven and Earth. Thus, someone who values only themselves and pursues great renown is not fit to discuss the utmost Dao with; nor is someone who thinks little of themselves and places the state above all fit to be consulted about private gain.

A reputation that comes naturally, without being sought, is a dwelling in which to settle oneself; a reputation pursued by deliberate effort becomes a sack that drains one’s life. Being content without possessing wealth is how one nurtures good fortune; greedily seeking to possess wealth invites disaster. So, if you cherish yourself excessively and strive to build up glory, you will toil and exert yourself for it, forcibly repress your nature, and thereby wear down your spirit. Hoarding great wealth and growing ever more arrogant and complacent is the road to ruin. In the end, both reputation and wealth will vanish. The spirits cannot bring the dead back to life, and Heaven and Earth cannot preserve them.

Why is this so? Dao and De transform the myriad things in accordance with the workings of Heaven and Earth: Yin and Yang alternate, dividing into the four seasons and changing into the Five Phases, which weave together like a net, dense and without gaps. Each thing has its own nature and limits, and they cannot encroach upon one another. The intent of creation is peaceful and impartial; it follows the common laws of nature, upright and balanced, neither favoring nor rejecting, and connected with all things. It reduces what is excessive and makes up what is lacking; it cuts down what is full and nourishes what is insufficient. If one is insatiably greedy and keeps accumulating, one brings disaster upon oneself. When desire has no limits, the urge to profit grows without end. Then the clever deceive the foolish, and the strong plunder the weak. Nature will in time bring everything back into balance, and fame and profit will return to where they belong.

When people lose fame and profit, they grieve; when they gain them, they rejoice. As grief and joy alternate, the hun and po souls cannot find peace. Stirred by grief and joy, the spirit departs as well. In the end, the body dies and the reputation fades, while the calamity extends even to one’s descendants.

Fame and profit relate to life like burning coals and ice: their natures are opposed, and they cannot both be preserved for long. No one in the world can attain the height of fame, enjoy a safe and lasting life, and flourish among people all at once. To unsettle the spirit and confuse the mind, exhaust one’s energy dealing with external affairs, rush about from morning to night, polish one’s appearance and refine one’s words, worry over the people, establish enterprises and achieve merit, strain to distinguish oneself and uphold one’s reputation, all in pursuit of renown—these practices damage the foundations of preserving life while strengthening the forces that harm it.

Such people wear out their strength, endure hunger and thirst, brave bitter cold and scorching heat, and travel through dangerous, narrow places. They wear coarse clothes and eat plain food, never satisfying their appetites. They leave early and return late, bearing humiliation; their spirits race about without rest. They go against what is right in pursuit of splendor, greedily seeking more and fearing they will gain nothing. In doing so, they trade their lives for temporary security. Their wealth accumulates as their spirits are depleted. Possessions bring trouble, and pride follows in their wake. Thus, those who seek good fortune lose it, while those who seek profit lose that too. The success or failure of one’s undertakings depends on whether one acts; the preservation of life depends on what one casts off and what one welcomes.

Therefore, those who understand contentment experience the Great Dao and accord with Dao and De. They abandon the pursuit of fame and dispel their greed for profit, settling into a state free from attachment to the body and private desires. They nurture the myriad things without treating them as their private property; they live among them without claiming them as their own. As for the Dao’s teachings on “departing” and “coming,” the key lies in letting go and following what comes.

Those who know what is enough can embody the Dao and accord with its De. They set aside reputation and rid themselves of private gain, placing themselves where they do not cling to their own selves. They nurture the myriad things without claiming them as their own; they live among all things without seeking survival for themselves alone.

Integrity and following nature are enough to bring the spirit to rest; the work of tending a household and living an ordinary life is enough to carry one through life. Because they always follow what is natural, they cannot be destroyed. Because they dwell in emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), they are unharmed. Because they regard reputation and external things lightly, they remain unstained. Because they seek freedom from desire, they can flourish for a long time.

Those who know when enough is enough do not betray their aspirations, even if they rise to the rank of emperor. Nor are their spirits confined, even if they live poor in mountain caves. When they are admitted to office, they do not take it as a mark of distinction; when they withdraw, they do not consider themselves destitute. They pay no heed to fortune or misfortune, gain or loss; they do not condemn themselves or boast of their achievements. They neither strive to obtain nor refuse what is offered. Broad as rivers and seas, they roam the deep and mysterious realm, in communion with the Way of the spirits.

Their actions accord with Heaven and Earth, so they do not fall into danger. They can distinguish benefit from harm without becoming troubled by either, and they remain naturally calm and at ease. Such people have Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) so deep-rooted they cannot be dislodged, and a spirit so steady it cannot disperse. They are as majestic as Heaven and Earth, as bright as the sun and moon. With Jing and spirit complete, they can preserve themselves. Knowing what is enough and when to stop, they endure for a long time. This is called avoiding fame, only to have fame follow; fleeing private gain, only to have gain follow.

“The Great Completion Seems Incomplete”

What is most complete seems to have flaws, yet its function never wanes. What is most full seems empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. What is most upright seems bent; what is most skillful seems clumsy; the finest speaker seems unable to speak well.

Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Those who can remain still and clear can become the standard for all under Heaven.

When Dao and De do not act arbitrarily, the people are naturally transformed. When the spirits do not act arbitrarily, the Qi of Great Harmony rises of itself. When Great Harmony does not act arbitrarily, the myriad things govern themselves. Some things grow without roots, travel without feet, hear without ears, and call out without mouths. All kinds of things each follow their own kind and interact with one another. Mothers cherish their children, and children cling to their mothers; males and females complement one another, and the myriad things honor their respective masters. Birds hatch from eggs and grow beaks; beasts are born from the womb and grow on milk. When birds are startled, they scatter in flight; when beasts are startled, they gather together. Yin animals dwell in caves, while Yang animals build nests for their homes. Fire spreads upward, and water flows downward. The myriad things teem with life: they sprout in spring, grow in summer, bear fruit in autumn, and ripen in winter, eventually returning to Earth. This is not arranged through edicts and instruction; it is simply the way things are.

From this we can see that deliberate action cannot produce genuine action, nor can negation produce genuine negation; brightness cannot produce brightness, nor can darkness produce darkness. By neither acting deliberately nor negating deliberately, by clinging neither to brightness nor to darkness, one can grasp the constant Way of things. Thus the Great Dao is level and open, requiring no passage through a doorway. The farther one travels, the less one knows. The Dao is within oneself, not in a distant place; change begins with oneself and is not determined by external things. The myriad things can remain at peace of themselves, so cunning and calculation need not arise.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to harmonious Qi and follows the right path, governing through the formless. He wanders through the spacious silence, knowing little; the Dao is within oneself, not in a distant place, and change begins with oneself, not through external things. The myriad things can remain at peace of themselves, so cunning and calculation need not arise.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to harmonious Qi and follows the right path, governing through the formless. He wanders through the vastness of emptiness, using a clear mind to contemplate what is most light and subtle. He relinquishes attachment to the hun and po souls, allowing the spirit to rest and the mind to grow still. Through Wuwei, the myriad things come naturally to completion; in silence, without words, he earns people’s trust. Deep and vast, bright and open, only the Great Dao exists alone. It seems faintly visible, and yet as though it could be followed; its course is plain and true, its working never exhausted, yet no one can see or hear it. Why is this so? Because it is subtle and complete, still and true: before form and sound appear, it is already the source of change. It opens and guides the myriad things like Yang; it closes and gathers them like Yin; it firmly bears them like Earth; it turns without rest like Heaven. Both the civil and the martial—the gentle and the forceful—are set in motion by the hidden and subtle Great Dao, from which abundant De naturally shines forth.

Thus, fullness seems like emptiness, and abundance seems like insufficiency. Do not make a show of benevolence and righteousness, display outward forms and rituals, establish fixed laws, or cling to deliberate action. If those in high positions seek only to be free of personal desire, the world will transform of itself.

People become honest and unadorned, like infants, unaware of what they ought to pursue or where they are going. Their daily needs are met without end, continuously and without depletion: food comes without cultivation, and clothing without weaving. In the heat, they quietly go unclothed; in the cold, they put on fur robes. Free of all manner of prohibitions, they live alongside elk and deer, hair loose and food in their mouths, following one another in play.

The ruler’s De (Virtue/Power) is abundant, and the people’s possessions are abundant too. Its teaching permeates all things and reaches everywhere. The workings of its light cannot be seen, yet within it lies a deep and mysterious power. Heaven and Earth, people and things, all change along with it, as though riding on emptiness and moving freely within the Dao. They cross the four seas and roam through the heights and depths of Heaven and Earth, boundless and expansive, dwelling at ease in the realm of utmost emptiness and Wuwei (non-action). Why is this so? Because what is straight can appear crooked, and what is upright can appear askew.

The ruler of the world is like a sound, and all things under Heaven respond like echoes; the ruler is like a body, and the people and things follow like shadows. Thus, Heaven’s intent can be brought into harmony without performing sacrifices, and the world can be governed without the ruler leaving his seat. This is the meaning of “great skill seems clumsy”: the highest form of action appears instead to be clumsy and effortless.

The Dao of Heaven always occupies the lowly, noncontentious position. It does not establish a calendar, yet Yin and Yang remain in harmony; it does not declare the beginning of the year, yet the seasons keep their proper order. It does not lay down laws and regulations, yet all under Heaven submits; it does not dispense rewards and punishments, yet names and realities remain in accord. It restrains its force and conceals its power, yet nothing can overcome it; it gives up warfare and conquest, yet nothing can resist it. It issues no commands, yet the people set themselves right; it creates no elaborate systems or documents, yet all under Heaven remains clear and well ordered. It uses neither tallies nor seals, yet people throughout the world trust one another; it prescribes no measures or quantities, yet all things remain naturally balanced. Thus, the Dao of Heaven seems to give something up, yet in truth it has more than enough; what seems like gain is, in fact, like loss. It does not ring bells or beat drums, yet the people feel joy; it does not seek to harmonize the Five Flavors, yet whatever they eat tastes delicious. It does not fuss over clothing or dwellings, yet the people feel their lives are good; it does not hoard possessions, yet the people remain prosperous. Why is this so? Because the Dao of Heaven follows what is natural and makes no deliberate display of cleverness, the people can live in accord with their own nature.

The pattern by which Heaven and Earth move is one of advance and retreat, through which all things grow. Change cannot be stopped, and contraction and extension cannot be concealed. When Yin reaches its height, the earth cracks with frost, ice forms, bitter winds blow, and frost and snow rage. Fish and turtles lie hidden, and all things curl inward. At such a time, even in a heated room near a brazier, wearing heavy leather and fur, one can hardly withstand the cold. But when one gathers the spirit and settles the Qi (vital energy), moves the body and exerts oneself, the Qi flows freely and sweat breaks out. Then, even after taking off one’s clothes and going outside, the body feels comfortably warm.

When Yang reaches its height, sand and stone grow scorching hot, birds can hardly move, and aquatic creatures suffer from the heat. All things wither, while rivers shrink and may even dry up. At such a time, even diving into a cool spring, wearing light hemp clothing, seeking shade on a high terrace, or taking cooling medicines and minerals can hardly help one endure the heat. But when the mind becomes clear and distracting thoughts fall away, one stills the spirit as though casting the body beyond the four seas and letting the mind roam in the realm of the formless. With the heart at peace and the breath in harmony, the body feels abundantly cool.

What is called “clever artifice”—governing through scheming and political manipulation—can in principle manage human affairs and nurture the myriad things, extending its benevolence to Heaven and Earth and matching the workings of Yin-Yang. Yet once it gives rise to disorder, that disorder begins in places unseen and rises from sounds unheard. It expands and contracts with changes in government, shifting with the changes of the world. It seeps into people’s hearts like dampness soaking into things, and overtakes them like a shadow falling over them. It is like an echo answering a sound, or a shadow following a body.

The more one relies on clever artifice, the more confused matters become; the more one tries to govern, the more complicated the decrees grow. Intelligence cannot control it, and harsh punishments and strict laws cannot stop it. Only Wuwei (non-action)—following nature without imposing needless intervention—enables a ruler to act effectively and bring about good order. It is the foundation of governance and instruction, and the source of change in the myriad things. Wuwei dispels disorder just as activity overcomes cold and stillness overcomes heat.

Therefore, the sage casts aside schemes and calculations, quiets the heart and empties it, concentrates Qi, and responds to things with a clear and calm mind. The sage follows Heaven’s intent and complies with Earth’s natural patterns. Then government proceeds and instruction spreads of its own accord, like sunlight reaching everywhere; disorder vanishes like clouds and mist dispersing. When the people of the world follow this way, nothing remains unaccomplished; when the myriad things take it as their standard, each finds what is fitting.

“When the Way Prevails Under Heaven”

When the Way prevails under Heaven, warhorses are put to work plowing fields and hauling manure. When the Way does not prevail, warhorses breed in the countryside. No fault is greater than indulging greed; no calamity is greater than knowing no contentment; no failing is greater than the pursuit of gain. One who knows contentment and is content with knowing it can remain content for a long time.

The safety and survival of the people depend on the ruler, and the ruler’s ability to remain in power depends on the people. When the ruler follows the Dao, the people flourish; when the ruler departs from the Dao, they suffer. If the people flourish, the ancestral temples—the places where ancestors are worshipped—can prosper; if the people suffer, the temples will fall. Thus the ruler is the people’s ruler. When the ruler follows the Dao, the people flourish; when the ruler loses the Dao, they suffer. When the people flourish, the ancestral temples prosper; when they suffer, the temples fall. The ruler is therefore the people’s source, and the people are the ruler’s foundation. When the foundation is damaged, flowers and fruit cannot grow; when the source dries up, the river cannot run full. Only when ruler and people sustain one another can the state endure.

When the ruler follows the Dao, the realm is at peace and the feudal lords submit. The peoples of every region live in harmony and joy, customs are the same across the Four Seas, and war does not arise. Those skilled at spying and defending have no counsel to offer; the fierce and powerful have no place to display their strength. The clever and eloquent turn to farming in the marshes, and even fine horses are harnessed for work. The realm is peaceful and at ease, and everyone is content with their proper occupation. Customs are simple and people’s minds are single-hearted. They weave cloth for clothing and grow grain for food. Heaven’s harmonious Qi flows freely, all things yield abundant harvests, auspicious events arrive again and again, and every kind of favorable omen appears. This is not because Heaven bestows blessings, but because the ruler possesses De.

When the Son of Heaven departs from the Dao, the feudal lords no longer come to court. Each region acts on its own, laws and institutions differ from place to place, and the four quarters rebel. The strong use their power to bully one another and raise armies to seize authority. The weak become captives, while the strong become rulers. Thus, all across the realm, people choose generals and call up soldiers, sharpen armor and weapons, and light beacon fires to warn one another. Regions confront one another, while schemes and plots are devised at court. They stir up trouble and devise stratagems, forming alliances that stretch north and south, east and west. They send out light chariots and elite cavalry to fight the enemy. Soldiers and horses remain in the countryside, unable to return home year after year. Government prizes deceit and force, and rewards for merit are based solely on the number of enemy heads taken.

At such times, the people are busy raising war horses and have no time to care for their families. Those sent to the battlefield often have only beans and grain to eat. The greedy take the highest offices, while ordinary, lowly servants are driven to become bandits. The people are utterly exhausted; their possessions are spent and their strength depleted. They are made to serve in corvée labor and the army for long stretches, with no end in sight. They long constantly to return home, their hearts heavy with grief and indignation. Thinking of their elderly parents, they weep far from home. Loving parents grieve and despair, their resolve broken within. Soldiers lie piled against one another, bodies stretching from head to foot; bones lie exposed, scattered across the fields in numbers beyond counting.

Travelers crowd the roads, yet they are all orphans. They long for their parents, wailing and crying out as they leap up in grief. “Heavens! What crime have we committed to suffer such calamity?” Wives are left without husbands, and young children without fathers. People bound together by grief and resentment gather as one: the elders become their leaders, and those in their middle years take charge. They protect one another above and below, and preserve one another within and without. Though unrelated by blood, they are as close as brothers. They bind stalks of grain into banners, dig the earth to make drums, take up weapons and tools, and march briskly in ranks. They practice fighting without cease and speak among themselves of the ruler. Their hearts are joined, and their Qi responds to one another, bringing about changes in the transformation of Qi.

Then Heaven and Earth close up and congeal; Yin and Yang become cut off from one another. The stars fall into disorder, and the sun and moon suffer eclipses. Rebellion and deceit spread, and calamities of every kind follow one after another. This is not Heaven bringing disaster, but the ruler’s failure to follow the Dao.

Those who receive the Mandate of Heaven and inherit the work of the sages of antiquity hold the exalted rank of Son of Heaven and command all within the four seas. Their title is noble, their favor at its height, and no one can compare with them. Even if they wear coarse cloth and rough fur, all under Heaven consider them splendid. Even if they eat vegetables and drink soup made from amaranth, all under Heaven find it delicious. They can change the customs of the age as wind bends the grass; the people follow their instruction as fish swim toward water.

People such as these ought to devote themselves to honoring the Dao and extending rule through De, cultivating themselves and setting their conduct aright, and laboring over the care of the people. They ought to continue the sacrifices, bring glory to their ancestors, and pass their work on to their descendants, so that their De and spiritual power endure from one generation to the next and their renown lasts as long as Heaven and Earth. Yet some instead seek fame through arrogance and extravagance, pursue power without limit, defy Heaven and Earth, and wantonly oppress others. Then those who fear no authority rise up in force, travel light into enemy territory, and treat arriving first as a contest for victory. Though the enemy comes from afar, no one is willing to fight on their behalf. Their allies scatter, their friends turn away, and no one within or outside the court will support them. In the end, they lose their lives and their states, and their ancestral temples are brought down. This is the result of their greedy desires, not the fault of the people under Heaven.

Therefore, those who rely on their power and favor, stand above the people, and enjoy renown and glory throughout the world, yet still know no contentment, are in fact inviting disaster. Such greed is a major cause of ruin.

The numinous power embodied in the Dao and De molds and transforms the myriad things, enabling people to live. People preserve and harmonize their Qi and spirit, keep their bodies whole, and move with agility, hearing keenly and seeing clearly. They live beneath the vast, bright expanse of Heaven and Earth and observe the myriad things: above, they watch the patterns of nature’s workings; below, they examine the gains and losses behind the rise and fall of people in former times. They dig wells for water to drink and till fields to harvest food. They marry and raise children, living among the people. This is already to know contentment and be at ease in one’s proper place. How much more, then, should a Son of Heaven who commands ten thousand chariots, or a feudal lord who commands a thousand, understand the principle of contentment?

Therefore, the problem does not lie with the Dao. It lies in the ever-rising desire for profit: the greedy covet other people’s lands and possessions, continually annexing and expanding, never satisfied. This is the root cause of calamity and the deepest source of guilt.

From ancient times to the present, no bird, beast, or other living creature has not wished to preserve its life and nature. Thus, someone seated on a throne may become a captive, while a tiger may end up as weak as a mouse. One’s reputation may soar above the clouds, while one’s body falls beneath the Yellow Springs. Those who occupy the place of oxen and horses are spared the misfortunes that oxen and horses endure; those counted among dogs and sheep escape the calamities that befall dogs and sheep.

Therefore, a ruler who has attained the Dao rests his heart in contentment and keeps his ambitions within proper limits. He relinquishes power and yields his position, willingly living in solitude. He sets aside the myriad things and preserves only his spirit. In this way, he safeguards himself and earns a good name, enduring without decline. All under Heaven will turn to him, and there will be nothing he cannot govern.

Laozi’s meaning is this: people need not leave their homes to understand the world, nor look out the window to know the Way of Heaven. The farther they travel, the less they know. Thus the sage gains understanding without setting out, discerns things without seeing them with their own eyes, and accomplishes things without acting on them personally.

The Zhigui explains: The transformative workings of Dao and De are like the shaping and firing of all things. In the Great Void and the Mysterious Darkness, all things receive their nature and life, and so begin to take shape out of chaos. After the spirits have joined, clear Qi and turbid Qi separate. The Great Harmony’s Qi moves through the vast and subtle reaches, and all things come into being. Heaven is round and Earth square; humans walk upright, while animals move with their bodies horizontal; plants take root and grow, fish swim beneath the water, and birds fly through the air. All things belong to their own kinds and differ from one another; ranks of high and low are established, and good fortune and calamity arise.

From this we can see that Heaven, Earth, and all things, though different in form, all come from one beginning and return to one root. Beyond the four directions of Heaven and Earth and beyond the cosmos, they are connected to one another and were originally a single whole. The transformations and circulation of Qi divide things into distinctions of above and below, length and breadth, and further separate them into Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Thus there are white and black, water and fire, sour and salty, tiny insects and feathered creatures, as well as people and things of the same kind, and the distinction between female and male. They share a common source, like brothers, yet have different bodies and circumstances, and their interests and harms may oppose one another. The differences among all things are beyond counting, but their feelings, sensations, and changes through life and death are interconnected. Their natures and dispositions all arise from life, and their intentions and minds can also resonate with one another.

Why is this so? Zhuangzi once gave this example: every part of a person’s body is born of the parents. The four limbs and nine orifices each have different functions, while the five viscera and six bowels each have their own responsibilities and domains. They do not understand one another across the body’s upper and lower parts, and what lies inside cannot see what lies outside. The head and feet are like Heaven and Earth; the elbows and knees, like the four seas; the liver and gallbladder, like the lands of Hu and Yue; the eyebrows and eyes, like the states of Qi and Chu. The distance and difference between them could not be adequately described even by saying they were born in different people, had distinct forms, acted without depending on one another, and needed nothing from one another at rest. Nor would it suffice to speak of distances reaching to the Nine Heavens above or the Yellow Springs below.

Yet if the head is ill, the feet cannot walk; if the chest is ill, the mouth cannot speak. When the mind and spirit are settled, the ears and eyes become clear and keen, the limbs bend and extend in coordination, and the joints move with ease. This is because they belong to one body.

When a ruler acts nearby, people and events far away respond; when things change here, Heaven and Earth answer there. They respond to one another, entering and emerging without a fixed gate, coming and going without a fixed doorway. Between Heaven and Earth, in the vast emptiness, all things are far apart and diverse in kind, yet they answer one another without the slightest discrepancy. This is because they belong to one whole.

Thus, even without leaving his home, the sage can look upward to understand the circumstances of his parents and downward to examine the condition of his descendants. He can distinguish safety from danger, stability from peril, benefit from harm; return to an understanding of life and death; investigate the principles of right and wrong; grasp the sources of gain and loss; and understand the foundations of good government and disorder.

By understanding himself, the sage comes to understand his family, and from his family he infers the condition of others. In his undertakings, he grasps the essentials; in dealing with the myriad things, he holds to their guiding principles. When he acts, he knows where to go; when he is still, he knows what to keep. He takes Dao and De as his father, the spirits (mysterious and unfathomable powers) as his mother, stillness and purity as his teacher, Great Harmony (the most peaceful and balanced state) as his companion, all under heaven as his home, and the myriad things as part of himself.

He regards others as himself, and himself as others. Thus he does not dare let selfish thoughts arise or act recklessly. He casts aside cunning and prejudice, and cuts off tangled desires. Following nature without forcing action, he dwells among mountain crags and caves. He does not kill living creatures or eat plants before they have ripened. He does not wear materials that have not yet matured, or gather plants before they have completed their growth. In this way, he allows heaven and earth, people, and the myriad things each to retain what is their own.

By tracing the state I was in before I appeared, I can understand where nature and life come from, where spirit and awareness arise, where blood and Qi (vital energy) begin, and what grounds the body. From this, I know that what is real arises from nothingness, and life begins in the formless. The smallest things are everywhere; the greatest things contain everything. The root of my life comes from the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power).

While a person is growing in the womb and has not yet been born, the form of the body gradually takes shape. When the person emerges from darkness into the world, we can see the power that is profound and subtle, gentle and moist, and that flows freely. We can also see that without knowledge or awareness, without action or deliberate effort, great things can still be accomplished.

Watching myself grow from infancy and gradually acquire knowledge, I can understand that the soft and weak give rise to the hard and strong; the small and weak can develop into strength; the tiny can grow vast; the brief can extend into the long-lasting; ignorance can turn into wisdom; and darkness can give way to light.

Observing my breathing and the bending and stretching of my body, I can understand that loss can be the beginning of gain, while gain may also become the beginning of loss. Advance takes yielding as its foundation, and yielding can in turn become the basis for advancing. Good fortune begins in misfortune, and misfortune may also be a sign of good fortune to come.

Climbing high ground and descending slopes, passing through hardship and danger, the body grows tired, the breath comes hard, and the heart pounds. After exertion, when I rest quietly, my spirit clears, my Qi settles, and my inner and outer states come into balance. From this, I can understand that stillness and emptiness, Wuwei (non-action), and going along with change can have great effect.

The four limbs and nine orifices—the two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, mouth, and the two lower openings—each have their own functions and operate in different ways, yet all are governed by the same heart-mind. From this, I can understand that the harms and changes of all things arise from the root that directs them.

Examining Heaven and Earth and testing this against past and present, I find this principle everywhere. Then I can understand that the Dao of Heaven and Earth can be fully realized in my own person. The family, then, is the root of understanding people, and the body is the deep source from which to perceive the Way of Heaven. To observe the Way of Heaven without beginning with oneself, or to observe people without beginning with the family, is to abandon what is near and seek what is far. The less one knows, the more bewildered one becomes.

Leaving home does not mean one has seen all under Heaven. Looking out through a window after turning away from oneself does not bring understanding of the Way of Heaven. The farther one travels, the less one may know; roaming across the seas may deepen one’s confusion; and the wider the scope of one’s pursuit, the smaller its actual effects may be. By seeking knowledge within oneself rather than looking and listening outward, one can understand the relationship between Heaven and humanity and grasp the Great Dao.

Thus, the sage does not decide what all the households under Heaven should do based only on the likes and dislikes of one family. Nor does he need to travel a thousand miles in person to judge how things are changing across the Nine Provinces. He need not ascend to the heavens to understand the intent of the Nine Heavens, nor descend deep underground to learn the conditions of the Nine Earths. Nothing can elude him: not the waxing and waning, advance and retreat of Yin-Yang, the changes of the four seasons, or the profound, subtle, and obscure things that are difficult to discern.

How can the sage do this? By examining himself closely, he can infer what lies beyond; by investigating what is small, he can understand what is great; by starting from himself, he can understand others; and by seeing what is near, he can make comparisons with what is far away.

Thus, the sage governs the world as the heart directs the body, and the body follows the heart’s intent. He does not act through personal cleverness but follows the Great Dao. Free of selfish desires, he can accord with the Way of Heaven. He governs the world through Wuwei (non-action) and cares for the people without disturbing them. Deep and still, he lets all things grow and flourish in their own way. Above, he accords with the intent of the divine; below, he shares the heart of all things. When he acts, he follows the direction in which all things are changing; when he is still, he settles along with them. Remaining empty and tranquil, he lets all things grow naturally according to their own nature.

“Nine Heavens” and “Nine Earths” refer to levels in the Daoist cosmological view. “Wuwei” means refraining from forcing things through private intentions, so they may develop according to their own patterns.

Studying knowledge makes it grow day by day. Cultivating the Dao calls for reducing distracting thoughts and contrived actions day by day. Keep reducing them until you follow things as they are and do nothing—without relying on deliberate action to achieve any end. To govern the world, one should regularly adopt an attitude of noninterference and let the people follow their natural course. If one forces interventions everywhere and creates further disturbances, one cannot govern the world.

The transformations brought about by the teaching of Dao and De reach far and are subtle, still, and mysterious. Vast and silent, they spread without form, boundless and indistinct, forming a single whole with no beginning. They cannot be seen or heard, yet they inspire and guide all things, giving them life and reaching everywhere. Every achievement of the myriad things is brought to completion through this teaching. Acting in accord with nature is the foundation of all things.

From this we can see that understanding without deliberately seeking knowledge is the source of knowledge; bringing people to receive instruction without deliberately teaching is the foundation of transformation; acting in accord with nature is the beginning of all action; and handling affairs well without arbitrary interference is the source of all affairs. These principles are what the spirits rely on and where Heaven and Earth turn. They were expounded by the Mysterious Sage—the sage who has penetrated the profound Dao—and passed on by those who withdrew from the world to cultivate the Dao.

When benevolence and righteousness became shallow, people’s nature and life were no longer pure. They could no longer see the Great Dao, and acted only in accordance with their desires. They became absorbed in knowledge and the affairs of the past, gradually drawn along by sorrow, love, gratitude, and affection. Feelings and desires multiplied, and the spirit became entangled with external things. Profound counsel sounded grating, and teachings on the Great Dao ran counter to people’s hearts. People no longer honored the Dao but prized cleverness and skill, placing great importance on achievements and reputation.

So people devised all kinds of methods and institutions, gathered sayings and composed writings, and recorded them in books to instruct the people. They claimed to govern Heaven and Earth, arrange Yin-Yang, and judge human affairs, yet in doing so they separated people from their roots and ancestors. The ways of simplicity changed; all kinds of artifice arose, customs shifted, the right path declined, and ordinary principles fell into ruin.

People altered rites and clothing, making everything something to display. They accompanied ceremonies with bells and drums, zithers and lutes, mouth organs and flutes, using bows and rises, advances and retreats, and the ornamentation of appearance and gait to demonstrate rules of conduct. There were three hundred kinds of ritual observances and three thousand standards of deportment. People differed and argued without end, competing through their work and the embellishment of their words. They used debate to overpower others and cunning to gain the upper hand, attending to every tiny detail; the complications grew ever more numerous.

As a result, people under Heaven turned away from the root and pursued minor details and ornamentation. They sought broad learning and probed deeply; every household thought itself perceptive, and everyone considered themselves worthy. Worse still, they invoked the names of sages to establish ranks between ruler and minister. Those who shared their opinions could hold office even if they were incompetent; those whose views differed could meet disaster even if they had rendered great service.

So disorder and unrest spread throughout the world. People had no time to care for their families, attending only to trivial and complicated matters and striving to comply with the ruler’s wishes. They harmonized the five flavors to gratify the appetite, seeking rich, sweet, and crisp delicacies without regard for living beings. They combined the five colors to please the eyes, favoring black, yellow, and exquisite ornamentation without regard for the people’s poverty. They arranged the five notes to delight the ears, perfecting the arts of bells and pitch while giving no thought to the corruption of custom. They built high terraces and towers and enlarged palaces and halls to indulge their desires, heedless of the people’s hardship. They rode across the fields and held hunts to satisfy their interests, boasting of their abundant catch without following Heaven’s intent.

These things did not arise from any true need to do good; they were done to please the ruler. People under Heaven imitated one another, nurturing deceit and artifice, eroding the spirit of harmony and feeding the roots of violence and disorder. Over time, these practices became custom, and people came to regard cunning and the pursuit of profit as signs of worth. The result was harm to the people’s lives and an increase in their toil; their fine natural qualities were damaged, leaving them even more troubled.

By then, every region had installed its own ruler, and each of the four quarters had its own king. People exalted titles and power, treating strength as the highest virtue. They fought and oppressed one another, relying on force and violence. The strong constrained the weak, and the many subdued the few. They replaced order with chaos and took what was wrong for what was right. Ministers killed rulers, and sons killed fathers. Rivalry grew ever fiercer, and no one could hold on to what they already possessed. Many wanted to gain something, but few truly did. The roads were filled with grief and sorrow; people spoke only of war, amid clamor and confusion, even killing one another and eating human flesh. Why did this happen? Because people kept adding ornamentation and affairs, devoting themselves to using them to distinguish high from low and arrange ranks.

Therefore, the sage abandons talk of benevolence and righteousness and returns to the Great Dao (the Way). They put an end to clever schemes, abolish artificial commands, and seek the root within themselves. They speak less and do less, day by day letting go and reducing. They make room for the people within the Dao, deep and far-reaching, so that people no longer feel ashamed when they violate ritual and law. They abolish ornate teachings and cumbersome affairs, and the world settles of its own accord. They keep reducing until clever thoughts no longer arise; they conceal their reputation, forget themselves, and preserve their spirit. They grasp the essentials of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), and follow the changes of life and death, survival and extinction. They neither take charge of affairs nor act as teachers of knowledge. Quiet, as though no one were there, they ultimately reach Wuwei (non-action).

Heaven and Earth move according to their nature, and all that is beautiful comes forth in their wake. The myriad things take shape of themselves, and people everywhere naturally live in harmony. The people are simple and unknowing, unaware of what they ought to seek. They rise and rest with the changing light and darkness, and live by the seasons. At ease, they nourish their spirit and keep their minds from seeking outward. Their hearts are empty and still; they drift with circumstances like floating wood and rest peacefully like earth. They make no deliberate pursuit of benevolence, righteousness, or ritual, and have no desires in their hearts or contrived aims in their intentions. They walk slowly and observe attentively; they speak little and remain quiet, their thoughts deep and subtle. In outward appearance they seem like animals, yet inwardly they are different.

They are still and do not act recklessly. Though it seems there are no distinctions between ruler and subject, governance proceeds through Wuwei. The people’s customs are generous, loyal, and simple, and the world is at peace. Their spirit is nourished, their vital energy rests, and their nature and life are preserved. The myriad things grow and change in succession, drawing near to Dao and De. Why is this so? Because those in high positions issue no commands, and the people hear no flood of decrees.

Therefore, in governing the world, one should always begin by not disturbing the people and not burdening them with too many affairs. Make silence the method and Wuwei the means of teaching. Treasure desirelessness and take freedom from clever schemes as the guiding principle. As long as one acts in accordance with Dao, nothing cannot be brought to understanding.

Return to simplicity and solidity, taking the pursuit of perfecting things as one’s goal: know how high the heavens are and how deep the earth lies; understand the distinction between Yin and Yang and grasp the number of all things; see the stars in the sky by day and fish in the river by night; hear the harmony of the winds from all eight directions and discern the patterns of fur on every kind of wild beast. This is thought brought to its utmost, yet it does nothing to preserve life.

Be stronger than Wu Huo, the legendary strongman; possess a hundred times the force of Meng Ben, the ancient warrior; be a thousand times braver than Xia Yu, another ancient warrior; and have the might to command the Three Armies. Attack as swiftly as lightning, retreat as lightly as floating clouds; strike like thunder and, when still, lie silent like a shadow. This is physical power brought to its utmost, yet it does nothing to secure victory.

Even if everyone under Heaven possessed a hundred times Meng Ben’s force, a thousand times Xia Yu’s bravery, and the might to command the Three Armies—attacking as swiftly as lightning, retreating as lightly as floating clouds, striking like thunder, and lying silent like a shadow when still—such power, brought to its utmost, would still do nothing to secure victory.

Even if everyone under Heaven studied ritual, knew the Odes and the Documents, mastered laws and regulations, and understood official edicts; if every household had an official, every village a headman, every township a granary, and every ward a storehouse; if people were governed through strict surveillance and adjudication, and force was used to hunt down thieves, then all would stand trembling and watch one another out of the corners of their eyes. Fathers and sons would no longer cover for one another, and brothers would no longer tolerate one another. This is the administration of government brought to its utmost, yet it does nothing to govern the world well.

Thus, to know through cleverness is to depart from the natural Way; to act deliberately is to entrust oneself to the artificial; to force everything to conform is to lose Heaven’s original intent. In governing the state, measures multiply, and every kind of harm is met with precautions. Yet effort brings no success, and pursuit brings no gain. People throughout the world drive one another on, and in the end they all descend into disorder.

The sage has no fixed opinions of his own, but takes the people’s wishes as his own. To those who are kind, I respond with kindness; to those who are unkind, I also respond with kindness, and in this way people can be led toward kindness. I trust those who are trustworthy; I also trust those who are not, and in this way people can be led to keep faith. The sage lives among all under Heaven, cautious and never complacent, allowing the people’s hearts to return to simplicity. The people watch and listen with complete attention, yet the sage leaves them astonished.

The Zhigui says: “The Dao and De have no visible form, yet they govern the myriad things. This is because they possess a ‘heart’ that clings to no private intention. Heaven and Earth do not act deliberately, yet the myriad things follow their course. This is because they operate through a kind of ‘thought’ that does not involve deliberation. From this we can see that a heart that clings to no private intention is the root of the heart, and action that is not deliberately applied is the source of all action.

How can this be explained? Zhuangzi said: ‘Is my becoming myself really due to my own efforts? A body cannot make itself into a body by itself. For the body to become a body, there must be an “I.” Then is my becoming myself due to the presence of Shen (the spirit that governs life)? Shen enables me to continue to exist.’”

How can this principle be explained? Zhuangzi says: “Is it really ‘I’ myself who determines why I am what I am? Although the body is called ‘me,’ it is not the same as the true self. The body can become a body because there is an ‘I’ within it. The ‘I’ becomes ‘I’ because Shen (spirit that sustains life) is present. Shen remains within me because of the Dao (the fundamental pattern by which all things operate).”

To rely on the Dao to nurture life and preserve Shen, the foundation is stillness and clarity, and the usual state is emptiness (a mind not filled with distracting thoughts). This cannot be achieved through willpower alone, nor brought about by repeated deliberation.

Thus, clever people who think too much listen with their ears, look with their eyes, and constantly calculate in their minds. They eat and drink at set times and strive to satisfy their ambitions and desires. All their senses and thoughts are active together, day and night without pause. They experience countless events, plan all kinds of undertakings, assess the beginnings of danger and safety, and distinguish the paths of advance and retreat, believing that this will preserve the body and prolong life. In fact, it wears down Shen, weakens Qi and blood, and scatters the Hun and Po (the spiritual components that the ancients believed sustain life). It may even damage one’s lifespan and bring life to a premature end.

By contrast, when a person sleeps, the mind temporarily falls idle and the senses close. There is no thinking or worrying, and no eating or drinking. At such times, Shen is calm and at peace, Qi and blood are nourished, and the mind finds rest; the body therefore suffers fewer illnesses. Even if one encounters disaster and is badly injured, one may gradually recover. Broken bones can knit together, and the joints and the nine apertures (the bodily openings, such as the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth) can all return to normal.

At this time, people were immersed in the Great Void, the realm of emptiness, stillness, and formlessness, and merged with Supreme Harmony, a state of perfect accord. They forgot their own thoughts and ideas, wandered at ease, forgot what they disliked, and gained what they sought. Advancing and withdrawing with the changes of the Way of Heaven, they moved together with the Dao. They did not cast off evil thoughts because they were forcibly forbidden to have them, nor did they change their conduct because they were constrained and instructed. Acting in accordance with nature, they changed without being aware of it. Why was this so? Because those who governed the world taught through emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), remaining quiet and undisturbed. Outwardly, they were gentle and serene, like withered wood; inwardly, empty, like a bellows. Their aspirations were deep and broad, like rivers and seas, and their generosity flowed like streams through a valley.

They made no distinction between east and west, nor between south and north; they did not discriminate between bitter and sweet or favor white over black. They set no rules for what was round or square and made no judgments about what was crooked or straight. They probed deeply into the mysterious Dao and devoted themselves to concealing their own actions, so that they formed no barriers between themselves and the myriad things.