《老子指归》Vol. 3

Only when we do not make things seem small are we truly great; only when we do not elevate things are we truly humble. When we seek neither greatness nor smallness, great and small emerge of themselves. When we seek neither height nor lowliness, high and low emerge of themselves. Thus, those who truly accomplish things leave no trace of deliberate action. Those who seem to do nothing, in turn, open the way for all things.

So, single-mindedly seeking success can lead to failure; single-mindedly seeking profit can invite disaster. Insisting on life can lead toward death; insisting on prosperity can bring decline. Clinging tightly to what we want can make us lose it; clinging tightly to a thought can make it fade. Being attached to our body can lead to its demise; being attached to our spirit can cause it to recede. Therefore, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action), allowing all things to grow, and holds to nothing, thereby regulating desire. This is like a craftsperson building a high platform or Heaven and Earth bringing forth a great tree: each simply follows its nature.

The Dao and De (Virtue/Power) do not envy, and the discerning power of the spirits does no harm. When things are in harmony, nothing is beyond reach; when one’s scope is boundless, nothing cannot be overcome. Life and death each follow their own course, and good fortune and danger arise from this as well. People fall into hardship and their undertakings fail because they abandon the natural course of the Dao and instead rely on clever schemes and force, turning away from the right path and remaining in a state of inversion and disorder. Why does this happen? Because they single-mindedly pursue what they want to obtain and greedily seek everything they desire.

If we could treat endings with the same care as beginnings; refrain from doing what we would not wish to endure and remain in places we have no right to occupy; act before things have begun to sprout and return to the root from which all things have yet to emerge; and act as though we did nothing, and hold as though we possessed nothing, then even if success seemed absent, all things would come to fruition of their own accord.

When the spirit is thrown into confusion, Jing and Qi become turbid, hearing and discernment are obstructed, action loses its aim, and stillness loses its desire, all this is caused by wealth and learning. Only those who can cultivate their nature and disposition, transform their intentions, rest the heart in desirelessness, and conduct themselves through Wuwei (non-action) are aligned with the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). Therefore, cherish the Dao as you would miss a loved one, and detest wealth as though you had lost your own body. Reflect with a kind of reflection that does not cling to reflection; pursue with a kind of pursuit that does not cling to pursuit.

Understand the principles of every matter, yet learn until you reach “not knowing.” Skillfully carve and shape the myriad things, yet learn until you reach incapacity. Turn away from what everyone busies themselves pursuing and return to the void. To free people from attachment to desire is to enter the mysterious and obscure. To learn without clinging to learning is to investigate the utmost mystery and reach a state that those who understand cannot fully comprehend, those who are at a loss cannot fathom, those who achieve great things cannot accomplish, and those who possess everything cannot obtain.

Let the will be deep and mysterious, the body calm and still. Lie down like a corpse; stand like a dead tree. Think nothing, worry over nothing, as though knowing nothing at all. Let the myriad things follow their own nature and events unfold of themselves. Keep the heart empty and still, and the body from interfering. The myriad things move about and each settles in its own place. Be as steady as a towering mound, as serene as a great post. In movement and rest, advance and retreat, acceptance and rejection, always act contrary to worldly custom. The myriad things will nevertheless respond, and so you can reach the distant and profound.

He is like one who covers all beneath Heaven, moving in harmony with the transformations of the spirits, assisting Heaven and supporting Earth, yet never presuming to create or accomplish anything by his own effort.

Those in ancient times who were skilled at understanding and putting the Dao (the Way) into practice did not try to make the people clever and eloquent. They allowed them to remain simple and unadulterated. The people are difficult to govern because they have too many schemes and too much cunning. Governing a state through cleverness brings disaster upon it; governing without cleverness brings it good fortune. To understand the difference between these two approaches is to grasp the principle of governance. To understand and follow this principle at all times is called profound De (Virtue/Power): De that is deep and subtle. Though profound De seems to run counter to ordinary worldly expectations, in the end it enables one to accord with all things.

The Dao and De are deep and wondrous. Clear Qi, turbid Qi, and harmonizing Qi interact with one another. Heaven and earth, the myriad things, and human beings each have both a root and a branch. They depend on one another, and the transformations of Qi flow between them. Accord and opposition bring flourishing or decline, and are linked to fortune and misfortune. The intent of the Dao and De is the intent of Heaven and earth: to settle life and let the myriad things grow and rest. They abhor destruction and killing. Thus the Dao appoints sages as rulers of the myriad things. When a ruler benefits the myriad things, he receives good fortune; when he harms them, he brings disaster upon himself. The sage is deeply troubled by this, fearing that even after his death he might leave disaster behind. He therefore investigates the causes and concludes that the best course is to follow nature. The key to this natural way is to leave no trace and not to interfere through human cleverness.

How can this be explained? Zhuangzi says: Heaven and earth do not know how the Dao and De operate behind the scenes, and so they function naturally. The myriad things do not see how Heaven and earth bring about their growth, and so they endure. The people do not know what their ruler does in governing, and so they are at peace. The four limbs and nine apertures—the openings throughout the body—do not know how the heart directs them, and so the body remains whole. The ruler of the myriad things is like the heart in the human body. How could the heart stand apart from the body, or come before it? It keeps the blood and channels flowing, reaching everywhere; its influence extends throughout the body, above and below, within and without. It acts in response to changing circumstances while remaining empty and still, nourishing the spirit. The inner state is harmonious and does not show itself outwardly, so every part of the body can remain intact.

So how could the heart stand apart from the body, or come before it? The heart keeps the blood and channels flowing throughout the body, and its influence reaches everywhere, above and below, within and without. It responds to all kinds of affairs while remaining empty and still, nourishing the spirit. Harmonious within and not displaying itself outwardly, it allows the whole body to remain intact.

Thus, the ancient rulers followed the Dao and De, ordered the affairs of the spirits, harmonized pure and turbid Qi, and governed the harmonious primordial energy between Heaven and Earth. They did not rely on inborn intelligence to establish their rule and instruct the people, deliberately making them understand how things worked. Their purpose was to veil the people’s eyes and ears, quiet their minds, keep them from pursuing knowledge, and return them to their natural state.

They therefore let the people live amid manifest brightness while remaining themselves in a deep, undifferentiated state. They taught through “not knowing” and guided without form. Filial devotion and fraternal respect were not deliberately displayed; benevolence and righteousness were not deliberately proclaimed. The ruler sought no glory, and the wise sought no fame. This teaching without commands spread throughout the lands beneath the four seas; this governance through Wuwei (non-action) reached in every direction.

In action, they accorded with the rhythms of Heaven and Earth; in stillness, they rested in the realm of Dao and De. All things grew together, each settled in its proper place. Names and realities took shape together, each fitting its proper measure. Harmonious Qi flowed freely, and people throughout the world remained simple and unknowing, without greed or needless pursuits and achievements. Their hearts were plain as wood and clay, and their intentions still as extinguished ashes. They did not cling to distinctions between sameness and difference, nor concern themselves with good or ill fortune. Thus the people were easy to govern, and the world could be brought to peace.

Therefore, stability is what the people need, and a livelihood is what they seek. When people lose stability and the means to live, making them difficult to govern, the cause is that rulers prize cleverness and cunning. Once people learn to scheme, they seek greater gain. The pursuit of gain gives rise to ever more affairs; as affairs multiply, so do achievements and fame. The struggle for fame and achievement then breeds resentment and conflict. As conflict continues, grave acts of wickedness emerge, and the people become difficult to govern.

Thus, if a country is governed through cleverness and cunning, people everywhere will become crafty. Deceit and pretence will steadily spread, strange things will appear one after another, and desire will have no end. Extravagance and indulgence will continue unchecked; deviance and corruption will gradually grow. Powerful factions will compete against one another, distinctions will proliferate, and calamities will arise. Ministers will mislead their rulers, sons will trouble their fathers, white will be called black and what does not exist will be said to exist. Names and realities will diverge, until even robbery and killing occur.

The world will be thrown into turmoil and cannot be settled; changes will recur, and there will be no way to preserve what is. People will cast off their armor and rashly take up arms. States will attack one another, countless people will die, and rivers will run with blood. The force of grief and resentment will move Heaven: the stars will fall into disorder, the sun and moon will lose their radiance, Yin and Yang will become unbalanced, and all things will suffer. Mountains will be exhausted and river valleys will run dry; for a thousand miles the land will lie barren, and the world will fall into such hardship that people will even eat one another. This is not Heaven’s fault. It is caused by rulers who delight in cleverness and cunning and teach this way to the people.

Abandon cleverness and cunning, and return to deep De (Virtue/Power) and simple customs. The calamities of exhausted mountains, a thousand miles of barren land, hardship throughout the world, and even people eating one another do not come from Heaven’s punishment. Their root lies in rulers who prize cleverness and cunning and use them to instruct the people.

Abandon cunning and artifice, and honor the deep, unadorned De (Virtue/Power). Observe and reflect on your own, without revealing your desires; follow the people’s original nature and lessen the temptations that reach their ears and eyes. Do not crave every flavor or chase brilliant colors. The ruler is like Heaven and Earth, and the people are like grass and trees.

People live in caves and make their homes in valleys. They drink water and eat plants, seeking no grain. They know their mothers and recognize their fathers, yet place little importance on clan and kinship. They are naturally simple and unspoiled, with no sense of east or west. Men and women feel no desire for one another; fathers and sons have no attachment or concern. They neither scorn wood and stone nor prize gold and jade. People live together in harmony, united in purpose throughout the world; the four directions and eight extremities share one intent, and the customs of the nine provinces are alike.

No harmful insects arise, and no poisonous beasts appear. Divine dragons live alongside people, while qilin and phoenixes roam the courtyards. A gentle, harmonious breeze wafts through; sweet springs trickle, and sweet dew falls widely. Vermilion grass, an auspicious plant of legend, grows thick, and fine grain flourishes in abundance. All things are able to grow and endure. This is not a blessing bestowed by Heaven. It comes because the ruler knows how to follow nature, claims no special knowledge, and makes no deliberate bid for fame.

Thus, those who see the harm in cleverness and recognize the value of simple ignorance accord with the Dao (the Way). Those who understand the qualities of both simple ignorance and cleverness also grasp the Dao’s intent. Government orders and instruction put into practice on this basis may bring harm or benefit. When their advantages and disadvantages are understood, peace will come of itself; when the relation between benefit and harm is understood, all things will naturally settle into order.

Therefore, understanding that begins in either simple ignorance or cleverness may achieve something. It brings clarity to Heaven and Earth and peace to the land, becoming the hidden source of blessings for all beings. Yet people across generations do not see it. For this reason it is called mysterious De: deep and concealed Virtue. Mysterious De is profound and immeasurable, far-reaching and without end. It moves contrary to all things, and nothing can overcome it.

The working of mysterious De is boundless. It moves in concealment, indistinct and without form, and its actions often run counter to worldly convention. It harmonizes Dao and De, guides the spirits, embraces the many states, and governs without fixed bounds. Beyond the six directions of Heaven and Earth, and within the tiniest measure, nothing fails to receive its beneficence and kindness. By its nurture, all things preserve their nature and life, complete their allotted years, and remain true to their natural selves.

The reason rivers and seas can become the destination of many valleys is that they lie low; thus they can gather the waters of a hundred streams. So when the sage wishes to dwell above the people, he speaks with humility. When he wishes to lead the people, he places himself behind them. In this way, though the sage holds a high position, the people do not feel oppressed; though he stands before them, they do not feel hindered. People throughout the world willingly raise him to the highest place and do not grow weary of him. Because he does not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with him.

The Dao and De (Virtue) do not deliberately create the myriad things, yet they grow naturally. Heaven and Earth do not deliberately gather the myriad things within themselves, yet all things naturally depend on them to exist. Things in nature do not deliberately seek a position of rule, yet all things naturally make them their leaders. Thus, though the myriad things between Heaven and Earth are many, the Dao governs them all. The sun’s light blazes, and Heaven governs all that is Yang; Yin energy spreads in deep stillness, and Earth governs Yin.

Among cave-dwelling, unclothed beings, the sages are leaders; among feathered creatures that fly through the air, the divine phoenix is their leader; among furry creatures that tread the earth, the qilin is their leader; among scaled creatures that live in water, the divine dragon is their leader; among shelled creatures that inhabit marshes, the numinous tortoise is their leader. Where the many rivers flow together, the rivers and sea are their leaders. None of these leaders considers itself master of all things, yet all things naturally turn to them. They establish no laws or rules, yet all things govern themselves. They make no deliberate display of benevolence and righteousness, yet all things naturally draw close to them. They rely on neither strategy nor force, yet all things naturally hold them in awe.

Why is this so? Because they perceive and accord with the harmony of the Great Dao. They do not set out to control anything outside themselves, and all things naturally follow the Dao and transform.

Thus, the rivers and seas become sovereign over all waters not by accumulating good governance, spreading benevolence, displaying divine power, or bestowing favors to win the waters’ allegiance. Nor do they win them over by upholding ritual and righteousness, practicing humility on a grand scale, embellishing clever schemes, or devising subtle stratagems. They do not dominate the waters through unusual acts, changing tactics, political maneuvering, displays of authority, shows of force, or any other means of control. The rivers and seas simply rest in stillness in a low place, remain open and receptive, take no reckless action, and seek nothing for themselves. So the streams naturally flow to them.

The streams do not hear that the rivers and seas are admirable and, moved by their virtue, look up to them and pledge their allegiance. Nor are the streams restrained and disciplined, assigned boundaries and channels, then guided toward the rivers and seas. Yet water can pierce metal and stone, bore through cliffs, break down mountains, and surge over hills, flowing into the rivers and seas without turning back. This is because water’s form accords with its nature, and all things naturally follow their own patterns.

From this we can see that humility and yielding, as a way of life, have great power. No calamity can harm them, and neither clever schemes nor force can overcome them. They do not contend with others, yet are naturally strong; they do not rely on might to command respect, yet possess an authority of their own. Quiet and free of action, they can live alongside all things and flourish with them.

Streams lie in low places and do not compete to be higher than other things, so water can flow through them without drying up. Rivers and seas lie in low places, not because they are small, but because they can gather the waters of a hundred streams and become sovereigns of all waters, enduring without end. Thus, a wise ruler who wishes to honor the people follows their natural disposition and uses deep De to benefit them. He is humble and respectful, speaks modestly, and regards himself as no different from ordinary people. He sees himself as low as the earth and the people as exalted as Heaven. He sees clearly into all things yet remains unfathomable; he stands out through his abilities yet cannot be measured. His insight is profound and his understanding far-reaching, so no one can obstruct him; his intelligence and wisdom reach the people and cannot be blocked.

He does not make all things his servants. Instead, he places himself behind the people, so they regard him as the ground beneath their feet and rely on him as they would on the spirits. For this reason, he remains above the people, and the lands he governs can accord with Heaven. Though he might wish to stand before the multitude, he accepts hardship and the lowest place in honor. He holds supreme authority yet lives long, secure from harm. Casting aside selfishness and refusing to put himself first, he brings stability to the people: he labors so they may rest; he takes the rear so they may lead; he occupies the highest place so they may live; he stands before them so they may be at peace. Because the people can live, they support him without feeling burdened; because they can be at peace, they let him lead without feeling harmed.

Therefore, people throughout the realm choose him and support him, willingly following him without weariness. In governing the realm, he does not actively seek the people’s support; they come to support him of their own accord. He does not deliberately set out to benefit them, yet they truly receive benefits from him. He does not purposely honor the people, yet they willingly honor him. He does not deliberately place himself ahead of them, yet they are willing to let him lead. In this way, he can seek a turning point amid decline and respond to change, rescue what is failing and set disorder right, until peace prevails throughout the realm. Above, he accords with Dao and De; below, he connects with the spirits. Deep and remote, he embraces what is subtle; he moves between Heaven and Earth and ranges freely amid the transformations of Yin-Yang. Why is this so? Because he casts aside selfish thoughts and places his own interests last.

Thus, the virtue of not contending is to accord with the power of others, change along with the Dao, and connect with its mysterious principle. Only those who set aside clever schemes can follow the laws of nature. Governing the world should therefore follow nature and avoid arbitrary action. By following nature, one can preserve life and uphold what is right. Although sages possess an inborn nature, they too should govern by following the proper Way. If they go against what is right, the work of governing the state cannot be accomplished; if they go against the proper Way, human nature and feelings lose their proper bounds.

Thus, sages trust in the Dao without clinging to themselves, and follow the Dao without simply obeying their own private desires. In acting, they do not consider only themselves, but put others first. They do not claim the world as their own, and the people of the world instead vie to become their subjects.

Everyone under Heaven says that I am vast beyond measure, yet I seem unlike any particular thing. It is precisely because I am vast that I do not appear to resemble any one thing. If I truly resembled something, over time I would become confined to its limits.

I have three treasures that I have always upheld and cherished. The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not daring to put myself ahead of everyone under Heaven. Because of compassion, I can be courageous; because of frugality, I can be generous; because I do not contend to be first, I can become a leader whom others esteem.

Now, to cast aside compassion while pursuing courage, to cast aside frugality while pursuing generosity, and to abandon the rear while striving to lead—this is to move toward death. If you go to war with compassion, you can win; if you defend with compassion, you can stand firm. When Heaven wishes to save someone, it protects that person with compassion.

A skilled general does not act recklessly or seek a fight. A skilled warrior is not quick to anger. One who excels at defeating the enemy does not engage others in direct contention. One who excels at employing people willingly places himself beneath them. This is called the De (Virtue) of non-contention: accomplishing things through the strength of others. It is the state of being in accord with the Dao (the Way) of Heaven and with the principles handed down from ancient times.

The Zhigui says: Things may be alike yet each have their differences; they may differ and yet remain connected.

Some things appear alike but differ within; others differ on the surface but are the same within. Some things seem wrong but are actually right, while others seem right but are actually wrong. This is precisely why the noble person can avoid worry and trouble, while ordinary people often suffer anxiety and sorrow.

How can this be shown? Zhuangzi says: The sun and moon both rise and set, yet each sheds light. Human life and death have forms that appear alike. Spring and autumn differ, yet both benefit all things. The Dark Sage, one who deeply understands the Dao, and a person from the countryside look alike. The discerning and the obtuse have things in common in what they do. The Dao-adept and an infant, too, resemble one another in their functions. In each example, there is an inner difference beneath an outward likeness; without a sage, no one could see it clearly.

Thus the many doubts and confusions under Heaven bewilder people, making it hard to distinguish right from wrong. The sage therefore seems, paradoxically, less worthy than others. Why is this? The Dao-adept, one who cultivates the Way and understands the Dao, does not cling outwardly, yet maintains an inner commitment. Through learning, they transform their nature and disposition; through their conduct, they cultivate themselves. They are inwardly full, yet seem empty; deep and substantial, yet seem inactive. They appear distant in their dealings with others and slow in speech; their manner is plain, even seemingly uncouth. Their feelings open into emptiness, their nature connects with nonbeing. Quiet and unassuming, they follow what comes naturally, as though they had no fixed home. They shun fame and power, dwell alongside spirit, hold fast to the Dao, practice balance, and allow all things to find their proper order.

Such people do not conform to the customs of their age and seem to go against the ordinary ways of Heaven and Earth. The crowd takes cunning artifice for intelligence and regards integrity as ugly; they see difference in one’s path or aims as a fault.

Petty people are not like this. They study widely and memorize a great deal of knowledge to win a reputation for cleverness and learning. They deliberately behave in unconventional ways and boast of their achievements, thereby misleading those who are humane, virtuous, and wise. They deceive the world and disrupt its customs, polish their words, and attend carefully to their appearance. They lower themselves and flatter others in order to win favor and generous treatment. They are always quick to guess what their superiors want and speak to suit other people’s wishes, so they can draw them to their side. They form factions for private gain, surrounding themselves with many treacherous and wicked people. They do little work yet receive generous stipends; they have few achievements yet are granted exalted titles. The state grows poor while their households grow rich; the ruler’s standing declines while they themselves rise to prominence.

They manipulate power and stir up upheaval, seizing opportunities to steal benefits and make their names and positions illustrious, their influence reaching beyond the borders. Arrogant, extravagant, cruel, and rebellious, they indulge themselves without restraint. When things go their way, they appear humble; when they do not, they seize what they want by force. Their actions endanger people’s lives, while even their stillness brings harm to all things. Whatever they look upon is damaged; whenever they speak, the people suffer. These are precisely the people whom the customs of the age praise and whom the world considers successful.

People like this have strayed far from De, and the spirits have left them. Heaven and Earth abhor them; Yin and Yang cannot accommodate them; all things are out of harmony with them, and the people feel no closeness to them. Whatever they do leads to ruin, and even when they do nothing, they gain nothing. Their lives bring calamity; their deaths are a blessing. The confused and unenlightened masses gradually lead one another to follow and imitate this way of life. What they gain may be little, but it lasts a long time.

Thus, those who attain the Dao are not like this. Their hearts are empty and still, yet filled with compassion; they regard all things as they regard themselves. They draw in their form and lower their posture, returning to what is subtle and yielding. Quiet and silent, they are content to remain behind and do not strive to lead all things. They harmonize with the way things are and respond in accordance with nature. In action and in stillness, they go against the crowd; in advancing and retreating, they follow a different path. They do not flaunt their strength, so they themselves do not grow angry, yet all under Heaven stand in awe of them. They do not seek to expand, so they themselves impose nothing, yet all under Heaven turn toward them. They do not rush ahead, so they themselves issue no commands, yet all under Heaven can remain at peace for a long time.

Therefore, if one abandons compassion in favor of force, abandons frugality in favor of extravagance, gives up staying behind to compete for the lead, and turns away from harmony to defy the divine, acting against nature, then good fortune will recede, calamity will draw near, life will be cut short, and the breath of spirit will scatter. Heaven and Earth will lose their peace, and De will not endure. Even as death approaches, one still does not understand why, but instead resents fate and blames Heaven. To act against nature is to drive good fortune away and bring calamity near, to cut life short and scatter the breath of spirit, to unsettle Heaven and Earth and make De impossible to sustain. Even at the point of death, one remains unenlightened, blaming fate and Heaven. This is not because fate treated one unfairly, nor because another person caused one’s ruin; it is because one indulged in arrogance and excess, coveted power, abandoned the Dao, and exalted force.

Compassion is the most peaceful and genuine way of acting. In action, it wins people’s support; in stillness, it accords with the mind of Heaven—that is, the intent of the Dao of Heaven. Humility, yielding, gentleness, and freedom from contention can instead make one master of all things. Setting the world right and rescuing its customs brings Heaven and humanity into harmonious accord. In battle, one will not be defeated; in defense, one will not be overcome. Why is this so? Heaven and Earth come into being together with all things, and their transformations are without end. When the day of battle comes, the earth will tremble and the sky will shake. Heaven will send omens, storms will rise on the earth, and spirits and ghosts will appear together to bring disaster upon the enemy. They will protect our commanders, aid our people, and inspire our soldiers, until all things are stirred to action. The enemy’s oxen will break their tethers, their horses will run out of fodder, birds will flap their wings and scatter in alarm, and wild beasts will flee with lowered heads. Even tigers and rhinoceros-like beasts can be fought, and fierce birds can be made to serve; the enemy will be terrified, and hidden troops will have no choice but to bear the attack.

Therefore, wise ministers and skilled generals do not flaunt their strength or act arrogantly; they are neither rigidly hard nor unvaryingly yielding. They act with strength tempered by gentleness and with reverence for the power of arms, causing the enemy’s oxen to break their tethers, their horses to run out of fodder, birds to flap their wings and scatter in alarm, and wild beasts to flee with lowered heads. Tigers and rhinoceros-like beasts can be fought, fierce birds can be made to serve, the enemy will be terrified, and hidden troops will have no choice but to bear the attack.

Thus, wise ministers and capable generals do not live by showing off their strength or relying on their might. They are neither relentlessly hard nor relentlessly yielding. They know how yielding can restrain forceful aggression, and caution can overcome military power; in this way, the enemy will perish.

In warfare, rein in the desire to prevail and the urge to force things outward, keeping mind and body at peace. Do not exaggerate in speech, and be willing to take the lower position in action. Whether acting or remaining still, follow the Dao of Heaven. Do not let anger give rise to the will to kill, and do not use force to provoke war. To defeat an enemy, often do what runs counter to ordinary expectations. Make plans in what is unseen, so as to grasp the enemy’s mind and spirit. Act in response to the enemy’s circumstances, change in accordance with their moves, and apply these methods repeatedly to seize the chance for an unexpected victory. In this way, let the other side remain crooked while you hold to what is right; let them speak while you listen; let them grow angry while you remain glad; let them act while you stay still. Follow what they consider advantageous, thereby preserving their lives.

When seeking to employ someone, treat them with humility in your words, show them the benefits, and meet them with sincerity, so that they come of their own accord. Thus, by neither competing with others nor forcing matters, one can win the people’s goodwill and accord with popular sentiment. Once you grasp the key points and taboos of a situation, the enemy’s hearts will grow divided, while those on your own side will draw together in harmony. Even if the enemy does not wish to perish, they will be powerless to prevent it; even if your own side does not wish to endure, it will be unable to disappear.

At such a time, the Dao is the foundation, De (Virtue/Power) the beginning, the spirit’s mysterious and unfathomable power the rule for action, and Great Harmony—the balanced harmony of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things—the guiding order. The clear and the turbid each have their place, and all things are their offspring, nourished and brought forth by them. The sun, moon, and stars provide support, while the four seasons lend their aid. Stillness is the root of all things; movement is the beginning of change. When all things arise in accordance with these patterns, they meet with no calamity. When De accords with the Dao of Heaven, it endures in motion without becoming exhausted. From ancient times to the present, the Dao followed by sages and wise ones has run through the beginning and end of change. The ruler’s receipt of the Mandate of Heaven and governance of all under Heaven likewise arise from this.

The Jindai edition and the Xuejin edition write the character “qin” here as “qin” (an editorial note on a variant reading in the original).

“Suspected superfluous ‘bu’” means that the annotator suspects the character “bu” in the original text is redundant.

The Jindai edition and the Xuejin edition write the character “man” here as “man.”

The Jindai edition and the Xuejin edition write the character “huan” here as “huan.”

The Jindai edition and the Xuejin edition write the character “shang” here as “shang.”

The Jindai edition and the Xuejin edition render “not firm and unyielding, but yielding and fearful of force” as “neither firm nor unyielding, yielding and fearing arms.”

The Jindai edition writes the character “yin” as “yin”; the annotator considers this a mistake.

The Jindai edition writes the character “shi” as “shi.”

In the first collation of fascicle six, the chapter title is “On the Use of Arms.”

On the use of arms, an ancient saying goes: “I dare not take the initiative in warfare, but would rather take the defensive; I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.” This is what is meant by acting as though there were no ranks to form, reaching out as though there were no arms to wield, and taking up weapons as though there were no weapons to use. In this way, one has no enemy. No calamity is greater than treating the enemy lightly; once one does so, one nearly loses what I hold dear at the root.

The Zhigui says: “The Dao is everywhere, yet does not forcefully interfere with the myriad things. It takes harmony as its substance and places itself in a yielding, weak position, gathering deep within itself its vast might. It gives life and nourishment to the myriad beings, and none can go against it. It does not rely on military force, and so it has no enemy. No calamity is greater than treating the enemy lightly; once one does so, one nearly loses what I hold dear at the root.”

The Dao is everywhere, and all things that come into being move in accordance with it. The Dao’s nature is calm and yielding, yet it can contain immense power. It gives life and nourishment to all things, and none can defy it. It has no fixed form, yet it is the standard for all things. Those who attain the Dao are secure; those who lose it are in danger. Heaven and Earth follow the Dao, and so endure without decline.

How can this be shown? Zhuangzi said, “With Yin alone and no Yang, nothing can grow; with Yang alone and no Yin, nothing can come to fruition.” It follows that when a ruler has authority but no benevolence, the people cannot be governed; when there is benevolence but no authority, the ancestral temple may fall. Without either Virtue or authority, calamity will follow; when circumstances change, the ruler may lose his life and the state may perish.

The ruler is the heart and core of the state; the army embodies its authority and strength. Across the world, many states rise side by side, and all their people, whether their states are large or small, their people wise or foolish, wish to be rulers. People often submit only after their schemes are exhausted and their strength has been overcome. They do not bow as subjects because they have strength to spare, but because they have no choice.

Therefore, an enlightened ruler follows the Dao and takes Heaven as his model. He makes stillness his first principle and harmony his constant practice. He begins by adapting to circumstances, takes trustworthiness as his foundation, makes the match between titles and realities his standard, and uses rewards and punishments as his guiding framework. He places Virtue first and authority second when responding to calamities. Then the world will rely on his governance, and no force will be able to harm the state. In this way, the state can be preserved and the people kept secure.

De and military force stand in a relationship of mutual correspondence, like Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang. In governing a state through dignity and virtue, civil administration and military strength should be balanced between the inner and outer realms. Military force should remain concealed and unused, brought forth only when there is no other choice.

Thus, when a ruler loses the Dao, he comes to delight in warfare and brings harm upon himself. He neglects the proper affairs of government, and evil rises one thing after another. Relying on his power, he grows arrogant and extravagant, allowing laws to fall into ruin and the bonds of order to slacken. He builds and decorates palaces on a grand scale, indulges every pleasure of dogs and horses, raises high terraces, opens vast parks, and loses himself in music, beauty, and sensual delights. He kills loyal remonstrators, exalts beautiful women, shows contempt for the ancestral temples, and insults his elder relatives. He also cruelly harms the people, leaving families destitute and even young children without anyone to depend on.

Such conduct defies Heaven and Earth and throws Yin and Yang into disorder. It mutilates virtue as if tattooing and cutting off noses, and destroys the divine as if striking down spirits. The harmonious Qi is thus thrown into confusion and blocked, and the transformations of the myriad things can no longer flow freely. Thunder sounds in winter and frost falls in summer; the myriad things are damaged before their time. The ruler then gives himself over to war and makes plans without judgment. Great states are thrown into fear, small states flee, and the old and weak are scattered and driven from their homes, weeping as they set out on the road to escape. People everywhere harbor resentment, and the people long for war. They join together and take up arms, and I will act after them.

Why is this so? Their ancestors all possessed divine De that reached throughout Heaven and Earth, and through sagely wisdom they had also accomplished great things for the people. Therefore, the ruler received a tally and a vermilion decree—the tokens of a granted mandate and noble rank—was enfeoffed with land, granted a surname, and elevated to kingship. His ancestors were honored, and his achievements passed down to his descendants. This was an enduring accomplishment, accumulated over ten thousand years in accord with the will of Heaven and Earth.

But those who inherit the throne refuse to humble and discipline themselves, refine their character, or cultivate their spirit. They will not put virtuous government into practice to honor their ancestors. Instead, they dismiss small acts of goodness and indulge in small evils, declining day by day and falling further into ruin month after month. The ancestral temples collapse, the state becomes a wasteland, the clan scatters, and later generations are left without support. Even the spirits of the dead become wandering souls with nowhere to rest. Ah, is this not sorrowful?

Therefore, take heroic men as your model, and present yourselves as an army devoted to benevolence and righteousness. Put away the armor and lay down the weapons, allowing the troops to rest for a time. Calm the unrest in the soldiers’ hearts so that they are willing to turn back, mend their ways, and change their former conduct. If they insist on advancing and refuse to turn back, they will become a scourge to the world, plunging the people into hardship and exhausting both wealth and strength. The world’s troubles will only grow worse. Heaven will send signs in response, and calamities will gather in this state; even if you wish to escape punishment, it will naturally be impossible. Heaven’s will and the people’s hearts are aligned, and I cannot overcome them. Though the undertaking may succeed, the spirit will already have been broken; though people advance, their resolve will have retreated. Their outward actions will run counter to their inner wishes, and events will unfold against their true intentions. I grieve for the ancient sages and feel deep sorrow for the people. If they have not offended Heaven, how can they suffer such calamity? Even if one says the events came suddenly, the people’s lives are ultimately still ruled by war.

When issuing orders, do so with solemnity and sincerity. Reward those who surrender first, and punish those who delay. A small city that surrenders first may gain advantages; a large city that surrenders first will receive even more favorable treatment. Those who capture cities are to be granted noble rank, and those who offer up their cities and surrender are to be rewarded with fiefs. Do not lightly abandon a city that has neither surrendered nor been captured. Those who have committed crimes may be pardoned, those with ability may be appointed, and the old and weak should all be cared for. The people’s lives lie in the hands of the army.

When issuing orders, do so with solemnity and sincerity. Reward those who surrender first, and punish those who delay. A small city that surrenders first may gain advantages; a large city that surrenders first will receive even more favorable treatment. Those who capture cities are to be granted noble rank, and those who offer up their cities and surrender are to be rewarded with fiefs. Do not lightly abandon a city that has neither surrendered nor been captured. Those who have committed crimes may be pardoned, those with ability may be appointed, the old and weak should all be cared for, and the dead should be buried. Extend benevolence and favors widely, so that a spirit of compassion and kindness spreads among the people and unites their hearts. Carry out these measures discreetly, bringing the soldiers’ hearts into accord. Then the enemy’s three armies will share our purpose; their spies will serve us, and even their bandits will work for us. They will tell us their plans and report on the local terrain. By making use of the conditions already present among the enemy, we can adapt our stratagems with flexibility. When the laws are not harsh, even strategic passes cease to be obstacles. With the timing of Heaven and the will of the people working together, victory will come as if aided by spirits. No enemy ahead will be able to stop us, and our plans will not miscarry. However numerous the enemy may be, they will become a resource we can use. When the two armies face each other, looking ahead, it will seem as though there is no enemy.

When preparing for war, even if preparations are thorough, never underestimate the enemy. Underestimating the enemy invites disaster: one may miss the moment and lose the victory. Good fortune departs and calamity arrives; this is an urgent peril sent down by Heaven.

Therefore, even with Heaven’s protection and the people’s support, guard what you have achieved with apprehension, and act with care. On the march, avoid dangerous ground and take advantage of openings. When camping, remain prepared; when resting, choose a convenient place, and rely on sources of water and pasture. Fill gaps and secure vulnerable positions. When facing the enemy, adapt to circumstances and remain unpredictable. Win through surprise without leaving a trace. Ways of victory are inexhaustible, so do not cling to a fixed method of war. Plan far ahead and act with subtlety; let change have no fixed pattern. Even if I am right beside the enemy, they do not know how I will act. With all their wisdom and strength, what can they gain from me?

Thus, those who remain at home are peaceful and content, while those in the army act as circumstances change, winning through surprise. The ways of victory are inexhaustible; they do not cling to a fixed method of war. Their plans are subtle and profound, and their changes have no fixed pattern. Even if I am right beside the enemy, they do not know how I will act. With all their wisdom and strength, what can they gain from me? Thus, those at home are peaceful and content, and those in the army are glad as well.

With sincere hearts, the people regard the army as their own children. They leave home and cross the borders as eagerly as a crowd going to market. They work hard in the fields and at the loom, rising early and resting late. They dare not keep precious possessions for themselves, but offer them to supply the army, as if serving their parents. In this way, the initiative in victory and defeat rests with us, and the enemy dares not act rashly. Before a battle is fought, the world is already at peace; without attacking, the feudal lords submit. Wherever Heaven covers and Earth supports, wherever the sun and moon shine, in places far and wide or hidden and remote, people everywhere can live in peace on their own land.

Why is this so? Because compassion and benevolence arise from this. It follows Heaven’s will, and dares not claim the merit for itself.

My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven can understand them or put them into practice. Speech has its roots, and action has its guiding principle. I alone know nothing, so others do not understand me. Those who understand me are few; that is why I am precious. Thus the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside and carries jade within.

The Zhigui says: What has no form or sound, yet enables the myriad things to follow their own nature, is Dao and spirit. What has form and sound, yet enables the myriad things to follow their own nature, is Earth and Heaven. Spirit and Dao nurture and transform the myriad things without limit; Heaven and Earth silently reveal them. Their nurturing and transformation reach everywhere, and their revelations are present in every place. The breaths of spirit and Dao pass between them; the myriad things respond and connect, and in the end all return to emptiness. They are subtle and wondrous, return to what is natural, and guide everything without exception.

Therefore, words spoken deliberately are merely tools of the natural Dao; deliberate action causes people to lose their true nature. Wuwei (non-action) and silence are the utmost in accomplishing one’s work and the key to enduring over time. So the sage speaks words without deliberate intent and acts without deliberate effort. Speech is used to bring speech to rest; action is used to bring action to rest.

To bring speech to rest, one must cast off grasping thoughts. To bring deliberate action to rest, one must set aside the contrived mind. Make yourself plain, unpretentious, sincere, and steadfast; harbor no clever schemes, and hold no covetous desires. Without desire, one can be still; in stillness, one can become empty; in emptiness, one can become full; when full, one can commune with spirit. In action, return to the pure, original state; in stillness, follow what is natural. In this way, one can preserve oneself and bring stability to the state, make the people prosperous and honored without exposing them to disaster, and allow all beings to find their proper place, so that all may endure. These principles are easy to understand, and the task is easy to carry out, yet no one under Heaven can understand or practice them.

Why is this so? Because the rulers of the world favor cleverness and skill and act wholly on their own inclinations. They fail to see the Dao (the fundamental principles by which nature operates) and do not understand the patterns of naturalness. They take deliberate doing for true doing and take ornate speech for words worth pursuing. When they stop reflecting, troubles arise anew, and they hurry toward whatever they consider secure. Over time this becomes custom, and in the end they suffer its harm throughout their lives. The nature of people is thereby altered, their emotions and wills shift accordingly, and they fall into deep confusion, drifting farther and farther away. Their spirit is turbid and their mind is in disarray; outwardly they appear full, but inwardly they are empty. Forcing oneself into silence invites faults, and forcing oneself into stillness also brings calamity. Therefore, even when the principles are displayed to them, they cannot see them, and when they are told, they cannot hear them. This is not because they deliberately resent them, but because they are convinced that things are not as they are told.

The words of the sage take naturalness as their root and shenming (the numinous, the subtle and unfathomable workings of nature) as their source. They often stand on the opposite side of things and move between silence and speech. They are extremely subtle and in the end return to naturalness. Clearly perceiving, they seem not to see; clearly hearing, they seem not to hear; they seem blocked even when they have penetrated, and seem embarrassed even when they are eminent. The sage's conduct begins from naturalness and unfolds in accordance with the patterns of shenming, remaining ever calm and standing between acting and not recklessly acting. They are pure and yielding, and their movements are so fine as to be hard to perceive. They seem not to hear; they seem blocked even when they have penetrated, and seem embarrassed even when they are eminent. Their conduct begins from naturalness and unfolds in accordance with the patterns of shenming, remaining ever calm and standing between acting and not recklessly acting. They are pure and yielding, their movements are subtle, and their affairs are simple. They know how to yield and how to diminish, and in the end they return to wuwei (non-action, not recklessly acting).

They use emptiness to accord with the Dao and live in tranquil ease. They use the harmony of responding to the times to consolidate the state and use profound teaching to nurture the people. They nourish the people with non-desire, guide them by the Way of nature, and supply them with the resources of heaven, earth, mountains, and rivers. They let the people enjoy abundant years, cherish their own bodies, be free from anxiety, and dwell in peace without calamity. There is no state of non-desire that cannot be attained, and no happiness that cannot be retained. The people seem to have no ruler, and the ruler seems to have no distinction of people. Setting aside cleverness and assertiveness, and following the Dao and relying on the Heavenly Way, they bring the myriad states into harmony and unite them under one sovereign. This is precisely the realm in which affairs flourish and achievements reach their height, yet the people of the world think it is not so.

The world does not understand me not because my Dao (the Way) is too shallow to be worth knowing, nor because my works are too few to be worth pursuing, and not because people prefer failure to success, delight in calamity and trouble, and deliberately refuse to heed me. Their nature is opposed to mine, and their desires differ from mine. Their wisdom is clouded by desire, so they spend their whole lives immersed in the teachings they are used to hearing. Their spirit and temperament do not accord with mine, and their minds do not agree with me. Therefore their eyes cannot see what I see, and their ears cannot hear what I hear.

For this reason, when words are profound, they invite more slander, and when one walks a long road, one meets with more reproach. Insights that are one's own cannot be put to use by the world, and knowledge beyond the common run only makes ordinary people feel ashamed. Affairs that accord with the Way of the spirits do not suit worldly custom, and deeds whose merit matches Heaven and Earth do not please the multitude.

The supreme insight and the grand discourse can encompass the myriad transformations and grasp the ten thousand principles. They dissect the finest subtleties and also illuminate the realm of void and obscurity. They are thorough and tight, leaving no gap, and yet in the end they return to the vast and dim. Such principles are beyond the understanding of those who cling to trivial details, and cannot be grasped by those whose vision is narrow and confined to a single corner.

The hongu (a high-flying bird of the goose kind) soars and races all day, yet knows nothing of affairs beyond the cosmos. Those who make laws and the scholars who hold fast to doctrine study year after year and discuss all their lives, yet still do not understand the immensity of the great Dao and De (Virtue/Power). Even the spirits have things they cannot comprehend, and Heaven and Earth have things they cannot govern. How much more so, then, for those who cling to the sayings handed down through generations and cannot see the root of the Dao? Is this not entirely natural? Thus, what the multitude scorn and despise is precisely what the one who has attained the Dao honors alone.

Therefore, the sage, though possessed of wisdom, does not deliberately display it; though possessed of ability, he does not rely on his ability to assume command. The sage holds the virtue of benevolence and righteousness, yet he does not take benevolence and righteousness as his name; he penetrates to the principles of things, yet he does not regard himself as penetrating; he is firm, yet he does not make his firmness conspicuous; he is lofty, yet he does not treat this as glory.

The sage's words cannot be measured by ordinary standards, and his actions reveal no fixed traces. His heart is as broad as rivers and seas, and his aspirations as lofty as the vault of heaven. He sets aside deliberate contrivance, and by this establishes the Dao; he diminishes his attachment to so-called good deeds, in order to fill out his original nature. He is serene and empty, so that no one can fathom him; he is clear and luminous, yet no one can peer into his heart. He remains silent at ease, standing alone in his eminence; he treats external things lightly and values inner cultivation, regards himself as insignificant and does not prize fame. He keeps far from the crowd and worldly customs, and remains constantly in accord with the Dao.

Chapter on Knowing and Not Knowing

To recognize what one does not know as not-knowing is the highest wisdom; to not know and yet believe oneself to know is a flaw. Only by regarding this flaw as a flaw can one avoid being troubled by it. The sage does not have this flaw; precisely because he regards his self-assumed knowing as a flaw, he is able to remain unharmed by it.

Commentary from the Zhigui (Finger-Pointing to the Essence): The transforming power of De (Virtue) consists in accordance with what is natural. The signs of what is natural appear and follow, like shadows and echoes.

The teaching of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) follows what is natural. The verification of what is natural is like the relation between form and shadow, or between sound and echo. Wherever there is form and sound, there is a corresponding shadow and echo, and every choice to take or discard brings its own result. This is not true of the myriad things alone.

When a form moves, it does not produce another form, but it does produce a shadow. When a sound is made, it does not produce another sound, but it does produce an echo. Something arises from nothing, and when it is covered over, the opposite result appears. For this reason, the Dao governs through wuwei (non-action). A person of wisdom who is meddlesome only brings disorder. Infants benefit from their ignorance, while the elderly may be harmed by too much experience and too many affairs. From this perspective, simple innocence is the form in which cleverness appears, and cleverness is the shadow cast by simple innocence. Wuwei is the sound made when affairs are successfully completed, and the successful completion of affairs is the echo produced by wuwei. Cleverness is like a net that disrupts order, while purposive action (youwei) is like a net that ruins what it touches.

Therefore, one should not deliberately harmonize the myriad things, nor force heaven and earth to suit human arrangements. Deliberate harmonizing loses true harmony, and deliberate arranging loses what is fitting. Only when one does not force harmony can true harmony come about; only when one does not force arrangement can true fittingness follow.

Thus, in a peaceful and stable age, people often do not know what danger is; in a time of turmoil, people also do not know what governing is. They are like shadows following forms, with nowhere to hide. They are also like seeking an echo without first making a sound: in the end, nothing is gained. Therefore, one who understands the principle yet can set aside the mind that clings to knowledge will not be trapped by knowledge. Even one who did not understand at first, but knows how to use knowledge, will likewise not be trapped by it. The reasons the two are free from entanglement differ, but in acting, both are free from constraint, and in this they are the same.

The sage, then, relies on a penetrating nature to roam the realm of profound stillness, dwells where nothing is deliberately done, and rests in a state of not presuming to know. He is as quiet as empty space and as vague as one who seems dead. His mind harbors no scheming, and his aims do not impose deliberate governance. His intelligence still operates and his brightness shines in all directions, yet he does not let the ears and eyes of the common people be drawn away by external things. He shows them only non-being (wu). The vessels used for cooking are not displayed, sounds and colors are not indulged, and cunning schemes do not arise, so disorder subsides. He issues no commands, and the realm settles on its own. He does not force anything, and the governance of the realm is complete.

The common people lower their heads and do not indulge their ears and eyes, and when they raise them there is no model to imitate. They are sincere and honest, loyal and upright, each holding fast to a simple and unadorned nature, content and at ease, and all able to reach the end of their natural years. After death there is no posthumous title, and in life there is no name or reputation. Such a life continues from generation to generation, and the number of people is too great to count.

Taking one step further back, people have no craving emotions and no special fondness for particular things. Their minds hold no fixed sense of security, and their aims do not chase after profit. They do not even know the notions of filial piety and fraternal respect (that is, honoring one's parents and caring for one's elder brothers), and benevolence and righteousness have nothing by which to be recognized. They have no codified rites and institutions, and they keep only the pure root, living naturally like elk and wild geese. They fall into neither joy nor sorrow, and they are entangled in no turmoil. Like the blind and the deaf, they have no particular perception of the outside world. The ruler has no palace, the people have no walls or city enclosures, the state has no laws or institutional systems, and there is no shame or humiliation in the world.

Even when there are matters such as illness, they are not regarded as sickness, and one simply relies on the Dao (Dào) and accords with it. Commands are not issued and nothing is deliberately done, yet authority and virtue (De, Dé) manifest on their own. Heaven and earth are in harmony, and the myriad things remain in a state of undivided wholeness, full and vast. They appear murky, like a turbid stream, and yet they are luminous and bright, like solemn guests. People and all things return to simplicity and foolishness and settle into stillness. Action leaves no conspicuous trace, and stillness has no fixed boundary. The ruler and the people both flourish, and the realm is at peace without a sound. People abandon petty gains and in return enjoy great blessings. To govern through silent non-action is to be beyond calculation by schemes and beyond measurement by any standard.

How can this be demonstrated? When De (virtue) declines and simplicity disappears, people then pursue cleverness and lose the quiet and plain state. Action leaves no conspicuous trace, and stillness has no fixed boundary. The ruler and the people both flourish, and the realm is at peace without a sound. Abandoning small gains, one enjoys great blessings. To govern through silent non-action, its effects cannot be exhausted by calculation and cannot be measured by any standard.

How can this be demonstrated? Once the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) declined, the simple and sincere customs disappeared, and all kinds of ingenious devices appeared one after another, while cunning calculation became widespread. Ritual propriety arose, with ranks and standards made clear, so that all things had their order and every affair had its guiding principles. People divided the land and established cities, houses, prefectures, townships, and hamlets. The state had loyal ministers, and families had filial sons. People remembered their inner affairs but treated outer affairs carelessly. They associated with their own kind, harmed others to benefit themselves, and sought only to draw close to one another.

Strong states annexed weaker ones, and large states expanded layer upon layer, while small and weak states gradually perished. People offered sacrifices to Heaven and Earth in the suburbs and worshipped famous mountains and great rivers. They performed the Fengshan rite on Mount Tai (the ritual by which ancient rulers sacrificed to Heaven and Earth) and then held sacrifices on Mount Liangfu. These customs were passed down gradually, flourishing at some times and declining at others. The cases tried numbered in the thousands, and criminals bearing tattooed brands were seen everywhere. Ministers killed their rulers, sons killed their fathers, and the ruin of states and families could not be counted. All under Heaven enjoyed the benefits brought by cunning calculation, yet also suffered the deaths and calamities it invited. From this it is clear that the saying "cutting off cleverness brings good fortune, while relying on it brings misfortune" is indeed true.

Therefore, even if a ruler of virtue changed his mind and tried to establish various undertakings to teach the people, offering prayers and blessings in hope of achieving great order, those who accord with the natural Dao would not follow him. Once the calamities that lead to the fall of states are revealed, this is not difficult to understand. Likewise, even if a ruler whose state is falling were to abolish cleverness, cast off desire, cease deliberate action, cultivate the Dao and practice De, and set aside his own schemes in hope of escaping destruction, his own body would still not follow his wishes.

Thus, advancing or retreating, employing or discarding, form the visible traces of the kingly Way (wangdao), while good fortune or misfortune, survival or ruin, are the consequences these choices bring. The sage can act in accordance with Heavenly principle (tianli) and remain still in harmony with the Dao. They preserve their own person and also bring order to the state. Beyond what they accomplish, they roam at ease, and amid having nothing to do, they dwell in composure. They gain blessings from what is subtle and profound, and they can extend themselves freely beyond the four seas. This is because they blind the eyes that cling to keen discernment, close the openings of a heart that considers itself wise, stop the ears that are overly sensitive, and break the hands that are skilled at cunning contrivance. They follow the currents of the times and accord with the Way of harmony. They do not force action, and affairs are accomplished of their own accord. They issue no commands, and the common people settle naturally. Their grace even reaches the beasts of the field and nourishes the birds of the air. They achieve this by diminishing the sharpness of eye and ear, setting aside the cleverness of calculation, refraining from forced action, and yielding to the Dao.

Therefore, they accord with human nature and desires, allowing the mind to unfold fully. In action they guide the movements of Heaven and Earth, and in stillness they nourish the myriad things. Their spiritual power arises from within themselves, so they need not inspect or scrutinize anything. Their body never leaves its seat, yet the states of the realm are naturally governed and made complete. Even if they wished to avoid decline, they could not exclude it through human contrivance.

The People Do Not Fear Authority

When the people no longer fear power, the truly dreadful calamity will arrive. Do not cling to the position you occupy, nor loathe the conditions on which your life depends. Only when you do not loathe them will others not loathe you. Therefore, the sage knows themselves but does not display themselves, cherishes themselves but does not exalt themselves. They discard the former and choose the latter.

The purpose of the Way and Virtue is the fundamental principle by which the spirits act, and the intention through which the harmony and peace of Heaven, Earth, and all things is maintained. The greatest calamity is nothing other than the loss of life, and the greatest blessing is nothing other than the preservation of life. This is so not only of the Way of Heaven, but of human beings and all things as well.

Therefore, what matters most in preserving oneself is nourishing the spirit (shen), and the key to nourishing the spirit lies in maintaining simplicity and naturalness. One should constantly hold anxiety and reverence, remaining cautious and alert. The cause of damage to the spirit is indulgence; the reason for its loss is acting on one's own initiative and behaving recklessly.

For this reason, the highest type of person reveres the Dao (the Way), next reveres Heaven, then reveres Earth and other people, and finally reveres the self. Prosperity or decline, good fortune or misfortune, are all brought about by oneself. If one does not remain watchful when matters are still subtle, and only grows fearful once disaster has become visible, calamity will deepen and may even lead to ruin.

Anxiety and reverence should begin at the origin of things, before they have taken form. Being prudent and on guard before any sign has appeared allows the brightness of the Dao (the Way) to fully manifest. When one acts in accordance with principle, one attains what one seeks; when one is still, one can also rest at ease. Blessings and emoluments that are deep and imperceptible endure without end, and cannot be measured by any fixed limit.

Correct words may sound like their opposites, and clear principles may look dim. They are vast and profound, so people find them hard to understand. The key to one's fate lies in one's own hands, so why seek it from Heaven? The greatest blessings may appear as calamities, and the greatest auspiciousness may appear as peril. The people of the world are intoxicated and satiated, and none of them can see this.

Worldly people have shallow vision and narrow knowledge. They do not understand the deep and mysterious principles of the Dao (the Way), are blinded by subtle and marvelous ordinary patterns, and do not comprehend the laws of the spirits. They fixate on the slightest profit before their eyes and cannot see calamities as large as a mountain. They indulge their emotions and act at will, without fear or restraint. They speak only according to their immediate impulses and act only in the direction they consider good. When they have the ability, they seize; when they desire something, they recklessly bestow. They are arrogant, extravagant, and willful, self-righteous, and in the end they harm themselves.

They favor so-called loyalty and sincerity, yet they deceive and injure their parents, offend Heaven and Earth, and show contempt for their rulers. Indulging their desires and violating the Way of Heaven, they devise clever schemes and invent pretexts to excuse themselves. They bestow favors hoping for gain, yet bring great disaster upon themselves. Blessings keep far away, and even if they search in all four directions, they cannot obtain fortune or De (Virtue). Calamities draw ever closer, with nowhere to flee. Only when overwhelming power descends do they begin to do good, and by then De cannot save them and Heaven and Earth cannot release them. This is not the fault of Heaven. It is because they covet high position and grandeur, rely on power, forget worry, lose vigilance, and never reflect on themselves.

Therefore, those who keep fear and anxiety constantly within themselves do not fear others, and those who restrain themselves are not controlled by external things. Those who attend to small matters are not frightened when great events arrive, and those who remain alert to what is before them leave no regret for what lies far away. Thus, they do not disdain their own posts and diligently fulfill their duties wherever they stand. They do not look down on their circumstances and earnestly cultivate ritual propriety. They do not suffer over humble station but instead transform their conduct at the root. They do not loathe hardship and danger but cut off the sources that bring them about. Those who can dwell contentedly in poverty are as though they stand in a state of prosperity, and those who can face death peacefully are as though they enjoy long life. Even if they wish to remain in this world, they cannot do so for long.

In the Zhuangzi's words, the way heaven and earth operate is that every thing already contains its ending at its beginning, and once it has ended, it opens a new beginning. Yang qi lies quietly hidden in the tender stage of sprouting and can eventually melt metal. Yin qi rests in the moment when frost first appears and can eventually harden into solid ice. A tree grows from a seedling as fine as an autumn hair until it may reach a hundred fathoms in height. Water gathers from trickling streams until it becomes the sea. A bird stays calmly within its egg and in its fledgling stage before it can soar high, and a beast gestates in the womb before it can roam far after growing up.

For this reason, although the sage's wisdom is penetrating without limit, so that he can accord with the Dao of Heaven and perceive the constant patterns of things, he still accumulates deep virtue (De), gathers in his intentions, and conceals his cleverness and talent. He is anxious about the disorder of worldly affairs and wary of calamities that have not yet appeared. He does not reveal the beginnings or traces of matters, does not display his outward form, and does not expose his inner feelings. He returns himself to emptiness and settles into the profound and mysterious realm.

The sage honors Heaven and Earth yet does not exalt himself; his virtue is as vast as Yin and Yang, yet he does not boast of it. He is content with the minute and the humble, placing himself behind the ten thousand people. He does not seek rich flavors in his food or elaborate beauty in his clothing. Even when he adorns himself, he does so with moderation, and his aspirations do not run wild. He upholds the Dao and its De and follows the transformations of all things. He nourishes the common people as one would raise one's own children, and before the multitude he shows the reverence one would show a ruler.

He attributes the credit for his virtue to Heaven and yields the merit to the people. Because of this, the people of the world yield to one another, and his grace is deep and enduring. Thus calamities cannot become true disasters for him, and worries cannot entrap him; good fortune cannot be evaded, and his virtue does not vanish. This is not because the Dao shows partiality, nor because Heaven and Earth favor some and neglect others.

One should act with caution from the very beginning of an affair, attend to its subtle details, and maintain gentleness, humility, loyalty, and sincerity. One should honor the Dao, accord with the Way of Heaven, and harmonize with the ten thousand things. In times of success, be wary and anxious; in times of hardship, remain at peace within oneself. Success or failure, survival or ruin, should all be sought for their causes within oneself.

On Courage

To boldly court danger and push ahead recklessly often brings death; to restrain oneself and refrain from rash action can instead preserve life. People often grasp the outcomes of these two courses, one beneficial and one harmful. What Heaven (Tian) detests, who can know the reason? The Way of Heaven (Tiandao) does not contend, yet it always prevails; it issues no commands, yet it is always answered; it does not summon, yet things arrive of their own accord; it appears calm and unhurried, yet it is skilled at arrangement and planning. The net of the Way of Heaven is vast and boundless. Though it seems sparse, it lets nothing slip through.

[5] Supplemented according to the Yilan edition (Yilan ben), the Jindai edition (Jindai ben), and the Xuejin edition (Xuejin ben).

[6] The Jindai and Xuejin editions read "he" here.

The laws governing the operation of Heaven and Earth, and the principles behind their giving of life and bringing of death, neither lean toward departure nor approach, neither seize nor bestow. They work through non-action (Wuwei), simply following what is natural. Their standard is as upright as an ink line and as even as water. They respond and appear according to the changes of things, rising together with the myriad beings. Whether to diminish or to augment, to take or to relinquish, all is determined by the particular thing; they run through the whole course of affairs. The depth and lightness of things each develop according to their own nature. Things differing in form and distinct in category all, in the end, return to their respective place of rest.

Life is the root of death, and death is also the starting point of life. When the two are set against each other, fortune and misfortune become evident. Therefore, to know only how to nurture and not how to kill is to violate the guiding order of the Way of Heaven; to know only how to kill and not how to nurture is to violate the fundamental basis of the Earth. Joy and anger should be measured, and the giving of life and death should be restrained. Those who go against these principles will suffer the punishment of Heaven and the reproach of Earth.

When one should be angry but is not, a son may become a wolf-like man, and a younger brother may become like a rhinoceros or tiger (fierce beasts, as they were called in antiquity). When one should engage in battle but does not, a wife may become an enemy state, and a concubine may become a great brigand. When one should wage punishing war but does not, one suffers the harm of Heaven and comes to be controlled by others. When one should rejoice but does not, one invites calamities from Heaven and faults from Earth. When one should let a person live but does not, a ruler may lose his state, and the common people may lose their lives.

Therefore, the gentleman regards killing a man as though killing himself, and saving a man as though saving himself. He upholds virtue and follows the proper Way, and acts only when compelled. To preserve oneself and to stabilize the state, the key lies in grasping the measure of giving life and death. When life and death accord with reason, Heaven and Earth will protect; when joy and anger are restrained, the myriad beings will submit.

Those who are unyielding and resolute, plain and upright, skilled at attack, hateful of evil and zealous for good, and quick to take the lead; who understand the Way of defense and of war, and also know when to open and when to close; who are prone to vent anger and to seek satisfaction, who remain calm in conduct yet delight in killing—such people may bring profit to the state and benefit to the people, fear no powerful enemy, awe all quarters, and extend their influence beyond the borders. Yet this attains only half of the good.

Those who are gentle and humble, reverent and mindful of awe, who restrain their emotions, guard their words, and think deeply and far ahead, who, when facing a just cause, can strike down resentment and evil—they devote themselves to keeping people in lasting harmony, extend favors widely, and seek profit without harming others, thereby making their own goodness manifest; they give without seizing, thereby displaying their renown; they reward without punishing, thereby carrying out kindness; they let people live without killing, thereby accomplishing benevolence. This, too, attains only half of the good.

These two achievements each have their strengths: their courage and daring are evenly matched, while their strategies are each superior or inferior in their own way. Yet they contend with their own persons against one another, refusing to acknowledge each other, and their thoughts run counter to the Way of Heaven and differ from the heart of the Earth. Each exerts his aspirations and displays his ambitions, proceeding along the path in which he finds peace. Some go from being nobles commanding a thousand chariots to become fugitive captives; others go from being common folk to become kings.

Therefore, things sometimes receive nurture and thereby obtain good fortune, yet sometimes this same nurture brings misfortune; sometimes they suffer killing and thereby obtain good fortune, yet sometimes this same killing becomes a calamity. These transformations are profound and subtle, and no one can fully fathom them.

Things that make life flourish are what the world praises; things that bring calamity on life are what the world despises. To nourish what the world despises is to harm what the world praises, and to nourish what the world praises is to harm what the world despises. Things turn and change over and over; at times they show a profound and subtle virtue, and at times they show a profound and subtle harm.

When one serves Heaven and Earth as father and mother, one can bring one's descendants to continue. Whatever nourishes the myriad things over a long span and lets later generations flourish is fitting to grow; what gives life to the myriad things yet leads to their ruin is a birth destined to perish. Gaining blessing after slaughter is the removal of what ought to pass away; losing something and inviting calamity is the wounding of what should have grown.

What Heaven despises, one does not dare to let live; what Heaven shelters, one does not dare to kill; what Heaven diminishes, one does not dare to augment; what Heaven augments, one does not dare to seize. Therefore, one who knows how not to act where action is not fitting acts in accord with the Dao of Heaven, and when still, accords with the Dao of Earth. What is loathed in the heart of Heaven, no one can discern.

The regularities by which Heaven and Earth operate are that Yin-Yang (yinyang) alternate and interact, dividing into the four seasons, dispersing to form the Five Phases (wuxing), and spreading out to become the myriad things. Among these, their finest essence appears as the sun, moon, and stars, known as the Three Lights (sanguang). The beneficence of Yang governs nurturing and growth, while the punishment of Yin governs severity and decline. Heaven and Earth cover and sustain all living beings, and they also contain and give birth to the differing things of the world.

Heaven and Earth are profound, silent, and free of private intent; they act with fairness, neither leaning nor taking sides. They do not regard the nurturing of the myriad things as a deliberate skill, nor do they regard the withering of the myriad things as their own accomplishment. Instead, they follow the transformations of the myriad things and do not act alone. Auspicious affairs proceed along the course of good fortune, and inauspicious affairs likewise proceed along the course of misfortune. Some things are diminished and others increased; some are cut down and others nourished. Those who do good naturally obtain good fruit, and those who do evil naturally bear punishment.

Therefore, Heaven and Earth do not act deliberately, yet the myriad things grow naturally; they do not act deliberately, yet the myriad things naturally perish. This is like a shadow following the changes of its form, or an echo responding to a sound. Without seeking, things attain of their own accord; without restraint, things submit of their own accord; without examining closely, things reveal themselves of their own accord; without questioning, things disclose their true condition of their own accord.

Thus, though it does not contend, nothing can overcome it; though it does not speak, nothing fails to respond; though it does not summon, nothing fails to arrive. It is still and vast, encompassing all things. A net of the indistinct and formless is thereby spread, and a web without shape or form is laid out with it, vast and far-reaching, boundless without edge, fine and pervasive without gaps, moving along with the transformations of the myriad things.

Therefore, though it stands in front, it cannot be left far behind; though it stands behind, it cannot be overtaken in advance. Whether it rests or operates, no sound can be heard; whether it advances or withdraws, no trace can be seen. Fortune and misfortune have their ends and beginnings, and good and ill fortune turn into one another. They do not come from outside Heaven and Earth; nothing can escape the regularity by which Heaven and Earth operate.

⑺ The Jindai ben and Xuejin ben write the character hé in a variant form here, which may be a scribal error.

⑻ The Yilan ben, Jindai ben, and Xuejin ben write the character wéi in a variant form.

⑼ The Yilan ben writes the character wú in a variant form here, which may be a scribal error.

Chapter on the People Not Fearing Death (Min Bu Wei Si Pian)

If the common people do not fear death, how could one use death to frighten them? Suppose the people always feared death. Then I could seize and execute anyone whose conduct departs from the norm, and who would dare to act that way? But the power that governs killing has its own master (referring to the unseen force that controls life and death, míngmíng), and killing should normally be carried out by that master. To kill on behalf of the one who governs killing is like cutting wood in place of a skilled carpenter. Those who cut wood in place of a master carpenter seldom fail to injure their own hands.

Human nature is such that, when people are ignorant, they are loyal, sincere, and trustworthy. Once they acquire cunning and knowledge, however, they turn deceitful and disrespectful. When they are satisfied, they are calm and at peace; when they are frustrated, they scheme to do wrong. In poverty they do not fear death, but in ease they cherish their own bodies. How can this be seen? The Zhuangzi also says: "Human nature is such that, when ignorant, people are loyal, sincere, and trustworthy; once they acquire cunning and knowledge, they turn deceitful and disrespectful. When satisfied, they are calm and at peace; when frustrated, they scheme to do wrong. In poverty they do not fear death, but in ease they cherish their own bodies." How can this be seen? Zhuangzi says: "When infants do not yet understand things, they are faithful even to their enemies; when they grow up and gain understanding, they deceive and slight their elder brothers and sisters-in-law. When an army is victorious, it looks down on fleeing captives; a beast trapped in a valley is not afraid even of the xi (rhinoceros) and the tiger. Human nature has not changed; the principle of things is simply so."

From this it follows that when the people's minds are not at ease and their lives cannot be secured, government orders cannot be carried out. When sorrow and grief reach their extreme, people do not fear death even in joy, and punishments cannot make them afraid. Therefore, rulers who favor cleverness trouble themselves over affairs and wear out the common people. They sacrifice to Heaven and Earth, pray to dispel calamities and bring blessings, offer petitions and wishes to ghosts and spirits, and further alter various affairs, hoping in this way to please the people. They cause every household to believe that it understands the Dao (the Way), and every village to have someone who claims to be benevolent, virtuous, and wise. They act against the Way of Heaven and rely solely on human minds. They take what they see as clear insight and what they debate as correct, abandon the principle that names must correspond to actual realities, and turn away from the reasonable character of things. As a result, the Dao is obstructed, and slander and praise arise in profusion.

When the world falls into great disorder, the people are restless and anxious, exhausted and weary, and in destitution wickedness arises. Those who dare to rebel become noble and meritorious, while those who fear no death live in wealth and ease. Those who accumulate virtue and do good grow thin and anxious, while those who keep the law and fear punishment go hungry and suffer. The weak suffer and wish to die, while the strong find pleasure and become kings. Thus everyone under Heaven chases fame and contends for power, no longer heeds right and wrong, fights over even the most minute advantage, and regards death as a homecoming. Only then are severe laws and punishments proclaimed. This is like using what people do not fear to forbid them, and using punishments they despise to restrain them.

Therefore, even when punishments and killings are carried out together, wicked affairs cannot be stopped. Even when rewards and salaries are put into effect, ministers do not obey. The common people do not submit, and the feudal lords do not come to court. The state is no longer the state it once was, and the ruler cannot even preserve himself.

Therefore, when the sage governs the people, the ruler does not act recklessly, and the people have no excessive desires. If the people obtain nothing beyond what is rightfully theirs, the ruler suffers no loss. Their undertakings are easy to accomplish and hard to lose, their instruction is hard to violate and easy to carry out, their clothing is easy to make and slow to wear out, and their food easily meets their needs and is hard to run short of. Thus, the people of the realm abandon their cravings, cast off their desires, delight in living and loathe dying, and value their spirits and cherish their bodies. In this way, human conduct can be restrained, and authority can be controlled.

Therefore, the outstanding and wise, who understand the principles of things, do not dare to bestow favors and benefits on their own initiative, nor do they dare to establish authority on their own. Laws may be enacted yet need not be invoked; rewards may be established yet need not be granted. Why is this so? Because people value themselves above Heaven and Earth and regard external things as light as a swan's feather. When laws are severe and punishments harsh, those who understand principles do not dare to indulge in reckless conduct.

Thus, the way by which an enlightened ruler governs lies in doing few things and taking few actions. His eyes do not concentrate on observing, his ears do not concentrate on listening, his mind does not plan in advance, and his mouth does not issue commands carelessly. Ministers before and behind, left and right, each have their own duties, and the ruler supervises according to how affairs unfold, so that matters are settled securely. The ruler states his intentions and then entrusts the business to his subordinates to carry out; he confers titles on the worthy and meritorious officials and bestows stipends on the talented men he employs. Those who bestow favors on their own initiative will thereby lose their lives, and those who usurp authority will bring ruin upon their clans. When the hundred officials each perform their duties, the ruler does not personally interfere.

If a ruler abandons his own duties and instead takes over the work of his ministers, then those who are distant will be buried in obscurity and those who are close will be exalted, the way of governance will be obstructed, and state affairs will fall into neglect. When ruler and minister each set up their own authority, wicked and deceitful affairs will rise together; close attendants will be promoted beyond their proper rank, and the ruler himself will be brought into disgrace as a result. Once the ruler's prestige is lost, laws cannot be proclaimed, and treacherous, arrogant men will do as they please. The people suffer injustice, and the realm loses its sense of fairness; loyal ministers grieve, while sycophants are elated. When names and realities no longer correspond, rewards and punishments are applied at whim. This is like having the dead rise up to wail, or having someone other than the carpenter swing the axe to cut the wood.

The dead cannot act. Their descendants weep for them because they know the dead have passed away and can no longer weep for them. Compasses and carpenter's squares are kept in the great hall for a skilled craftsman to use, and the craftsman himself need not do anything else. If the corpse were made to rise and weep, the mourners would have nothing to do. If the master took over the cutting and shaping from the craftsman, the craftsman could not complete his work.

Therefore, the wise ruler rectifies himself so that his De (Virtue) accords with Heaven above, while his counselors put their plans into practice in the affairs of the common people. Laws are drafted by the ministers, and the ruler holds and enforces them. Decrees are issued by the ruler, and the ministers refine and carry them out. Titles and positions proposed by the ministers are decided by the ruler, and the tasks the ministers carry out are planned and coordinated by the ruler. If a minister's title is not rectified, he will lose his important post.

Thus, the Dao (the Way) of the ruler lies in concealment and in governing the whole, while the Dao of the minister lies in visibility and in carrying out affairs. The ruler alone holds power, and the ministers are responsible for establishing specific titles. Ruler and ministers each keep to their own boundaries and do not obstruct one another, so that all matters become naturally clear. The ruler has his own proper duties, and the various officials have their own responsibilities. Once titles and duties are distinguished, they must not be substituted for one another. When each keeps to his post, the Great Dao (Dadao) can prevail, and all affairs become clear on their own. When the ruler is still and practices wuwei (non-action), nothing will fail to be accomplished. If a minister exercises the ruler's authority, he will bring about his own destruction. If the ruler personally meddles in the affairs of his ministers, he will surely harm the state.

Men go hungry because the rulers levy too heavy a tax on them, and so the common people starve. The people are hard to govern because those above them handle too many affairs and interfere too much, so the state cannot be well ordered. The people treat death lightly because their rulers strive after abundant nourishment and crave pleasure, and so the people in turn do not spare their own lives. If one does not regard the nurturing of life (yangsheng) as overly important, one will instead surpass those who single-mindedly cherish their lives.

Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), the power by which the Dao nourishes and transforms the myriad things, endow people with life, each according to its own allotment. Heaven and Earth sustain people, each according to its own allotment. The hou wang (feudal lords and kings) guard the state, each according to its own duties. Ministers carry out their offices, each according to its own responsibilities. The myriad things maintain themselves, each according to its own proper share. People receive the life bestowed by Heaven and by the Dao and De, and their bodies take form accordingly. When the mind and intent are open and unobstructed, people are able to live. When the five zang and six fu organs (wuzang liufu) work in harmony, qi (vital energy) and blood circulate smoothly, the interior and exterior of the body respond to one another, the upper and lower parts each perform their functions, the limbs bend and stretch with ease, and sight and hearing are clear and keen, this is the proper share that the Dao and De bestow upon people.

Heaven and Earth embrace and bear the myriad things, set the clouds, rain, thunder, and wind in motion, let the sun and moon alternate, and bring about the growth of spring, the flourishing of summer, the harvest of autumn, and the storing of winter. Through these, yin and yang are brought into harmony and the myriad things are made abundant. When the common people labor at their tasks, their daily needs are met. This is the proper share that Heaven and Earth provide for people.

The hou wang should follow the Dao in cultivating their De, accord with the laws of the Heavenly Way, and exhaust their utmost effort, responding to affairs in due time without slackening. They should hold fast to sincerity, preserve simplicity, and return to the state of wuwei (non-action). Even in small matters they should practice economy and restraint, becoming a model for all under Heaven. By each keeping to his or her proper name and cultivating De, they cause the common people to dwell in peace, customs to grow sincere and honest, and the four quarters to submit. This is the duty of the hou wang in guarding the state.

Ministers should attain harmony and rectitude, standing upright and impartial. They should be loyal and trustworthy, and comply with the requirements of their office. They should praise good conduct and condemn bad, never allowing names and actual conditions to contradict each other. They neither look lightly upon their own positions nor belittle the duties entrusted to them. This is the proper share of ministers in fulfilling their offices and discharging their responsibilities.

The common people should be cautious and plain, frugal and diligent. They should follow the seasons and make the fullest use of the land. Their clothing should fit the body well, and their food should be enough to satisfy hunger. They rise with the sun and rest at sunset, neither scorning a humble dwelling nor disdaining simple food. This is the proper share of the common people in keeping to their own station.

When action and stillness lose their harmony, one transgresses the boundaries of the Dao. When plowing and weaving do not accord with the seasons, one transgresses the boundaries of Heaven. When a ruler abandons his duties and acts at will, he transgresses the boundaries of the ruler. When ministers recklessly fabricate things and use the false to confuse the genuine, they transgress the boundaries of ministers. When clothing and food exceed what is fitting, the common people transgress their own boundaries. Violating the boundaries of the Dao means life cannot be secure. Violating the timing of Heaven means the family's livelihood cannot be stable. Violating the boundaries of the ruler means the state cannot endure. Violating the boundaries of ministers means one's life is hard to preserve. Violating the boundaries of the common people means one's own self cannot survive.

Living contentedly within one's proper station and keeping to ordinary ways allows one to be in accord with Heaven and Earth. Reducing one's excessive desires allows one to walk alongside the Dao (the Way). When sacrifices are kept up without interruption, descendants will flourish. Those who crave beyond their station and seize too much will themselves meet with calamity. Burdens pile up layer upon layer, and descendants will then be implicated as well.

The ancients abandoned practices that harmed body and mind, and were willing to endure cold, hunger, and hardship, because they understood that when movement and rest lose their balance, and when farming and weaving fall out of step with the seasons, one violates one's innate nature. Indulging in desires without knowing contentment, seeking every one of the five flavors in food and fine ornament in clothing, living in extravagance and dissipation without reverence for the Way of Heaven, and laboring or accumulating merit beyond one's proper measure, so that food, clothing, and goods exceed those of ordinary people several times over: such conduct brings misfortune upon oneself and extends it to one's descendants.

For this reason, they preferred to wear coarse, worn cloth rather than seek completeness in their attire, and they preferred plain, simple food rather than crave satisfaction.

The common people turned to pursuing private gain and became accustomed to wrongdoing. Public affairs were neglected while private desires flourished, because those who managed private households grew wealthy, while those who sought the benefit of the state grew poor. The upright died young, and the incorruptible languished in hardship. Customs declined and social morals decayed; falsehood replaced sincerity, and society fell into turmoil and unrest. The gentleman withdrew and hid himself away, while the masses bullied one another, and the strong oppressed the weak. The poor were reduced to servitude, while wealthy households behaved like rulers. These conditions arose because dissolute rulers could not perceive the natural Way, violated their own nature and indulged their desires, turned away from the Great Dao and Heavenly Principle, and, showing off their cleverness and acting arbitrarily, sought only to gratify their own inclinations.

As a result, simplicity receded, while cunning and deceit steadily grew. Novel objects multiplied day by day, until their kinds could scarcely be counted. Flatterers who fawned and pandered won close favor and trust, while the wicked and the hypocritical were instead rewarded with titles and honors. The stratagems of ministers grew ever more powerful, while the proper way of the ruler was gradually obstructed. Methods of deception and concealment were elaborately embellished, and with them came the calamity of ruin and peril. The loyal and upright were pushed away, while the skilled at deceit formed factions and gained power everywhere.

Some people commit murder and go unpunished, and wicked prohibitions go unenforced. Once authority is established, one can command the three armies through sheer force. Wherever their gaze falls and whatever their intentions point to, people rush to respond at once. To preserve themselves, people will resort to any means whatsoever, and the world thus becomes fickle and unpredictable. This leaves people bewildered and anxious, feeling that living is no better than dying and existence no better than extinction. People display their courage through brawling and glare at one another with angry eyes; rulers and ministers scheme against each other, and fathers and sons mistrust one another. Even a seething cauldron of boiling water (an ancient cooking instrument used as a form of punishment) cannot frighten them, and iron axes (ancient instruments of punishment and weapons) cannot restrain them.

People hold life lightly and prize wealth, even valuing possessions above death. So they show off their strength and fight fiercely, glaring at one another. Rulers and ministers scheme against each other, and fathers and sons mistrust each other. The cauldron of boiling water (an ancient instrument for cooking criminals) does not frighten them, and the iron battle-axe (an axe-shaped weapon) cannot stop them. They brave danger, break severe prohibitions, face blades, and risk stray arrows, disregarding their own safety and treating only the gaining of profit as what matters. This is because they crave the glory that fame brings and also wish to live in lavish luxury.

Therefore, once they lose their possessions or their titles, some grieve until their hearts and guts are torn apart, some lose their minds and hang themselves, and some exhaust their Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), Shen (spirit), and will. Others even gladly embrace death, drawing a blade to harm themselves or throwing themselves into deep water. Clearly, the natural course of the Way (Dao) often runs contrary to worldly pursuit. Those who do not take their own gains and losses to heart are able to preserve their lives, while those who cling to their own benefit tend to lose them. Those who chase profit invite calamity, and those who seek good fortune instead meet disaster. Misfortune and blessing often arrive uninvited, and they meet us even without our going to greet them. I wish to make people stop living this way, yet in the end they find it difficult to free themselves from such attachment. Thus, valuing survival too highly and chasing profit is precisely the root of death, while not clinging to oneself and not greedily pursuing gain is the foundation of preserving life.

To dwell in yielding softness and remain in a lowly position is to avoid competing for fame and inviting trouble. To accept humility and humiliation is to be spared from error. Eating coarse grain and wild greens can bring lasting contentment, and wearing coarse cloth or a deerskin robe can keep one at ease. When the people are not treated as tools for private gain, the state will be at peace. When one does not regard one's own survival as too weighty, life can endure for a long time.

Thus, those who can remove selfish desire and diminish the self until nothing is sought lie still like a corpse when they rest and stand upright like a plumb line when they stand. In the face of change, they do not feel that anything is different, and in regarding life and death, they draw no distinction. They do not regard kings and lords as noble or slaves and captives as lowly. They simply follow whatever they encounter and entrust themselves to the transformations of creation (the regular patterns of natural change). When such a person is killed, they feel no sorrow, and when they obtain life, they feel no joy. They are able to unite with the Dao, become friends with Heaven and Earth, endure for a long time, and cycle without end. Wealth and rank do not become their aspiration, and they do not take wealth and rank as the measure by which to judge the world.

On Life Being Soft and Weak

When a person is alive, the body is supple; after death, it stiffens. When grass and trees are growing, they are tender and fragile; once they wither, they become dry and hard. Therefore, the hard and forceful belong to the category of death, while the soft and yielding belong to the category of life. An army that relies on its strength will struggle to win, and a tree that grows too stiff and rigid is apt to snap. What is strong ends up in a lower position, while what is weak comes to stand above.

[Zhigui] There is a presence that comes into being together with the myriad things, yet it has no form or sound, and no color, taste, or smell. It enters and leaves without a gate, and comes and goes without a path. Above, it has no summit; below, it has no root. It remains pure and unchanging, keeping to its own constant nature, and yet it is harmonious, subtle, and fine, with no fixed pattern of transformation. It merges with the myriad things and from it Heaven and Earth arise, becoming the beginning of Heaven and Earth and the root of Yin and Yang. When it dwells within the myriad things, they are able to endure; when it departs from them, they perish. It cannot be given a name, and so it is called "Shenming" (the numinous spirit, the mysterious and unfathomable origin).

It is born from the Great Void (a vast and empty state of emptiness) and grows within that which has no form or substance. It receives the myriad things without being exhausted and gives to them without running dry. When it moves to its utmost, it remains inexhaustible; when it is still to its utmost, the myriad things are preserved. When it departs from them, they perish. It cannot be named, and so it is called "Shenming." It is born in the Great Void and grows within non-being; it receives without being depleted and gives without being drained. When it moves to its limit, it is endless; when it stills to its limit, it is subtle and hard to fathom. It is so vast that it encompasses everything, and yet it can enter every place it reaches, circulating beyond the myriad things and pervading all that exists.

Heaven ceaselessly turns and Earth ceaselessly revolves, yet neither can keep pace with it; Yin-Yang qi (vital energy) may unfurl and Yang may race ahead, yet neither can catch up with it. When sound has faded away completely, it cannot be answered by any echo; when shadows have scattered, it cannot be matched by any likeness. One draws upon it but cannot make it one's own; one brings it to rest, yet it is not diminished by this. Taking and letting go each have their measure, and it harbors neither aversion nor partiality. It keeps to softness, dwells in weakness, and returns to emptiness. Whether advancing or retreating, bending or extending, it always accords with De (virtue or inner power, the inherent function of the Dao).

It walks ahead of the Dao and leads the myriad things, so that each of them is opened up and made manifest. Those who receive much of it become wise and sagely, while those who receive little appear foolish and ignorant. Therefore, shenming (spirit) and sagely wisdom are the lords that allow life to continue, while softness and emptiness are the dwelling places where shenming abides.

The spirit-intelligence (shenming) is entrusted to the human body. If it finds a settled dwelling there, it does not depart; if it loses its dwelling, it cannot remain. The ignorant do not understand this. Therefore, shenming and sage wisdom (shengzhi) are the masters that allow life to endure, and softness and stillness (xujing) are the place where shenming comes to rest.

When shenming is entrusted to the body and can dwell there securely, external force cannot subdue it, and cunning cleverness cannot alter it. If one guards shenming, one can enjoy wealth and be free from worry, remain in high position for a long time, and the longer one keeps it, the more secure one's circumstances become.

When a person is first born, the bones are soft and the sinews supple, the blood and qi (xueqi) circulate freely, the mind is undivided, and the spirit is calm. The complexion is lustrous, the body is moist and bright, the bearing is gentle, and the joints are strong. As the days accumulate, the body keeps growing, and after ten days or a month, the ears, eyes, and mind gradually become keen. Why is this? Because shenming dwells within the body.

In old age, the bones become dry and brittle, the sinews contract, the hair turns white, the flesh wastes away, food loses its flavor, and hearing and sight grow dull. Strength declines day by day, movement becomes ever slower, thinking grows confused, and choices often go against one's own intentions. At the time of death, the body withers, the face decays, the tongue shrinks, and the limbs stiffen. Why is this? Because shenming has left the body.

When grasses and trees first grow, their branches are moist, their flowers and leaves green and vibrant, flourishing and spreading, gentle and full of life. Why is this? Because yangqi (the warm, generative energy that drives growth) is still present. When grasses and trees decline, their flowers and leaves yellow and wither, their colour dries and scorches; at the time of death, the roots and stems dry out and the branches harden. Why is this? Because yangqi has already departed.

Thus, where the Shen (spirit; the spiritual power that keeps all things alive and renewing themselves) dwells, dangerous things can be made secure, and things that have died may come back to life. Where the Shen departs, what was secure turns dangerous, and what was strong begins to decline. Where yang Qi (vital energy; the breath that drives the growth and activity of all things) gathers, wood can be bent and grass can be knotted. Where yang Qi departs, breath congeals and ice becomes brittle and cracks. Therefore, Shen and yang Qi are the root of all growth, and softness is the medicine by which all things nourish themselves. Gentleness and compliance are the conditions for long survival, and they are also the places where Shen and yang Qi take up their abode. All things follow yang Qi, and gentleness is what suits them best.

Thus, hardness, strength, fullness, and plumpness are the signs of approaching death, while softness and moisture are where life dwells. Human nature dislikes the father of the western neighbor because he is strong, and loves the child of the eastern neighbor because he is young and weak. Dryness and withering are the signs of unyielding decline, while gentleness and moisture are the seat of vitality. People also love fine ornaments such as hairpins, earrings, and hair ornaments because they, too, are soft and lustrous.

Therefore, when there is no time of peace in which the Son of Heaven, the feudal lords, and rival states contend for power and their armies face off, the weak side can prevail while the strong side falls into difficulty. Why is this so? A mighty army that does not conform to the Way of Heaven and Earth takes neither harmony and gentleness as its foundation nor compassion as its principle. It does not march out to punish arrogance and cruelty, to relieve the needy, or to strike down greed. Instead, it relies on the power of the state and its numerous people. It is eager to establish merit and fame, to display its might, to seize the lands and wealth of others, and it takes pleasure in killing and is at ease in harming. It destroys the ancestral temples of others and deprives other states of their shejì (the foundations of state power and sacrifice), thereby flaunting its own awe-inspiring authority. Outwardly it lowers itself, yields, and shows weakness to others, but in truth it seizes every chance to exploit others' interests and advance its own ambition. Those who draw close to it meet death, and those who serve it meet disaster. Its crimes run counter to the human heart, and its killing is also contrary to Heaven's will. While it lives, the world suffers its harm; after it dies, the world instead profits. Many weak states unite, share their sorrows, and plan together, so that even a strong power, however mighty in name, cannot prevail in reality. Why? Because its wickedness spreads like poison, the calamities it has sown are hard to undo, and the Way of Heaven does not protect it.

Why is this so? In the past, the mighty states of Qin and Chu subdued the feudal lords and annexed their prefectures and counties. They possessed wealthy lands, held the honor of the Son of Heaven, and their power reached across the world, their fame shaking the four seas. Their nobility and favor reached their peak, and it could fairly be said they were at the height of strength. When they sat still, the feudal lords grew fearful; when they made the slightest move, all under heaven was alarmed; when they issued a single command, the people grew sorrowful; and once they raised armies and acted, even the spirits seemed disturbed. In the end, however, their states were destroyed and their houses ruined, and they themselves suffered ruin and disgrace. Why was this? Because they abandoned softness and humility and instead pursued hardness and strength.

When the Han was about to rise, Liu Bang once withdrew to avoid calamity and hid himself like a dragon. The common people searched for him everywhere, yet in the end he could not escape being acclaimed by the multitude. He revered Heaven and Earth, cherished the people as if they were his own children, rewarded those who had merit, and supported the good, taking Heaven and Earth as his teachers. Facing enemies and responding to change, his planning was as broad and deep as rivers and seas; through campaigns he gained victories, took cities and seized lands, subdued Qin, and destroyed Chu. All under heaven rejoiced and supported him, and raised him up as Son of Heaven. Why was this? Because he accorded with the heart of Heaven and acted with compassion and humility.

It is not only so in human affairs; the myriad things are the same. There is a great tree, rising a hundred xun (an ancient unit of length) high, its trunk so thick that several people could embrace it. Its crown is split open like a doorway, and its lower end likewise branches into a doorway-like shape. It neither blossoms nor bears fruit, and it remains year after year in the lower ranks, while many other trees with spreading branches and luxuriant leaves, green and lush, grow beneath its shelter. This is because the great tree is vast in form and overwhelming in momentum.

Thus the principle by which the spirits operate and the regularity of Heaven and Earth's natural course are such that the small cannot bear the great, and the light cannot bear the heavy. Therefore a domineering person cannot serve as ruler, and a towering, mighty tree cannot dwell in the upper ranks. Why is this? When a domineering person becomes ruler, all the states under heaven grow anxious; when a mighty tree dwells in the upper ranks, its roots wither. The multitude considers itself great and therefore stays below; the sage regards himself as small and therefore stands above. That the strong dwell below and the weak dwell above is the natural order of the myriad things.

Chapter "The Way of Heaven" (Tianzhi Dao Pian)

The way of Heaven (Tiandao) works like the drawing of a bowstring: what is high is pressed down, what is low is raised up, what is in excess is reduced, and what is lacking is supplemented. Heaven diminishes what is excessive and makes up what is deficient. Human ways, however, often do the opposite, taking from those who lack and supporting those who already abound. Who can take what they have in surplus and offer it to the world? Only one who has attained the Dao (the Way). For this reason, the sage acts without relying on it, accomplishes merit without claiming it as their own, and is unwilling to display their worth.

[Zhigui] says: Before Heaven and Earth had taken form, before Yin-Yang had emerged, before the signs of cold and heat appeared, and before light and darkness had separated, three things stood side by side: one turbid and one clear, with clear qi (qi) rising above, turbid qi sinking below, and harmonious qi residing in between. The three arose together, and from them Heaven and Earth were formed, Yin and Yang joined, and the myriad things grew. When harmonious qi is lost, things decline; when it is obtained, things flourish.

For the myriad things, harmonious qi keeps the hard from breaking and keeps the soft from curling. In Heaven it is like the ink-line, and on Earth it is like the level that measures straightness. Applied to the side of yang, it is like the compass that draws circles; applied to the side of yin, it is like the square that draws squares. It neither moves recklessly nor clings and stagnates. It does not force giving, nor does it deliberately seek to take. The myriad things grow through their softness, and qi moves through its solidity and strength. When it is set in motion, nothing cannot be regulated, and when it is still, nothing fails to respond.

Therefore, harmonious qi is the means by which De (Virtue) operates, the assistant of the spirits, the standard by which Heaven and Earth move, the place where all beings find their rest, the essentials of the ten thousand regions, the root of nature, and the gateway to auspiciousness and blessing. The wise see wisdom in it, and the benevolent see benevolence in it. All things in the world follow it day and night, yet no one can see it. Why is this? Because its work of nurturing the myriad things is subtle and hard to detect, and the way it accomplishes affairs is refined and leaves no trace.

Thus, the Way of Heaven and Earth does not favor any one with benefit, nor does it harm any one. It takes wuwei (non-action) as its guiding principle. It is vast and penetrating, harmonious and upright, accords with the myriad things, and embraces them with depth. It omits no single thing, nor does it dwell in any one place, yet no one can see it. Why is this? Because its work of nurturing the myriad things is subtle and hard to detect, and the way it accomplishes affairs is refined and leaves no trace.

Therefore, the principle by which Heaven and Earth operate is to show partiality toward no one and to harm no one. Guided by Wuwei (non-action), it is penetrating, calm, and upright; it accords with all things, and it is deep and all-embracing. It omits no single thing and does not elevate any one place above the rest. It allows each of the myriad things to rectify its own nature and life, and so the myriad things follow their natural course.

Thus, what has grown too prosperous will by itself decay, and what is stretched too taut will by itself slacken. What is hidden will by itself come to light, and what is subtle will by itself become apparent. What is deficient will be replenished, and what is in excess will be diminished. What endures will in the end perish, and what lives will in the end die. Right and wrong turn into one another, and fortune and misfortune are brought on by oneself. Loss cannot be evaded, and gain cannot be refused. Calamity does not remain forever, and blessings do not stay in one place. Each of the myriad things bears its own share, and none can monopolize all advantages at once. Therefore, the scaled have no fur, and the furred have no feathers; those that can gore have no upper teeth, and those with horns have no incisors. What appears by day vanishes by night, and what was obtained earlier may later be lost. To wish to use things repeatedly and take every advantage has never been possible.

Whether great or small, all are governed by the same regularity, and none can remain fixed; once one falls into this net of regularity, one cannot break free. Thus the sun begins to slant westward at noon, and once the moon is full it begins to wane. The four seasons keep changing, now receding and now growing. Beneath high mountains there must be deep valleys, and where great rivers flow there must be surging waves. Metal can be melted and stone can be scalded by hot water, and this is because congealed ice exists alongside them as well. Cracks appear in the ground because of the transformations of Yin-Yang.

All crafts depend on this principle. When a bowmaker shapes a bow, they first make the material contract and then expand, bend the bow body and then let it open again, and correct it according to the compass, the carpenter's square, and the plumb line. If the bowstring is pulled too high and too tight, they loosen and ease it; if it sags slack, they tighten and raise it. Excess is pared away, and deficiency is supplemented. The bowstring and the bow body must work together, and every part above and below must be mutually adjusted, taking evenness as the standard and harmony as the norm. Only then can the bow be drawn and the arrow be shot.

Raising what is low and lowering what is high, reducing what is in surplus and supplementing what is deficient: this is the principle by which Heaven and Earth operate. To turn away from the Dao in order to accommodate the common people, and then to defy the people in order to comply with principle, is to get the order backward. The worthy assist, and the sage (shèngrén) governs. In all matters, one gives what is in surplus as aid to others. The wise are placed above and the foolish below; those of great talent hold high rank, and those of modest skill hold lower office; those of small merit receive small rewards, and those of great achievement receive generous stipends. This is how the lords and kings govern the realm.

Those who deceive the sincere and honest, humiliate the loyal and trustworthy, and bully the feeble and muddled; who use force to suppress the weak, numbers to overwhelm the few, influence to press upon the destitute, and high rank to press down upon those below: such people, though seated high, are hard to measure; though full, are hard to destroy; though strong, are hard to break. Though yielding, they are not swept away; though isolated, they cannot be controlled; though small, they cannot be seized; though dull-witted, they are not despised; though they have nothing, nothing can be taken from them. Heaven and Earth shelter them as they would shelter a child, and the common people aid them as they would support a mother. They walk with harmonious Qi (qì), follow the Dao (Dào) always, and live in accord with Heaven and humanity alike, so that the spirits guard them as well. This is the way of the Perfected (zhìrén).

Therefore, the sage acts without taking the pursuit of fame as an aim, and takes harmony, gentleness, and yielding as the foundation of their conduct. They remain hidden yet are not confined; they enjoy honor yet do not flaunt it. They decline nobility, refuse abundance, and do not spend surplus strength. When the national treasury overflows, they do not claim it for themselves; when the people live in plenty, they do not use it to win friends or claim credit. They always appear cautious, as if they had lost something, and wary, as if about to be punished. They practice the Great Dao, live in harmony with all things, understand the constant patterns of Heaven, and grasp the laws by which the earth moves. When their work is complete, they do not claim the merit; when their De (dé) spreads to others, they do not hold it as their own. They avoid fame and power and dwell in deep, quiet stillness. They efface their traces, show no outward form, and keep to the formless as their rule. Dwelling in silent emptiness, no one can take anything from them or give them anything; they stand alone, in accord with the Dao. Why do they do this? Because they fear the calamities that follow from going against the Dao, and therefore they do not dare to display their worth.

"Yú lì bù qǔ" (remaining strength not taken) is written as "yú lì bù shī" (remaining strength not lost) in the Yílán edition (Yílán běn).

Nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming what is hard and strong. For this reason, there is no substitute for this principle. Water can overcome what is strong, and softness can overcome hardness. Everyone under heaven knows this, yet few truly put it into practice.

The sage said: "One who bears the disgrace of the state may be called its lord; one who bears the calamities of the state may be called ruler of all under heaven." True principles often sound like paradoxes.

To forcibly reconcile deep resentments always leaves lingering bitterness. How could this be considered truly proper? Therefore, the sage holds the left half of the tally (the document recording debts or agreements) but does not use it to demand repayment from others. One of profound virtue keeps the tally like a keeper of contracts, upholding agreements without making demands. One lacking virtue acts like a tax collector, exacting at every turn. The Dao (Way) of Heaven shows no favoritism toward kin; it constantly aids the good.

Dao and De embrace all things; Heaven and Earth bear all things; yin and yang bring about their transformations; the sun and moon shine upon them. Each kind of thing rises together, intricately intertwined, and its flourishing and decline, its survival and perishing, all shift with the circumstances of the time. Hard things, once worn down by long accumulation, decay, while soft things are able to prevail. This is the constant pattern of the myriad things, what is called naturalness (ziran).

Water is able to penetrate stone and pierce metal, to wash away mountains and breach dikes, because it flows without rest, gathers and disperses with the times, and is deep, wide, boundless, and unending. Its brightness cannot be obscured, and its force cannot be overcome. When it becomes turbid it can clarify itself; when it is diminished it can be replenished; when it finds itself in danger it can return to calm; when it rushes forward it can slow down. Water changes with the circumstances, seeming to die and yet being born again. It moistens all things and nourishes all forms; it bestows upon the myriad things without ever being exhausted, and sustains them without ever growing weak. It flows into the four seas without claiming merit for doing so; it is matched with Heaven and Earth without deliberately acting. It roams freely through the most minute places, and yet seems to soar beyond the nine wilds (the vast expanse of the world). Its grace rises to the blue heavens and accumulates in the yellow earth below. When strong, it can support Heaven and Earth; when weak, it can sink even a feather. Beginning from tiny droplets that gather little by little, it ultimately forms rivers and seas. Water has no fixed position, circulating and returning endlessly; in its advancing, retreating, bending, and extending, it draws close to the Dao.

This is because water's form is yielding and its movement and stillness both accord with the proper moment. It does not rush ahead to make itself heard or to stand out first; its nature is harmonious, pliant, moist, and smooth. Thus, though the various crafts employ different methods, some require soaking and corroding metal and stone, some require breaking what is hard and snapping what is rigid, some require smoothing the finest details to refined precision, and some require loosening and relaxing various forms. In seasoning the five flavors and washing away foul odors, in overcoming hard objects and piercing vast ones, none can do without water. By what means does it accomplish all of this? It is precisely because water is harmonious and pliant, flowing smoothly and easily.

Why is this so? Many things each have their strengths, yet none can compare with softness and weakness. Water can extinguish fire, and a whetstone can sharpen metal. Horns and teeth are prone to injury and breakage, while the tongue and ears are seldom harmed. Humility and yielding can restrain arrogance and violence, and dwelling in a lowly, yielding position can even dissolve deep-seated resentment. Everyone under heaven knows these principles, and ordinary people have all heard of them, yet they are driven by selfish desires, and no one is able to truly act upon them.

Therefore, speech invites calamity, and silence may also cause harm. Striving to advance becomes a sign of inviting disaster, while retreat may also be regarded as a portent of misfortune. Busy yet without virtue, toiling yet without result, one who long turns away from the light will end up sunk in darkness. Great things become small, and what once existed turns toward extinction. Thus, when a wise ruler takes up the great responsibility of the state, he must surely swear an oath: "One who bears the filth of the state may become lord of the state; one who bears the misfortunes of the state may become king of the world."

What does it mean to bear the filth of the state? It means eating what the common people refuse to eat, wearing what they scorn, and dwelling where they will not live. It means taking as one's own duty what the people consider hardship, devoting oneself to attending to the people's needs, and having no leisure to enjoy a comfortable life. Therefore, he swears: "One who bears the filth of the state may become lord of the state; one who bears the misfortunes of the state may become king of the world."

A ruler such as this is relied upon by the people as a father and loved as one loves a mother. The people are willing to become his subjects, and even willing to live and die together with him. In this way, even when he dwells in a land that is cold, barren, and strewn with sand and stone, or in a remote, narrow place of hardship, he can regard hardship and humiliation as glory. He preserves the foundation handed down by his ancestors, turns calamity into fortune, and remains for a long time the ruler of the people.

What does it mean to "bear the misfortunes of the state"? It means enduring what the people detest and accepting the circumstances they hate. It means facing the great calamities that befall the people without regarding them as one's own merit. It means that even while privately reckoning the state is about to perish, one does not go against the will of Heaven, and that even while worrying one may be killed, one does not harm the welfare of the people.

Such a person rises and falls, advances and withdraws, in accord with Heaven and Earth, and the myriad things of the world change their course accordingly. The people of the world follow him: wherever he attacks, the target is brought to ruin, and whatever he seeks submits to him. The world is vast, yet it returns to unity. People admire his bearing and accept his transforming influence, and none fail to receive his grace. Therefore he can correct evil and pacify turmoil, and there is nothing he cannot overcome. He can turn a custom of indulgence and corruption into one of sincerity and simplicity, bringing his merit and virtue to the highest attainment, while his reputation and power extend to the four quarters. Why is this so? Because he holds a gentle heart and a yielding will, makes light of himself and values the people, and is able to endure disgrace and humiliation with equanimity.

Therefore, words that accord with the Dao (the Way) often sound like their opposite, yet no one can overturn them. They seem to lie close at hand, yet appear distant and impossible to fathom, and if one seeks them in far-off places, one ends up gaining nothing at all. Why? One lives in luxury yet demands frugality from others; one's own conduct is crooked, yet one demands uprightness from the common people; one brings disaster upon oneself, yet seeks blessings from Heaven. Heaven and Earth have already shown their signs, yet people do not see them; the spirits have already issued their warnings, yet people do not hear them. Abandoning these signs and warnings and still obstinately acting on one's own will, a person's body acts here while the consequences of the deed are answered by the Dao of Heaven. Blaming and resenting others, the world falls into chaos.

Some people use laws to make right and wrong clear, use punishments to severely chastise crimes, and make names correspond to actual conditions, so that their rewards and punishments also appear appropriate. Yet even when they handle affairs fairly and without private interest, they may still go against the will of Heaven. Even when they believe themselves upright and free of wickedness, they may still lose the hearts of the people. As punishments are multiplied, treachery only grows more rampant; as rewards become more lavish, disorder may become even more severe. At such times the good are instead deceived and harmed, and the worthy likewise fall into the net of punishment. Even if names and facts correspond on the surface, how could this be called proper?

Therefore the sage holds fast to the tally of the Dao (the standard embodied by the Dao), keeps to the sincerity of De (Virtue), and brings them into accord with himself...

Therefore the sage holds to the principles of the Dao (the Way) and takes De (Virtue/Power) as his token of trust, putting them into practice in himself rather than demanding them of others. A ruler of virtue, when he is about to act, must first examine whether his plans accord with the Way of Heaven; when he is about to take action, he must first verify that they conform to the standards of the Dao. He looks first for faults in himself and does not blame the common people; he takes the calamities upon himself and does not resent others. For this reason, right and wrong are naturally judged, and black and white are naturally distinguished. Without taking any action, the realm responds; without issuing any command, the myriad things follow their proper courses.

Those who lack virtue attend only to satisfying their own desires and ignore the common people. When governance goes astray and disorder arises, they do not reflect on themselves but instead pursue the faults of the people, punishing them with harsh laws. Since each of the people has some fault, every household is condemned, and so resentment grows and the will of Heaven is unsettled. The state is thrown into turmoil and chaos, and generations to come will suffer its calamities.

Therefore, the operating principle of Heaven and Earth accompanies the affairs of the human world. It shows no partiality toward anyone, nor does it reject anyone; it does not keep anyone at a distance, nor does it draw anyone close. When things are stirred, they respond to one another, like an echo that arises with the sound.

Therefore, the principle of Heaven and Earth accompanies the human world: it shows no partiality and no rejection, neither distance nor closeness. Stirring and responding to one another, it answers like an echo following a voice; movement and stillness follow each other, as a shadow follows its form. The Way of Heaven and Earth is neither crooked nor fawning, and it remains upright and constant. Those who do evil turn away from it; those who do good are in accord with it. The weak and yielding join with it, and those who practice wuwei (non-action) respond to it.

Chapter on the Small State with Few People

Let the state be small in territory and its population be few. Even though there are all manner of implements, do not let them be put to use; cause the people to value their lives and not to migrate lightly to distant places. Though there are boats and carts, there is no occasion to ride in them; though there are armor and weapons, there is no need to display them. Let the people return to a life as simple as knotted-cord record keeping: they find their food sweet and their clothing pleasing, delight in their local customs, and dwell at ease in their homes. Neighboring states can see one another, and the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs can be heard across the border, yet the people grow old and die without ever going back and forth between them.

The states differ in size, their lands in ease and danger, their peoples in number, their goods in abundance and scarcity, their terrain in height and lowness, their roads in distance, their strength in force and weakness, and their authority in weight and lightness. Large states overcome small ones, level ground overcomes perilous ground, plenty overcomes want, many people overcome few, high ground overcomes low ground, near routes overcome distant ones, force overcomes softness, and lightness overcomes heaviness. This is the constant principle of things.

A state's strength depends on its generals, its security on its chief ministers, its gains and losses on its ruler, and its survival or ruin on whether it accords with the Dao (dao, the Way). Heaven does not forever favor one side, and the people do not forever cling to one place. One who possesses De (de, Virtue or Power) can draw the people to him, while one who lacks it will be abandoned. This is the natural order.

Therefore, vast territory, a large population, fierce generals, and an awe-inspiring ruler are not enough to ensure strength. Firm armor, well-trained soldiers, high walls, and deep moats are not enough to ensure stability. Eloquence, keen attention, sweet words, empty cleverness, and flattery that exploits circumstances are not enough to win sincere affection. Ceding land, offering treasures, forming vertical and horizontal alliances (agreements with other states or united resistance against them), and gathering many partisans are not enough to ensure safety. Only one who accords with the Dao can grasp the situation and respond to every affair. Where De is deep and grace is far-reaching, one prevails wherever one goes. In this way the small can become great, the weak can become strong, the light can become heavy, and the few can become many. Thus, where the junzi (the exemplary person) dwells, even a weak and small state endures, and where the xiaoren (the petty person) dwells, even a mighty state will ultimately perish.

A small state's ruler has little land, few people, scant De, and slight authority. The other lords have no wish to deal with him, and his laws and punishments cannot hold the situation together. He has no hills or heights to serve as barriers and no rivers or natural defenses. He wins no closeness from his neighbors and stands isolated, squeezed between great powers. His land is too barren to be worth seizing, and his treasures are too meager to be worth presenting. His generals and ministers refuse to attach themselves to him, his people easily slip away, and his neighbors keep making demands. Thus a small state has no firm support like bedrock and no secure guarantee like a mountain range. It often stands in danger, like a pile of eggs stacked one upon another.

Yet to attack such a small state is not an act of cruelty, and to preserve it is not an especially benevolent deed. A small state is therefore both the critical point of its peril and the opportunity for its stability.

Therefore, the sage who governs a small state is able to turn calamity into blessing and danger into peace. They enrich the country so that boats and carts are available for use, strengthen its defenses and equip it with armor and weapons. Tools are convenient, clothing and food are abundant, livestock multiply, and reserves are ample, surpassing those of neighboring large states by ten or even a hundred times. In this way, the hearts of the people are settled.

The sage has the capacity yet does not act recklessly, and has insight yet does not act rashly. They do not pursue rich flavors and do not deliberately decorate the kitchen. They restrain their desires, do not indulge in sensual pleasures, and set an example through their own conduct. They drink before they eat and rest after they labor. In summer they wear light clothing, and in winter they add layers for warmth, seeking only comfort and suitability and never extravagance in dress. Everything they do serves to make life convenient, not to satisfy the desires of the mouth and belly.

Light taxation and few corvée labor duties leave the common people with surplus strength. The roots of annexation and plunder are thereby cut off, and the custom of hoarding and accumulation likewise comes to an end. Customs become simple and honest, and the people value frugality, loyalty, and sincerity. They possess wealth yet seem to have none, and they possess ability yet appear humble.

Why is this so? Because the sage takes Dao (the Way) as the foundation of governance and holds to De (Virtue) in their own person. Whether in toil or ease, danger or peace, they share the burdens of the common people. They level their own minds so that affairs of state accord with harmony and moderation, and they hear opinions by examining actual circumstances. Respectful and humble, gentle in speech, they nourish the spirit of the people in this way. They do not display cleverness, wisdom, or great virtue, and so people do not lose their original nature in the pursuit of fame and profit. Neighboring states are not disturbed, the people live in harmony and gather together, they delight in their lives and enjoy long years, and they detest falling into banditry.

Sincere Words Are Not Beautiful

At this time, although there were no bells, drums, or other such instruments, all things were abundant. The common people lived in harmony, and ministers and ruler were in accord with one another. People were content in their native lands and delighted in their lives, so they would rather end their days among mountain crags and caves. Even if relocating elsewhere promised a hundredfold benefit, they were unwilling to leave their state.

Every household had boats and carts, yet there was nothing that needed to be transported or ridden. Every household kept armor and weapons, yet there was no occasion to deploy them. Why was this so? Because the generals and ministers were wise and the ruler accorded with the Dao (the Way). The common people devoted themselves to farming and weaving, and regarded ample store as good. Those in high positions prized simplicity and considered gentleness and humility important. They valued loyalty, reverence, and trustworthiness, led the people to diligence and practicality, and did not esteem cleverness. Laws were clear, customs were stable, and superiors and inferiors upheld one another. Without issuing orders, the people naturally complied; without fighting battles, enemies still stood in awe. Those who sought profit did not take on the risk of defeat, and those who chased fame did not scheme to break the law and incur punishment.

People dwelt at ease, and the common folk were not disturbed. They reduced cleverness and scheming, discarded artifice, and returned to the simple life of remote antiquity. They used knotted cords to record matters and agreed upon dates, conducting affairs and conversing with plain sincerity. Goods were simple, ritual forms were spare, and words and desires were few. Everyone followed nature, and each found their proper place. They ate coarse grains and wild greens, taking the tasteless as sweet, and wore hempen cloth and deerskin, taking the absence of ornament as fine. Even when their dwellings were precipitous and cramped, they lived in peace; even when their environment was cold and remote, they regarded hardship as fulfillment. They were content with the customs of their own locale and adapted to its water and soil.

When the Dao (the Way) flourished and De (Virtue/Power) was deep, even widowers and widows lived in harmony. Neighboring regions bordered one another, each guarding its own territory. People's spirit was not depleted, their hun and po (souls) were not harmed, their nature and life were preserved intact, and their desires were satisfied. The crowing of roosters and barking of dogs could be heard from one place to the next. Common people going up the mountains to gather firewood and vegetables could see one another, and they might even share the same stream for bathing, so close were their dwellings. Yet rulers and ministers did not collude with one another, and men and women did not gather or visit. From birth to old age and on to death, they had no contact with one another unless it was to convey the ruler's commands.

True words are often not pleasing to the ear, and pleasing words are often not true. The wise do not blindly chase after external things.

Truth in words is not ornate, and ornate words are seldom trustworthy. Those with true insight do not parade their learning, and those who parade their learning often lack real insight. Those truly skilled at acting do not win by argument, and those skilled at argument do not necessarily succeed in accomplishing anything. Therefore the sage does not hold things as his own: the more he helps others, the more abundant he himself becomes; the more he gives to others, the richer he himself grows. The Dao of Heaven benefits all things without harming them; in the sage's conduct, he accomplishes his work without contending with others.

[Zhigui] says: Emptiness and substance depend on one another, and having and not-having give rise to each other. Cold and heat are opposites, yet they accompany one another as the seasons alternate; when Yin recedes, Yang grows, and when Yang grows, Yin gradually recedes. When the root flourishes, the branches may be harmed; when the branches decline, the root weakens in turn. The regularity of Heaven and Earth lies in change.

These principles are the gateway through which people come to know things, and the foundation for distinguishing genuine feeling from falsehood. They can help a person weigh doubts and rifts, and like a measuring rule and balance, they help one judge confusion from ostentation. Following the root of things, one investigates the formless and non-acting principles within them; one opens understanding with a natural, unforced mind and tests judgments against the principle of nature; one grasps the key points and deduces from them, summarizing their essential regularities. One infers the distant from the near and observes the front of things from their reverse; hearing a name, one discerns the reality; seeing a beginning, one infers the end; listening to a sound, one discerns its shape and thereby explains gain and loss. In this way, the reasoning of a thousand years before and after can confirm one another, and the works of ten thousand generations can be traced to a common source and a common method. The inner principles of Heaven and Earth can then be seen, and the subtle and obscure meanings can be fully understood—how much more so the affairs of the human world?

The human mind holds the natural Dao, comprehends the principles of worldly affairs, grasps the root of Heaven's transformations, and understands the regularities by which things are alike and different. Therefore, when words accord with reality and one's manner is calm and detached, and one's virtue is harmonious, this is called xin (trustworthiness). Xin is the foundation on which those below rely on those above, and on which people obtain their support from one another; it is the basis of great strength, the beginning of the establishment of authority, the path by which the people are willing to lend aid and affairs succeed, and indeed the cause from which power draws its support and reputation arises. Thus, when one person issues a call, a thousand respond; when one person acts, ten thousand follow. In this way people can defeat strong enemies and break great armies, and even walk through fire and water or face mortal danger, unflinching even when death is before them—and yet the people do not resent him, because they trust him.

Flattering words and exaggerated claims draw praise and agreement from everyone who hears them. This is called a failure to keep faith. What does it mean to fail to keep faith? To make a promise and then not keep it. When a person fails to keep faith, benevolence and favor cannot take root, authority cannot be exercised, power and status cannot be made manifest, and a title cannot be established. No one heeds rewards, and punishments cannot prevent wrongdoing. As a result, those above and below lose trust in one another, and nothing gets done. Even if someone holds an honored position, they do not truly possess rank and power: they occupy a high office without the people’s support, left isolated and without allies. The state cannot be at peace. People throughout the realm long for a worthy ruler to appear, yet in the end they all suffer accusations and punishment. All this is brought about by empty, pleasing words.

Return to the roots and discard the branches, superficial flourishes, and embellishments. Trace things back to their beginnings; use a few fundamental principles to guide many affairs, one principle to meet countless changes, and simple methods to manage complex matters. Hold fast, simply, to the pure foundations. This is called “hearing little”—that is, hearing less of the confused and distracting talk. Only by hearing little can one truly understand. What does it mean to understand? To comprehend human affairs and discern the workings of the spirit is to understand. Knowing how things work is a way to preserve oneself and a means of protecting the state. It is what those above rely on and those below turn to; it is also the way to follow the enduring patterns of Heaven and reach the Great Dao. Thus, to grasp the great principles that govern security and danger, and the key to order and disorder; to enable all the learned people of the realm to serve with wholehearted devotion, fulfill their duties, and act for the public good, thereby securing the ruler, extending the reach of authority, and flourishing in power and virtue—this is called “knowledge.”

The mind is crowded with countless thoughts, while the eyes continually scrutinize human affairs, wanting to understand everything. As a result, the spirit becomes scattered. This is called being widely read and well informed. Yet despite knowing so much, one cannot truly understand. What does it mean to be unable to understand? It means harboring doubts about the Dao of Heaven and being full of uncertainty about human affairs. This is what is meant by “not knowing.”

Such people take pleasure in enjoying all kinds of things, while their minds teem with thoughts and their outward desires run strong. They feel hatred within and are often filled with aversion. They are easily drawn by the lure of survival and easily cowed by the threat of death. So they act rashly at the sight of anything strange and shrink back in fear when danger appears. Bewildered by external things, they follow changing circumstances into deceit and trickery, turning away from the open, accessible Way and finally falling into hardship. Their actions are often accompanied by worry, and even in stillness they come close to calamity. The ancestral temples are thereby put in jeopardy, and the people are scattered. All this is caused by an excess of learning and a scattered spirit.

To be open to all directions and widely informed, yet able to make room for what is incomplete; to speak little—this is called “not disputing,” that is, not showing off one’s skill in argument. Matters gradually come to fruition without a sound, and trust is established in silence. In this way, one can bring the good Way to fruition. What does it mean to bring the good Way to fruition? It means acting in accord with Heaven’s intent and remaining still in harmony with the lay of the land and human circumstances. Every word is fitting, and silence is always appropriate. This is called “good.”

Goodness is the foundation on which the noble person stands and the basis of every virtue. It accords with good fortune, and from it come the blessings of every kind. The good Way circulates without drying up and can be put to use without ceasing. No ruler throughout the generations can alter it, and differences in custom cannot change it. Heaven and Earth bestow it, and the spirits lend it their aid. Thus, to accord with the Dao of Heaven above and with human circumstances below is the beginning of good governance. It keeps the patterns of things going without end and its effects from ceasing; it remains unchanged through the generations and is not altered by differences in custom. The good Way can govern the myriad things and nurture all living beings, winning the willing assent of everyone under Heaven. It is passed down from generation to generation without end.

Those who cannot see the source of the Great Dao or the root of the myriad things presume to slander Heaven and Earth, human beings, and the spirits. They twist and elaborate their words, changing their original meaning at will. This is called “contentious argument.” With resentment and suspicion in their hearts, they follow their selfish desires and act recklessly, while esteeming eloquent speech. Thus wrongdoing arises.

What is wrongdoing? To act in defiance of the Way of Heaven, and in stillness to oppose the principles of Earth; to harm people and all things through speech, and even in silence to injure the spirits—this is wrongdoing. Those who do wrong separate the Great Dao from De, destroy simplicity, and corrupt what is pure. They alter their words and act in the name of righteousness and benevolence, then use all manner of things to fabricate omens, linking them to Heaven and Earth. They may even invent auspicious signs, such as bears and other creatures, and become people revered by the common world. They invert the original meaning, evade the facts and conceal what things truly are. They flaunt an appearance of stillness and detachment, confuse others with baseless claims, abandon integrity, and establish falsehood. They devote themselves to flattering rulers, embellish their words to please those above them, and form factions to cater to the ruler’s wishes. They open the way for cunning and favor-seeking, block the path of loyal and upright counsel, and use flattery and compliance to manipulate state power. In this way, they nurture disorder and foster great treachery. When the world esteems clever speech, customs grow corrupt, rulers become benighted, and government is obscured and obstructed, ultimately bringing danger and ruin, this is the harm caused by “contentious argument.”

Therefore, sages carefully guard against such matters at their inception, cutting them off before they begin to sprout. They cast aside clever disputation and contrived intelligence, along with showy rhetoric and false claims. They remain empty and still, yielding and gentle, quiet and deep, plain and sincere. They conceal their cleverness, keep their benevolence within, and guide things by following the natural Way. Right and wrong, black and white, should be as clear as the sun and moon; sameness and difference, truth and falsehood, should be as plain as Heaven and Earth.