《老子指略》

Everything that comes into being, and every undertaking that succeeds, must arise from what is formless and nameless. The formless and nameless are the root of all things.

It is neither warm nor cool, and belongs to neither the gong nor the shang tone. Listen for it, and it cannot be heard; look for it, and no form appears; touch it, and it cannot be distinctly felt; taste it, and no flavor can be discerned. Thus, as the myriad things, it is an undivided whole; as an image, it has no form; as a sound, it is too faint to hear; as a flavor, it has no identifiable quality. For this very reason, it can be the root of all things, encompassing and connecting Heaven and Earth, and allowing the workings of all things to flow without obstruction.

If something is warm, it cannot at the same time be cool; if it is the gong tone, it cannot at the same time be the shang tone. Once something has a particular form, it must be distinguished from other things; once it has a particular sound, it must belong to a certain category. Therefore, an image that appears in a particular form is not the greatest image, and a sound that appears as a particular tone is not the greatest sound.

Yet without the appearance of particular images, the Great Image—the formless whole that contains all things—could not fully unfold. Without the sounding of particular notes, the Great Sound—the sound that transcends particular tones—could not emerge. When all kinds of images appear, but things are no longer confined by any single image, the Great Image can flow freely. When all kinds of sounds are heard, but the mind no longer clings to any single sound, the Great Sound can emerge. Thus, grasp the Great Image, and all under Heaven will turn toward it; put the Great Sound into practice, and social customs will change. Though the formless Great Image flows freely and all under Heaven turn toward it, they cannot escape it. Though the soundless Great Sound emerges and customs change through it, people find it difficult to explain how.

Heaven and Earth, then, bring forth the five kinds of things, yet no single thing performs every function. The sage carries out the five kinds of teaching, yet does not use words to complete the teaching. Hence it is said: “A Dao that can be clearly spoken is not the constant Dao; a name that can be clearly defined is not a constant name.”

The source of the five kinds of things is neither hot nor cold, neither soft nor hard. The source of the five kinds of teaching is neither bright nor dark; it shows no favoritism through kindness and causes no harm. Though ancient and modern times differ, eras change, and customs shift, this source remains unchanged. This is what is meant by: “From ancient times to the present, its name has never disappeared.”

If Heaven does not follow this—the Dao (the Way)—the myriad things cannot come into being. If governance does not follow it, achievements cannot be accomplished. Thus past and present are connected, and beginnings and endings are alike. By grasping the principles of antiquity, one can govern the present; by testing them against things in the present, one can understand their ancient source. This is what is meant by saying, “From antiquity to the present, its name has never disappeared.”

If Heaven does not follow this—the Dao (the Way)—the myriad things cannot come into being. If governance does not follow it, achievements cannot be accomplished. Thus past and present are connected, and beginnings and endings are alike. By grasping the principles of antiquity, one can govern the present; by testing them against things in the present, one can understand their ancient source. This is what is meant by the “constant”—the Dao that endures without change. The Dao has no shape of light or darkness, nor any appearance of warmth or coolness. Hence it is said, “The constant is called clarity”: the enduring Dao enables people to understand things. The myriad things come into being and achievements are accomplished through it, so it can be used to investigate the origins of all things.

However swiftly thunder and lightning race, they cannot reach all four directions in an instant. However swiftly one travels on the wind, one cannot arrive within a single breath. Thus true swiftness does not depend on speed, and true arrival does not depend on rushing onward. The Dao that can be expressed in words, however grand it may be, cannot encompass Heaven and Earth; a thing with form, however fully it may develop, cannot contain the myriad things.

Therefore, those who praise it cannot exhaust its beauty, and those who sing of it cannot adequately convey its vastness. To give it a name is to fall short of what it truly is; to speak of it is not to say all that can be said. A name necessarily draws distinctions, and speech necessarily relies on something. Where distinctions are drawn, not everything can be included; where speech relies on something, it cannot encompass the whole. What cannot include everything falls far short of the Dao as it truly is; what cannot encompass the whole cannot be fully defined by a name. These principles can all be explored further.

The Way is named from the fact that all things arise from it and move according to it. “Mystery” describes it as the obscure and shadowy source. “Depth” means that it is profound and unfathomable, with no end that can be reached. “Greatness” means that it is vast and all-pervading, seemingly able to reach everywhere. “Distance” means that it extends without limit and is beyond our grasp. “Subtlety” means that it is hidden and exceedingly fine, invisible to the eye. Each of these descriptions has its own meaning, yet none can exhaust the nature of the Way.

The Way is boundless and cannot be described as “small.” It is subtle, mysterious, formless, and traceless, so “great” cannot encompass it either. Thus the Laozi says, “I reluctantly give it the name ‘Way,’” and also calls it “mysterious.” These are only provisional names, not precise definitions.

To confine the Way in words is to depart from its enduring nature; to give it a fixed name is to move away from its true character. Deliberate action harms one’s nature, while attachment to prescribed rules causes one to lose the root. Therefore, the sage does not take words as the standard for judging things, and so does not go against enduring principles; does not treat names as fixed realities, and so does not depart from what is true; does not act with deliberate contrivance, and so does not harm one’s nature; and does not cling to established rules, and so does not lose the root.

When reading the Laozi, those who argue and press questions at every turn may miss its intent; those who insist on pursuing names and categories may also depart from its meaning. Its central purpose is to investigate the source from which all things began and thereby clarify their natural character; to unfold the profound and distant principles of the Way and dispel confusion. Follow nature without opposing it; diminish rather than act rashly; honor the root to quiet what is secondary; hold fast to the source and preserve the myriad things that arise from it; regard contrived cleverness lightly and grasp the signs of things before they occur; do not blame others harshly, but seek the cause within yourself. These are the main principles of the Laozi.

The Legalists valued using uniform standards to regulate all things, and so used punishments to restrain conduct. The School of Names valued establishing the true names and distinctions of things, and so used words to clarify and correct them. The Confucians valued practicing benevolence in a thorough and comprehensive way, and so used praise to encourage people to do good. The Mohists valued frugality, and so used corrective measures to establish norms. The Eclectics valued gathering the strengths of different schools, and so combined them and put them into practice.

Yet when things are restrained by punishments, cunning and deceit take root. When things are judged by names and distinctions, the ability to understand circumstances and treat others with forgiveness is easily lost. When people are encouraged through praise, the pursuit of fame and profit arises. When norms are established through correction, deviant and defiant conduct emerges. When different doctrines are put into practice together, confusion and disorder follow. These approaches use only the branches while casting aside the root. Once things lose their root, they cannot be sustained for long.

Although different schools follow different paths, they may ultimately reach the same destination; though they may seem to converge, their aims may still differ. Learners are therefore bewildered about how these paths arrive, and where they finally lead. Those who observe the Dao’s mysterious principle of making all things equal call it the Legalist school; those who see the practice of distinguishing true names call it the School of Names; those who discern unalloyed benevolence call it Confucianism; those who see restraint and frugality call it Mohism; and those who see a refusal to adhere to a single doctrine call it Eclecticism. People name these schools according to the features they observe, then hold fast to their doctrines in keeping with their own preferences. Thus arise tangled and disorderly discussions, and disputes in which people cling to different aims and argue against one another.

Moreover, the style of Laozi’s Outline is to cite a conclusion as proof of its opening claim, and also to reason outward from the beginning, ultimately bringing the whole text into coherence. It opens up ideas without saying everything outright; it guides the reader without leading them by the hand. Readers must reflect to understand its meaning, and pursue the inquiry further to grasp its principles fully. The author skillfully develops an argument from the starting point of a matter and uses it to sustain the central thesis; he also clarifies where the text ultimately leads, bringing it to a close.

Thus, those whose aims resonate with the author’s and who are inspired by him all admire the way he establishes his argument at the outset.

Thus, those whose aims and interests align, and who are moved by one another, will always praise the opening of each other’s arguments and then develop their own reasoning from it. Those whose central ideas differ and who think independently will always commend what the other has pointed out as their common destination, and use it as proof. Though their paths differ, they ultimately lead to the same destination; though their thoughts take a hundred different forms, they finally reach the same result. By invoking this shared destination and result to explain the Way of governance, those who can draw connections between things and think well will gladly recognize that their own reasoning accords with it, and believe they have grasped its underlying principle.

The means by which things endure often run counter to their outward form; the key to accomplishing great deeds often runs counter to the reputation they display. What endures does not make “endurance” its aim, but never forgets the possibility of perishing. What is secure does not take security for granted, but never forgets danger. Thus, those intent only on preserving the status quo will instead perish; those who do not forget the danger of perishing can endure. Those who attend only to their present position will instead fall into danger; those who do not forget danger can remain secure.

Those skilled in applying force can lift a down feather; those skilled in hearing can hear a clap of thunder. This shows that principles often run counter to outward appearances. What is truly secure is indeed secure, yet it does not take security as the foundation of its security. What truly endures does indeed endure, yet it does not take endurance as its foundation. Lords and kings are indeed honored, yet their honor does not come from their exalted titles alone. Heaven and Earth are indeed vast, yet their vastness is not achieved through self-praise. The sage’s accomplishments indeed exist, yet they are not built by proclaiming sagehood. Benevolence is indeed manifest, yet it is not preserved by clinging to benevolence. Those who see only the outward form of things and fail to grasp the principle will often be angered by such claims.

To establish the root of something, even if one begins nearby, one must trace it back to its distant beginnings for proof. To explain the origin of something, even when it is plain to see, one must speak from what is deep and hidden in order to account for its root. Therefore, one must invoke the vast expanse beyond Heaven and Earth to explain the human body and life. To explain the meaning contained in the lords and kings’ calling themselves “orphaned” and “bereft”—terms of humility used by rulers in ancient times—one must begin from the Dao’s unity, the grounding of all things in the Dao, and reveal its source. Thus, those who observe only what lies before them and cannot see how the roots and threads of things run through one another often regard such words as absurd and false.

So, amid a welter of competing views, each setting forth its own claims, people instead praise the confusion. Some find the arguments far-fetched; others mock their reasoning. The words may sound clear, while in fact remaining obscure; they may seem orderly, yet turn out confused and chaotic. That is why.

“Name” identifies the object being referred to; “designation” is the way we call it according to a particular account. A name comes from the object itself, while a designation is something we give it. Thus, that which runs through all things, and through which nothing fails to operate, is called the Dao (the Way); that which seeks out the mysteries of all things, and from which nothing fails to emerge, is called the Mysterious. The mysterious reveals itself through the Mysterious, while the myriad things operate through the Dao.

“To give birth to and nourish the myriad things without claiming them, to act without relying on one’s achievements, to help the myriad things grow without ruling over them”—this is the function of the Dao: enabling each thing to fulfill its own nature. “To give birth without possessing, to act without relying on one’s achievements, to help things grow without ruling over them” describes the conduct of one who possesses De (Virtue/Power). Though endowed with De, such a person does not assume the position of ruler. This is Mysterious De (profound and subtle virtue).

The designation “Mysterious” conveys depth and distance; the designation “Dao” conveys breadth and vastness. Names arise from the forms of things, while designations arise from people’s inquiry and understanding. Names do not arise from nothing, nor are designations spoken without grounds. Yet explaining the Dao by means of names can lead far astray from its essential meaning; explaining it by means of designations cannot exhaust its ultimate extent. Hence, when speaking of the “Mysterious,” one says “the Mysterious upon the Mysterious”; when speaking of the “Dao,” one says that there are the “Four Greats” between Heaven and Earth: the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the king.

The book Laozi can almost be summed up in a single phrase: honor the root and bring the branches to rest. Examine where it comes from and seek where it leads, and you will find that its words do not stray from the root, and the principles it discusses do not depart from its central meaning. Although the book contains five thousand characters, a single root runs through it; although its principles are broad, its many subjects belong to the same kind. Grasp this root, and you can almost sum up the whole book in a single phrase and understand what is profound and difficult to explain. If you treat every matter as an entirely separate meaning, then however much you argue, you will only become more confused.

Let us consider this question: When crooked and wicked practices arise, are they really brought about by wicked people acting on their own? When licentious customs appear, do licentious people conjure them up from nothing? To prevent wrongdoing, what matters is cultivating a sense of caution in daily life, not setting out to identify who is good. To put an end to ostentation, what matters is removing the fashion for extravagance, not adding ever more elaborate rules of ritual. To prevent theft, what matters is reducing people’s desires, not imposing harsh punishments and severe laws. To quiet disputes, what matters is not glorifying victory in argument, not becoming skilled at judging cases.

So do not merely suppress actions people have already taken; help them cease intending to take them. Do not harm or repress people’s desires; help them cease clinging to desire. Make plans before a problem shows signs of emerging, and take action before a matter has begun. That is all.

Thus, exhausting the Sage’s wisdom to govern cunning and deception is less effective than bringing simplicity to light and calming the people’s desires. Promoting benevolence and righteousness to thicken shallow customs is less effective than holding to the way of simplicity and preserving honesty and sincerity. Adding all manner of clever techniques only brings more complications; better to reduce selfish desires and quiet ostentatious competition. Surveillance and probing should cease; the use of eyes and ears should be restrained. Practices that urge people to seek fame and achievement should be abandoned, and the praise of empty reputation should be reduced. Clever devices should be discarded, and precious goods held in little regard. The key is to keep the people from developing excessive greed, not to focus on suppressing the wrongful acts they have committed. Let simplicity shine, and excessive reverence for sage wisdom will fade. Reduce selfish desires, and cunning and the pursuit of profit can be cast aside. All this means honoring the root and quieting the branches.

If the way of simplicity is not made clear, while the alluring things that greed pursues are visible everywhere, then no matter how fully the enlightened employ surveillance or how astutely they wield their schemes to suppress people, people’s cleverness will only grow more subtle, and deception more varied. The harsher the suppression, the more diligently people evade it. The wise and the foolish then deceive one another, relatives grow suspicious of one another, simple authenticity is damaged, and all manner of deceit takes root. This happens because the root is abandoned and only the branches are governed. Even the full use of sage wisdom will deepen the calamities; how much more so will lesser methods.

Use the way of simplicity to settle people’s hearts, and society will return to what is right of its own accord through Wuwei (non-action). Forceful rule through sage wisdom, by contrast, breeds deceit. This is the result of abandoning the root to pursue the branches: even the full use of sage wisdom will deepen the calamities, to say nothing of still poorer methods.

If people are governed by the Way of simplicity, they will naturally set their conduct right. If they are governed through the cleverness and ingenuity of sages, they will fall into hardship and become more cunning. Simplicity, therefore, can be preserved, while deliberately displayed cleverness can be cast aside.

The simpler the system of surveillance, the fewer ways people have to evade it. If cleverness is pushed to its limits, people’s means of avoiding surveillance will become more hidden. A simple system does less harm to simplicity; a tightly controlled system deepens cunning and deceit. Are not methods for detecting what is minute and probing what is secret the result of applying the sages’ wisdom? Who could count the harm they bring? Even a hundredfold gain may not amount to much.

If you cannot distinguish the names of things, you cannot discuss their principles with someone; if you cannot establish what a name means, you cannot discuss what is real. Names arise from the forms and actual conditions of things; things do not come into being by following their names. Thus, where there is a name, there must be a corresponding form; where there is a form, there must also be its category and limits. Benevolence cannot be called sagehood, and wisdom cannot be called benevolence: this shows that each name corresponds to a distinct reality.

To perceive what is exceedingly minute is discernment at its utmost; to probe what is hidden is reflection at its utmost. When discernment reaches its limit, is that not sagehood? When reflection reaches its limit, is that not wisdom? Once actual conditions have been examined and the names established, the meaning of “abolish sagehood”—that is, do not deliberately exalt sage wisdom—becomes clear, and there is no longer any confusion.

When the solid, simple qualities of De (Virtue/Power) are disregarded while reputation and outward displays of excellence are praised, people polish those praised displays in the hope of winning approval. They practice the conduct held up for admiration in the hope of gaining benefits. When they strive for fame and profit, the better their reputation looks, the more their sincerity becomes mere appearance; the more they prize profit, the more fiercely they contend inwardly. The natural affection between fathers and sons, and among brothers, is damaged; their words and actions lose their candor. Filial devotion no longer comes from the heart, and loving care no longer finds practical expression. This is what follows from deliberately putting reputation and conduct on display.

Worried that society has grown shallow, people proclaim integrity and uphold benevolence and righteousness; yet the more they do so, the more deceit flourishes. How much worse, then, among those who value these things even less? Thus, advocating “abolish benevolence and abandon righteousness” to restore filial devotion and loving care has little effect.

The higher the city walls, the more they invite siege engines; the greater the profits, the more deeply people scheme to obtain them. If people can remain free of desire, even when rewards are offered, they will not steal. Once private desires prevail, cunning and the pursuit of profit lead people further astray. So setting aside cunning and the pursuit of profit, and replacing them with few desires, may keep thieves from appearing, but this is still not something worthy of praise. Sagacity and wisdom are outstanding abilities; benevolence and righteousness are noble conduct; cunning and the pursuit of profit, too, can be skills in making use of things. If the fundamental principles are not observed, but these three so-called “virtues” are promoted, they will still bring the same harm. How much worse, then, to focus only on useful methods and thereby neglect one’s unadorned nature?

The ancients lamented: “How difficult this is to understand! People know that lacking sagacity is bad, yet do not know that deliberately pursuing sagacity can also lead them away from their nature. They know that lacking benevolence is bad, yet do not know that deliberately proclaiming benevolence can itself become a form of inhumanity.” Therefore, when the deliberate display of sagacity is set aside, its benefits can be fully realized; when the deliberate practice of benevolence is relinquished, benevolence and Virtue instead grow deep. Rejecting the show of strength does not mean seeking weakness. It means understanding that unceasingly showing off one’s strength makes one lose genuine power. Setting aside the deliberate display of benevolence does not mean wishing to be unkind; it is because deliberately practicing benevolence can become hypocrisy.

Deliberate governance can bring about disorder; single-minded efforts to preserve stability can invite crisis. By placing oneself behind others, one can come to stand before them, though this leadership does not come from deliberately striving to be first. By putting one’s own interests aside, one can preserve oneself, though preservation does not come from calculating single-mindedly how to protect oneself. Deliberate contrivance gives rise to hypocrisy. Therefore, one must not cling to results or use a good name for personal gain. One should hold to the root from which results arise. The text says: “Once you have recognized the branches and leaves,” you must “return to guarding the root.” Understand this principle, and everything one does will proceed smoothly.