《老子本义》Vol. 1

The first essay of “On Laozi,” which opens The Original Meaning of Laozi, argues that the teachings followed by Cao Shen during the reigns of Emperor Wen and Emperor Jing of Han were not necessarily shallower than the interpretations of Ji Kang, Ruan Ji, and Wang Bi during the Wei and Jin periods. But the Han readers mainly read the Laozi as the Laozi, whereas Jin readers often interpreted it through the ideas of the Zhuangzi. Many people across the ages have written commentaries on the Laozi, but Laozi cannot be born again. Who, then, can decide which interpretation is entirely correct? Commentaries often seize on one or two lines, and in doing so obstruct understanding of the work as a whole.

For example, how can the text’s discussion of taking and giving, contraction and expansion, be separated from “Wuwei (non-action) and stillness”? How can its image of the myriad things as straw dogs used in ritual be separated from compassion and the succor of all beings? And how can its discussion of the mysterious mother and enduring preservation be separated from “placing oneself behind and transcending oneself”? Fixating on any one aspect distorts the whole and breaks the coherence of the five thousand words. Unless one grasps the principle behind the words and the ruler on whom all things depend, one merely pursues phrases and appearances in the details. Though the Laozi is said to be easy to understand and easy to practice, people have never truly understood it or put it into practice; even today, they remain in darkness.

Laozi says, “‘Being’ brings practical benefit; ‘nonbeing’ gives things their function.” People all know the benefits of “being,” but do not understand the function of “nonbeing.” Thus the Laozi often expresses itself by means of the nameless and formless Dao, concealing its function where it cannot be seen. Reduce and reduce again, until one reaches Wuwei. The Dao of Wuwei must begin with freedom from selfish desire.

The various schools of thought could not achieve freedom from desire, yet they admired Wuwei. As a result, they appeared outwardly calm and resolute, while inwardly their schemes grew more subtle and better equipped to satisfy their desires. Zhuang Zhou could be free from attachment to desire, but did not understand the use of gentleness; Liezi pursued weakness, but did not understand that “nonbeing” cannot be separated from “being.” So Zhuangzi and Liezi discussed function apart from root, and the root was no longer a true root. Shen Buhai, Han Fei, Guiguzi, and Fan Li put root and function to separate uses, and function was no longer true function. One should return to the root. The root is the principle behind words and the ruler on whom all things depend.

In the myriad things, this root is their mother; in the human body, it is like an infant; in the world, it is like the king of the valleys; and in the course of history, it is like the most ancient age. In practice, it takes the form of gentleness, lowliness, and obscurity. Thus people like Gai Gong and the Yellow Stone Elder, by gathering the Dao within themselves, could embody its mysterious and profound principles in their fullness. Even when cultivating themselves alone, they were as if they had returned to the age of high antiquity before Fuxi. To put these principles into practice in the world—to eliminate excess and extravagance, and transform the harsh rule of the Qin into the lenient government of Emperors Wen and Jing, when punishments were scarcely used—could likewise be said to bring later generations closer to high antiquity again. How could such results be compared with the small uses and harms, or even the great uses and harms, of penal doctrine, abstract talk, or the pursuit of longevity?

People always think the state of an infant is far removed from them, when in fact it was only yesterday. The myriad things have never been separated from their mother for even a day, and the valleys have never been separated from their king for even a day. Movement, when carried to its extreme, turns into stillness; ascent, when carried to its extreme, turns into descent; brightness, when carried to its extreme, turns into darkness. If this is indeed so, then all things return to the root, and every day contains the Dao of high antiquity. If one seeks one’s own original mind in the five thousand words, one can come to understand something; if one reads the five thousand words from the standpoint of one’s original mind, there is nothing one cannot understand. However many changes there may be, they never depart from the root. Why, then, seek understanding in fragments?

Returning to the root brings freedom from desire; freedom from desire leads to gentleness; then one practices Wuwei, and nothing remains undone. Reading the “Book of High Antiquity” with such a state of mind may bring one close to its true meaning.

After reading the five thousand words of the Laozi, I feel that it can answer all kinds of questions in the heart. All the myriad changes remain rooted in what is fundamental, so why break the principles into fragments and search for them everywhere? Return to the root, and desires will diminish; when desires diminish, the heart and nature become gentle. Practice Wuwei (non-action), and in the end there is nothing that cannot be accomplished. Reading books from high antiquity in this way may allow us to grasp something of them.

What Laozi speaks of is the Dao of high antiquity, and the book he wrote is also about high antiquity. How can we tell? We can consider that Laozi once served as the Keeper of the Pillar, an archivist in charge of classical texts during the Zhou dynasty. The royal historians were responsible for the records of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors. When the left historian Yixiang served in Chu, he could read ancient books such as the Fen and the Suo. When Confucius visited the Zhou capital, he also asked Lao Dan about ritual. In the chapter “The Valley Spirit Never Dies,” the Liezi quotes the passage as coming from a book of the Yellow Emperor. Some have also held that all five thousand words were written by Rong Cheng.

Yet the Laozi contains phrases such as “what people of old called,” “there is an old saying,” “the sages said,” and “there is a saying about the use of troops.” Ban Gu therefore believed that the Daoist school originated with the ancient royal historians. Zhuangzi also said that some of the Daoist teachings of antiquity had been preserved by Laozi, and that Guan Yin and Lao Dan heard of them and took a liking to them. All this shows that Laozi was transmitting the ancient Dao, not creating it from nothing.

When Confucius visited the Zhou ancestral temple, he admired the inscription on a golden figure. Its words sound as though they came from Laozi. According to the Golden Coffer section of the Huanglan, the inscription describes the golden figure’s mouth sealed three times. It was one of the six inscriptions of the Yellow Emperor listed in the Treatise on Literature of the Book of Han, and one of the sources of the teachings of Huang-Lao. As an archivist in charge of stored books, Laozi had broad learning and experience. He selected material from ancient texts and learned from them principles that accorded with his own nature. Thus, when his book discusses funeral rites, conduct in the world, and victory in war, it shows a deep understanding of the meaning of ritual; at the same time, it says, “When the Dao and De were lost, benevolence and righteousness arose; when benevolence and righteousness were lost, ritual arose.” This shows that he lived quietly in office, observed the world, and deeply loathed the way later ritual had become mere form. The more he hated this failing, the more he longed for antiquity; the more deeply he longed for it, the more earnestly he sought the ancient Dao. He held fast to Dao and De until old age, when he finally wrote his book. His purpose was to urge the world to return to the simple, unadorned ways of high antiquity.

The changes of the times are like the turning of the seasons from cold to heat and back again. After high antiquity there had to come the eras of Tang, Yu, and the Three Dynasties, and after them the later ages. Just as grandparents and descendants in one family cannot live in exactly the same way, so the tendencies toward loyalty, simplicity, and refinement replaced one another in turn, each correcting the excesses of the preceding stage. When a failing reaches its limit, things turn back toward the root. Confucius held that it was better for ritual to be frugal than extravagant. This is the foundation of ritual, and it was also an effort to correct excessive ornament with loyalty and simplicity. Laozi’s advocacy of simplicity and trustworthiness suited the needs of his time and also opened the way for the political order of the Western Han.

When the Confucians organized the ancient texts, they began their account with the time of Tang Yao and Yu Shun. Laozi, by contrast, focused on legends from an earlier antiquity. The two accounts are separated by a great distance and often present opposing arguments, so Laozi’s teachings can seem especially lofty. This was simply the nature of his doctrine; he was not deliberately taking an extreme stand against ordinary society.

The Riverbank Lord says that Laozi named three treasures of his own: compassion, frugality, and not daring to put himself ahead of everyone under Heaven. Is compassion not benevolence? Is frugality not righteousness? Is refusing to put oneself first not ritual? The Book of Changes says that De should be full and abundant, while ritual should be humble and respectful; the ancients, too, praised the clarity of the words of the worthy. Laozi’s thought contains these principles as well. Must the Dao of high antiquity be left unused on a shelf in later ages? Or can later ages in fact draw near to the most ancient times, if only people are willing to put its teachings into practice?

One could say that the Confucian classics speak of governing the world, while Laozi’s book seeks to save the world from its decline. If the world were enjoying a golden age like that of the Zhou, with every household at peace and everyone keeping to their place, Laozi’s teachings might need only to remain quietly in the background. But if the age is not like that, then the teaching to “remove excess, extravagance, and arrogance” will one day win people’s trust.

The art of governing the world began with the Yellow Emperor, reached maturity under Yao, became more fully developed during the Three Dynasties, and was damaged under the Qin. In the Han, the current of the times gathered strength again. The people escaped hardship and settled into peaceful lives, and the world came to resemble high antiquity. Cao Can and Emperors Wen and Jing pursued simple government, removed ornament, and ruled with leniency; the people of the realm were influenced by them. The hardships left by Qin, after the violent upheaval of Xiang Yu’s time, were treated in the early Han like an illness gradually nursed back to health with cool, mild medicine. People slowly resumed eating, and in the end they recovered without further medicine. The illness had been caused by medicine, so stopping the medicine brought recovery. Though this situation differs from the saying that a perfected person is naturally free of illness, the underlying principle is the same. Who can say that later ages and high antiquity are as utterly disconnected as a dream and waking life?

When an infant is nursing, its mind has not yet opened; scolding and prohibitions are of no use. This is Wuwei in the manner of high antiquity. As a child grows, its natural innocence has not yet been entirely lost, and it has not developed greed or cunning. This is Wuwei in the manner of middle antiquity. When someone has done wrong, one can gradually guide the person and bring them to understanding, without using force and driving them toward a breach. This is Wuwei in later ages. The times differ, so the practice of Wuwei differs too, but the heart of high antiquity has never truly been abandoned for a single day. Does Wuwei mean standing rigidly like a puppet and letting changes run their course on their own?

Laozi’s book connects past and present and encompasses what lies above and below. People of the highest caliber, such as Fuxi and Guan Yin, can use it to understand the Great Dao. Those of the middle caliber, such as Cao Can and Emperors Wen and Jing, can use it to serve the world and govern the state. Even those of lesser ability can find a warning in it. The Hongwu Emperor of the Ming recited “The people do not fear death” and so restrained himself. When Emperor Taizu of Song heard the warning “Fine weapons are inauspicious,” he too was moved. The Confucian classics are the same: those who understand deeply gain much, and those who understand only a little gain little. I have no truly deep grasp of principle and often act instead on impulse. For this reason, I especially value Laozi’s teaching about governing according to the times and correcting their failings, and I read it again and again.

Alas, the Dao (the Way) was originally one. Only after Laozi appeared did it divide into two schools; once the various philosophers arose, their differences multiplied into a hundred schools. Can there really be many different “Ways” in the world? Among Laozi’s disciples, only Guanyin’s understanding was concrete and subtle, yet he left no notable reputation. Laozi’s teachings were later passed on to Lie Yukou, Yang Zhu, and Zhuang Zhou, who developed them respectively into doctrines of emptiness, self-interest, and unrestrained freedom.

Liezi taught emptiness, which has some resemblance to Buddhism. But he was even-tempered and profound in purpose. He never exalted himself by belittling all things, claimed superior wisdom by disparaging the sages, called ignorance wisdom, or insisted that only he was right. Nor did he reject the world. Yang Zhu’s school later became an object of esteem for the School of Names and Laws, which emphasized statutes, status, and rewards and punishments; Zhuangzi’s school, meanwhile, won the admiration of Jin intellectuals. Each school honored what it believed in while shutting out other teachings. Yang Zhu’s “for myself” was rooted in Wuwei (non-action); Zhuangzi’s free-spiritedness was rooted in nature. Can nature not be used to cultivate oneself, and Wuwei to govern the world?

By “nature,” Laozi meant a rigorous and thorough foundation understood through deep stillness and emptiness. He advocated quiet rather than agitation, steadiness rather than rashness, and restraint rather than greed. Forbearance is better than harshness, caution better than indulgence, and grasping the essentials better than excessive complication. Thus one follows circumstances without imposing one’s own actions: one acts when events demand it, rather than presumptuously intervening before they unfold. This is what nature means. How could it mean boundless permissiveness and neglect?

When Laozi governed the world through Wuwei, he did not abolish governance altogether; he governed by refraining from reckless action. By not claiming credit, one’s achievements do not fade; by not contending for fame, others have no grounds to contend with one. If one begins difficult tasks where they are easy, they will not ultimately become difficult. To avoid treating rare and precious goods as valuable does not mean discarding useful things in the world. To use military force only when there is no alternative does not mean never deploying an army. To eliminate excess, extravagance, and arrogance does not mean abandoning everyday affairs. Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: the key is not to jostle or damage it, but to preserve it. Advance by yielding, without boasting of victory; put what is considered useless to use. Who can say that Wuwei is insufficient to govern the world?

Laozi said, “Cut off benevolence and abandon righteousness.” Yet his “cannot bear to” and “dare not” did not mean refusing to practice benevolence and righteousness. Zhuang Zhou, by contrast, turned untrammeled freedom into a cynical disregard for the world: he scorned power and profit, even mocking rulers. His dislike of ritual and law led him further to ridicule the sages. By the time of the Wei and Jin scholars, their state of desirelessness fell short even of Zhuang Zhou’s, and they may not have understood how Wuwei could govern the world. Could all things be brought to great order simply by treating everything as useless and folding one’s hands without acting? Later, guiding principles weakened and all affairs fell into ruin. The School of Names and Laws then used desire and harsh penalties to enforce its policies, placing everything under the control of statutes while seeking only its own quiet and freedom from affairs. The result was that it failed to restrain its own desires but restricted the desires of others; it refused to do what it dared not do, yet boldly imposed its will; it refused to do what it could not bear to do, yet bore to force others to endure it. Warm and subtle benevolence and righteousness receded, while a cold and indifferent “morality” prevailed. Is all of this really Laozi’s Way? Or can it be said to have nothing at all to do with his Way?

The teachings of Huang-Lao, the governing thought represented by the Yellow Emperor and Laozi, observe the changes of all things in stillness and grasp the pivots by which things open, close, and transform. They recognize that human nature, when it becomes fixated, must be restrained: stillness overcomes movement, and the yielding and weak can check the firm and strong. To seek a higher position, one must first place oneself below; understand the masculine strength, yet hold to the feminine and yielding. By placing oneself outside, one can preserve oneself; by having no selfish aims, one can bring oneself to fulfillment. This is the meaning of “Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao.”

Later thinkers, eager for profit, sought a state without desire but could not attain it. They therefore learned only the trick of applying things in reverse, using it to pander to people’s excesses and deficiencies. How could this fail to lead to distortion and harm? Laozi was cautious and humble: he dared not put himself ahead of others and could not bear to harm them. Yet his followers learned only the extreme and provocative aspects, favoring simple, direct methods while inwardly violating the principle of moderation. Such mistaken views all arose from this.

The “Under Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi claims mastery of the Way of Heaven and humanity, even placing itself above the True Person and the Perfected Person. Han Fei, in explaining Laozi, condemned teachings of calm detachment and words about the indistinct and elusive as useless doctrines. How could these people be faithful guardians of Laozi’s teachings?

Those who studied Huang-Lao in the Han dynasty put it to different uses. Gai Gong, Cao Can, and Ji An applied it to governing; Shu Guang and Liu De made contentment their guiding principle; the Four Elders of Shangshan chose the path of withdrawal. Zhang Liang, also known by his courtesy name Zifang, was like a dragon, moving in and out among these paths and applying them with ease and propriety. After Emperor Xuan of Han took the throne, he began to promote Huang-Lao thought while also drawing on the methods of Shen Buhai and Han Fei, associated with the School of Names and Laws. The claim that “the Way of the King” and “the Way of the Hegemon” were used together meant that Huang-Lao served as the Kingly Way, and Shen and Han as the Hegemonic Way. Only Zhuge Liang combined calm detachment with clear and impartial laws and institutions. He seemed to resemble Huang-Lao, but was not entirely of that school; he personally copied the writings of Shen Buhai and Han Fei to instruct the young ruler Liu Shan, yet his approach was not simply the teaching of Shen and Han.

Alas, sweet, sour, pungent, and bitter each have their own flavor; what matters is whether they suit the palate. No medicine is absolutely superior: it works when it addresses the illness, and in the end its effect depends on how people use it. The learning of inner sagehood and outer kingship—cultivating sage virtue within and practicing the Kingly Way without—has grown obscure, while the teachings of the various schools have strayed from the right path and struggle to return. They are like grain mixed with weeds: in the end, neither yields a harvest. This is cause for sorrow. If one understands that “cannot bear to” and “dare not” are the foundations of learning and practice, then benevolence and righteousness can be put into action.

Someone asked, “Do Laozi and Confucian thought agree?” The answer is no. The workings of Heaven and Earth follow the alternating movement of Yin and Yang. The guiding principle of the sage, however, is always to support the firm and yang while restraining the yielding and yin. Confucians teach that “when one has no desires, one is firm.” They therefore esteem the Way of Qian, which symbolizes pure Yang, strength, and uprightness, and hold that it alone can govern the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—and establish the principles by which a ruler governs the realm.

Laozi, by contrast, makes yielding the primary principle and firmness secondary. He extols the female, the mother, and water’s humble, lowly position. Both his thought and its effects proceed from the yielding, yin side. Though the Way of yin and yielding is gentle, it conceals within itself a force that can be severe, even deadly. Those who study Laozi and follow the right path may become tranquil and kind; those who stray may grow harsh and unyielding. The arts of warfare and strategy, and techniques of political manipulation, also regard Laozi as their master. This is not the original character of his thought, but it is one possible consequence of it.

Someone else asked, “Do Laozi and Buddhism agree?” The answer is no. Laozi says that within the obscure and elusive there is essence and there are things; this is what is meant by the female and the mother. Buddhists, by contrast, regard attachment to such visions as mere play with light and shadow: one remains caught in the discriminating, reflective consciousness known as the cognitive spirit, and has not yet returned to true stillness. Why? Laozi explains the Way of life, while Śākyamuni explains the Way of death. Laozi is concerned with engagement in the world, while Buddhism tends toward leaving the world. Laozi represents the ancient Chinese Way, while Buddhism is a teaching that came from distant lands. Thus, only Lie Yukou (Liezi) comes close to Chan; Laozi himself has no connection with Chan.

Since the Song dynasty, those fond of Chan have often tried to fit Laozi into Buddhism. The text says, “When the people no longer fear authority, great authority will arrive.” Su Ziyou, however, interpreted this to mean that when people see the illusory nature of life, death, gain, and loss, and cease to fear them, the bright and boundless “great authority” within their own nature will appear. This is like calling a deer a horse, or sowing millet and having barnyard grass grow in its place. To honor Laozi while distorting his teaching, and to invoke Buddhism while disparaging it, harms both traditions. It is better to let each retain its own original character.

There are also many different divisions and versions of the chapters of the Laozi. The text with the Heshang Gong commentary does not appear in the “Treatise on Arts and Letters” in the Book of Han; it first surfaced in the Sui dynasty, and Liu Zhiji criticized it as a forgery in the Tang. The version divided into eighty-one chapters is broadly similar to Yan Junping’s Dao De Zhi Gui, divided into seventy-two chapters, and the older version by Wang Bi, divided into seventy-nine, though they differ in details. Gushenzi moved the seventeen characters at the end of the chapter “Bend and Be Whole” to the beginning of the next chapter; Tang Junxiang, meanwhile, placed “Cut off learning, and you will have no worries” at the end of the preceding chapter. From Wu Cheng in the Yuan dynasty to Yao Nai in modern times, scholars have continued to combine and divide the chapters according to their own interpretations. Yao Nai’s arrangement is the most disordered.

Sima Qian says only in general terms that Laozi wrote a book of more than five thousand words. Later, some people arbitrarily removed function words to make the text total five thousand characters; the version edited by Fu Yi, in turn, added a great deal of redundant wording. Wang Bi held that the chapter “Fine Weapons Are Inauspicious” contains words added by later hands. Fu Yi, for his part, said that the four lines beginning “Always good at saving people” appear only in the Heshang Gong version. Han Fei’s quotations are the earliest, but they still differ from the Huainanzi and the Kaiyuan Imperial Commentary. The Kaiyuan Imperial Commentary, in the passage about “feeding on the mother,” adds further unnecessary words. There are countless other cases of obscure embellishment and revisions that make the original text excessively smooth, to say nothing of legends such as Laozi’s journey west to the flowing sands, or the strange and fantastical claims of the occult practitioners of Yan and Qi. The author’s position is to preserve what is credible and discard what is not, tracing the sources and distinguishing the differences. This, perhaps, may be considered an imitation of Confucius’s approach of “transmitting and delighting in antiquity.”

Laozi was named Er, styled Dan, and surnamed Li. He was from Qurenli, in Lixiang, Ku County, in the state of Chu. Ancient books give differing accounts of his native place: some say he was from Xiang County in Chu, while others say he was from the state of Chen. Later scholars concluded that these places were near one another, and that Qurenli was probably in the area of Ku County.

Laozi served in the Zhou court as the archivist in charge of its classics. When Confucius came to Zhou, he intended to ask Laozi about ritual. Laozi said to him, “The people you speak of, along with their bones, have long since decayed; only their words remain in circulation. When a gentleman meets with the right moment, he steps forward to act. When the moment is against him, he drifts like tumbleweed in the wind. I have heard that a skilled merchant hides his valuable goods as though he had nothing at all. A gentleman of profound De (Virtue/Power) appears, outwardly, to be dull. You should rid yourself of pride, excessive desire, affected expressions, and overambitious aims. None of these will do you any good. That is all I can tell you.”

After leaving, Confucius said to his disciples, “I know that birds can fly; I know that fish can swim; and I know that beasts can run. Those that run can be caught in nets, those that swim can be caught with hooks, and those that fly can be brought down with arrows. But as for the dragon, I do not know how it rides the wind and clouds up into the sky. The Laozi I met today must be something like a dragon.”

Laozi cultivated the Dao (the Way) and De, and his teaching centered on living in seclusion and seeking no fame. He lived in Zhou for a long time. Seeing the dynasty decline, he left and came to the border pass. The keeper of the pass, Yin Xi, said to him, “You are about to withdraw from the world. Please write something for me, if you will.” Laozi then wrote two parts, above and below, setting out the meaning of the Dao and De in more than five thousand characters. He left afterward, and no one knew what became of him. In later times, titles such as “Dao Jing” and “De Jing,” along with chapter divisions and names, came into use. The commentary here holds that these titles and arrangements were not part of the original text, so it identifies them instead as the “Upper Part,” the “Lower Part,” and by chapter number.

Some say that Laolai Zi was also from Chu, lived at the same time as Confucius, and wrote books expounding Daoist thought. Historical records also say that Laozi lived for more than 160 years; others say he lived for more than 200, attributing his longevity to cultivating the Dao and preserving life. Yet Laolai Zi and Laozi were probably two different people: historical records separately describe Confucius honoring Laozi in Zhou and honoring Laolai Zi in Chu.

One hundred and twenty-nine years after Confucius’s death, the Grand Historian Dan of Zhou visited Duke Xian of Qin. He said that Qin and Zhou would first unite and then divide; five hundred years after their separation, they would unite again, and seventy years after that, someone destined to dominate and rule as king would appear. Some believe Grand Historian Dan was Laozi, while others disagree. The truth can no longer be determined.

Laozi was known as a reclusive scholar. His son, named Zong, served as a general of Wei and was enfeoffed at Duangan. Some of Zong’s descendants later held office under the Han dynasty and moved to Qi.

Those who studied Laozi sometimes disparaged Confucian learning, just as Confucian scholars sometimes disparaged Laozi’s teachings. The two schools followed different paths and could not find common ground; perhaps that is what this means. Laozi’s teaching was to follow what is natural, allowing the myriad things to transform of themselves, and to remain calm and still, allowing the world to set itself right.

The achievements of the Yellow Emperor (the legendary ruler of high antiquity) were most evident during the Han dynasty. Thus, in the Records of the Grand Historian, Sima Qian quotes Laozi: “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform and flourish of themselves; when I cherish stillness, the people become upright of themselves.” He uses these words to explain the aim of the Yellow Emperor’s Daoist rule and to correct practices that later strayed from it. Those who strayed did not accord with Laozi’s teaching. Could this be the very situation he had in mind? Laozi, Li Er, taught that through Wuwei all things change of themselves, and through stillness people become upright of themselves.

The “Under Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi says: “Regard the root as essential and particular things as secondary; even the accumulation of physical things seems insufficient, so live in calm ease, alone in company with the spirit.” Among the ancient arts of the Dao, one school was just like this. When Guan Yin (a Daoist figure) and Lao Dan (Laozi) heard this teaching, they gladly accepted it. They made “constant Nonbeing” and “constant Being” the foundations of their arguments, and took the Great One (Taiyi), the undivided root of all things, as their central principle. They expressed themselves outwardly through gentleness, weakness, humility, and lowliness; inwardly, their substance was emptiness that did no harm to anything.

Guan Yin said: “When the mind clings to no fixed position, things reveal themselves of their own accord. In action, be like water; in stillness, like a mirror; in response, like an echo. Be so indistinct that you seem to have forgotten everything, so still that you are clear and limpid. By becoming one with all things, you can live in harmony with them. If you think you have gained something, you will instead lose it. He never rushes ahead of others, yet always follows their lead.”

Lao Dan said: “Know strength, yet keep to weakness, and you can become the ravine of the world. Know brightness, yet keep to obscurity, and you can become the model of the world. While everyone else strives to be first, be content to come last: this is called bearing the world’s filth. While everyone else seeks to be full, remain empty. Because you neither store nor possess, you always have room to spare and can steadily remain replete. In your dealings with the world, act with calm and deliberation; do not rush or strain, and do not waste your strength.

“Do not act rashly or pride yourself on cleverness. While everyone else seeks good fortune, bend and accommodate yourself, asking only to avoid fault. Take depth as your foundation and simplicity as your guiding principle. He said: ‘What is hard is easily broken; what is sharp is easily blunted. Always be generous toward all things and do not wound others through harshness: this may be called the highest attainment.’ Guan Yin and Lao Dan were truly men of antiquity whose learning was vast and whose spiritual stature was great.”

The “Dao” (the Way) that can be explained in words is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the “name” that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source of the myriad things. Thus, by remaining free of desire, one can observe the Dao’s subtlety; by remaining in a state of desire, one can observe the boundaries and signs that things reveal. These two ways of observing, without desire and with desire, both arise from the Dao, yet have different names. Both may be called profound. Profound upon profound, they are the gateway to every subtle principle.

Commentators punctuate and interpret the passages on “namelessness and desirelessness” in different ways. Sima Guang, Wang Anshi, Su Zhe, and others read “without” and “with” as a pair, while Heshang Gong and others read “name” and “desire” as a pair. Ding Yidong argues that since Laozi says, “The Dao is constantly nameless; when it first fashioned things, it gave them names,” the opening two lines should not be read in terms of “with” and “without.” He also notes that some explain the following lines by reference to the Zhuangzi’s phrase “establishing them through constant nonbeing and being.” But Laozi elsewhere says, “Constantly without desire, one may perceive its smallness,” so Laozi’s words cannot be interpreted solely according to the Zhuangzi’s usage. Chen Jingyuan and Wu Cheng’s reading of “These two are the same” as a complete sentence is also reasonable.

The perfected person seeks no fame. They embrace the true Dao and keep it deeply hidden, never speaking of it casually to others. This is not deliberate secrecy: the Dao cannot be made clear through words, nor found in names or outward traces. Later, when Guan Yin earnestly asked him, Laozi had no choice but to write this book. That is why he begins with a solemn warning: the Dao is extremely difficult to explain in words. If it could be compared, discussed, and given a definite name, it would become a fixed principle and cease to be the true Dao, which is everywhere and eternally unchanging.

If something that is not eternally true is taken as the Dao, the result is this: speaking of benevolence harms benevolence; exalting righteousness harms righteousness; following ritual harms ritual. A mild and deferential appearance may in fact nurture habits of hypocrisy, damaging what is called the “Dao.” How could that last? When Laozi speaks of the Dao, he repeatedly calls it “constant” and also calls it “mysterious.” “Dao” points toward emptiness; “true constancy” emphasizes the enduring reality within emptiness; and “mystery” praises the profound subtlety of the constant Dao.

Seeing that doctrines were increasingly divided and people were fixated on tangible things and outward signs, Laozi sought to correct this tendency through the true, constant, and undamaged Dao. He therefore begins by warning people not to mistake words, names, or outward signs for the Dao. To help them grasp it, he points to the principles of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. Fearing this might still be too indirect, he asks them to look inward and observe themselves in states of desire and desirelessness. Then, concerned that they might treat “being” and “nonbeing” as opposing extremes, he brings them together with the phrase “both are called mysterious” and sums up their essential meaning as “the gateway to all wonders.”

Where the book discusses the substance of the Dao, it asks readers to contemplate “wondrousness.” Where it discusses how to respond to affairs, it asks them to observe where things become manifest and where they come to rest—that is, their “boundaries.” If the mind and spirit move freely with change and unite with the Dao, reaching the state of “mystery upon mystery,” then even the points where things become manifest are nothing but wondrousness. The various subtle principles discussed in the book—remaining receptive, not contending, practicing compassion and frugality, and cultivating softness and weakness—all arise from constant “nonbeing,” and so it is called “the gateway to all wonders.” These five thousand words set out the principles that can be spoken and named. What cannot be conveyed in words must be realized through the lived understanding of those who embody the Dao. The book’s overall purpose is largely contained here; this is what is meant by “words have a guiding principle, and affairs have a sovereign.”

Wu Cheng says: The opening chapter gives a general account of the meanings of “Dao” and “De.” “Nameless” refers to the Dao; “named” refers to De. Laozi’s meaning is roughly this: emptiness is the basis that allows Heaven and Earth to be what they are, just as Zhuangzi says that constant “nonbeing” serves as their foundation. The transformation of Qi is the basis that allows the myriad things to be what they are, just as Zhuangzi says that “Great One”—the unified state that is the origin of the myriad things—serves as their ruler. Thus the Dao and De take empty, natural spontaneity as their foundation, and softness, weakness, and freedom from self-satisfaction as their way of functioning. The whole wondrousness contemplated in “contemplating the wondrous” is the Dao; what underlies all wonders is De; and the particular forms and functions are the ways in which the myriad wonders divide and manifest themselves.

Jiao Hong says: “Desire” refers to the desires aroused by encountering external things, as described in the Book of Music. “Boundaries” is pronounced like the word for “frontier”; it means the point where things reach their end. Yan Ying says, “The boundaries are where De returns,” and the Liezi says, “Death is the boundary of De”; both refer to the point at which things come to an end. When people are free of desire, it is naturally fitting to call this “nonbeing.” But when they have desires, people often take their present state to be “being.” Desire, however, always comes to rest in time, and things ultimately return to “nonbeing.” Seen this way, how is it different from “wondrousness”? Hence the saying, “Both are called mysterious.” This is only an expedient explanation offered to guide those who have not yet understood. That is why the text continues, “Mystery upon mystery: the gateway to all wonders.”

Su Zhe says: Whatever is so vast and deep that it has no end must appear dark in color. Laozi therefore often uses “mysterious” to evoke the limitless and the ultimate.

When people throughout the world recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness appears. When they recognize goodness as goodness, what is not good appears. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy bring each other about; long and short set each other off; high and low depend on each other; tones and sounds harmonize with each other; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

Therefore, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. When all things arise, the sage does not turn them away or rule over them. The sage gives them life and nurtures them, yet does not claim them as his own; acts, yet does not rely on his achievements; and completes his work, yet takes no credit for it. Precisely because he takes no credit, his accomplishments do not disappear.

This explains the meaning of “constant names” and “namelessness” in the first chapter: true beauty does not cling to being beautiful, and true goodness does not cling to being good. If everyone in the world agrees that something is beautiful or good, people can easily compete for it and use it to pursue fame and profit, making it impossible to remain constant. This follows the same principle as the mutual dependence of being and nonbeing, difficulty and ease, length and shortness, high and low, and tones and sounds.

This passage explains the meanings of “constant name” and “nameless” in the opening chapter of the Dao De Jing. The most beautiful state does not claim to be “beautiful”; the most virtuous state does not claim to be “virtuous.” If something is labeled beautiful or virtuous and everyone under Heaven is made to know that it is, people will compete to pursue it and use it for their own gain. It can no longer remain constant.

This is like the relationships between being and nonbeing, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, tones and sounds, and before and after: things reveal their differences only in relation to one another. When something suits the circumstances of the time and accords with people’s wishes, everyone under Heaven calls it beautiful or virtuous. When it is out of step with the times or against people’s wishes, they call it ugly or unvirtuous.

The sage knows that anything given a name and held up for admiration cannot last. So the sage acts throughout the day without thinking of himself as doing anything, and speaks throughout the day without thinking of himself as saying anything. How could he deliberately know that what he does is beautiful or virtuous? He observes change at the boundaries of things and thereby grasps their subtle principles.

Thus, when the myriad things come before him, the sage does not fail to respond, but meets them in keeping with the circumstances. He gives life to and nurtures the myriad things without possessing them; he acts without relying on his own accomplishments, and in the end does not claim credit or status. Things that have been named and called beautiful or virtuous often rise or fall along with their opposites. Whatever is held or occupied will eventually depart. If the mind does not cling to possession, where could anything depart from? This is the beauty and virtue expressed through Wuwei (non-action) and wordless teaching. It stands in relation to nothing else, so how could calling it beautiful give rise to ugliness, or calling it virtuous give rise to what is unvirtuous? This is truly constant virtue.

The phrase “acts without declining” appears in the inscriptional version as “acts without initiating,” and the two readings complement one another: once the myriad things arise, the sage responds in keeping with their course and does not decline to do so. This expresses the principle of responding to the myriad things without acting recklessly. Wu Cheng interprets “declining” as referring to speech, and takes the passage to mean “Does Heaven speak?” Yao Nai, by contrast, interprets “act” as “to serve,” arguing that the sage serves the myriad things and does not refuse the hardship. Neither interpretation reflects the original meaning.

The above is the second chapter of the Dao De Jing.

Yao Nai joins this chapter with the next, arguing that the passage beginning “the myriad things arise” discusses Wuwei in handling affairs, while the passage beginning “do not exalt the worthy” discusses teaching without words. This translation does not follow that division.

By not promoting those deemed worthy and capable, the people will not compete with one another for fame and gain. By not valuing rare and precious goods, they will not steal. By not showing them things that stir greed, their minds will not be disturbed.

Therefore, when the sage governs the people, the sage keeps their minds simple and settled and ensures they have enough food and clothing. The sage weakens their desire to outdo one another and strengthens their bones and bodies. The people are regularly kept free of scheming and desire, so those who pride themselves on cleverness and like to manipulate others dare not act recklessly. Govern by Wuwei (non-action)—without coercive human intervention or contrivance—and nothing under Heaven will remain ungoverned.

The Laozi is a book about how to save the world, so its first two chapters outline the purpose of the whole work. Here it goes further, arguing that the ills of a degenerate age should be corrected by returning to the ways of ancient governance.

The world falls into disorder because people recklessly interfere in things. Such interference arises from desire, and desire grows as knowledge and discrimination increase. Each day people open the floodgates to boundless cleverness, then try to restrain desires that are just as boundless. It is like trying to block a river with a reed leaf after its source has already overflowed.

The sage rulers of antiquity did not presume to be wise, nor did they put things worth coveting on display. Their governance of the world followed the same principle. “The worthy” here refers specifically to people of outstanding ability whose conduct sets them apart from others. Gentlemen prize reputation; lesser people prize gain. Both the reputation of the worthy and material wealth can become objects of pursuit. If people make mutual praise of the worthy a social custom, the common people will compete for fear of falling behind. If they prize goods that are hard to obtain, people who cannot get them will develop a thieving impulse. Such disorders all begin when people see things they can covet.

In governing a simple and unspoiled age, people value plainness and need not flaunt their abilities to surpass others. Goods serve to sustain life; their scarcity does not make them more valuable, and useless things are not treated as precious. In this way, both the worthy and the unworthy can serve their purpose, and rare and common things are treated alike. External things do not disturb the people’s minds, and the roots of rivalry and theft are cut off.

People’s minds cannot be calm and clear because there are things to admire, prize, and covet. Their wills will not remain gentle because thoughts of rivalry, theft, and rebellion take root within them. If people no longer seek things outside themselves, their minds can remain empty and still. Even when their bellies are full, they simply eat in peace, contentedly rubbing their full stomachs; the turmoil before their eyes does not disturb their inner selves. If their wills are not hardened by competition, then even with strong bodies and abundant energy, they will not use their strength to dominate others. Here, “empty” describes the fundamental state of the Dao, while “weak” describes how the Dao functions. There is therefore no need to seek a mind that is full and forceful: what truly needs filling is the belly, and what truly needs strengthening is the bones.

When people keep their minds empty, still, and gentle, and reserve strength and fullness for what does not need to be flaunted, they will remain free of knowledge and desire. Without knowledge and desire, they will not act recklessly. Even if clever and widely learned people wish to intervene, they will naturally refrain from rash action. The sage governs through Wuwei (non-action), and the people return to simplicity without realizing it. How could the world then fail to be well governed?

Zhang Erqi holds that the four terms “mind, belly, will, and bones” are all metaphors: in governing the world, the sage works to diminish showy and extravagant things and to strengthen simple and proper pursuits; blocks the first stirrings of rivalry; and honors a life grounded in inner truth, so that the people develop neither a sense of distinction nor a covetous heart. This interpretation is also plausible. But later practitioners of health cultivation borrowed these four terms to discuss health practices, and in doing so departed from the original meaning.

The Dao (Way) is empty and formless, yet its workings never run dry. It is deep and subtle, seeming to be the source of all things. The Dao can blunt sharpness and untangle disputes, soften its radiance, and mingle with the dust of the world. It is profound and still, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive. I do not know where it came from; I can only say that it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

Here, “empty” means void or nothingness. “Blunt its sharpness, untangle its disputes, soften its radiance, and mingle with its dust” describes how the Dao does not show its sharp edge or contend with external things, but lives in harmony with all things. “The image of the Lord” refers to the Lord of Heaven.

This chapter describes observing the wonders of the Great Dao from a state of mind that is “constantly empty.” The Shuowen Jiezi says that “chong” describes a vessel’s emptiness. The substance of the Great Dao is utterly empty, yet its function is inexhaustible, as though it could never be filled. It is deep and obscure, able to generate the myriad things without being governed by them, as if it were their source.

People often lose this quiet emptiness through complacency: they contend with others by displaying their own brilliance, and use their own light to expose the dust and dirt in others. Draw in your sharpness, and conflict will fade; soften your radiance, and you can mingle with the world. In this way, your activity will not become full and self-satisfied. The Great Dao is deep and still, seeming to exist, yet present as if without a trace.

Someone who embodies this way can make substance and function arise from the same source and restore the Dao to its original state, as though it had existed before the Lord of Heaven. Li explains that “image” means “seeming.” The Great Dao is humble and reserved, so the text says only that it “seems” to have existed before the Lord of Heaven; it does not assert that it truly came before him.

Su Zhe holds that drawing in one’s sharpness and dissolving conflict prevents reckless action and keeps one from being constrained by external things. As external troubles recede, radiance appears. One must also bring this radiance into harmony with the myriad things, because seeming different from them makes it difficult to blend in. Even amid things as dusty and jumbled as the world, one can accord with them all and thus cease to be unlike them. When the sage’s way reaches this point, it is complete, and the mind remains clear and still. Though this state is constant, people do not perceive it; hence the text says it seems to exist.

Yuan holds that the final two lines refer to someone who has realized the Great Dao, a more straightforward and approachable interpretation. Most other commentators take them as tracing the Dao back to its source, but Yuan rejects this view: asking “whose child is the Dao?” is too convoluted, while inferring that the Dao came before the Lord of Heaven is too abstruse.

Heaven and Earth show no favoritism or self-interest; they treat all things like straw dogs, figures made for a sacrifice and discarded afterward. The sage likewise favors no particular people, treating the people impartially, without distinction between those close and those distant.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? It is empty within, yet never becomes blocked; when it is set in motion, air keeps pouring out. Too many words often lead to difficulty. It is better to keep the heart-mind calm and hold to the center.

The Valley Spirit—the mysterious power that, like an empty valley, gives life and nourishment to all things—never dies. This is called the Mysterious Female, the profound maternal source that gives birth to all things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth and all things. It stretches on without end, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive; use it, and it is never exhausted.

Laozi knew that his teachings could not be put into practice in his own time. Worried that the world was in turmoil and that no one could set it right, he began to think of withdrawing from society and preserving himself in solitude. The text uses the image of a “straw dog”—a dog made of straw for a sacrificial rite and discarded once the ceremony is over—to criticize the rulers of the age. They called themselves sages and claimed the title of Sage, yet regarded the people’s lives as no more than straw offerings: once used, they no longer cared for them.

Laozi saw that, amid the disorder of the age, the people’s lives seemed only temporarily entrusted to the world, liable to vanish at any moment. He therefore lamented: Is it possible that Heaven and Earth sometimes show no benevolence? They seem to treat the myriad things as mud and straw, letting them come into being and pass away as they will. Do the Sages not value benevolence? They, too, seem to regard the people as mere weeds, with no care for their well-being. In assigning blame to Heaven and Earth and honorifically calling the rulers of the age Sages, Laozi gives voice to a compassionate lament that has nowhere else to turn. Yet responsibility cannot, in the end, be laid at Heaven and Earth’s door.

Heaven and Earth have no conscious will, yet they naturally bring the myriad things into being and set them in motion, like a bellows: empty inside, it sends out a steady current of air when moved. Heaven and Earth drive the growth and transformation of the myriad things, but, unlike the Sage, they do not worry over them. The Sage is different: he has a mind, but should act through Wuwei (non-action). Responsibility for the people and the myriad things rests with the Sage. One cannot say that Heaven and Earth treat the people like straw dogs; it is people who truly treat them this way. Having said this, Laozi does not wish to say more.

Born between Heaven and Earth, if one cannot help the people and the myriad things to follow their natures and thrive, should one also give up one’s own nature and let Heaven and people treat one like a straw dog? Looking close at hand, the human body is itself like a small Heaven and Earth. Why not return to the heart, quietly observe and preserve its inner emptiness and stillness, rather than talk on and on and become entangled in the affairs of the world until reason and circumstance reach their limit? “The exhaustion of number” refers to the point at which the course of reason and circumstance reaches its end.

In the writings of the Yellow Emperor, “valley” refers here to a center of emptiness. “Female,” a symbol of receptivity and birth, likewise serves as a metaphor for emptiness’s capacity to receive and nourish. By preserving what is within without clinging to particular forms, one can establish the root. Without exerting force, one can respond to the myriad things: this is the “use of what is useless.” Truly understanding and preserving this principle can, on a small scale, become a method of nourishing life and concentrating Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy); on a larger scale, it can become a path of empty clarity and numinous awareness, responsive to all affairs. How could it ever be exhausted?

To meet the affairs of the world with emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei is the Sage’s way of governing through non-action. If the Way cannot be put into practice, what good is it to speak at length? Such speech may instead bring harm. Better to gather one’s words and apply the Dao inwardly, allowing body and mind to return to a wondrous state of undivided unity. In this way, even while living within one’s own small Heaven and Earth, one is as though returned to the age of Fuxi, the legendary ancient time of simplicity and Wuwei. This is the meaning of the Supreme One’s teaching without words.

The commentary further explains that the “bellows” is a device shaped like a pouch and hollow inside, which sends out air when worked. “Valley Spirit” draws on the valley’s emptiness, its capacity to receive and respond to sounds, as a metaphor for inner De (Virtue/Power). “Mysterious Female” evokes a deep, receptive, life-giving female gate, symbolizing the wondrous power that generates the myriad things. All things emerge from this gate of generation, which is therefore also the “root of Heaven and Earth.” This corresponds to the opening chapter of the Laozi: “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things.” “Faint and continuous, as though it remains” describes attending to what is subtle; “use it without exhausting it” means observing its manifest workings without overtaxing it. The commentator Wu Cheng explains that the valley can preserve the spirit because it is empty; “as though it remains” means that the spirit abides within. “Exhausting” implies labor and depletion: when Qi unfolds and is used appropriately, it can be nurtured and increased; when overused, it is depleted and weakened. If spirit and Qi are constantly preserved, Qi will not disperse.

This is the title of Chapter Five. Heshanggong assigns the text up to “Too many words; hold to the center” to the preceding chapter, while Yao Nai groups that phrase with the following passage on “the Spirit of the Valley” and assigns them to the next chapter. These two lines follow from what comes before and lead into what comes after, so they make sense in either chapter, but neither chapter’s meaning is complete as a result. The versions of the text by Wang Bi and Wu Cheng preserved in the Yongle Encyclopedia combine the relevant passages into a single chapter; this translation follows that arrangement. When the Liezi quotes the text beginning with “the Spirit of the Valley,” it identifies it as coming from the Book of the Yellow Emperor. This suggests that, after finishing his own words, Laozi cites an ancient saying to clarify his point. The quoted text should not be treated as a separate chapter.

Commentators have often read the passages before and after this point in isolation, making the meaning of the words seem disconnected. One especially mistaken interpretation takes “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs” to mean that Heaven and Earth have no concern for anything and simply let all things live and die as they will. Human beings and straw dogs used in sacrifice are different kinds of things. But sages and ordinary people are all human beings, so how could the sages treat the people like straw dogs? What is more, compassion is foremost among Laozi’s Three Treasures, and he repeatedly urges people to cherish life and exercise caution in warfare. If “not benevolent” is taken as a teaching of cold indifference, it makes the same person’s statements contradict one another and breaks the continuity of the chapter’s meaning.

It is also far-fetched to interpret the bellows as a metaphor for “holding to the center,” or to explain “Too many words lead to exhaustion” as meaning that excessive speech depletes one’s energy. Wang Dao once observed that later generations, not understanding what it means to “treat the myriad things as straw dogs,” attributed the harm done to virtue to the doctrines of penal law and terminology. This, too, illustrates the point of “Too many words lead to exhaustion.” Laozi must have had an important and pressing reason for writing these words. This interpretation is persuasive.

Heaven and Earth can endure for a long time. They can endure because they do not live for themselves; therefore, they are able to last.

Thus, the sage places himself behind others, yet comes to the fore; holds himself apart, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish aims? Precisely because he has no selfish aims, he is able to fulfill himself.

The preceding passage says, “The Valley Spirit never dies,” thereby revealing the fundamental nature of Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth endure because Heaven gives and Earth nurtures, yet neither claims the myriad things as its own. That is why they can last. If they cared only for their own preservation, Heaven and Earth would be no more than ordinary beings. How could they endure?

Thus the sage is gentle, yielding, humble, and lowly. He puts others first and himself last, and people therefore respect him all the more. He has few desires and seeks nothing for himself; he benefits others and places himself beyond concern, and people therefore do him no harm. In the end, he preserves himself. Is this not because his heart is free of selfish thoughts? By putting others before himself, he is able to preserve and fulfill himself. This is the natural outcome of how things unfold.

Cheng says: Heaven, Earth, and human beings originally come from one source. At their root, what makes Heaven Heaven, Earth Earth, and human beings human is one and the same. Yet Heaven and Earth endure while people do not. Why? Heaven does not deliberately think of itself as Heaven, and Earth does not deliberately think of itself as Earth. Once people take on bodily form and become human, they identify the body as “me” and are always thinking of themselves as human; they cannot help but cherish the body. They then bustle about to secure their own livelihood, believing that caring for life depends on all kinds of external things, and pursue desires that bring no benefit. The more they value themselves, the more they are humiliated; the more they try to treat themselves well, the more readily they are harmed. Are those in the world who lose their lives not, in the end, burdened by the very fact of being alive? This is precisely the teaching of the Huang-Lao tradition, the Daoist thought represented by the Yellow Emperor and Laozi. How could those who practice life-nurturing, treat themselves as private possessions, and care only for their own preservation use this teaching to justify themselves?

Li Jiamo says: Heaven gives without reluctance, and Earth nurtures without reluctance. This is “not living for oneself”: they do not treat the nurturing of the myriad things as a private concern. Heaven and Earth do not act for their own ends, yet the myriad things depend on them to grow. That is why Heaven and Earth endure. This principle of Heaven giving and Earth nurturing has never ceased for even a single day.

The highest goodness is like water. Water skillfully nourishes all things without competing with them. It settles in low places that people everywhere dislike, and so comes closest to the Dao—the fundamental principle by which all things move and function.

In choosing a place to live, be skillful in preferring low ground. In the heart, be skillful in remaining deep and calm. In dealing with others, be skillful in treating them with kindness. In speaking, be skillful in keeping your word. In governing, be skillful in bringing stability and order. In your work, be skillful in making the most of your abilities. In acting, be skillful in recognizing the right moment. Because there is no contention, there are no faults or grievances.

〔Variant readings: The Chen Jingyuan edition reads “and does not contend.” In the Fu Yi edition, “dwell” is written as “reside,” and “kindness” as “people”; it also adds the particle “indeed” after “Dao” and after “grievances.” The Song Huizong edition omits the word “them” after “everyone.”〕

Li Zhi says: Anything that benefits all things may be called “good.” Yet even what benefits all things can give rise to competition, so it cannot be the highest good. Water alone is different. Everyone likes to stay in high places, but water flows down to low places. Everyone gathers in flat, secure places, but water passes through dangerous and difficult terrain. Everyone likes what is clean, but water settles in filthy places. The places water occupies are all places people dislike. Who, then, would compete with it? This is why water is the highest good. The lines beginning “In dwelling, be good at choosing the ground” describe how the sage, like water, benefits all things without competing with anyone; they do not continue to speak of water alone.

Lü Huiqing says: The rivers and seas can gather the waters of a hundred streams because they are good at staying low. This is what “In dwelling, be good at choosing the ground” means. The seven kinds of goodness that follow are all derived from the principle of non-contention, and having a fitting place as their foundation. One who can stay low can accommodate what everyone else dislikes. Thus, by not competing with anyone, there is no one in all under Heaven who can compete with them.

Wu Cheng says: The several matters listed from “In dwelling, be good at choosing the ground” onward are ways of practicing goodness by choosing what people consider good; they are not yet the highest good. Only when one possesses these good qualities and can also refrain from contention is one like water. Though the source of water lies high, water itself willingly stays low. This is the highest good. People dislike low places, so they are bound to compete for high ones. Wanting to stand above others gives rise to a desire to prevail. That desire brings resentment. If one does not compete, what resentment could there be?

Su Zhe says: When Yin and Yang mingle, that is the Dao. What receives the Dao and comes forth from it is goodness. Heaven gives birth to water, just as the Dao moves and becomes manifest as goodness, and just as Qi moves and takes shape as water. The Dao and water both go from nonbeing to being and remain close to the Dao; therefore they may be called “good,” and nothing is higher than this.

The Dao is everywhere, and water benefits all things. It avoids high places and flows toward low ones, never going against its course: this is “In dwelling, be good at choosing the ground.” It is empty and still, deep beyond measure: this is “In the heart, be good at depth.” It can be drawn from without being exhausted, and gives to all things without seeking anything in return: this is “In giving, be good in benevolence.” In a round vessel it swirls; in a square vessel it bends. When blocked, it stops; when it finds an opening, it flows: this is “In speech, be good in trustworthiness.” It washes away every kind of filth and brings high and low toward balance: this is “In governing, be good at bringing order.” Used to carry things, it lets them float; used to look at things, it reflects clear images; used to attack what is hard, it can overcome even the strongest: this is “In affairs, be good at ability.” It flows day and night without pause, filling one hollow before moving on: this is “In action, be good at timing.”

People have faults and cannot avoid being blamed because they compete. Water has all seven of these good qualities, yet does not compete with anyone; therefore it meets with no resentment.

Yuan’s note: It is reasonable to interpret the lines beginning “In dwelling, be good at choosing the ground” as describing the qualities of water, or as describing the actions of the sage. But rather than treating these qualities themselves as the highest good, it is more appropriate to regard non-contention as the highest good.

Chapter Seven

Holding something in your hands and filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping in time. Sharpen a blade too much, and its keen edge will not last. Pile a house high with gold and jade, and no one can guard it for long. After attaining wealth and status, arrogance and self-satisfaction will only bring trouble upon you. Once your work is done and your reputation established, you should withdraw. This is the Way of Heaven.

“To hold something and fill it” means knowing that it is already full, yet continuing to hold and add to it. “To temper something and sharpen it” means knowing that a blade is already keen, yet continuing to grind it. Such conduct is already unwise; how much more so to pile a house high with gold and jade? The more you store up, the more you may lose. In the end, no one can keep it all. If your edge is too sharp, and wealth and status make you even more arrogant, you will bring trouble upon yourself.

Only by remaining full without overflowing can you keep your wealth for long; only by holding high rank without falling into danger can you retain your honor. How can you avoid overflow and danger? Simply follow the Way of Heaven: when the sun reaches its zenith, it begins to decline toward the west; after the moon is full, it gradually wanes. The seasons turn, and when things reach completion, they move into the next stage. If even Heaven and Earth follow this pattern, how much more should people?

“Excess” means knowing only how to advance, not how to yield; knowing only how to preserve, not that things can also be lost; knowing only how to gain, not that things can also be forfeited. Acting this way will inevitably leave regrets. The sage completes a task without claiming credit for it; once a reputation is established, the sage does not cling to rank or renown. Naturally, the sage does not seek fullness or show off a keen edge. In this way, the sage preserves themself in matters both great and small, and so can be said to have “completed the work” and “fulfilled the name.” If you do not know when to be satisfied, when will the work be complete and the name fulfilled?

This passage does not require people to retreat to the mountains, cut themselves off from worldly affairs, and only then enter the Dao. Even amid fame, rank, and wealth, one can act in accordance with it.

Can you securely hold fast to the hun and po and keep the spirit whole, without letting it become divided? Can you regulate the breath and make it gentle, like that of an infant? Can you cleanse the depths of your heart and leave no blemish? Can you care for the people and govern the state in accord with nature, without forcing things? As the senses open and close like gates, can you remain supple and still? Can you understand all directions without relying on cleverness or preconceived notions?

Let all things grow and nourish them, yet do not claim them as your own. Act, yet do not take pride in your achievements. Help all things mature, yet do not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and natural Virtue).

The commentary explains that “carry” means to settle or bear, and that “hun and po” refers to the soul. The cultivation described here does not necessarily require withdrawing to the mountains and cutting oneself off from human affairs. One can uphold and practice it even amid fame, rank, and wealth. The text also records variations in the wording across different versions.

Chapter Thirty

Thirty spokes converge at the hub in the center of a wheel. It is precisely because the hub is empty that the wheel can turn and the cart can serve its purpose. Clay is kneaded and shaped into vessels; it is precisely because their interiors are empty that they can hold things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; it is precisely because there is open space inside that the house can provide shelter. Thus, physical form brings convenience, while emptiness allows things to serve their purpose.

The “spokes” are the rods of a wheel; the “hub” is the center where many spokes meet. The Kaogong ji (Record of the Examination of Crafts) says that the hub allows the wheel to turn freely. A cart can move precisely because there is empty space within its hub. This illustrates the same principle discussed in this chapter.

“To knead” means to mix and combine; “clay” means adhesive earth. Water and clay are mixed together and fired to make pottery. The front of a house usually has a door on the east and a window on the west: the door is for people to enter and leave, and the window lets in light. Here, “emptiness” refers in each case to an open space.

Wu Cheng says: Vessels hold things, houses shelter people, and carts carry loads and travel long distances. All bring convenience to people throughout the world, so their usefulness seems to lie in what is “there.” Yet a cart turns by means of its axle, a vessel holds things because it is hollow, and a house lets people enter and leave and allows light to pass through by means of its doors and windows. Their functions all depend on open, unobstructed spaces. In the same way, a person’s abdomen is full while the heart-mind remains empty and still.

Lü Huiqing says: Without “what is there,” “emptiness” has nothing to work through; without “emptiness,” “what is there” has no conditions in which to function. Look at carts, vessels, and houses: the principle is not far to seek. Yet when it comes to themselves, people do not know what enables them to function. When sages turn inward, they do not cling to any particular thing, and so can discern subtle principles. When they act in the world, they do not depart from particular things, and so can observe the limits and traces in which things become manifest. To make good use of things to settle oneself, while also penetrating subtle principles and putting them to work, is to understand that “what is there” and “emptiness” work together and cannot be separated.

Xue Hui says: Although the end of this chapter speaks of both “what is there” and “emptiness,” its point is to use familiar things to show the value of “emptiness.” People all know that “what is there” brings convenience, but often overlook how “emptiness” enables things to function. These examples are therefore used to help them understand the principle.

The above is Chapter Ten.

Brilliant colors dazzle the eyes; complex sounds impair the hearing; and excessive flavors dull the palate. (“Ling” and “shuang” are both read with level tones. “Shuang” means to become disordered.) Indulging in horseback riding and hunting throws the mind and spirit into frenzy; coveting rare goods obstructs one’s conduct. Therefore, the sage seeks only to satisfy hunger and nurture body and mind, without chasing sensory pleasures. One should set aside the former and choose the latter.

“Shuang” means disordered: losing the ability to distinguish ordinary flavors. Looking for too long makes the eyes blurry; hearing too much causes confusion; tasting too much brings weariness. When the mind and spirit are unsettled, they become frenzied. Never knowing when one has enough invites disgrace and also obstructs one’s conduct.

Li Yue says that the eyes are never satisfied, while the belly knows when to stop, so the sage makes different choices from ordinary people. “That” refers to pursuing things outward, since the eyes look outward; “this” refers to being content within, as the belly is filled. Lü Huiqing says that the belly has no sense perception, while the eyes can see. The sage therefore sets aside pursuits driven by seeing and desire, and chooses empty stillness without knowledge or desire. This is close in meaning to the Book of Changes’s “Keeping the back still” (stopping at the back and not reaching outward) and the Yinfu Jing’s “The key lies in the eyes.”

Ye Sijing says that pursuing desires for external things harms the self. The sage seeks only to satisfy hunger and care for himself, and does not indulge external things for the sake of pleasing the eyes. Sensory pleasures such as food, sounds, and colors are difficult to renounce entirely. The key is to encounter external things without becoming attached to them, thereby preserving stillness and freedom from desire. Becoming entangled in the mundane world and following external circumstances often begins with the eyes, which is why the scripture emphasizes this point at both the beginning and the end. This also explains why Yan Hui’s “Four Prohibitions”—do not look at, listen to, speak of, or act on what is contrary to ritual—begin with “do not look,” and why cultivation that cuts off the six faculties (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) starts with the eye faculty and objects of sight. The previous chapter discussed the effects of inner emptiness and stillness; this chapter cautions against allowing external things to fill and disturb us.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace can both leave a person feeling as if startled. Regard great calamity as something as important as your own body.

What do favor and disgrace mean? Favor puts a person in a low position. When receiving favor, one feels uneasy; when losing it, one feels uneasy as well. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace both bring alarm.”

What does it mean to regard great calamity as something as important as your own body? I suffer great calamity only because I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could I suffer?

Therefore, only someone who values himself as dearly as he values all under Heaven can be entrusted with all under Heaven; only someone who cherishes all under Heaven as he cherishes himself can be entrusted with it.

“Favor” means honor, while “esteem” means treating something as important. People do not realize that favor can bring humiliation, yet they pursue it; they do not realize that troubles follow in its wake, yet they attach great importance to it. In effect, they treat humiliation as honor and troubles as treasure.

“To be fearful when favored and fearful when favor is withdrawn” means that people value favor too highly. “To regard oneself as precious” means that people make themselves the source of their troubles. Everyone hates humiliation and fears trouble, so why pursue favor and value the very things that bring trouble? Because people have grown accustomed to mistaken views and forgotten to return to the root. They are also content with their present circumstances and fail to see how things will end.

Why say that people treat humiliation as favor? Because what people call favor can itself bring humiliation. To favor someone is to stand above them; to be favored by someone is to stand below them. How could occupying a lower position not be humiliating? Yet people are content with their present circumstances, fail to see the consequences, and instead regard favor as an honor. They are delighted when they receive it and anxious when they lose it. Is this not to cherish humiliation as though it were something precious? Here, “favor” in “favor and disgrace” refers to receiving favor oneself; in “one who favors another stands above, and one favored by another stands below,” it refers to the relationship between people.

Why say that people regard trouble as important as their own selves? Because they believe that the things that may bring trouble are things they absolutely cannot lose. People focus only on cherishing themselves, and every desire brings trouble. If they did not put their own interests first, why would they worry about gain and loss? Are not the desires people stubbornly pursue to preserve their bodies themselves a great trouble? Yet people value them especially highly, as if they naturally belonged to them and could not be put aside for even a moment. Is this not to value great trouble as highly as oneself? All this comes from not understanding how to truly value and care for oneself.

Relying on another’s favor to elevate oneself ends up making oneself seem lowly. One who truly knows how to esteem oneself would not treat oneself carelessly, even if all under Heaven bestowed honor upon them. Sustaining oneself for the sake of outward pursuits ends up making oneself suffer. One who truly knows how to care for oneself would cherish oneself and not take on burdens lightly, even if all under Heaven were entrusted to them. Such a person sees themselves as lodging between Heaven and Earth, as if only temporarily staying in the world, and does not claim all under Heaven as their own. The Huainanzi quotes this passage from Laozi and illustrates it with the story of Taigong, an ancient leader of the Zhou people, who avoided Bin, left leaning on a staff, and moved to the foot of Mount Qi. This is precisely the point.

If a person does not pursue favor, what humiliation could there be? If they do not regard things beyond themselves as indispensable, why bring trouble upon themselves?

This chapter has long been interpreted in different ways. Broadly speaking, some interpretations take delight at receiving favor as natural, describe forgetting oneself as an illusory bubble, and understand “lodging in the world” as being able to shoulder great responsibility. This reading does not adopt those views, but instead follows an interpretation that better fits the passage.

Wu Cheng says: What ordinary people regard as honorable, those who understand the Dao see as humiliating. What is there to love about it? Yet people become anxious and unsettled over it. What ordinary people regard as a great benefit, those who understand the Dao see as a great trouble. What is there to value about it? Yet people regard it as highly as themselves. Favor only places a person in a low position, while gain and loss unsettle the mind. Things outside oneself are inherently insignificant, yet people regard them as inseparable from themselves. This is profound delusion.

Lü Huiqing says: “Favor” means being subject to another’s control and occupying a lower position. Clinging to the favor one receives leads to humiliation. Humiliation arises because the heart is fearful: when favor comes, one worries about losing it; when it goes, one worries about losing even more. If the heart had nothing to fear, what humiliation could there be? Great trouble arises because people value themselves too highly; thus good fortune brings worry, and misfortune brings worry. If one did not cling to oneself, what trouble could there be?

Look at it, but it cannot be seen: it is called “Yi” (the imperceptible). Listen to it, but it cannot be heard: it is called “Xi” (the inaudible). Touch it, but it cannot be grasped: it is called “Wei” (the intangible). These three qualities cannot be pursued to their source, so they are blended and regarded as one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It continues without end and cannot be described by a name, then returns at last to “nothing.” This is called the form of the formless, the image of the imageless; it is also called “Huhuang” (a state so elusive it can scarcely be grasped).

Go toward it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Hold to the Dao from ancient times and use it to govern the things of the present, and you can know the beginning of antiquity. This is called the “guiding thread of the Dao” (the Dao’s essential outline and underlying pattern).

Wu Cheng believed this chapter describes the state in which De (Virtue/Power) becomes manifest. “Yi,” “Xi,” “Wei,” and “One” all refer to De. De lies between being and nonbeing: it seems as though it could be named, yet it cannot truly be explained. “Nothing” refers to the Dao; returning to the root means returning to the Dao of nothingness. Lü Huiqing believed that the Dao has neither beginning nor end, and therefore no distinction between past and present. If one can understand where the things of today come from, one can understand the beginning of antiquity. This thread without endpoints is the “guiding thread of the Dao.” The Dao itself cannot be grasped, but once one comprehends it, one can hold to it and embody it as De; to hold to De is to grasp the Dao’s essential outline.

In ancient times, those who excelled at cultivating the Dao (the Way) reached a subtle and profound state, in harmony with the Dao and unfathomable in its depths. Because they were so hard to see through, people could only try to describe them with images: cautious, like someone crossing a river in winter; alert, as if wary of being watched from every side; solemn, like a guest. They seemed also like ice about to melt, their expressions softening and opening.

They were honest and unadorned, like uncarved wood; open-hearted, like a valley; deep and reserved, like muddy water. Who can still muddy water and let it slowly become clear? Who can sustain a settled state, then allow vitality to emerge gradually from stillness?

Those who hold fast to the Great Dao do not seek fullness. Because they do not seek fullness, they can remain understated without showing their sharpness, and they do not keep chasing after what is newly accomplished.

This chapter does not speak of the “sage” or the “perfected person,” but of “those skilled in cultivating the Dao,” because it focuses on how people enter the Dao and describes their bearing.

They act with care, considering matters again and again before proceeding. When faced with a situation, they hesitate rather than act rashly. Their expression is solemn, as though they were receiving a guest, and they do not allow themselves to be unrestrained. These qualities show that they do not rush ahead of the people of the world. Yet their care does not make them rigid: they can release what is bound up within them, as ice melts, naturally and without a trace—so much so that others may not even notice. In this way, they have no attachments to obstruct them.

The Dao’s condition is further expressed through simplicity, openness, and murkiness: it is plain like uncarved wood, receptive like a valley, and like muddy water that does not try to appear clear. Water may be clear by nature, but it does not reject all things to display its purity. Those who cultivate the Dao, too, do not make a show of themselves. They must not only preserve their plain and generous nature, but also blend with all things until there is no distinction between self and other.

These seven qualities describe both the bearing of those who possess the Dao and the essentials of seeking it. Care, hesitation, and solemnity are the starting points for cultivating De. Only after inner constraint has dissolved can one move toward a state of honesty, simplicity, openness, and wholeness, and bring De to completion. To reach a state of “murkiness” is to harmonize with the light and mingle with the dust—that is, to temper one’s radiance and live among ordinary people—and to become one with all things. This is the furthest point of self-forgetting, and the hardest to attain.

Two questions follow. Who can still the murky water? Murkiness is its state when disturbed. If it is disturbed for too long and then becomes still, might one begin deliberately to distinguish things and pursue clarity? And who can settle into stillness and remain there? Stillness is the state of rest. If it lasts too long and then gives way to activity, might distracting thoughts arise again? Those who understand the Dao but cannot hold to it are easily satisfied with themselves. Then discrimination and restlessness find an opening, and their stillness cannot endure.

Only by not treating one’s good deeds and cultivation as accomplishments to take pride in can one be content with what one already has, without hurrying after newer or higher states. In this way, one can preserve a wholeness that does not reveal itself, remain settled for the long term, and hold to the subtle and mysterious Dao. Simplicity and openness express “wholeness”; care and solemnity express “settledness.” Both arise from receptiveness, and both can be lost through self-satisfaction. Laozi’s words, “Great completion seems incomplete, yet its use is never exhausted; great fullness seems empty, yet its use is inexhaustible,” speak precisely of holding to this Dao.

The passage on the right is Chapter Fourteen.

Empty the mind and spirit to the utmost, and hold firmly to stillness without wavering. As all things grow and change together, I observe how they return to their origin.

Textual variants: “Stillness” is written as “serenity” in the Fu Yi recension. After “I,” the Heshanggong recension has the word “thus.” After “observe,” the Wang Bi recension omits “them.” Here, I follow the wording of the Huainanzi.

The myriad things flourish in profusion, yet in the end each returns to its root.

Textual variants: The Shiming says that some versions read “all things” in place of “things.” In the Fu Yi recension, “profusion” is written as “■■■■.” The Wang Bi recension has “return” after “each.” The Zhuangzi reads, “The myriad things cloud and flourish; each returns to its root.”

Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to one’s mandate of life—that is, returning to life in its original state.

Textual variant: The Wang Bi recension reads “this is called” in place of “stillness is called.”

Returning to one’s mandate of life is constancy, the enduring, unchanging pattern. To know constancy is called illumination. Not knowing constancy and acting recklessly brings danger. Knowing constancy enables one to be all-embracing; being all-embracing enables one to be impartial; being impartial enables one to be kingly; being kingly enables one to accord with Heaven. Heaven arises from the Dao, and the Dao enables all things to endure. One will remain free from danger throughout one’s life.

Textual variant: The stele inscription reads, “Impartiality can give life; life can accord with Heaven.”

This passage emphasizes the essentials of realizing the constant Dao. The starting point is “observing return”: watching how things return to their roots. The five sentences beginning with “The myriad things flourish” first use the natural course of things to explain the principle that all things ultimately return to stillness. The passage beginning “To know constancy is called illumination” then describes the insight gained by a Dao cultivator who observes the principle of return, and uses it to explain the effects of attaining emptiness and holding to stillness.

“Attain” means to reach the utmost; “empty” means to be without desire. When one has no desires, the mind can be still. This is because external things do not enter the mind, and the mind does not race outward. “Firmly” means securely. When a Dao cultivator reaches emptiness and emptiness reaches its utmost, stillness is held securely. The text that follows therefore focuses on the state of utmost stillness.

If, after attaining emptiness, one still does not know that reality is inherently empty; if, after holding to stillness, one still does not know that movement arises inherently from stillness, then one is observing emptiness only through emptiness, without observing emptiness through existence. Everything that exists arises from emptiness, and all movement arises from stillness. Thus, although all things grow together...

Although all things are in motion, they eventually return to emptiness and stillness, a state of clarity and calm. This is the fundamental pattern of change in all things. Most people see things return only after they have come to rest; they see them return to their root only after they have declined. Only those who truly understand the Dao, having reached the utmost in emptiness and stillness, can see in stillness how all things arise and how they change in countless ways.

The very reason all things arise is also the reason they return. Understand that the phenomena of change are temporary, while stillness is constant, and you can grasp nature and life—the inner root and life nature of all things—and thereby understand the world’s myriad forms. All things are continually present, yet continually return to nonbeing; they continually arise, yet continually become still. To perceive the first signs of change is to be called wise. How, then, could reckless action bring calamity?

The “knowing” spoken of here is not knowledge gained through what the ears and eyes perceive, or through speculation and thought. It means being wholly attuned to all things: outwardly, leaving nothing beyond one’s embrace; inwardly, harboring no partiality. This comes close to true knowing. In its attainment, one cultivates sage virtue within and puts the kingly way into practice without; in its transformation, one accords with Heaven and comprehends the Dao to its utmost. There is no special method for comprehending the Dao to its utmost: it lies only in holding fast to what is constant. To endure without decline is what is meant by the constant.

Su Zhe explains: If emptiness has not reached its utmost, something remains unspent; if stillness has not been held firmly, movement has not been dispelled. Even if a great mountain has been moved away, as long as a speck of dust remains unswept, one cannot say that the utmost has been reached or stillness firmly established. Without utmost emptiness and deep stillness, their full power cannot be realized. Only by reaching the utmost in emptiness and depth in stillness can one observe the transformations of all things without being disturbed by them.

Only when you understand that all things, once arisen, will ultimately return, have you truly seen change. If you yourself are still swept along in change with all things, you cannot see them clearly. All things arise from their nature and return to it, just as flowers and leaves grow from the root and in the end return to it. Nature and life are the root of all things. If you cannot bring your own nature back to its source, then even if you stop acting and put aside stray thoughts in pursuit of stillness, that is not true stillness. Only by returning to your nature and to the root of nature and life can you reach a state of clarity, calm, and constancy.

If you do not regard the return to one’s nature as true clarity, you possess only worldly cleverness. Even if you think you understand, it is not true clarity. When you act in response to external things, everything you do takes on the character of reckless action; even if it brings gain for a time, in the long run it will bring loss. Lost in delusive thoughts, people take themselves to be right and others wrong, treating all things as enemies. If they recognize these distinctions as deluded attachments, then even when facing an enemy they will feel compassion, and nothing will lie beyond their embrace. Once the feeling of opposition between sides has dissolved, they will show no partiality to either. By acting with fairness and without self-interest, they will naturally win the allegiance of all under Heaven.

The best ruler is one of whom the people know only that he exists. The next best is one whom the people draw near to and praise. Below that is one whom the people fear; worse still is one whom they scorn and insult. When a ruler lacks trustworthiness, the people will not trust him. A ruler speaks cautiously and does not issue commands lightly. When the work is done and the achievement complete, the people all say, “We did this ourselves.”

Only when the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear. Only when cleverness and cunning arose did grave deceit emerge. Only when relations among family members grew discordant did people speak of filial devotion and loving care. Only when the state fell into disorder did loyal ministers appear.

Put an end to the showy pursuit of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover filial devotion and loving care. Abandon self-important sagacity and wisdom, and the people will gain greater practical benefit. Cast aside cunning schemes for profit, and thieves will not arise. These three precepts are not enough to guide people, so they must be given something to follow: reveal the plain and unadorned, preserve the simple and genuine, lessen selfishness, and diminish desire.

In ancient times, rulers of great De followed nature and governed through Wuwei (non-action), leaving no trace of deliberate rule. The people knew only that such a ruler existed. Later, as De declined, rulers governed the world through benevolence and righteousness. The people felt their benevolence and drew close to them; they received their kindness and praised them. When benevolence and righteousness no longer sufficed to maintain order, rulers turned to punishments and laws, and the people grew afraid. When punishments and laws still failed to secure obedience, rulers began to use schemes and deceit, and the people became contemptuous and abusive toward them. These successive changes all arose as trustworthiness gradually waned, until distrust slowly took hold in society.

When those in authority practice the teaching without words—that is, govern without relying on elaborate commands and lectures—things are accomplished, and the people each follow their nature and feel that everything simply came about of itself. They feel no impulse to draw close to, praise, fear, or slight their ruler. This is what is meant by “the highest ruler is one whose existence is scarcely known”: the most skillful governance quietly benefits the people, yet they do not regard it as the ruler’s achievement.

For the people not to know their ruler is the realm of governance by the Dao (the Way). To draw close to and praise the ruler is the realm of governance by benevolence and righteousness. To fear the ruler is the realm of rule by political stratagems; to slight the ruler is the result of widespread deceit. These stages show how society gradually declines from the Dao, passing through several changes toward its lowest state. Only after the Dao has been abandoned does benevolence and righteousness appear, and this change is relatively gradual. When cleverness and cunning arise, followed by great hypocrisy, decline deepens rapidly.

Statements such as “When the six relationships are in disharmony, filial devotion and parental kindness become evident” likewise follow from the decline of the Dao and the rise of benevolence and righteousness. The earlier discussion of society’s gradual deterioration explains why people descend toward its lowest state; the later discussion of governance’s restoration points to a gradual path back to the source.

Here, “sageliness and wisdom” means clever, calculating intelligence, while “clever advantage-seeking” means hypocritical and contrived efforts to profit. Abandon the benevolence and righteousness praised by kings and return to the Dao of the Three Sovereigns, and the people can recover their nature: parents will be kind and children filial, as in the simple society of antiquity. Abandon the sageliness and wisdom praised by rulers and return to the benevolence and righteousness of the emperors, and the people can enjoy the benefits of this governance, with results far better than those of the age of kings. Abandon the clever advantage-seeking praised by hegemons and return to the sageliness and wisdom of kings. Though this does not yet restore the age of the emperors, if deliberation is thorough and governance and teaching are clear, no one will turn to theft.

These three cases refer respectively to benevolence and righteousness, sageliness and wisdom, and clever advantage-seeking. The word “attach” means to cling to or depend on. The Dao of the Three Sovereigns was originally full and natural, requiring no elaborate forms. From then on, society increasingly pursued ornamentation, and each later form of governance came to regard the preceding one as insufficient, turning instead to whatever was prized in its own time. With each successive change, people moved farther away and descended toward the lowest state. In truth, under the Dao, the people were simple and sincere; it was enough for them to remain true to their nature. Why add further ornamentation?

The earlier statement that “when the six relationships are in disharmony, filial devotion and parental kindness become evident” does not contradict the later claim that the people recover filial devotion and parental kindness. Those who are truly filial and kind do not deliberately advertise their filial devotion or kindness. This is the difference between reputation and substance, ornamentation and simplicity. From this we can infer that those who truly practice benevolence and righteousness leave no deliberate trace of doing so, and those who are truly wise do not claim wisdom as their identity. When the people hold to their simple nature and reduce selfishness and desire, the ruler practices Wuwei and the people are naturally transformed. When the ruler is free of desire, the people are naturally simple. This is what sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and clever advantage-seeking look like when brought to their fullest expression.

Li Jiamo says: When the Dao disperses, deviations gradually arise; when hypocrisy takes the upper hand, people begin instead to revere the Dao. The decline of the Dao means that it gradually becomes hidden; people’s return to honoring the Dao comes when decline has reached its extreme. Before the Dao disperses, benevolence and righteousness are already contained within it and cannot be distinguished on their own. Once someone deliberately displays gentleness and benevolence, and others respond with gratitude for his kindness, the Dao’s impartial and selfless state has already been lost. Later, clever people imitate the appearance of benevolence and righteousness, and hypocrisy grows from this, bringing disorder in its wake. This is what is meant by “the Dao disperses, and deviations arise.”

In the lowest age, hypocrites have become numerous. When someone occasionally appears different from them, people turn to praise that person instead. Thus, only after the six relationships fall into disharmony do people begin to emphasize filial devotion and parental kindness; only after the state falls into disorder do people begin to honor loyal ministers. This is what it looks like when, after decline, people turn around and praise the Dao. When the Dao disperses, people see only its outward semblance and forget its original wholeness. When decline has deepened and the original qualities have vanished, people begin to treasure those semblances, and society’s condition worsens.

Therefore, Laozi teaches people to cut off private advantage and return to the source, in order to rescue society from its lowest state. Those who are truly benevolent do not call themselves benevolent; those who truly uphold righteousness do not call themselves righteous. If benevolence and righteousness can be cast aside easily, they are not genuine benevolence and righteousness. The highest skill does not display itself as skill, and genuine benefit does not boast of the good it brings. If clever advantage-seeking can be cast aside easily, it is not genuine clever advantage-seeking.

People use things for their practical function and do not seek superficial embellishment. If teaching shows only on the outside and has no genuine substance within, people will imitate its outward form and use appearances to confuse what is real. Therefore, outward conduct must have something to which it is grounded, with firm foundations.

The sage abhors falsehood because it can obscure the truth. He therefore seeks to eliminate it at its root and remedy its harmful effects, so that people throughout the world no longer invoke benevolence and righteousness while abandoning the reality of filial devotion and compassion; no longer harbor thoughts of greed while secretly imitating the ways of sage wisdom; and no longer rely on the methods of thieves while giving up the cunning means of profit-taking. The sage guides the people only through simple principles and does not display his private desires to them.

Seeing the sage act in this way, the people dare not deceive others with outward appearances, nor do they deceive themselves with them.

The above is Chapter Sixteen.

Heshang Gong divides the text from “taking my naturalness as the standard” onward into one chapter, the four lines beginning “When the Great Dao is abandoned” into another, and the passage from “abandon benevolence and discard righteousness” through “without the lesser end” into a third. On examining the meaning of the text, however, these parts follow one another without any clear break. It is therefore reasonable that the Wang Bi edition preserved in the Yongle Encyclopedia joins the latter two parts as one chapter. The Wu Cheng edition joins all three parts into a single chapter, which gives a fuller sense of the text, so that division is adopted here. Zhang Junxiang and others in the Tang dynasty attached the next chapter’s line “Abandon learning, and there will be no worries” to the end of this chapter, and Yao Nai followed their practice. But this does not fit either the meaning or the rhyme of the text, so it is not adopted here.

Set aside ordinary learning and opinions, and there will be no worries in the heart. How great is the difference between a respectful “Yes” and a casual “Uh-huh”? How far apart are what people regard as good and what they regard as bad? What the ruler fears, the people too cannot help but fear. Vast and indistinct, it seems to have no end.

Everyone is full of delight, as if attending a lavish feast or climbing a high terrace on a spring day to admire the view. I alone am quiet and unconcerned, as though no signs have yet appeared, like an infant who has not learned to smile. I drift in a daze, with nothing to rely on, as if I had nowhere to return. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to lack everything. How foolish my mind seems—utterly muddled.

The people of the world all appear clear-sighted; I alone seem dim. They are all sharp and clever; I alone am dull and slow. I drift as if in darkness, unsettled, with nowhere to stay. Everyone has something they are good for; I alone seem stubborn and uncouth. I am different from everyone else: what I cherish is the source that nurtures all things—the “Mother,” meaning the Dao, from which all things arise and by which they are nurtured.

The previous chapter discussed ways of governing the state: only by abandoning clever schemes, deceit, and the pursuit of profit can one avoid harm. Thus it says to act through Wuwei (non-action). This chapter discusses ways of cultivating oneself: only by abandoning the inferior learning of the world can one be free of distress. Thus it says to take having no desires as one’s foundation.

The seven lines beginning “When one answers ‘yes’ and another ‘yes, indeed’” and ending “vast, without end” describe how people are weighed down by worry when they study and conduct themselves. The eight lines from “The multitude are bustling about” to “I alone seem left behind” describe how I have no desire for external things. The ten lines from “My heart is that of a fool” to “dull and uncouth” describe how I do not seek cleverness and ingenuity within myself. The final line echoes the chapter’s opening: what is to be abandoned is worldly learning; what is to be valued is “learning to feed on the Mother.”

Worry arises from fear. People who study in the world often believe that good is superior to evil, and so become pleased with themselves. To me, this is like treating “yes” and “yes, indeed” as utterly different. Does the human heart truly delight in compliance and dislike a response? How great can the distance between good and evil really be? People fear that treating others with compliance or indifference will bring humiliation, and that disliking others will cost them their reputation and expose them to punishment. So they have no choice but to fear these consequences and force themselves to act accordingly. Driven by necessity, they spend their lives in worry. How could this worry ever end?

Yet people do not themselves feel that they are burdened by worry. Instead, they think they are pursuing pleasure, and eagerly chase after external things. Nor do they think themselves ignorant; rather, they consider themselves perceptive, while viewing me as muddled and foolish, dull and uncouth. Am I alone willing to be lowly and unlike ordinary people? I have things I value; they are simply different from what other people value.

De (Virtue/Power) is the mother of all things, and Dao (the Way) is the source of De. People chase after external things and employ their cleverness to satisfy their sight, hearing, and thoughts. They are merely enjoying the “child.” I, by contrast, cast these things aside and nourish myself with Dao and De. Thus, rejecting the worldly learning that brings fear and worry is precisely how one comes to value “learning to feed on the Mother.” Yang Xiong said that if people abandon learning, they may be free of worry, but will be like animals. How could he have understood the purpose of abandoning learning as meant here?

“Calm and untroubled” means that desires have not yet arisen, as when an infant has not yet learned to cough or laugh. At first, it does not know what there is to love in external things. “Riding along” means dwelling amid things without becoming attached to them. Everyone else has a mind intent on acquiring a surplus; I alone cast that thought aside. Am I truly so foolish as to be muddled and confused? Dao takes having less as its joy and harbors no desire to acquire a surplus. Thus others seem perceptive, while I appear dull and unaware. At such a time, my mind is bewildered and knows not where to turn, like a boat crossing the ocean, adrift and unattached. This is what “riding along” means: seeming to have nowhere to return.

“Dull and uncouth” means appearing slow-witted and coarse, like someone far from the cities and unfamiliar with worldly affairs. “Feeding on the Mother” appears in the “Neize” chapter of the Book of Rites, where it refers to a wet nurse. Here it draws on the image of an infant not yet able to cough or laugh to describe a return to simplicity, before desires have arisen.

The way of great De is to follow the Dao (the Way). The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp. Within its indistinctness, there are images; within its obscurity, there are things. In its deep darkness lies a subtle essence. This subtle essence is utterly real, and within it there is something reliable.

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never vanished. Through it, we can know the origin of all things. How do I know that the origin of all things is so? By relying on the Dao.

The abundant Virtue expressed by “Kong” (open and vast) arises entirely from the Dao (the Way). “Vague and indistinct” means that it seems to be there and yet not there; “dark and profound” means that it is so hidden and deep as to be wholly invisible. These phrases describe the Dao’s formlessness and lack of image. The things of the world have form and image: these are expressions of De (Virtue/Power), a relatively coarse and visible level. De, in turn, is the root from which the forms and images of all things arise, and is subtler still. The Zhuangzi says, “Take De as the root, and the root as the essence.” This means that De is born from the Dao. “Trust” means what is certain and real. “Fu” is an empty word used in forms of address; “the myriad roots” can be understood as the roots of all things. The Guangya also says that “fu” means “many.”

Wang Shi says that “the appearance of abundant De” refers to the state described in the preceding chapter from “calm, with no sign yet arisen” onward. Abundant De arises entirely from the Dao, so the sage regards the Dao as fundamental. What follows is a repeated account of the Dao’s profound mystery. “Things” means forms and images; “true” means subtle; and “trust” means real. These are simply different words chosen to fit the rhythm of the passage. “The myriad roots” refers to heaven, earth, and all things, which are born from the Dao. All things flow and change, while the Dao remains the same from antiquity to the present. Hence the text says: “From antiquity to the present, its name has never departed; through it, one observes the myriad roots.” This means that the name and reality of the Dao have never vanished, and that one quietly observes the birth, death, and transformation of all things. How do we know that all things are observed through the Dao? Precisely because the Dao is real and trustworthy, unchanging, and always presides over the myriad forms—like an inn that receives travelers coming and going.

Li Jiamo says that people take things that appear before them to be truly existent, without realizing that they are ultimately illusory. Yet there is also something real within the formless, though people find it hard to perceive. The Dao is truly real: it does not exist only because it appears as “being,” nor does it disappear when it returns to “nonbeing.” This is what “trustworthy” means. The Dao has remained unchanged since antiquity, so the sage can observe the beginnings of all things and understand where they come from. Precisely because the sage has apprehended ultimate nonbeing, they can…