《老子本义》Vol. 2

Only by bending can one remain whole; only by yielding can one become straight. Low places can be filled; what has grown old and worn can be renewed. Take little, and one may gain; grasp at too much, and one will be confused.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao (the fundamental principle of all things) and makes it the standard for the world. Because he does not try to display himself, he sees clearly. Because he does not rely on his own abilities, he becomes renowned. Because he does not boast of his achievements, he succeeds in his undertakings. Because he does not exalt himself, he endures. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

Could the ancients’ saying, “Only by bending can one remain whole,” really be empty words? Indeed: one who can preserve oneself will ultimately return to the Great Dao.

The “All under Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi discusses Laozi’s teachings, saying that while people all pursue good fortune, Laozi alone understood how to bend and preserve himself, and so was able to remain whole. That is why this chapter opens with “Bending brings wholeness,” an idea that runs throughout. Laozi did not seek to stand straight, to be full, to be novel, or to have more; all these are ways of not deliberately pursuing perfection.

“Bending” means occupying a low, yielding position. By holding fast to the “Oneness of the Dao,” one can place oneself humbly; yet it is precisely this that expresses complete De. The phrase “Less brings more” is not divided into two separate statements here, because it leads into the meaning of “holding fast to the One” below. The “One” is the ultimate form of “less”; yet by keeping it as the standard for all under Heaven, one gains much. Those who lose their lives often do so because they pursue too many paths; sheep, too, are often lost because there are too many branching trails. These examples show that craving more can leave people confused.

The next chapter places “the model for all under Heaven,” “the stream for all under Heaven,” and “the valley for all under Heaven” side by side. A “model” is the place on a carriage where a person leans forward for support. It is low in position but valued, so it serves as a metaphor for the Sage’s humble, empty, and still De. As for the phrase “the eye reaches utmost clarity,” it mentions “the eye” and “utmost clarity,” which may be understood as exceptionally sharp vision…

Do not cling to showing yourself off. When you deliberately try to look at yourself, you cannot see clearly. The same principle applies when people do not presume to be right, praise themselves, or display themselves. There is no special secret to achieving this: hold fast to “the One of the Dao” (devotion to the fundamental principle), and private interests will fall away. Without private interests, there will be no contention. Because he does not contend, people throughout the world are glad to honor him, and he attains a complete fulfillment.

“Bend and you will be preserved”: this saying has been handed down since ancient times. Laozi quotes it and explains further: how could these words be empty? They truly express how things work and what follows from it. Straightforward words often sound like their opposite. Everyone in the world knows them, yet few can put them into practice. Who can hold to them with complete faith and no doubt? This repeated counsel is already deeply heartfelt.

Su Che says: What does not accord with principle is not truly straight. To follow principle, even if it seems circuitous, is the truest straightness in the world.

What gathers in a low place cannot help but fill up, however much one might wish it otherwise. Deliberate discernment does not accord with the Dao; what is solid and simple may seem old, yet it is the source of continual renewal. The Dao is one alone: grasp the root, and nothing will be beyond your understanding; covet many things and pursue details, and you will instead become confused. Holding to the root is a return to one’s nature. “Bend and be preserved, take a winding path and be straight, lie low and be filled, grow old and be renewed”—all these are natural results of holding to the root. Thus the passage concludes with “hold to the One.” Not showing oneself off, not presuming to be right, and not boasting or displaying oneself are all expressions of noncontention, so the passage also concludes with “do not contend.”

Lü Huiqing says: Of all things in the world, water is closest to the Dao. It begins in a tiny spring and eventually flows into the sea: this is bending and being preserved. It meets an obstruction and winds around it, yet in the end flows east: this is taking a winding path and being straight. It is good at staying low, and so all streams gather into it: this is lying low and being filled. It takes in the world’s filth and yet remains clear: this is growing old and being renewed. Only those who hold to the root are fit to speak of these principles. Thus it is said that little gain brings greater confusion: one who can bend, take a winding path, stay low, and bear wear, wherever they may be, never departs from the root.

Chapter Nineteen (the original text is headed “Above, Chapter Nineteen”).

Chao Shuo-zhi argues that Yan Jun-ping’s Laozi Zhigui and the commentary by Gu Shen-zi divide the chapters and sentences very differently from other versions. For example, they assign the final seventeen words of the chapter “What is bent remains whole” to the next chapter. Yao Nai, by contrast, treats the passage from “Few words accord with the natural” through “Those who stand on tiptoe do not stand firm” as a separate chapter. Chao also argues that the three words “quan, yan, ran” rhyme and mean: “If I truly possess complete virtue, the people of the world will naturally turn to me.” In that case, speaking little can also accord with the natural.

Chao Shuo-zhi further argues that the passage beginning “A whirlwind and a downpour” explains the meaning of “What is crooked becomes straight; what is hollow becomes full.” The lines beginning “If trust is insufficient” mean that someone feels inwardly inadequate but deliberately presents themselves as having more than enough; this is why “excess brings confusion.” Chao considers these explanations strained, however, and does not accept them.

“Speaking little accords with the natural. A whirlwind cannot last all morning; a downpour cannot last all day. What brings this about? Heaven and Earth. Even Heaven and Earth cannot make a whirlwind and a downpour continue without end.” In this passage, some versions write “xi” as “xi” with a different character; some write “chongzhao” instead of “zhongchao”; and some versions add the word “ye” after “Heaven and Earth.”

Issuing commands rarely accords with nature. A gale cannot blow for a whole morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. What brings these conditions about? Heaven and Earth. If even the power of Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can human effort?

So those who act in accordance with the Dao (the fundamental principle governing all things) become one with the Dao. Those who cultivate De (the expression of the Dao in a person) become one with De. Those who depart from the Dao and De become one with their departure. The Dao welcomes those who accord with it; De returns to those who accord with it; and those who accord with deviation receive the consequences of deviation. When trust is insufficient, others will not trust you.

Those who rise onto their toes cannot stand firm; those who take great strides cannot walk far. Those who judge only by their own views cannot see things clearly. Those who consider themselves right do not gain recognition. Those who praise themselves achieve no merit. Those who exalt themselves cannot endure. From the standpoint of the Dao, such behavior is like leftover food and needless excess, which people find repellent. Therefore, a person who possesses the Dao does not act this way.

[The note’s heading explains: The previous chapter discussed the principles upheld by a person who possesses the Dao; this chapter discusses how to accord with the Dao.]

The previous chapter described the principles upheld by a person who follows the Dao (the Way). This chapter discusses the errors that arise from going against the Dao, and the two chapters echo one another. The four traits of self-display, self-righteousness, self-praise, and conceit also appeared in the previous chapter: there they were presented positively, while here they are presented negatively.

Speaking little accords with nature and therefore allows one to be in harmony with the Dao. Things that arise naturally are not contrived: the wind does not blow fiercely without end, and rain does not fall in torrents without end. A person who stands on tiptoe cannot stand steadily; a person who takes oversized strides cannot walk far. Leftover food is repulsive, and an extra, superfluous growth on the body is offensive. None of these is natural.

When words are spoken at the right moment, people do not grow tired of them. This is like rain arriving in season, neither too heavily nor too lightly. Deliberately arguing at length or putting on a show with startling words is like a violent storm: it can be intense for a time, but cannot last.

“Dao,” “De” (Virtue/Power), and “loss” here refer to three states that people in the world display through their studies and actions. To preserve nature fully is “Dao”; to understand it to some degree and follow it is “De”; to depart from it is “loss.” “Sameness” means following and accord. People are not born divided into these three classes; they come to differ because they acquire different things through study and action. The Dao naturally follows nature, but people often stray from it through contrivance. Their errors are all of their own making.

Wang Bi’s explanation largely approaches the original meaning: take non-action as one’s guiding principle and teach without words, and the myriad things can preserve their original nature—this is to accord with the Dao. With few burdens and fitting conduct, one accords with De; with many burdens and improper conduct, one accords with loss. Some interpret this passage as describing how a perfected person responds mysteriously to the myriad things, but that reading is forced and does not connect well with the text. The ancient edition used by Fu Yi offers a firmer basis for understanding its meaning.

To accord with “loss” is to lack trustworthiness. If you lack trustworthiness, others will not trust you. When they do not trust you, you talk on and on, trying to mislead them. How, then, can you speak little and follow what is natural?

Wu Cheng holds that the passage from “speaking little” to “others do not trust” uses speech to explain the difference between accord with the Dao and departure from it. From “a person who stands on tiptoe cannot stand steadily” onward, it uses standing and walking as metaphors for the preceding ideas. Standing and walking can naturally proceed as they are; if one insists on gaining more than nature provides, tiptoeing and taking oversized strides to force oneself taller or farther, the result cannot last, like a violent storm. To harbor thoughts of self-righteousness and believing oneself correct, while outwardly boasting and acting conceited, is, when measured against the natural Dao, like leftover food or excess flesh on the body: superfluous things beyond one’s proper share. Beings in both the human and the underworld realms will loathe such conduct. Here, “beings” refers to people, ghosts, and spirits.

Sima Guang holds that in ancient writing the characters for “conduct” and “form” could be used interchangeably. Leftover food disgusts people, and excess flesh on the body strikes them as ugly. Lü Huiqing, in turn, says that the Dao occupies a place that people generally reject; hence the scripture says, “All things may perhaps loathe it.” A person who follows the Dao therefore does not occupy places that everyone competes to attain. Lowliness, stillness, and gentleness are rejected and abandoned by most people. Loftiness and firmness are also often disliked, yet people still compete for them. A person who follows the Dao does not take up these positions. Whether one occupies a place or refrains from doing so, in the end the principle is the same: do not contend with others.

There is a unified existence that was already present before Heaven and Earth took shape. Silent and still, vast and formless, it exists on its own and never changes. It moves in cycles without ceasing and can serve as the source of all things beneath Heaven. I do not know what it was originally called, so I give it the courtesy name “Dao” (the Way); forced to name it, I call it “Great.”

“Great” means moving onward and flowing away; what moves onward and flows away seems distant, and what is distant returns. Heaven and Earth, the Dao, and the ruler are all vast and boundless, and are counted among the “Four Greats” of the world. People take Earth as their model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao takes nature as its model—that is, following things as they are in themselves, without imposing human force upon them.

The textual note preceding the scripture says that editions such as the Heshang Gong recension divide the text beginning with “When trust is insufficient” into a separate chapter, while the Wu Cheng recension joins it to the preceding text as one chapter. This translation follows Wu Cheng’s division.

Before Heaven and Earth took shape, something already existed: the Dao spoken of in the previous chapter. It was undivided and came into being before Heaven and Earth. This is what is called the “nameless”—the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Silent and still, empty and without form, it exists independently at its root, yet its workings extend everywhere. As the source of all things, it may be called the “named”—the mother of the myriad things. But its original name cannot be determined, so it is reluctantly called the Dao. A “designation” is a term used in place of an original name. It is called the Dao because nothing comes into being apart from it. Yet even the name “Dao” cannot fully describe it, so it is also reluctantly called “Great.”

If we trace it from its greatness, we find it continually moving, reaching far away; looking back from the distance, we find it returning to what is near. In its vastness and depth, even Heaven and Earth cannot exhaust it. Yet when it returns to the near, it is also present in each person’s body and mind, so that everyone can possess it. Heaven is clear because it has attained the Dao; Earth is tranquil because it has attained the Dao; and the lords and kings attain their rightful place as rulers of the world because they have attained the Dao. This shows that human beings can stand alongside Heaven and Earth as the “Three Powers”—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—precisely because they, too, follow the Dao.

The final sentences of this chapter focus on how people can model themselves on the Dao. Human nature is vast, and can stand alongside Heaven and Earth. The previous chapter says that understanding the constant Dao enables one to be inclusive; inclusiveness enables one to be impartial; impartiality enables one to become a king; kingship enables one to accord with Heaven, and ultimately with the Dao. To fulfill this greatness, a king need only model himself on Heaven, which covers all without exception; Earth, which bears all without exception; and the Dao, which nourishes and transforms the myriad things. The Dao follows its own nature. To model oneself on the Dao is therefore to model oneself on what is natural; here, “natural” refers to one’s inherent nature. If people can return to their inherent nature, they can fully embody the greatness of the Dao.

This does not mean that people, Heaven, and Earth model themselves on one another in succession. Nor does it mean that the Dao is described as the father of Heaven and Earth, nature as the child of the Dao, and the king added to make up the “Five Greats within the realm.”

Steadiness is the foundation of lightness, and stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, the noble person travels all day without leaving the baggage cart, which carries supplies and belongings. Even amid honor and glory, they remain composed and detached.

How can the ruler of a state treat the affairs of the world lightly? Acting rashly means losing one’s foundation; being restless and agitated means losing one’s mastery.

The root is always more important than the branches and leaves, and the ruler must always be more composed than the ministers. Laozi uses this as an analogy. “Restlessness” means excessive activity. A vehicle travels fifty li a day, while an army travels thirty, because its baggage train—carrying provisions, equipment, and other heavy loads—follows behind, and the army dares not get too far ahead of it. This shows that swift movement must rest on a stable, weighty foundation.

Even splendid terraces and gardens for leisurely visits are no better than dwelling in detached stillness. This shows that action should take stillness as its guiding principle. Thus, when a gentleman handles the affairs of the world, he must act with gravity and make stillness his guiding principle. Han Feizi says, “To control the situation is called ‘weight’; not to leave one’s position is called ‘stillness.’” Weight can master frivolity, and stillness can restrain restlessness: this is the principle being described.

Li Zhi says: When a baggage train travels along, one can hurry all day without becoming rash, because steadiness provides a foundation. When one has a quiet place to dwell, one can be surrounded by pleasing scenery without becoming restless, because stillness remains in command. Rashness, then, means losing the foundation of steadiness; restlessness means losing the command of stillness.

Lü Huiqing says: Among things, the light and frivolous are often affected by external forces first, while the weighty respond later. Thus the root can govern the branches. A still person can master things, whereas a restless person is ruled by them; stillness can therefore govern restlessness. Even ordinary matters such as travel and dwelling follow this principle. How much more must those who bear great responsibilities, travel long roads, and observe the world remain composed and grounded?

To respond only after being moved, and to act only when truly compelled, is to be grounded. To accomplish things without acting recklessly is to be still. If one acts only when compelled but still cannot practice Wuwei (non-action), one is rashly throwing oneself into the affairs of the world, without being grounded. Once groundedness is lost, restlessness follows, and stillness becomes impossible.

Li Jiamo says: The army’s need to bring its baggage train is an analogy for how the sage goes everywhere throughout the day yet never departs from the root. Being able to dwell quietly amid splendid places of leisure is an analogy for how the sage does everything yet always accords with Wuwei. If one is the ruler of the world but busies oneself only with peripheral affairs, one will be pulled along by each individual matter. How, then, can one govern the world securely?

Wu Cheng says that “to make oneself light in the affairs of the world” means rashly throwing oneself into them. The examples of the baggage train and quiet dwelling illustrate only one aspect of the principle. Cultivating one’s nature and managing oneself, holding an important position in governing a state while mastering frivolous affairs, and using stillness to control movement in military strategy all follow the same principle.

Skillful action leaves no obvious trace; skillful speech has no flaws or grounds for blame; skillful planning needs no counting rods or other calculating devices. A skilled door closer uses no bolt, yet the door cannot be opened; a skilled knot tier uses no rope, yet the knot cannot be undone. (“Counting rods” were used for calculation in ancient times; “bolts” refers to door bolts; “ropes and bindings” refers to ropes and knots.)

Thus, the sage is always skilled at helping people, so that no one is cast aside as useless; and always skilled at making use of things, so that nothing is cast aside as useless. This is called “hidden illumination,” an inner wisdom held deep within.

Therefore, good people are teachers of those who are not good, while those who are not good serve as a lesson and support for good people. If one does not honor one’s teacher or cherish those who offer such a lesson and support, then, however enlightened one believes oneself to be, one will still fall into great confusion. This is the subtle essence of the matter.

Skillful action, speech, planning, closing, and restraint are all ways to govern and manage affairs. Skillful planning, closing, and restraint are also ways to help people. The sage is always able to help people skillfully, by using the methods just described. Thus, under Heaven there is no one who cannot be helped, and no one who is cast aside.

The sage quietly redirects the course of things without leaving a trace, resolving problems before they arise and guiding change before people notice. To help people without leaving any sign of having helped them—does this not mean that the light of the Dao of Heaven is deeply concealed? Later, the text says, “This is called subtle illumination,” explaining this hidden light. It also says, “This is called following the constant,” and “following the light” likewise means carrying on the constant Dao. To understand the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted.

Those in the world who do not know how to conceal their wisdom help someone and then want to claim credit for it; they also enjoy acting as other people’s teachers. When someone seems beyond help, they publicly punish and condemn that person, sometimes even using the occasion to advance their own interests. None of this is truly skillful help, and so many people end up being cast aside.

The light of the Dao of Heaven within a person of the Dao is deeply hidden and never displayed. Such a person does not enjoy acting as another’s teacher or using good deeds to build a reputation. They do not use others for personal gain, nor are they quick to label anyone “bad.” Even when their wisdom is great, they show no outward distinction and may even seem confused. Those around them then cease to cling to distinctions between good and bad people. People are transformed without realizing it. This is the wondrous efficacy of the sage’s carrying on the light of the Dao of Heaven: its guiding principle is exceedingly simple, yet its effects are unfathomable.

Wu Cheng says: “skillful action, skillful speech, skillful planning, skillful closing, skillful restraint, skillful help to people, and skillful help to things”—these seven kinds of skill are the sage’s practice of a goodness that cannot be defined by worldly terms. “Good person” and “bad person,” by contrast, are the two labels ordinary people use to distinguish good from evil. The sage does not display this nameless goodness; this is called “following the light.” The sage does not divide what can be named into good and bad; this is called “the essential mystery.”

Skillful action means treating non-impulsive action as action; skillful speech means treating speaking little as speech; and skillful planning, closing, and restraint mean using things without deliberate contrivance. The sage helps people and all things in the same way: by helping them without showing that help. Since no trace of help is left, it is as though the light were concealed layer upon layer, beyond anyone’s notice. Hence it is called “following the light.” This differs from worldly ideas of goodness. In the worldly sense, goodness means accomplishing some particular thing; it leaves traces, can be given a name, and always has “badness” as its opposite. So as soon as a kind of goodness is held up as a standard, its opposite becomes visible, and distinctions between teachers and pupils, givers and receivers, arise. This is far removed from the subtle efficacy of the sage’s skill at helping.

Li Zhi says: “To think you have a method for helping people is, in fact, to cast them aside. The sage seems not to help; for that very reason, the sage is truly skillful at helping.” From this we can understand that closing skillfully means setting up no barriers, restraining skillfully means using no ropes, and planning skillfully means devising no schemes. Speaking skillfully means offering no reproach; acting skillfully means leaving no trace.

Su Che says: One follows the way things are, and so leaves no trace. One speaks only when the time is right, and so, though one speaks throughout the world, one never speaks amiss. The conditions of all things are there before us; there is no need to calculate deliberately, for understanding comes naturally. Why, then, would one need to scheme? A person of complete De treats all things as a mother treats her child: even when allowed to move freely, the child does not wander away. Thus, one can close without barriers and restrain without ropes. If one relies on schemes, barriers, and ropes to control all things, one’s power can reach only so far. The sage’s care for the people under Heaven does not merely embrace them; it also helps them. If I do not cast others aside, how could they fail to come and follow me?

Know what is strong, yet remain steadfast in weakness: be like the streams of the world, receiving all waters and keeping to the low places. In this way, constant De (Virtue) will never depart, and one can return to the pure, gentle state of an infant.

Know what is bright, yet remain steadfast in darkness: you can become a model for the world. In this way, constant De will not go astray, and one can return to the Ultimateless—the boundless, undifferentiated original state.

〔In the Wu Cheng edition, these twenty-three characters, from “Know what is strong” to “return to the state of an infant,” are placed above the twenty-three characters from “Know what is bright” to “return to the Ultimateless.”〕

Know what is glorious, yet remain steadfast in disgrace: be like the valleys of the world, open and receptive to all things. In this way, constant De will be sufficient, and one can return to the Uncarved Block—the unworked, original state.

When the Uncarved Block is broken apart, it becomes the various implements. The sage makes use of these implements and thereby becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, the most complete governance does not cut things apart or force divisions.

〔The Heshang Gong and Wang Bi editions read “does not cut apart” as “does not divide”; the wording here follows the Huainanzi.〕

Li Jiamo says: The male is active and takes the lead; the female is yielding and still, and rests in her place. Activity must in the end return to quietude. Thus the sage is content to dwell as the streambed of the world, receiving all its flowing waters. “Knowing the white, yet keeping to the black” means that even when one understands what is manifest and bright, one is willing to remain obscure and understated. One possesses knowledge, yet regards it as precious not to rely on that knowledge; in this way, one can become a model for the world. “Knowing honor, yet keeping to disgrace” means that honor is something one grants to others, while disgrace is something others impose on oneself. If one grants honor to another and that person can accept it, the benefit is theirs. If another brings disgrace upon oneself and one can bear it, the benefit is one’s own. Thus the sage is like the valley of the world, able to receive all its flowing waters.

Yet in the Dao’s constant nature, how could there truly be distinctions such as male and female, black and white, or honor and disgrace? The Jing speaks of “knowing” and “keeping” to indicate constant De: the Dao disperses and becomes De, and people abide by De. They, too, must know what to hold fast to in order to return to the state of an infant. “The Non-ultimate” and “the Uncarved Block” refer to a return to the true, constant nature; what is true and constant is the Dao.

Thus, when the Uncarved Block disperses, it becomes vessels of various kinds. The sage governs and makes use of vessels through the Dao, yet does not lose the Dao, and so can become the leader of the people. Yuan adds: Keeping to the female means not seeking to contend for victory; keeping to the black means not clinging to distinctions; keeping to disgrace means not yearning for honor. The Uncarved Block cannot be named as any one particular vessel. Once the original Uncarved Block disperses, the formless Dao takes shape as the vessels of the world. If the Dao is used to work with the vessels, they too can return to the state of the Uncarved Block. This is action without contrivance, brought about naturally. The sage observes the principles of the world’s affairs as a butcher observes an ox: everywhere there is room, and the blade moves with ease. In using the myriad things this way, the sage governs without cutting apart their inherent wholeness. The Dao can govern the vessels, but the vessels cannot in turn govern the Dao. The “chief” mentioned here means the same as the later phrase, “not daring to be foremost in the world, and therefore able to become chief among those who bring things to completion”: both refer to the sage grasping the root in order to govern the branches.

The first three sections discuss returning from the branches to the root; the final two sentences discuss bringing the root to bear on concrete things. Though the Uncarved Block disperses, its root remains, as if it had dispersed and yet not dispersed. Though the sage acts, the sage does not depart from the body of the Dao, as if making use of things without clinging to their use. Governing without deliberate control is the greatest form of governance; making use of things without clinging to their use is the greatest efficacy.

Wang Dao says: This passage describes how the sage uses nonbeing to govern being, bringing what is manifest and what is hidden into the same mysterious realm. “Knowing that, keeping to this” means understanding the branches of things while holding fast to their root: knowing is for putting things to use, while keeping is for holding the governing principle. Male and female refer to firmness and yielding; white and black to brightness and darkness; honor and disgrace to high and low status. The infant represents a state not yet shaped by external things; the Non-ultimate represents emptiness and stillness; the Uncarved Block represents substance. All of these point to constant De. The Jing shifts its wording and repeats its verses in rhyme, much like the form of the Book of Songs. Beyond keeping to the female and dwelling as a valley, there is also the practice of holding fast to constant De; beyond constant De, there is the principle of returning to the state of an infant. The other two pairs of expressions work in the same way.

The affairs of the world cannot be managed through yielding, obscurity, or lowliness alone; firmness, discernment, and high status also have their uses. But firmness has its source in yielding, discernment in obscurity, and high status in lowliness. Firmness, brightness, and nobility belong to the branches of things and lie farther from the Dao; yielding, darkness, and low status are close to their root and lie nearer to the Dao. This is why the sage understands the branches while keeping to the root. When the root is held fast, all things in the world share a common source, and the branches do not lose their place of return. The sage can therefore receive all things like a streambed, a model, or a valley, drawing the world to them precisely because constant De has not departed from the root. The infant, the Non-ultimate, and the Uncarved Block are all aspects of the Dao that everyone possesses from the beginning; hence the text says to “return.”

The Uncarved Block can be made into vessels, but vessels cannot become the Uncarved Block again. A chief can lead the officials, but the officials cannot lead the chief. The sage holds to the root and does not chase after the branches, like one who keeps to the Uncarved Block and is not confined to vessels, or who serves as chief and does not sink to the level of an ordinary official. With the root kept upright and undisturbed, the sage can act with firmness in deciding the world’s affairs, discern conditions with clarity, and govern the lowly from a position of honor, yet act without relying on those actions, hold a leading position without dominating others, and complete the work without claiming credit. How could this divide apart the nature of things? If one abandons the root to pursue the branches and rejects the root, contention will never cease; one will clash with all things and find it difficult even to settle oneself, let alone bring the world to submit.

Whoever wishes to possess all under Heaven and govern it by subjective will, I see, will ultimately fail. All under Heaven is a precious and wondrous vessel—the whole order of the world and its myriad things—and cannot be forcibly controlled. Those who force their way through will ruin things; those who insist on holding on will eventually lose what they have.

The conditions of the myriad things differ: some move ahead, while others follow; some breathe gently, while others blow sharply; some are strong, while others are frail; some remain steady and bear their load, while others topple and are destroyed. Therefore, the sage removes extremity, extravagance, and excess.

Jiao Shi Hong says: The word “take,” as in the Zuo Commentary’s “take my fields and allot them to the ranks” and the Records of the Grand Historian’s “take the regulations of the August Emperor Gao and alter them in confusion,” means “to take” or “to obtain.” The Yuan Commentary holds that “already” is a particle, while “act” means to act or impose one’s will. “Grasp” means to hold on to something.

This is like making pottery: if one ignores the nature of the material and forces it into a particular shape, the pottery will become coarse and damaged. It is also like clutching a treasure in one’s hand and refusing to let go for fear of losing it; one may instead let it slip and fall. How much more so is the world a numinous vessel! The “numinous vessel” refers to the Mandate of Heaven and the hearts of the people. Their allegiance or departure follows no fixed, unchanging rule, and cannot be determined by force of will. It is called “numinous” precisely because it cannot be controlled by human power.

A person who walks does not expect things outside themselves to follow, yet sometimes they follow of their own accord. This shows that refraining from deliberate action does not necessarily mean failing to obtain what one wants. Someone who blows air intends for an object to receive their breath, yet the object may not receive it. This shows that deliberate action does not necessarily bring the desired result. Sometimes, straining with all one’s might only makes one weaker; sometimes, what seems safe and secure is suddenly destroyed. Thus, those who cling tightly to things do not necessarily avoid losing them.

Therefore, the sage deals with external things by removing excess and not daring to demand too much. In making demands of himself, he sets aside luxury and excess and does not dare to expect too much. In this way, the harms that arise from contention and self-satisfaction do not come about. He does not deliberately seek external things, yet they naturally come to him; he does not deliberately hold on to them, and so they naturally do not leave.

Bo Hui says: All things have their own natural nature. How could one act upon them deliberately and thereby damage them? The sage therefore removes excess, luxury, and extremity, doing no more than following things’ natural nature. “Excess, luxury, and extremity” here do not refer only to the later customs of flaunting indulgence and extravagant display. Any artificial addition beyond simplicity and naturalness belongs in this category.

The Book of Han, in the “Biography of Huang Ba,” says: “In governing, one need only remove what is excessive.” This saying derives from the present passage, though the meaning is not entirely the same. The Han writers meant that when something is done too excessively, its excess should be removed; if a small matter causes no harm, there is no need to change it. Laozi’s original meaning here is that things have their own inherent state and must not be forcibly altered; when something has reached a fitting degree, nothing further should be added.

Lu Dian says: “Removing excess” means compassion; “removing luxury” means frugality; and “removing extremity” means not daring to lead the world. These three are why the sage is able to possess the world.

Lü Huiqing says: Laozi holds that obtaining the world often depends on doing nothing. “Doing nothing” means following the natural nature of all things and not daring to act arbitrarily. In this way, one can win the hearts of the people and keep them from turning away; this is not achieved through deliberate contrivance. Only the Dao can govern the vessels of the world. The world is a numinous vessel, and without the numinous Dao it cannot be governed. The Dao does not deliberate or act recklessly; deliberate action departs from the proper way of governing all things. The sage removes excess, luxury, and extremity in order to help all things follow their own nature, never daring to impose his will upon them.

A sacred vessel—the realm and its political order—is not something an ordinary person can control. Without the wondrous, natural Dao, it cannot be governed. The Dao has no thoughts and makes no deliberate effort, yet it enables all things to move and function. To try to control the realm by intention goes against the proper way to govern. The sage discards extremes, extravagance, and excess, simply following the natural state of all things and refraining from imposing actions upon them.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not use force to dominate the realm. Acting through force often invites retaliation. Where armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles grow; after a great war, years of famine often follow. A skilled commander stops once the aim is achieved and does not use the occasion to assert strength. When the task is done, he does not boast, show off, or become arrogant. Waging war is a last resort, so even in victory he does not flaunt his power. When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline. This is called being out of accord with the Dao; what is out of accord with the Dao soon perishes.

Sharp, warlike weapons are inauspicious things, and people generally detest them, so one who has the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary times, a gentleman honors the left; in war, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a gentleman ordinarily uses. They should be taken up only when there is no alternative, and calm detachment is best. Even in victory, he does not regard it as something worthy of praise. To glorify victory is to take pleasure in killing. One who delights in killing cannot achieve his aims in the realm.

Taking pleasure in fine food, one is in fact taking pleasure in killing people. Anyone who takes pleasure in killing people cannot realize their ambitions in the world.

The notes say that some versions write “tian” as “gua” or “kuo,” and “dan” as “tan” or “hui.” An inscribed version writes “achieve one’s aim” as “find satisfaction,” and omits the particle “yi.”

Auspicious occasions favor the left, while funerals favor the right. Thus, the deputy general stands on the left and the supreme general on the right. This means that military affairs should be treated according to the rites for funerals. Versions differ in their wording of lines such as “Auspicious occasions favor the left” and “The deputy general stands on the left.” This passage follows the wording shared by the Wang Bi and Heshang Gong editions.

When many people have been killed, one should regard them with grief and mournful sorrow. Even victory in war should be marked according to the rites for funerals.

The notes record variant readings for lines such as “when many people have been killed” and “grief and sorrow.” Commentators across the ages have disagreed over whether the passage beginning “A victory in war should be treated according to the rites for funerals” belongs to the original text of the Laozi: some consider it an interpolation, while others suspect that an ancient commentary was incorporated into the scripture. Another commentator suggests that the twelve characters beginning “When things reach their prime, they grow old” may have been mistakenly copied into the text by later hands. Since these words have been transmitted for a long time, this book retains the wording of the older editions.

The law of Heaven is this: whatever consequences you bring about will eventually return to you in a corresponding form. To rely on military force to dominate the world is not what it means to understand the Dao. Even when assisting a ruler through the Dao, one should not use force to impose one’s power. How much less should a ruler personally act against the Dao?

When those in high positions take the people’s labor, the land fills with thorns. When they act against Heaven’s seasons, the harvest fails. The “good person” spoken of in the scripture is a person who follows the Dao. Self-conceit means relying on oneself; self-praise means boasting of oneself; self-indulgence means giving free rein to one’s impulses. These three faults have the same root. To recognize that such conduct is wrong and still restrain oneself depends on resolve. The author therefore goes on to give several examples of things one should resolutely do. Here, the graph er in “wu er” should be read as yu: in classical texts, er sometimes stands for yu, since the two graphs have similar sounds and related meanings. While everyone resolutely does one kind of thing, I resolutely do the opposite.

When things reach the height of their strength, they grow old and decline: this is the Dao of Heaven. To act against Heaven’s Dao is to be out of accord with the Dao; therefore, things that rise violently are bound to decline soon. The graph jia in the old editions has received different explanations in earlier commentaries. Some take it as an abbreviated form of wei; others, following the gloss in the Guangya, explain it as “toil.” Both readings make sense. The Fu Yi edition writes “beautiful weapons” directly, suggesting that jia may also stand for jia, meaning “beautiful,” in agreement with the sense of the passage that follows.

The left side belongs to Yang and life; the right side belongs to Yin and death. Thus, in warfare, good fortune and calamity each have their proper orientation. “Tranquility” means taking no pleasure in war; “gravity” means not treating war as something weighty and precious—in other words, war is not something the heart delights in. Li Jiamo said, “If you kill another person’s father, someone will kill your father; if you kill another person’s elder brother, someone will kill your elder brother.” This is how calamity returns in the end.

Even if one happens to win a battle, the retribution brought by the force of killing is not something the earth can make live again or Heaven can store up. From this, one can see what defeat will bring. A skilled military leader goes to war only because there is no other choice, and decides on battle firmly, but does not use war to flaunt strength. The word “firmly” here also carries the sense of not persisting for long. One keeps in mind that war is undertaken only out of necessity, and acts decisively only when battle is unavoidable. Thus one is not self-conceited, boastful, or self-indulgent, and does not use force to impose one’s power. All of this follows from taking up arms only when there is no other choice.

If a war could have been stopped but is allowed to continue, troops and morale will gradually be exhausted, just as a person who has reached maturity must eventually decline. A person who acts against the Dao may die before the end of their natural lifespan; the outcome of prolonged warfare is all the easier to imagine. This also makes clear that the benevolent, by treating others with benevolence, can win the allegiance of the world and have no rival. Before discussing warfare, one must first refuse to take pleasure in killing. Sun Wu and Wu Qi discussed military affairs in detail, explaining methods such as emptiness and fullness, and surprise and orthodox tactics. Yet they may not have understood every principle underlying those methods.

Laozi says that quietude and detachment are the best course; even in victory, one should not regard it as something beautiful. This expresses a wish to avoid fighting. From the standpoint of military strategy, quietude means composure and steadiness, and composure is the foundation of victory. Agitation leads to rash action and is the beginning of defeat. Mencius said, “Only one who takes no pleasure in killing people can unify the world.” From ancient times to the present, has the law of Heaven ever failed?

The text on the right is Chapter 26. Older editions divide the passage from “The Dao that can be spoken” through “long ago” into one chapter, and treat what follows as a separate chapter. Here, following the editions of Wu Cheng and Yao Nai, the two parts are combined as one chapter.

The Dao originally has no fixed name. Though plain and subtle, it cannot be controlled by anyone. If lords and kings can hold to the Dao, all things will naturally come to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth harmonizes, sweet dew descends. No one needs to command it; the dew moistens all things evenly.

Once things begin to be established, names arise. When names have appeared, one should know where to stop. Knowing where to stop makes it possible to avoid danger. The Dao in the world is like streams and valleys flowing toward rivers and seas.

The Dao (Way) is what is called the constant and unchanging Way. The Dao is nameless by nature, so it can only be tentatively called “the nameless uncarved block”—the natural state before carving and differentiation. The uncarved block has not been shaped or worked; its form is subtle and hard to perceive, so it cannot be named. Yet Heaven and Earth begin from it, and all things depend on it to grow. Who in the world, then, would dare to place beneath themselves the fundamental principle on which all things rely for their birth and beginning?

If rulers can hold to the Dao, they can “see the small and call it clarity”: only by discerning fundamental principles in what is subtle can one be truly perceptive. This means understanding how to hold to the “Mother” from which the “children” come: preserve the source of all things, and thereby bring them under one guiding principle. How could anything fail to submit? It is like Yin-Yang Qi mingling and transforming into rain and dew, which nourish all things. No one stands by issuing commands, yet rain and dew naturally spread everywhere. A ruler who holds to the Dao is the same: without giving orders, all things naturally submit.

For rulers to hold to the uncarved block is to hold to the nameless foundation. Only by holding to the nameless can they govern things that have names and forms. “Shaping” means differentiating and cutting the uncarved block into the many particular things and institutions. Ritual, music, government, and punishment all arise from this. But if one pursues the branches and forgets the root, one strays ever farther and loses the source. So do not rely too heavily on external things or crave too much; it is still best to know when to stop. To “stop” means to use the nameless uncarved block to bring all things to rest.

Only by beginning with the nameless can one govern things that have names, and all things thereby take shape. Then, by returning from named things to the nameless, the uncarved block will not disperse. How, then, could one invite danger through failing to understand the constant Way and acting recklessly? The Dao is present throughout the world just as streams flow into rivers and seas: it extends from root to branch, yet the branches never leave the root. How could rulers fail to hold to the uncarved block as they govern all things?

Wu Cheng says: “‘Beginning’ refers to the Dao, and ‘the named’ refers to De. Once the Dao manifests as De, things acquire names. Those who govern make use of these names, but should know to stop at De and not pursue the branches, straying ever farther.” The word “will” is used here as a gentle, unhurried way of speaking.

Su Che says: “The uncarved block is human nature. The Dao is constantly nameless; when it unfolds, it is everywhere, but when it gathers in, it becomes so subtle that it can scarcely be distinguished. Though small, it must not be treated lightly. If ordinary people can hold to their nature, they can cultivate themselves into people like Yao and Shun. However exalted a ruler’s position may be, if they cannot hold to the Dao, all things will not submit. The harmonious Qi of Yin and Yang rises and falls, mingling and transforming into sweet dew that nourishes all things and reaches everywhere. The sage responds to all affairs through the utmost Dao in the same way, and so can bring all things to submit. When sages differentiate the uncarved block into particular things and establish names according to those things, they are not pursuing labels and forgetting the root. They know how to return to their nature, so they can respond to the myriad changes without falling into danger.”

Li Jiamo says: “The Qi of Heaven and Earth mingles and brings down sweet dew, which nourishes all things. From this we can see that although Heaven and Earth are differentiated, they are not necessarily cut off from one another. Although the Dao is dispersed into the myriad things, each thing has its own name, and the Dao abandons none of them. As long as things do not turn away from the Dao, they can establish themselves between Heaven and Earth without falling into danger, because the Dao continues to nourish them. If people understand how to stop at the uncarved block, then although the myriad things appear through the Dao’s differentiation, they do not thereby damage the Dao; nor does the Dao disperse because it manifests as the myriad things. This is like the Qi of ravines and valleys, which is always connected with the rivers and seas, and the Qi of rivers and seas, which is always connected with ravines and valleys. Root and branch have never, for a single day, ceased to circulate and connect with each other. How can those who pursue the branches and turn away from the root understand this?”

Recognizing others may be called clever; recognizing oneself is true understanding. Overcoming others shows strength; overcoming oneself is true power. Knowing contentment is wealth; steadfastly following the path one has chosen is having resolve. [In the Fuyi recension, none of the sentences contains the character “also”; in the Yeluode recension, the character “have” is absent before “strength.”]

By never abandoning one’s roots, one can endure. When the body dies but one’s virtue, spirit, or work continues, this is called longevity. [The Shao Ruoyu recension has the character “remain” after “what.”]

Lü Huiqing said: “Understanding the constant Dao is called clarity. Clarity is, by its very nature, the source from which wisdom arises.”

Lü Huiqing says, “To know the constant Dao is called ‘clarity.’ Clear understanding is the source of wisdom. If you cannot reflect on yourself, you cannot know the constant Dao. Once you know it, why expend effort trying to understand others? To remain yielding and gentle is called ‘strength.’ True power arises from this. If you cannot master yourself, you cannot maintain your gentleness. Once you can, why expend effort trying to overcome others?

Someone who understands themselves knows that the principles of all things can be discerned within themselves, and so need not pursue them outside. This is called being ‘rich.’ If you can overcome yourself, you will diligently put the Great Dao into practice, undeterred by changes in the outside world. This is called being ‘steadfast in purpose.’ Knowing that the principles are already complete within you, and striving to put them into practice, allows you to preserve your nature, unchanged by external things. This is called ‘lasting.’ To preserve your nature means that even in death you do not truly perish. This is called ‘longevity.’

Zhang Erqi says that wisdom and strength are spoken of in terms of the inner and outer, respectively; ‘lasting’ and ‘longevity’ refer to remaining unchanged while alive and not perishing after death. To lose none of one’s original nature and to die without perishing are both results of holding fast to the constant Dao.

Li Jiamo says that spirit manifests outwardly as wisdom and strength, and inwardly as clarity and firmness. People cannot enter the Dao because they cannot see themselves clearly and are constrained by external things. When the mind is clear, one does not blindly pursue external things; by ceasing to pursue them, one gradually overcomes their constraints. With time and practice, one naturally enters the Great Dao. Being content makes wisdom clearer; diligent practice makes strength more resolute. As cultivation and awakening advance together, one gradually returns to one’s original nature. When the mind is empty and still, and can experience reality directly, what one has attained no longer wavers. This is called losing none of one’s original nature. To regard life and death as the alternation of morning and evening, without distinction between past and present, and to let the mind remain vast and enduring—this is called ‘longevity.’

Wu Cheng says, “Laozi’s Dao takes obscurity as clarity and gentleness as strength. Why, then, does this chapter also esteem clarity and strength? It is because Laozi is not unclear within; he only appears obscure on the outside. He is not weak within; he only appears yielding on the outside. Obscurity and gentleness are ways of responding to the world; clarity and strength are ways of guarding what is within. In truth, they speak of the same thing.”

The Great Dao is widely present and reaches everywhere, able to work among all things. All things depend on it as they grow, yet it does not refuse them or claim credit. When things are accomplished, it does not take the merit for itself. It nurtures all things without ruling over them.

The Dao is always free of desire and practices Wuwei (non-action), so it may be called small. All things return to it, yet none knows who governs them; in this sense, it may also be called vast. For this reason, the sage never considers themself great, and so is able to accomplish greatness.

The commentary explains: “All things depend on it as they grow” refers to the Dao’s far-reaching activity; “When things are accomplished, it does not claim credit” refers to the Dao’s hidden, unobtrusive nature and its never considering itself great.

All things depend on the Dao (the Way) for their life, yet the Dao neither turns them away nor refuses them. This describes the Dao’s widespread activity: its function extends throughout all things. When things are accomplished, the Dao does not claim the credit. This describes the Dao’s subtle, hidden aspect: its underlying nature is fine and difficult to perceive.

It is precisely because the Dao’s underlying nature is hidden and subtle that it can nurture all things without claiming to own them. It returns to the formless and nameless, drawing itself in until not even the slightest trace is full. It is precisely because the Dao’s activity is vast that all things depend on it for life and stream toward it. Their vitality surges forth, yet they do not know who, if anyone, governs them. The Dao allows all things to grow together without harming one another. Its capacity is so vast that it seems to fill the four quarters of Heaven and Earth.

Thus, the Dao, ever free of desire, may be called “small”: plain and subtle, it offers a way to observe the Dao’s underlying nature. All things return to the Dao, which may therefore also be called “great”: they come of their own accord, like guests, and through this we can observe the Dao’s activity. Here, “manifestation” refers to activity as it appears, or to its boundary. When the Dao is minute, no trace of it can be seen; when it is vast, nothing lies outside it.

The sage who embodies the Dao is the same: always holding fast to simplicity and humility, never presuming to be great, while all things nevertheless return to him. From this we can understand that the Great Dao is not something people can bring about through deliberate effort.

Su Zhe says: What is broad and allows nothing, yet forbids nothing, is the Great Dao. If something in the world gave life to all things without refusing them, people would call it the master of all things. If something avoided credit and refused to claim ownership, it would surely refuse to give life to all things. Only the Dao gives life to all things without refusing them, and accomplishes its work without claiming ownership. If one is intent on appearing great, one becomes small.

Lü Huiqing says: The Dao accomplishes its work without claiming credit; therefore, it does not act as ruler and is constantly without desire. Being without desire, it reaches the utmost subtlety, and so may be called “small.” All things depend on the Dao for life, turn away from it and return to it, yet do not know that it is their ruler. This shows that the Dao embraces all things to the utmost, and so may be called “great.” That it can be called both small and great shows that the Dao cannot, in its essence, be named “great” or “small.” It is therefore hidden within namelessness. The sage takes the nameless Dao as his model: he never boasts of being great, yet nothing can surpass him. The Dao may be on the left or on the right; therefore it is neither small nor great. Because it is not confined to smallness or greatness, it can accomplish true vastness.

Those who hold to the “Great Image”—the complete form and fundamental principle of the Great Dao—will draw all under Heaven toward it. People turn to the Dao without being harmed, and so they can live in peace, harmony, and ease.

Music and fine food may make passersby stop, but they only attract the senses for a moment. The Dao, when spoken of, seems bland and tasteless. Look for it and it cannot be seen; listen for it and it cannot be heard. Yet its effects are inexhaustible.

A note explains that some editions include an extra “you” after “Great Image,” while others read “taiping” in place of “pingtai.” These are differences among versions of the scripture.

Wu Cheng says: “The Great Image” serves as a metaphor for the Dao. The next chapter says, “The Great Image has no form,” meaning that the Dao is hidden and does not appear, and cannot be confined by a name.

Lin Xiyi says: “The Great Image” is an image without form. Everyone under Heaven can hold fast to it and act in accordance with it.

Lü Huiqing says: “Peace” means stability brought to its utmost; “ease” means smoothness brought to its utmost. “Stable, peaceful, and at ease” means dwelling serenely in peace and harmony.

Li Jiamo says: The foolish press forward without knowing how to turn back, while those who possess the Dao also move forward but suffer no harm. The former abandon the Dao and pursue external things; the latter travel alongside the Dao. Since they travel with the Dao, their actions never depart from it. Wherever they may be, they can remain stable, peaceful, and at ease.

For those who possess the Dao, the body and material things are like temporary lodgings on a journey. If they become attached to a stay because of music and fine food, misfortune is bound to follow. Thus the sage holds fast to the “Great Image” and moves through the world. Even when engaging with external things, the Dao remains at his side. He experiences the taste of what has no taste, contemplates the color of what has no color, and listens to the sound of what has no sound. In this way, he makes full use of what seems useless. Even amid concrete things, he can put the Dao to full use; this is why he remains stable, peaceful, and at ease.

The Yuan commentary says: “Hold fast to the Great Image and go throughout the world” is like what Wen Zhongzi said: “If someone were to employ me, I would uphold this principle in carrying out my work.” The sage has the “Great Image” within him. Wherever he goes, east, west, north, or south, he can hold fast to it and act in accordance with it. This is also the meaning of “embrace the One and make it the model for all under Heaven” (holding to the fundamental principle and making it the standard for all under Heaven). Wherever one goes, one can remain peaceful and at ease, moving smoothly without suffering harm. The workings of the Dao are inexhaustible.

Yet the “Great Image” has no form. It lies beyond sensory experience—beyond sound, color, smell, and taste—and cannot be directly savored, viewed, or heard as pleasing music and delicious food can. It is calm and formless, yet it brings stability and ease and keeps people from harm. This “use of what is useless” has no limit. Since it offers no intense stimulation, there is no danger of becoming absorbed in it and bringing harm upon oneself. The gratification of indulging in pleasure often goes hand in hand with becoming absorbed and suffering harm.

Consider music and food: refined, proper music is superior to Zheng music, which was regarded as excessively sensual; grains are superior to rich delicacies. Plain things calm the spirit and nourish the body, while strong flavors readily disturb the spirit. They may please the palate for a time, but can also cause harm. Whatever can be coveted can also cause harm, and its efficacy will be exhausted. Where there is nothing to covet, there is no corresponding harm, and its efficacy will never be exhausted. Thus the taste of what has no taste is the richest flavor: one can enjoy it throughout life without tiring of it. The sound of what has no sound is the greatest music: one can listen for a long time without weariness. The image that has no form is the true Great Image: one can hold fast to it and act by it throughout life without suffering harm. It can be carried into distant lands of foreign peoples and still be effective, and applied throughout the Four Seas with equal success. This is what “all under Heaven can go to it” means.

The right side is Chapter Thirty.

If you want to contract something, you must first let it fully expand. (“Xi” is written as “xi” in some editions and “gei” in others; the Wang Bi edition has “■xin,” while the Heshanggong edition has “xi.”) If you want to weaken something, you must first let it grow strong. If you want to abolish something, you must first grant it benefits. If you want to take something, you must first give it. This is called “subtle insight”: understanding how things change by observing what is minute.

The soft can overcome the hard; the weak can overcome the strong. (The Wang Bi and Heshanggong editions read, “The soft and weak overcome the hard and strong.” The Fu Yi edition adds “zhi” before each of the two instances of “overcome.”) Fish cannot leave the deep water. (The Fu Yi edition has “tuo” instead of “tuo”; other editions omit “deep.”) A state’s instruments of power—its important authority and means—must not be casually entrusted to others. (Most editions read “state,” changed from “realm” to avoid the taboo on the name of an emperor of the Han dynasty. Most of this chapter is identical to the text in the Han Feizi; the final sentence in most editions reads “show,” but here it follows the quotation in the “Way of the Ruler” chapter of the Shuo Yuan and reads “entrust.”)

This passage from the Laozi says that when a noble person faces petty people, they should know how to overcome hardness with softness and strength with weakness. Fish and sharp weapons are metaphors: fish cannot live apart from deep water, symbolizing the need to hold to hidden and secure ways of acting; sharp weapons should not be shown lightly, symbolizing that the means and timing for dealing with disorder must not be revealed. Once exposed, they become difficult to use well.

Water is the softest thing, yet it sustains fish. A person who has the Dao is like a fish that has water. Softness and weakness are the foundation for establishing oneself; firmness and clarity are powers one may use when responding to events. The sage keeps to the way of softness throughout life, so as not to be easily harmed. As for sharp methods, the sage uses them cautiously, and only when necessary. Deep and subtle wisdom is needed to see the situation clearly, and deep and subtle wisdom is also needed to preserve oneself. That is why the scripture uses fish and sharp weapons to explain this principle again and again.

Small evils, if allowed to accumulate, eventually bring about ruin. In dealing with petty people, the sage often follows the natural course of things rather than forcing people to spend their strength suppressing them. The Great King of Zhou serving the Xunyu, an ancient northern people; King Wen of Zhou serving the Kunyi, an ancient people; King Goujian of Yue humbling himself to serve the state of Wu; Zhang Liang maneuvering between Qin and Xiang Yu; and Emperor Wen of Han dealing with Zhao Tuo and the King of Wu, Liu Pi—all are examples of expedient responses. This is like setting nets to catch birds and beasts: a way of acting in accord with circumstances. If one insists that only direct action is proper, then Fuxi should not have made nets, and generals should not have devised battle strategies.

The inchworm first bends and then stretches as it moves; dragons and snakes hibernate to preserve themselves. The workings of Heaven and Earth, changes in human affairs, and the tendencies of all things follow this same pattern. This accords with the principles of waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness described in the Yijing.

Some people believe that “showing it to others” should be changed, following the Shuoyuan, to “lending it to others,” meaning that one lends strategies to other people. A noble person may use them to eliminate violence and stop evil, while a petty person may use them to seek personal gain. The Yinfu Jing says that those who grasp the hidden mechanisms of opportunity cannot be seen through or fathomed by the people of the world. When a noble person gains this knowledge, they use it with caution and restraint; when a petty person gains it, they may act rashly and lose their life. This shows precisely why such crucial knowledge must not be handed over lightly.

Wang Bi says that to eliminate the domineering and quell disorder, one should act in accordance with the nature of things, allowing the other party to bring about its own ruin through its actions, without relying too heavily on punishments and force. This is “subtle insight”—deep and penetrating discernment. One should first allow the other party’s power to grow to its peak. Once it has expanded to the extreme, people will lose allegiance and their power will contract. If one rushes to suppress it before its momentum has reached its end, the time is not yet ripe, and one may instead put oneself in danger. Su Zhe likewise says that if one takes something away before it has been fully given, the situation will not develop to its extreme, and the principle will not yet have become fully clear. If the other party’s power has not run its course, it will be difficult to subdue them; if people’s hearts have not been won, it will be difficult to convince them.

This approach examines the changes in the underlying principles of things in depth, and is no different from the strategies of Guan Zhong and Sun Wu. Yet the sage acts in accord with those principles, while worldly people often rely only on clever devices. Acting in accord with principle is like a doctor prescribing medicine according to a patient’s condition. Relying on schemes alone is like a merchant who cares only about profit. Thus, when the strong in the world clash with one another, the sage alone responds with softness and weakness, quietly waiting for the strong to be injured and the weak to be defeated. The sage does not compete with them, but waits until they decline of their own accord. The sage does not set out to surpass others; they simply understand how events will naturally unfold and remain at ease within that course.

Fish have no claws or fangs, and may not be able to defeat other creatures by force. Yet they dwell in deep pools, where even the strong can scarcely catch them. When the sage rests in the way of softness and weakness, the strong find it difficult to harm them. The sage not only preserves themself, but may later gain control of the situation. Is this not the most useful sharp weapon in the world? Yet ordinary people find this principle difficult to understand. The workings of creation wax and wane, fill and empty; human affairs, too, follow patterns in which good and ill depend on one another, and fortune and misfortune lie hidden within each other.

Thus, whenever something is about to develop into a certain form, there must have been corresponding signs beforehand. What is yet to happen has not appeared; what has already happened can be seen. If people can infer the patterns of waxing and waning, increase and decrease, from changes that have already taken place, they can understand how good and ill fortune depend on one another, and how calamity and blessing lie hidden within each other in human affairs.

Whenever something is about to develop into a certain form, there must have been corresponding signs beforehand. What is yet to happen has not appeared; what has already happened can be seen. To foresee coming changes from signs that have appeared requires a fine sensitivity and keen insight. Yet noticing what is subtle is possible; believing that one can see subtle things themselves may not be. One should therefore grasp this principle, turn inward, and cultivate oneself: remain still and restrained, humble and self-possessed, at ease and untroubled, like a fish that never leaves deep water.

To flaunt this principle before others invites disaster; it is like lending weapons to robbers and teaching thieves how to break in. It is equally unwise to display the state’s sharp instruments—the means tied to its power and confidential affairs. This is precisely the point of the “Opening the Trunks” chapter of the Zhuangzi. A sage uses these principles to realize the Great Dao; a treacherous strongman steals them and turns them into methods of political maneuvering and manipulation. The harm such teachings can cause sometimes exceeds that of blades and weapons. For this reason, the sage does not display the state’s sharp instruments.

Wu Cheng says: The Laozi speaks of “the Dao’s movement is reversal,” and also says, “Dark De is profound and far-reaching; it runs counter to things.” The Dao’s patterns generally run counter to worldly opinion. Laozi therefore uses several pairs of opposites as metaphors, bringing them together in the principle that the soft can overcome the hard and the weak can overcome the strong. Figures such as Sun Wu, Wu Qi, Shen Buhai, and Han Fei employed political stratagems to lead people into dead ends without their knowing it. Some believe these stratagems all derive from Laozi’s thought, and then ask: who in the world would still dare accept Laozi’s teachings? This too is a harm that words can bring. That is why Laozi said long ago that the state’s sharp instruments must not be displayed.

The foregoing is Chapter Thirty-One.

The Dao always follows nature and practices Wuwei (non-action), yet nothing remains undone. If rulers can hold to this Dao, the myriad things will naturally transform and come into being.

After the myriad things have come into being, desires may also arise. Then I use the “uncarved simplicity without a name”—a state free of artificial embellishment and true to nature—to calm them. When this simplicity is preserved, the myriad things will tend toward having no desires. As desires subside, all under Heaven can quietly return to what is right.

Su Zhe says, “The Dao runs on forever. It does not act deliberately, yet nothing is left unaccomplished.” The sage transforms and nurtures the myriad things through Wuwei (non-action), and the myriad things therefore change of themselves. At first, they follow their natural course; later, human contrivance gradually appears. It is like an infant growing up: human desires and clever devices increase day by day. Thus, by the decline of the Three Dynasties, human feelings had changed ever more deeply. As soon as desire began to stir, those above and the people throughout the realm followed its lead, and change multiplied beyond telling. If, just as desire was about to arise, people were not carried along by it, and their hearts were ultimately settled by “the nameless uncarved block” (a state of simplicity untouched by human artifice), perhaps this change could be brought to a halt.

Lü Huiqing says, “Laozi was a realized person. Surely he would not wear himself out worrying over the affairs of all things under Heaven. Why, then, does he admonish the rulers so earnestly? When the Dao is applied to cultivating oneself, it brings one to truth; when applied to governing the realm, it can be put into practice everywhere. If the rulers understand and hold fast to the Dao, then govern the realm by it, would that not be putting it into practice everywhere? Laozi does not begrudge others his Dao. He wishes the people of the realm to share in it, and the first step toward this is to admonish the rulers. This is precisely Laozi’s benevolent heart.”

Yuan’s commentary: From “when change comes and desire arises” onward, many interpretations have failed to grasp the meaning. “Desire arises” means that desire has just begun to stir. When the myriad things change naturally, they are simply left to arise and pass away of themselves. But as the Qi (vital energy) of the times shifts and customs grow ever more elaborate, desire may emerge amid these changes. If nothing settles it, society will gradually move from the simplicity of high antiquity to the Three Dynasties, and from the Three Dynasties to later ages. Who could bring this change to a stop? Yet “settling” does not mean deliberately doing something. It means calming people’s hearts through “the nameless uncarved block”: using stillness to master movement, simplicity to put an end to ostentation, and sincerity to dissolve cleverness. In this way, although desire is about to arise, it is not allowed to grow. People then naturally awaken and return to desirelessness. Without desire, the heart is still; when the heart is still, it becomes upright, and so returns to the nameless uncarved block.

Here, “the nameless uncarved block” repeats what came before and echoes the rhyme, while also introducing what follows. In “thus they will have no desires,” the word “thus” softens the tone, just as it does in the previous chapter’s “thus they will know when to stop.” Some versions omit “thus,” or write “do not desire” in place of “have no desires.” This has led some to argue that the sage does not even wish to keep the nameless uncarved block in mind. But if the sage does not wish for even that, how can it be called “the nameless uncarved block”? This interpretation comes close to the Chan Buddhist practice of immediately sweeping away every thought, and does not accord with the Huang-Lao aim of stillness, naturalness, and non-striving. Only Yao’s interpretation is apt: “Thus they will have no desires” means that people are made free of desire.

High-level De (Virtue), the virtue that arises naturally from following the Dao, does not deliberately display itself as virtuous; this is why it is truly virtuous. Lower-level De is always trying not to lose its virtue, and for that very reason is not truly virtuous. High-level De follows its nature, yet nothing remains undone. Lower-level De takes action, and does so with deliberate intent.

High-level benevolence takes action without deliberately pursuing anything. High-level righteousness takes action with a clear purpose. At the level of high-level ritual, people act but receive no response; they then roll up their sleeves and force others to comply with ritual rules. Thus, only after losing the Dao do people speak of De; after losing De, they speak of benevolence; after losing benevolence, they speak of righteousness; and after losing righteousness, they speak of ritual.

Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and the beginning of disorder. “Foreknowledge” means clever insight displayed too soon. It is merely the showy surface of the Dao, and can also be the beginning of folly. Therefore, the great person rests in honesty and simplicity and does not linger in superficial display. They value inner truth and do not chase outward appearances. So one should set aside the showy and choose what is honest and genuine.

“Not acting deliberately” means not clinging to any particular course of action or engaging in contrived effort. The passage says that benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom all rank below De. So when it discusses them, it speaks only of “higher benevolence,” “higher righteousness,” and “higher ritual propriety,” without adding “lower benevolence,” “lower righteousness,” or “lower ritual propriety.” Taken to its furthest point, this distinction explains the relative levels among them.

Higher De is close to the Dao, so it acts without contrivance, yet nothing is left unaccomplished. Higher benevolence is close to De: it still involves action, but seeks nothing deliberately. By the time we reach righteousness, even higher righteousness belongs to a lower level of De. It involves action and deliberate effort. Ritual propriety is lower still. When people practice ritual, others no longer respond naturally, so they must repeatedly defer, urge, and even compel them to accept it. This has not yet entirely lost De, but it has reached the edge of De’s decline.

Wu Cheng argues that the opening of the first part of the Laozi distinguishes the Dao from De, while the opening of the second part further sets out the Dao, De, benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom. These are the core ideas of the whole work. Confucians use “Dao and De” as a general term and divide them into benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom. They hold that all of these are innate qualities received by human beings from the Way of Heaven, with no differences in rank or refinement. Laozi, by contrast, holds that the Dao is nameless, while De has a name. From De, one descends through benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom, each at a progressively lower level. Thus this chapter calls De that is close to the Dao “higher De,” benevolence close to De “higher benevolence,” and so on. The “foreknowledge” discussed after ritual propriety—cleverness that makes advance distinctions and guesses about things—likewise treats wisdom as a lower level.

Wu Cheng uses a tree as an analogy: the Dao is like the fruit, which contains the source of growth. Once manifested, De is like the root, benevolence the trunk, righteousness the branches, ritual propriety the leaves, and wisdom the flowers. The fruit is the source, while the flower is only an outward display. The tree’s roots are substantial, while its leaves are thin. Thus ritual propriety is the outward expression of declining loyalty and trust, and foreknowing cleverness is the Dao’s superficial ornament. A great person would rather hold to the deep roots of the Dao and De than covet the surface adornments of ritual and wisdom.

Wang Bi says that a person of higher De follows only the Dao and does not treat De as something to grasp or boast about. So although such a person has De, they have no reputation for “having De.” A person of lower De, by contrast, focuses on a reputation for goodness and uses it to govern things. Once goodness is pursued as a reputation, it summons its opposite, what is not good. So although De has not been entirely lost, there is no genuine De. “Not acting deliberately” means neither clinging nor contriving. The highest state is probably the Dao. Only after losing the Dao does one speak of De; when the function of De descends to a lower level, it comes to rest at higher benevolence. Although higher benevolence uses non-action as its way of acting, it cannot take non-action as its own foundation.

When non-action is the way of acting, the Dao is still preserved as the foundation. One is therefore not wearied, and all things can be governed naturally. Further down, people can no longer act without contrivance and begin to prize the broad bestowal of kindness. Unable to bestow kindness broadly, they prize uprightness; unable to be upright, they concern themselves with polished forms of reverence. Benevolence and righteousness arise from within, yet deliberately putting them into practice already involves artifice. How much more so when one seeks only outward polish: how could that last? Deep benevolence cannot be attained by deliberately practicing benevolence; upright conduct cannot be formed by deliberately practicing righteousness; and pure reverence cannot be achieved through the performance of ritual.

If one grasps the foundation, carries all things through the Great Dao, and settles the mind by means of the nameless Dao, then the mind seeks nothing and action can arise from sincerity. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and reverence can all be expressions of the Dao. But if one takes only the branches and leaves that grow from the foundation, abandons the foundation, and pursues the details, then names and distinctions become limiting, and outward forms become restrictive. However large the undertaking, something will inevitably be neglected; however beautiful the adornment, it will inevitably bring worry. This is not what a person of the highest attainment chooses.

Su Zhe explains that De is divided into higher and lower levels, while benevolence and righteousness are described only as “higher benevolence” and “higher righteousness,” with no “lower benevolence” or “lower righteousness,” because lower De lies between benevolence and righteousness. Levels below benevolence and righteousness are not worth distinguishing further. A person of loyalty and trust can learn ritual. Once ritual is established, the virtue of loyalty and trust becomes visible outwardly, while its inner substance may gradually be depleted. Then those in higher positions perform ritual, but those below do not respond. They go on to roll up their sleeves and compel others to comply, but still receive no response. This leads to punishments and warfare. It is simply forced effort without any genuinely effective means. This is a sign that loyalty and trust are declining and disorder is beginning.

Jiao Hong says that this passage takes to its furthest point the consequences that may follow from the faults of ritual and wisdom. When Zhuangzi quotes this passage from Laozi, he adds: What is concealed yet cannot be left unattended is affairs; what is kept at a distance yet cannot be avoided is righteousness; what is held close yet cannot help being extended widely is benevolence; what is regulated yet cannot help accumulating is ritual; what occupies the center yet cannot help being elevated is De; and what returns to unity yet cannot help adapting is the Dao. These principles do differ in rank and order, but when sages put them to use, they can all be brought back to the Dao. There is therefore no need to regard them as opposed to one another and requiring a choice between them.

In ancient times, everything that attained the One—the fundamental principle of the Dao—could maintain its proper state. Heaven attained the One and became clear and bright; Earth attained the One and became stable; spirits attained the One and became efficacious; valleys attained the One and became full; and all things attained the One and grew. When feudal lords and kings attained the One, they could become rightful rulers of the world. At root, all of this came from attaining the One.

If Heaven could not remain clear and bright, it might collapse; if Earth could not remain stable, it might shake; if spirits could not remain efficacious, they might lose their power; if valleys could not remain full, they might dry up; and if all things could not grow, they might perish. If feudal lords and kings could not remain rightful, but instead exalted themselves in their nobility, they might fall. Thus, the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the lofty takes what lies below as its foundation. This is why feudal lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”—terms that suggest isolation, insufficient virtue, or inadequacy. Are they not making the lowly their foundation? Is this not so?

Take a cart apart and examine it piece by piece, and eventually you will no longer find a separate thing called a “cart.” One should not seek to be prized like fine jade, nor should one stand apart in haughty pride like an ordinary stone.

Returning is the way the Dao moves; softness and weakness are how the Dao works. All things under Heaven are born from being, and being is born from nonbeing.

〔Note: The original survives with a few variant readings and repeated characters. The passage about the cart uses its disassembly to illustrate that what is called a “cart” is a name for the combination of its component parts.〕

Wu Cheng says: “‘One’ is the virtue of emptiness and openness, of not being full of oneself. The ‘embracing of One,’ ‘blending into One,’ and ‘the Dao gives birth to One’ discussed earlier all refer to this ‘One.’ The Zhuangzi calls it the ‘Great One.’ This natural virtue appears as emptiness without fullness, taking the lower place rather than competing to be first, softness rather than hardness, and weakness rather than strength. This chapter brings these principles together. To ‘attain One’ means to acquire this virtue and take it as one’s guiding standard.

Heaven, Earth, the Valley Spirit, and other things have different names, but the underlying principle is the same. Here, ‘split’ means to break apart; ‘burst forth’ means to vent or shake; ‘wither’ means to decline and lose one’s spiritual vitality; ‘dry up’ means to become exhausted and no longer full; ‘cease’ means to stop and no longer give rise to life; and ‘stumble’ means to fall. ‘Standard’ is interchangeable with ‘rootstock’ and refers to the foundation of things. ‘To be the standard of the world’ means to become a model for all under Heaven. Laozi wrote this book to guide people, so he turns next to rulers. Earlier, he said that being low is fundamental and occupying the lower place is the foundation. Later, he says only that being low is fundamental, omitting the rest for brevity.

The earlier passages already focus on putting softness and weakness into practice. At the end, ‘return’ and ‘weakness’ are paired to trace softness and weakness back to their source: ‘return’ explains why one should be soft and weak, while ‘weakness’ describes how this ‘return’ is expressed in practice. ‘Return’ means putting softness and weakness into practice; ‘weakness’ means being the opposite of the state in which things compete with one another. It does not mean that there is some separate kind of ‘return’ apart from softness and weakness. The Dao’s essence is still and formless, so its movement often runs counter to formed things. Its formless essence is empty, so its function is often characterized by softness and weakness. The myriad things arise from Qi (vital energy), and Qi arises from the Dao. Qi has form, while the Dao is formless; thus being and nonbeing stand opposed.

Wang Bi says: “Clarity cannot be sustained by clarity alone, nor fullness by fullness alone; each has its source. The source is preserved in the formless. Therefore, clarity is not something to take pride in, nor is fullness something to boast about. What is truly precious is their source, and the source itself has no outward appearance of distinction. This shows that the exalted have the lowly as their root. Just as taking apart a cart’s wheels, spokes, canopy, axle, crossbar, and yoke leaves no independently existing ‘cart,’ so tracing the many parts back reveals a formless whole. Jade and stone are hard and bright, wholly constrained by their physical qualities, and so are not worth emulating. Height takes lowliness as its foundation; honor takes humility as its root; being relies on nonbeing to function. This is ‘return.’ If, in acting, one can observe the ‘nonbeing’ on which things depend, then all things can flow through one another. Hence it is said: ‘Returning is the movement of the Dao.’”

Li Jiamo says: “What is ‘One’? Understand why Heaven is clear, and you can understand why Earth is still; understand why the spirit is numinous, and you can understand why the valley is full; understand why the myriad things grow, and you can understand how rulers can become the standard of the world. Trace these things to their source, and they all arise from nonbeing. They have never truly been separate. Those who do not understand ‘One’ divide themselves from the myriad things. If rulers are cut off from the myriad things, the myriad things will also be cut off from them.”

Li Zhi says: “If rulers do not understand the principle of returning to ‘One,’ they will be like ordinary people and pride themselves on their exalted status. Those who raise themselves up must stumble, because they place their foundation on high. Only by taking the lower place does one know how to remain humble. Why is this so? Under the principle of returning to ‘One,’ ordinary people are not absolutely lowly, and rulers are not absolutely exalted. A cart is assembled from wheels, spokes, a canopy, an axle, a crossbar, and a yoke. People see only that it is a cart, without realizing that it is the result of many parts coming together; at the beginning, no independent ‘cart’ existed. By the same reasoning, rulers and ordinary people appear to have different ranks, high and low, but at their root they too are formed from many conditions coming together. If one clings only to outward appearances, being honored without taking the lower place is like hard jade, concerned only with displaying itself. The key to understanding ‘return’ and practicing softness and weakness is to return to ‘One’ and trace things back to nonbeing.”

Chen Yidian says: “‘Reach’ means to arrive at the furthest point. Take a cart apart and count all its parts: no independent ‘cart’ can be found. This is tracing being back to nonbeing, and it is humility carried to its furthest point. Jade is hard and unyielding, incapable of softness and weakness. Humility is the opposite of this hardness.”

Yuan’s note: The Zhuangzi describes Laozi’s teaching as resting on “constant nonbeing and being,” taking the “Great One” as its central principle, and showing itself in softness, gentleness, and humility. In this chapter, to “attain One” means to acquire the virtue of emptiness and openness, without fullness, because it approaches “nonbeing.” When rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” or “unworthy”—the last meaning “not good” or “lacking”—they too are expressing humility, because it approaches “One.”

Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things all arise from nonbeing. Therefore, Heaven does not regard itself as clear, Earth does not regard itself as still, the spirit does not regard itself as numinous, the valley does not regard itself as full, the myriad things do not regard themselves as having been born, and rulers do not regard themselves as exalted and lofty. Heaven does not know itself to be clear, and Earth does not know itself to be still, because they operate without intention and accomplish things through Wuwei (non-action). The spirit does not regard itself as numinous, and the valley does not regard itself as full, because they are still and empty. The myriad things do not regard themselves as having been born because they follow their natural course. Rulers do not regard themselves as exalted and lofty because they place themselves in a low position. Stillness is what makes the spirit numinous; emptiness is what makes the valley full; absence of intention and Wuwei bring clarity and stillness; things grow of themselves through their natural course; and taking the low position enables rulers to become the standard of the world. These are the results of attaining ‘One.’

Honor and height seem opposed to lowliness and the lower place. How, then, can they return to ‘One’? People see only the outward status of rulers. Trace things to their root, and honor is accumulated from many humble parts, while a high position is built from many lower ones. Just as many materials come together to form a cart, there is no ready-made ‘cart’ before its parts are assembled. Trace things back to the source where distinctions of honor and lowliness, high and low, do not yet exist, and one does more than take the lowly as one’s root and the lower place as one’s foundation: one also lets go of the self. Without attachment to the self, one is not attached to external things. Without attachment to either self or external things, one no longer clings to distinctions between high and low, honor and lowliness. Then high and low, honored and humble, other and self can all return to one. Where everything returns to nonbeing, everything can return to One. This is the opposite of hard jade, which holds fast to itself and insists on displaying itself as distinct from the myriad things.

People see things as opposed to one another; this reflects the movement of the Dao. The softness and weakness people see reflect the Dao’s function. Movement has its source in stillness; form has its source in formlessness. It is not only the cart that is assembled from parts: Heaven, Earth, the Valley Spirit, and the myriad things also arise from nonbeing. Nonbeing is opposed to being, so those who embody the Dao also run counter to those who pursue formed things. Those who pursue what has form strive forcefully to win; those who observe nonbeing are soft and weak. Without observing nonbeing, even someone who wishes to hold to softness will find it difficult. Whether one can let go of the self marks the dividing line between attaining ‘One’ and failing to attain it.

Those of the highest aptitude hear of the Dao (the Way) and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling aptitude hear of the Dao and waver, at times seeming to believe, at times to doubt. Those of the lowest aptitude hear of the Dao and laugh aloud. If they were not mocked in this way, it would hardly be worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus, an ancient teaching says: (In the Fu Yi edition, the line “Those of the lowest aptitude hear of the Dao” includes an additional “and,” while the words “An ancient teaching says” are followed by an additional “saying.”)

People of the highest capacity hear of the Dao (the Way) and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling capacity hear of the Dao, sometimes keeping it in mind and sometimes forgetting it. Those of the lowest capacity hear of the Dao and laugh loudly at it. If it were not laughed at in this way, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus, those who spoke in ancient times put it this way: The bright Dao seems dim; the way forward seems like retreat; the level path seems rough and uneven.

The highest De (Virtue) is like a valley: empty, still, and vast. The purest white seems stained; great De seems somehow deficient; establishing De seems like idleness and inaction. What is plain and true seems to have changed. What is most square has no sharp corners.

The greatest vessel is often completed last; the greatest sound cannot be heard; the greatest image has no fixed form. The Dao and De cannot be defined by any fixed name. Only the Dao is skilled at nourishing all things and enabling them to flourish.

Wu Cheng says: This chapter explains in detail the meaning of the previous chapter’s statement, “The movement of the Dao is reversal.” The Dao runs contrary to the ordinary tendencies of the myriad things, so few people truly understand it. Only those of the highest capacity can believe in it. The twelve examples beginning with “There is an old saying” all show how the Dao runs counter to worldly opinion.

The three phrases beginning “Bright Dao seems dim” describe those who have realized the Great Dao. The five beginning “Highest De is like a valley” describe those who have perfected their De. The remaining four, beginning “The greatest square has no corners,” use further metaphors to praise the Dao.

“Lei” refers to a knot in a thread and, by extension, to something uneven. Wang Bi says that the “greatly level” Dao follows the nature of the myriad things. It does not insist on a single standard of flatness and shave everything down to fit it, so it can appear uneven. If the ground did not happen to conform to the rule of the carpenter’s square, how could its corners appear square? The form of the heavens cannot be depicted, so how could one say they have a fixed shape? How could anyone who has not fully realized the Dao do such things?

Lu Xisheng says: What transcends concrete forms is called the Dao; what exists within concrete forms is called an implement. The Dao extends through what lies beyond forms. People of the highest capacity can recognize both what is subtle and what is evident. When they hear of the Dao, they believe in it and strive to put it into practice. Those of middling capacity stand between the subtle and the evident; when they hear of the Dao, they are half convinced and half doubtful. Those of the lowest capacity see only evident appearances, not the subtle principle. Confined within forms, they laugh when they hear of the Dao, and by laughing, reject it. The ancients who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating and profound, and difficult for others to fathom. If people of the lowest capacity did not laugh at them, they would not deserve to be called the Dao.

Li Jiamo says: People of the highest capacity devote themselves to cultivating the Dao, not because they force themselves to work hard, but because they have understood something. People of the lowest capacity laugh, not because they deliberately mock it, but because they have understood nothing. Someone who cannot reach the diligence of the highest capacity, yet does not disbelieve as completely as the lowest, may grasp something but still be unable to trust that understanding. Such a person remains in a state of seeming to believe and not believe, of wavering between conviction and doubt.

Those who understand the Dao possess an inward clarity that does not shine outward like a light, so they seem dim. Those who walk in the Dao make inward progress without being driven by external force, so they seem to be retreating. Great purity does not damage one’s nature. If one’s nature is untainted, one can dwell among worldly dust, and so seem stained. Vast De necessarily entails broad understanding. Since that understanding is broad, it cannot be stopped even if one tries, and so it seems incomplete. Those who establish De affirm their nature inwardly; in dealing with others, they therefore seem restrained, as though slack. The plain and genuine do not pursue external things; their actions follow only their own hearts, so they seem changeable.

Such people cannot be judged by external angles or measured by success and failure. Their principles cannot be understood through sound or grasped through concrete appearances. People of middling and low capacity are bound by what they see on the surface. They judge these people by their outward behavior and treat their genuine dimness, retreat, unevenness, humiliation, and apparent inconsistency as flaws. Thus, few are truly able to refrain from laughing at them.

Lü Huiqing says: What is called bright can seem dim; what is advancing can seem to retreat; what is perfectly level and unobstructed can seem rough and uneven. The highest sound is inaudible, and the greatest image has no fixed shape. The Dao’s name and its actual expression often seem opposed. Its substance is therefore concealed, without form or trace. For this very reason, when the Dao gives to others, it becomes more abundant within itself; when it shares with others, it becomes richer. It uses what it has in excess to make up for what the myriad things lack, enabling each thing to fulfill its nature.

The Dao gives rise to “one”; “one” gives rise to “two”; “two” gives rise to “three”; and “three” gives rise to the myriad things. The myriad things lean on Yin and face toward Yang. The two kinds of Qi stir against and blend with each other, bringing about harmony.

People all dislike being called “orphan,” “widower,” or “one without bounty,” yet rulers and feudal lords use these names for themselves. “Orphan,” “widower,” and “one without bounty” were originally modest terms expressing lack or insufficiency. This shows that sometimes a thing is diminished and thereby gains, while at other times it is increased and thereby diminished.

The teachings people pass on to the world, I too use to teach the world: those who act arrogantly and boast of their strength do not meet a good end. I take this saying as the foundation of my teaching.

The softest thing in the world can drive the hardest thing in the world; what has no form can enter where there is no gap. From this I know the benefit of Wuwei (non-action). The benefits of teaching without words and following things as they are, without forcing action, are matched by very few things in the world.

Wu Cheng says: This chapter explains in detail that “softness and weakness are the Dao’s function.” All things are able to grow because of the Dao. After they come into being, they must also rely on Qi that is empty, harmonious, and flowing—Qi that harmonizes and moves—to avoid losing the root of life. This harmonious Qi is empty and not full, so it is called “weak.” The passage explains why the Dao is soft and weak, and how it operates.

When lords and princes call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy,” they are showing how people can experience the Dao. Softness and weakness mean reduction; hardness and strength mean increase. To overcome others through force may seem like an increase, but it brings the harm of an untimely end. This is increase that results in loss. By contrast, what is supremely soft and formless can move freely and enter what is solid and hard. This is reduction that brings benefit. So one should be soft and weak, not forceful. The teaching “The forceful do not meet a natural end” is clear without further explanation: it is instruction given without words. The benefit of what is supremely soft and formless—its ability to move and enter what is solid—is immense. This is the benefit of Wuwei (non-action). How could this be compared with those who seek to teach through sermons and gain benefits through deliberate action? Few can reach this state.

Zhang Erqi says: The opening of this chapter follows on from the previous chapter’s idea that “only the Dao is good at giving and bringing things to completion.” The Dao gives rise to One, and One gives rise to Two. The nameless—the not yet manifested—is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Two gives rise to Three, and Three gives rise to the myriad things. The named—the manifested—is the mother of the myriad things. One refers to Qi; Two refers to Yin and Yang; Three refers to the Qi that arises when Yin and Yang join and harmonize, namely, the harmonizing Qi. All things bear Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, relying on harmonizing Qi to bring them together. This explains how “Three gives rise to the myriad things.”

Su Zhe says: The Dao cannot, in itself, be called One or Two. But in relation to the myriad things, the Dao is a unity, while the myriad things are each different, so the Dao is called “One.” People do not know where the myriad things come from, and often look down on what is small and few, while honoring what is large and many. Those in ancient times who understood the Dao already knew the truth of this. That is why lords and princes, though noble, called themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy.”

Jiao Hong says: An animal’s back is behind it and belongs to Yin and stillness; its eyes, ears, mouth, and nose are in front and belong to Yang and movement. Plants, too, turn away from shade and toward the sun. Thus it is said that all things bear Yin and embrace Yang, while harmonious Qi moves between Yin and Yang. “Forceful” can refer to a crossbeam or to the timber supporting a roof beam; in either case, it conveys strength and hardness. “The forceful do not meet a natural end” was already an old saying. Laozi quotes it and says that he uses it to teach others as well. The mother is in charge of nurture, and the father of instruction; so when discussing nurture, the text says “feeding from the mother,” and when discussing instruction, it says “teaching from the father.” “Galloping” means driving or setting in motion. Here the text says “supremely hard” instead of “hard and strong” to vary the wording and suit the rhyme.

Wang Bi says: Water can flow to every place, and Qi can enter every place. Softness and weakness, emptiness and nothingness, can reach everywhere. What is supremely soft cannot be broken, and what is formless cannot be exhausted. From this we can understand the benefit of Wuwei.

Li Jiamo says: When the Dao is still the Dao, One has not yet arisen—how could there be Two? When Yang appears, Yin appears with it. Once Yin and Yang exist, they join together, and nothing is left out. All things embrace Yang: this is One. They bear Yin: this is Two. Yin and Yang join, and harmonizing Qi brings them into balance: this is Three. Nothing among the myriad things lacks these three. Since all things are fundamentally born from the Dao, even after taking on specific forms they should not lose their source. When lords and princes call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy,” they gain through reduction. When the forceful fail to meet a natural end, they suffer harm through increase. Reduction and increase come from the same source; therefore reduction necessarily brings benefit, while increase necessarily brings harm. When sages call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy,” they use these words to teach people not to be forceful, since forcefulness leads to death. These titles are all forms of instruction. The substance of the myriad things is not eternal; solidity is only a temporary state. Even what is solid to the utmost must eventually return to nothingness. The softest thing under Heaven can pass through the hardest thing under Heaven. How much more can something keep reducing until it returns to nothingness? Can the true power of nothingness fail to break through the illusory forms of being? Thus what is formless and silent can also enter what is solid. To act without forcing things is to follow the Dao; to teach without words is to follow nature. No one can attain this state.

Yuan says: This chapter explains why softness and weakness are the Dao’s function. The key lies in the words “harmonizing Qi brings things into balance.” Harmonious Qi must be soft and weak. That is why the body is soft when a person is alive and stiff after death; plants are tender as they grow and dry and hard when they wither. Any contrary, disharmonious Qi makes things stiff. So for the myriad things to grow, they must continually maintain harmonious Qi, allowing them to follow Heaven’s generative vitality. Otherwise, they move toward death. The previous chapter says, “Softness and weakness are the Dao’s function,” and also that the myriad things under Heaven are born from being, while being is born from nothingness. This chapter carries on that meaning. Whenever the text speaks of those rich in De (Virtue/Power), it compares them to infants. When it speaks of keeping Qi focused and attaining softness and harmony, it likewise says to be like an infant. All of this concerns experiencing the Dao and honoring softness and weakness. Zhang Erqi suspected that a passage had been lost from this chapter, while Yao Nai believed that its lines had become disordered. Both failed to grasp its fundamental meaning.

Which is closer to you: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or possessions? Which is more harmful: gaining or losing?

Excessive attachment to fame and wealth can exact a great price. The more one accumulates, the greater the loss when it is gone. Those who know what is enough will not be disgraced; those who know when to stop will not fall into danger. In this way, they can endure.

The commentary notes that the two characters “therefore” do not appear in the Heshanggong edition but do appear in Wang Bi’s edition. It also points out that each of these lines rhymes. In the opening couplet, “reputation” comes before “self,” while “possessions” comes after “self,” to fit the rhyme.

Sima Wengong said: “Which should cause greater concern: gaining fame or wealth but losing one’s life, or preserving one’s life but losing fame or wealth?” Wang Bi said: “When one gains fame and profit but loses oneself, which of the two is truly a calamity? If someone cherishes external things too dearly, they will compete with others. If they hoard too much wealth, they will not share it with others. As a result, more people will seek it, and those who covet it will come to attack. In the end, one pays a great price and suffers a heavy loss.”

Bo Hui said: “Those who know contentment consider what they have now sufficient, and so have no further desires. With no desires, what shame could there be? Those who know when to stop fear that pursuing more will bring loss, and so can foresee the beginnings of trouble. Those who can foresee its beginnings will not wait for calamity to strike before taking action.”

Zhang Erqi said: “Those who covet wealth toil for possessions; those who prize righteousness over life give themselves up for their reputation. They know the value of fame and profit, but not that their own lives are just as precious. Consider carefully: compared with fame and wealth, which is closer and more important—one’s life, or the other two? In trading one side for the other, has one gained or lost? Surely there are people who can tell. Thus, cherishing things too dearly gives rise to contention, and hoarding too much wealth invites theft. Only then does one realize that fame has become a burden to oneself and wealth a source of calamity. What one gains does not outweigh what one loses, but by then it is too late. Only the exemplary person understands this early, readily knowing when to stop and readily knowing contentment. In this way, they remain free from danger and endure.”

In his commentary, Yuan Shi says that from “cherishes too dearly” onward, the passage follows from the question of gain and loss to discuss the principles of gain and loss in the world. Lü Huiqing relates “cherishes too dearly” and “hoards too much” respectively to fame and wealth, and interprets “paying a great price and suffering a heavy loss” as referring to one’s life. These explanations are all too strained.

The passage on the right is Chapter 37.

What is truly perfect may seem to have flaws, yet its function is never exhausted. What is truly full may seem empty, yet its function is never depleted. What is most straight may seem bent; the highest skill may seem clumsy; the best speaker may sound as though they are not eloquent.

Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Clear stillness and Wuwei (non-action) are the proper way to govern all under Heaven.

Here, “clear stillness” means the Daoist approach to governance: remaining quiet and acting without interference, while minimizing disturbance. The variant readings in parentheses indicate differences in wording across editions: “its function is not worn out” appears in some editions as “its function is not obscured”; “full” also appears as “filled,” “empty” as “vessel,” “bent” as “crooked,” and “stillness” as “calm.” Some editions add “knowing” before “clear stillness” in the final sentence and add “thereby” at its end.

Wu Cheng says: “To regard completion simply as completion, fullness simply as fullness, straightness simply as straightness, and cleverness and eloquence simply as cleverness and eloquence is to understand only the surface. What is incomplete can, in fact, bring about a greater wholeness; by remaining empty, one can hold more; by yielding, one can truly remain upright; and by seeming clumsy and inarticulate, one can show a higher kind of skill and discernment. Things often fulfill and serve one another through their opposites. This is the same idea discussed repeatedly in the preceding chapters. The movement of Yang Qi can overcome the cold of Yin Qi, while the stillness of Yin Qi can overcome the heat of Yang Qi: here, too, opposing forces act upon one another. The word “upright” here means “the uprightness of the ruler of all under Heaven”—that is, being the ruler of all under Heaven. Such a ruler often has many affairs to attend to, but laboring and striving to accomplish things is less effective than quietude and Wuwei (non-action). Through quietude and Wuwei, one can do nothing and yet leave nothing undone, and so become the ruler of all under Heaven. This is the meaning of “reversal is the movement of the Dao.” It can also offer insight to those who pursue external things single-mindedly and forget their roots.

Su Zhe says: “Insisting on never yielding often leads to breaking. Acting in accordance with how things are means that even if one yields for a time, one remains upright. Pursuing cleverness at all costs and refusing to appear clumsy often leads to exhaustion. Following what comes naturally means that even if one seems clumsy, one can still act just right. Insisting on arguing and refusing to be silent often leaves one with no argument to make. Speaking in accordance with how things are means that even if one is not eloquent, one can still express oneself clearly.”

Ye Mengde says: “Cold and heat are changes in the climate of Heaven and Earth. If a person can use movement to withstand cold and stillness to ease the heat, how much more can quietude and Wuwei, arising naturally, calm the agitation of all under Heaven and bring things back to the right path. From this we can see that what is incomplete can surpass apparent wholeness, emptiness can surpass apparent fullness, yielding can surpass forceful rigidity, and clumsiness and few words can surpass cleverness and eloquence. People do not understand this. They strain to prevail over external things, and in the end find it even harder to do so. To bring all under Heaven back to the right path through quietude is to prevail over everything without competing.”

This is chapter thirty-eight.

When governance throughout the world is clear and in accord with the Dao, people settle into farming, and warhorses are put to work plowing and fertilizing the fields. “Retiring the horses to fertilize the fields” means retiring them from military service and putting them to agricultural use. When governance is chaotic and turns away from the Dao, warhorses breed in the countryside, and war follows.

No fault is greater than craving things that stir desire; no misfortune is greater than not knowing when to stop; no failing is greater than always wanting more. Those who know contentment understand that contentment itself is abundance, and so they are always content.

Without going out the door, one can understand what is happening in the world. Without looking out the window, one can know the Dao of Heaven—the patterns by which Heaven and Earth operate. The farther one travels, the less one comes to know. Thus, the sage need not travel in person to gain knowledge, need not see with their own eyes to explain the principles of things, and need not act deliberately to bring things to completion.

Lü Huiqing held that the key to understanding why the world is as it is, and why the Dao of Heaven is what it is, lies in grasping the fundamental principles behind them. Once these principles are understood, there is no need to go out or look beyond the window to know and comprehend them. If one had to venture out in person to learn, how far could one’s legs carry one, or one’s eyes see? The sage understands the fundamental principles by which the world takes shape, and so can know without traveling. The sage understands the fundamental principles governing the Dao of Heaven, and so can explain them without seeing them firsthand. Since these principles are already present within, the sage can bring things to completion without taking action.

Li Jiamo held that going out to investigate Heaven and Earth reveals only their outward forms. Their full scope cannot be grasped through appearances alone, but can be understood through principle. Thus, the farther one seeks outside oneself, the less one comes to know. If one understands that principle is within, one can bring things to completion without looking outward or acting deliberately.