《老子本义》Vol. 3

To investigate Heaven and Earth outwardly is to investigate their forms. Their forms are inexhaustible, but the principles by which they operate can be understood. The farther one seeks outward, the less one can know. If one understands that the principles are right before one’s eyes, one can do so even without leaving home. The sage knows that the Dao does not reside in physical forms, and so does not cling to them; that names do not reside in outward traces, and so does not cling to external appearances; and that accomplishment does not depend on deliberate action, and so does not force things to happen. Wu Cheng says, “The farther one seeks outward, the less one knows.” The text no longer says “see” or “peer,” because to understand the principles of the world is also to understand the Dao of Heaven. “Nothing is done, yet all is accomplished” describes the result shown in the preceding two lines.

Chapter Forty

In the pursuit of learning, knowledge increases day by day. In cultivating the Dao, human contrivance and attachment must be diminished day by day. Keep diminishing them until one reaches Wuwei (non-action: not acting presumptuously, but following nature). With Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished.

Therefore, those who would govern the world make noninterference—the use of few directives and the avoidance of disturbing the people—their guiding principle. If they intervene in everything and act constantly, they are unfit to govern the world.

Li Jiamo says, “The pursuit of learning seeks to acquire knowledge, so knowledge increases day by day. The cultivation of the Dao seeks to dispel deluded thoughts, so attachment diminishes day by day. If the reduction is not carried through to the end, one’s understanding will remain incomplete.”

Li Jiamo says: “Learning is meant to increase knowledge, so it is called ‘daily increase.’ Cultivating the Dao (the Way) is meant to remove delusion, so it is called ‘daily decrease.’ Unless this decrease reaches its utmost, understanding will not be complete. Thus, ‘daily decrease’ is precisely what makes true ‘daily increase’ possible. If one continues to decrease until all delusion is gone and one’s true nature is complete, one can attain Wuwei (non-action). In the state of Wuwei, affairs that involve action can also be accomplished. Even if one were to gain all under Heaven, it would be as though one had done nothing. If one tries to seize it with an intention to act, one may not even obtain a single thing, let alone all under Heaven.”

Jiao Hong says: “‘Taking’ means governing and transforming. ‘Without action’ means Wuwei. When one practices Wuwei, the myriad things transform naturally; when one is still and quiet, the myriad things come naturally into order. Thus, governing all under Heaven should always be grounded in acting without interference and in Wuwei. Reckless action leads to failure, while attachment leads to loss. Deliberate contrivance and forceful interference therefore cannot be used to govern all under Heaven.”

Wu Cheng says: “This passage explains the principle of acting without action and yet leaving nothing undone. The ancients were able to gain all under Heaven simply because they possessed the lofty virtue of Wuwei, and the people naturally turned to them. If one insists on using schemes and force, deliberately striving to act, how could one gain all under Heaven?”

Kumārajīva says: “In the process of diminishing, one first removes coarse deluded thoughts, then forgets evil. Next, one removes subtle attachments, then forgets good. Evil is what is wrong; good is what is right. One diminishes both what is wrong and one’s attachment to what is right. When desires are cut off and all judgments of right and wrong are set aside, De (Virtue/Power) accords with the Dao, and one attains Wuwei. Though one’s own self does nothing, one allows the myriad things to follow their nature, and therefore nothing remains unaccomplished.”

The above are the commentaries on Chapter Forty-One.

The sage has no fixed preconceptions. The hopes and feelings of the people become the sage’s own. The sage treats those who are good with goodness, and treats those who are not good with goodness as well. In this way, everyone can return to goodness. The sage meets the trustworthy with trust, and continues to meet the untrustworthy with trust. In this way, everyone can return to trustworthiness.

Among the people of the world, the sage remains calm and at peace, allowing their hearts to settle into simplicity and stillness. The people focus on what they see and hear; the sage, in turn, treats them like children, offering care and guidance.

Lü Huiqing explains: The sage understands people’s hearts more deeply than anyone. Having no fixed private concerns, the sage takes the people’s hearts as their own and brings the hearts of all under Heaven back to simplicity. The people focus on what they see and hear, while the sage treats them as children.

Lü Huiqing says: “The sage is best able to observe and fathom my heart. Thus, he has no fixed mind of his own and takes the people’s minds as his own. This is like a mirror, which has no fixed form but reflects whatever appears before it. The sage regards his own mind in this way, and regards the people’s minds just the same. So what are goodness and its opposite, trustworthiness and its opposite? Where are their fixed and unchanging boundaries?

“Therefore, I treat those who are good and trustworthy with kindness and sincerity, and I treat those who are not good or trustworthy with the same kindness and sincerity. The sage knows that goodness and its opposite, trustworthiness and its opposite, are not fixed states in the human heart. So he guides people toward goodness and builds trust through De. When all things are able to grow, this is called ‘De.’ De is the source from which the nature of all things arises. From this we can see that within the nature of things there is no absolute lack of goodness or trustworthiness.

“Thus, when the sage faces the people, he is always apprehensive and unsettled, and brings their hearts into harmony as one. To ‘make their hearts whole’ means not allowing those who are good and trustworthy to think themselves superior, nor allowing those who are not good or trustworthy to despair of themselves. The people watch and listen intently to everything the sage does, and he treats them with compassion and generosity. Even when he encounters people who are not good or trustworthy, he still meets them with kindness and trust, because he knows that the human heart can change, just as his own can.”

Su Zhe says: “If you praise only the good and cast aside those who are not good, or trust only the trustworthy and cast aside those who are not, how can you be called ‘always good at saving people, and so abandoning no one’? People throughout the world each decide for themselves what is good or bad, sincere or false, and then criticize one another on that basis. The sage worries about this, so he dissolves these distinctions and treats everyone equally. People watch closely to see how the sage rewards or punishes them, but he treats them all as he would infants: he shows no special favor for good deeds and no hatred for bad ones. Then the good no longer boast, and those who have done wrong no longer feel resentful. Everyone lets go of conflict and changes through his influence.”

Chen Yidian says: “‘Die-die’ describes a state of inner unease. The sage has no impulse to boast or insist that he is right, and so he is often uneasy in this way. ‘Make their hearts whole’ means not distinguishing between good and bad.”

All things move from birth toward death. Those who attain long life make up roughly three in ten; those who die young also make up roughly three in ten. There are also people who are alive but, through reckless action, head toward places of death; they too make up roughly three in ten. Why is this so? Because, in their excessive pursuit of ways to nourish life, they instead place a heavier burden on it.

It is said that those skilled at preserving life need not avoid rhinoceroses or tigers when walking on land, and need not wear armor or dodge weapons on a battlefield. The rhinoceros finds no place to use its horn, the tiger nowhere to sink its claws, and weapons nowhere to pierce. Why is this so? Because they do not enter situations that readily lead to death.

The commentary notes textual variations among different editions: the phrase “the life of people” appears in some editions as “the life of the people: born into life, they act, and all their actions lead toward places of death”; some editions add “also” after “lead toward places of death”; some add “indeed” after “excessive” in the phrase “because they nourish life excessively”; in the phrase “wear armor and weapons,” some editions have “avoid” instead of “wear”; and some editions add words after “why is this so?” at the end and after “no place of death.”

There are only two conditions in the world: life and death. People emerge from “life” and eventually enter “death.” There are different paths leading to life and death, and people may choose between them. Yet while living in the world, people often move toward death in everything they do. In other words, they commonly abandon the path that can preserve life and instead take the path that leads to death.

Wang Bi says that “three in ten” means three parts out of ten. The path that takes one toward life and brings the preservation of life to its fullest extent accounts for roughly three tenths; the path that takes one toward death and brings death to its fullest extent accounts for roughly three tenths as well. But people become excessively attached to life and indulge themselves, only to end up in a place where there is no way to survive. Those skilled at preserving life do not fixate on “seeking life” as their goal, and therefore do not fall into a situation where death is inevitable.

Among objects, none is more dangerous than weapons such as spears and halberds; among wild beasts, none is more dangerous than the si (a fierce beast of the rhinoceros kind) and the tiger. If weapons have no chance to bare their sharp edges, and fierce beasts have no chance to use their claws and horns, this shows that people who do not let desire burden them—how could they fall into a situation where death is inevitable?

Snakes hide in deep pools, while eagles and hawks dwell in high mountains. Bows and arrows cannot reach them, and nets cannot be used against them. They might be said to live in places free from the danger of death. Yet in the end they still fall into mortal danger because they covet bait. Is this not the result of seeking too much and clinging too tightly to life? Thus, if the myriad things do not stray from their nature in pursuit of what they want, and do not alter their true nature to satisfy their desires, they will be like infants: poisonous creatures will not sting them, and fierce beasts will not attack them.

Wu Cheng says that “going out” is life, and “going in” is death. “Going out” means emerging from the formless into visible form; “going in” means returning from visible form to the formless. The Zhuangzi says that all things emerge from the pivot of transformation and return to it. It also says that we should feel no joy at birth and no alarm at death, and that all things come and go. These statements all treat “going out” as life and “going in” as death. If people do not let worry, cravings, and desires damage what is within them, and do not let wind, cold, heat, and damp harm their bodies; and if, after entering the world, they can avoid calamities such as punishment, warfare, and drowning, then these are all circumstances that lead toward life. Conversely, those who enjoy ease and status are prone to inward harm; those who toil in hardship and live in lowly conditions are prone to bodily harm; and those who are rough and forceful may fail to live out their natural lifespans. These are all circumstances that lead toward death.

Chen Yidian says that those who do not fall into mortal danger do so because people who understand the Dao necessarily understand how things work. Those who understand how things work can discern what the times call for and how circumstances should be handled. Those who can discern this will not let external things harm them. This does not mean that they hold external things in contempt. Rather, they know how to watch for danger and safety and to treat fortune and calamity with care, so they are less likely to be harmed.

The author of this book believes that most earlier explanations of the lines about “those who follow life” and “those who follow death” are strained. Only Wang Bi’s interpretation comes close to the original meaning, though it is not clear enough. “Kind” means a category. “Those who follow life” and “those who follow death” can be understood as paths that lead toward survival and paths that lead toward death. These refer broadly to the general pattern of life and death among all things between Heaven and Earth. The next line, which says that people in the world often move toward death in everything they do, refers specifically to the common human failing of being unable to preserve life. That is why the discussion of people begins only in the lines that follow, with “people’s lives”; the first two lines speak generally about the principles governing all things.

The text does not say “those who follow death” again after “people’s lives” because that line sums up what came before rather than introducing a third condition. People are alive yet move toward death in everything they do; together with the two groups mentioned earlier, each accounting for three tenths, this means that in practice nine tenths move toward death. Laozi expresses himself with restraint and does not spell out the full meaning, leaving readers to grasp it for themselves. As for those who “put themselves last and yet come first” and “set themselves aside and yet are preserved,” those who remain beyond the reach of death whether they engage with the world or withdraw from it—there may be only one such person in the whole world.

The Han Feizi quotes the line, “The people’s lives: they are born, and as they move, all their movements lead them to a place of death.” Although this may not be Laozi’s original wording, it makes the meaning clear. Other commentators explain that “seeking life yet moving toward death” refers to the problem faced by people who practice physical refinement and health cultivation, then combine the two earlier conditions into three categories. The author considers this interpretation strained and difficult to make sense of. The author also rejects the explanation that “not entering a place of death” refers to the indestructible Dharma body of Buddhism, since this does not accord with Huang-Lao thought.

The Dao (the Way) brings the myriad things into being, while De (Virtue/Power) nourishes them. Each thing takes on a particular form and grows according to its own conditions and tendencies. Thus, nothing fails to revere the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is revered and De cherished not because anyone has commanded it, but because this has always been the natural way of things. Some versions omit the word “fu”; others write “jue” instead of “ming.”

The text therefore says: it gives life to and nurtures the myriad things, supports them, helps them grow and develop, brings them to maturity, and nourishes and shelters them. Here, “tingdu” means bringing the myriad things to maturity; some versions read “maturity.” Some versions also write “cover” instead of “nourish.”

The Dao brings the myriad things into being but does not claim them as its own. It acts but does not rely on its accomplishments. It is skilled at nurturing the myriad things but does not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De,” a profound and subtle form of Virtue.

Wang Bi says: All things are first brought forth and then nurtured. Only after being nurtured do they take form; once they have taken form, they gradually come to fulfillment. From where do all things arise? From the Dao. By what are they nurtured? By De. The formation of all things and their development into particular tendencies each have their source. The Dao is the root from which all things arise; De is the root from which they receive nourishment. All things come from the Dao and gain their endowment through De, so the Dao must be revered and De cherished. If they are lost, harm follows.

Li Jiamo says: From taking form to developing into particular tendencies, all things have the Dao and De as their roots. Though the Dao is revered and De is precious, neither regards itself as revered nor relies on its own preciousness. They bestow their benefits on all things without deliberately issuing commands. No one directs them, yet all things grow and are nurtured of their own accord. Their growth, nourishment, maturation, and protection all happen naturally. For this reason, the Dao and De never expect anything in return from all things: to bring them forth without begrudging the effort, and to give without seeking repayment, is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and natural working of De.

Lu Xisheng says: “Receiving Jing and Qi” is called birth; “containing the power to mature” is called nurturing. To unfold the forms of all things is called growth; to cultivate their inherent qualities is called development. To bring them to maturity so that each fulfills its proper share is called completion; to regulate them and realize their functions is called ordering. To keep them in harmony is called nourishment; to protect them from harm is called sheltering. These functions all belong to the Great Dao. The Great Dao brings forth and nourishes all things without claiming them as its own; it brings them to fulfillment without priding itself on its achievements; it helps them grow without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De.”

The “Nourishing the Corporeal Soul” chapter discusses how people can accord with the Dao and De. This chapter discusses how the Dao and De accord with all things. The wording is therefore the same, and the underlying principles are connected.

In his note, Yuan cites the Shiwén to explain the word “completion”: it can mean distinction, evenness, uniformity, or harmony. Ma’s commentary on the “Shi” hexagram in the Book of Changes says that “ordering” means governing or regulating. The general idea is that bringing forth and nourishing all things is like spring; prompting them to grow, develop, and take form is like summer; bringing them to maturity and fulfillment is like autumn and winter. Once all things have developed their tendencies, the next step is to nourish and protect them. Commentators differ in their interpretations of “no one commands them.” Some understand “command” as granting rank or title; only Li Jiamo explains it as meaning that the Dao does not deliberately issue commands to all things. Yuan considers this interpretation more consistent with the text.

Lü Huiqing says: The “beginning without a name” is the Dao. The Dao is an undivided whole, not yet manifest in form; all things receive their vitality from De. Only once they have become particular things do they display their distinct forms, but form itself is not the source that brings them forth or nurtures them. Once form has emerged, youth, maturity, decline, and death follow as inevitable stages in its development. In this sense, tendencies arise from form, form from De, and De from the Dao. The Dao and De are the root; form and tendencies are the branches. The root is honored, while the branches are subordinate; the root is precious, while the branches are less valued. Thus softness and Wuwei can overcome the hardness of things with form. For rulers and lords to bring all things into accord with change, the key lies in the Dao and De, not in form and circumstance.

More specifically, the Dao brings forth all things, De nurtures them, and from this they take form and develop their tendencies. At the root, however, bringing forth and nurturing, growth and development, maturation and protection are all workings of the Dao. Yet the Dao ultimately has no fixed name. Thus it does not possess, pride itself, or rule over things. This is Mysterious De.

Zhang Erqi says: The forms of all things are the result of their being brought forth and nurtured by the Dao and De; their development into particular tendencies likewise comes from this bringing forth and nurturing. For this reason, there are none among all things that do not revere the Dao and cherish De. This is not because anyone has decreed that they must do so; it is simply natural. The Dao continually brings forth and nourishes all things, helping them grow, develop, mature, and protecting them. Its function for all things is so profound, yet it proceeds entirely of its own accord: it brings forth and nourishes without claiming ownership, brings things to fulfillment without priding itself on its achievements, and helps them grow without ruling over them. This working is profound and unfathomable.

The root of all things may be understood as the mother of the world, the source that gives birth to them. Once you know this source, you can understand all that it brings forth. After understanding all things, return to this source and hold fast to it; then you will remain free from danger throughout your life.

Block the outlets of sensory desire and close the gates through which external temptations enter, and you will not spend your life rushing after things outside yourself. If you indulge the senses, pursue desire, and busy yourself with accomplishing all kinds of affairs, your life will be difficult to save.

To perceive things in their subtle beginnings is called clarity. To hold fast to what is soft and yielding is called strength. Use your own light, then return to inner discernment, and you will bring no harm upon yourself. This is called inheriting and abiding by the constant Dao.

Wang Bi says, “Mother” refers to the root, while “child” refers to the branches and details. By grasping the root, one can understand the branches and details. Thus one does not abandon the root to pursue its offshoots. “Opening” refers to the place where desires and affairs arise; “gate” refers to the passage through which they enter. If the mind is not stirred by external things, one will not be wearied by them throughout one’s life. If one does not block the source of desire, one will spend one’s life trapped in a situation from which there is no recovery. The effectiveness of governance does not lie in making a great show. Seeing what is great does not necessarily mean one is wise; discerning what is subtle is what it means to be clear-sighted. Simply holding fast to strength is not true strength; holding fast to weakness is true strength.

Jiao Hong says, “Opening” refers to the mouth. The mouth and the doorway of a household both serve as metaphors for places through which things enter and leave. To block and close them is to keep what one has gathered hidden from view; this is holding fast to the root. “Radiance” is the function expressed by clarity, while “clarity” is the source of radiance. “Veiling oneself in the constant” is the same as “veiling oneself in clarity”: it means concealing oneself deeply and not showing oneself.

Zhang Erqi says this chapter concerns realizing and putting the Dao into practice. “Beginning” and “Mother” both refer to the Dao; “child” refers to the myriad things. To discern what is subtle and hold fast to weakness is to hold fast to the root. “Small” and “weak” describe the Dao’s subtle and mysterious nature. The Dao seems invisible; this is what is meant by “small.” To perceive what is invisible is called “clear-sightedness.” The Dao has no form or trace and cannot be grasped. To hold fast to this ungraspable state is called “strength.” One may for a time use radiance that shows itself outwardly, then draw it back and return to the original clarity. One does not let the mind and spirit scatter outward and fail to return, thereby bringing harm upon oneself. This is what it means to accord with the constant Dao.

Lü Huiqing says that hearing of the Dao is easy, but truly attaining it is difficult; attaining the Dao is easy, but holding fast to it is difficult. Now that I have experienced the root and brought my mind into accord with it, I have done more than merely hear of the Dao. I therefore know that all things under Heaven arise from the root. Since all things arise from the root that I hold fast to, and I hold fast to it without ever losing it, how could the myriad things, by their own power, harm the root from which they arise? This is why one remains free from danger throughout life.

“Blocking the opening and closing the gate” means holding fast to the root. When the mind stirs and I let it do so, this is called “having an opening.” Once there is an “opening,” the mind rushes outward and engages with external things. Block it, and the mind will no longer scatter outward. When external things draw the mind and I receive them, this is called “having a gate.” Once there is a “gate,” external things enter the mind and disturb it. Close the gate, and they will not enter. When the mind does not scatter outward and external things do not enter, even with the myriad things appearing before one, one is not pulled along by them. What, then, is there to weary one?

One who holds fast to the root has a tranquil mind that is not moved by external things. It is precisely through stillness that one can see the subtle changes as they first stir within the mind; this is why it is called “clear-sightedness.” To perceive these changes and continually hold fast to the mind is to be in a state of formless softness that nothing can overcome; this is why it is called “strength.” One uses radiance to perceive subtle stirrings of thought, then draws that radiance inward and returns to inner clarity and stillness. Throughout life, one does not let the mind run loose in pursuit of affairs, and so does not fall into a situation from which there is no recovery. Thus, there is no calamity.

If I had even a little understanding and were walking on the Great Dao, what I would fear most is straying from the right path. The Great Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer to take narrow side paths.

The courts and palaces are kept splendidly adorned, while the fields lie neglected and the granaries stand empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, overindulge in food and drink, and hoard great stores of wealth. This is called the ostentation of bandits, and it is truly contrary to the Dao.

“Having even a little understanding” means seeing things somewhat clearly. The “Great Dao” refers to the right path in accord with the Dao, while “preferring side paths” means favoring shortcuts. Commentators have debated the wording and interpretation of “bandit-like display.” Here, it is understood chiefly as “ostentation”: rulers indulge in extravagance and accumulate wealth while allowing fields to lie neglected and granaries to stand empty. Such lavish display is like stealing the people’s wealth.

Wu Cheng says, “‘I’ is the author speaking on behalf of everyone. ‘Jieran’ is used in the same way as in Mencius’s phrase ‘jieran uses it and makes a path,’ and means ‘in an instant.’ ‘Shi’ is close in meaning to its use in the Analects’ ‘do not impose burdens’ and Mencius’s ‘shi-shi’: it refers to arrogance and self-importance expressed outwardly. Laozi’s teachings most strongly reject boastfulness. This chapter says that those who do not understand the Great Dao are naturally inclined to vaunt themselves. Even if they grasp the principle for a moment and want to act in accordance with the Great Dao, they are especially afraid of taking action and dare not proceed. Humble yielding is the Great Dao, but though this path is easy and level, people refuse to follow it. Boasting and ostentation are like a narrow side path, opposed to the Great Dao, yet everyone likes to take it.

“From ‘the court is very well maintained’ onward, the text speaks of boastful extravagance. It asks, then, whether flaunting one’s possessions like a thief could possibly accord with the Dao. Chen Yidian says: Cautious humility and not daring to boast are the Great Dao; pride, self-importance, and showing oneself off clearly depart from it. The way of humility lies in a low place, yet nothing can surpass it, and still people refuse to follow it. Thus, although the exterior is made splendid, the inside is empty: the court is beautifully restored, while the fields lie waste and the storehouses stand empty. People still dress in fine clothes and wear precious swords to embellish their appearance, feast lavishly, and accumulate many useless goods, boasting of their wealth and strength. This is like a thief showing off stolen goods, far removed indeed from the cautious, humble Great Dao.

“Lü Huiqing says that abandoning the Great Dao for a side path means discarding the root and chasing after the branches. Take food as an example: it is the root of human sustenance, and comes from the fields. When the fields are properly cultivated, the storehouses become full; when the storehouses are full, there is enough food and an abundance of goods, and the court can be secure. From this we can see where the root comes from. Today, people do not follow the Great Dao and so fail to obtain the root, but concern themselves only with pursuing the branches. How is this different from decorating the courtyards while leaving the fields and storehouses empty, and indulging in lavish clothing and food and extravagant possessions?

“Li Jiamo says that following the Great Dao brings a broad, peaceful state of mind, and life grows better with time; this is why the Great Dao is easy and level. Competing to take the side path, by contrast, depends on cleverness and deceiving others. One’s strength of mind gradually wears down, one becomes less capable in one’s dealings, and in the end one comes close to being a thief. The people of the world do not understand this. They make the court neat and splendid, so that outwardly it seems to lack nothing, while the fields lie waste; inwardly they have no self-cultivation, and the storehouses are empty; their conduct, too, is improper. They also wear fine clothes to show themselves off and stockpile extravagant, useless goods. How far this is from the Great Dao!

“Genji holds that the Great Dao is great because it is never self-satisfied: it focuses on inward cultivation and may seem lacking, yet is in fact full. If one instead boasts and exaggerates at every turn, one attends only to outward display, calling what is absent present and dressing up emptiness as abundance; desire then has no end. Once the people are alive, they develop desires, and often regard outdoing one another as cleverness. This impulse is the hardest to restrain, and the harm it brings is boundless. It is truly frightening. The people think humility and restraint are difficult, yet always want to chase immediate gains and race to be first. How could they know that by not boasting or vaunting oneself, one’s De becomes impossible for others to surpass? The Great Dao is inherently easy and level: why, then, is it hard to follow? Calling the people foolish and ignorant means that they do not understand the Great Dao: the more they boast, the narrower their outlook becomes. Those who love the Great Dao have broad understanding and often feel they are still lacking; those who love the side path have narrow vision and often feel they already have more than enough.

“Such a person, if a scholar, will pursue fame and neglect De; if an ordinary person, will indulge in luxury, chase after the branches, and wear away the root; if a ruler, will embellish appearances and hollow out what lies within. The degree and scope differ among these three, but all abandon themselves to pursue others and seek outward fame and gain. Of the three, a state’s extravagance and decline are the most evident. The human heart is indeed hard to restrain, and the calamities brought by boasting are just as frightening. From ‘the court is very well maintained’ onward, the text uses an extreme case to guide the foolish. It does not mean that this is the only danger of boasting, nor is it merely an illustrative comparison. The various commentators differ in how they punctuate the text and explain ‘shi.’ Some read ‘knowing and acting’ together; others interpret ‘shi’ as ‘to act.’ Han Feizi’s version also has ‘thief’s flute.’ None of these accords with the meaning of the original.”

What is well established does not easily collapse; what is well guarded does not easily slip away. The sacrifices offered by descendants from generation to generation will not be interrupted. Applied to self-cultivation, this principle makes one’s De (Virtue/Power) pure and true. Applied to governing a family, it makes De abundant; applied to governing a village, it makes De enduring; applied to governing a state, it makes De rich; and applied to governing the world, it allows De to be practiced everywhere.

Thus, one can observe oneself through oneself, one family through another, one village through another, one state through another, and then the world through the world. How do I know the condition of the world? By means of these principles.

Everything in the world that is established through external things may be uprooted when those things change. Whatever depends on external things for its support may likewise fall away because of them. To rely on outward conditions and imagine oneself secure is, in the end, unworthy of trust.

Cultivating De (Virtue/Power) and holding fast to “the One”—the Daoist way of pure unity—means establishing it in the heart and keeping it within oneself. It has no outward form to begin with. So long as one does not abandon it or let it slip away, who could uproot it or take it from them? Such security lasts not only for a time but can endure for generations to come.

What people call establishing and holding fast is often pursued through cleverness and skill, by seeking and cultivating connections. Because it depends on external things, it does not truly belong to oneself. The sage cultivates only their own De, becoming inwardly abundant without relying on anything outside. This is genuine cultivation. Everyone shares the same nature; the sage simply preserves it in its fullness. Seen this way, who is not included within what the sage establishes and holds fast to? Extending this to the family, the state, and all under Heaven means only nurturing, enriching, and spreading this De. Beyond one De there is no other task; beyond genuine cultivation there is no other practice.

How can one person’s body serve as a basis for extending understanding to the family, the village, the state, and all under Heaven? Because the dispositions of countless people are fundamentally connected with the disposition of a single person. Once one’s own De has been cultivated to completion, one can understand others by observing oneself and see that there is no difference between them. Thus, though people in other families, states, and throughout the world are all distinct, their families are connected with one’s own. By observing one’s own family, one can understand the principle. Other states, too, are connected with one’s own; by observing a single state, one can infer the rest. The same holds for the world today, the world of antiquity, and the world of generations to come. Since all share this same body, they also share this same De. There is no need to seek the shared principle beyond oneself; it can be understood through oneself.

This is what the ancients meant when they said, “Store all under Heaven within all under Heaven.” Therefore, to speak of establishing and holding fast while leaving aside the cultivation of oneself is not to know how truly to establish and hold fast. And to speak of cultivation while leaving oneself aside is not genuine cultivation. When cultivation takes root in oneself, De becomes real. That is the principle.

Lü Huiqing says that when people speak of cultivating De, they sometimes focus only on the family, the state, and all under Heaven, without realizing that De’s true foundation lies within oneself. Once De has truly taken root in oneself, it can then be extended outward. Zhuang Zhou says that the genuine substance of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself, its surplus to govern the state, and what remains at the very end to govern all under Heaven. This statement, too, comes from the same principle. Examine yourself: what is already abundant within need not be sought outside. The same is true when considering the family, the state, and all under Heaven.

Deep De is like that of a newborn infant. Venomous insects do not sting it; fierce beasts do not harm it; birds of prey do not seize it. Its bones are frail and its sinews soft, yet its hands can clench tightly. It knows nothing yet of sexual union, but its sexual organ can become erect—this shows that its Jing and Qi are abundant. It cries all day without becoming hoarse: this is Yin and Yang in perfect harmony.

To understand harmony is to understand the constant Dao. To understand the constant Dao is to be wise. Craving to prolong life brings trouble instead; letting the mind drive the breath makes one forceful and impulsive. 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 comes to an early end.

When constant De is never abandoned, one can return to the state of a newborn infant. Such a person has De stored up in abundance. De is softness, emptiness, stillness, and peace.

If one can always preserve constant De (Virtue/Power), one can return to the state of an infant. This shows that inner De has been deeply accumulated. Here, “De” means the virtues of gentleness, humility, softness, and peace. An infant does not sting, claw, or strike to injure others. It seems to live in complete accord with its nature, and so nothing external can harm it.

“Firmly grasping” means curling the four fingers around the thumb. In “the infant’s genital organ is yin,” “yin” refers to the infant’s genitals. “Hoarse” refers to a rasping voice, and also to crying until no sound remains. “Omen” means a sign that foretells good or ill fortune.

An infant’s body has not yet fully developed, yet its Qi (vital energy) can remain undivided. Its feelings have not yet been stirred by external things, so its vital essence is naturally abundant. It preserves its inborn primal Qi and does not rely on indulging desires to intensify its life activity. Though it cries for a long time until its voice grows hoarse, its inner harmony is not thereby harmed. This is the genuineness of following nature, without using the mind’s intentions to force the Qi. “Increasing life” means having excessive desires, which lead one to indulge in outward habits and actions, while failing to restrain inner desires for food, drink, and sex. This is not the same as having abundant vital essence. “The mind directing the Qi” means that excessive anger leads to erratic, agitated behavior and an inability to govern oneself inwardly; the channels and vessels become tense and stirred, and outward conduct becomes difficult to control. This is not the same as having abundant harmonious Qi.

When things become excessively strong, they move toward old age, because striving for strength goes against the Dao (the Way). If one can preserve softness, know harmony, and remain as an infant, one will not become excessively strong. How, then, could one grow old? And if one does not grow old, how could one come to an end?

Su Che says that Laozi often uses infants as an example when discussing Dao and De to explain their essential nature. When infants encounter external things, they do not know how to respond, and seem to have no capacity to act. Yet they are free of desire and craving, and their inner nature is exceptionally pure. Only when people form thoughts do they begin to distinguish among external things. Distinctions give rise to opposition and conflict, and harm follows. The infant, without mental activity or distinctions, cannot be drawn into opposition with external things; from where, then, could harm come? An infant does not deliberately grasp, yet its hand closes naturally; it is not driven by desire, yet it moves naturally. This shows that its vital essence is abundant, not that it acts through deliberate thought. When a thought stirs, the Qi is harmed; when the Qi is harmed, the cry grows hoarse. An infant may cry and fuss all day yet remain at ease. This shows that its mind is undisturbed and its Qi remains harmonious. “Harmony” means not allowing the outside world to harm what is within. To understand how to harmonize is to “know what is constant”: preserve the root, then respond naturally to external things. If one tries to increase life through desire and force the Qi with the mind’s intentions, one cannot follow nature. One gradually becomes rigid and strong, and old age follows, causing one to lose the nature that the infant inherently possesses.

Lü Huiqing says that at birth, a person’s De is at its purest. As one grows, the eyes and ears continually encounter external things, and the mind continually absorbs their influence. Desires for pleasure and stimulation increase, while the originally deep De gradually grows shallow. Those who cultivate the Dao should reduce the desires that drive life activity to excess, cultivate their nature, and restore their De, so that it returns to the state it had at birth. This is why the text says, “One whose De is deeply abundant is like an infant.” An infant receives the Qi of harmony and balance. This Qi gathers within the body and has not yet dispersed, so the infant is not easily harmed by encounters with external things. If one can replenish and preserve pure, harmonious Qi, bringing oneself into accord with all things, who could harm one? To reach the utmost in the Dao and return to one’s nature is called “constancy”; having deep De and knowing how to harmonize is also called “constancy.”

Chapter 48 says: Those who truly understand the Great Dao do not readily speak of their insights; those who are always boasting and talking often do not truly understand. Restrain the desires of the senses and close the gates through which external temptations enter the mind and spirit. Blunt the sharp edges and resolve confusion; let yourself blend with the light and dust—that is, subdue your radiance and merge with the ordinary world. This is called “mysterious sameness,” joining with the profound and subtle Dao.

One who reaches this state will neither be drawn close by others nor kept at a distance; neither be used nor harmed; neither be valued nor despised. For this very reason, that person becomes one whom all under Heaven revere.

In human relationships, people sometimes grow close because they enjoy one another’s conversation, and sometimes grow distant because their appearances differ. If we can restrain the senses and close the gates of the heart, so that likes and dislikes do not sway us, we will not cling to whom we should be close to or distant from.

When one’s sharpness is on full display, people compete for gain; when turmoil goes on without end, it invites calamity. Restrain one’s sharpness and resolve disputes, and there is no need to chase after gain, while calamity is less likely to arrive. Draw in one’s radiance and blend with the dust of the world (“harmony with the light and sameness with the dust” means not displaying one’s sharpness, but going along with the ways of the world). Treat the noble and the lowly as equals, and one will not regard oneself as exalted, nor can others truly demean one. Nobility depends on one’s inner cultivation, not on the judgments of others. In this way, one can master the myriad things without being governed by external things. This is the most noble state under Heaven.

“Block the openings and close the gates” refers to cherishing oneself and maintaining one’s nature. “Blunt the sharpness and resolve disputes” and “harmonize with the light and be one with the dust” describe how to respond to the world and its affairs. Forget the distinction between self and external things, and let inner and outer merge; then one can unite wondrously with the Dao.

Those who have not yet attained this wondrous union can be alike in some matters and different in others. Even if they are alike at first, they may later become different. When people are alike, others may draw close to them, praise them, and hold them in esteem; when they differ, others may distance themselves, harm them, or look down on them. Those who attain wondrous sameness—those who unite with the Dao and transcend distinctions—do not deliberately seek what is called sameness, and so there is naturally no question of difference. People therefore cannot sway them through closeness or distance, benefit or harm, or honor or low status.

Su Zhe says: Whatever can be drawn close can also be pushed away; whatever can be held in honor can also be treated with contempt. Those who embody the Dao shelter all things equally, without distinguishing closeness from distance. They regard favorable and adverse circumstances alike, without distinguishing benefit from harm. They do not cling to honor or disgrace, and so have no notion of high or low status. Their state lies beyond the reach of emotional calculations; this is why they become the most noble people under Heaven.

Li Jiamo says: “Block the openings” means to be careful about what one’s speech and senses let out; “close the gates” means to prevent the turmoil of external things from entering. “Blunt the sharpness” means to regulate the heart; “resolve disputes” means to set external affairs in order. “Harmonize with the light” means to draw in one’s own sharpness; “be one with the dust” means to go along with external things. When this is accomplished, there is no distinction between coming and going, inner and outer, self and other, or oneself and external things. This is called wondrous sameness.

Those who have attained wondrous sameness are said to be close, yet they can remain distant; they are said to be distant, yet they can naturally draw close. They do not rejoice in the face of gain, nor fear the arrival of calamity. When treated with honor, they do not become proud; when treated with contempt, they do not become self-abasing. Nothing can measure such a state.

Govern the state with upright policies, direct warfare with flexible and unconventional strategies, and govern all under Heaven through Wuwei (non-action). How do I know the world is like this? The more prohibitions and taboos there are, the poorer the people become. The more weapons the people possess, the more disorder there is in the state. The more skillful people become in contrivances, the more strange things appear. The more numerous and complex the laws, the more thieves there are.

Therefore, the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei, the people naturally come to be well governed. When I cherish stillness, the people naturally become upright. When I avoid meddling, the people naturally grow prosperous. When I have no selfish desires, the people naturally become simple and sincere.” Here, “Wuwei” means not acting recklessly through burdensome laws and coercive intervention. When governance is lenient and restrained, the people are honest and generous; when it is strict and intrusive, they become distressed and uneasy.

Misfortune conceals good fortune, and good fortune also harbors misfortune. Who can know where change will end? Can there truly be no constant principle within it? What is upright may turn strange; what is good may turn perverse. The people have lost their way—and for a long time now.

Therefore, the sage is square without injuring others, honest and upright without cutting them, direct without being unrestrained, and bright without dazzling.

Wang Bi says that to govern the world, one should generally avoid intervening recklessly; once one interferes in everything, one can no longer govern the world. Thus, ruling a state through ordinary laws and ordinances may not be enough to make the world submit. And when competing to gain the world, one may instead turn to deceptive military tactics.

To govern a state by the Dao is to value the root and let lesser problems settle of themselves. Governing only through ordinary laws and ordinances means imposing prohibitions and punishing problems after they have arisen. If the root is not established, the lesser matters are difficult to put in order. The more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more controls and implements there are, the more confused the state becomes. As the people grow more cunning, deceit also arises. Once deceit spreads, deviant practices follow, and in the end, the laws and ordinances grow ever more intricate while there are ever more thieves. These consequences all come from abandoning the root and governing only what appears on the surface.

The phrase “govern the state with what is right” refers to an approach meant to quell disorder, but it may instead prompt people to resort to deceptive methods. When the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action) and has no desires, the people quickly follow and emulate him. This is because the sage values the root, allowing lesser problems to settle of themselves.

“Who knows how this way of governing will ultimately turn out?” The phrase “there is no fixed right” means: who can know what state good governance will ultimately reach? The highest form of governance has nothing that needs to be deliberately corrected and does not confine the myriad things within fixed names and standards. Though it seems indistinct and unshowy, the world naturally comes to be transformed.

A state governed only through ordinary laws and ordinances may ultimately have to resort to deception to deal with its problems. This is like first establishing standards of good and evil for things, then governing them by those standards, only to leave behind calamities and strange disturbances. People have been lost from the right Way for so long that they cannot be made to correct themselves at once through strict commands. Therefore, the sage guides the myriad things away from deviance by means of what is square, but does not use a standard of squareness to cut them apart; guides the people to cast off impurity by means of purity, but does not harm them by demanding purity too harshly; guides the myriad things away from deviation by means of uprightness, but does not provoke them with uprightness; and sees clearly why people have lost their way, but does not use discernment to hunt for their hidden faults. This is what is meant by “the greatest square has no corners; the greatest straightness seems crooked; the bright Dao seems dim.” The sage values the root and lets lesser problems settle. Without forcing a remedy upon them, the myriad things can return to the right Way.

Wu Cheng says that “govern the state with what is right” means correcting improper conduct through laws and prohibitions, as people such as Guan Zhong and Shang Yang did. “Use the unusual in warfare” means fighting by deceptive and unconventional methods, as people such as Sun Wu and Wu Qi did. Cunning stratagems can be used only in warfare, not to govern a state. Ordinary laws and ordinances can govern a state, but are not enough by themselves to win the world. Only by governing the world through Wuwei, without deliberately demanding that others submit, can one allow the people to become naturally obedient.

What, then, is the result of governing a state only through ordinary laws and ordinances? “Prohibitions” refers to strict restrictions. “Useful implements” refers to tools that make life easier for the people, such as weighing and measuring devices, boats and carts, and fishing nets. “Skills” refers to the craft of making finely wrought objects—in other words, what are called extravagant and ingenious arts. These lines describe two things. Numerous prohibitions arise because laws and ordinances are too prominent and too intricate; as a result, the people become poor, and some even turn to thievery. The proliferation of useful implements comes from an excess of technical skill; as a result, those above become politically confused, and deceitful, deviant customs prevail.

Reforming laws, developing technology, making life easier for the people, and enriching the state were all originally pursued as ways to make a state prosperous and powerful through ordinary governance. Yet they produced these consequences, showing that this approach may not even suffice to govern a state. Why, then, is it said that avoiding reckless interference can instead win the world? Acting through Wuwei, favoring stillness, and having no desires are all ways of avoiding reckless interference. When one deliberately sets out to do nothing, one also has no deliberate wish to make the world submit. Yet the people naturally become transformed and upright, and their lives naturally become abundant and simple. This is more than enough to win the world.

Looking at these two ways of governing, what is called misfortune may in the end turn into good fortune, and what is called good fortune may in the end turn into misfortune. Who can be certain where either will ultimately lead? “Right” stands in opposition to “not right”; if “right” is pushed to an extreme, it can turn into deception and abnormality. People regard only what is “right” and “good” as beneficial, and so strange misfortunes may follow. In fact, if one does not cling to a fixed notion of “right,” there is no reason for it to reverse into deception and abnormality.

Ordinary people have been confused for a long time and do not understand this principle. They know only that governing through ordinary laws and ordinances is good, but not that letting go of fixed standards may be what is truly right. Only those who possess the Dao understand this. They take Wuwei as their way of acting, so they do not treat fixed squareness as squareness, deliberate purity as purity, rigid uprightness as uprightness, or dazzling brilliance as light. When facing the myriad things, they do not show their sharp edges; they remain restrained and yielding, and do not harm anything. In this way, they preserve what is good in things and avoid their faults. Though they do not deliberately seek to win the world by this means, the principle by which the world can come to them is already contained within it.

Lü Huiqing says, “Governing a state through cleverness is a calamity for the state; governing it without cleverness is its good fortune.” Thus, it is clear that reckless interference is not enough to win the world. Why is it said that avoiding reckless interference is enough to win it? This is inferred precisely from the fact that reckless interference is not enough to win it.

Those who believe they are governing rightly may find that the people become poorer, the state more confused, and customs more extravagant. Laws and ordinances then grow ever more intricate, and thieves become more numerous. These are all the faults of interfering recklessly and deliberately governing the world. When the sage acts through Wuwei, the people are naturally transformed, and so there are no harms caused by excessive prohibitions. When those above favor stillness, the people naturally become upright, and so there are no calamities from harsh laws and ordinances or the growth of thievery. When those above avoid reckless interference, the people naturally become prosperous, and so there is no political confusion caused by an excess of implements and technical skills. When those above have no greed, the people naturally become simple and genuine, and so they do not esteem the unusual and the deviant.

Therefore, when the world is governed through Wuwei, the ordinances seem broad, simple, and unobtrusive, and governing is not taken to mean scrutinizing everything closely. The people, too, remain genuine and do not become superficial. But when the world is governed through cleverness and a profusion of measures, the ordinances become intrusive and exacting, violating the principle of simplicity and breadth; the people, too, become deficient and find it difficult to preserve their natural character. With intrusive ordinances and people who have lost their simplicity, misfortune may not be avoided, and good fortune may not be attained. Practices believed to be right and good may sometimes turn into deception and abnormality. People cannot determine where fortune and misfortune, the unusual and the ordinary, or good and evil will ultimately lie. Their only result is to make the people more calculating and the state harder to govern. Since acquiring knowledge, the people have long been confused and attached to their views. Why burden them further with intrusive ordinances, making it impossible for them to return to simplicity and preserve their natural character? Therefore, the sage takes Wuwei as the root.

In governing the people and following the Way of Heaven, no method is better than frugality. Frugality means restraint and cherishing what one has, without spending it carelessly. Only through restraint can one submit to the Dao early. To submit to the Dao early is to accumulate De continually. When De has grown deep and abundant, nothing cannot be overcome. When nothing cannot be overcome, one’s power becomes unfathomable. With unfathomable power, one can establish a state. Once the foundations for establishing a state are understood, it can endure for a long time. This is the way to deepen the foundations and strengthen the roots, so that life may endure and development continue over time.

[Textual note] Some editions read “this is called” instead of “submit early,” while some commentators interpret the phrase as “return early.” Here, following the editions cited in the text, it is understood as “submit to the Dao early.” “Roots” refers to the foundations; “enduring life and far-reaching vision” means living for a long time and continuing without interruption.

Zhu Xi said that Laozi’s teaching advocates humility, stillness and emptiness, and frugality, refusing to squander one’s spirit at will. “Take it up early” means beginning to accumulate De at an early stage. Then, by conserving and gathering it inward, one cultivates it further and continues to build it up. If one waits until De has already been damaged before cultivating it, the gains from cultivation will only make up for what was lost; this cannot be called “accumulating deeply.” The key, then, is to notice early, while De is still unharmed, and cherish it.

Yao Nai said that “take up” means to undertake and put into practice. “Frugality” means beginning early, while there is still ample time and energy, to accumulate De before anything has happened. When events arrive, one will then be able to handle them with ease.

Li Jiamo said that whether governing the people outwardly or serving the Dao of Heaven inwardly, nothing is better than “frugality.” To be frugal means knowing how to gather oneself in and exercise restraint at every turn: to be cautious within, without indulging outward desires; to keep the mind and spirit from rushing outward, and not to let desires arise lightly. In this way, one can put the teaching into practice early and accumulate De day by day. When De is deep and abundant, one can respond to all kinds of affairs and govern them well, and so can govern a state. People see only that he possesses a state, without realizing that he can possess it because his foundations are deep. When the foundations have been built up solidly, one can endure for a long time without falling into danger.

Lü Huiqing said that people are born with De within them. If they can restrain and cherish it, and put it into practice early, their De will grow fuller day by day; this is the continued accumulation of De. When De reaches its highest state, nothing can harm one, and nothing in the world has the power to overcome one; thus there is no affair one cannot handle. Nothing can overcome such a person, and no one can fathom how deep his capacity runs. He can therefore guide the myriad things without being controlled by external things. Could such a person not govern a state? Once one understands the root, one can understand what grows from it. Having understood these things, one returns to the root and holds fast to it; then one can remain free of danger throughout life and be secure for a long time. The spirit is the foundation of life. When one knows how to restrain the spirit and gather and protect it, the foundation becomes deep and firm, allowing life to grow. When life is full, it can endure.

Su Zhe said that things with sharp edges easily cut people; things that are sharp easily pierce them; what is too forthright readily provokes conflict; and excessive brilliance readily becomes showy. Though the sage has abilities, he does not display them all. “Frugality” means having the ability but not using it carelessly. If one gathers in and conceals one’s strength, never readily displaying it throughout one’s life, De can accumulate without end. When De has accumulated deeply, not even the strongest force in the world can overcome one, and others cannot fathom one’s abilities. Only upon reaching this state can one govern a state, because one has held fast to the root. Mencius said that preserving one’s original heart and cultivating one’s nature is serving the Dao of Heaven. Therefore, governing the people through restraint enables one to govern a state; serving the Dao of Heaven through restraint makes the foundations of life deep and firm. The perfected people of antiquity guarded their innate nature and the ordinary course of life, not allowing external things to deplete what was within. Their foundations were therefore deep, firm, and unshakable; in this way they could live long and see far into the future.

Yuan An comments that the various interpretations of this chapter differ considerably. Su Zhe’s reading seems more consistent with the text: he understands the passage up to “one can possess a state” as concerning the governance of the people, and “deep roots and firm foundations” as concerning service to the Dao of Heaven. Laozi’s text can clarify principles at the highest level, cultivate oneself at the middle level, and, extended further, be applied to governing the people; it often encompasses all three. This chapter takes “In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing is better than frugality” as its central idea, then repeatedly explains the meaning of “frugality”: “take it up early,” “accumulate De deeply,” and finally “no one can fathom its limit” all concern both governing the people and serving the Dao of Heaven. The text uses “possess a state” to show how this applies to governing a country, and “deep roots and firm foundations” to explain the essentials of serving the Dao of Heaven. Through restraint and gathering oneself in, put into practice early, De accumulates until it is deep and unfathomable; then one can use or withhold one’s capacities as circumstances require, fully embodying both their function and their source. Applied to governing a state, this can make the state endure; applied to self-cultivation, it can make life endure. Governing the people and serving the Dao of Heaven both depend on restraint, which is why nothing is more important than “frugality.” Su Zhe’s interpretation of “take it up early” as submission to others, and Wu’s interpretation of “possess a state” as a metaphor for preserving oneself, are both unconvincing.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: it should not be turned too often. When the world is governed by the Dao (the Way), the uncanny powers of ghosts and spirits do not manifest. This is not because ghosts and spirits lack power, but because their divine power does not harm people. And even though their power does no harm, the sage likewise does not harm the people. Neither ghosts and spirits nor the sage harms anyone, and their blessings of De (Virtue/Power) converge and spread throughout the world.

The Explanation of Laozi in the Han Feizi says that when laws and decrees change, benefits and harms change with them. As benefits and harms shift, the people change their trades and occupations. Thus, frequently moving large numbers of people often makes a task difficult to complete; repeatedly moving precious objects can easily damage them; and constantly stirring a small fish while cooking it spoils its flavor. Governing a great state is the same: when laws and decrees change again and again, the people suffer. Therefore, a ruler who follows the Dao values quiet and stability and does not change the laws lightly.

When people fall ill, they value medical treatment; when calamity strikes, they fear ghosts and spirits. When a sage governs from above, the people have fewer desires. With fewer desires, their bodies, minds, Qi, and blood are more harmonious, and their conduct is more orderly, so calamities are fewer. If they suffer no illness within and face no punishment or execution from without, people naturally have less reason to fear ghosts and spirits.

Thus, when the world is governed through the Dao, ghosts and spirits cannot cause harm. This means that in an age of peace and stability, ghosts and spirits do not injure people. Illness is described as harm inflicted by ghosts and spirits; when a ruler punishes and kills the people, that is the ruler harming them. If the people commit no offenses and the ruler imposes no punishments, then the ruler does not harm the people. The sage does not injure the people, the ruler and people do not harm one another, and ghosts and spirits do not injure human beings: this is a state in which neither side harms the other. In this way, De (Virtue/Power) returns to the people. The phrase “De returns there” means that De flourishes both in the unseen realm and the human world, above and below, and gathers among the people.

Wang Bi says that agitation readily invites calamity, while quiet preserves what is genuine. The larger the state, the more calm and composed its ruler should be, so as to win the people’s support far and wide. Governing is like cooking a small fish: it must not be stirred over and over. When all things remain in their natural state, spirits have no need to intervene. Once they no longer intervene, people no longer regard them as extraordinary. When the world is governed through the Dao, the sage, too, does not harm people; when the sage does not harm them, people no longer regard the sage as extraordinary. Governing all things through force and a net of laws is a sign of failing rule. When people no longer feel that spirits and sages are deliberately exerting power over them, governance has reached the highest realm of the Dao. If neither spirits nor sages harm people, they are in accord with the Dao, and ultimately all return together to the people.

A great state should place itself low, like a river’s meeting place, where all things under heaven converge. It should also be like the female, which through stillness and humility prevails over the strong and restless. The female occupies the lower position because it is still. When a great state treats a small state with humility, the small state can come to it; when a small state treats a great state with humility, the great state can accept it. Whether it humbly receives the other or wins the other’s allegiance through humility, the great state seeks only to unite and nurture the people, while the small state seeks only to join the great state and serve it. Since each can attain what it seeks, the great state should be especially humble.

Wu Cheng says: A large state is not naturally subordinate to others, yet it can humble itself and treat them with deference. It is like rivers and seas, which are adept at staying low and so gather many streams. A small state is already subordinate, but if it too can humble itself toward others, it is like the female, which does not pursue the male but quietly remains below, waiting for the one above to come of his own accord. The text then takes up these two comparisons in turn: when a large state does not rely on its own prestige, small states willingly attach themselves to it; when a small state accepts its low position, a large state is willing to receive it. The large state wins the allegiance of small states through humility, while the small state wins the large state’s acceptance through humility. Since a small state is already in a lower position, whether it can humble itself is not the issue; the passage therefore ends by stressing that a large state has even greater reason to place itself below.

Yuan Shi believes the opening of the chapter says only that a large state is where the world converges, and does not call a small state the female of the world, because the female symbolizes weakness, which is self-evident. A large state, however, may not understand that it should follow the example of flowing water, which is adept at staying low. For that reason, the chapter consistently focuses on the large state. People all have desires of their own, but they may not know how to fulfill them. A large state seeks, above all, to accommodate and govern many people; a small state seeks, above all, to be accepted by other states. These are ordinary aims, and both can be achieved through humility, which shows how great its power is. Therefore, all things under Heaven, however strong they may be, should understand the value of placing themselves below.

Lin Xiyi says the chapter’s central point is summed up in its final sentence. Whether accommodating many people or serving others, one must first be able to place oneself in a lower position. Only then can both sides obtain what they seek. From this we can see that those who understand the Dao should make humility their constant practice. In other words, the strong must be able to be gentle, and those who possess much must be able to let go; only then do they truly understand the Dao. This idea appears throughout the book, yet commentators often treat its comparisons as literal references. Only Huang Maocai holds that the chapter uses comparisons entirely to clarify its principles. This view is sound, though it is unclear whether it can be applied to other chapters.

The Dao is the hidden root of all things. For good people, it is a precious treasure; for those who are not good, it is also something they can rely on for protection.

Fine words can win respect, and dignified conduct can earn the esteem of others. Even if someone is not good, what reason is there to cast them aside? Thus, when an emperor was installed and the Three Ministers—high-ranking officials who assisted the ruler in ancient times—were appointed, even a great jade disk presented first, followed by a chariot drawn by four horses, was not as valuable as sitting calmly and offering the Dao. This means that the Dao is more worthy of being offered and honored than precious gifts.

Why did people of old value the Dao so highly? Was it not because those who sought it could attain it? Could not those who had committed offenses, by following it, also be freed from blame? That is why the Dao is treasured throughout the world.

This chapter speaks throughout of the Dao as supremely precious, hoping that people will recognize its value and seek it. Virtuous conduct can earn a person respect, even a position as Son of Heaven or one of the Three Dukes—officials of the highest rank in ancient times. What could be more distinguished than that? Fine words can win approval and reward, but even these rewards are less valuable than offering someone a single fitting word. What in the world, then, could be more precious than the Dao?

Why did the ancients honor and cherish the Dao so deeply? Because the Dao is a treasure for good people: those who seek it can attain it. It is also a means of protection for those who are not good, giving them a chance to escape punishment even when they have committed offenses. Is it not only natural that the Dao should be the most precious thing under Heaven?

Wu Cheng says: “‘The hidden corner’ refers to the southwest corner of a house, where a person of honor resides; it is therefore used as a metaphor for the supreme honor of the Dao. Those who possess the Dao are appointed by Heaven as rulers and teachers, and become Son of Heaven or one of the Three Dukes because the Dao makes them distinguished. At court audiences and diplomatic visits, four horses are displayed in the courtyard as gifts, and a precious jade disc, held in both hands, is presented first; these are already grand ceremonies. Yet they are still less precious than kneeling to offer the Dao.”

Li Jiamo says: “The worthy regard the Dao as a treasure, and so delight in attaining it. Those who are not worthy can preserve themselves only by relying on the Dao, and so delight in borrowing its aid to escape punishment. This is because the Dao is rooted in the human heart as it naturally is; it is not imposed by outside force. When words and actions follow the Dao, words win approval and actions earn respect. If they went against human nature, no one would listen to what was said or respond to what was done. How could they have such effects? Everyone has the Dao within them. So even when someone has unfortunately fallen into wrongdoing, how could a sage bear to abandon them? Establishing the Son of Heaven and appointing the Three Dukes is not simply for their enjoyment of wealth and rank. It is also a way of not wholly giving up on those who have fallen into wrongdoing, but of helping them return to goodness through the Dao.”

Lü Huiqing says: “As the myriad things grow, none is without the Dao. Good people understand where blessings come from, and so, by attaining the Dao, possess inexhaustible abundance. If those who are not good can recognize their own wrongdoing, then even after committing many offenses, they can calmly reform themselves. Fine words win approval, and worthy actions earn respect; this shows that people are naturally able to recognize what is fine and what is worthy. As for the Dao in relation to people, it is like Heaven and Earth, which cover and support all things. How could its function be limited to making words approved and actions respected? For this reason, what grounds are there for abandoning those who are not good?

As discussed earlier, good things can be used in exchange, and what is held in high esteem can be enhanced. People are not wholly good or wholly bad; everyone simply knows how to praise what they consider beautiful and honor what they consider precious. How much more, then, should a person of the Dao treat everyone like Heaven and Earth, which cover and bear all things? They do not accept people only when those people are valuable or honored. So why should they cast away those who are not good?

In acting, follow nature and do not force things. In handling affairs, do not contrive. Appreciate the flavor of what has no deliberate flavor. Begin great undertakings with small steps, and many tasks with a few. Repay resentment with De. When planning what is difficult, begin where it is easy; when accomplishing what is great, begin where it is small.

The difficult things under Heaven must begin where they are easy; the great things under Heaven must begin where they are small. Therefore, the sage never considers themselves to be doing great things, and so is able to accomplish them. Those who promise too readily often find it hard to keep their word; those who regard things as easy often encounter more difficulties. So the sage still treats things as difficult and takes them seriously; in the end, nothing proves difficult.

What is stable is easy to maintain; what has not yet shown signs of trouble is easy to plan for; what is fragile is easy to dissolve; what is minute is easy to scatter. Therefore, address things before they arise and bring order before disorder sets in. A massive tree grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet.

Forcing action often ruins things; insisting on holding on often leads to loss. Therefore, the sage does not act forcefully and so avoids failure; they do not cling to things and so suffer no loss. In their undertakings, people often fail when they are close to succeeding. If they were as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they would not ruin their work.

Therefore, the sage pursues what ordinary people do not pursue and does not value rare and precious goods. The sage studies what ordinary people do not study, returning to the place from which others have strayed. The sage allows all things to develop naturally according to their own natures and dares not impose arbitrary actions.

“Returning” means going back. “Relying on” means depending upon; some versions read “assisting.”

This chapter explains the principle of “acting without action, yet leaving nothing undone.” Laozi’s “non-action” does not mean passively doing nothing, nor is it empty talk. It means truly being able to regard great and small, much and little, with equal regard; to answer resentment with De (virtue and power); and to allow emotions that are hard to settle to resolve naturally. Only then can one understand “doing what has no business to do, and savoring what has no flavor”: planning carefully before anything happens, and dealing with disorder before it arises.

Here, “non-action” and “non-attachment” do not mean acting carelessly or giving matters no thought. They mean avoiding contrivance and the insistence on control, allowing things to develop in accordance with their own nature. “Savoring what has no flavor” means not chasing desire excessively; “doing what has no business to do” means not turning study and action into deliberate pursuits. One need only follow the changes things undergo of themselves, without forcing them into an arrangement dictated by one’s own will. This is “things transforming of themselves through non-action, and becoming rightly ordered through stillness and clarity.”

Wu Cheng says that “non-action” is Laozi’s central teaching. “Having no business to do” and “savoring what has no flavor” both clarify this point. To practice non-action, one should begin while a matter is still easy to handle and small in scale. Things in the world are often easy at the beginning and difficult later, small at first and large afterward. Planning early means that little effort is needed. If one fails to deal with them in time, they grow from easy to difficult and from small to large, eventually exhausting one’s strength. How, then, could one practice non-action?

The sage never puts himself in a position of greatness, and so is able to accomplish great things. When a matter is just beginning, he does not regard it as momentous; even when it has grown great, he still remains humble. By avoiding self-importance from beginning to end, he can accomplish great things. Those who make promises lightly often find them hard to keep; those who regard matters as too easy often encounter many difficulties in the end. So even when a task seems easy, the sage approaches it with care and caution, never taking it lightly from beginning to end. In this way, he ultimately avoids difficulty.

The lines beginning “When things are stable, they are easy to hold” mean that one should plan while matters are stable and easy to manage. The lines beginning “A tree too large to be embraced” mean that one should begin while matters are still slight. People often act only after something has developed, and so they often fail just as success seems within reach. If one takes things seriously from the outset and does not slacken near the end, one will not fall short at the last moment. The chapter begins with “act through non-action” and ends by advising one to follow things as they are and not act recklessly, bringing the teaching full circle.

Wang Dao says that everyone takes action, and the sage is human too. The difference is that ordinary people engage in deliberate, contrived activity, while the sage follows the Way of non-action. “Doing” refers to the particular things one undertakes; “flavor” refers to the aims one pursues in doing them. Liu Gai says that “desiring what is not desired” means making a pursuit of what most people do not seek. “Studying what is not studied” means learning what most people neglect, such as looking back and reflecting on the mistakes people commonly make.

Wang Pang says that the sage helps the myriad things follow their own nature, without intervening recklessly, so that each rests in its own nature and allotted condition. In this way, things need not first show signs of weakness or subtle change before they can be addressed.

Su Zhe says that people in the world often dismiss small matters and take easy matters lightly. They wait until a matter becomes difficult and large before addressing it, and then often fail. The sage, by contrast, treats great and small, much and little, with equal care. He plans before a matter appears and acts promptly as it is about to arise. The sage responds through non-action and maintains himself through non-attachment, so good fortune grows of itself and trouble fades of itself. He understands that things have their own natural changes, and does not believe that they must be forced into action or held under tight control. Those who constantly struggle against trouble and try to grasp good fortune in their hands are more likely to ruin matters. The sage follows nature throughout and does not substitute human will for it; therefore, there is nothing he cannot accomplish.

Lü Huiqing says that deliberate contrivance gives rise to specific affairs, and affairs give rise to attachment and pursuit. If one acts without deliberate contrivance, matters do not become entanglements. What people find hardest to forget is often resentment. If one can answer resentment with De, other things are less likely to disturb the heart. Great matters under Heaven develop from small ones, and difficult matters from easy ones. For this reason, one should notice and plan while a matter is still easy and slight. The sage ultimately accomplishes great things because he is not attached to achieving greatness; instead, he prevents trouble while it is still small.

Guard things while they are stable, and plan before there are any signs: this is to deal with matters before they arise. Resolve what is fragile and dispel what is slight: this is to govern before disorder takes shape. If one waits until a matter has already arisen before acting, the harder one tries to bring it about, the more likely it is to fail. If one waits until disorder has taken hold before governing, persistent intervention may cause harm. People commonly act only after matters have developed, and so they fail when success is near. The underlying reason is that they have not seen where things began. Understand that the great grows from the small, the high rises from the low, and the distant comes from the near; then one can act with care and suffer few failures.

Li Jiamo says that starting with what is easy makes even difficult things manageable, while beginning with what is slight allows great things to be completed step by step. The sage does not deliberately seek to do great things, and so great things come to him. He always acts with the caution he would bring to a difficult task, and does not insist that things conform to his wishes. In this way, he is at ease wherever he is, and nothing is beyond his ease. Before any sign of instability appears in a matter, he plans ahead; while a problem is still fragile and slight, he resolves it. Thus nothing can disturb what is settled.

When undertaking something, begin planning before any signs of it have appeared, and resolve it while it is still weak and slight. Then nothing can disturb a settled situation: preserve stability before it is damaged, and address the causes of unrest before turmoil begins. It is like a tree growing from within itself, or soil gradually piling up: change takes shape step by step, beginning with what is subtle.

The longer one follows the Dao, the deeper one’s state naturally becomes. Within Wuwei (non-action), things are accomplished naturally; without deliberate accumulation, things gather naturally. As the days pass, selfish desires gradually lessen and good deeds gradually increase, yet the sage neither watches this process deliberately nor boasts of it.

People find it difficult to succeed in cultivating the Dao and easy to fail because they force things and cling to them. At first, they seem eager to devote all their energy to it; later, they inevitably grow lax. This is the result of insisting on doing things deliberately. If, from beginning to end, one neither forces things nor clings to them, there is no deliberate striving to speak of—so how could there be laxity?

Jiao Hong said: “Wuwei, having no affairs, and knowing no taste—these are the Dao. The Dao cannot be obtained through force, so it is utterly plain and easy; nor can it be glimpsed with the eye, so it is exceedingly subtle. Though plain and easy, it contains the foundation for resolving the most difficult problems; though subtle, it can bring great undertakings to completion. How, then, could anyone despise it for being plain and subtle? Those who study the Dao sometimes see this, but then their desire to pursue what is ‘great’ draws their attention away, and the plain, subtle principles of the Dao cannot remain theirs for long.

“Only the sage practices Wuwei from beginning to end, attends to what is without affairs, and experiences what is without taste, never letting the so-called ‘great affairs’ of the world distract the mind. Thus, when faced with difficult and weighty matters, the sage can respond calmly and without obstruction, and the Dao is thereby made whole. This is what is meant by accomplishing great undertakings. Alas, unless one is a great person of sound understanding and steadfast purpose, how can one see this Dao and hold fast to it? And how can one discuss it with those who make promises lightly and consider things far too easy?”

The above is Chapter Fifty-Five.

The Heshanggong version treats the passage beginning “Distinguishing what is stable and what is easy to maintain…” as a separate chapter. Wu Cheng was right to combine these passages, but he reversed their order on his own authority without explaining why he moved them, as though the text had originally been arranged that way. This is hard to understand. Yao Nai, meanwhile, cut out the nineteen characters beginning “When the people undertake their affairs” and placed them at the end of the chapter as a separate chapter, though no one knows why he did so.

In ancient times, those skilled in following the Dao did not seek to make the people clever; they sought to keep them simple and unspoiled. The people are difficult to govern because they have too many ideas and too much cunning. Thus, governing a state through cunning is a misfortune for the state; governing it without cunning is a blessing. Understanding these two approaches is the rule for governing a state. (At “too much cunning,” the Fu Yi version reads “because they have so much cunning”; it also adds the character ye after both “misfortune for the state” and “blessing for the state.” Before “Understanding these two is also the model,” the Fu Yi version adds chang, and it adds ye at the end of the sentence as well. Where the Wang Bi version has “model,” it reads “standard.”)

To understand this rule consistently is to attain “mysterious De,” a profound and subtle virtue. Mysterious De is deep and vast: it returns with all things to their source, ultimately reaching great harmony, the natural harmony of all things. (The Heshanggong version has the two characters “afterward” before “then.”)

Wang Bi says, “I believe that using little cunning means preserving one’s original nature and following what is natural. ‘Great cleverness’ refers to excessive knowledge and growing artifice, which obscure people’s simplicity. Using schemes to drive the people will stir up crooked intentions. Then, using cunning methods to guard against their deceit will teach the people how to protect themselves, and they will accordingly find ways to evade those measures. As each side’s calculations grow ever more intricate, deceit and hypocrisy increase day by day. That is why governing a country through cunning is a calamity for the country.”

Lü Huiqing says that those in ancient times who were skilled in following the Dao appeared clear-sighted and astute to worldly people, while seeming dull themselves. Worldly people weighed every matter and excelled at making distinctions, while they seemed calm and slow-witted. They treated themselves this way, and did no differently when they applied it to governing the people.

Li Jiamo says that the people are ignorant, yet consider themselves clever. They are absorbed in material desires and do not know how to return to their original nature. Rulers seek to guide them through Wuwei (non-action) and settle them through simplicity, yet the people still cannot awaken. How much more harmful, then, would it be to entice them with cunning? If rulers let things follow their natural course and do not stir up the people’s calculating minds, those minds will not take root, and their simplicity and original nature can be preserved. Is this not the country’s good fortune?

Sima Guang says that everyone in the world values cunning, while people of De (Virtue) look down on it. Though this runs counter to worldly opinion, it accords with the Great Dao. Cunning accords with only a narrow range of things; De accords with a broad one.

In his commentary, Yuan Shi points out that earlier interpreters have not adequately clarified the line in this chapter, “Knowing these two can also serve as a rule.” Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao may have been subtle, mysterious, and unfathomable, but the harm caused by cunning and the good fortune that comes from its absence are plainly evident and easy to understand. If one trusts and holds firmly to this principle, and does not let cunning disturb one’s original nature, one can grasp the principles of governance without yet having seen the Dao’s full substance and workings, and avoid going astray. That is why the text says that knowing these two can also serve as a rule.

If one takes this as a constant guide, cunning and deliberate action will gradually diminish, while simplicity and original nature grow ever more complete. Government will become lenient and unharsh, and the people will naturally become sincere and simple. This not only avoids harming the country; it may also be called “Mysterious De” (profound Virtue in accord with the Great Dao). De is called “mysterious” because it is profound and often runs counter to worldly opinion. Those who hear of it sometimes laugh; the next most common response is to feel that it seems to exist and yet not to exist. If one can now refrain from doubting it because it runs counter to worldly opinion, and instead firmly believe it is worth following, then although it goes against the world, it accords with the Great Dao. This is Mysterious De. Why are so few able to understand and put it into practice?

The reason rivers and seas can become the place where many streams converge is that they are good at remaining in low-lying places. This is why they can be the kings of all streams. Likewise, to stand above the people, one must speak with humility; to lead the people, one must put one’s own interests behind theirs. The sage, a ruler of De, occupies the higher position without making the people feel burdened. The sage leads them without making them feel harmed. For this reason, people throughout the world willingly support the sage and do not tire of them. Because the sage does not contend, no one in the world can contend with them.

People throughout the world say, “My Dao is vast, yet seems unlike anything in particular.” Precisely because it is boundless, it does not look like any particular thing. If it truly resembled something specific, it would long since have become small.

The commentary explains that this chapter’s text follows the Wang Bi edition. The Fu Yi edition writes “wu” where the Wang Bi edition has “wo,” and omits the word “Dao.” Other editions differ in the placement of the words “sage,” in the word “people,” and in a few individual sentences. The commentary holds that the punctuation and wording of the Wang Bi edition better convey the relationship between ruler and people, as well as the meaning of the sage’s non-contention.

Only one who can dwell below others can be called great. This is Laozi’s fundamental teaching. When the people gather around one person, he is called a “king”; where the many rivers converge, it is called the “sea.” People know that a king’s position is honored, but they do not know that he is honored precisely because his heart is broad. And he can attain such breadth because he willingly dwells below others and can encompass everything.

If you do not boast of yourself, no one under Heaven can compete with you in ability; if you do not flaunt your achievements, no one under Heaven can compete with you for merit. Let the people forget who stands above them and who has gone before them, and instead gladly put him in the higher position and at the head—that principle may truly be called great. Yet people think it runs counter to ordinary expectations. What is truly great does not resemble any one particular thing; if it resembles only one thing, it cannot be called great. If rivers and seas were like streams and insisted only on staying low, how could they become rivers and seas? If the way of a king were like just one particular thing, how could he become king of all under Heaven?

The previous chapter said that the Dao runs counter to the myriad things and, for that very reason, accords with them. This chapter says that the Dao differs from customary worldly views and, for that very reason, is great. Both chapters express the same principle.

The Inscription on the Golden Man says: “The noble person knows he cannot stand above the people under Heaven, so he willingly stays below them; he knows he cannot place himself ahead of the crowd, so he willingly stays behind them.” Yang Xiong says that when one places oneself below, others raise one up; when one places oneself behind, others put one first. Dong Sijing says that when one’s virtue is humble, one’s position rises; when one’s virtue takes the rear, one’s person moves to the front. Su Ziyou says that a person of the Dao never seeks to stand above the crowd or put himself ahead of them. It is only because he willingly stays below and behind that, in the end, he has no choice but to take the higher position and lead. All these interpretations grasp Laozi’s meaning.

Lü Huiqing says that one who possesses all under Heaven is, by position, already above the people, yet calls himself “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy”—humble self-designations by which a ruler claims to lack virtue—and says that he bears the state’s filth and ill fortune. How humble these words are. In rank, he is already ahead of the people, yet he always waits until events press close before acting, responds only when moved, and steps forward only when there is no alternative. How much he takes the rear. As a result, though he occupies the higher position, people feel no burden in supporting him; though he is out in front, they feel they benefit by following him. Neither those above nor those below concern themselves with keeping score, so the people under Heaven gladly put him forward and do not grow weary of him. What he seeks is not what the people compete to obtain. He acts through Wuwei (non-action), and the people under Heaven cannot even see his traces—how, then, could anyone compete with him?

I have three precious treasures that I hold fast to and cherish. The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not putting myself ahead of everyone under Heaven. Through compassion, I can be brave; through frugality, I can be generous; by not striving to come first, I can become a leader among the people.

Today, if I cast aside compassion and seek only boldness; cast aside frugality and seek only extravagance; cast aside yielding and do nothing but strive to come first, I will meet my end. A compassionate person can prevail in battle when leading an army and remain secure when defending. Heaven seeks to save someone by sheltering them with compassion.

A capable general does not revel in courage and violence. A capable fighter is not quick to anger. One who is skilled at defeating an enemy does not engage them in direct confrontation. One who is skilled at employing others knows how to place themselves below them. This is called the virtue of non-contention: the skill of drawing on the strength of others, in accord with Heaven’s age-old principle.

There is a saying among those who lead armies: “I dare not take the initiative in war, but would rather be on the defensive; I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.” This means acting as though one has not formed ranks, raising one’s arms to strike as though they were not extended, holding weapons as though one had none, and facing the enemy as though there were no enemy.

No calamity is greater than underestimating the enemy; doing so can nearly cost one these three treasures. When two armies meet in battle, the side that fights with compassion will prevail.

This chapter discusses the function of De (Virtue/Power). The Dao (the Way) has emptiness and nonbeing as its underlying reality; when it operates, it appears as De. When De is applied to things, it takes the form of compassion, frugality, humility, and yielding. De is the root from which all things are nurtured, so compassion is the foremost of good actions.

Nothing is more contrary to compassion than the use of arms. Laozi therefore draws on warfare to explain the function of compassion; frugality and not daring to take the lead are included in this as well. The chapter opens, “I have three treasures, which I hold and preserve,” and closes, “I have nearly lost my treasure.” These lines echo one another, repeatedly urging people to cherish the three treasures and not lose them.

Laozi wrote his book to clarify the Dao and remedy the ills of his time. The world then admired strength, and among forceful pursuits, none stood out more than warfare. Laozi sought to correct this tendency through compassion, frugality, and yielding, but people might have considered these practices impractical. So he explained, through the familiar art of warfare, that his Dao could be put to use anywhere: even when applied to defense and battle, it could make defenses secure and bring victory.

Compassion makes people frugal and keeps them from daring to take the lead. This is what military strategists call advancing by yielding and overcoming strength through weakness. Laozi cites the language of warfare to explain the principle of gentleness and yielding through the example of war, and then to lead people back to compassion. His purpose is not to discuss military strategy for its own sake. That is why he continues: “No calamity is greater than having no rival; having no rival nearly costs me my treasure.” Of the three treasures, compassion comes first. “Sorrow” is the expression of a compassionate heart, so Heaven protects those who are compassionate and helps them prevail. To delight in warfare is inauspicious, and victory won that way cannot last. To fight out of compassion is to act with sorrowful concern; to fight without compassion is to delight in war.

Older editions divided this passage into several chapters, disrupting its meaning. This led some later readers to mistakenly conclude that the Laozi was a book about military strategy—a serious misreading. In his explanation of the Laozi, Han Feizi says that a loving mother devotes herself to bringing blessings to her young and vulnerable child and shielding the child from harm, so she thinks things through carefully. Careful thought enables her to grasp how things work; understanding how things work enables her to succeed. Once she is certain of success, she can act without hesitation. Acting without hesitation is called courage.

If winter’s store is not properly secured, plants and trees will fail to grow well in spring and summer. Even Heaven and Earth cannot grow and expend their resources without limit; how much less can human beings? Thus, when wise people conserve their resources, their households become prosperous. When sages cherish their spirit, it becomes abundant. When a ruler values the lives of soldiers and does not raise an army lightly, the people flourish and the state grows strong. Hence the saying, “Frugality enables one to be broad.”

Ye Mengde says, “It is not difficult for me to accomplish something myself; what is difficult is enabling all things to reach fulfillment.” This is why the chapter places compassion first among the three treasures and goes on to explain that, when applied to warfare, compassion can bring victory, and when applied to defense, it can make defenses secure. These are precisely the matters most urgently needed at the time. Laozi, concerned for the world, hoped that Heaven would rescue the people by bringing forth those who would practice the Way of compassion and protect them.

Jiao Hong says: Why does Laozi say that one who neither displays military might nor grows angry can “match Heaven and accord with the ancient Dao at its highest”? Because warfare is especially prone to provoking contention, Laozi uses it to explain the virtue of non-contention. “There is a saying among those who use arms” introduces a quotation from ancient military strategists. The character reng can be read as reng in the sense of “continuing”; “they continued to seize the ugly captives” in the Book of Songs is an example.

Wang Bi says that the shi is the commander of the troops. “Not displaying might, not growing angry” means not striking first, but responding to an advancing enemy and not contending with others. If one employs others but refuses to place oneself beneath them, they will not give their full effort. If one commands troops with compassion, sorrowful concern, and humility, one need not even form ranks, wave one’s arms, shout, or wield weapons; the enemy will have no power to resist.

Yet having compassion, sorrowful concern, and humility does not mean seeking strength and supremacy over all under Heaven. If one eventually reaches a point where no one under Heaven can oppose one, that would instead be the greatest calamity. This is what “I have nearly lost my treasure” means. When two armies clash, those who fight with sorrowful concern value life and do not focus only on pursuing gain and avoiding harm. That is why they can prevail.

Shi Yuan explains that armies usually have to resist the enemy with their lives, which is why they form ranks, wave their arms, and carry weapons. If there were no enemy to resist, there would be no need to arrange the ranks, wave arms in battle, or take up weapons. To advance by yielding, responding to the other side without being controlled by it, is to hold the way to complete victory. One can prevail without exhausting oneself; this is called “leaving the enemy with no means to resist.” But who would welcome a state in which no one could oppose them? When an army becomes so powerful that no one under Heaven can resist it, it often kills many people. This is the greatest calamity. Even the army of a king, when the battlefield is strewn with enemy soldiers who have turned against their own side and blood flows so deeply that it lifts pestles, presents a sight too painful to speak of. This is what “I have nearly lost my treasure” means. Therefore, arms are to be taken up only as a last resort. War should be regarded as inauspicious and treated with the solemnity of a funeral; both reflect profound sorrowful concern. Only with such compassion can one speak of victory. This is the meaning of “compassion can win in battle and make defense secure,” and of “If Heaven intends to save someone, it protects them with compassion.”

Some editions instead read, “No calamity is greater than underestimating the enemy; underestimating the enemy nearly costs me my treasure.” But underestimating the enemy often leads to defeat, and even to one’s own destruction. How could that mean merely nearly losing one’s treasure? This reading reflects the victory-seeking strategies of military thinkers such as Sun Wu and Wu Qi. How could it adequately explain Laozi’s teaching of supreme compassion and sorrowful concern?

Su Zhe says that the three practices of martial valor, expansiveness, and taking the lead are all commonly disliked by people; what everyone dislikes is often close to danger. If one protects all things with compassion, they will love and care for that person as they would a parent, and may even be willing to die for them. Thus that person can fight and defend. If Heaven intends to save the people, it will open their hearts and minds so that they are compassionate in all things. When all things are compassionate, they will join together to protect them. Therefore, when two armies meet, if my side fights only because it has no choice, it will act with sorrowful concern. Once that concern becomes evident, Heaven and people alike will come to its aid; it would be difficult not to prevail.

Lü Huiqing says that all three treasures are difficult for people to uphold; only those who are free of selfishness and do not contend with others can manage it. Compassion makes frugality possible, and frugality makes it possible not to dare to take the lead; that is why compassion is the source of the three treasures. The Dao’s movement often begins where there is no choice, while its activity always takes non-contention as its guiding principle. When the Dao is applied to warfare, it may seem unlikely to succeed, but the army defending its own territory often acts against the current, while the invading army comes with the current. The defending army is weary, while the invading army is rested. Those who attack are arrogant and impatient; those who withdraw and defend are humble and calm. Meeting the other side’s momentum with its opposite, meeting fatigue with rest, arrogance with humility, and impatience with calm—these are advantages the other side cannot easily overcome. The Dao’s constant way is not to act recklessly, and this remains true even in warfare.

My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven can understand or follow them. My words have a foundation, and my actions have a guiding principle. Yet people do not understand me precisely because they lack true understanding. Few understand me, and those who can follow my example are rarer still. Thus the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside, while carrying jade within: plain in appearance, precious within.

To recognize what you do not know is wisdom; to treat what you know as if you know everything is a failing. The sage avoids this failing because he sees and values it for what it is. Through this, Laozi laments that people in the world do not understand the utmost Dao, yet imagine they already do. The sage teaches gentleness and humility, and warns against self-righteousness.

This passage laments that people in the world do not understand the utmost Dao, yet think they know a great deal. Laozi taught people to be yielding and humble. The principles he set out are simple and easy to follow, and not difficult to put into practice. Yet as the world’s customs decline, no one recognizes their worth, much less wishes to live by them. Why is this? Because Laozi’s way of yielding and stepping back has a fundamental purpose that runs through the whole work. People do not understand this purpose. They see only that its surface teachings concern humility and yielding, and so they regard them as shallow and ordinary, without anything profound in them. They therefore fail to value them.

The Great Dao does not conform to worldly standards, and profound De (deep and unshowy virtue) runs counter to worldly opinion. Naturally, few understand it. The Great Dao is precious precisely because it transcends conventional views, and for this reason it must be understood. If the Dao were no different from worldly attitudes and judgments, there would be nothing worth cherishing in it.

Since people do not understand, I have the Three Treasures—the three precious virtues Laozi describes—and I alone can preserve and practice them. This is like wearing coarse cloth while keeping jade hidden in one’s breast, unknown to anyone. What I treasure within is an understanding of the root of words and how to serve the master of all things. My outward appearance seems lowly because, though I see clearly, I do not show it, appearing instead dull and obscure. This is precisely what is meant by “the highest De seems like disgrace”: the highest virtue appears humble and low.

Since people do not understand, they often presume the opposite: that they do understand. They show off their “jade” in hopes of selling it, but such things cannot be true treasures. They mistake fine jade for flaws and a compass for an earring. Even in the company of a sage, they cannot be cured with medicine. Is this not an illness? If one day they recognize that they are ill and regard the illness as an illness, then the way to cure it is already within reach.

The first half of the passage explains why people find it difficult to recognize the Dao; the second laments that many people presume to understand it. People cannot see the Dao as it truly is because worldly views have misled them. For an individual, failing to understand the Dao is only a symptom of the illness; mistaking false views for true knowledge is what causes it. That is why the passage that follows uses illness as a metaphor.

The commentator says that Heshang Gong interprets “not knowing” as “the truth of the Dao,” because his view is influenced by worldly ideas. Take the human body as an example: not knowing that one is ill is a sign of illness, while treating one’s mistaken views as true understanding is the root cause of the illness. For this reason, the text that follows uses illness as a metaphor.

The passage above is Chapter 59. Heshang Gong divides it into two chapters, and later commentators have followed his division. In the commentator’s view, the text beginning with “knowing that you do not know” follows directly from the meaning of the first half. If the second half did not make this clear, the claim “I value what is rare to know” could easily be misinterpreted.

When the people do not fear authority, truly fearsome authority is about to descend upon them. Do not oppress the people until they have nowhere to live; do not make them weary of life. Only by not making the people weary of life can lasting peace be secured. Thus, the sage knows himself without showing off, and cherishes himself without elevating himself. So he lets go of the latter and chooses the former.

Jiao Hong says, “In ancient books, ‘might’ and ‘fear’ can be used interchangeably. When people do not fear what they ought to respect and fear, truly dreadful calamities will befall them.” What follows concerns things that should be guarded against.

Lü Huiqing says that when the people do not devote themselves to the Dao, but esteem only knowledge and cleverness, they pursue the pleasures of life to excess. The more they crave pleasure, the less they take death to heart, and the less they respect authority. Once the people reach a state of fearing nothing, they may do anything at all. Heaven then makes its might manifest and sends down harsh calamities.

Li Jiamo says that those who understand the Dao can adapt to whatever circumstances they encounter and be at ease in them. They therefore do not reject their surroundings or resent their lives. If I do not reject myself, life will not weary me. This is because such a person understands their circumstances but does not flaunt their knowledge; they cherish themselves but do not regard themselves as noble. If they take pride in showing off or esteem themselves too highly, they will reject their present circumstances and resent the life they have. They will be unable to find peace even for a single day.

Chen Yidian says that in the world there are paths that cause people to lose their lives and meet their deaths; this is the greatest threat. If people do not know to fear it, they will instead fall into it. So one must not think one’s circumstances too narrow or hope for too much. One should devote oneself to all that sustains one’s life, without growing weary or slack, or regarding it as a burden. By being at ease in one’s circumstances and not resenting one’s life, one can settle oneself and avoid rejecting the Dao. “Know oneself without displaying oneself” means understanding and restraining oneself, fulfilling one’s duties, and not boasting of what one already has. To know oneself is to know what to cherish; not to display oneself is to avoid thinking oneself superior. In this way, one can let go of rejecting one’s circumstances and resenting one’s life, and be at ease with what one has.

Laozi’s book, broadly speaking, warns people against boasting and arrogance, and against coveting things beyond themselves. Yuan says: People do not know to fear authority because their hearts are filled with desire; they reach outward to covet things because inwardly they reject their present state. “Where one dwells” refers to one’s circumstances, such as poverty or wealth, low or high status, hardship or ease. “What one lives through” refers to the various conditions one experiences in life, such as toil or rest, honor or disgrace, and suffering or pleasure.

People often feel ashamed when their circumstances are worse than those of others. If they are poor rather than wealthy, they feel their situation is constricted; if their status is low rather than high, they feel wronged; if their lives are plain and obscure, they envy those who are famous and prominent. To reject one’s present state is to resent it; to resent it is to envy another way of life. To tire of hardship is to seek ease; to detest disgrace is to pursue honor single-mindedly; to resent trouble is to think only of pleasure. Once envy and greed flare up, the great calamity that follows is often close behind. A person who is consumed by fear of loss may do anything at all. Seeking glory may instead bring disgrace; clinging single-mindedly to life may instead cost one’s life. When people reject their own lives first, it is as though Heaven and other people reject them too.

If one does not reject one’s circumstances, one will not resent one’s life. If one does not reject oneself, who can make one do so? The people and the sage differ in the level they have attained, but the underlying principle is the same. Those who reject their circumstances often think too highly of themselves. The sage, by contrast, is at ease wherever they find themselves, content with self-knowledge and knowing when enough is enough; they do not rush to display themselves and boast of their greatness. Those who resent their lives are always looking for another way to make life seem more valuable. The sage cherishes their true nature and remains simple. They regard avoiding danger and disgrace as a way of caring for themselves, and seek nothing outside themselves to add to their pleasures. Thus, without envy or greed, naturally one will…