《老子本义》Vol. 4

If you intensely loathe something, you will want to get rid of it; if your heart holds no fierce aversion, there is little to fear. “Having nothing” means removing something; “having” means taking something in. Most schools’ explanations of this passage involve Chan Buddhism. Wu Cheng changed “not loathing” to “not becoming familiar” (not drawing close or treating lightly). His explanation is clear and apt, but it does not connect with the Sage’s two statements, “knowing oneself without displaying oneself.” Neither reading, then, can be confidently taken as the original meaning.

That concludes Chapter Sixty.

Those who act boldly and forcefully often bring death upon themselves; those who are brave enough to restrain themselves and avoid reckless action can preserve their lives. One course brings benefit, the other harm. Which does Heaven detest, and who can know why? So even the Sage approaches this matter with caution.

The Way of Heaven does not contend with the myriad things, yet excels at winning; it does not speak, yet receives a response; it does not summon deliberately, yet things come of their own accord; it is calm and composed, yet excels at planning. The character “chan” is written “shan” in the Heshanggong edition and “tan” in Emperor Wu of Liang’s edition; these characters can be used interchangeably. The Fuyi edition has “mo,” but that repeats the idea of “not speaking.”

Heaven’s net may seem loose, yet nothing slips through it. If the people do not fear death, how can they be threatened with death? If the people are always afraid of death, then if I seize and kill those who commit extraordinary acts, who would dare to do the same? There is always a force in charge of killing that carries out the punishments of death. To kill in its place is like taking the place of a master carpenter and chopping wood. Those who chop wood for a master carpenter rarely escape injuring their own hands. The wording of the lines about the “one in charge of killing” varies across editions. In this version, the first four lines follow the Fuyi edition, and the final two follow the Huainanzi.

Wang Bi says: Both kinds of courage can be called courage; they differ only in how they are exercised, and so one can bring benefit while the other brings harm. Who can know exactly what Heaven abhors? Perhaps only a sage can see clearly. Even the sage, with such clear insight, is exceedingly cautious in using force. How much more so should those who lack a sage’s insight be, rather than act recklessly?

Li Zhi says: To prevail without contending, to respond without speaking at length, to bring people to answer without summoning them, and to accomplish things without scheming: this is how the Way of Heaven is broad and open yet leaves nothing undone. If one insists on fighting before one can prevail, then even if Heaven’s net seems wide, it is bound to let something slip.

Zhang Lei says: While alive, people chase desires and strive after profit, and most eventually lose their lives as a result. This shows that people do not always know how to fear death. Rulers who want the people to obey rely on no more than threatening them with execution; this, too, is a confused way of thinking. If the people truly feared death, then killing those who behaved strangely should be enough to stop such behavior. Yet punishments have never been absent from the world, and strange conduct continues. This shows that death alone does not make people afraid or stop them from doing wrong. All things have their own life and death, governed by an unseen power. Those who depart from what is proper and presume to wield the power of punishment, life, and death, forcing everyone in the world to act as they wish, inevitably end up harming themselves.

Zhang Erqi says: “The one who holds the power of killing” refers to the law that governs executions. When sages establish laws, they should take their basis from Heaven’s intent to punish, without mixing in private wishes or arbitrarily changing the severity of penalties. These words warn against those of the time who abandoned the law and dispensed punishment according to their own whims.

Su Zhe says: The courage to force one’s way and act recklessly often leads to death; the courage to restrain oneself and refrain from rash action often preserves life. This is the common pattern. Yet sometimes the reckless survive, while the cautious and yielding still die. People often indulge in wishful thinking, remembering only exceptional accidents and overlooking the general pattern. The Way of Heaven is profound and far-reaching. When an unusual outcome occurs, who can know where Heaven’s approval or disapproval truly comes from? Thus even sages take the common pattern as their guide and exercise great caution in acting boldly.

People observe the Way of Heaven only through what they see before them. They see only part of it and fail to grasp the whole. When they see the virtuous suffer calamity and the wicked prosper, they suspect that Heaven’s net is wide and often lets things slip. Only when they have seen the beginning, end, and changing course of events can they understand that the Way of Heaven is vast and profound: though wide and open, it leaves nothing undone. When government orders are harsh and punishments severe, the people do not know how to conduct themselves and often cease to fear death. At that point, threatening them with execution is useless. Only when government is peaceful and the people live in comfort, cherishing life and fearing death, will they obey if those who behave strangely and disrupt the community are put to death.

Heaven holds the power of killing. When the world is at peace, anyone who behaves perversely and disrupts the community has been forsaken by Heaven. If I execute such a person according to the law, it is Heaven punishing him, not me killing him of my own accord. If he is not someone Heaven means to punish and I kill him on my own authority, I have usurped the role of the one who holds the power of killing. A person who cuts wood on behalf of a master carpenter is likely to injure his own hand; one who kills on behalf of the one who holds the power of killing will likewise bring calamity upon himself.

The commentary by Genji says: These are Laozi’s words of compassion for his age and his desire to save it from disorder. Seeing that people of his time were quick to use punishment, he warned them that force must be used with great care. Those who are bold in killing by force often have their minds set only on putting others to death; those bold enough to restrain themselves put the preservation of life first. Both use courage, but one brings benefit and the other harm, so they must be carefully distinguished.

Those who delight in killing may think they are following Heaven’s will and punishing those Heaven abhors, and so act without hesitation. But Heaven’s intent is profound: who can be certain that the person truly has been rejected by Heaven? Thus even sages who carry out Heaven’s punishment—that is, punish wrongdoing on Heaven’s behalf—remain trembling and cautious when carrying out an execution, never deciding lightly. Heaven gives life and nurtures all things, as parents give life to and raise many children. Its original intent is to nourish, not to kill. When some people bring death upon themselves, even if one wishes to pardon them, it may be impossible to save them. The Way of Heaven therefore seems wide and open, yet naturally lets no one who deserves punishment escape. Why, then, should people presume to take on the power of killing in its place?

When sages administer punishment, they let the Way of Heaven unfold naturally and do not mix in their own wishes. In this way, they can embody a deep Virtue of cherishing life without letting the guilty go unpunished. Even if Heaven’s net seems so wide that it could let a fish large enough to swallow a boat slip through, if someone truly causes disorder, the sage will still carry out Heaven’s punishment and execute him, and the people will naturally submit in fear. This is the meaning of “punish one person and the whole world is warned” and “execute the four guilty ones and the whole world submits”: when I do not dare to act recklessly, others will not dare to do so either.

If this were not so, Heaven would spread its wide net over the world, while people layered on top of it a dense and harsh net of laws. The tighter the net, the more people would be caught, and the less the people would fear death. When rulers dare to act recklessly, the people will dare to do so as well. To act in accordance with Heaven is to heed Heaven’s mandate; to act in Heaven’s place is to usurp authority. Courage to force one’s way and courage to restrain oneself can bring either benefit or harm. How could one fail to be cautious?

When the Ming founder, Emperor Taizu, read the words “If the people do not fear death, how can they be frightened by death?” he was deeply moved. He abolished the most severe penalties and replaced them with imprisonment and forced labor. In less than a year, the harshness of punishment had begun to diminish. The words of a humane person can bring benefits on a truly broad scale.

The people suffer from hunger because the rulers levy excessive taxes; that is why they go hungry. The people are difficult to govern because the rulers issue too many decrees and interfere recklessly; that is why the people are difficult to govern. The people treat death lightly because the rulers pursue a life of excessive comfort; that is why the people treat death lightly. Only those who do not place too much importance on preserving life and seeking pleasure can surpass those who prize life above all and greedily seek longevity.

An old commentary says this chapter was originally divided into two. Wu Cheng believed the passages should be joined as one chapter: the earlier part says that the Dao of Heaven is profound and difficult to fathom, and does not kill lightly; this part says that the people cannot be intimidated at will and should not be put to death lightly. The earlier passage offers a warning through the Dao of Heaven, which may seem distant yet never loses its guiding principles; the later one warns against people presumptuously taking Heaven’s place and carrying out executions.

The old commentary also records that someone read the passage about the chapter’s former division and was moved by it. He stopped carrying out the harshest punishments, choosing instead to imprison offenders and assign them labor. In less than a year, the resentment in his heart had eased. The words of a benevolent person can have such far-reaching effects.

This passage follows on from the previous chapter’s statement, “The people do not fear death,” and explains further: since the people do not even fear death, how could the death penalty be used to frighten them into obedience?

“Taxes” means rents and levies. Wang Bi held that the roots of the people’s deviant conduct and disorderly affairs of state lie with those in high positions, not with the people. The people simply follow the example set by their rulers.

Lü Huiqing said that when a sage occupies the highest position, he does not disturb the people, and they naturally become prosperous; he does not covet wealth, and they naturally remain simple and honest. In this way, taxes do not become burdensome, and the people do not go hungry. When rulers practice Wuwei (non-action), the people can transform and flourish on their own; when rulers favor stillness, the people can live in peace and stand on their own. Then governance is not made difficult by rulers’ excessive interventions. If things are this way, how could the people crave life so intensely that they hold death in contempt?

Zhang Erqi said that a person who does not become fixated on preserving life will, when in a high position, refrain from excessive levies and undertakings that burden the people. When in a low position, that person will also avoid breaking the law or committing wrongdoing that brings trouble upon those above. This is more valuable than simply placing great importance on preserving life.

Yuanshi held that if rulers indulge themselves excessively and seek comfort and pleasure, others will follow their example. Everyone wants to live in luxury, yet cannot have their wish, so how could they avoid holding life in contempt? The people readily give up their lives because people pursue an excessively comfortable existence. They pursue it so intensely because those in high positions first covet comfort and pleasure, using them to entice the people while also taking away what the people seek. From this, it is not hard to understand why a person who is not fixated on seeking life is more valuable. This final statement points to Laozi’s fundamental teaching: by turning from it to the ills of ordinary society, the text opens up a far-reaching meaning.

While a person is alive, the body is soft; after death, it becomes rigid. Plants are tender as they grow, but dry and hard once they wither and die. Thus, hardness and strength belong to the realm of death, while softness and weakness belong to the realm of life.

For this reason, a force that relies on strength in warfare often fails to win. Trees that grow hard are easily cut down. The powerful should place themselves below, while the weak should instead take the higher position. The contrast between softness and strength here shows that gentleness and humility are more conducive to preserving oneself.

The words in parentheses record variant readings in different versions: some versions have “soft and brittle” instead of “soft and weak,” and “when wood grows hard, it is cut down” instead of “when wood grows hard, it is shared.” The commentary explains that “cut down” is the meaning of the character used here, so that reading has been adopted.

Lü Huiqing says: The Dao has no physical form and does not contend with the myriad things, so it is the softest and weakest thing under Heaven. People do not readily understand this, so tangible things are used to explain it. The human body and the forms of plants and trees both move toward death when hard and strong, yet can grow when soft and weak. How can one realize the formless Dao without making oneself gentle and humble? The principle that the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong is not limited to armies failing because they are arrogant or trees being cut down because they are hard.

The clear, empty sky dwells above; the solid, weighty earth lies below. Ministers take action to serve their ruler; the ruler governs through Wuwei (non-action) and thereby makes use of his ministers. The principles of the myriad things are mostly like this. We can see from this that embodying the Dao depends on gentleness and humility.

Su Zhe says: When the Qi within is calm and balanced, one avoids the faults of hardness and forcefulness. When the heart holds the highest principle, one’s actions are not burdened by rigidity and stubbornness. The ordinary pattern of the myriad things is that what is subtle is above and what is coarse and heavy is below; what is subtle is necessarily soft and weak, while what is coarse and heavy is necessarily strong.

Wu Cheng says: The final two lines continue the point made in the preceding lines. When an army shows off its strength, it is defeated by others. From this we can see that it is better to prevail through softness and weakness, thereby taking the higher position among people. The hard trunk of a tree is near the roots, while its branches extend softly above. From this we may infer that those who boast of their height and pride themselves on surpassing others are bound to fall; those who value humility and gentleness are the ones who win the support of the people.

Li Jiamo says: Softness and weakness are not identical with the Dao, but they are close to Wuwei. Strength and hardness have not departed from the Dao, but they have already become tainted by action. Wuwei is not far from the Dao; with action come consequences such as good fortune, misfortune, and regret, taking one farther from the Dao.

Genji’s commentary notes: Near the end of the Book of Laozi, the gains and losses of softness and weakness, on the one hand, and strength and hardness, on the other, are explicitly set against each other. The next three chapters will develop this point further.

The firmness discussed earlier has not yet departed from the Dao, but it has already fallen into deliberate action. Following things as they are and governing through Wuwei (non-action) keeps one close to the Dao. Deliberate action, by contrast, brings good and ill fortune, regret, and hardship in its wake, carrying one ever farther from the Dao. The Original Meaning of the Laozi holds that, as the whole book is nearing its end, Laozi here sets the gains and losses of softness and firmness against each other; the following three chapters continue to explain this point.

Does the movement of Heaven’s Dao not resemble drawing a bow? What is high is pressed down; what is low is raised up. What is in excess is reduced; what is insufficient is replenished. Heaven’s Dao reduces what is excessive and supplies what is lacking. The governance of the human world, however, often does the opposite: it takes from those who have too little and offers to those who have too much. Who can take what is in excess and give it to those in need throughout the world? Only one who has the Dao can do so.

Thus the sage acts, but does not rely on merit; when the work is done, the sage does not claim credit. Is this not because the sage does not wish to display their own excellence?

This passage continues the previous chapter’s point that the soft and weak take the lower position, while the strong and powerful take the higher one. It develops that idea further by drawing on the Dao of Heaven.

Laozi says, “To draw something in, you must first let it expand.” Expansion represents strength. The Dao of Heaven abhors fullness and favors humility, like a drawn bow: if it is kept taut too long, it slackens; once slackened, it can be drawn again. Thus, those who occupy high positions are eventually restrained, while those in low positions are raised. Those who have more than enough are eventually diminished, while those who have been kept below are given room to rise. The Dao of Heaven is often like this in its treatment of all things.

The human world, however, does not work this way. People take from those in the world who already have too little to support those who already have enough. This goes against Heaven’s intent. Even when a sage who possesses the Dao has the highest De, they do not flaunt it. This is what it means to follow the direction of the Dao by continually diminishing oneself, until there is less and less.

Su Zhe says, “When a bow is drawn, the sinew along its back is stretched tight. When it is released, the horn along its back bears the force. That is why the bow serves as a metaphor for the Dao of Heaven restraining what is high and supporting what is low. The Dao of Heaven has no self-interest, so it can bring all things into balance. People have self-interest, so they cannot. Those who possess the Dao support all things without claiming them as their own. The more they help others, the more they themselves are provided for; the more they give to others, the more they themselves are enriched. Only those who possess the Dao can live this way. If you act and then rely on your achievements, or accomplish something and then claim it as your own, your virtue and worth will be on display to the world. In effect, you are using your own surplus to support yourself.”

Lü Huiqing says, “The Dao of Heaven does not deliberately lower what is high or raise what is low. It acts through Wuwei (non-action), and so has no self-interest. Without self-interest, it can bring all things into balance. It therefore follows the natural state of things: what is in excess is naturally restrained and diminished, while what is insufficient is naturally supported and increased. This is the principle that ‘fullness invites loss, while humility receives benefit’; it is the way the Dao of Heaven operates. People, however, cannot act through Wuwei and are therefore bound to seek something. Once they seek something, they may harm others to enrich themselves. Only those who possess the Dao understand that worldly fame and achievement are not things to claim as one’s own. What everyone in the world competes to obtain seems to them like surplus, so they diminish themselves to support the world, without claiming anything for themselves.”

Wu Cheng holds that the lines “restrain what is high and raise what is low” describe a drawn bow, while the lines “diminish what is in excess and make up what is insufficient” describe the Dao of Heaven.

Lu Xisheng says, “When Yang Qi rises to its highest point, it descends; when Yin Qi falls to its lowest point, it rises. This is what it means to restrain what is high and raise what is low, and it is also like the principle of a drawn bow. The Dao of Heaven has times of fullness and emptiness. In the ancient calendar, seven leap months were inserted every nineteen years: this removed the excess from the calendar to make up for what the months lacked. The human way, however, is different. People take from the common people, who are already in want, to support rulers, who already have more than enough. Who can follow the Dao of Heaven and apply this principle to human affairs? The Book of Changes says that diminishing what is below to increase what is above is called ‘Decrease,’ while diminishing what is above to increase what is below is called ‘Increase,’ because what is below is the foundation.”

Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hard and strong things. Nothing can take its place. The soft can overcome the hard; the weak can overcome the strong. Everyone in the world understands this, yet no one can truly put it into practice.

Therefore, the sage says: Only one who can bear a state’s disgrace is fit to be its ruler; only one who can take on a state’s calamities is fit to be ruler of the world. Such sound principles often seem to be the opposite of what one would expect.

The soft and yielding can overcome the hard and strong. Laozi explains this principle repeatedly, yet people often dismiss it. So even when they understand it, they find it hard to put into practice. That is why, near the end of the book, Laozi offers a special reminder: do not take these words too lightly. Most people with blood and breath harbor a desire to prevail. In ordinary times, they may know that softness and yielding are good. But when they are insulted or treated with unreasonable arrogance, they can suddenly flare up without realizing it. Their hard and forceful side emerges, and they find the treatment unbearable.

Mountains, forests, marshes, and swamps can contain poisonous creatures; rivers and lakes can contain filth. A ruler, too, should be able to bear humiliation. If someone relies on talent and strength, always wanting to command reputation and wisdom and to scheme for victory in every matter, they will be burdened by the desire to dominate. How, then, can they hold on to the position of a lord? These words may seem to go against common sense, but they contain the right way. In the eyes of the world, being humiliated or meeting with misfortune is a calamity. The next chapter’s statement that “reconciling a deep grievance still leaves resentment behind” continues to explain this idea.

The above is Chapter Sixty-Five.

Wu Cheng and Yao Nai believe that the four words “upright words seem contrary” should be placed at the beginning of the next chapter, since “contrary” rhymes with “good.” I do not follow this view here, because these four words carry on from the three words “people look to the clouds” above.

Reconciling a deep grievance still leaves resentment behind. How can that be called true goodness? This carries on from the three words “people look to the clouds” above. The Fu Yi edition has the two words “then surely” after “reconcile a great grievance.” The sage holds the left half of a loan contract, the half kept by the creditor, but does not use it to demand repayment from others. In this sense, a person of De keeps faith like someone holding a contract, without making harsh demands of others; a person without De, by contrast, acts like someone administering tax collection, demanding wealth from people. The Heshang Gong and Wang Bi editions do not have the word “therefore” before “person of De.” Here I follow the Fu Yi edition.

The Way of Heaven shows no favoritism; it always helps the good.

Following the previous chapter’s discussion of “receiving defilement and misfortune,” this passage explains further that it is not easy to attain selflessness and non-contention. In ordinary circumstances, it is relatively easy to be gentle and yielding, but difficult when things go wrong. It is easy to bear a small grievance, but hard to endure a great one that is unreasonable and overbearing.

If those who study the Dao force themselves to resolve a great grievance while still harboring anger and old resentment, then even if they never let it show, the slightest lingering bitterness would weigh on the heart like a great mountain. How could they speak of reaching the state of “highest goodness is like water”?

“Virtuous goodness” means treating kind people with kindness and treating unkind people with kindness as well. This is like a sage holding the left half of a tally. In ancient times, tallies were split into two halves as proof of an agreement. When someone presented the right half to make a claim, the sage handed over the goods, but never used the left half to make a claim against anyone. The sage responds to all things in keeping with their nature, without self-interest, and welcomes all who come. That is what it means.

When others come to the sage, the sage does not regard them as enemies. When giving to others, the sage does not think of himself as having done them a favor. Virtue and resentment alike dissolve; there is no separation between people and things, or between self and others. Only then is the virtue of selflessness and non-contention truly embodied. How could those who merely try to smooth over resentment claim to have reached this state?

When one’s virtue has not reached this point, one is like an official overseeing the equal distribution of farmland: he groups eight households together and divides the land equally by acreage, believing he has achieved perfect fairness, without realizing that people will inevitably argue over who has more or less and refuse to yield even the smallest difference. Forcing things that are unequal to become equal only gives rise to conflict. If someone resolving a great grievance relies only on forgiveness and reason to settle the dispute, then even if he does not go too far, he still clearly judges who is right and who is wrong, and the divide between the parties remains. How is that any different from forcing an equal division?

Does that mean kind people must always suffer losses? The answer is that although kind people are often treated unfairly by others, Heaven will not treat them unfairly. Heaven does not favor those close to it; it supports those who have virtue. Virtue has no fixed teacher: anything that gives rise to good conduct can serve as its teacher. The kind do not contend for superiority or boast of themselves. How could Heaven fail to help them?

From this we can see that the soft can overcome the hard, and the weak can overcome the strong. The principle is plain. Yet without calm and firm understanding, it cannot be grasped; without resolute will, it cannot be upheld. Thus it is said that this principle must not be lightly changed.

Let the state be small and its people few. Even though there are various tools, they are not put to use. Let the people value life and not move away lightly to distant places. Though there are boats and carts, there is no need to ride in them; though there are armor and weapons, there is no occasion to display or use them.

Let the people return to the way of life in which they kept records by tying knots in cords. Tying knots means making knots in a cord to record things. The people find their food delicious and their clothes comfortable; they are content with where they live and take pleasure in their customs. Neighboring states can see one another, and the calls of chickens and dogs can be heard across their borders, yet the people do not visit one another, even to the end of their lives.

Su Zhe says: Laozi lived in the declining Zhou dynasty, when social customs had grown ostentatious and popular ways had deteriorated. He wanted to remedy this state of affairs through Wuwei (non-action). So, at the end of his book, he speaks of his ambition: he hoped to find a country small in territory and sparse in population where he could put his ideals into practice, but he never had the chance.

When people are inwardly content, they do not seek things outside themselves. Laozi therefore hoped that people would value what they already had, take pleasure in the place where they lived, and seek nothing more.

Yao Nai says: In antiquity, there were many feudal states, but each was small. In later ages, the number of states declined while their territories grew. When a state is large and its population numerous, it cannot restore the form of government practiced in antiquity, even if it wishes to. Laozi therefore hoped to make states smaller and reduce their populations.

Wu Cheng says: Objects such as boats, carts, weapons, and armor cannot be used by one person alone. “Implements for ten or a hundred” means tools intended for use by many people. When the people are simple and their affairs uncomplicated, even written records and contracts are unnecessary; this is more than simply doing without implements shared by many. If people find the local food and clothing delicious and their customs and homes comfortable and pleasant, they will not wish to move to distant places. Neighboring states may lie within sight of one another, yet their people do not visit each other even until old age and death. This means more than simply “not moving away.”

Wang Pang says: When a state is small and its population sparse, the people are simple and honest. When a state is large and its population numerous, conflicts of interest multiply, and cunning and deceit gradually arise. Compare the inhabitants of the capital with the people in rural settlements, and the difference between plain and guileful customs becomes clear. In times when the Dao is lost, secondary concerns overtake what is fundamental and a simple, generous way of life declines. People covet material comforts and continually seek more because they desire things beyond themselves; thus roads for carts and horses spread in every direction. The final chapters of the Analects and the Mencius both conclude with accounts of sages such as Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang, as if to say that their teachings should likewise be put into practice in government. Laozi possessed the supreme De (Virtue/Power) of antiquity, yet lived in a declining age; that is why his ambition was as he describes it.

Lü Huiqing says: Zhuangzi praises the “age of perfect De” and names ancient figures from Diting and Rongcheng through Zhurong, Fuxi, and Shennong. He says that in that age people kept records by tying knots, ate food they found delicious, wore clothes they found beautiful, lived in comfort, and took pleasure in local customs. Neighboring states could see one another and hear the sounds of their chickens and dogs, yet their people did not visit each other even until old age and death. This account is not unique to Laozi; such a way of governing truly existed in antiquity.

Historical records, however, begin only with the times of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, while Laozi hoped to restore a form of government from the far more ancient age of high antiquity. By then, that age lay in the distant past. Could it be restored completely? No. But if it could not be done, why speak of it? Because by the end of the Zhou dynasty, ornament and ostentation had flourished and customs had deteriorated, nearly exhausting people’s natural simplicity. Only the Great Dao could return people to the state inherent in their lives. To discuss the Dao without relating it to the age in which one lives is to lose sight of how it was once put into practice. Laozi therefore had to trace the way of governing back to high antiquity.

As ritual developed to incorporate the rites of the Three Dynasties, and music developed to bring together the music of the Six Dynasties, the plainest “dark water”—clear water, used in ancient rites to embody simplicity—was still placed beneath sweet wine, and the simple “sparse-yue,” the widely spaced string openings on an ancient zither, was still placed beneath the dense array of wind instruments. This was meant to show that elaborate rites and music were adopted out of necessity; the true foundation to which one ought to return is simplicity and restraint. Thus, when we hear that the ancients had many implements but did not use them, and that boats, carts, weapons, and armor were not displayed, we understand that undertaking great projects and mobilizing crowds were not their original desire. When we hear that the ancients governed by tying knots and that people did not visit one another even until old age and death, we understand that intricate documents, harsh decrees, and the traffic of carts and horses were likewise necessary expedients. Knowing this, how could anyone be willing to add further layers of cumbersome administration and deepen the harm done by governing the people? If this is understood, there is hope that the world will naturally reach peace and stability.

Had Laozi died without leaving these words behind, it would have been like removing the dark water and setting aside the sparse-yue: who would understand that the simplicity of ritual and the restraint of music were meant to guide people back to their roots and beginnings? After the Han dynasty succeeded the Qin, it ultimately governed through quietude and Wuwei, nearly reaching a point where punishments had no use. This shows that the words of a perfected person can bring no small benefit.

The above is Chapter 67.

Words that are true and trustworthy are often not elegant; elegant and pleasing words are not necessarily trustworthy. Those skilled in practicing the Dao (the Way) do not rely on argument to prevail; those eager to argue are not necessarily truly skilled in practicing the Dao. Those who understand the Great Dao do not boast of their wide learning; those with extensive knowledge do not necessarily truly understand the Great Dao. The sage does not accumulate private possessions. The more he helps others, the more he himself has; the more he gives to others, the richer he becomes. The Way of Heaven benefits all things without harming them. The sage acts for the good of everyone, yet does not contend with anyone.

Fu Yi’s text reads “Good words do not argue; argumentative words are not good” in place of “Those skilled in goodness do not argue; those who argue are not good.” It also reads “The sage has no accumulation” instead of “The sage does not accumulate.” The commentary on the chapter’s central theme above suggests that this chapter may be about returning to the root and beginning anew. After the Han dynasty succeeded the Qin, it ultimately governed through Wuwei (non-action) and tranquility, coming close to doing away with punishments altogether. This shows that the words of the perfected person are surely not without benefit.

Wang Bi says, “Truthful words are unadorned, so they do not seem beautiful. Those skilled in speaking do not argue, because what matters is simplicity at the root. The truly wise do not seek breadth of knowledge, because what matters is holding fast to the One—to what is single and fundamental. The less one claims for oneself, the more others respect one; the less one accumulates, the more readily others turn to one. One benefits people without harming them, and one’s actions always follow the patterns by which all things grow and come into being.”

Wu Cheng says this is the meaning of the book’s final chapter. Laozi’s words are calm and spare; they neither argue nor show off extensive learning. Because they contain genuine goodness and wisdom, they speak plainly and do not rely on ornament to seem beautiful. “Not accumulating” means keeping the mind empty, with nothing to claim as one’s own. When the mind stores up no attachments, its responses to things have no limit. But if one treats accumulation as possession, one’s responses become constrained—how, then, could having more make one truly richer? When Zhuangzi describes Laozi’s teaching, he says, “He regarded the accumulation of tangible things as insufficient and stored nothing away, so he had more than enough.” This is precisely the point.

“Benefit” stands opposite “harm,” and “acting” is the starting point of contention. To benefit others without seeking private gain is not to harm them; to act without deliberately striving is not to provoke contention. One does not contend because one has no selfish desire. To have no private self means to act without clinging to oneself as the one who acts. This is “acting without acting”—Wuwei (non-action).

Jiao Hong says that if one grasps Laozi’s book and reflects on it carefully, it may seem beautiful; and if one investigates the principles of all things so thoroughly that nothing remains beyond one’s understanding, one may seem eloquent and widely learned. Why, then, does Laozi still say, “Truthful words are not beautiful; the good are not argumentative; the wise are not broadly learned”? Because all five thousand or so characters of the book speak of the way of “not accumulating.” When the mind clings to nothing and is bound by nothing, speaking is like having no attachment to speech. This does not mean one cannot act for others, but that one does not claim the credit as one’s own; nor does it mean one cannot give to others, but that one does not feel diminished by giving. How could this hinder eloquence or learning? If one merely insists on one’s own views and competes with everyone under Heaven, one will reach the point where words run out. That is not in accord with the Way of Heaven. If students can grasp the meaning here without clinging to the words, they will understand much of the book’s central teaching.

This corresponds to Chapter 68.

Yao Nai divided the six lines beginning with “Truthful words are not beautiful” into one chapter, the three lines beginning with “The sage does not hoard” into another, and the three lines beginning with “The Way of Heaven” into a third. Here, that chapter division is not adopted.

The Garden of Persuasions (Shuoyuan) records that when Chang Cong was gravely ill, Laozi went to visit him and asked, “Master, you are very ill. Is there anything you would like to leave for your disciple?” Chang Cong replied, “Even if you had not asked, I would have told you. When passing through your native village, you get down from your carriage. Do you know why?” Laozi answered, “Is it because one should not forget one’s home?” Chang Cong then asked, “When passing a tall tree, you walk quickly. Do you know why?” Laozi replied, “Is it because one should show respect for one’s elders?”

Chang Cong opened his mouth for Laozi to see and asked, “Is my tongue still there?” Laozi said, “It is.” He asked again, “Are my teeth still there?” Laozi said, “They are gone.” Chang Cong asked, “Do you know why?” Laozi said, “Could it be that my soft tongue remains, while my hard teeth have fallen out?” Chang Cong said, “Ah, the principles of all under Heaven are contained in this. What more could I tell you?”

The Biographies of Eminent Recluses (Gaoshi zhuan) identifies Chang Cong as Shang Rong. A note to the New Account of Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu) says that Shang Rong was Laozi’s teacher.

Zhuangzi says: After Lao Dan died, Qin Shi went to pay his respects. He wept three times and then left. A disciple asked him, “Were you not the Master’s friend?” Qin Shi replied, “I was.” The disciple asked again, “Since you were his friend, was it proper to mourn him this way?” Qin Shi answered, “It was proper. At first I thought he truly understood life and death, but now I see that he did not. When I went in just now to pay my respects, I saw the older people weeping for him as though they had lost their own son, and the younger people weeping as though they had lost their own mother.”

Those who had gathered there must have included people who did not wish to speak but spoke, and people who did not wish to weep but wept. They were fleeing their nature, going against their true feelings, and forgetting the life they had originally received from Heaven. The ancients called this “escaping Heaven’s punishment.” To arrive in the world at just the right time was for the Master to follow the moment; to leave the world at just the right time was for him to follow change. When one rests content with the moment and follows change, grief and joy cannot disturb the spirit. The ancients called this release from the bonds of the Heavenly Ruler.

When a person’s finger is burned away, the fire passes to the next piece of wood and continues to burn; no one knows when it will finally burn out.

The Records of the Grand Historian: Hereditary House of Confucius says: Nangong Jingshu of Lu asked the ruler of Lu for permission to travel with Confucius to the Zhou capital. The ruler provided them with a carriage, two horses, and a young servant, and they set out together for the capital. There they asked Laozi about ritual, and perhaps this was how they met him. As Confucius took his leave, Laozi saw him off, saying, “I have heard that the wealthy send people off with gifts, while the humane send them off with words. I have no gifts, but I will borrow the name of a humane person and offer you a few words. Those who are clever and keen in insight easily invite danger, because they enjoy criticizing others. Those who are broadly learned and skilled in argument also put themselves at risk, because they expose the faults of others. As a child, do not think only of yourself; as a minister, do not think only of yourself either.” After Confucius returned from the Zhou capital to Lu, the number of disciples who followed him gradually grew.

The Records of the Grand Historian: Biographies of Confucius’s Disciples says that among those whom Confucius respectfully served were Laozi in Zhou, Qu Boyu in Wei, Yan Pingzhong in Qi, Lao Laizi in Chu, Zichan in Zheng, and Meng Gongchuo in Lu.

In “Zengzi Asks Questions” in the Book of Rites, Zengzi asked Confucius: When an ancient army set out on campaign, did it always take along the ancestral spirit tablets removed from the ancestral temples?

Confucius replied that when the Son of Heaven traveled through the states of the feudal lords, he took the removed ancestral spirit tablets with him and placed them in his carriage, since a journey required something to be revered. But taking all the spirit tablets from the seven ancestral temples would violate ritual. By rule, the Son of Heaven’s seven temples and the lords’ five temples were not normally to have spirit tablets absent. They could be temporarily away from their own temples only when the Son of Heaven or a feudal lord died, when a lord left his own state, or when a joint ancestral sacrifice was performed.

I heard Lao Dan, traditionally identified as Laozi, say that after the Son of Heaven or a feudal lord died, the officiant in charge of sacrifices gathered the spirit tablets from the ancestral temples and placed them in the founding ancestor’s temple. This was ritual. Once the completion-of-wailing rite, which ended the daily mourning cries, had been performed and the mourning observances were concluded, each spirit tablet returned to its own temple. When a ruler left his state, the Grand Steward, an official responsible for state affairs, accompanied him with the spirit tablets from the temples; this too was ritual. At a joint ancestral sacrifice, the officiant invited the spirit tablets from four ancestral temples. Whenever spirit tablets were taken out of or brought into a temple, the way had to be cleared and guarded. Lao Dan said…

Someone else asked, “If a funeral procession encounters a solar eclipse on the road, should it change its route?”

Confucius said, “Long ago, I accompanied Lao Dan (Laozi) to a funeral in the neighborhood. When the procession reached the road, a solar eclipse began. Lao Dan had the coffin set down by the roadside. Everyone stopped weeping and waited quietly for events to unfold. When the eclipse ended, they continued on their way. He said this was in keeping with ritual propriety.

“When we arrived at the burial site, I asked Lao Dan, ‘A coffin should not turn back. Now, though, an eclipse has occurred, and we have stopped to wait. If we don’t know when the eclipse will end, might waiting too long or too little not be worse than simply continuing on?’

“Lao Dan replied, ‘When the feudal lords go to pay court to the Son of Heaven, they wait for sunrise before setting out and stop at sunset to make offerings. When ministers and officers travel on missions, they too wait for sunrise to depart and stop at sunset. A funeral procession must not set out before dawn or seek lodging after nightfall. Only those who have committed crimes, or those hurrying home to mourn a parent’s death, travel at night by the light of the stars. When an eclipse occurs, how can you know it will not last until night, when the stars are visible? Besides, a gentleman conducting a ritual will not put another person’s family member at risk. I once heard Lao Dan say this.’”

Zixia asked Confucius, “When someone observing the three-year mourning period has completed the ceremony marking the end of mourning rites, may they take part in military affairs, such as going to war, without withdrawing from public life? Is this in keeping with ritual, as prescribed by the ancient officials in charge of rites?”

Confucius replied, “In the Xia dynasty, people observing the three-year mourning period could attend to government affairs once the coffin had been placed in the temporary burial chamber. In the Yin dynasty, they waited until the burial before attending to government affairs. The Book of Rites says, ‘A junzi should not take away another person’s time to mourn a loved one, nor allow another person to take away their own time to mourn a loved one.’ That must be what it means.”

Zixia asked again, “Then is it wrong to say that someone observing the three-year mourning period need not withdraw from military affairs?”

Confucius said, “I once heard Lao Dan (Laozi) say that long ago, Lord Boqin of Lu—the son of the Duke of Zhou and founder of the state of Lu—acted this way for special reasons. As for people today who use the three-year mourning period to pursue private gain, I cannot say.”

Zhuangzi says that Confucius once traveled west to the Zhou royal house, where books were kept. Zilu, one of Confucius’s disciples, advised him: “I have heard that among the Zhou royal house’s court archivists was a man named Lao Dan, who has retired and returned home. If you want to consult the royal collection, you might visit him and use his connections to arrange it.”

Confucius said, “Good.” He then went to visit Lao Dan.

Another account says that when Confucius was fifty-one and had still not heard of the Great Dao, he traveled south to Pei to visit Lao Dan. Lao Dan asked, “You’ve come? I hear you are a worthy man from the north. Have you attained the Dao yet?”

It is also said that Laozi met five of Confucius’s disciples and asked, “Who is the one in front?” The disciples replied, “Zilu is brave and strong; next is Zigong, who is clever; Zengzi is filial; Yan Hui is benevolent; and Zizhang is martial.”

Laozi sighed and said, “I have heard that in the south there is a bird called the phoenix. The phoenix lives where rivers flow among stone mountains stretching a thousand li, and there it makes its nest. Heaven provides food for it. There is a tree called the jade tree, whose branches reach a hundred ren high and bear fruit called qiulin and langgan, both precious jades. Heaven also brings forth rice for it. Three people take turns keeping watch over the langgan. The patterns on the phoenix’s feathers show sage virtue on its head, hold benevolence in its breast, symbolize wisdom on its left, and worthiness on its right.”

It is also said that while Confucius was reading the Spring and Autumn Annals, Lao Dan (Laozi) listened, squatting beside the corner of the stove.

The Lüshi Chunqiu says that a man in the state of Chu lost a bow but refused to look for it, saying, “A person from Chu lost it, and a person from Chu will find it. Why go looking for it?” When Confucius heard this, he said, “It would be enough to remove the words ‘from Chu.’” When Lao Dan heard it, he said, “It would be enough to remove the word ‘person.’”

The “Jingshen” chapter of the Garden of Stories says that Laozi taught: “When you gain something, you must consider the misfortune it may bring; when you rejoice in success, you must also consider how it might fail. When people do good, Heaven rewards them with good fortune; when they do evil, Heaven answers with calamity. Thus, calamity leans on good fortune, and good fortune conceals calamity within it. Be alert and cautious. If a noble person does not devote himself to self-cultivation, what can he rely on to guard against calamity? By understanding the timing of Heaven above, he will not miss the right moment; by understanding the advantages of the land below, he will not lose his resources. If he acts with caution day and night, he can avoid disaster.”

Xunzi says: Confucius visited the region of Zhou and entered the Temple of Hou Ji. Before the steps on the right, he saw a golden figure. Its mouth was stitched shut with three seams, and an inscription was carved on its back: “This is a person of ancient times who was careful in speech. Take this as a warning! Do not speak too much; the more you say, the easier it is to make mistakes. Do not do too much; the more you do, the easier it is to invite trouble.

“Be especially careful when enjoying comfort and pleasure. Do not do anything you will later regret. Do not say, ‘What harm could this do?’ Trouble may gradually grow from it. Do not say, ‘What damage could this cause?’ Trouble may become serious because of it. Do not say, ‘What harm could come of this?’ Harm may arise from it. Do not assume that no one knows: the spirits watch in secret. If a tiny flame is not put out in time, it will eventually become a great fire.

“If a small stream is not dammed, it will eventually swell into a river. If fine threads keep accumulating, they may form a net. If a branch as small as a hair is not cut away in time, an axe will have to be used later. Careful conduct is the foundation of good fortune. To say, ‘What harm could this do?’ is to mark the beginning of trouble.

“Those who act overbearing often meet a bad end; those who strive to win are sure to encounter rivals. Thieves hate their victims, and the people resent those who rule over them. The noble person understands that in the world one cannot always strive to be first, and so is content to take a lower place. Knowing that no one wants to fall behind, he chooses to remain behind. He is gentle and respectful, and cultivates De (Virtue/Power) with care, earning people’s admiration. By remaining yielding and holding to humility, he becomes difficult for others to surpass.

“Everyone rushes toward that side; I alone remain here. Everyone is confused and uncertain; I alone do not change. I keep my wisdom within and do not show off my abilities. Even if I hold a high position, others will not harm me. Who can do this? The rivers and seas lie below the many streams, yet they gather them all precisely because their position is low. Heaven’s way does not favor any one person; it often helps the good. Take this as a warning!”

After reading the inscription, Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “Remember these words. They are practical and to the point, reasonable, and trustworthy.”

Wang Yinglin says: The Huanglan records: “The rivers and seas lie below the many streams, yet they gather them all precisely because their position is low. Heaven’s way does not favor any one person; it often helps the good. Take this as a warning!” After reading the inscription, Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “Remember these words. They are practical and to the point, reasonable, and trustworthy.”

Wang Yinglin says: “The Huanglan records that King Wu asked his Grand Preceptor, Shangfu, ‘Can you tell me the admonitions of the Five Emperors?’ Shangfu replied, ‘The Yellow Emperor admonished: “Though I stand above the people, my heart is always uneasy. I fear that tonight may pass and I may not live to see the morning.”’ So he made a metal figure, sealed its mouth, and inscribed on it: ‘The ancients were careful in their speech.’”

The Bibliographic Treatise lists six sections of the Yellow Emperor’s Inscriptions among the Daoist works. Cai Yong’s On Inscriptions says that the Yellow Emperor had a “method of the headcloth and the table.” The Huanglan was compiled during the reign of Emperor Wen of Wei, and related records from the Han dynasty’s Seven Summaries have survived. The so-called Inscription of the Metal Man was probably one of the six sections of the Yellow Emperor’s Inscriptions.

He Mengchun says that the lines in the Inscription of the Metal Man “What continues without end may become a net that ensnares” and “If a tiny shoot is not cut, it will grow into an axe handle” also appear in the Book of Zhou, excavated from the tombs at Ji. The line “Thieves hate the master of the house; the people resent their ruler” was also quoted by Bo Zong’s wife in the Zuo Tradition. This shows that these were sayings passed down from antiquity.

The central message of the Inscription of the Metal Man accords with Laozi’s writings. For example, “True care in one’s conduct is the foundation of good fortune; to think that nothing can go wrong is often the beginning of calamity” echoes Laozi’s words: “Calamity! Good fortune lies within it. Good fortune! Calamity lurks within it.” The inscription says, “Those who rely on force do not meet a good end,” which accords with Laozi’s saying, “The strong belong to the category of the dead.”

The inscription says, “Knowing one cannot stand above all under Heaven, one willingly takes the lower place; knowing one cannot walk ahead of everyone, one willingly stays behind.” This resembles Laozi’s words: “If you wish to stand above the people, you must humble yourself in your speech to them; if you wish to lead the people, you must place yourself behind them.” Laozi, however, holds that if this conduct comes from a desire to rise above others or take the lead, it still carries self-interest.

The inscription says, “Hold to weakness and dwell in a low place; no one can surpass such a person.” This accords with Laozi’s words: “By putting yourself last, you come to the fore; by placing yourself beyond concern, you preserve yourself.” The inscription says, “Everyone else rushes there; I alone remain here.” This accords with Laozi’s words: “Know the strong, yet keep to the weak; know what is glorious, yet keep to what is humiliating.”

The inscription says, “Everyone else is confused and changes; I alone remain unmoved.” This resembles Laozi’s words: “I dwell where the crowd despises; everyone seems to have more than enough, while I alone seem deficient.” The inscription also says, “Keep wisdom in your heart and do not show off your skill.” This accords with Laozi’s words: “Dim your brightness and blend with the dust. Everyone is clear-sighted and perceptive; I alone am dull. Everyone is sharp and discerning; I alone am muddled and unformed.”

The inscription says, “Though the rivers and seas lie low, they are greater than all the streams, because they humble themselves below them.” This accords with Laozi’s words: “The rivers and seas can be kings of all the streams because they are good at placing themselves below them. That is why they can be kings of all the streams.” For this reason, when a ruler sits in place, honored guests sit to his left. The inscription says, “Heaven’s Dao shows no favoritism; it always supports the good.” Laozi said the same.

From this we can see that the writings of Laozi, the Zhou dynasty archivist, did not arise without precedent. The origins and development of the tradition that pairs the Yellow Emperor with Laozi can also be seen in these points of correspondence.

Master Hu Gong wrote the Essay on Encouraging Learning, in which he sharply criticized Laozi. He argued that Laozi had become a refuge for later figures such as Zhang Yu, Kong Guang, Hu Guang, and Feng Dao. They borrowed the reputation of benevolent men on the surface, while secretly throwing the world into disorder and quietly destroying the principles and laws of good government. For this reason Master Hu Gong detested them and denounced them in strong terms.

Confucius disliked the “village worthies”—people who appeared upright and cautious but in fact catered to common opinion. Such people twisted learning to suit their age. Among the more prominent were Li Si, Gongsun Hong, and Hu Guang, or disciples who had turned away from Xunzi; some even claimed to follow Confucian learning. Each had some basis for their position at the outset. At the other extreme were the village worthies of recent times, unlearned people with no real skill who merely adapted themselves to prevailing opinion. They fawned and complied, drifted with the current, and damaged the moral teaching of the world. They belong in a category such as the Biographies of Fawning Favorites and should not claim Laozi as their authority.

Laozi’s words often seem contrary on the surface, but in practice they correct what is distorted: in governing a state, be upright; in waging war, use the unexpected. Take deep roots and a settled mind as the foundation, and conceal one’s abilities while waiting for the right moment as the means of action. Though this differs from the orthodox teaching of the Six Classics, its meaning is profound, and few truly understand it.

Liu Zhiji considered the Heshang Gong Commentary a forgery. Commentators such as Yan Junping, Wang Bi, and Fu Yi often failed to grasp the root of Laozi’s deeper meaning. Few people, past or present, have truly understood his intent. Sima Qian, in his assessment of various schools and summary of their main ideas, and Lintai, in his account of the Daoist school, each left only a few brief words.

At the founding of the Western Han, the prevailing climate of opinion gave prominence to Laozi’s teachings, while Confucian learning took a relatively secondary place. After the Taichu era of Emperor Wu, the Six Classics gradually came to the fore, and Confucian learning once again eclipsed Laozi’s teachings. Those who truly attained Laozi’s Dao included Emperor Wen of Han, Zhang Liang, the Marquis of Liu, and Emperor Guangwu; they used it to govern the realm. Ji An was known for his forthright speech, while the two men of the Shu family were renowned for their clear understanding of the times; each had his own strengths. Among those who did not truly grasp Laozi, Yang Xiong was a man of letters skilled in literary composition, not a Daoist. He did not understand how to put Laozi’s teachings into practice. He merely kept silent and went along with the world, seeming close to Laozi but in fact differing from him.

Yi Yin, Taigong, Guan Zhong, and Jiran all belonged to the Daoist school. They excelled at adapting to circumstances, turning calamity into good fortune and failure into success. The Golden Tablets and the Six Secret Teachings discuss strategies for gaining political power and governing the realm—subjects that Confucian adherence to convention often kept people from discussing. On the outside, Daoism advocates stillness, humility, and caution as the foundations of government; within, it contains methods of endurance, concealment, gathering strength, and adapting to every turn of events. In ordinary times, it remains deeply hidden and its breath long and steady. Once the moment is right, it strikes at the vital point and utterly defeats its opponent. In looking back on those who hold power, Daoism can keep to the vital energies, attain softness, preserve emptiness and stillness, and become the root of all things. It truly returns to the Dao, leaving no trace of deliberate action.

Thus, in later ages, some people developed Legalism, the School of the Hidden Talisman, and military strategy from Laozi’s teachings. Yet these schools had already grown fundamentally distant from Laozi’s original thought. Laozi’s Dao governs what is visible from the shadows and observes change in stillness. It cultivates obscurity and concealment while awaiting the right moment, and uses weakness to control strength. This is utterly different from the paths of Zhuangzi and Liezi, who cultivated the spirit and sought release from the world. For this reason, Laozi’s teachings are described as an art of statecraft for rulers governing the realm.

Dozens, even hundreds, of people have written commentaries on Laozi, but few have studied its principles in depth. Only Shao Yong said that Laozi had grasped the foundation of the Book of Changes. In the Classified Conversations of Master Zhu, Zhu Xi discusses several of Laozi’s statements, including “Taking what follows as the ruler’s guiding principle.” These, too, reveal the foundation and suffice to explain Laozi’s Dao. The thought of Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Buddhism are as incompatible as ice and charcoal. Wu Cheng and Zhang Hao’an also pointed out some of these deeper meanings. The modern Confucian scholar Yu Yue’s commentary on Laozi excels in textual interpretation and punctuation. During the Xianfeng and Tongzhi eras, the Wei family of Shaoyang wrote an exposition of Laozi’s original meaning, selecting and abridging the views of various commentators, adding their own insights, and drawing on a wide range of sources. They achieved much.

Earlier, at Yang Renshan’s request, I had Jiao Hong’s Wings to Laozi printed in the Buddhist canon. Later, I asked Fang Xiaolang to copy the Wei family’s commentary. The printing was completed in the spring of the jihai year. I had hurried south from the north and did not have time to check the text carefully for errors. I know that I have lived in seclusion and kept out of public affairs, and that my official career was unremarkable. I never had the chance to offer frank advice in person. How could I dare to go against Master Hu Gong’s sound judgment and claim to be a master of Laozi’s teachings? I only lament that commentators who truly understand Laozi’s intent are so rare. This commentary has the merit of clarifying and clearing away old interpretations and should not be allowed to disappear. I have therefore set down the circumstances of its printing and revision. The end of the fourth month, gengzi year.

This text was lost amid the turmoil of war. In the winter of the Gengzi year, I returned to the capital and began searching among the rubble of ruined houses. I found two sheets of paper bearing words that my ancestor had personally annotated and revised. I carefully restored the text, carved and printed it, and added six circle marks in accordance with the original annotations.

Respectfully recorded in the tenth month of the Renyin year by the unfilial son, Liang Su.