《老子衍》

Commentators on the Laozi have always pursued different aims, and different interpretations have circulated among their schools. Wang Bi and He Yan brought the Laozi into line with the changes of Qian and Kun and the principle of simplicity as discussed in the Book of Changes. Kumarajiva and Emperor Wu of Liang, in turn, linked it to Buddhist teachings about principles and phenomena, cause and effect. Such forced combinations and distortions of the original meaning have persisted for a long time. Later, Lu Xisheng, Su Shi, Dong Sijing, and, in more recent times, Jiao Hong and Li Zhi, went further by bringing in Chan Buddhist teachings and joining the two traditions. They used Chan’s claims of “not establishing words and letters” and “a separate transmission outside the teachings” to interpret the Laozi. This is like people in Fujian mistaking frost for snow, or people in Luoyang hearing of eating crabs and instead peeling and eating pengqi, a creature shaped like a small crab: they have mistaken one thing for another.

When Laozi says, “Carry the hun and po, embrace the One, and never let them part,” he means that spirit and body should remain united and not separate. When he says, “The Great Dao flows everywhere; it may be found on either side,” he means that the Dao circulates widely and is present everywhere. And when he says, “Blend the vital energies to bring about harmony,” he refers to the Yin-Yang energies joining in balance to produce harmony. These passages already use Laozi’s thought to explain Laozi. Zhuangzi says, “In doing good, do not seek fame; in doing wrong, do not invite punishment; follow the center as your constant rule.” He means that one should not pursue reputation through good deeds or bring punishment upon oneself through one’s actions, but should take the middle course of things as a constant standard. Here, too, Zhuangzi interprets Laozi in his own words.

To abandon these clear explanations and force Confucian thought into Daoism is to distort Confucianism; to insist that Daoist thought is Buddhism is to distort Daoism. These commentators pull worldly teachings toward Buddhism’s rejection of worldly life and denial of knowledge. Such mixtures mislead later generations, and who knows when this will end?

I, Wang Fuzhi, have observed these distortions for a long time. I therefore no longer follow the commentaries of the various schools, but instead explain Laozi’s original meaning directly. I first enter into the scope of their arguments, make use of their materials, and reveal the grounds on which they rely; then I point out their flaws. Only after those flaws are clearly seen can the Dao be properly explained again.

What are these flaws? Among those who speak of the Dao, some deliberately defy convention and attack worldly ways with excessive force, thereby losing their fairness. Some happen upon a fragment of truth and are content to cling to it, refusing to adapt, and so depart from what is reasonable. Others make a show of their cleverness and repeatedly proclaim their own views, thereby inviting disaster. Laozi’s thought also contains all three of these shortcomings. Thus it does not fully accord with the ideal realm that the sages describe: one in which ritual and music refine moral instruction and a balanced harmony is established.

Yet the age changes, the right Way declines, and upheavals follow one after another. To cling only to old rules can lead to empty formalism; failing to see the signs of change can make one a precursor to disaster. Those who govern the world continually undertake projects that disturb the people and ultimately bring hardship upon themselves. Those who contend for the world exhaust their strength and ingenuity, leaving the people worn out. If one can grasp the aspect of Laozi’s thought that sees changes clearly and adapts to the times, and wait for the age to restore itself, one can reduce one’s errors. Emperor Wen and Emperor Jing of Han successively pursued lenient and simple policies, and the realm later achieved stability. Zhang Liang and Sun Quan each had different aims, yet both thereby kept clear of danger and ruin. These are results of putting this Way into practice.

Compared with Buddhism’s remote and severe doctrines, which ultimately become entangled in confusion, slight worldly things and ordinary principles, and pursue only the delight of extraordinary visions, is Laozi’s thought not preferable? Sima Qian says that Laozi advocated Wuwei (non-action), allowing the myriad things to transform of themselves, and using stillness and quiet to set the world aright of itself. This account comes close to Laozi’s original meaning. As for the story that Confucius praised Laozi as a dragon, impossible to fathom, it is said to come from a disciple of Confucius. I do not accept it.

In the year Yimo of the Dunmeng Xiehe cycle, in the eighth lunar month, Wang Fuzhi of Nanyue wrote this preface.

If the Dao can be accurately expressed in words, it is not the constant Dao. If a name can be fixed, it is not a constant name. The constant Dao cannot be confined by a name, and a constant name has no fixed designation.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. The many names of the myriad things all arise from it, and cannot be summed up in a single name. Once the Dao has a name, it becomes the source of the myriad things. Names are established in accordance with things, and in turn give each thing its own name. Thus, by regularly observing from the perspective of “nonbeing,” one can apprehend the Dao’s subtlety; by regularly observing from the perspective of “being,” one can discern the bounds of things. Here, “bounds” means limits or scope.

“Being” and “nonbeing” both emerge from the Dao; they simply have different names. Viewed from different perspectives, they seem distinct, but from the standpoint of the constant Dao, they are connected. Whether one has desires or is free of them, by avoiding attachment to either extreme and remaining at the center, one can perceive both the subtle aspect of things and their bounds. This principle is called “mystery.” Mysterious and profound, it is the gateway to the many subtle transformations.

The commentary explains that “the Dao that can be spoken” is not the constant Dao, which has no fixed expression. This does not mean denying the constant Dao; it means not confining it to any one way of speaking. In this way, human ingenuity can accord with nature, and the mind can harmonize with the Way of Heaven. Since Heaven and Earth have a beginning and the myriad things have a source, people, too, can observe by following the course of things. Such observation does not force an outcome; it attends to changes as they unfold of necessity.

If one sees only the differences among things, one sees being and nonbeing continually changing. If one sees their common source, one understands that being appears later, while nonbeing is not an absolute beginning either. Responding actively to external things makes it easy to see only their differences; quietly awaiting change allows one to see how they are connected. Thus, one may encounter the myriad things without claiming their benevolence as one’s own, and enter contests of ingenuity without being drawn along by their sharp edges. One may understand the world’s human relations without compelling others to comply, and set aside personal preconceptions rather than cling to the past and miss new changes. Such a person takes no credit for their achievements, calling this state simply “the many mysteries.” Understanding this principle and abiding in it peacefully, one can remain at ease as all things undergo the changes of life and death.

When everyone in the world recognizes beauty as beauty, ugliness appears. When everyone recognizes goodness as goodness, what is not good appears. Being and nonbeing depend on each other and give rise to each other.

When everyone under Heaven knows what is beautiful, ugliness comes into being; when everyone knows what is good, what is not good comes into being. Being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy complete each other; long and short reveal each other; high and low complement each other; tones and sounds harmonize with each other; front and back follow each other. These are the constant relationships among things under Heaven.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. [This does not mean preventing people under Heaven from knowing; it means simply following what cannot be known in the first place.] When the myriad things arise, the sage does not initiate them; nurtures them, yet does not claim them; acts, yet does not rely on the work accomplished; and, once the work is done, does not claim the credit. Precisely because the sage does not claim credit, the achievement does not disappear.

[The transformations of the world are countless, yet in the end they fall into two sides. These two sides arise from an original unity: once “beautiful” exists, so does “ugly”; once “good” exists, so does “not good.” To judge one side by the standards of another, different side makes black and white compete with each other, while praise and blame become entangled. When the sage speaks of “holding to the One,” the sage means meeting situations in which things form pairs and stand in opposition, while remaining calm within them. The oppositions then seem like barriers. To understand that they never had barriers to begin with is to remain at ease and dissolve the opposition. Raising barriers is called “dwelling”; calmly dissolving them is called “not departing.” This is the way to handle disputes well.]

Do not exalt the reputation of the worthy, and the people will not compete for status. Do not prize rare goods, and the people will not become thieves. Do not display things that stir desire, and the people’s hearts will not be disturbed. Thus the sage is skilled at dissolving disputes.

[Do not exalt the reputation of the worthy, and the people will not compete; do not prize rare goods, and the people will not become thieves; do not display things that stir desire, and the people’s hearts will not be disturbed.] Therefore, when governing the world, the sage makes the people’s minds simple and free of worry [putting to use what seems useless]; ensures that they have enough food and clothing [putting to use what is truly useful]; weakens their ambition to outdo one another [skilled at following the myriad things]; and strengthens their sinews and bones [nurturing the roots and quietly awaiting their growth]. The sage constantly keeps the people free of scheming and desire, and ensures that those who pride themselves on being clever do not dare act recklessly. By acting through Wuwei, nothing is left unguided. [And yet things have already been brought into order.]

Conflict does not necessarily arise because someone is called worthy; theft does not necessarily arise because possessions are rare; and people’s hearts do not necessarily become unsettled only when they see things they desire. The myriad things each exist in isolation, yet deluded thoughts keep arising. The human spirit and body cannot settle themselves, much as wood rubbing against wood generates heat, or waters colliding with one another produce foam. If we then try to govern these stirrings through human contrivance, they will never cease.

Thus the fire of Yang Qi presses forward; when it reaches a certain point, emptiness draws in Yin Qi. The movement of Yin Qi recedes; what has withdrawn then stirs and intrudes upon Yang Qi. Is this not a case of things having a side that turns back upon itself? Emptiness belongs to the heart, fullness to the belly, weakness to the will, and strength to the bones. When each of these four finds its proper place and rests there suitably, I need not interfere by force; matters will naturally be brought into order. What is it, after all, that sets them each in their place? And what governs the timing of their movement? From this we can understand the principle of conflict. Those who do not understand it cannot take part in such a discussion. Thus, the sage uses this principle inwardly to cultivate the self, and outwardly to govern the world.

The substance of the Dao is empty, yet its function is inexhaustible, as though it could never be filled. “Not full” is not the result of deliberate striving, which is why it is said, “perhaps it is not full.” It is deep and subtle, as though it were the source of the myriad things. It gathers in sharpness and resolves confusion; it harmonizes its radiance and mingles with the dusty world. It is still and profound, seeming almost to exist and almost not to exist. I do not know whose offspring it is, yet it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

The character “chong” was written “chong” in an old edition; it refers to the hollow space inside a vessel. A commentary further says that Yang’s function is expressed as sharpness, while Yin’s is expressed as confusion; Yang’s substance is brightness, while Yin’s substance is dust and grime.

Whatever works tends to be used up. Perhaps only what is “empty and put to use, yet never exhausted” is otherwise. The changes in its function sometimes appear amid disorder and the common world, and sometimes in sharpness and clarity. It emerges from sharpness and clarity, then returns to disorder and the common world. Only “the empty center” can appear as both sharpness and clarity and disorder and the common world. It receives all four changes without being confined by any of them.

Thus, when a grand display of force contends for supremacy, the calm mind withdraws and keeps to the sidelines. Even if there is a Kangzi, he cannot depart from his root; even if there is a Taidi, he cannot go beyond his source. Did it ever envy another’s offerings, or compete to imitate another’s steps? People merely model and describe things according to their forms. They give them these names because things cannot go against it.

Heaven and Earth show no partiality: they regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage, too, shows no partiality: he regards the people as straw dogs. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty, yet never exhausted; when set in motion, it sends forth an unceasing flow of wind. Once the wind has blown out, it will eventually run its course; too many words, too, will come to an end. It is better, then, to hold fast to inward stillness and emptiness.

Wind arises from empty space, while a bellows must be worked to function. The two work together to produce an effect, but the bellows itself is not the source of that effect. Thus, things with the same sound do not necessarily respond to one another, and things with the same Qi do not necessarily seek one another out. Heaven and Earth cannot generate the myriad things by themselves, nor can they bring them to completion by themselves. Heaven and Earth have nothing they can claim as their own; how much less, then, do the myriad things—or the sage? Heaven and Earth set the myriad things within themselves by relying only on “emptiness that does not collapse”—emptiness that is never exhausted. The Dao runs through this, so that fish can be like birds and birds can be like fish. Those who practice benevolence cannot resemble this kind of efficacy. Benevolence is the Qi of Heaven and the nourishment of Earth: an achievement with limits.

The spirit of the valley—the Dao, symbolizing emptiness and stillness, yet able to nurture all things—never perishes. This is called the Mysterious Female, the profound maternal source that gives birth to all things. Lü Jifu explains: when bodily form joins with the formless Dao, it does not perish. Form joins with mind, mind with Qi, Qi with Shen, and Shen with emptiness. As these join layer by layer, they do not perish. What does not perish is not bound by ordinary life and death. Unbound by life and death, it can nurture all things: this is the Mysterious Female.

The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the source of Heaven, Earth, and all things. It continues without end, seeming to exist; when it acts, it is never exhausted.

People in the world regard the spirit of the valley as something that can perish, but in truth it has neither birth nor extinction. It can nurture all things, so it is called the Mysterious Female. The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the source of Heaven and Earth. It continues without end, seeming to exist; when it acts, it is never exhausted.

People assume the spirit of the valley can perish, and so they try to seize it on mountains, fish for it in deep waters, govern it within the state, or cultivate it in the wilderness. Yet the spirit of the valley cannot be destroyed. It may be seized, fished for, governed, and cultivated, but it does not claim credit by placing itself ahead of all things.

The Heaven and Earth of the past have passed away into the present, and the Heaven and Earth of the present have come from the past. They pass on continuously, one after another, and so life goes on without end; this is why they are called the root. If one clings to the root and treats it as fixed and unchanging, the root is as good as dead. Understand the root through its ceaseless transformations, and it will endure. “Continuous” suggests something so subtle it is hard to perceive; “without exertion” suggests acting as though doing nothing. To follow the source and put it to use is to open the gateway of the Mysterious Female.

Heaven is long-lasting and Earth endures. The reason Heaven and Earth can last is that they do not live solely for themselves, nor do they make all things grow for their own sake. Thus they endure. The sage, too, grows together with all things. By placing himself last, he comes to the fore; by putting himself beyond concern, he preserves himself. Is this not because he has no private interest? Precisely for this reason, he fulfills himself.

When an embryo grows strong, the mother’s body is depleted; when fruit grows abundant, the branches bend under its weight. Few people think that Heaven and Earth, too, are depleted and wearied by nurturing the myriad things. Heaven and Earth must sustain all things, yet never claim the credit for doing so. Every embryo has its own source, and every plant has the sprout at its root. They grow in the empty expanse, and in the end they rely on the life force within themselves.

The sage does not place himself where the standard belongs, so he can remain behind others. He does not put himself at the center of things, so he can remain detached. He nurtures the myriad things without showing favor or claiming credit; the myriad things are nourished by him and feel no resentment. Thus he does not deliberately display his achievements, yet their effects reach even barren lands. He expects no return, yet his De (virtue and power) extends to generations yet unborn. In this way, he can endure as long as Heaven and Earth.

The highest good is like water. Water is good at nourishing the myriad things, yet it does not contend with them. It always settles in low places that people dislike. People usually favor high places and dislike low ones, so water comes close to the Dao (the Way). In choosing where to dwell, it favors low ground; in its heart, it is deep and broad; in its dealings with others, it is kind; in its words, it is trustworthy; in governing, it is orderly; in its work, it makes full use of its abilities; in its actions, it moves at the right time. Water does not show off these qualities, and for that reason it is truly good. Because it does not contend, it has no faults.

Among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), water’s form is the softest and weakest. Those skilled at keeping to the Dao also follow water in its softness and weakness, without clinging to display. They remain behind others, yet are often first to achieve results. Why? People dislike low places, but they do not realize that water has already reached them. By anticipating where people do not want to contend, then calmly taking what is needed, one harms no one. What, then, is there to contend over? What fault could one have? If everyone knew that the places they disliked in fact held benefits, they would rush to seize them. But human feelings rarely change in this way, and so the sage alone can gain the advantage.

Holding something and insisting on filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping when it is enough. Repeatedly hammering and sharpening a vessel until it is too keen makes it hard to preserve for long. No one can keep a hall piled high with gold and jade. One should safeguard it by refusing to cling to the need to guard it. Pride and complacency after attaining wealth and rank bring misfortune upon oneself. To withdraw after one’s work is complete accords with the way of Heaven.

What can preserve fullness? Perhaps only a valley. What can keep itself sharp? Perhaps only flowing water. Once a vessel is full, it can be set aside for a time; there is no need to insist on possessing it. One follows the changes of circumstances without deliberate carving. Thus, it is sometimes full and sometimes empty, sometimes sharp and sometimes blunt. Otherwise, before things have run their natural course, life has already come to a halt; before the time has naturally passed, one’s breath has already grown weak. How could that persuade anyone?

So Fan Li, also known as Chiyi Zipi, withdrew into seclusion and understood the way of stepping back. Guo Ziyi kept a low profile and understood when to advance and when to retreat. Xu You and Zhifu, legendary recluses of antiquity, left the world behind and grasped the spirit of the matter. What is meant by “the way of stepping back” is advancing when it is time to advance and retreating when it is time to retreat. What is meant by “timing” is knowing how to retreat when one is about to advance, and how to advance when one is about to retreat. As for the spiritual realm, it means achieving things naturally without deliberately seeking success, and becoming whole without deliberately seeking completeness. Yet if one still intends to leave behind a record of one’s withdrawal, it shows that one has not forgotten the Great Dao. If the time has not yet arrived, one has not yet reached the right moment.

Can you unite body and soul and hold fast to the Dao without letting them part? Can you focus on nourishing Jing and Qi, softening body and mind until they are like those of an infant? Can you cleanse the mind and clarify inner awareness until it is without blemish? Can you cherish the state and govern the people without imposing your will? When the Gate of Heaven—the place through which life is born and passes—opens and closes, can you remain yielding and take the receptive position? In the generation of the myriad things, can you be like the female and receive what comes in accordance with its course? Can you understand clearly and see in every direction without relying on cleverness or making use of artifice?

The wheel turns because the hub has an empty space where the spokes can meet. To concentrate on a task and deliberately seek success is to depart from the natural state of an infant. To want to wash or remove something means that distinctions and flaws have already arisen in the mind. To cherish something and set about managing it is likewise to fall into deliberate action. In the movements of opening and closing, coming and going, one loses part of the softness and stillness of remaining in the receptive position. To understand something in the mind and make its workings reach in every direction is to engage in discriminating knowledge. The Dao is not fixed or unchanging, yet through this it takes on names. When being and nonbeing harbor no suspicion of one another, this is the utmost subtle Virtue.

Thirty spokes join at a single hub; it is the empty space within the hub that makes the wheel useful. Clay is kneaded into a vessel; it is the empty space inside that makes it useful for holding things. Doors and windows are cut into walls to make a house; it is the openings in the walls and the empty space within that make the house accessible and livable. Thus, tangible things provide convenience, while the intangible emptiness makes them useful. Wu Youqing said, “The subtle breath of form sustains the body, while material things nourish the breath.”

We create tangible things to obtain their use. Who realizes that seeking tangible things is, in fact, also a way of preserving intangible emptiness? People arrange tangible things, yet their purpose lies in what can be done with the intangible. Can this be because they delight in emptiness? Emptiness is where usefulness is held in reserve. Things appear before me, but I cannot ultimately possess them outright. Images and numbers—the forms of things and their underlying patterns—appear before the Dao, yet the Dao does not cling to them, lest it be constrained.

Yin congeals and Yang harmonizes to form a person, with a balanced Qi between them. Only those who do not fixate on the timing of the fire or on talismanic methods can encounter this principle. Benevolence and righteousness, firmness and gentleness, shape teachings; within them is also the Great Uncarved Simplicity, the unpolished nature of things. Only those who do not fixate on innate nature or feelings can understand it. Victory and defeat, gain and loss, shape change; within them is also the moment when things meet and respond. Only those who do not fixate on orderly rule or disorder can grasp it.

Therefore, avoid what is firm and strike what is weak; set aside names and follow the nature of things. Only those who do not cling to circumstances can grasp the moment when things meet. Wait a little, and the many tangled changes will converge into one.

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five sounds dull the ears; the five flavors distort the palate. Indulging in horseback riding and hunting drives the mind into a frenzy. Rare and precious goods hinder people’s conduct. Therefore, the Sage attends to what sustains body and mind and does not become absorbed in sensory pleasures. The Sage lets go of those temptations and chooses what truly benefits the self.

The eyes rely on cleverness to grasp things; the belly takes plainness, without cleverness, as its own way. Cleverness answers cleverness, while the absence of cleverness provides room for cleverness to work. The heart lies between the eyes and the belly. Let the heart settle back into the plainness represented by the belly, and then things can be observed. Thus, amid murkiness, do not hold to preconceived notions; amid clarity, leave no deliberate trace. Do not use ritual and law to forcefully suppress desire, nor use intelligence to judge and manipulate the mind. Let things decline of themselves, and one’s nature will naturally unfold.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace can both leave a person shaken. To regard honor as important as one’s own body is to regard great calamity as weighty as oneself. What does it mean that “favor and disgrace alike cause alarm”? Receiving favor already puts one in a low position. [When disgrace comes, one is alarmed; when it passes, one is relieved. When favor comes, one is alarmed; when favor is lost, one is alarmed again. So, by comparison, favor is worse.] To be alarmed when favor comes and alarmed again when it is lost is what is meant by “favor and disgrace alike cause alarm.”

What does it mean to regard great calamity as weighty as oneself? I have great calamity because I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could befall me? Therefore, only one who can cherish the self while governing the realm may be entrusted with the realm; only one who can care for the self while governing the realm may be entrusted with it.

Ordinary people take the affairs of the world upon themselves. The Perfected Person, whose virtue is lofty, places himself beyond the world and does not let its affairs burden him. Look at those who take the world upon themselves: surely they invite troubles they cannot avoid. When favored, they are alarmed; when shamed, they are alarmed too. This is what it means to take the world upon oneself: to take fear into the heart and let it unsettle you.

The world’s greatest trouble lies in taking it in and valuing it more highly than oneself. Even one’s own person can become a source of trouble; to prize the world’s troubles as well and carry them on one’s back is to take calamity into the heart and let it bind you.

Only those who do not cling to themselves let the ears hear what they naturally hear, without taking responsibility for hearing on behalf of the world; and let the eyes see what they naturally see, without taking responsibility for watching on behalf of the world. When their own ears and eyes are at rest, the world’s seeing and hearing are no longer confused. Fear and calamity fade from them and, with them, subside throughout the world. In this way, such people can give the people something to rely on without causing them to fall.

When you look at it, you cannot see it; this is called “Yi.” When you listen for it, you cannot hear it; this is called “Xi.” When you reach out to touch it, you cannot grasp it; this is called “Wei.” What are ordinarily called “color, sound, and form” each have their own name, which is why the text speaks here of “three.” These three cannot be traced to a final answer: following them backward from later times, they seem to exist; yet when you ask where they came from, they seem not to exist. Thus they blend into one. Li Yue says, “If even ‘one’ cannot be established, how could it be divided into three?”

Before it appears, it is neither bright nor dim, for color, sound, and form have not yet arisen and cannot be distinguished. Once they do appear, however, tracing them back to their source makes clear that it is not obscure. It continues without end and is difficult to name: being and nonbeing follow one another, so how can one tell where it begins or ends? Call it “being,” and you leave out “nonbeing”; call it “nonbeing,” and you leave out “being.” In the end, it returns to what has neither form nor substance. This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the insubstantial,” or “Huhuang,” a state difficult to discern.

Facing it, you cannot see its head; following it, you cannot see its tail. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to govern the myriad things of the present. “Ancient” also refers to the beginning, while “present” means what exists before us now. Li Yue says, “Make the mind empty and still, and the Dao will appear of itself. Then grasp it and use it to respond to the myriad things.” To know that primordial source is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

Things have their own boundaries, but people do not know where those boundaries lie. So sometimes they bring things together, and sometimes they separate them, until everything becomes a source of trouble. The Dao originally has no boundaries, but people insist on drawing boundaries around it. They become attached to the Dao and make distinctions within it, until the Dao is reduced to a name. When the boundless Dao guides bounded things, one can roam freely all day long, and trouble and names alike disappear. When both trouble and names have disappeared, one may be said to have reached the state of “no things.”

Among things with form, some are light and some heavy; some are bright and some dustlike; some move and some are still. None of these has a fixed standard. Once things are distinguished and called Yin and Yang, the primordial Qi that harmonizes Yin and Yang is harmed. Once things are distinguished as benevolence and righteousness, the naturally blended harmony disperses. The Dao arose before Yin and Yang were divided; could it then decline because of the division into benevolence and righteousness? Thus even Li Zhu, famed in legend for his keen sight, could not see what lies at the boundary between darkness and brightness. Shi Kuang, famed for his keen hearing, could not distinguish the point where the notes gong and shang meet in the five-note scale. Qing Ji, famed for his speed, could not seize the fleeting instant as fine as the gap between specks of dust in the air. And the divine Yu, the sage king famed for controlling the floods, could not discern the subtle differences at the boundary between Heaven and Earth. If even they could not, how could anyone who has not reached the constant state understand these principles?

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, far-reaching and penetrating, and unfathomable. Because they were so difficult to understand, people could only try to describe them through a few images: cautious, like crossing a river in winter; hesitant, like keeping watch on neighbors all around; solemn, like a guest who dares not act carelessly. Lü Jifu says, “They do not take themselves to be the host.” Receptive, like ice melting; substantial, like uncarved wood; open, like a valley; muddied, like turbid water; calm, like the sea; quiet and detached, as if they had nowhere to dwell.

Who can still muddy water and let it slowly grow clear? Who can set something settled in motion and gradually bring it to life? Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness. Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they can remain veiled and not show themselves; they are also deep and vast like the sea, quiet and detached, as if they had nowhere to dwell. Shao Ruoyu says, “One can remain veiled, avoid appearing new, and still bring things to completion.”

Chapter Fifteen

People mostly pursue the mysterious, yet rarely understand it through the subtle details. They mostly pursue insight, yet rarely regard the deep and far-reaching principles as true insight. A ceremonial hat may not suit the customs of Yue. Since I have no plans to go to Yue, why test myself by trying on the hat, or by refusing to wear it? How can we know that those who will not try it would necessarily be unsuited once they reached Yue? Better to sit quietly and wait, allowing ice to grow warm again and turbidity to clear. Travel through the rain without borrowing an umbrella; press on hungry without carrying provisions. Wait patiently: can the Yellow River truly never run clear, or horns truly never grow on a horse’s head? Such is the state of the world, yet those who contend for fame and chase profit count the blunting of their edge as an achievement. People abandon what is old and delight in what is novel, yet never manage to accomplish anything. This has gone on for a long time.

Bring the mind to the utmost emptiness and stillness, and firmly hold to tranquility. The myriad things grow and change together; from this I observe how they cycle and return. The myriad things flourish without end, yet in time each returns to its root. Returning to the root is called “stillness”—not because I force the myriad things to become still. Stillness is called returning to the source of life; returning to the source is called the constant, the enduring and unchanging pattern. To know the constant is to be wise. To act recklessly without knowing it brings danger.

Knowing the constant, one can embrace all things. Embracing all things, one can be impartial. Being impartial, one can fully receive the comings and goings of all things. Being complete accords with nature, and nature accords with the Dao (the Way). Accord with the Dao, and one can endure; throughout one’s life, one will face no danger.

The lowest approach is to insist on pursuing what is real; somewhat better is to make a point of seeking nothingness. The lowest approach is to force things to change; somewhat better is to cling to stillness. Between the extremes of reality and nothingness, emptiness is already the natural state: when the activity of all things reaches its limit, stillness returns of its own accord. Only by neither deliberately pursuing nor stubbornly holding on can one reach the utmost and keep it deeply.

How do we know this is so? All things grow together, flourishing in great profusion; once their momentum is spent, they return to their original state. Thus the leaves of the Denglín, the legendary forest of luxuriant foliage, can be roughly counted without counting them, and the rain falling across a thousand miles can be measured without any instrument. To abandon this natural principle and instead deliberately contrive things—is that not reckless action? So, without deliberate action, one can make the world serve one’s purpose. The Dao works not by contrivance, but by observation. Observation is the function of the eyes. When the eyes merely observe without contriving, they too can receive things calmly, like the belly.

The most accomplished ruler is one whose existence the people scarcely notice. The next is one whom they love and praise; the next, one they fear; the worst, one they hold in contempt. When trust is lacking, the people do not trust him. The ruler is at ease, speaks little, and is careful with his words.

It is because he lacks confidence in himself that he does not trust the constant principles inherent in the world. He fails to learn from experience yet speaks at length, and so invites contempt. When the work is done, the people all say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

When people decide that this place accords with the Dao (the Way), they begin to suspect that other places do not. When they decide that other places accord with the Dao, they begin to suspect that this place does not. First they divide the Dao in two, then try to join the halves together. The result is that the Dao becomes two things, plunging people into confusion and distress. When confusion and distress coexist, doubt cannot be dispelled. Once people are troubled by doubt, kings worry that the people are not close to them, while hegemons feel uneasy because people do not fear them. Unable to dispel their doubts, they resort to solemn covenants to bind everyone: they begin by swearing oaths and invoking curses, but in the end must put on armor and take up arms to enforce the covenant.

Could a ruler who helps people forget artificial contrivances and follow what is natural have a mind that is not itself natural? He trusts that all things under Heaven cannot go beyond their own patterns. He lets them change in accordance with their course, without straying from what they came from or going against the direction in which they ultimately return. He adds no unnecessary actions to the world; he simply waits for the myriad things to fulfill themselves. Thus, people’s nature cannot be forced to follow a prescribed course or arbitrarily remade. The highest form of governance does not deliberately clear a path for anything, nor does it deliberately block anything. Like an elder teaching others, it lets things follow their natural course and allows everyone to do what they are capable of. People then praise this governance with calm assurance, calling it “natural.”

“Governance of the highest antiquity” refers to the highest level of governance. Here, “natural” means following one’s own nature and happening spontaneously; it does not refer only to the natural world in the modern sense.

Only after the Great Dao declined did the names “benevolence” and “righteousness” arise. When cleverness and ingenuity came to the fore, great hypocrisy appeared. Only when the six relationships—father and son, mother and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife—fell into discord did people make a special point of praising filial devotion and parental care. Only when the state was in chaos did loyal ministers become conspicuous.

Wang Jiepu says: “The Dao disappears into what has no form; names arise when something is lacking.” Li Xizhai says: “As the Great Dao breaks apart, deviations and errors gradually arise. When hypocrisy gains the upper hand, people instead begin once more to revere the Dao. When the Great Dao first begins to break apart, people see only its resemblances and forget its wholeness. By the time it has declined, it has vanished completely, and people then come to value those resemblances. Thus the state of the world grows worse with each passing age, each stage lower than the last.”

Cups and bowls are made by craftsmen, but in the process the wood leaves the forest. Jars and basins are fired by potters, but the clay leaves the hillside. Though the vessels are finished, people thereby lose their nature, through which they receive and partake of the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth. If clay and wood can carry what is drunk, what of human beings? What of the Dao? Thus, to benefit only the vessel while harming oneself is called incompleteness; to attend only to one’s own craft while damaging things outside oneself is called injustice.

Put an end to self-proclaimed wisdom and abandon clever contrivances, and the people will benefit more. Abandon the labels of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover filial devotion and loving care. Give up deceitful cleverness and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will disappear. Yet treating these three as the ornamental trappings of governance is still not enough. [Lü Jifu says, “Ornament without a foundation is incomplete.”] So people must also be given somewhere to return: reveal the unadorned nature, preserve simplicity, lessen thoughts and desires, and put an end to the contrived pursuit of learning; then there will be no troubles.

“Continuous and unbroken, seeming to exist and yet not to exist”—perhaps it has something to which it returns! Fish move by relying on water; birds fly by relying on the air. Nothing can contain all the colors and patterns under Heaven more fully than the unadorned nature; nothing can make up for what is lacking under Heaven more powerfully than simplicity. If you regard it as something real, you have not yet truly understood its function. If you regard it as nothing, it is precisely here that human beings and Heaven can draw near and join in harmony. By attaching oneself to harmonious Qi, one gains life and can therefore endure. To depart from harmonious Qi and seek only to put it to specialized use is to lose the ability to accomplish anything great.

How great is the difference between the replies “Yes” and “Ah”? How far apart are what people call beautiful and ugly? I, too, cannot help fearing what everyone fears. The affairs of the world are vast and tangled, seemingly without end.

Everyone is cheerful and excited, as if attending a great feast or climbing a terrace on a spring day to admire the view. I alone am quiet and detached, showing no signs of feeling, wholly without knowledge or desire—like an infant who has not yet learned to smile, or a wanderer with no settled home. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to lack everything. How foolish my mind must seem! While worldly people are clear-sighted and conspicuous, I alone am dim and obscure; while they are discerning and exact, I alone am dull and simple. Everyone has abilities and a purpose; I alone am clumsy and inept. I differ from everyone else: I value only drawing nourishment from the “Mother.” “Mother” is a metaphor for the Dao, the source of all things.

Su Ziyou says: This is like an infant who takes no other food, relying only on its mother to feed it.

Good and evil oppose one another, arising from what is learned after birth. So those who deliberately imitate benevolence and righteousness may, in doing so, lose the wisdom to discern clearly; those who deliberately imitate cleverness may lose their kind and generous hearts. People first divide their positions and argue over them, then force them back together, thinking this will free them from trouble. They do not realize that the differences between them are not so great. Thus, ritual deference and humility may be no more than outward gestures, while campaigns and punitive expeditions may arise from flattery and ingratiation.

People each cling to one side, seeking only a moment’s pleasure. Once accustomed to lavish feasts, they no longer appreciate other flavors; tired of springtime outings, they no longer wish to see other landscapes. A person has only one mouth and one pair of eyes, yet countless preferences; the heart is one, but the desires of the mouth and eyes are countless. How can people keep rushing about, chasing what they choose and reject? Only by taking the “Mother” as nourishment can one do so. The “Mother” refers to the root of the Dao. Those who take the Dao as their ground make use of things only when they have no choice, and never feel driven by a particular desire. Thus they can traverse even boundless, remote wilderness and dwell at ease in what is ordinary and unadorned.

What they rely on, however, is stillness and responsiveness. Everyone in the world fears being inhumane, but I do not dare become cruel for that reason; everyone fears being unwise, but I do not dare become confused for that reason. It is like walking across snow, afraid to leave footprints, or making one’s way through brambles, afraid of getting caught. When one’s actions are gentle and winding, slight and unobtrusive, the distinctions and contrivances acquired after birth can come to rest. Once these contrivances have ceased, one’s own person is not harmed, and external things are not injured.

The expression of great De is simply to follow the Dao. The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp. In its elusiveness, there are images; between seeming presence and absence, there are things. In its profound darkness, it contains the subtle essence. This subtle essence is real, and within it there is something reliable. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has endured, enabling us to examine the source of the myriad things. Wang Bi says, “‘To survey’ is like coming out through a gate, where each thing can be counted in turn. This means that the Dao is like a gate through which all things emerge.” How do I know the source of the myriad things? Through the Dao.

Only through the union of two opposing ends is there a “middle.” The “indistinct” (a subtle, elusive state) has no opposing end, and so there is no so-called “middle.” If we understand the “middle” as a point somewhere between two ends, it must inevitably lean to the left or right. How, then, could it count as a true middle? The “middle” is a state that enters into opposition while encompassing both ends.

Metal is hard, yet it can be forged and melted. Earth may build up in thick layers, yet water can wash it away and level it. Clearly, neither metal nor earth can retain its original nature forever. There are hot springs and cold fires, too, so water and fire cannot hold fast to their natures. What, then, can be strong without being forged like metal, deep and solid without being like thick earth, and able to burn without the warmth of fire or to make people feel cold without the dampness of water? It can pass through change without altering its essential nature. It understands the circumstances of things, yet does not insist on going toward or pursuing them. Thus, nothing is truer than what has no form or substance; nothing is more trustworthy than what does not repeatedly change; nothing has a more enduring name than what remains constant in relation to one another; and no form among the myriad things is more complete than one that loses none of its subtle distinctions. To keep to oneself the subtle workings of the Dao’s movement and cast aside its superficial, misleading appearances is what may be called “profound and vast De” (Virtue/Power).

To bend is to preserve oneself; to be wronged is to straighten; to be low is to be filled; to be worn out is to be renewed; to have little is to gain; to have much is to be confused. Though opposing ends are listed here, the subject is still profound and vast De.

To bend is to preserve oneself; to be wronged is to straighten; to be low is to be filled; to be worn out is to be renewed; to have little is to gain; to have much is to be confused. Though opposing ends are listed, the point is that they transform into one another in turn. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao, the fundamental principle by which all things operate, and makes it the standard for all under Heaven. The sage does not deliberately display himself, and so is clear-sighted; does not insist on being right, and so becomes renowned; does not boast of himself, and so establishes merit; does not exalt himself, and so endures. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him. Could the ancients’ saying, “To bend is to preserve oneself,” really be empty words? Indeed, all things are preserved by this and return to the Dao.

The changes in things always involve coming and going. Rather than greet something as it arrives, it is better to seize the moment when it is about to depart. Rather than chase after something that has already gone, it is better to wait for it to return. If the mind keeps its eyes fixed on these comings and goings day after day, it will either act before the right moment or fall behind it. Once the first opportunity is missed, later opportunities cannot be grasped either; the more frantically one strives, the less one gains. Thus, the clever-minded person feels each day that they still have something to gain, while the one who understands the Great Dao sees each day what they lack.

The Dao—the fundamental pattern by which all things move—lies within their changes. If, like someone chasing an escaped child or searching for a lost family treasure, you race about in panic on horseback and still cannot find it after a whole day, then your fixation on gain and loss has already become delusion. The Dao may also be called “Emptiness” (chong: stillness and open clarity); Emptiness may also be called “the Constant” (chang: what endures without change). Hold to the Constant, put stillness and openness to use, and cultivate an attitude of yielding in order to remain whole; then you can understand the great pattern of things coming and going.

Speaking little accords with nature. A gale cannot last all morning, and a downpour cannot last all day. What brings about such violent changes? Heaven and Earth. If even the changes of Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can those of human beings? Therefore, those who act in accordance with the Dao become one with the Dao; those who act in accordance with De become one with De; and those who turn away from Dao and De become one with their loss of the Dao. The Dao welcomes those who are one with it; De welcomes those who are one with it; those who are one with the loss of the Dao likewise receive the consequences of that loss. When trust is insufficient, others will not trust. Only one who truly understands the Dao sees everything as simply happening of itself.

[Chapter Twenty-Three] When Heaven and Earth depart from the way of harmony, they may still carry out the affairs of Heaven and Earth, but they cannot do so for long. When people depart from harmony, they may gain for a time, but they cannot endure. When trust is insufficient, others will not trust. Only one who truly understands the Dao sees everything as simply happening of itself.

When Heaven and Earth lose harmony between Yin and Yang, they may for a time seem like Heaven and Earth, but they cannot endure. When people go against their inner harmony, they gain some things and lose others, yet cannot remain consistent. When Yang Qi becomes excessive, Yin Qi is suppressed; when Yin Qi becomes excessive, Yang Qi is suppressed in turn. Words carried too far can lead to a misstep; joy at its height may turn to sorrow. A mind that keeps wavering can startle awake even in sleep. Those who do not understand how all things are vast and interconnected end up disbelieving many truths. In doing so, they unknowingly lose the constant Dao (the Way). How, then, can they expect to accord with nature? The Dao is the Dao, De (Virtue/Power) is De, and loss is loss. The Dao and De move at ease through the interconnection of all things. What could change after a long time? If joy and anger do not go to excess, how could they bring on failings like wind and rain?

Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who take oversized strides do not get far. Those who put themselves on display cannot see clearly; those who insist they are right are not recognized; those who boast have no merit; those who exalt themselves cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, these actions are like extra food or a burdensome body. All things dislike such behavior, so those who possess the Dao do not act this way.

The more urgently one turns one’s thoughts toward something, the easier it is to miss the moment; the more stubbornly one persists, the more serious the deviation may become. Chasing after a moment that has already passed to make up for it is like setting out more food after one is full. Forcing a moment that has not yet arrived into the present is like adding a piece to a body that is already complete. The Dao’s transformations are endless. If one clings to a single aspect or something superfluous and tries to grasp the whole Great Dao through it, one will naturally incur the aversion of all things and harm oneself as well.

There is a being, blended and complete, that came into existence before Heaven and Earth were formed…

There is a thing formed in a state of undifferentiated wholeness, existing before Heaven and Earth appeared. Silent and vast, it stands alone without changing, moving in cycles without ceasing. [Zhong Shiji says: “Having no companion is called ‘standing alone’; remaining constant from antiquity to the present is called ‘unchanging’; being everywhere is called ‘moving throughout’; and meeting no obstruction wherever it goes is called ‘never failing.’”] It can serve as the root of Heaven and Earth. [“Can serve” means that all things under Heaven recognize it as their root, yet it takes no pride in this; it has no intention of ruling the world.] I do not know what it was originally called. [It cannot be accurately defined by a name, hence “do not know.”] I reluctantly give it the courtesy name Dao (the Way), and then reluctantly call it Great.

“Great” means moving and flowing; moving and flowing means reaching afar; reaching afar means returning. Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the human being is great too. Among the four great things between Heaven and Earth, the human being is one. Human beings take their model from Earth, Earth takes its model from Heaven, Heaven takes its model from the Dao, and the Dao takes its model from what is natural.

[Forms have boundaries, but the Dao has none. The Dao neither rejects being nor rejects nonbeing; it moves along with them. Its movement does not stop anywhere, so it is called “passing on” and “far-reaching.” Since it moves with all things, it also returns with all things. The Dao, when at rest, does not depart from its origin; it also arrives together with all things. Thus, having traveled far, it returns. Since the Dao is like this, those who model themselves on it likewise follow its course, coming and going with the flow. Those who hold fast to the constant Dao allow the world to return naturally to its proper state. There is no need to fear that the patterns governing the movement of all things will be insufficient. “Carrying the corporeal soul, embracing the One without separation” describes putting this principle into practice. Applied close at hand, to oneself, it means settling the mind and spirit without letting them be drawn along by a calculating gaze. Applied at a distance, to Heaven and Earth, it means grasping the principles of governing the whole without dividing things into fragments. In this way, one can become ruler of the world.]

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation. [Han Fei says: “When control rests in oneself, this is called ‘heaviness’; when one does not depend on an external position, this is called ‘stillness.’” Lü Jifu says: “One acts only when compelled, responds only when there is a stimulus, and rises only when there is no other choice; thus one can become ruler of the world.”]

Steadiness is the foundation of rashness; calm is the master of agitation. [Han Fei says: What one can govern oneself, without being controlled by external things, is called “weightiness”; not relying on an outward position is called “stillness.” Lü Jifu says: To act only when pressed, respond only when moved, and rise only when truly compelled—this is steadiness. To refrain from acting recklessly is calm.] Thus, a gentleman may travel all day without leaving the vehicle that carries his baggage. Even amid splendid sights before him, he can dwell at ease and remain detached. How can a ruler who governs a realm of ten thousand chariots treat the affairs of the world lightly? Rashness means losing one’s foundation; agitation means losing one’s mastery.

Only with roots can there be stems; only with a ruler can there be ministers. Even so, should one not all the more hold fast to the foundation? Between a single breath in and out, all manner of activity follows in succession, and people cannot help but pause at times. The Dao is not confined by where things pause. Observe each pause, and you can see the Dao moving through emptiness, never ceasing. If one cannot endure even for a moment, but acts rashly—responding to one matter in a way that goes against all others, or showing kindness to one side and thereby provoking resentment from the other three—then one is handing authority over to the world and, in turn, becoming subject to others.

Thus the Xia dynasty moved toward ruin by building a palace at Mu, and the Zhou dynasty declined by campaigning in the Han River region and constructing ships. Seeking to save the world through benevolence only causes the world to sink deeper; seeking to rescue it through righteousness only drives it into hardship. The world is so vast that it can be thrown into turmoil in the blink of an eye. How much more easily, then, can the small measure of peace within us be disturbed?

Those skilled at walking leave no clear traces. Those skilled at speaking leave no faults or flaws. Those skilled at calculating need no counting rods, the ancient tools used for reckoning, since relying on them alone can mean attending to small details while overlooking the larger picture. Those skilled at closing a gate make it impossible to open even without a bolt. Those skilled at tying a knot make it impossible to untie even without a rope. Lü Jifu says, “If I do not open it myself, who can open it?” The knot spoken of here binds without fastening and joins without separating, like the bond between a mother and child.

Thus the sage is always skilled at helping people and abandons no one. The sage is skilled at caring for all things and neglects nothing. This is called following the light of the Dao. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good is also a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor one’s teacher or value one’s lesson, then even if one believes oneself wise, one remains confused. This is the essential and subtle principle.

The discernment I possess is not true discernment. How much less should I direct my cleverness toward external things, measure their strengths and weaknesses, and show off my abilities? Birds are trapped by solid ground, earthworms by open spaces, and fish have no way forward when they leave the water for dry land. These are simply the ways they are captured. They do not know that true attainment lies in avoiding capture. If you wish to surpass the myriad things, do not set out to measure them. The myriad things adorn their forms and seek one another. Some conceal what is beautiful in themselves to stir the other. They all secretly probe one another’s depths, concealing what is their own and claiming what they find. In this way, external things move toward me, while I do not actively pursue them.

Everyone seeks fullness; only emptiness and stillness leave no gaps. So the mind that distinguishes good from evil subsides, and words and actions are no longer deliberately controlled. The subtlety within is difficult to glimpse.

Understand the principle of strength, yet hold to weakness. Lü Jifu says this means “harmony without taking the lead.” In this way, one can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, one’s enduring De will never be lost, and in the end one returns to the unspoiled simplicity of an infant.

Know what is strong, yet remain steadfast in what is yielding: then you become like the ravine of the world. As the ravine of the world, your constant De will never depart, and in the end you return to the innocence of an infant.

Know what is bright, yet remain steadfast in what is dark: then you can become the model of the world. As the model of the world, your constant De will never go astray, and in the end you return to the Limitless—the state without boundaries or definition. [Nothing lies beyond the Limitless, and the Limitless itself cannot be defined.]

Know what is honored, yet remain steadfast in what is disgraced: then you become like the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will become abundant, and in the end you return to uncarved simplicity. Lü Jifu says, “To keep hold of it is to take it as one’s root; to know it is to take it as the end that comes into view.”

Once uncarved simplicity is divided, it forms the various vessels. When the sage makes use of these vessels, he becomes the chief of the officials. [What he uses is the Way as a whole, before uncarved simplicity was divided.] Thus, great wisdom does not cut things apart.

[At times, be yielding; at times, be yielding. At times, be bright; at times, be dark. At times, be honored; at times, be disgraced. If these opposites are cut off from one another and cannot flow through one another, my Way is nearly at an end. And what I know of things and what I hold to will also become inconsistent. The knowing aspect belongs to clarity; the holding fast aspect belongs to stillness. When the two methods are separated, each returns to its corresponding form. One who can roam freely at the center of the circle understands this principle.

If one sets out to know, yet the final achievement lies in holding fast, why is this so? Clarity is the guest, while stillness is the host. Things inevitably turn around once they reach their utmost point, and what can remain in the host’s place for a long time is the state that follows this reversal. Thus, an infant can grow into a strong adult, but an adult cannot become an infant again; the Limitless can appear as the existent, but the existent cannot become nothing again; simplicity can be carved into vessels, but vessels cannot return to simplicity.

Yet the sage does not cling to distinctions between what can and cannot be done. He roams freely at the center of the circle, like unbroken rain pouring into an ant’s nest, or a wild fire burning through grass on the plain. There is no beginning or end; things are at once utterly full and utterly empty. Once the situation of things has taken shape, clarity and turbidity each return to their proper place. This is governance made manifest and vast.

Even so, if practical affairs must be handled, one should take up what is yielding, dark, and humbled, grasp its power, and thereby govern all the formed vessels of the world.]

If one seeks to govern the world through deliberate action, success will be difficult. The world is a wondrous vessel, and its subtle workings are constantly shifting; they cannot be directed at will or forcibly controlled. Deliberate action leads to failure, while rigid control leads to loss. Therefore, the sage follows things as they are and does not act recklessly, so does not fail; the sage does not force control, so does not lose.

Among things, some advance while others follow; some breathe out gently while others blow fiercely; some are strong while others are weak; some support while others overturn. These changes are driven by the subtle workings of nature. Therefore, the sage sets aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

If the world and I are one, what is there for me to take? If I am in harmony with the world, what is there for me to do? If the world is as I am, what could I desire? If I am as the world is, what could I hold on to? Viewed from my perspective, the world appears wondrous; treated by artificial means, its wonder is damaged. If one does not follow nature but instead tries to dominate all things, the world will fall into disorder. When one follows the natural character of all things and lets human interference recede, one’s own being can become settled.

So even if one examines the world’s changes exhaustively, by casting off the three deadly fixations within oneself, one can wait for a forest ablaze with fierce fire to grow cold, and watch a flood that reaches the sky recede and dry up. Water and fire will lose their power; even metal and stone will lose their firmness. How much more, then, must living beings with feelings and desires eventually reach their end, and bodies sustained by breath eventually grow weak?

Those who assist a ruler by means of the Dao do not use military force to impose their will on all under Heaven. War has far-reaching consequences: where armies have been stationed, brambles grow thick, and years of famine often follow major campaigns. Those skilled in warfare do only what is necessary to achieve their aims; they do not use military success to assert their strength. They win results without boasting, claiming credit, or growing arrogant and complacent. Even when victory is won only because circumstances leave no other choice, they do not treat it as a display of strength. Even when the times make military action unavoidable, and war must be used to stop calamity once it has broken out, they still hold to these five principles. Anything that is deliberately made to flourish and grow strong will move toward decay. This is called departing from the Dao; what departs from the Dao soon perishes.

The worst use of military force is to kill; a better use is to preserve life. Yet even efforts to promote the flourishing of life can create needless disturbance—how much more so the taking of life? People are already growing of themselves; why should I urge them to grow? Moreover, the means of building an achievement can also become the source of disaster. People have their own vital energy, yet it cannot simply be left to grow naturally; all things eventually perish, yet killing cannot be relied on as a means. To act only from a moment’s reluctance and call it decisiveness—is that not self-deception? Thus, those skilled at stopping violence wait for it to subside of its own accord rather than destroying what has just begun to emerge. Those skilled at governing desires block them at the point where they are beginning to grow rather than forcibly extinguishing emotions that have already surfaced. Those who cherish life keep to the proper measure amid the waxing and waning of things, and do not intervene rashly when change and conflict are at their fiercest. In this way, even when calamity strikes, they do not bring about decline prematurely.

Weapons are instruments of ill omen, and people generally loathe them; therefore, those who have the Dao do not make them their usual means. In ordinary life, the left is honored; when troops are sent out, the right is honored. Weapons are inauspicious things, not something a noble person delights in using. They are used only when there is no alternative, and should be approached with calm detachment. Even after winning a battle, one should not regard victory as cause for rejoicing. To take pride in victory is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot realize their aims under Heaven. For festive occasions, the left is honored; for funerals, the right. The deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right: military positions are thus arranged according to funeral rites. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and mourn; even in victory, one should observe the rites of mourning.

Rather than grieving afterward, it is better to prevent events from happening in the first place, for by then there is no way to put one’s aspirations into practice in the world. In auspicious rites, the left is honored; in funerary rites, the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme general stands on the right: this arrangement follows the rites for mourning. When many people have been killed, the dead should be mourned with sorrow; even victory in battle should be treated with the rites of mourning.

Rather than grieving afterward, why not let go of the desire to win before it arises? Rather than taking pride in one’s achievements while following the rites of mourning, why not follow the auspicious Way and remain in a place where there are no achievements to claim? If one cannot seize the moment and choose the auspicious Way, or preserve some room to spare when circumstances are favorable, then one is what they call “people who do not understand the true meaning of ritual.”

The Dao is eternally nameless. Wang Bi says, “The Dao has no form and is not subject to constraint; therefore it is eternal and cannot be named.” The Dao is plain and formless. Though it may seem small, nothing under Heaven can control it. If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. When the Yin and Yang of Heaven and Earth unite, sweet dew descends; the people need no commands, and everything naturally finds balance.

When things begin to divide, names arise. Once names have appeared, one should know when to stop. Knowing where to stop makes it possible to hold fast to the Dao, and all things will naturally submit. When Heaven and Earth unite, sweet dew descends; without being commanded, the people naturally find balance. Knowing where to stop allows one to avoid danger. The Dao’s relation to the world is like streams and ravines flowing together to form rivers and seas: streams and ravines can flow into rivers and seas, but rivers and seas cannot flow back into them. The Dao spreads out and becomes the myriad things of the world, but the myriad things cannot in turn become the Dao.

[Commentary] Following things back to their original source, one finds the nameless. Remaining with what has already taken shape, one finds names. Once names have formed, if one can stop at what is sufficient, the original names will not go on generating new distinctions. In this way, even if one passes beyond existing limits, one can still return to the beginning. Heaven and Earth are substantial; sweet dew embodies emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action): it rises from the earth, which takes no credit, and descends from Heaven, which does not claim it as its own. This natural state can be maintained even after the myriad things have taken shape; without waiting for commands, they balance themselves. How much more, then, can the stillness acquired after birth accord with what came before birth—and with the Dao, which never began and has never ceased?

Understanding others is cleverness; understanding oneself is true insight. Overcoming others is strength; overcoming oneself is true fortitude. Those who know contentment are rich. Those who persist in putting the Dao into practice have resolve. By holding fast to the Dao’s emptiness and stillness, without straying from the Way of Heaven, one can accord with the Dao that came before birth.

Understanding others is intelligence; understanding yourself is true insight. Overcoming others takes strength; overcoming yourself is true power. Knowing when you have enough makes you rich; acting with perseverance shows resolve. By keeping hold of your roots, you can endure. When the body dies but the Dao does not perish, that is true longevity.

【Using Qi to replenish Qi and Jing to replenish Jing, while believing you have not lost your roots, will ultimately lead to decline. Is this not the lesson of Shan Bao, who failed through neglect of the outer, and Zhang Yi, who failed through neglect of the inner? To rely on clever schemes or flaunt one’s strength is merely to pursue one’s own aims. Though one may be firmly set on a goal, one cannot act in harmony with nature, and so something is ultimately lost. When Jing and Qi appear depleted, this may be called “death”; yet the inner state—gentle as a maiden, flowing like clouds of Qi, subtle and unobstructed—has not perished. If you cannot truly put that subtle awareness to use, bending and extending freely within the Qi of harmony, as though embracing it without ever letting go, how could you reach this state? Thus the method handed down by Youyu, the legendary sage king of antiquity, can endure, while the Dao of Taishi, the ancient emperor, can grant longevity. The lifespan of ordinary people, however long, eventually comes to an end; the life of one who possesses the Dao has no limit. These words are set down to describe the profound efficacy of the Way of Double Mystery.】

The Great Dao flows everywhere and can operate in all places. All things depend on it to grow, yet it does not refuse them. It accomplishes its work without claiming it as its own. It nurtures all things but does not make itself their master, and in this sense it may be called small. All things return to it, yet it does not make itself their master, and in this sense it may also be called great. Because it never considers itself great, 【“It can be named, yet does not make itself so” means that although it may be called great, it does not regard itself as great.】 it is able to accomplish its greatness.

【Who can be like the Great Dao, granting life and benevolence to Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things without becoming their master? It nurtures all things without ruling them, and in this sense it may be called small; all things return to it, yet it does not rule them, and in this sense it may be called great. Because it never regards itself as great, 【“It can be named, yet does not make itself so” means that although it may be called great, it does not regard itself as great.】 it is able to accomplish its greatness.】

One who can attribute the grace of being born and nurtured to Heaven and Earth can also face death without resentment toward them. Heaven and Earth exchange with the myriad things simply to sustain their own endurance. If even Heaven and Earth are so, how much more so the Dao?

The Dao is vast and boundless, yet its threads run through and connect all things. It has no fixed east, west, south, or north, and is not bound by fame or achievement. It does not fix who is guest and who is host, nor cling to any particular belonging. It cherishes its own life without rejecting the lives of the myriad things. Only when this is truly so does one see nothing worth coveting; this is not a deliberate suppression of desire. The myriad things take turns as host, without refusing to be host. How could those eager to accomplish great deeds be capable of understanding these principles?

Grasp the “Great Image” (the Dao’s whole form), and all under Heaven will turn toward it. When the myriad things turn toward it without harming one another, they can be settled, peaceful, and at ease. Pleasing music and delicious food can make travelers stop; words about the Dao, by contrast, are bland and tasteless. Look for it and it cannot be seen; listen for it and it cannot be heard. Yet its use is inexhaustible.

Lü Jifu said, “Though they forget one another amid the arts of the Dao, they have never truly been apart.”

A snake’s vital point is its neck; a person’s vulnerable points are the joints. Seize a snake by the neck, and it cannot bring its venomous fangs to bear.

A snake’s weakness lies in its neck; a person’s vulnerable point lies in the waist. Grasp a snake by the neck, and it cannot strike with its venom. Control a person at the waist, and they will be as unable to move as if their spine were injured. This restraint may seem slight, yet its effect is great.

What is clear and empty can accommodate all things; what is heavy and murky can govern all things. Do not abandon the heavy foundation or chase after the appearance of clarity and emptiness. Experience fullness within emptiness and emptiness within fullness. Grasp what is heavy and murky, and thereby attain clarity and emptiness.

Consider this: when music begins and food is set out, even guests who were hurrying along will stop their restless thoughts. Is this not because their feelings have found somewhere to settle? This is what is meant by “always having something one desires, and through it observing the limits of things.” Yet the neck and the waist themselves have no feelings. One must not force beings with feelings into the role of ruler. If one can be balanced and calm, detached, obscure, and still, one’s influence will be boundless. This, too, is the culmination of having no desires.

Begin from what is heavy and murky, and in the end return to clarity and emptiness. Having reached clarity and emptiness, once again accord with what is heavy and murky. Amid desire and the absence of desire, the constant Dao remains unchanged. Surely only one who grasps the “Great Image”—the complete form of the Great Dao—can understand this alone.

If you wish to contract something, you must first let it expand; if you wish to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; if you wish to abolish it, you must first let it rise; if you wish to take it, you must first give it. (“Firm” means unwavering within and without, constant from beginning to end.) This is called “subtle illumination,” a fine and far-reaching discernment. Wang Yuanze said, “This principle is so profound that even spirits and gods cannot fathom it—how much less can human beings?”

The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong. Fish cannot leave the deep pool; a state’s sharp instruments must not be lightly shown to others. Li Xizhai said these are all methods by which sages subdue the mind and reclaim mastery from desire.

By concealing the Dao within the heart, one can be at ease and at peace; by holding fast to the Dao within oneself, one can preserve oneself. This is like a fish swimming freely in the deep. If one relies on something, makes oneself known, and is afraid of being unseen, the Dao will be obstructed, and all under Heaven will be able to see where it reaches its limits. There are no gates and no poisons that harm; all things expect only that I remain in this state. If I do not use these things to answer the outside world, all under Heaven will be unable to do anything to me. And if all under Heaven cannot do anything to me, where could it go? Thus, although all things under Heaven ultimately return to the Dao, they also continually come forth and flourish through the workings of the world. This is the function of the Dao.

The Dao always moves in accordance with nature, yet there is nothing it does not bring to completion. If the lords of the feudal states can hold to this principle, all things will change of their own accord. If desires and restless activity arise amid these changes, I will settle them with the nameless uncarved block—the natural state that is unhewn, nameless, and free of desire. Once settled by the nameless uncarved block, people will have fewer desires. When desire subsides and they return to stillness, all under Heaven will naturally be set right. [Changing things return to manifest signs; what is set right returns to subtle roots.]

Those who conceal and preserve simplicity can continue to fulfill the function of things over the course of a long time. Those who display simplicity, once its function has been used to the limit of a thing, can go no further than the thing itself. Thus the nameless and the named accompany one another; this does not mean that everything can be turned into nothingness. Because one considers the consequences that function may bring, one also dispels desire while working with what is named. Like those who defend a city and protect the state by holding their ground, they do not seek victory through the achievements of a single moment’s attack or defense. Like those who close the gates to preserve themselves, they do not readily reveal themselves in response to the outside world’s enticements. Those who understand that all things are naturally in order dare not forcibly correct them through change.

If one probes this Dao through layered mystery, it seems shallow; if one opens the gate to the wondrous, it seems deep. What appears useless has a real function of its own; what appears useful also has its useless side. It spreads out throughout the day, yet is never unfilled. A subtle breath courses through it, as though tiny life forms were stirring within. Two barriers stand opposed, yet are adept at holding the middle; the two ends race onward, yet are adept at waiting for their return. Seen this way, how could simplicity be enough to encompass it? How could mystery be enough to exhaust it?

Those of highest De do not consider themselves to possess De, and so truly have De. Those of lower De cling to not losing De, and for this very reason have no De. The De of the highest kind…

Those of high De do not regard themselves as possessing De; for this reason, they truly have De. Those of lesser De cling to the idea that they possess De, and so lack true De. Those of high De act naturally, without deliberately seeking to achieve anything. Those of lesser De act with a definite purpose in mind. The commentators explain that to act without attachment is called “acting without intention”; to act with an aim is called “acting with intention.”

Those of high benevolence do good without deliberately seeking anything in return. Those of high righteousness act with a clear moral purpose. At the level of ritual, people deliberately perform rites but receive no response, so they roll up their sleeves and force others to comply. Thus, only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; after De is lost, they speak of benevolence; after benevolence is lost, they speak of righteousness; and after righteousness is lost, they speak of ritual. Ritual signals that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and it marks the beginning of disorder.

“Foreknowledge” means judging by the appearances before one, without inward insight. It is the outward splendor of the Dao and the beginning of folly. Therefore, the great person grounds themselves in substance and does not linger in superficiality. To rush ahead in pursuit of fame and display one’s sharpness is superficiality; to yield, nurture others, and trace things back to their roots is substance. They stand by what is real and do not linger amid outward show. Thus, one should set aside the showy and choose the real.

The commentators explain further: when a tiger or leopard charges forward, it cannot look back behind itself; when a newly planted tree devotes itself to flourishing and flowering, its roots struggle to take hold. People cannot help having some inclination. Given that, it is better to let simplicity come first. Those who rush ahead encounter danger; those who hang back can observe how things change. Those who face danger bravely remain steady and unperturbed; those who observe change well adapt to circumstances and discern things gradually. So do not use keen insight to run afoul of the dangers of the world. Why? Because such a person has lost their roots, delights in pursuing a good name and becomes absorbed in it, and has turned away from the inner cultivation that embraces all forms of beauty. Once De, benevolence, righteousness, and ritual become labels to boast about, they are no longer constant. The more one seeks outwardly, the more one displays superficiality; by returning to oneself, one can instead see what is shallow. Only by guarding in advance against the urge to rush ahead in pursuit of fame can one avoid claiming to possess De and yet naturally have De, and act without deliberate effort while still accomplishing things. Yan Junping said, “At the utmost point, even ‘oneness’ no longer exists.” This does not mean that there is truly nothing; it means there is nothing one needs to deliberately preserve.

In ancient times, when Dao and De had grown weak, only those who warned and restrained themselves in advance could avoid taking credit for their De and yet possess it naturally; they could act without contrivance and still bring things to completion. Yan Junping said, “At the utmost, even ‘One’ no longer exists.” Is this not a case of no longer existing? Indeed, there is nothing that can preserve it.

In ancient times, those who attained the root, the Dao: through it, Heaven became clear, Earth became stable, spirits became wondrous, valleys became full, all things grew, and the lords and kings became the standard for the world. A valley is inherently empty and can contain all things; that is why it is said to be “full.”

Pushing the reasoning further: if Heaven could not be clear, it would likely collapse; if Earth could not be stable, it would likely overturn; if spirits could not be wondrous, they would likely dissipate; if valleys could not be full, they would likely dry up; if all things could not grow, they would likely perish; and if the lords and kings could not set the world in order, they would likely lose their positions. Thus, the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the high takes the low as its foundation. When lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”—all terms of self-effacement—are they not taking the lowly as their root?

Is this not so? The parts of a carriage must be joined together for it to become a carriage. Though each part has its own name, the whole carriage cannot be reduced to the name of any one part. Li Xizhai said: Wheels, canopy, spokes, axle, and other parts combine to make a carriage. Each has its own name, but the carriage itself cannot be called by any one of them. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom come together to form the Dao. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom can each be named, but no single name can encompass the Dao. If one clings to a fixed form and makes it visible, then the noble becomes as conspicuous as jade, and the lowly as identifiable as stone; people will begin to distinguish between high and low. Therefore, do not seek the honor of jade, nor fall into the contempt reserved for stone.

Those who are foolish cling to “the One” but cannot put it to use; those who are clever put it to use every day but cannot preserve its purity. To use it is to lose its purity; without preserving its purity, there is no way to use it. “The One” contains all things and enters into them, yet does not stand in opposition to them. In using it, one should act without deliberate effort; even when taking action, one should not become attached to particular affairs. How much less should one deliberately seek it out and hold fast to it?

When the wine has fermented, buyers naturally come; when a house has been repaired, travelers naturally stop to rest. I have not yet truly “attained the One,” so for now I will hold to this undivided, murky state and treat it as a sack that can contain all things. Then “the One” may come without being turned away. Nobility and lowliness, high and low, are equal in relation to “the One”—how could there be any proper distinction between them? Yet honor and high rank often become gathering places for merit and reputation, while the lowly and humble often find it difficult to accomplish anything. Achievements are established individually and cannot be shared; once a reputation is fixed, it cannot be exchanged. If even the myriad things cannot be exhaustively encompassed, how much less can “the One” be? Thus, when the principles of Heaven and Earth are diminished, the Way by which rulers govern the world also declines. Those who carry the world in a great carriage have long understood what to take up and what to set aside.

“Returning is the movement of the Dao”: returning is the way the Dao operates. The commentary says that when something has just gone forward and then just come back, this is called “returning.” The movement of Qi and the transformations of the myriad things all involve cycles of going and coming; their source lies in the Dao’s flowing transformations. The subtlety of shifting and breathing in and out lies in their never being still.

“Weakness is the Dao’s way of working”: softness and weakness are how the Dao exerts its power. What is hard and strong depends on something and thereby loses its capacity to act flexibly; this does not accord with the Dao. The Dao works by bringing about change through softness and weakness.

“All things under Heaven are born from being; being is born from nonbeing”: all things under Heaven arise from “being,” and “being” in turn arises from “nonbeing.” The Dao stirs into action from “nonbeing”—is this not a return? The myriad things rise and transform in alternation—is this not movement? Zhao Zhijian says that although the myriad things have not yet manifested physical form, they already possess Qi. All things between Heaven and Earth arise from a single Qi, and that single Qi arises from the Dao.

When water flows for long enough, it sometimes rises until it is full. After becoming full, it may then stagnate. In this way, water becomes like a lifeless thing, fixed into a vessel. People know only that a vessel can be put to use, but they do not realize that when water is fixed into a vessel, it loses the vitality of its flow.

The Dao, the foundation of the movement and change of all things, contains all things and also enters into them. It departs even as it arrives, and arrives even as it departs, winding and subtle, never exhausted. When it sends all things forth, it appears as “being”; when it draws all things away, it relies on nonbeing, giving rise to being from nonbeing, and so may be called “nonbeing.” Thus, only by observing it through “return”—the change of turning back—can one see the Dao. Its child is light, and its grandchild is water; truly grasping the Dao’s function is difficult.

To forcefully welcome what comes, using strength to make it appear, and then use softness to bring what departs to rest: this is to rely on nonbeing and give rise to being from nonbeing, and may also be called “nonbeing.” Thus, only by observing it through “return” can one see the Dao. Its child is light, and its grandchild is water; truly grasping the Dao’s function is difficult. If one forcefully welcomes what comes and uses softness to bring what departs to rest, placing “function” in “movement,” there is no firm basis, and the coming and going of vitality is blocked. Therefore, function often lies in “weakness”; in this way, the Dao can be put to use.

The arising of “movement” is the work of Heaven; the arising of “function” is the work of human beings. Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and human beings take Heaven as their model. Why, then, should one exert force? Yet few understand that the Dao’s very nature is to move and change. Only by understanding “movement” can one understand “return”; only by understanding “return” can one understand “weakness.”

A person of the highest ability, on hearing of the Dao, strives to put it into practice. A person of middling ability sometimes remembers what they have heard and sometimes forgets it. A person of the lowest ability laughs aloud when they hear of the Dao. If they did not laugh at it, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. Thus, words handed down from ancient times say: The bright Dao seems dim; the advancing Dao seems to retreat; the level Dao seems rough. An ox looks like an ox, and a horse looks like a horse: each belongs to its own kind. The Dao I speak of is so vast that it seems to have no fixed form. How could it resemble any particular kind of thing? Yet though it resembles neither an ox nor a horse, it can appear as an ox and appear as a horse. How, then, can one say it has no kind?

The highest De (Virtue/Power) seems like an empty valley; expansive De seems deficient; vigorous De seems slack; genuine simplicity seems altered; the whitest thing seems stained; the greatest square has no corners. Lü Jifu said, “To be trapped within narrow limits is to turn away from the realm of the great, open Dao.” The greatest vessel is often completed last; the grandest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image has no fixed shape. The Dao is hidden and does not show itself, with no fixed name by which it can be spoken of. [The constant Dao cannot be given a fixed name.] Only the Dao is skilled at providing all things with what they need and bringing them to completion.

If there were someone willing to lend, people would naturally come to borrow from them. Yet that person would not be holding some particular object and then handing it over. The Dao is like this, too. But I have never seen all things come to the Dao to borrow from it. Why is that? Because all things and the Dao are one in their original nature: all things themselves are the Dao. All things come from the Dao and move within it in a cycle. Each day they draw from the Dao, yet nothing ever appears to have been moistened; each day they shine through the Dao, then in the end return to a state in which they have not been revealed. The fulfillment of all things lies precisely in their needing to display neither moisture nor radiance. The Dao’s function reaches its utmost precisely when it does not boast or show itself. One may wish to strive, yet find nowhere to exert effort; one may wish to act, yet see no marked results. Expressions such as “bland in flavor,” “yielding,” “being shamed,” and “slack” are not words attached to it without reason. Those who can accept these seemingly unshowy, noncompetitive descriptions without refusing them—how could they not be called superior people?

The Dao gives rise to One, the undivided whole; One gives rise to Two, the forces of Yin and Yang; Two gives rise to Three, the blending Qi that harmonizes them; and Three gives rise to all things. All things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, and through blending Qi they achieve harmony.

People dislike being called “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy,” yet rulers and nobles use these names for themselves. So things may sometimes gain through loss, and sometimes suffer loss through gain. Others teach this, and I teach it too. The highest principle cannot be put into words, but it can also be understood through inward attunement. Those who act violently and boast of their strength do not meet a good end. I will take this saying as the foundation of my teaching.

The Dao encompasses Three and returns to One. Thus, the abundant depth of life is difficult to fathom, while its root is exceedingly simple. If we see life as beginning with blending Qi and ending when Yin and Yang divide, then once Yin and Yang are established, the work of nourishing all things becomes manifold, and the principles of life are exhausted in turn. What is more, if people act only in accordance with the separate natures of Yin and Yang—following clear Qi and craving Heaven’s sustenance, following turbid Qi and clinging to Earth’s sustenance, taking in the morning and evening, eating and drinking in pursuit of fullness and abundance while disdaining simplicity—then they will be confined by turbid Yin and clear Yang. How could they draw near to what is called “harmony”? Let alone go beyond ordinary harmony and thereby give rise to a new harmony.

Only by understanding this can one know to hold fast to simplicity without cease: reduce what is excessive and reach harmony; reduce attachment to harmony and return to One. Whoever truly attains One does not cling to the idea of possessing One; whoever reaches harmony does not cling to the idea that they are harmonizing. Loosen the bonds of Yin and Yang and roam in the source of life, letting Yin and Yang return to their own nature without departing from the root. This is the greatest gain, and nothing surpasses it.

The softest thing in the world can move through the hardest thing in the world. What has no form can enter where there is no gap. From this I know that Wuwei (non-action) is beneficial. Across the world, few things can equal the benefits of teaching without words and the benefits brought by Wuwei.

What benefit could be greater than this?

The softest thing in the world can master the hardest thing in the world. What has no form can enter where there is no gap. From this I understand that Wuwei (non-action)—following the natural course of things without forcing action—is beneficial. The teaching that needs no words, and the benefits brought by Wuwei: few things in the world can equal them.

Chapter 43

【If you mean to go to Yan but race north, or mean to go to Yue but hurry south, only a carriage with no destination fixed in advance can keep to level ground without obstruction. It can pass through all kinds of activity without coming into conflict with things. A cone used to untie a knot cannot undo a cord that was never knotted; an axe used to split wood cannot split a piece with no grain. If you understand that what is solid also contains what is empty, and follow the open spaces, then amid ten thousand changes there is no wish of mine that cannot be fulfilled. Deliberately showing off one’s strength, guarding against everything, constantly probing for gaps and seeking ways to force an entry—there is far too much of this. In the end, the Dao is hidden by those things that can be put into words.】

Which is closer to us, reputation or life? Which matters more, life or possessions? Which is more harmful, gain or loss? Excessive attachment always comes at a great cost; hoarding too much always brings serious loss. Therefore, knowing contentment keeps one from disgrace; knowing when to stop keeps one from danger. 【Xue Juncai says: “If you are content with what you already have and seek no more, how could you invite disgrace? If you worry that further gain may bring loss, notice the signs, and understand them—how could you be in danger?”】Only then can you endure.

Chapter 44

【Is the “Perfected Person”—one whose virtue and wisdom have reached a high level—really someone who withdraws from worldly affairs and lives alone? They simply watch the transformations of all things in stillness, understanding that in the end they cannot control the myriad things, and that the myriad things cannot control them. Disgrace may sometimes be brought on by one’s own actions, and sometimes not; danger may sometimes be caused by oneself, and sometimes arrive without cause. Yet if, in pursuit of reputation, one invites one’s own faults and bears a bad name, it is better not to occupy positions that readily invite misfortune. Thus, the wise know how to cherish their reputation and safeguard their possessions, and how to accept what comes and let go of what is lost. When reputation or possessions come to rest with oneself, they can dispel the calamities caused by an imbalance of Yin-Yang; if one can share such gains with all under Heaven, one can also quell the savage might of tigers and rhinoceroses.】

What is truly complete appears to have flaws, yet its usefulness never runs out. What is truly full appears empty, yet its usefulness is never exhausted. What is perfectly straight appears bent; what is supremely skillful appears clumsy; the most eloquent person appears to lack words. Stillness and cold can overcome agitation and heat. (“Overcome” is read as “rise.” Ye Mengde says: If you understand what can overcome what, what task could you fail to accomplish?) Stillness and quiet are the standard for all under Heaven. (When something becomes the standard for all under Heaven, all under Heaven naturally returns to order. If you try to put it in order by force, you will only throw its cold and hot energies into greater turmoil.) Chapter 45

As Yin and Yang shift and intermingle, affairs among people grow complicated; as affairs grow complicated, fame and achievement become conspicuous. Those who delight in taking action attach themselves to things when they are flourishing. But if they attach themselves only after things have flourished, they are bound to suffer loss, and then they try to outdo their rivals. I see them rush to the fire when they feel cold, then drink iced water when they feel overheated; in the end, they only bring hardship upon themselves. Do they truly welcome these misfortunes? At first, they simply attach themselves to others because it is easy to gain abundance that way, without realizing where it will lead. Had they restrained themselves earlier and not been stirred by external things, they would not have seized upon the shifts of Yin and Yang to pursue fame and achievement. If one begins by refusing to attach oneself and ends by refusing to contend, all under Heaven will naturally return to order, while I may seem to have achieved nothing. Thus, though I appear deficient, in truth I enjoy abundance. If I truly enjoy abundance, why worry that I appear deficient?

When the Dao prevails under Heaven, warhorses are sent back to the fields to plow and fertilize the land. When the Dao does not prevail, warhorses breed in the suburbs, ready at any moment to be sent into battle. No misfortune is greater than not knowing when one has enough; no fault is more serious than greed for more. Therefore, those who know contentment are always content. Chapter 46

Disaster often begins with a single thought in the heart, while good fortune lies hidden in inconspicuous places. At first, a thought stirs as faintly as an ant moving through the earth; once it sets off a struggle, however, it may burst through like a breached riverbank and bring great calamity. Therefore, the person who has the Dao does not rush to pursue good fortune, and so the world is free of disaster. Is this achieved by forcibly blocking calamity? It is simply that such a person sees clearly the harm caused when Yin-Yang forces become excessive, rests at ease in the harmony of all things, and would never use their own knowledge to invite the harms that things inevitably bring.

Without leaving the doorway, one can understand the world. [Zhang’an says: To leave the doorway is to seek knowledge beyond what is before one.] Without peering out through the window, one can understand the Dao of Heaven—the patterns of nature’s workings. [Zhang’an says: To peer out through the window is to observe external things directly and gain insight from them.] The farther one travels, the less one knows. Therefore, the sage knows without setting out, understands without seeing with their own eyes, and accomplishes things without deliberate action.

[The Dao fills the space between moving toward something and turning away from it. To move toward one thing necessarily means turning away from another. When there is neither movement toward nor turning away, this may be called “the Center.” If people spend the whole day blindly pursuing this “Center” and never find it, they will only invite the world’s laughter. When there is no other way, one may try turning back to oneself. This return to oneself is not itself “the Center,” but it can gradually reveal its bounds. The situation suddenly comes into view, like light entering a narrow crack; then it links together indistinctly, like threads gradually woven into a net. All things naturally give me understanding, without my having to exert myself. Only then do I see that those who once chased fleeing people or pursued galloping horses were acting in vain and foolishly. If this were not so, how could there be such a state as “knowing without setting out, understanding without seeing with one’s own eyes, and accomplishing things without deliberate action”?]

Learning brings a gradual increase in knowledge; cultivating the Dao brings a gradual decrease in human desires and deliberate actions. Continue reducing them until one reaches Wuwei (non-action). With Wuwei, nothing remains unaccomplished. Governing the world generally depends on not disturbing the people and not acting rashly. If commands are numerous and interference is constant, the world cannot be governed. [The world is not something one can take and possess. To “take the world” means only that the people of the world willingly come to follow me.]

By reducing the pursuit of tangible things, one can instead enrich the intangible realm. Let go of what has already been seized, and preserve the state of not yet claiming anything as one’s own. Without taking, there is nothing to lose. Thus, the sage does not cling to all manner of action, and the people of the world come to him of their own accord.

If one keeps talking on and on, treating insights gained in the past as fixed rules and holding fast to them, then one may seem to gain something each day, while in truth losing more and more. The moon shines by borrowing the sun’s light; when the sun rises, the moon’s own brightness fades. Since there is a treasure that never runs out, why abandon it to win the favor and attention of the people of the world?

The things of the world are without end. Those who gain them feel grateful; those who lose them feel resentful. Those who acquire them think they have gained something, while those who lose them feel deprived. Even where people observe ritual propriety, some will still roll up their sleeves and reach out their arms to compete for what they want. In this way, even a great cart with many wheels may ultimately be left with no vehicle to ride in.

The sage does not make personal opinions his rule, but takes the people’s hearts as his own. I treat the good with kindness, and I treat the unkind with kindness too; thus everyone can return to goodness. I trust those who are trustworthy, and I trust those who are not trustworthy too; thus everyone can return to trustworthiness.

Dwelling among the people of the world, the sage is restrained and humble, bringing their thoughts back to a simple, natural state. The people all watch and listen intently, but the sage regards them all as children and cares for them with generosity.

Even if a sage were to appear, how could he make everyone under Heaven like infants? The Dao gives rise to Yin and Yang, and Yin and Yang in turn give rise to human nature and emotions. Once these arise, distinctions between right and wrong follow. Human nature hardens and stagnates, clinging to one side of what Yin and Yang present and refusing to let go. Can that really be taken as an eternal norm? What seems constant here may not be so elsewhere.

Only those who grasp the root without clinging to any fixed norm can let Yang Qi surge and Yin Qi congeal to their utmost, then sit quietly and await the effects each person receives in turn. When I am like scorched earth, the people are like rain soaking the ground; when I am like a gentle breeze, the people are like pipes sounding. They may be touched, but do not take anything in; sounds may pass through, but leave no trace. Then when goodness comes near, it is as natural as an infant learning to speak beside an elder. How much less, then, can harmful things disturb people’s ears and eyes?

Alas! There are too many in the world with eyes fixed on what they watch. If the sage watches along with them, he too becomes a watcher. When the sage does not serve as such an “eye,” the world naturally returns to the state of an infant.

People move from birth toward death. Of every ten, three belong to the long-lived, three to those who die young, and three are alive yet steadily moving toward death. [Su Ziyou says: There are nine paths of life and nine paths of death, and another path of neither life nor death.] Why is this? Because people value life too highly and indulge themselves too much.

I have heard that those skilled in caring for life meet no rhinoceros or tiger on the road, and are not harmed by weapons when they enter battle. The rhinoceros finds no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to use its claws, and weapons no place to wield their blades. Why is this? Because such a person does not enter a place that brings death. —Laozi, Chapter 50.

A person may fall into a place of death, but there is no fixed “place of life.” By refusing to cling to any particular place, one can preserve life; by clinging to one place, one is more likely to approach death. Consider this explanation: while alive, the spirit abandons emptiness and quiet to engage in particular functions, while the body leaves its substantial root and turns instead to expending itself. [The original text is incomplete here, so its meaning cannot be fully determined.]

There is a “place of death” and a “place of life.” To have no fixed support is life; to depend on something is to move toward death. Consider this explanation: at birth, the spirit leaves emptiness and enters the concrete activities of life, while the body separates from its abundant source and turns to the business of an insubstantial form. Is this not “going out”? When Qi and emptiness become one’s dwelling, and the body merges with the soil, is death not “going in”?

Yet once people are born, they assume that life can go on indefinitely after leaving its source. They draw out the threads of life, let them spread in every direction, and act in dependence on the earth. In this way, death is certainly death in stillness, but life, too, becomes death in activity. One dies in the midst of activity because one can only act, and cannot remain still within action.

To rest in stillness while active is to be able to act while still: both movement and stillness are available, yet neither holds one captive. When one becomes still in action, action may be called stillness. And when stillness can be called stillness, it gladly returns to abide there. This is what is meant by “guarding stillness with depth”—steadfastly maintaining calm until it becomes profound. When one begins to act within stillness, stillness may be called movement. And when stillness can be called movement, it can engage with change without becoming rigid and lifeless. This is what is meant by “returning is the movement of the Dao.”

Thus there are three kinds of dependence on the earth, three kinds that do not take the earth as their support, and three more that run about on the earth yet are not bound by it, and ultimately find a place to stand. Beyond these levels lies the subtle realm of returning to the One, the undivided whole of the Dao, which is difficult to put into words. Yet those who nurture life also act, and those who head toward death likewise act. How can this be explained?

Those who nurture life worry about finding support, so they act in order to move away from dependence. Those who head toward death worry that they cannot find support, so they act in order to draw closer to dependence. Though they go back and forth between going out and going in day after day, how could they know what true activity is? Clearly, the earth as a support is truly something to fear!

When rhinoceroses and tigers attack, they rely on the terrain to display their might. When armies fight, they too contend for territory in order to win. But if they encounter someone who is not constrained by terrain, all these means become useless, and the will to kill has nowhere to take effect. When the intent to kill is not directed at that person, death recedes from them. Thus the Wind Rider can move with ease and freedom, and Cloud General can roam in untroubled delight.

The Dao gives birth to the myriad things, and De nourishes them. The myriad things take shape through the Dao, then come to fulfillment by following the natural course of things. All of this is the Dao’s spontaneous functioning. Thus there are none among the myriad things that do not honor the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is honored and De is cherished not because anyone commands the myriad things to do so, but because this is simply their natural way.

The Dao gives birth to the myriad things, and De nourishes them, enabling them to grow, develop, mature, bear fruit, and receive sustenance and protection. Lu Xisheng explains: When the myriad things receive the Dao’s vital essence, this is called “birth”; when they hold the Dao’s Qi within them, this is called “nurturing.” To make their forms grow is called “growth”; to cultivate their substance is called “development.” To bring them to fulfillment in due measure is called “completion”; to assess their function is called “measure.” To preserve their harmony is called “nourishment”; to keep them alive is called “shelter.” Though the myriad things are born and nourished by the Dao, the Dao does not claim them as its own. It acts, but does not rely on its actions; it helps the myriad things grow, but does not rule over them. This is called “mysterious De,” the profound and subtle virtue.

Since the Dao has already given birth to the myriad things, on what grounds could I say that I gave birth to them? Since the Dao has already nourished and sheltered them, what have I done, and what have I caused to grow? It is like a neighbor who cooks his own grain to satisfy his hunger, then proudly says, “I ate it.” Who would believe him? He has not eaten my grain, of course, but he can never do without grain. The myriad things, too, were not born by me, yet they continually receive the Dao’s nurture.

I simply understand this and follow the Dao’s natural course as I receive and respond to the myriad things. People under Heaven do not know that they receive my De; I impart it to them only because I cannot do otherwise. The myriad things have already taken shape, and each has developed its own tendencies. Even when I understand the principles at work, I do not proclaim them deliberately; even when I follow and receive what is natural, I do not presume to alter its arrangements. Those who benefit from me do not know it, yet I remain steadfast in this principle. To follow the way in which the myriad things do not know what they receive from one another may also be called “mysterious De.”

All things under Heaven and Earth share a common source, which may be regarded as the mother of all things. Once we know the mother, we can understand the things born from it. Return to this source and keep to it, and throughout life you will not fall into danger. Block the passages of the senses and close the gates of desire, and throughout life you will not be worn out by labor and restless action. If you let the senses roam and busy yourself responding to external things, in the end you will be unable to save yourself. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to weakness is called strength. Use your brightness without displaying it, and return to inward discernment: then you will not bring misfortune upon yourself. This is to follow the constant Dao, the enduring order.

The “beginning” spoken of here has three interpretations. When Confucian gentlemen speak of the beginning, they mean the root that governs all things. In Buddhism, it means the root that contains and merges all things. Here, it means the source from which all things arise and move. This source is Qi (vital energy), but it is not merely what is generally called Qi. If we understand it only as Qi, then when it works over there, this side would be left empty. In fact, it fills that place without making this one deficient. It came into being before Heaven and Earth, yet perishes after Heaven and Earth. Its movement is exceedingly subtle, and its workings leave no trace. It is too small to grasp—how much less could something vast be grasped? It is so weak that it needs no force; why speak of strength?

How, then, can one attain “perceiving the small” and “holding fast to weakness”? In holding fast, one comes to know; knowing takes place within holding fast. Even when one knows, one must still hold fast; holding fast also takes place within knowing. The breath of life flows without cease, while its hidden mechanism is impossible to fathom. Try to seize it, and it has already vanished; try to discern it closely, and it has already changed. It appears suddenly, then disappears just as suddenly. Where is there a fixed and unchanging “constant” to grasp? Yet amid this ceaseless change, the constant Dao operates unseen. Can it really be confined to distinctions such as “child” and “mother”? If not, then with only the limited knowledge and strength of an individual, pursuing the changes of “child” and “mother” will ultimately make it difficult to avoid misfortune.

If I understand even a little of the Way, then as I walk along the Great Dao, I will fear imposing my own ideas upon it. The Great Dao is naturally broad and level, yet people prefer to take shortcuts.

The court is adorned in great splendor, while the fields lie neglected and the granaries stand empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, feast lavishly, and hoard surplus wealth. This is like playing music on the Great Dao and thereby attracting thieves: human contrivance disrupts the Dao, and that is what makes it fearful. The Great Dao is naturally broad and level, yet people prefer to take shortcuts. The court is splendid, the fields neglected, and the granaries empty; people wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat and drink extravagantly, and have wealth to spare. Such conduct invites thieves onto the Great Dao. It is wholly contrary to the Dao.

Nothing in the world surpasses “knowing”—the capacity to recognize and judge. Once we use knowing to carry out our own intentions, our judgments through eyes and ears obscure the original condition of all things. In turn, our eyes and ears are governed by those conditions. Should we then cast knowledge aside? Knowledge is not something we can simply discard at will. There is the “knower,” and there are also the things that give rise to my knowing. Those who believe they have possessed knowledge for a long time are, in truth, judging by means of a perception that has appeared for only a moment. Once we understand that such momentary perception is not constant, the mind will no longer cling to a preference. Without attachment, we will not make the people of the world envy us or pursue what we value. In that case, even if we act, there is no need for fear—how much less so when we merely perceive?

A fleeting flash of light is taken as a guide for an entire lifetime. When we praise something, others follow and praise it too. Mang (Wang Mang) and Cao (Cao Cao) rallied the world in the names of Yao and Shun; the Yellow Turbans and Red Eyebrows rallied it in the names of King Tang and King Wu. This is like the way that, when Yin-Yang falls out of balance, stagnant and obstructed Qi is used to rally people, thereby harming the vitality of all things. The Dao cannot be put into practice on the basis of momentary perception and intention; this is precisely why.

Those skilled at establishing things do not let them be easily shaken. Lü Jifu (the Northern Song Daoist scholar Lü Huiqing, whose courtesy name was Jifu) said that when things are established by following the constant interplay of Nonbeing and Being, they will not be uprooted or shaken.

Those who are skilled at establishing things lay firm foundations that cannot be uprooted; those who are skilled at preserving things hold fast to what will not slip away. In this way, their descendants can continue the ancestral rites without interruption. Apply this skill at establishing and preserving to one’s own person, and De becomes genuine. Apply it to a family, and De will abound; to a village, and De will grow; to a state, and De will flourish; extend it to all under Heaven, and De will be universal.

Therefore, observe yourself through yourself, a family through a family, a village through a village, a state through a state, and all under Heaven through all under Heaven. How do I know that the world is as it is? By this very principle.

If you set yourself alongside all under Heaven and the state, you divide them into opposing camps. When one side establishes its foundations, the other is uprooted; when one side holds fast to something, the other loses what it holds. This is what happens when they stand in opposing camps. But how could a person of the Dao insist that everything be made uniform and subjected to the same way of doing things? Things each have their own forms and circumstances. Observe each in keeping with its circumstances, and conflict can be avoided.

Let the mind move among all kinds of circumstances without clinging to anything it can rely on. Let the myriad things develop according to their own causes. This is what is meant by “knowing through this principle.” At that point, the mind no longer clings to “self”—so where could one observe the self from? The mind no longer clings to village, state, or all under Heaven—so by what means could one observe them? Precisely because there is no clinging to these things, they can be truly known.

Distinguish things according to their natural state, and follow the inevitable tendencies that cannot be resisted. This not only dissolves the opposing camps, but also allows oneself and the myriad things to reveal their true connectedness. The myriad things blend like water and milk, their patterns interwoven, gathering and extending without end. This is called “the body may die, but the Dao does not perish.”

A person whose cultivation of De is deep resembles a newborn infant. Venomous creatures will not sting it, fierce beasts will not harm it, and birds of prey will not swoop down on it. Its bones are weak and its sinews soft, yet its hands clench tightly. It knows nothing yet of sexual union, but its genitals can become erect; this shows that its vital energies are abundant. It may cry all day without its voice growing hoarse; this shows that its body and breath are perfectly harmonized.

【From this we can see that people are naturally full of vital energy at all times and in harmony in every respect. To make this a teaching would be like someone fixating on the cry a baby gives at birth and claiming that this is the true nature of a human being.】To understand harmony is called “constancy.” To understand constancy is to be wise. Deliberately increasing life brings calamity.【Those who devote themselves to prolonging and augmenting life instead invite disaster.】To make the mind command the breath is called forcing strength.【Breath is naturally pure and calm; if the mind drives it by force, it becomes rigid and agitated.】When things grow too strong, they begin to decline. This is called going against the Dao; what goes against the Dao soon perishes.

【No one can ultimately cope with all the limitless affairs of the world by relying on their own strength. Fear of failing to cope makes the mind race with urgency, and the breath grows agitated in turn. The inner life becomes turbulent, and outward conduct changes as well. Yet a person may still treat De as an aim to pursue deliberately and display it outwardly, without realizing that the mind has not truly understood it. To embody De and be like an infant is to refrain from deliberately establishing De as something to possess. Without deliberate cultivation of De, choices leave no trace; when no trace remains, harmony can be attained. Without deliberate cultivation of De, Yin and Yang return to unity; when Yin and Yang are united, essence can be attained. Such a person need not rely on external things to prove their wealth, no matter how great it is, and their strength, however great, will not be diminished. Would they then have any need to force the breath or deliberately augment life? Thus, when doors and windows are shut, the mind is undisturbed by the myriad things of Heaven and Earth. At peace and still, one is not startled by changes in the outside world as fierce as wind and thunder. The boundless transformations of the perfected person are expressed in the uncontrived state of an infant.】

Those who understand the Dao speak little; those who speak much do not understand the Dao. [This is not only to keep others from seeing their likes and dislikes, but also to prevent the Dao from being obstructed by gathering or dispersal.]

Block the openings of the senses and close their gates; blunt your sharpness and untangle confusion; temper your brightness and blend with the world. This is called “Mystic Unity,” being in accord with the deep and mysterious Dao.

Such a person can neither be drawn near nor pushed away. [Approach him, and he seems quite unlike ordinary people; leave him, and you find that everything still comes from the Dao.] He can neither be benefited nor harmed. [Rain cannot bring life to the void, nor can sunlight make the void hot.] He can neither be exalted nor debased. [Exalted and debased are merely names; apart from the Dao, there is no basis for speaking of either.] Thus he becomes the most honored being under Heaven.

[Yan Junping said: When the five flavors enter the mouth and the five tones enter the ear, sweetness is not simply sweetness, nor bitterness simply bitterness; the Shang and Yu tones, too, are not merely their own distinct notes. Yet Yi Ya and Shi Kuang could discern their subtle differences. If this is so of sound and flavor, how much more so of the mysterious Dao? In their conduct and dealings with the world, realized people, when manifest, share their root with all things; when concealed, they merge their source with the formless. They speak when it is time to speak and are silent when it is time to be silent, without changing on that account. Their words arise with the moment and respond to circumstances; this is enough to be called “Mystic Unity.”]

Chapter Fifty-Six

When we group together everything we identify with, we also set apart everything we do not identify with. We value what is alike, while some people disdain it; we disdain what is different, while others value it. Why is this? Precisely because what I value, others may disdain, and what I disdain, others may value. Only those who do not offend things beyond themselves will not be offended by them. This is not because they deliberately refrain from offending them; it is because things beyond themselves cannot offend them in the first place.

Let things grow and wane according to their nature, without interference. Sit at ease and let the years pass. Face brightness as you would a torch; face darkness as you would mud in a deep pit; face sharp edges as you would the ancient sword Ganjiang; face disorder as you would tangled silk. Let right and wrong unfold without end, and never contend to elevate the opinions that accord with your own. Only then can you stand above the world and examine the merits, failings, gains, losses, and fates of those in it. Mysterious, mysterious indeed! What words could establish this principle?

Govern the state by the constant way, use unusual methods in war, and gain the world through Wuwei (non-action). How do I know this is so? The evidence lies here: the more taboos there are under heaven, the poorer the people become; the more sharp weapons people possess, the more disorderly the state grows; the more people display their cleverness, the more novel things arise; the stricter and more numerous the laws and decrees, the more thieves there are. Therefore the sage says: “When I practice non-action, the people transform themselves; when I love stillness, the people set themselves right; when I avoid meddling, the people become prosperous; when I have no desires, the people become simple and sincere.” This is the content of chapter 57 of the Dao De Jing.

There are places in the world that cannot be governed. Yet when it comes time to govern the people, one says: “When I practice non-action, the people transform themselves; when I love stillness, the people set themselves right; when I avoid meddling, the people become prosperous; when I have no desires, the people become simple and sincere.” This is the content of chapter 57 of the Dao De Jing.

There are always places in the world that cannot be brought under control. Once one tries to govern them, it is difficult to see results without following what is called the “proper” way. But if one uses what is “proper” to correct what is improper, how can one know that those who insist on being proper will not, in the end, turn toward impropriety? Thus the “proper” often develops into the “unusual”—methods that are unconventional or depart from the norm—and governing a state often ends with the use of military force.

If one does not act rashly, but lets things unfold naturally, allowing them to return to their proper place without deliberately imposing one’s rule, then even those who would devise unusual schemes will be thwarted on their own, since there is nothing to suspect or guard against. In this way, I can sit at ease and achieve results. Those who are constantly active and meddlesome do otherwise. They say, “Governing is simply what things naturally require; using military force is something I have no choice but to do.” Yet they share the world’s peace and prosperity with everyone, while claiming that war is unavoidable. Who, then, has brought about this calamity?

Therefore, without names, no instruments of governance and control are established. Without instruments, there is no way to seek gain; without gain, no clever schemes arise; and without clever schemes, laws and commands have no occasion to be put into effect. So, to put an end to war, one must first stop governing by deliberate intervention.

When government is tolerant and unobtrusive, the people are simple and honest. When government is harsh and exacting, the people lose their natural simplicity and become deficient. Thus the sage is upright without harming others, incorruptible without wounding them, straightforward without being unrestrained or ostentatious, and bright without showing off.

Calamity conceals good fortune, and good fortune harbors calamity. Who can know where their transformations will end? There is no fixed and unchanging “proper” way among them. By examining again and again the principles of things and the patterns of change, one can understand that worldly affairs have no constant, unchanging right way. Yet those who scrutinize and demand too much, deliberately seeking good fortune and avoiding calamity, believe that the right way is fixed.

To “make right what has no fixed right” is to recognize that worldly affairs have no constant, unchanging right way. The “proper” can turn into the “unusual,” and the “good” can turn into the “strange”—what is abnormal or bizarre. People have been caught up in this confusion for a long time.

If there were truly no such thing as “rightness” in the world, why would the sage not cast aside standards such as “uprightness, integrity, honesty, and clarity” as well? Abandoning standards wholesale must lead to overcorrection; what is corrected today will later become something that needs correcting in turn. It is like a bow: when the bowstring is drawn tight, the bow bends outward; when it is loosened, the bow bends inward. Can there really be no way of acting in the world that is worth following?

The sage knows that there is no absolutely fixed “rightness” in the world, just as there is no absolutely fixed “strangeness.” So the sage always follows the way of “pouring,” a state of emptiness, stillness, and balance. “What people fear, I too dare not fail to fear.” In this way, those who are adept at accusing others by invoking labels cannot use labels to condemn the sage. “All under Heaven look at me, yet I treat them all as children.” In this way, the unkind cannot erect barriers and contend with the sage. Thus the sage steers clear of the harms brought by “cutting apart, wounding, indulgence, and ostentation,” and preserves himself through “uprightness, integrity, honesty, and clarity.” Then the course of destiny no longer appears as signs of fortune and misfortune, good and evil; neither “strangeness” nor “rightness” remains bound by distinctions between names and realities. Otherwise, one who only seeks to avoid misfortune, pursue good fortune, and please others may lose sight even of whom they are trying to please, and bring misfortune upon themselves instead.

In governing the people and following the Dao of Heaven, nothing is better than restraint and frugality. To be restrained and frugal is to return to the Dao early; to return to the Dao early is to accumulate De without pause. Han Fei says: “When thought is quiet, De does not depart; when the mind’s openings are empty, harmonious Qi enters day by day.” Accumulating De without pause leaves nothing that cannot be overcome. When nothing cannot be overcome, no one can know the limit of one’s strength. When one’s strength has no limit, one can govern the state. When one grasps the root of the state, the state can endure. This is called having deep roots and a firm foundation: the way to live long and preserve one’s vitality for a long time. — Dao De Jing, Chapter 59

Human desire has no limit. If we try to govern each desire one by one, we find that many escape our attention. The transformations of the Way of Heaven are endless; if we try to manage each one, we find that the work can never be completed. Exhausting our finite strength in a rush to meet infinite changes only leaves us hoping for favors from others, while they, in turn, hope we will fulfill their expectations. In the end, each side resents the other. Resentment hinders the governance of a state. To toil without rest all year also wears down what is fundamental and drains the roots, until life itself can no longer continue. If we wait until life is nearly over to regret our choices and seek to return to the Dao, will that not be too late?

Hold fast to an inner state of wholeness, emptiness, and stillness, and there will be few things that must be governed or managed. Among the myriad desires, there is only one root that can let each desire settle in its proper place; among the myriad changes, there is likewise only one root that can bring them all under its guidance. Some may think this seems stingy, as though it withholds favors. Yet refraining from deliberately bestowing favors has its own De. From the beginning, Heaven and humanity have made no demands on or expectations of one another; in the end, there is naturally no resentment or sorrow between them. Follow the grain of things and guide them at their crucial points, and the results will continue without end. How could they ever cease?

The male’s touch has its limits, while the female’s capacity to receive has no end. “Accumulate De deeply” means making the people of the world glad to accept and follow me. Govern the world through emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). This way brings together two things that seem difficult to reconcile: governing a state and sustaining it over time. If they can proceed together here, what else could not proceed together here?

Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish: do not turn it too often. When the world is governed by the Dao, spirits and demons cannot stir up trouble. This does not mean that they do not exist, but that their supernatural powers cannot harm people. Nor do the spirits and demons harm people, nor does the Sage harm the people through decrees and actions. People and spirits do not harm one another, and the De of both sides thus settles into harmony.

If you disturb the forms of all under Heaven, they will still retain their original Qi. But if you disturb the Qi of all under Heaven, the Qi will be exhausted. When cooking a small fish, turning it over and over may not ruin it, but the fish’s Qi is already damaged. Once Qi is damaged, it turns back on itself and causes harm. All under Heaven has “ghosts and spirits”—forces that influence worldly affairs invisibly—which can quietly bring order to the world’s disorder. The human body, too, has “ghosts and spirits” that invisibly influence life and death. Once the impulse to kill and attack is set in motion, dragons and serpents surge forth, and the De that nurtures all things is harmed. In stillness, everything returns to the formless; in movement, it becomes visible. When these wondrous forces stir, they “wound people”—how dreadful! “Carry the hun and po, embrace the One, and never let them part”: let spirit and body remain united and inseparable, each preserving the other, like water before its surface is disturbed. What need is there to govern all under Heaven deliberately? Simply remain in one’s place when events arise and govern in accordance with the moment.

A great state occupies the lower reaches, like the female of all under Heaven, the place where all things converge. The female often overcomes the male through stillness, because through stillness she takes the lower position. [Only by dwelling quietly in a low position can one’s deep De bear all things.] Thus, when a great state humbles itself before a small state, it can win the small state’s allegiance; when a small state humbles itself before a great state, it can be welcomed by the great state. Some states win the allegiance of others through humility, while others are welcomed by them through humility. A great state wishes only to unite and nurture all; a small state wishes only to enter the great state’s service. When both can fulfill their wishes, the great state especially ought to humble itself. This is the meaning of Chapter 61 of the Laozi.

[Nothing in the Dao’s subtlety is deeper than the ability to receive. If, after receiving, one hastens to act, one claims to be receiving but has not truly received. If one wants to obtain or welcome something but hastens to act, one is really making a demand while claiming not to. People throughout the world repay one another with material benefits, yet struggle with one another over distinctions of status. Yin and Yang act upon people in this way by their nature; how much more so do human affairs. On closer examination, one who wishes to “unite and nurture others” may not truly be able to nurture them, and one who wishes to “enter another’s service” may not truly be able to serve. Why? Because what is real at the root lies in not acting rashly. How much more so when the heart desires something yet cannot remain still? The more powerful one is, the more skillfully one should receive others. If one can become a place where Yin and Yang gather and return, one must all the more take the lower position. Quieting desire and quieting action—this is why rivers and seas can become the kings of the hundred streams.]

The Dao is the hidden root of all things. Good people regard it as a precious support, while those who are not good also rely on it to be preserved. Fine words can win respect, and noble conduct can earn esteem. (That even those who are not good can be preserved through the Dao shows how precious goodness is. Yet even when words can win respect and conduct can earn esteem, choosing not to pursue either is where the Dao remains hidden and unseen.) When people have faults, what reason is there to cast them aside? Thus, even if one were to establish a Son of Heaven and appoint the Three Ministers (high officials of antiquity), and someone offered a precious jade disc and a team of four horses, that would be worth less than sitting down and offering this teaching. Why did the ancients treasure the Dao? Was it not because, when they sought it, they could obtain it, and when they were guilty, they could receive pardon? That is why the Dao is the most precious thing under Heaven.

From this we can see that a person who has the Dao does not necessarily seek nothing at all, nor must they avoid speaking of their own faults. Seeking nothing can make one seem aloof; concealing one’s faults can lead to stain. Neither is the way of someone who has the Dao. All things under Heaven exist within the Dao. Good and bad are simply different appearances brought forth by change, while the Dao is like a pouch that holds all things and a pivot that opens them. The Dao does not sort good from bad; it simply lets all things come to rest within it. If one insists on making distinctions and choosing between things, then the rank of Son of Heaven or Three Ministers, and the gifts of jade discs and four-horse chariots, become ornaments worthy of esteem. But how could those be the Dao? At times one may seek something, yet in the end does not claim precious things as one’s own. At times one may seek pardon, yet never loses the Dao’s protection and is left without support. Let right and wrong settle into natural balance, and let all under Heaven return together to the Dao. Who, then, could regard the Dao as unworthy?

Practice Wuwei (non-action) and follow nature. When dealing with things, do not act willfully or forcefully; appreciate the realm of plainness and tastelessness. Great and small, many and few, can transform into one another. In response to resentment, answer with De (Virtue/Power).【Lü Jifu says: Return to nonbeing, and so you can be great or small, many or few.】

When planning something difficult, begin with what is easy. To accomplish something great, begin with what is small. The difficult things under Heaven must arise from what is easy; the great things under Heaven must grow from what is small. Therefore, the sage never presents himself as undertaking great things, and in the end is able to accomplish them. Promises made too readily are often hard to keep; treating things as too easy often brings more difficulties. So the sage always approaches things with care, as though they were difficult, and in the end finds nothing difficult.

【People see things flourishing and call them “great”; they see resentment and gratitude passing back and forth, each answered in turn, and think the matter “difficult.” Yet the leaves that fall in autumn are the very precondition for the vigorous growth of spring; dense, heavy clouds disperse as rain falls. This shows that things are not inherently great or inherently difficult. Careful examination makes this clear.

The Dao is perhaps like water. It rises from narrow, difficult places, then grows into a mighty current, though it was never full from the beginning. People see only the river’s vastness at its lower reaches, unaware that its source has continually nourished and sustained it. Seen this way, the sage may seem to labor greatly. In fact, the sage can avoid labor because he relies on “nothingness.” By not clinging to greatness, he can begin with what is small; by not treating things as easy, he approaches them with the care due to difficult matters. By keeping to emptiness and nonattachment, he can respond to all things. The hardest thing is simply to remain in this state of emptiness.】

Things are easy to hold steady when they are settled, and easy to plan for before signs have appeared. When things are still fragile, they are easy to resolve; when they are still slight, they are easy to disperse. These four situations all show that things remain in their earliest stages. Therefore, deal with matters before they arise, and bring order to a situation before it becomes chaotic.

A tree large enough to be embraced grows from a tiny sprout. A nine-tiered terrace is built up from baskets of earth. A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet. Even once a tree has grown large enough to be embraced, it has still grown from a sprout; even once a terrace has reached nine tiers, it has still been built up basket by basket; and after a thousand miles, the journey’s starting point is still beneath one’s feet.

Forcing things through often spoils them; clinging to them often makes them slip away. Su Ziyou said, “Competing with calamity only prolongs it; pursuing good fortune turns it into a burden. Thus calamity cannot be dispelled, and good fortune is hard to attain.” Therefore, the sage does not act recklessly and so does not ruin things; does not cling, and so does not lose them.

People often fail when they are close to completing a task. If they remain as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they will not spoil it.

Therefore, the sage seeks what ordinary people do not seek and does not prize goods that are hard to obtain. The sage learns what ordinary people do not learn and makes amends for the mistakes everyone has made. Liu Zhongping said, “Seek what everyone does not seek, rather than what everyone seeks; learn what everyone does not learn, rather than what everyone learns.”