《老子解》

Laozi Jie is Su Zhe’s commentary on the Daodejing, written during the Song dynasty. Su Zhe’s thought was influenced by both Buddhism and Daoism, so his commentary often connects their teachings and sometimes draws on Confucian ideas to explain them. Su Shi praised the book for bringing the teachings of Confucius and Laozi together, while Zhu Xi criticized Su Zhe for introducing Confucian thought into Buddhist and Daoist teachings. The summary holds that, from a Confucian standpoint, Su Zhe’s account combines elements of both traditions; from a Daoist standpoint, it can also be seen as each tradition clarifying its own principles. The commentary therefore remains worth preserving.

“Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao” opens the first chapter of the Daodejing. If the Dao could be clearly expressed in words, it would not be the enduring, all-encompassing Dao.

Nothing is not the Dao, yet any Dao that can be explained in words cannot remain constant forever. Only the Dao that cannot be spoken of can remain constant and unchanged. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are all principles that can be clearly explained. But benevolence cannot stand in for righteousness, nor propriety for wisdom. This shows that any principle that can be expressed in words cannot remain constant forever. Only the Dao beyond words can let benevolence be benevolence in its proper place, righteousness be righteousness in its proper place, and the same for propriety and wisdom. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom each undergo change; only the Dao remains constant and unchanged. This is why the Dao beyond words can remain constant.

“The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao.”

Since the Dao cannot be spoken of, how can it be named? Anything that can be named can also be spoken of. Once names exist, round and square, curved and straight become distinct, and so they cannot remain constant and unchanged.

“The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things. Therefore, always without desire, observe its subtlety; always with desire, observe its boundaries.”

When the nameless and formless state manifests, Heaven and Earth take shape. Only after Heaven and Earth have been established do names begin to appear. When the named and formed state spreads out, it gives rise to the myriad things. Once the myriad things flourish, their names multiply beyond counting. Thus, the nameless is the substance of the Dao, while the named is its function. The sage understands the substance of the Dao and uses this understanding to respond to all things under Heaven. Entering among the many formed things, the sage always observes with a mind free of desire and thereby apprehends the Dao’s subtlety. At the same time, while contemplating the Dao’s utmost emptiness and nonbeing, the sage remains attentive to how it appears in the real world, thereby understanding its limits and expressions. If one acts only at the surface, without understanding the subtle principles within things, one becomes crude and lacking in insight. If one remains only with subtle principles, without understanding how they appear in the real world, one becomes excessively refined and unable to adapt.

“These two emerge together but have different names; together they are called the profound.”

In form, being and nonbeing are indeed different. But how can we know that nonbeing moves and becomes being, and that being returns to nonbeing? They have never ceased to be one. Their names differ, but their root is the same. Understanding that they share one root allows us to grasp what is called “the profound.” Anything so far-reaching as to have no end may be described as dark and mysterious; this is why Laozi often uses “the profound” to express a state of boundless depth.

“Profound upon profound: the gateway to all subtleties.”

To speak of “the profound” is already to speak of great depth, yet perhaps the mind still holds an idea of “the profound.” Only by going further, to “the profound upon the profound,” does one reach completion, with nothing left to add. It is the source from which all subtle principles arise.

“Chapter Two: All Under Heaven Know”

When people throughout the world recognize what is beautiful, they form the idea of ugliness; when they recognize what is good, they form the idea of what is not good. Being and nonbeing arise from one another; difficult and easy take shape in relation to one another; long and short reveal one another; high and low depend on one another; tone and sound harmonize with one another; front and back follow one another.

People distinguish beauty from ugliness by outward appearance and names. But is what they call beautiful and good truly beautiful and good in an absolute sense? They do not see that being and nonbeing, difficulty and ease, high and low, tone and sound, front and back—all arise from one another and transform into one another. None of these is fixed. Someone who thinks himself tall will seem short when someone taller appears; someone who thinks he is leading will fall behind when another walks ahead of him. If we simply follow what the world praises as beautiful and good, believing it without question, we will be far from the Dao.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without words. When something needs to be done, he does it without deliberate striving; when something needs to be taught, he speaks without trying to impose a lesson. In this way, he moves beyond measures of long and short and lets go of calculations about who comes first or last. He clings neither to beauty nor ugliness, neither to good nor evil. How could people easily understand this?

When the myriad things arise, the sage does not turn them away. He lets them grow without claiming them as his own; he acts without relying on his own ability; when the work is done, he takes no credit. The myriad things come forth through me, and I do not refuse them. I help them grow, yet never claim them as my own or rely on my good deeds. I cling neither to good nor to what is not good. How could people understand this?

When the myriad things arise, the sage does not turn them away; he lets them grow without possessing them; he acts without relying on himself; he accomplishes things without claiming credit. This is the result of Wuwei and teaching without words. If the sage does not regard his own actions as beautiful or good, how could he then seek what is evil or not good?

Precisely because he takes no credit, his accomplishments do not leave him.

The sage may live in poverty and lowliness without being troubled by them; he may live in wealth and honor without being burdened by them. This is what it means not to claim a position for oneself. He does not claim his accomplishments as his own, so how could they leave him? This is true contentment.

Chapter Three: Do Not Esteem the Worthy

If the worthy are not held up for praise, the people will not compete for fame and profit. If rare goods are not prized, the people will not steal. If enticing things are not displayed, people’s hearts will not be disturbed. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, he keeps the people’s minds simple and their food and clothing sufficient. He weakens their desire to compete for fame and profit and strengthens their bones.

If the worthy are exalted above others, the people will be ashamed of being inferior and will compete with one another for fame and rank. If rare and precious goods are prized, the people will worry over not possessing them and may even turn to theft. If alluring things are put on display, the people will fear they cannot obtain them, and their minds will become unsettled.

Although everyone under Heaven knows that these three practices bring harm and wants to abolish them all, doing so can also lead to confusion. The sage governs the world without refusing to employ the worthy; the sage simply does not deliberately exalt them. The sage does not discard rare goods, but does not treat them as exceptionally precious. The sage does not eliminate everything alluring, but does not deliberately display it. In this way, the worthy are still put to use, yet the people do not contend for fame. Even when rare goods and alluring things are before them, thieves and disorder do not arise on that account. Is this not a way to quiet the mind without preventing the body from being nourished, and to soften the urge to compete and prevail without weakening the sinews and bones?

If the worthy are constantly promoted, treasures revered, and alluring things flaunted before the people, their minds and desires will be filled to excess. But if these things themselves are all abolished, people’s resolve and capacity to stand firm will be weakened. When minds and desires swell, the people contend with one another; when resolve and sinews and bones are weak, people cannot stand firm.

One should always keep the people’s clever knowledge and desires to a minimum, so that even those who pride themselves on their intelligence dare not act recklessly through cunning. If fame, treasures, and temptations are not put on display, the people will have nothing to envy and pursue; their minds will be detached and their desires diminished. Even if clever people are present, they will have no opportunity to put their deceitful stratagems to use.

By following the natural condition of things and refraining from reckless action, nothing under Heaven remains beyond good governance. This is “governing through Wuwei (non-action).”

Chapter Four: The Dao Is Empty

The Great Dao is empty and formless, yet in its use it seems never to run dry. It is deep and subtle, as though it were the source of all things.

The Great Dao is empty and without substance, yet it can be applied throughout the myriad things. The vast heavens and earth, the broad mountains and rivers—there is nowhere it cannot reach. Precisely because it has no form, it seems never to become full. I know it is the source of all things, but I dare not assert this outright; therefore I say that it “seems to be the source of all things.”

Nothing lacks the Dao, yet the sage is able to preserve it. The Dao is the root revered by all things, but it does not presume to call itself the source of all things; that is why it is said to be as though their sovereign.

The sage restrains sharpness, dispels confusion, softens his radiance, and blends with the dusty world. He does so for fear of becoming deluded and coming into conflict with external things. By avoiding delusion and contention, he removes troubles from outside himself. Once his radiance appears, he softens it again, lest he seem different from all things. His light is utterly pure, while the world is full of disorder. Even while living in the world, the sage does not separate himself from all things or abandon them. In this way he preserves himself and reaches a state of profound stillness and clarity, enduring without change. Although the Dao is ever-present, people cannot recognize it; that is why it is said to seem to exist.

I do not know whose offspring the Dao is. Its image seems to precede the Di, the spirit who governs Heaven and Earth.

Though the Dao is ever-present, no name can ultimately express it accurately; yet neither can one say that it does not exist. Thus it is said that the Dao seems to precede the Di. Since the Di is already in existence, and the Dao came before the Di, nothing came before the Dao.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

Heaven and Earth have no partial benevolence: they regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice. The sage, too, has no partial benevolence: he regards the people as straw dogs used in sacrifice. Heaven and Earth favor no side, but let all things follow their own nature. Thus all things grow naturally and die naturally. Their death does not mean Heaven and Earth are cruel, just as their growth does not mean Heaven and Earth have bestowed benevolence.

It is like a straw dog made for a sacrifice. While it is displayed in the rite, it is fully adorned and offered with reverence—not because it is cherished, but simply because the ritual calls for it. When the sacrifice is over, it is discarded, and passersby tread on it—not because it is hated, but simply because that is what naturally happens once its purpose is served. The sage treats the people in the same way: he does them no harm, allowing them to preserve their natural disposition. He does not forcibly interfere in their life, death, good fortune, or misfortune. Even if this does not count as deliberately practicing benevolence, it is already a great benevolence.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows and its air bag, the ancient device used to fan a fire? It is empty, yet never exhausted; the more it is worked, the more air continues to pour forth.

As the bellows are pushed and pulled, the flow of air affects everything it reaches. Those who do not understand may imagine that some remarkably ingenious mechanism is hidden inside. But what does the bellows itself do? It is simply empty yet inexhaustible, and so the more it moves, the more air it produces. The creation and transformation of all things between Heaven and Earth work in the same way: Heaven and Earth give birth to all things, bring about their life and death, and shape them into their many forms through this very action.

Excessive speech often leads a person into difficulty. It is better to maintain a state of balance, openness, and stillness.

When one sees thoughts growing ever more active, one may not realize that this activity is a response arising within emptiness and stillness. The saying “Excessive speech leads to exhaustion; better to hold to the center” therefore serves as a warning: excessive speech ultimately brings difficulty, while holding to the center keeps one from being trapped by it.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The deep and still “Valley Spirit”—the Dao, empty like a valley and able to bring forth all things—does not perish. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” the wondrous mother that names the Dao’s power to generate and transform.

Though a valley is empty, it still has form; the Valley Spirit, by contrast, is empty and formless. Being empty and formless, it has not even come into being in the ordinary sense—how, then, could it die? Calling it the “Valley Spirit” describes its virtue; calling it the “Mysterious Female” describes its function. The female symbolizes birth and nurture. It is called “mysterious” because we can see all things emerge from it, yet cannot see how it brings them forth.

The “Gate of the Mysterious Female” means that all things arise from it; the “Root of Heaven and Earth” means that Heaven and Earth, too, are generated from it.

It continues without end, seeming to exist yet remaining difficult to perceive. If one can put it to use in this way, one can use it all day without feeling weary.

Chapter Seven: Heaven and Earth Endure

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time.

Though vast, Heaven and Earth still have form and are subject to limits of number and duration, so their endurance is perhaps finite. Laozi says they endure for a long time in terms of things people can see. The true ultimate endurance is what is called “the beginning of Heaven and Earth.”

Heaven and Earth can endure because they do not live for themselves. Therefore, the sage puts himself last and yet comes to the fore; he sets himself aside and yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfishness? Precisely for this reason, he fulfills himself.

Heaven and Earth give life to and nourish the myriad things, yet do not claim them as their own. They stand apart from the myriad things and so are able to endure. The sage places himself behind everyone else, yet lets others take the lead; he sets aside his own interests and works for the benefit of others. Though he stands above the people, he is able to lead them and preserve himself. If Heaven and Earth competed with the myriad things to grow, and the sage competed with others to gain advantage, then Heaven and Earth would be no more than one thing, and the sage no more than one person. What, then, would make them great? They act as they do because they are free of self-interest, not because they deliberately seek to fulfill themselves. Precisely because they are selfless, they fulfill themselves in the end. This is simply the natural way of things.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Good Is Like Water

The highest good is like water. Water nourishes the myriad things well, yet does not compete with them. It settles in the low places that people dislike, and so comes closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle that governs the universe).

The I Jing says, “One Yin and one Yang: this is called the Dao.” It also says, “What carries on the Dao and develops it is goodness; what brings the myriad things to completion is their nature.” And it says, “Heaven, by means of the One, gives birth to water.” The Dao moves and appears as goodness, just as Qi moves and gives rise to water; hence the saying, “The highest good is like water.” Both the Dao and water begin without form and then take on form, so they share a common principle. The Dao is everywhere and benefits all things; water has similar qualities. But once water has taken on physical form, it is already at some remove from the Dao. That is why water is said to be “close to the Dao.” If we ask what best deserves to be called good, nothing is more fitting than water; hence the phrase “the highest good.”

Water is good at choosing low places to dwell; this is “in dwelling, be good at choosing a place.” Its depths are still and hard to fathom; this is “in the heart, be good at depth.” It nourishes the myriad things without seeking anything in return; this is “in giving, be good in benevolence.” It curves where it meets a rounded place and turns where it meets a square one; it stops when blocked and flows through openings. It always adapts to the circumstances at hand; this is “in speaking, be good in keeping faith.” It washes away filth and levels high and low; this is “in governing, be good at bringing order.” It changes shape according to where it is, without remaining fixed in any one form; this is “in affairs, be good at ability.” It freezes in winter and thaws in spring; whether it dries up or swells, it never loses its proper season; this is “in action, be good at timing.”

Because water does not compete, it has no faults. Some people perform good deeds yet still attract criticism because they compete for something. Water does not compete, and so embodies all seven of these forms of goodness without fault.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

Holding something and filling it to the brim is not as good as knowing when to stop. Sharpen a blade too much, and it will not stay keen for long.

If you know that a vessel filled to the brim will surely overflow, why try to keep its contents by holding it tightly? It is safer not to fill it. If you know that a blade sharpened too far will surely wear away, why keep sharpening it without understanding that sharpness cannot be relied upon entirely? The sage possesses things without claiming them as his own. How, then, could anything overflow? He acts in accord with the way things are. How, then, could his edge become too sharp? If nothing is filled to the brim, there is no need to hold it fast; if sharpness is not sought, there is no need to sharpen.

No one can keep gold and jade piled high in a hall. Pride and complacency after attaining wealth and status only invite misfortune. When one’s achievements are complete and one’s name is renowned, withdrawing from public life is in accord with the Way of Heaven.

When the sun reaches its height, it begins to decline; when the moon is full, it begins to wane. As the seasons turn, all things recede once their growth is complete. If even Heaven and Earth are subject to this, how much more so are human beings?

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Po and Embracing the Hun

Can you unite body and spirit so that they never part?

The Po differs from the Hun: the Po belongs to the body, while the Hun belongs to the spirit. The Book of Changes says, “When Jing and Qi gather, they form the body; when the wandering Hun disperses, change takes place.” Thus people can understand the condition of ghosts and spirits. The Po belongs to the body and is diverse, with a place where it settles; the Hun belongs to the spirit and is focused, yet capable of change. Hence the phrase “carrying the Po”: it means that the Hun resides within the body.

The Dao is present everywhere. In the human body, it takes the form of innate nature; the subtle wonder of that nature is the spirit. What is pure and undivided is called “the One”; what is gathered and not dispersed is called “the uncarved block.” These expressions explain the same principle from different angles.

The sage’s nature is settled and the spirit gathered, unmoved by external things. Though the Po dwells in the body, whenever the spirit wishes to act, the Po follows it. Thus the spirit governs the body. Ordinary people, by contrast, are pulled along by external things. Their nature grows clouded, and their spirit cannot act independently, so they yield to the body’s desires. Their eyes and ears are troubled by sights and sounds; their nose and mouth are wearied by smells and tastes. Whatever the body wants to do, the spirit follows. In this way, the body leads the spirit. One must therefore teach people to gather the spirit and nourish the body, so that the two do not part. This is an important method by which the sage cultivates himself. The ancient perfected people’s way of cultivating deep roots and long life also comes from this.

Can you focus your Qi and regulate your breathing, making your body supple like that of an infant?

When the spirit cannot govern itself, Qi (vital energy) becomes scattered and disordered. The strong are prone to aggression, while the timid are prone to fear, though they do not understand why. When the spirit is settled, Qi does not stir recklessly, and joy and anger each arise for their proper reasons. This is called “concentrating Qi”: cultivating Qi with undivided attention. When the spirit reaches a state of utter emptiness and stillness, Qi is fully replenished. With a firm foundation, one can live long and extend one’s years. The same principle applies here.

Concentrate Qi and become supple; can you be like an infant?

When the spirit is settled, Qi does not stir recklessly: this is cultivating Qi with undivided attention. At the utmost stillness, one becomes supple; at the utmost fullness, one becomes strong. Returning to one’s pure nature, untouched by extremes in Qi, is called “becoming supple.” An infant knows neither preference nor aversion, so its nature remains whole. When nature is whole, the breath is harmonious; when the breath is harmonious, the body is soft. To cultivate Qi with undivided attention and make body and mind supple, as an infant’s are, is the fullest expression of “becoming supple.”

Cleanse the dark mirror; can you be without blemish?

The sage is not drawn outward by the senses and the body, nor driven inward by the breath. In this way, the sage thoroughly washes away the mind’s dust and grime. The spirit then becomes open and clear, able to see all things and understand that they all arise from their own nature. The sage regards purity and impurity alike, with no bias or blemish in the heart.

Love the people and govern the state; can you do so through Wuwei (non-action)?

The sage first cultivates and orders the self, then extends this principle to others, even applying it to governing the state and caring for its people, always responding without deliberate intent or action. If one acts from private motives, caring for the people may instead harm them, and governing the state may instead throw it into disorder.

When Heaven’s Gate opens and closes, can you remain receptive?

“Heaven’s Gate” refers to the point at which changes such as order and disorder, flourishing and decline, take place. Since the sage bears responsibility for the affairs of the world, when change begins or recedes, people tend to value gain and fear loss, rushing ahead to seek good fortune. The sage, by contrast, follows the way things are and understands Heaven’s mandate, responding once events have begun. The Yi Jing says: “Act before Heaven, and Heaven does not oppose you; act after Heaven, and you follow Heaven’s timing.” This means that although the sage’s actions may seem early or late, they always accord with Heaven’s mandate. To seek only to be first or to fall behind in every case would both be mistaken. Thus, “remaining receptive” means keeping to softness and humility while also acting at the right time.

Understand all things and reach everywhere; can you do so without knowledge?

Whether cultivating oneself, governing the state, or responding to change, one cannot do without the Dao (the Way). A person can do this only when the mind is clear and open. “Clear and open mind” means that nothing is unclear to the mind itself, yet it does not harbor a deliberate impulse to seek knowledge. The mind is originally one. If we then imagine a mind that knows some other object, we have made two. When one becomes two, obscuration and ignorance arise.

This is like a mirror reflecting objects: when an object arrives, the mirror reflects it; when the object leaves, the reflection disappears with it. Does the mirror have a separate mind that knows it is reflecting? When something that was never there is imposed through subjective intention, deluded thoughts arise.

The Dao gives life to and nourishes the myriad things, helping them grow without claiming them as its own. It acts without relying on its achievements and brings things to maturity without ruling over them. This is called “Mystic De” (profound and unseen Virtue). The Dao can give life to and nourish the myriad things without possessing, relying on itself, or ruling over them. Though it has great De, the myriad things do not perceive it; hence it is called “Mystic De.”

Chapter Eleven: Thirty Spokes

Thirty spokes converge at the wheel’s hub, but it is the empty space at the center that makes the wheel useful. Clay is kneaded into a vessel, but it is the empty space within that lets it hold things. Doors and windows are cut to make a room, but it is the open space inside that makes the room useful. Thus, solid form provides convenience, while empty space serves a function.

People exhaust their ingenuity and use all kinds of materials to make objects, yet an object’s actual usefulness often depends on the empty space within it. Without solid form, empty space has nothing to rest on; without empty space, solid form cannot serve its purpose. Therefore, the sage observes the subtle workings of things through “nonbeing” (emptiness and nonattachment), and also observes their limits through “being” (concrete existence). To understand that being and nonbeing depend on each other and cannot be separated is to attain clear insight.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

The five colors dazzle the eyes; the five tones dull the ear; the five flavors distort the palate.

Seeing colors, hearing sounds, and tasting flavors are all abilities people naturally possess. Before people are drawn along by external things, these abilities remain in their natural state. Once the eyes chase after colors, the ears chase after sounds, and the mouth chases after flavors, people become constrained by external things and forget their nature. Then, though they see, it is as if they were blind; though they hear, it is as if they were deaf; and though they taste, their sense of flavor loses its natural balance.

Indulging in fast horses and hunting drives the mind into frenzy; coveting rare and precious goods hinders one’s conduct. Therefore, the sage attends to basic needs and does not chase sensory pleasures. The sage gives up a life of pursuing external things and chooses a simple, settled way of life.

The Sage sees colors, hears sounds, and tastes flavors just as ordinary people do. The Sage also drives swiftly and hunts; it is not that these are never done. Nor does the Sage never use rare and precious things. Yet people often regard these things as misfortunes, while the Sage alone regards them as blessings. Why? Because the Sage is not ruled by the eyes, and so gives up the allure of external things and preserves the nature within.

The Sage sees colors, hears sounds, and tastes flavors just as ordinary people do. The Sage also takes part in swift driving and hunting, and does not refuse rare and precious things altogether. Yet the crowd sees these as misfortunes, while the Sage sees them as blessings. Why? The Sage satisfies inner needs, while the crowd pursues what the eyes crave. The eyes crave without limit and can never be truly satisfied; when inner needs are met, they do not grow into greed. The things before our eyes come from outside; our inner nature is gathered within ourselves.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace

Favor and disgrace are both like things that inspire alarm; valuing oneself is like valuing a great calamity.

Those who understood the Way in ancient times treated receiving favor as though it were disgrace, and treated the self as though it were a great calamity. They knew that favor is often the precursor to disgrace, and that the self is the root of calamity. Therefore, they gave up favor, and disgrace had no way to befall them; they forgot the self, and calamity had no way to arise.

What does it mean to say that favor and disgrace are both like things that inspire alarm? Favor places one in a low position: receiving favor is like being startled, and losing favor is like being startled too. This is what it means to say that favor and disgrace both inspire alarm. Favor and disgrace are not two wholly unrelated things. Disgrace arises from favor, but people fail to see this. Instead, they regard favor as exalted and disgrace as lowly. If we understand that disgrace arises from favor, we will know that favor itself occupies a low position. Thus, those who understood the Way in ancient times were like people startled whether they received favor or lost it. They were never complacent when favored, nor alarmed when disgraced. To be “like one who is startled” does not mean to be truly frightened; it means to remain as cautious as if facing something alarming.

What does it mean to say that valuing oneself is like valuing a great calamity? The reason I have great calamity is that I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could there be?

Here, “valuing” means something difficult to escape and a source of worry. Having a body is the root of great calamity, yet people in the world think it is difficult to bear great calamity without seeing anything wrong with having a body itself. Therefore, the Sage follows the sense of being “like one who is startled”: remaining alert toward the body and favor, without becoming immersed in them.

What does it mean to say that valuing oneself is like valuing a great calamity? The reason I have great calamity is that I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could there be?

The word “precious” means that people find it hard to see that having a body is the root of great trouble. People in the world fear suffering great trouble, yet they do not fear their attachment to the body. So the sage uses their fear of great trouble to teach them that attachment to the body is the deeper root, harder to escape. Once they understand the harm caused by attachment to the body, great trouble is dispelled.

A person’s nature cannot be increased by life or diminished by death. It can expand to fill Heaven and Earth. In its subtlety, it can cross water, enter fire, and pass through metal and stone; nothing external can injure it. Yet people everywhere are often anxious about losing their nature and concern themselves only with protecting their bodies. The more deeply they cherish their bodies, the more external things can harm them. Life and death, illness and disease trouble them from within; favor and disgrace, success and failure pull at them from without. Nothing fails to become a source of anxiety. Only those who understand the Way know that nature cannot be destroyed and that the body is not a real, unchanging existence. They suddenly forget the body, and all the world’s troubles disperse. Only then can they live in the world without being entangled by it.

Thus, only those who value the world more than their own bodies can be entrusted with it; only those who cherish the world more than their own bodies can be charged with its care.

People pursue power and profit and become absorbed in wealth and rank, even facing danger without regret, because they seek greater benefits for themselves. But if the world’s rewards were given to them along with the burden of governing the world, they would reach a state in which they forgot themselves. Even if the whole world were entrusted to such a person, the vastness of the world could not become a source of trouble for them.

Chapter Fourteen: “Look, Yet Do Not See”

Look for it, but it cannot be seen; this is called “Yi.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard; this is called “Xi.” Try to grasp it, but it cannot be caught; this is called “Wei.” These three cannot be pursued to their end, and so they merge into one.

What the eyes see are all kinds of shapes and colors, but the source that enables people to see them cannot itself be seen by the eyes. What the ears hear are all kinds of sounds, but the source that enables people to hear them cannot itself be heard by the ears. What the hands touch is sensation, but the source that enables people to feel sensation cannot be touched directly. Even the wise find these three difficult to explain. The key is to bring them together and return them to “the One.” The One is human nature; seeing, hearing, and touching are its functions. At first, people have only their nature. Later, through contact with external things, it disperses into different functions such as seeing, hearing, and touching. People use these functions every day without knowing how to return to the source. If they cannot return to their nature and reunite with the One, they will move ever farther from the source. The same principle applies more broadly to the Buddhist teaching of the “six faculties”: the six avenues of perception through the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says, “Turn the outward flow back and unify it completely; the six functions cease to operate independently.” This expresses precisely this idea: gather in the sensory functions that scatter outward, and bring the mind and spirit into unity, so that the six functions no longer pursue their own separate courses.

The Dao above does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dim.

All things with physical form depend on Yin-Yang, and so appear bright above and dim below. This cannot be avoided. Though the Dao is everywhere, it appears neither bright above nor dim below; it cannot be measured by form or quantity.

The Dao moves without ceasing, flowing on without interruption. It is difficult to name, and ultimately returns to nothing.

“Unbroken” describes its continuous, uninterrupted movement. Seeing it move without end, people assume that some substance must exist there, yet they do not know that it ultimately returns to “nothing.”

This is called “the shape of the shapeless, the image of the imageless,” and is also described as indistinct and elusive. “Shape” means a form that is clearly visible; “image” means a sign that can be faintly perceived. “The shape of the shapeless, the image of the imageless” does not mean that it is entirely nonexistent. Rather, since being and nonbeing alike are difficult to name precisely, it is called “indistinct and elusive.”

Look toward it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end.

The Dao is everywhere, so there is no beginning or end, front or back, that can be seen.

Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide things in the present. To recognize the original source of all things is called the “guiding principle of the Dao.”

In ancient times, some things came into being and have since disappeared; other things did not yet exist in antiquity. Grasp the root of how things arise and change, and you can govern for yourself the pace of advance and retreat.

Chapter Fifteen: The Masters of the Way in Antiquity

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao (the Way) were subtle and mysterious, yet clear-sighted and penetrating. They were so profound that no one could fathom them.

They left behind the coarse and entered the subtle. At the utmost point of subtlety, they entered the mysterious; reaching the mysterious, they became all-penetrating, profound beyond fathoming.

Because they were so hard to fathom, one can only try to describe them: hesitant, like crossing a river in winter.

Before acting, they carefully observed and took precautions; this is called “forethought.” In whatever they wished to do, they seemed to respond only when compelled, moving slowly and cautiously, as though acting only because they had no choice.

Wary, as though afraid their neighbors might see them.

Hesitating to proceed is called “wariness.” When faced with something they did not wish to do, they delayed and proceeded carefully, as though worried their neighbors might see them.

Solemn, like a guest.

They treated everything with respect and were never lax.

Open and yielding, like ice about to melt.

They knew that all things arise from illusion, so their hearts never clung to them or longed to hold on.

Simple and honest, like uncarved wood.

All artificial contrivance had fallen away, and they had returned to their original nature.

Vast and open, like a valley.

Their hearts were empty, able to contain everything.

Turbid, like muddy water.

They gathered in their radiance and lived among the world’s dust, without seeming different from other things.

Who can still muddy water and let it slowly clear? Who can set a settled state in motion and let life slowly emerge?

People of the world are disturbed by external things, which disrupt their nature and muddy their minds until they can no longer become clear. Those who practice only lifeless stillness use quietude to extinguish their nature; they settle into deathly quiet and can no longer bring forth life. Now, knowing that turbidity disrupts nature, let the heart grow still; as it grows still, it will gradually become clear. Knowing that extinguishing nature is not the right way, let life move; as it moves, vitality will gradually appear. The Book of Changes says, “Silent and still, yet when stirred, it penetrates the workings of all things under Heaven.” The “movement” spoken of here means the same thing.

Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness.

Fullness arises from going to extremes: to be turbid and yet unable to become clear, or settled and yet unable to bring forth life, is to be full.

Because they do not seek fullness, even when something is worn down, they need not make something new to replenish it. All things decline; only when fullness is not sought can what is worn down fade away of itself, without needing to make something new to replace it.

Chapter Sixteen: Attain the Utmost Emptiness

Bring the heart to the utmost emptiness and stillness, and firmly hold to serenity.

Reaching a state of emptiness is not enough if it is not complete: attachments may still remain in the heart. Keeping to stillness is not enough if it is not steadfast: agitation may still stir within. Even if mountains were moved away, the finest dust would still remain. One could not then claim to have reached complete emptiness and steadfastness. For deliberately pursuing and maintaining “emptiness” has not yet left the realm of “being”; deliberately holding to “stillness” remains bound by movement. This is all the more true of other things. Unless emptiness and stillness are complete, it is difficult for them to have their full effect.

Attain the utmost emptiness; hold fast to stillness.

Bring the heart-mind to the utmost emptiness, and steadfastly remain in stillness.

All things arise together; I observe how they return.

All things grow and change together. From a state of utmost emptiness and steadfast stillness, I observe how they return. In this way, change does not disturb me, and I can understand that whatever arises will eventually return. If I too were to become agitated and change along with all things, I could not see this clearly.

All things flourish, each returning to its root.

All things grow in abundance, yet each returns to its source. They arise from their nature and in the end return to that nature, like flowers and leaves that sprout from a root and return to it, or waves that surge up from water and ultimately return to water.

Returning to the root is called stillness.

If one has not yet returned to one’s nature, then even stopping one’s actions and quieting scattered thoughts in pursuit of stillness is not true stillness. Only returning to the root can be called stillness.

This is called returning to the source of life.

What is called “life” here is the subtle depth of “nature.” A person’s “nature” can still be explained clearly; when it comes to “life,” it is difficult to describe in words. The Yijing says, “Exhaust the principles of things, fully understand one’s nature, and thereby reach life.” Sages who study the Dao must first investigate the principles of things, then fully understand their nature, and finally return to life.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are the principles sages use to respond to worldly affairs. But there must be a reason behind why they are applied in these ways. Those who do not understand the reasons and merely follow the rules are ordinary people; those who understand the reasons before putting them into practice are exemplary persons. This is called “exhausting the principles.” Yet if one must think hard and investigate each matter before responding, and one matter follows another without pause, the effort becomes exhausting and the results limited.

Sages are not deceived by external things. Their inner nature is clear and tranquil, so they accord with what is right without forcing themselves and respond appropriately without deliberate thought. When things come before them, they can answer them naturally. This is called “fully realizing one’s nature.” However, if they still regard this nature as “mine,” and continue to distinguish between themselves and external things, they remain close to delusion. The mandate received by a ruler is called “life,” and the mandate bestowed by Heaven is also called “life.” To respond to things through one’s nature without clinging to the idea “I am doing this” is to attribute it to Heaven’s mandate. This is called “returning to life”—returning to Heaven’s mandate and to one’s nature.

Returning to life allows one to be called “constant”—unchanging and enduring.

Once things appear, even vast entities such as Heaven, Earth, mountains, and rivers are subject to change and decay. Only by returning to one’s nature can one become clear and tranquil, and endure without change.

Knowing what is constant is called “illumination.”

If returning to one’s nature is not recognized as true illumination, one remains merely clever in the ordinary sense. Even if one believes oneself to be enlightened, it is not true illumination.

Not knowing what is constant leads to reckless action and invites misfortune.

Those who do not understand how to return to their nature are moved by external things, and their actions may all bring misfortune. Even if they gain something for a time, in the long run they will lose something.

Knowing what is constant allows one to embrace all things.

When deluded by false thoughts, people always think they are right and others are wrong, treating external things as adversaries. How could they embrace anything? If they understand that these distinctions arise from delusion, then even when facing an enemy, they will feel compassion. Such an embrace is truly broad.

Embracing all things makes it possible to act impartially.

When there is nothing one cannot embrace, the divisions between things disappear, and one is no longer biased.

Acting impartially makes one fit to be a king.

When one is entirely free of bias, the people of the world will turn to them.

Heaven encompasses everything, of course. Yet however vast it may be, what could stand above it? Heaven still has a form; with the Dao, we reach the ultimate realm. But even the Dao cannot go beyond itself. By following the Dao, one can endure and remain free from danger throughout life.

Chapter 17: The Highest

The best ruler is one whom the people merely know is there.

He transforms the world through the Dao, without deliberately governing the people. They do not know why things work as they do; they only know that this ruler is there.

The next best ruler is one whom the people love and praise.

He governs the world through benevolence and righteousness. His virtue inspires gratitude, and his achievements are visible, so the people love and praise him. His reputation may sound good, but distinctions of closeness and distance, of greater and lesser regard, begin to arise.

The next ruler is one whom the people fear; the one below him is treated with contempt.

He uses laws and commands to bring the people into line. They are certainly afraid, but wherever the ruler’s power cannot reach, they treat him with contempt.

Therefore, when a ruler lacks integrity, the people will not trust him.

If a ruler could truly trust himself and follow the Dao, that would be enough to govern the world. Only because he lacks confidence in himself does he add benevolence and righteousness, then penalties and commands; the people then begin to distrust him.

The best ruler is cautious and sparing with words. When the work is done and the achievement complete, the people all say, “We did it naturally, of our own accord.”

The sage has full confidence within himself, yet speaks carefully and sparingly, never speaking lightly; therefore, the people trust him. When the work is done and all is accomplished, the people gradually become better and turn away from wrongdoing, yet do not feel that the ruler deliberately brought this about.

Chapter 18: The Great Dao

Only after the Great Dao was abandoned did benevolence and righteousness become visible.

When the Great Dao flourished, benevolence and righteousness were at work within it, but the people saw nothing remarkable in them. Only when the Great Dao declined were benevolence and righteousness deliberately brought forward.

Once wisdom became conspicuous, grave hypocrisy arose.

People did not understand that the Dao was already sufficient to encompass all things. They thought they had to use their own wisdom to supplement and arrange them, and so the people began to answer with hypocrisy.

Only when relatives are at odds is filial devotion and parental affection specially emphasized; only when a state is in disorder are loyal ministers especially praised.

When relatives live in harmony, who is not filial and loving? When a state is at peace, who is not loyal? It was not that Yao lacked filial devotion; it was that he had no father like Gusou, and so Shun’s filial conduct was especially praised. It was not that Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou lacked loyalty; it was that they had no ruler like Jie or Zhou, and so the loyalty of Long Feng and Bi Gan was especially praised. When ponds and marshes dry up, fish breathe moisture onto one another and keep one another wet; better that each forget the other in rivers and lakes.

Abandon the practice of elevating “sageliness” and discard clever schemes, and the people will gain a hundredfold.

It is not that sageliness and wisdom themselves are inadequate for understanding the Dao. But if the world is governed through sageliness and wisdom, will people not use them to cunningly seize the things of the world? Yet people do not understand the roots of sageliness and wisdom. They see only their outward expression, taking skill at calculation and surpassing others as abilities. So people compete to pursue these lesser pursuits, and the people begin to suffer greatly as a result. Therefore, abandon the practice of elevating sageliness and discard clever schemes, and the people will gain a hundredfold.

Abandon the practice of elevating benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to filial devotion and compassion.

No truly benevolent person abandons their family, and no truly righteous person betrays their ruler. Benevolence and righteousness are, by nature, the foundation of filial devotion and compassion. But when benevolence and righteousness decline, some people exploit their names to pursue private gain in the world. Then sons defy their fathers, and fathers abuse their sons. This is what happens when benevolence and righteousness are reduced to outward forms. Therefore, abandon the deliberate elevation of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to filial devotion and compassion.

Abandon cleverness and the pursuit of gain, and thieves will no longer appear.

Cleverness is originally meant to make tasks easier, and gain is originally meant to meet people’s needs. But when these are used for theft, thieves make use of them. Therefore, abandon cleverness and the pursuit of gain, and thieves will no longer appear.

“Fish in a dried-up pond call to one another with their breath and moisten one another with their spittle; better to forget one another in rivers and lakes” means that fish in a dried-up pond call to each other and moisten one another with their spittle. This may keep them alive for a time, but it is better for them to live freely in rivers and lakes, where they can forget one another. The image of fish depending on one another in hardship shows that it is better to live in a spacious, natural environment than to rely on makeshift remedies in a state of distress.

These three methods—governing the world through sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, or cleverness and profit—arose because some people believed that refined instruction and moral cultivation were not enough, and so attached these methods to the art of governing. People came to value them, believing that disorder in the world resulted from insufficient instruction. They therefore entrusted the task of governing to sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, or cleverness and profit, hoping to set the world in order by these means. Yet the world grew even more unsettled. Why not return to the root?

Revealing one’s unadorned nature, preserving one’s original simplicity, reducing selfishness, and curbing desire are what people value. If they could do this, people everywhere would each return to their own nature. Then even these three methods—sageliness and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit—would have no need to be applied. Hence it is said: “When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform of themselves. When I love stillness, the people set themselves right. When I create no disturbances, the people grow rich. When I have no desires, the people return to simplicity.” This is the fullest expression of sageliness and wisdom, the highest attainment of benevolence and righteousness, and the ultimate use of cleverness and profit.

Confucius, however, governed the world through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Laozi advocated cutting them off and casting them aside. Some therefore concluded that their teachings differed. The Book of Changes says, “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel.” Confucius considered later generations deeply. He taught people concrete, practicable rites and laws while leaving their underlying principles implicit. In this way, those of middling ability or less could follow the rites and laws without being confused by abstract principles, and still become exemplary people; those of greater ability could use them as a starting point for further insight into the Great Dao.

Laozi was different: his aim was to illuminate the Great Dao. The Great Dao cannot be expressed in words; whatever is spoken about it is only an approximate appearance. Those who understand can use appearances to recognize what is real. Those who do not understand become attached to appearances and thus fall into grave error. So in later generations, some clung to Laozi’s words and thereby brought disorder to the world, while those who studied Confucius rarely fell into such error. Many have used Laozi’s words to understand the Great Dao, but those who follow Confucius often struggle to know where to begin. These two sages adopted different teachings because circumstances left them no choice: to provide fully for one aspect, they necessarily had to leave something out of another.

“Cutting Off Learning, No Worries,” Chapter 20

Cut off worldly learning and attachment, and there will be no worries.

Learning adds to one’s knowledge day by day; seeking the Dao (the Way) means letting the preconceptions and attachments in one’s heart diminish day by day. If one does not understand the original principles of nature and life, yet keeps accumulating knowledge through study without being able to bring it together through principle, one may use the standard for circles to damage what is square, and the standard for straightness to damage what is curved. The heart becomes confused and beset by anxiety. Laozi feared that those who pursued learning might reach this point, and so he said, “Abandon learning, and you will be free of worry.” As for the sage, this does not mean that they never learn, but that they take the Dao as their foundation. They do not deliberately pursue learning, yet their understanding is not diminished; they may learn a great deal without being disturbed by knowledge. Their minds are open and free of worry—why, then, would they need to abandon learning?

How great is the difference between a respectful reply and a dismissive one? How far apart are good and evil?

Those who pursue learning become immersed in things they have heard, but cannot bring them together through the Dao. They therefore believe that a respectful reply and a dismissive one are utterly different—how much more, then, must they see good and evil as complete opposites? The sage knows that all things emerge from one and the same nature—their essential nature and source—and that they take on illusory forms through distinctions and attachments. A horse or an ox drawn in a picture, or a tiger or pig carved in wood, is not a real horse, ox, tiger, or pig. The sage dissolves distinctions between right and wrong, sameness and difference. Who, then, can say how far apart things truly are? When this is so, all things can grow together without harming one another, and the Dao can run its course in many ways without conflict. This is nothing strange.

What people fear cannot but be feared.

The sage regards self and other, sameness and difference, as level, and no longer clings to distinctions. Yet this does not mean ignoring the norms of the world, violating social roles, or disrupting human relationships without regard. What people fear, the sage also fears; what people do, the sage also does as a matter of course. They live within the relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, and follow the institutions of ritual, music, penal law, and government. The people of the world see nothing unusual in them. They are not moved by external things simply because they do not cling inwardly.

Vast beyond measure—there seems to be no end!

People are each confined by what they know, held fast within its boundaries and unable to pass beyond them. The sage, by contrast, understands both being and nonbeing, and can respond freely to whatever situation they enter. Thus this vastness seems to have no end.

Everyone is cheerful and delighted, as though feasting on a lavish sacrificial offering or climbing a high terrace in spring to take in the view. I alone am calm and quiet; my feelings have yet to show, like an infant who has not learned to smile.

People are each immersed in what they love, finding joy in it as though feasting on a lavish sacrificial offering or climbing high in spring to take in the view. I alone am detached and quiet, my feelings yet to show, like an infant who has not learned to smile.

People become absorbed in the things they love. If they find something beautiful, they enjoy it as they would a lavish feast; if they find something delightful, they enjoy it as they would a spring outing to high places. People eagerly pursue these pleasures, unaware that they are mistaken to do so. Only the sage sees through the emptiness of these desires. Facing them, the sage remains calm and unmoved, like an infant who has not yet learned to laugh.

Go along with the natural course, as though there were no fixed destination.

The sage follows the principles of all things and claims nothing as their own. That is why they seem to have no fixed destination.

Everyone believes they have more than enough; I alone seem to have nothing.

Everyone clings to what they know and considers themselves well supplied. The sage embraces all things without becoming attached to any particular view. So the sage seems detached, as though possessing nothing.

My mind is truly like a fool’s—confused and muddled.

The sage’s mind seems confused and ignorant, like a fool’s, but the sage is not truly foolish.

People in the world seem perceptive and clear-sighted; I alone seem dull. They seem keen and discerning; I alone seem slow and unresponsive.

People in the world mistake making distinctions and judgments for wisdom. The sage knows that delusions are not worth disputing one by one. So the sage seems dull on the outside and does not display cleverness within.

I drift, vast and unbounded as the sea, with no place to settle.

Everyone has some ability; I alone seem slow and inept.

Everyone has a particular strength, so people in the world can all be put to use. The sage’s De is complete, yet the sage seems to have no special skill to put into practice. That is why the sage appears slow and inept.

I alone differ from everyone else: I cherish receiving nourishment from the Mother.

The Dao is the mother of all things. People pursue external things and forget the Dao, while the sage lets go of attachment to all things and takes the Dao as their root. This is like an infant who eats nothing else and depends entirely on its mother for nourishment.

“On the Manifestation of Great De,” Chapter 21

The form manifested by great De follows the Dao completely.

People pursue external things and forget the Dao, while the sage lets go of attachment to all things and takes the Dao as their root. This is like an infant who eats nothing else and depends entirely on its mother for nourishment.

“On the Manifestation of Great De,” Chapter 21

The form manifested by great De follows the Dao completely.

The Dao has no form. When it operates and manifests as De, it takes on many forms. De is therefore the manifestation of the Dao. Extending this idea, the forms that things take are all ways the Dao manifests within them.

The Dao is elusive and difficult to grasp. In its elusiveness, it seems to contain images; in its obscurity, it seems to contain real things.

The Dao cannot simply be described as either being or nonbeing, so it is called “elusive.” Yet when its operation reaches its utmost, images take shape; when it becomes manifest, it appears as concrete things. All of these arise from what is elusive.

Deep and hidden, it contains subtle Qi.

When the myriad things have not yet settled into form and remain in a state of “Nonbeing,” they are indistinct and cannot be seen. When “Being” and “Nonbeing” meet, the profound and subtle workings within them become visible. Though no concrete form has yet taken shape, vital essence and Qi already exist within them.

This vital essence is real and free of falsehood; within it lies a ground for trust.

Once the myriad things take form, truth and falsehood become mixed together. Originally, vital essence is pure and unified, admitting no falsehood. When truth and falsehood intermingle, the One divides into Two, and the Two into Three; the many then emerge in tangled profusion, and it becomes difficult to trust them completely. When vital essence is pure and unified, it does not deceive.

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never disappeared. Because it has always been there, we can observe the transformations of the myriad things. “Fu” means beautiful. However beautiful the myriad things may appear, they cannot escape change.

How do I know that the myriad things all undergo such transformations? I know it by this principle.

Sages know why the myriad things are as they are because they can perceive and follow the Dao without straying from it.

Bending, One Is Made Whole (Chapter 22)

Bending can bring wholeness.

Sages always act in accordance with the way things are. Acting in accordance with principle may at times appear straight and at times bent; what matters is whether one can remain open and responsive. When one remains responsive, one does not come into conflict with external things; without conflict, one can preserve oneself.

Yielding can make one upright.

What is “straight” but contrary to principle is not truly straight. To accord with principle, even if one must yield for a time, is the most upright way in the world.

Low places can become full.

All waters flow toward low ground, so low-lying places naturally fill.

The worn can be renewed.

Excessive scrutiny and making everything conspicuous are contrary to the Dao. What seems dim and sluggish, as though close to decline, is instead the source of continual renewal.

Taking little can bring gain.

The Dao returns to the One. Hold to the One, and there is nothing one cannot attain.

Grasping at much brings confusion.

If one learns a great deal but cannot connect it through a single fundamental principle, one becomes confused.

For this reason, sages hold to the One of the Dao—that is, they keep to the root and return to purity and unity—and make it the standard for all that is done in the world.

To hold to purity and unity is to let one’s nature return to its natural state. Bending and becoming whole, yielding and becoming upright, being low and becoming full, growing worn and being renewed, taking little and gaining, grasping at much and becoming confused: these principles all result from holding to purity and unity. That is why this chapter concludes with “holding to the One.”

By not making a display of oneself, one can see clearly.

The eye cannot see itself, yet it can see other things. A mirror cannot reflect itself, yet it can reflect other things. If the eye were always trying to see itself and the mirror always trying to reflect itself, they would be occupied with themselves. How could they have any time left to attend to other things?

By not insisting on being right, one becomes clear; by not boasting, one establishes merit; by not displaying oneself, one endures. Precisely because one does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with them.

Not forcing oneself into view, not insisting on being right, not boasting of one’s achievements, and not exalting oneself: these are all expressions of noncontention. That is why the passage ends by bringing everything together in “not contending.”

The words of the ancients, “Yield, and you can remain whole”—could these be empty words? Yielding truly allows one to remain whole and, in the end, return to one’s original nature.

People often regard straightness as right and yielding as wrong. Yet to follow the way things are and conduct oneself in the world, one sometimes has no choice but to yield. So the passage ends by saying again: “Could these be empty words? Yielding truly allows one to remain whole and, in the end, return to one’s original nature.” To be “whole” means more than preserving oneself: it means preserving oneself inwardly and all things outwardly, allowing both things and oneself to remain whole, and thereby returning to one’s nature. This is what it means to be truly upright.

Chapter 23: “Rare Words Are Natural”

Words that accord with nature are few by their very nature.

When speech arises from nature, it is concise and apt. When one goes against one’s nature and forces oneself to keep talking, speech becomes tedious and difficult to trust. Thus it is said that the Dao, when spoken of, is bland and without flavor; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard, yet its effects are inexhaustible. This is what is meant by “rare words”—speaking little and speaking naturally.

A gale does not last all morning; a downpour does not last all day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the winds and rains produced by Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can human efforts do so?

When Yin and Yang—the two opposing and changing forces in nature—do not contend, winds and rains come at their proper times, neither too quickly nor too slowly, and cease when their force has run its course. But when Yang Qi surges above and Yin Qi lies below, sealed off from one another and unable to flow freely, the winds and rains can suddenly become violent, seeming unstoppable. Yet even this force cannot last all day.

The words of the sages of old were few and plain; their conduct, too, was simple and natural. They followed the inherent patterns of things, and so their words and actions could endure without being exhausted. People sometimes scorn this plainness, preferring clever arguments that sound pleasing or strange behavior that shocks. They do not realize that such ways are difficult to sustain.

So those who devote themselves to the Dao act in accord with the Dao; those who cultivate De act in accord with De; and those who lose the Dao and De act in accord with the condition of having lost them. Those who accord with the Dao are gladly welcomed by the Dao; those who accord with De are gladly welcomed by De; and those who accord with the loss of the Dao and De are gladly welcomed by that condition of loss.

Confucius said, “If you set your heart on benevolence, you will do no wrong.” If this is true of setting one’s heart on benevolence, how much more so of setting one’s heart on the Dao? If you truly devote yourself to the Dao and act in accord with it, you will attain the Dao; if you act in accord with De, you will attain De. Even if you happen to fall short, and do not accomplish what you set out to do, you will surely gain an understanding of the Dao and De through the experience.

“When trust is insufficient, there will be no trust in return.”

Those who do not understand the Dao have little faith in it. When they encounter setbacks, they doubt the Dao and become even less trusting. Only those who truly understand the Dao will not doubt it because of temporary gains or losses.

“Those Who Rise on Tiptoe Cannot Stand Firm,” Chapter 24

Those who rise on tiptoe cannot stand firm; those who take overlong strides cannot walk far. Those who show off cannot see clearly; those who insist they are right cannot make themselves known; those who boast have no merit; those who are self-important cannot endure.

Everyone can naturally stand and walk. But if ordinary standing seems insufficient and one insists on rising on tiptoe, or ordinary walking seems insufficient and one insists on taking overlong strides, one loses the steadiness of standing and walking. The same is true of those who show off, insist they are right, or boast of themselves.

In relation to the Dao, such behavior is like surplus food or extra limbs growing on the body. It is best to eat in moderation; eating too much does harm. It is best for the body to have its full complement of limbs; excess flesh or other growths become a burden.

People generally dislike such behavior, so those who have the Dao do not engage in it.

“A Being Complete in Itself,” Chapter 25

There is a being, complete and undifferentiated, that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape.

The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low; it neither departs nor arrives, and belongs to neither good nor evil. It is complete and undifferentiated, and came into being naturally. The Dao is expressed in human beings as their nature; hence the saying, “There is a being complete in itself.” No one knows where it came from. It exists in stillness, enduring without end, and from it Heaven and Earth came into being.

How deep and still it is; how empty and formless. It exists alone and never changes. It moves in cycles without end and never grows weary, so it may be called the mother of all things under Heaven. It is silent and still, empty and formless, unique and never changing. It moves among all things without ever being exhausted. It bends down to bring forth and transform them, and so all things are nourished by it.

I do not know what to call it, so I call it the Dao (the Way). Forced to give it a name, I call it “Great.”

The Dao originally had no name. The sage saw that everything arose from it, and so called it the Dao. Seeing that nothing could surpass it, the sage reluctantly called it “Great.” In truth, no name can properly describe it.

What is great moves onward and far away; moving far away, it reaches distant places, and having reached them, returns.

If you seek the Dao by way of “Greatness,” it moves onward and far away. Follow the direction in which it recedes, and it will seem beyond reach. Though it moves away and appears remote, turn back and seek within: it is enough to devote yourself to your own original nature.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is great. In the universe there are four things that are great, and the ruler is one of them. Humanity takes its 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.

From the Dao’s perspective, Heaven, Earth, and the ruler do not count as truly great. Yet people are accustomed to recognizing the greatness of Heaven, Earth, and the ruler, while not believing that the Dao is also great. So I tell them how things stand: compared with Earth, humanity is lesser; compared with Heaven, Earth is lesser; compared with the Dao, Heaven is lesser; and the Dao takes what is natural as its model. Still, if people can one day recover their original nature, they will embody the principles of Heaven and Earth, the Dao, and what is natural.

The Root of the Heavy Is the Light

The heavy is the root of the light; stillness is the ruler of agitation.

Nothing can use the light to bear the heavy, nor can the small hold the great in check. Setting what is still in motion and restraining what is moving explains why the light takes the heavy as its root, and agitation takes stillness as its ruler.

Therefore, the sage travels all day without leaving the baggage cart. Even amid splendid sights, the sage remains at ease, settled and self-possessed. One may wish to travel light, but cannot leave the baggage behind; splendid sights may be pleasing, but one must also have a quiet place to dwell. This shows that one must not abandon steadiness and stillness.

How can a ruler govern the world with a careless attitude? A ruler bears the weighty responsibility of the world. If he takes his duty lightly, he is not fit to shoulder the task of governing it.

Carelessness makes ministers lose trust in him; impatience makes him lose his position.

Neither carelessness nor impatience is acceptable. When a ruler is careless, his ministers know he cannot be relied upon. When ministers are impatient, the ruler knows they are bent on personal gain. That is why it is said: “Carelessness makes one lose one’s ministers; impatience makes one lose one’s position.”

One who is skilled at walking leaves no wheel ruts or footprints.

He follows the natural patterns of things, and so leaves no trace.

One who is skilled at speaking says what is fitting and makes no mistakes.

He waits for the right moment to speak. Thus, even if he speaks throughout the world, he makes no verbal errors.

One who is skilled at calculating needs no counters or calculating tools.

The numbers and patterns of all things are plain before him. He understands them without calculation, so why would he need counting tools?

One who is skilled at closing a door uses no bolt, yet it cannot be opened; one who is skilled at tying a knot uses no cord, yet it cannot be untied.

One whose De (Virtue) is complete relates to all things as a mother relates to her children. Even when they are allowed to move freely, they do not leave. Thus, there is no need for a bolt to keep the door secure or a cord to hold them together.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so abandons no one; he is always skilled at caring for things, and so discards nothing. Ordinary people rely on tools, set up barriers, or bind things with cords, but what they can accomplish is limited. The sage treats everyone with more than acceptance: he also knows how to help them. I abandon no one—how, then, could people fail to turn to me?

This is called “inheriting and transmitting illumination”—the wisdom that carries light forward.

Helping someone when they are in danger is not the greatest form of aid. When someone is blinded by external things as life and death turn in their cycles, the sage guides them with the clearest principles, bringing understanding to those in confusion. Like a flame passed from lamp to lamp, the light continues without end. This is what it means to be skilled at saving people.

Thus, 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 respect the teacher or value the lesson, then despite believing oneself clever, one is in fact deeply confused.

The sage teaches others without selfish intent, and so does not regard their shortcomings as grounds for rejecting them. People throughout the world learn without selfish intent, and so do not regard their teacher as beyond their reach. The sage not only forgets the world himself, but also ensures that the life-giving activity of the Dao does not come to an end. This is what it means to be skilled at saving people.

Thus, a good person can be a teacher to someone who is not good, and someone who is not good can serve as a lesson to a good person. Yet people do not value the teacher or cherish the one who serves as a lesson.

The sage does not set out to teach, so he does not treat others as models to follow. The people of the world do not set out to learn, so they do not value teachers. The sage not only forgets the world himself, but can also help the people of the world forget him; thus the world pays him no heed.

Even someone wise may appear muddled. This is what is meant by the essential mystery.

The sage’s mystery may not be understood even by someone wise.

“Knowing the Male” — Chapter 28

Know the strong, yet keep to the weak, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will never depart, and you will return to the purity of an infant. Know what is bright, yet keep to what is dark, and you can become the model of the world. As the model of the world, your constant De will never go astray, and you will return to boundlessness. Know honor, yet keep to disgrace, and you can become the ravine of the world. As the ravine of the world, your constant De will be complete, and you will return to your uncarved nature.

Strength and weakness, going first and following after, are conditions related to oneself; the same is true of brightness and darkness, honor and disgrace, nobility and lowliness. When constant De does not go astray, one returns to the limitless. Know honor yet keep to disgrace: become the valley of the world, let constant De be complete, and in the end return to the uncarved.

Masculine and feminine, first and last, white and black, light and dark, honor and disgrace, noble and lowly: all these distinctions concern me. People often want to be first and dislike being last, seek the light and detest the dark, and desire nobility while despising lowliness. Such are the usual tendencies of things. Yet compared with me, first and last are less immediate than light and dark; and light and dark, in turn, are less deeply felt than nobility and lowliness.

The sages of antiquity cast off delusion and sought to recover their nature. The clearer their nature became, the humbler their conduct; the humbler their conduct, the deeper their De (Virtue/Power); and the deeper their De, the wider the range of things that turned toward them. Not acting because one does not know is less complete than knowing clearly and still not acting.

Know what is strong and masculine, yet hold to what is soft and feminine: this is understanding one’s nature. When one understands one’s nature, the desire to win ceases, and all under Heaven who compete to be first turn toward him, like streams flowing down into a valley, from which none depart. Yet this is like an infant: able to receive, but not yet able to use what it receives. Hence the saying, “Return to the infant.”

Know what is white, yet hold to what is dark: this is seeing one’s nature. Dwelling in darkness while discerning the light, one leaves no place for those under Heaven who presume to understand to conceal their true nature. Everyone takes him as a model and a standard. Though he responds to all things, his standard never goes astray, and his activity is inexhaustible. Hence the saying, “Return to the limitless.”

Know what is honored, yet hold to what is disgraced: this is recovering one’s nature. Once all delusion has been cast off, one feels no resentment at dwelling in disgrace. The mind is open and still, empty like a valley, responding when things arrive. De is complete here, and one’s nature is pure and free of defilement. Hence the saying, “Return to the uncarved block.”

When the uncarved block, the natural state before shaping, is divided, it becomes the various vessels. When the sage makes use of them, he becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, excellent governance does not forcibly divide things.

After returning to the natural state, the sage also divides the uncarved block into different implements, using them to respond to all things. This is like a ruler establishing different offices and appointing officials: it follows the natural development of circumstances. Though arrangements are made, things are not forcibly divided.

“When One Seeks to Take the World” — Chapter 29

To seek to take the world and govern it by force, I believe, cannot be done.

The sage possesses the world not by seizing it; all things simply turn toward him, and he accepts it only because he has no choice. Nor does the sage govern the world by forcing things into being. He follows their natural condition and removes what harms them. If one is intent on seizing the world and acting upon it by force, one cannot truly obtain it.

Governing the world, this “great vessel”—a sacred and momentous whole—cannot be forced into line by an individual’s will. Forceful action brings ruin; clinging to control leads to loss.

Nothing should be made to act recklessly against its own nature. Even among a gathering of only a hundred people, if one fails to follow what is natural and instead imposes arbitrary measures by force, some will surely resist. How much more so for the whole world? In small matters involving few people, one may sometimes seize an advantage by force or prevail through clever schemes. But the world is vast, and a “spirit” governs within it. If the world is not allowed to submit of its own accord, people will rebel; if it is not allowed to settle by itself, disorder will arise.

Thus, among the myriad things, some move forward and others follow; some breathe warmth and others blow cold; some grow strong and others decline; some come to fruition and others are destroyed. Therefore, the sage sets aside excess, extravagance, and extremes.

Yin and Yang act upon one another; high and low transform into each other; the great and the small depend on each other. The myriad things are sometimes in front and sometimes behind; sometimes warm and sometimes cold; sometimes strengthened by gain and sometimes weakened by loss; sometimes brought to fulfillment and sometimes overturned and destroyed. These are the results of things changing naturally, and they are difficult to avoid as circumstances unfold. The foolish people of the world care only to satisfy their private desires and pursue what they can gain. They insist on resisting these changes, and calamity follows: at times they suffer loss, and at times they are ruined.

Only the sage understands that nature cannot be defied. So the sage responds by following change, setting aside excess, extravagance, and extremes, and preventing affairs from developing to the point of harming the myriad things. Then the world is free of calamity. This is Wuwei (non-action) brought to its utmost. When Yao and Tang faced floods and droughts, they could not prevent the disasters, yet in the end they were not ruined by them. The reason lies here.

The Book of Changes, in the “Peace” hexagram, says: “The ruler shapes and completes the way of Heaven and Earth, assists their fitting arrangements, and thereby supports the people.” This means that the ruler assesses the patterns of Heaven and Earth’s workings and helps the myriad things respond to the proper seasons, thereby serving the people. In the Peace hexagram, three Yang lines are within and three Yin lines without: things have reached the height of their flourishing. The sage fears that, at the height of its prosperity, growth may go too far and harm the power of life. So the sage regulates and supports it, keeping it from excess. This is what is meant by setting aside excess, extravagance, and extremes.

Chapter Thirty: Aiding the Ruler with the Dao

Those who use the Dao to aid a ruler do not use military force to dominate the world, for such actions often invite retaliation.

Even when sages wage war, they do so only because they have no choice, hoping to subdue the world by force. Even if they sometimes win, disaster is certain to return and exact its toll. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han either lost their lives as a result or brought calamity upon their descendants. War is something people abhor and spirits resent; no one has ever escaped disaster through it.

Where armies have been stationed, brambles grow thick. After a great war, there is always a year of famine.

When war breaks out, the people’s livelihoods are disrupted and their fields go uncultivated. Afterward, the killing force runs rampant and crops are damaged. This is true of every war—how much more so when force is used to flaunt strength?

Those skilled in warfare seek only to bring disorder to an end. They do not dare use force to flaunt their strength.

“Achieving the aim” means acting decisively. When De’s transformative influence cannot bring people peace and orders cannot secure their obedience, force should be used to make a decision only as a last resort.

Once the aim is achieved, do not praise yourself, boast, or grow arrogant. Since force was used out of necessity, do not flaunt your strength. These four principles—not praising yourself, not boasting, not growing arrogant, and acting only out of necessity—keep people from flaunting their strength.

When things reach their peak, they grow old. This is called being out of accord with the Dao (the Way). What is out of accord with the Dao quickly perishes.

After things reach their prime, they inevitably decline; nothing is exempt. Only those who follow the Dao, though they accomplish something, appear to have fallen short, and though they are full and abundant, appear empty. They never presume upon their strength and so do not move toward decline and destruction. To subdue the world by military force is to push strength to its utmost. How could it avoid decline and destruction?

“Fine Weapons” (Chapter Thirty-One)

Fine weapons are inauspicious things, and people usually abhor them. For this reason, those who follow the Dao do not use them in daily life.

Weapons are brought out only to aid those in danger. Warfare is not treated as the norm. This is what it means to “not take one’s place”: weapons are not made the basis of one’s life.

In ordinary life, the gentleman gives precedence to the left; in warfare, he gives precedence to the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a gentleman values. They are used only when there is no alternative, and should be regarded with calm detachment. Even when victorious, one should not regard victory as a good thing. To treat victory as good is to delight in killing. Anyone who delights in killing cannot fulfill the aim of governing the world.

In auspicious ceremonies, the left is given precedence; at funerals, the right is. When an army sets out, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander on the right. This means that the commander is placed in the position associated with mourning. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even in victory, the occasion should be treated with the rites of mourning.

The Dao has no fixed name. It is plain and whole, and though it may seem small, nothing under Heaven can control it. If rulers and lords can hold to the Dao, all things will naturally come to them.

“Uncarved wood” refers to a nature untouched by shaping. The Dao has no name, so its nature cannot be confined by names. When it unfolds, it is everywhere; when it draws inward, it becomes so subtle that not even a hair’s breadth can contain it. Thus, though the Dao may seem small, it cannot be controlled. If people of low station hold to the Dao, even things as humble as dust or chaff can be enough to shape a sage ruler like Yao or Shun. But if rulers and lords, despite their high station, cannot hold to the Dao, all things will not come to them.

The Qi of Heaven and Earth mingle and join, and sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet the dew naturally moistens all things evenly.

The balanced Qi of Yin and Yang rises and falls, mingles and joins, and sweet dew descends to nourish all things without neglecting any. The sage responds to all things by following the highest Dao. Like the dew, the sage reaches everywhere, and so can bring all things to accord.

When things first come to be made, they acquire names. Once names arise, one must know where to stop. Knowing where to stop keeps one from danger. The sage divides the undifferentiated uncarved wood and makes it into various objects, giving each a name according to its form. Is this done to pursue names and forget the uncarved wood, abandoning the root for the branches? The sage also knows how to return to one’s original nature, and so can govern all things without falling into danger.

The Dao in the world is like the relationship between streams and valleys and the rivers and seas.

The rivers and seas are where water gathers; streams and valleys are where it flows in separate channels. The Dao is the root of all things, and all things are branches that arise from the Dao. The waters of streams and valleys all flow into the place where they gather; all things, too, return to their root.

The Dao in the world is like the relationship between streams and valleys and the rivers and seas.

The rivers and seas are where water gathers; streams and valleys are where it flows in separate channels. The Dao is the root of all things, and all things belong to the Dao. The waters of streams and valleys flow into the rivers and seas; all things, too, return to their own root.

To understand others is intelligence; to understand oneself is true insight.

Making fine distinctions and judgments is intelligence; removing what obscures the mind is true insight. So long as the impulse to distinguish has not been set aside, one can understand others but cannot truly know oneself. Only by removing what obscures the mind can one know oneself and then understand others.

To overcome others is to have strength; to overcome oneself is to be truly strong.

Strength can be used to overcome others, but it does not necessarily enable one to master oneself. The ability to restrain oneself and return to one’s original nature goes beyond ordinary strength; that is why it is called true strength.

Those who know contentment are truly rich.

Whatever they encounter, those who feel they have enough remain rich. Even someone who possesses all under Heaven but lives with a constant sense of discontent will feel poor throughout life.

Those who can truly persevere over the long term have firm resolve. They do not compete with external things, but keep striving within themselves. External things then cannot take their resolve away.

Those who do not stop once they are satisfied can become truly abundant. Even if they possess all under Heaven, those who still feel that they do not have enough will never feel abundant in their lifetime.

Those who can truly persevere over the long term have firm resolve. They do not compete with external things, but keep striving within themselves. External things then cannot take their resolve away.

Those who do not lose their root can endure. All things change without end, but if the heart never loses its root, it can endure.

The body may die, yet one’s original nature does not perish: this is true longevity. The changes of life and death are momentous, but human nature is clear and tranquil, and does not disappear. This is the state attained by the ancient Perfected Ones, those who had attained the Dao: they could transcend life and death.

Chapter 34: The Great Dao Flows Everywhere

The Great Dao flows widely and is everywhere; it can reach in every direction.

The Great Dao is vast and clings to no position. Nothing is necessarily possible, and nothing is necessarily impossible. Thus it can move up, down, left, and right, circulating everywhere and reaching every place.

All things depend on the Dao for their life, yet the Dao does not refuse them. When things are accomplished, the Dao does not claim the credit as its own.

Those in the world who nourish and sustain things without refusing them often claim those things as their own. Those who avoid things and refuse to possess them often disclaim responsibility for nourishing and sustaining all things. Only the Dao can nourish and sustain all things without refusing them, and bring them to completion without claiming the credit.

The Dao cherishes and nurtures all things, yet does not rule them. It is often said to be small because it has no selfish desires. All things return to it, yet it does not rule them; in this sense, it can also be called great. The sage never considers himself great, and thereby accomplishes greatness. If he holds the thought, “I will be great,” he becomes small.

Chapter 35: Holding Fast to the Great Image

If one holds fast to the Dao, the “Great Image”—the formless, nameless Dao that encompasses all things—people throughout the world will turn toward it.

The Dao belongs neither to being nor to nonbeing, and so it is called the “Great Image.” If it appeared as a clear, concrete form, there would be likeness and difference. People would like what was like themselves and draw near to it; they would dislike what was different and turn away. In that case, it would not be enough to draw everyone in the world toward it.

People who turn toward the Dao are not harmed, and so they are at peace, steady, and at ease.

Where there is liking and disliking, there are also benefit and harm. Once both liking and disliking have fallen away, there is no harm to things. Thus, if a ruler can govern in accordance with the Dao, the world can be at peace, steady, and at ease.

Would music and fine food set out for travelers still not be enough to make them stop? Yet when the music ends and the food is gone, they leave. If one can grasp the Great Image—the Dao’s complete pattern—in facing the world, people will not know how to love it; how, then, could they come to detest it? The Dao has no smell, shape, or sound. It cannot be used to please the senses, yet its effects are inexhaustible.

Chapter Thirty-Six: What Is to Be Gathered In

If you wish to gather something in, you must first let it expand. If you wish to weaken something, you must first let it grow strong. If you wish to discard something, you must first let it rise. If you wish to take something, you must first give it. This is called “subtle illumination”: seeing, from the faintest signs, how things develop.

If you do not give first but suddenly take, your power cannot be fully brought to bear, and your reasoning will be incomplete. When power is not fully brought to bear, it is difficult to achieve what you seek; when reasoning is incomplete, things will not submit. Yet this approach already comes close to the use of artifice. How does it differ from the methods of Guan Zhong and Sun Wu? The actions of the sage and the ordinary person may indeed look alike on the surface. The difference is that the sage follows the way things unfold, while the ordinary person relies on clever schemes. Following the way things unfold is like a physician who knows how to prescribe according to an illness; relying on clever schemes is like a merchant who knows how to pursue profit.

The Soft and Weak Overcome the Hard and Strong

The sage knows that strength is not something to rely on, and so takes the position of softness and weakness. The hard and strong in the world clash and contend with one another; I alone meet them with softness and weakness. When the strong are injured and the weak perish, I do not contend with them. I simply wait in stillness for their strength to run out. This is what is called “victory.” The sage does not deliberately act this way to conquer things outside himself. Rather, understanding that circumstances follow their own course, he rests in accordance with nature.

Fish cannot leave the depths. The state’s sharp instruments—the powers and means by which others can be controlled or intimidated—must not be displayed lightly.

A fish can protect itself not because it has sharp claws and teeth strong enough to overcome other creatures, but because it dwells in the depths. Even the most powerful person cannot catch it. Once it leaves the depths and comes onto land, it is merely a clumsy fish. What can it do then?

The sage rests in weakness, so the strong cannot harm him. Not only does the sage remain unharmed; he can also restrain the strong before they act. Is the way of weakness not the most useful power under Heaven? A fish can be subdued only after it leaves the depths. The sage remains in weakness without rejecting it, and in the end brings all under Heaven to submit. Is this something anyone can do?

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Dao Constantly Acts Through Wuwei

The Dao (the fundamental principle by which all things operate) constantly follows its own course and does not impose action, yet nothing is left unaccomplished.

“To leave nothing unaccomplished” means that nothing is beyond its capacity to accomplish; it does not mean deliberately setting out to do things.

If lords and kings can hold to this principle, the myriad things will transform of themselves. If greed and reckless action arise in the course of that transformation, I will use the uncarved simplicity without a name—the natural state untouched by refinement or human contrivance—to settle them.

The sage guides the myriad things through Wuwei: by guiding them in accordance with their nature, all things can be accomplished.

“To leave nothing unaccomplished” means that nothing is beyond its capacity to accomplish; it does not mean deliberately setting out to do things.

If lords and kings can hold to this principle, the myriad things will transform of themselves. If greed and reckless action arise in the course of that transformation, I will use the uncarved simplicity without a name to settle them.

The sage guides the myriad things through Wuwei. Transformation begins in Wuwei, then gradually gives rise to human contrivance, and eventually develops into reckless action. It is like a baby growing into an adult: human contrivance increases day by day. After the decline of the Three Dynasties, human feelings and behavior changed ever more intensely. When greed and reckless action first arise, those in positions of authority and the people of the world often follow along, and so changes multiply until they are almost beyond description. If one can avoid being swept along when reckless action first begins, and always use the uncarved simplicity without a name to settle things, perhaps it can be brought to a halt.

The uncarved simplicity without a name also leads people to stop making unreasonable demands. When such demands cease, the world grows quiet and, in the end, settles of itself.

The sage has no inward attachment to preserving simplicity, nor does he outwardly make a show of deliberately preserving it. In this way, simplicity remains intact and its effects are far-reaching. If the mind still holds the intention to preserve simplicity, it has already strayed far from it.

Commentary on the Laozi, Volume One

Commentary on the Laozi, Volume Two, by Su Shi of the Song Dynasty

The De Scripture

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Highest De Does Not Cling to De

The highest De does not cling to De, and thus possesses De. The lower De does not let go of De, and thus lacks De.

The sage acts as his heart directs, yet does not overstep the rules. He does not deliberately seek De, but De is naturally complete in him. Those of a lesser kind know that De is important, so they strive to obtain it and keep from losing it. In truth, they are merely forcing themselves to maintain their own condition.

The highest De does not cling to De, and thus possesses De. The lower De does not let go of De, and thus lacks De.

The sage follows the promptings of the heart and mind, yet never oversteps the bounds of the law. This is not because he deliberately strives for virtue; rather, virtue is naturally complete in him. Those a step below know that virtue is precious, so they force themselves to pursue it, hoping not to lose it. Such effort amounts only to forced self-preservation. How could it be called virtue?

Those of highest De act in accord with what is natural, without any deliberate aim. Those of lower De also act, but with a definite aim.

Even if someone does not act deliberately but holds a purpose in mind, this still counts as deliberate action. Only when one both follows what is natural and has no deliberate aim can it be called Wuwei (non-action). Those a step below this do not simply do nothing: they still act with a purpose. Their actions are not blind; they have their own methods.

Those of highest benevolence act without a deliberate aim; those of highest righteousness act with a definite aim.

Both benevolence and righteousness involve deliberate action. The difference is that benevolence is valued for acting without a deliberate aim, while righteousness is credited for acting with a definite aim. Why is De divided into higher and lower, while benevolence and righteousness have only a “highest” form and no “lower” one? Because the De that is a step below lies between De and benevolence and righteousness. What falls below benevolence and righteousness is no longer worth discussing.

Those of highest ritual act; if others do not respond, they roll up their sleeves and forcibly pull them along.

As the Dao declines through De, benevolence, and righteousness, reaching ritual, the means by which the sage brings order to the people and guides their conduct have reached their limit. Thus, when ritual is put into practice and no one responds, matters escalate to physical coercion. If people still refuse to comply after being forced, punishments are imposed and weapons taken up. This is blind action, and it has lost all proper method.

Thus, when the Dao is lost, De arises; when De is lost, benevolence arises; when benevolence is lost, righteousness arises; when righteousness is lost, ritual arises. Ritual marks the weakening of loyalty and trust, and the beginning of disorder.

If loyalty and trust are present within, but ritual is not observed, they are not easily made visible. Once ritual is established, the beauty of loyalty and trust is displayed outwardly in the relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, and friends. The exterior may appear splendid, while the heart may already lack any deeper substance. When people comply with ritual, society is orderly; when they violate it, society falls into disorder. The distance between order and disorder is not great. That is why ritual is called the beginning of disorder.

“Foreknowledge” means making deliberate guesses in advance and striving to know. It is merely the Dao’s outward glitter, and the beginning of folly.

The sage observes all things with a mind made clear and still by mystery. Right and wrong, gain and loss appear plainly before him, like forms reflected in a mirror. Nothing escapes his sight, and he makes no distinction between what comes before and what comes after. Ordinary people, however, confine their sight to what their eyes can see, their hearing to what their ears can hear, and their thought to the mind’s activity; their actions, too, are constrained by the myriad things. They exhaust their minds in pursuit of knowledge, and when they happen upon some insight, they imagine they know everything. They do not realize that their understanding remains limited by what comes before and after. Even when they think themselves wise, they fail to see that from the very beginning they have been sunk in profound ignorance.

Therefore, a great man of De (Virtue/Power) takes his stand on what is substantial and does not remain with what is shallow. He rests on what is real and does not chase after what is showy. Thus one should set aside that side and choose this one.

Shallow people in the world are satisfied with what they obtain from below but forget the root. They favor the shallow and discard the substantial; they gather what is showy and abandon what is real. If not a great man of De, who could set aside that side and choose this one?

Of Old, Things Attained the One (Chapter 39)

Of old, the things that attained the One each came to display the state proper to them: Heaven attained the One and thereby became clear; Earth attained the One and thereby became stable; spirits attained the One and thereby became wondrous; valleys attained the One and thereby became full; the myriad things attained the One and thereby grew; and the lords and kings attained the One and thereby became rulers and standards for all under Heaven. The One is the Dao (the Way). All things can become what they are because of the Dao. People under Heaven see only the things themselves and forget the Dao. They know only that Heaven is clear, Earth stable, spirits wondrous, valleys full, the myriad things growing, and lords and kings serving as standards for all under Heaven. They do not know that these states come about through the Dao at work within them.

The root of all these states is the same Dao. If Heaven could not remain clear, it would likely collapse; if Earth could not remain stable, it would likely shake and sink; if spirits could not remain wondrous, they would likely dissipate; if valleys could not remain full, they would likely dry up; if the myriad things could not remain vigorous, they would likely perish; and if lords and kings could not remain upright, but cared only to stand high in their exalted position, they would likely fall.

“Come about” here means that things have developed to their extreme. If Heaven loses the Dao, it will not collapse at once; if Earth loses the Dao, it will not immediately shake and sink; if spirits lose the Dao, they will not dissipate at once; if the myriad things lose the Dao, they will not perish immediately; and if lords and kings lose the Dao, they will not fall at once. But once development reaches its extreme, it will ultimately arrive at such an outcome.

Therefore, the exalted take the lowly as their root, and the high take the low as their foundation.

The world is vast, and the lords and kings (the rulers of ancient states) are exalted, yet all are brought to fulfillment through “the One.” What, exactly, is this “One”? We cannot see it, and if we try to grasp it, we cannot hold it. It is so subtle that it reaches down to the very root of heaven, earth, and all things. This is what is meant by something lowly and humble.

That is why lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “the solitary one,” and “unworthy” (humble titles expressing isolation or insufficient virtue): are they taking lowliness as their foundation? Indeed they are. The ancients used these titles to point to the foundation and set aside the outward signs of exalted status.

When many parts are brought together to make a cart, this does not mean that the cart itself is rejected. It means only that it is neither dazzling like fine jade nor conspicuous in its roughness like a stone. The wheels, spokes, canopy, bed, crossbar, yoke, hubs, axles, and other parts can each be counted one by one. But the “cart” formed by joining them cannot be counted in the same way as its parts. From this we can understand that it is precisely the empty space that gives the cart its function. This is what is meant by saying that “nothing” can be put to use.

Are heaven and earth what they are merely because they are vast? Are lords and kings what they are merely because they are exalted? The One is present within both vastness and exalted status. It is the foundation that makes heaven and earth, and lords and kings, what they are, though people often fail to notice it. Thus the One is found among the exalted, yet does not treat exaltedness alone as precious; it is found among the lowly, yet does not treat lowliness alone as base. It is neither like fine jade, exalted but unable to be lowly, nor like stone, lowly but unable to be exalted.

Reversal is the movement of the Dao (Chapter 40)

The turning of things toward their opposites is how the Dao operates.

Returning to one’s original nature leads to stillness. Yet within complete stillness, once something responds to an influence, one can understand the principles of all things in the world. Movement begins from here.

Weakness is the Dao’s function

The Dao has no shape or sound. It seems that nothing in the world is more yielding than it; yet nothing in the world has greater power. This is precisely why it can make use of all things.

All things under heaven arise from being; being arises from nonbeing

People do not understand that movement can arise from stillness, or that great power can work through weakness. So Laozi explains where all things come from. All things under heaven arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.” People have heard that the mother governs the child, but have not heard that the child can govern the mother.

Those of the highest kind, on hearing of the Dao (the Way, the fundamental principle by which all things operate), diligently put it into practice. Those of the middle kind, on hearing of it, sometimes feel they have understood and sometimes seem to have forgotten. Those of the lowest kind laugh when they hear of it. If the lowest kind did not laugh at it, it would hardly deserve to be called the Dao.

The Dao has no concrete form, so it cannot be seen; it has no concrete sound, so it cannot be heard. Unless one first recognizes the illusory nature of the appearances of all things, the mind remains obscured, making it difficult to see the Dao clearly. Even when one grasps something of it, doubt may remain. Thus, those of the lowest kind find the Dao absurd and remote, and laugh at it; those of the middle kind understand it now and then, and so become uncertain. Only those who truly understand the Dao and experience it for themselves practice it diligently, keep it in mind, and never slacken. Confucius said, “One who does not slacken after hearing instruction is probably Yan Hui.” Such is what is meant by a person of the highest kind.

Therefore, those in ancient times who set down teachings once said:

Bright Dao seems dim: One who truly understands the Dao may appear not to see clearly. In truth, nothing escapes their awareness; they simply do not look with deliberate intent.

Advancing on the Dao seems like retreating: Cultivating the Dao may look like standing still or moving backward. In truth, nothing moves faster than the Dao.

The level Dao seems uneven: “Level” means flat, while the meaning of “uneven” here is unclear. Wherever the Dao reaches, things naturally become level, but not through any act of smoothing them down.

The highest De is like a valley: The highest De (Virtue/Power) may seem empty like a valley, because those who possess De do not consider themselves virtuous.

The purest white seems stained: The highest purity may appear to have been sullied. If one deliberately displays one’s purity and refuses all contact with the ordinary world, one is merely claiming to be above others, not acting as a sage.

Abundant De seems insufficient: De that is truly vast and deep may seem not yet enough. If one believes it has become so great that nothing can be added, one has instead become stuck at that point; it is not truly vast.

Establishing De seems slack: One who establishes De follows the natural course of things and does not deliberately set anything up. Outwardly this may look like idleness, but De has in fact been established.

True substance seems changed: One who is inwardly pure and holds fast to the spirit can adapt to changes in things without losing their true nature. Outwardly, this may look like being changed.

The greatest square has no corners: What is truly square does not deliberately show its edges.

The greatest vessel takes long to complete: A truly great vessel cannot be completed quickly, nor can it be put to use immediately like an ordinary vessel.

The greatest sound is scarcely heard: The greatest sound is not one that the ears can hear.

The greatest image has no form: The greatest image is not a concrete shape that the eyes can see.

The Dao lies hidden and has no fixed name. The Dao alone is skilled at giving life to all things and helping them come to completion.

Dao finds a place everywhere. All of these twelve kinds are manifestations of Dao in concrete things. Yet Dao as a whole remains hidden in the nameless. Dao distributes what is in excess to what is lacking, and all things come into being through this working. That is how it is.

Chapter Forty-Two: “Dao Gives Birth to One”

Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the myriad things. The myriad things turn their backs to Yin and face Yang. The two vital energies of Yin and Yang mingle and surge, thereby reaching harmony.

Dao itself is neither “One” nor “Two.” When Dao appears in relation to things, it is One, while things are not all singular; so Dao is called “One.” But Dao itself is not limited to “One.” “One” joined with “one thing” becomes “Two”; adding “One” to “Two” makes “Three,” and from there the myriad things continue to come into being. Though the myriad things differ in countless ways, they all turn their backs to Yin and embrace Yang, their Yin and Yang energies blending in harmony. This is because the myriad things are born from “Three,” and “Three” is born from “One”—a natural principle.

What people dislike are only the terms “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy” (humble titles used by rulers). Yet princes and kings use these words to describe themselves.

People in the world do not understand where the myriad things come from. They often look down on what is few, small, and lowly, while esteeming what is great and noble. But princes and kings occupy high positions and call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy.” Those of ancient times who understood Dao must already have grasped the principle behind this.

Thus, sometimes diminishing brings increase, and sometimes increase brings loss. What others have taught me, I also teach others: those who act forcefully and aggressively do not meet a good end. I will take this as the foundation of my teaching.

Chapter Forty-Three: “The Softest Thing in the World”

The softest thing in the world can pass through the hardest things in the world. What has no form or substance can enter places with no gaps. From this I know that Wuwei (non-action) is beneficial.

Using hardness to oppose hardness brings no benefit and may instead cause loss. What others have taught me, I also teach others: those who act forcefully and aggressively do not meet a good end. I will take this as the foundation of my teaching.

To use hardness to withstand hardness is to break unless something gives way. But to use softness against hardness is to leave the soft unground down and the hard unharmed. If we look for an example of this among things, water is like that. When one solid thing enters another, they resist each other and cannot coexist. But when the formless enters the formed, the formless is never worn out, and the formed does not even notice it. If we look for an example of this among things, ghosts and spirits are like that. Thus, the sage can practice Wuwei (non-action, following nature without forcing things), and so can put all the strong to work, moving in and out among the myriad things.

To teach without words and bring benefit through Wuwei—few in the world can do this.

Chapter Forty-Four: Name and Self

Name and life—which is closer to you? Life and possessions—which matter more?

To value life over fame and hold life dearer than possessions is still not to have truly forgotten oneself. To forget oneself means not to claim oneself as one’s own—how much more so name and possessions? Yet to devote oneself to the world cannot be done without forgetting oneself. Therefore, people throughout the world must understand that name is not worth cherishing and possessions are not worth valuing. Only after understanding the preciousness of life can they learn to forget themselves. To forget oneself means not to claim oneself as one’s own—how much more so name and possessions? Yet to devote oneself to the world cannot be done without forgetting oneself. Therefore, people throughout the world must understand that name is not worth cherishing and possessions are not worth valuing. Only after understanding the preciousness of life can they learn to forget themselves. This is what Laozi meant.

Gain and loss—which brings greater worry?

Before gaining something, people regard the prospect of losing it as a misfortune. Once they have gained it, they fear losing it; this worry can be worse than the loss itself. Only when being and nonbeing, gain and loss, are regarded as equally ordinary can one be free of worry.

Excessive attachment brings a great price; hoarding too much brings great loss.

When attachment runs too deep, one pursues what one wants by any means. How could that not come at a price? When one gathers too much, many will covet it. How could that not bring loss?

Know contentment, and you will not be disgraced; know when to stop, and you will not be endangered. In this way, you can endure.

Chapter Forty-Five: Great Perfection Seems Incomplete

A truly perfect achievement seems to have something missing, yet its use never diminishes. A truly full thing seems empty, yet its use is never exhausted.

People think that an achievement must have no flaws to be complete, so such achievements eventually decline. They think that fullness means having nothing empty, so such fullness eventually runs dry. The sage seeks true perfection without rejecting what seems incomplete within it, and seeks true fullness without disliking what seems empty within it. Thus, achievement does not decline, and fullness is never exhausted.

The most upright seems bent; the most skillful seems clumsy; the best speaker seems inarticulate.

One who insists on standing straight and refuses to bend will eventually break. To follow the course of things may look circuitous, yet it is upright in truth. Striving constantly for skill brings exhaustion; to follow the natural state of things may look clumsy, yet it is true skill. Constantly arguing leads to difficulty; speaking in accordance with the way things are may seem inarticulate, yet it is more persuasive.

Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Only through purity, tranquility, and Wuwei (non-action) can one become a model for all under Heaven.

Things may be accomplished without being damaged; filled without overflowing; upright without being rigid; skillful without seeming clumsy; eloquent without resorting to sophistry. To force oneself to be skillful is certain to bring exhaustion. By following the nature of things, even what seems clumsy has its own subtle skill. Eloquent speech without restraint will eventually lead to trouble. Speaking in accordance with reason, even slowly, can make things clear.

Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Only through purity, tranquility, and Wuwei (non-action) can one become a model for all under Heaven.

Things may be accomplished without being damaged; filled without overflowing; upright without bending; skillful without seeming clumsy; eloquent without being inarticulate. For example, movement cannot become stillness, nor can stillness become movement. Movement can overcome cold, but not heat; stillness can overcome heat, but not cold. These are all confined to one side and do not accord with the true constant Dao (the Way). Only by remaining detached and tranquil, without favoring either side or clinging to accomplishment or damage, fullness or overflow, straightness or bending, skill or clumsiness, eloquence or reticence, can one prevail everywhere and become a model for all under Heaven.

“When the Dao Prevails Throughout the World,” Chapter 46

When the Dao prevails throughout the world, warhorses are retired to plow fields and spread manure.

When everyone under Heaven is content with their proper place, there is no fighting, and the state is naturally at peace. Thus warhorses can be retired to plow the fields.

When the Dao does not prevail throughout the world, warhorses breed in the suburbs. No fault is greater than indulging one’s desires; no calamity is greater than not knowing contentment; no error is greater than craving to acquire more and more.

Displaying to others what one considers desirable already invites blame. Being unsatisfied with what one has brings an even greater calamity. Wanting with all one’s heart to obtain everything one seeks is the greatest error. If ordinary people have even one of these failings, disaster will befall them; if rulers and nobles do the same, war will follow.

Therefore, those who know contentment are always wealthy through their contentment.

Those who know contentment feel they have enough wherever they are, and so lack nothing.

“Without Leaving the Doorway,” Chapter 47

Without leaving the doorway, one can understand the world; without looking out the window, one can know the Dao (the Way)—the natural workings of the universe. The farther one travels outward, the less one knows. When human nature becomes like this, warhorses breed in the suburbs, and war follows.

Therefore, those who know contentment are always wealthy through their contentment.

Those who know contentment feel they have enough wherever they are, and so lack nothing.

The Laozi Explained says: Human nature fills the whole universe and is not limited by distance or by past and present. The ancient sages could understand all under Heaven without leaving their doors and grasp the Dao of Heaven without looking out through a window because their nature was whole and unobstructed.

Yet people are often clouded by external things. Their minds are disturbed by the thoughts and emotions of body and mind, while mountains and rivers block them from the world outside. The eyes see only as far as their sight reaches, and the ears hear only as far as their hearing reaches. Doors and windows, too, can obstruct the view. People do not understand that restoring their nature is enough for the sage, and instead go rushing about in search of knowledge. The farther they travel, the less they know.

Thus the sage need not travel to know, need not see with their own eyes to understand the names and realities of things, and need not act deliberately to accomplish things. What human nature can achieve goes beyond knowing and discerning: it can also accord with the natural state of things and accomplish them without effort.

Chapter 48: To Pursue Learning Is to Increase Day by Day

To pursue learning is to increase one’s knowledge day by day. If one does not understand the great Dao but pursues learning single-mindedly, one’s knowledge and experience will steadily grow. Without a fundamental principle to connect them, they inevitably become a burden. Confucius said, “Hear much, then choose what is good and follow it; see much, and keep it in mind.” This is only a way of approaching wisdom.

To pursue the Dao is to decrease day by day. Once one truly understands the great Dao, one can look back at the myriad things and see that none of them departs from the nature of emptiness and illusion. To remove illusion and seek the restoration of one’s nature is called “decreasing.” Confucius asked his disciple Zigong, “Do you think I understand these things because I have learned and remembered a great deal?” Zigong replied, “Yes.” Confucius said, “No. I use one fundamental principle to connect everything.”

Continue decreasing until one reaches Wuwei (non-action). Removing illusion and restoring one’s nature may be called “decreasing,” but if the mind still holds on to the thought, “I must remove illusion,” one has not yet let go completely. When even this thought is forgotten, one’s nature is wholly pure and complete. Then one can do anything without ever going against Wuwei.

To gain the world, one should ordinarily act with an attitude of having nothing to do. If one deliberately stirs things up and makes things happen, one will not be fit to gain the world. Everyone wants to gain the world, so they keep creating disturbances in pursuit of it. When the desire to gain it becomes visible, it attracts resistance from external things, and in the end it cannot be attained.

Everyone wants to possess all under Heaven, so they keep stirring things up in pursuit of it. When this desire shows itself, all things grow weary of them, and in the end they fail to obtain all under Heaven. The sage practices Wuwei (non-action), so he does not stir things up. When his intentions show themselves, all things are at ease with him. Though the sage does not strive to possess all under Heaven, all under Heaven comes to him.

Chapter 49: The Sage Has No Fixed Mind

The sage has no fixed mind of his own; he takes the people’s minds as his own. I treat the good with kindness, and I treat the not good with kindness too. This is goodness in De (Virtue/Power). I trust those who are trustworthy, and I trust those who are not trustworthy too. This is trustworthiness in De.

Empty space has no fixed shape, yet it can take on the shape of all things: when things are square, it appears square; when they are round, it appears round. If empty space itself had a fixed shape, how could it contain and reveal the shapes of all things?

So the sage has no rigid, unchanging opinions. He acts in accordance with the people’s minds, treating everyone kindly, whether good or not good, and trusting everyone, whether trustworthy or not. Whether others are good or not, the sage’s kindness toward them remains unchanged; this may be called goodness in De. Whether others are trustworthy or not, the sage’s trust in them remains unchanged; this may be called trustworthiness in De. Otherwise, if he treated only the good with kindness and rejected the not good, if he trusted only the trustworthy and rejected the untrustworthy, how could he be called “always skilled at helping people, and therefore rejecting no one”?

The sage dwells among all under Heaven, anxiously bearing the cares of the world and bringing the people’s hearts back to simplicity. The people all watch the sage’s words and actions, but the sage treats them all as infants.

People throughout the world each decide for themselves what is good or bad, trustworthy or false, then criticize and harm one another, without knowing what standard to follow. The sage worries over this and so governs the world with anxious care, bringing people’s hearts back to simplicity. He does not treat people differently according to whether they are good or bad, trustworthy or false, but regards them all alike. The people watch closely to see how the sage rewards and punishes, but he treats them as infants: he does not favor them for being good or hate them for being bad. In this way, the good stop boasting, and those who have done wrong stop resenting others. Everyone is transformed with ease, and only then can the world be at peace.

Chapter 50: Going Out in Life, Entering Death

People emerge into life and ultimately return to death.

Human nature has neither life nor death. When it manifests, it is called life; when it returns to stillness and concealment, it is called death.

Of those who belong to life, three in ten; of those who belong to death, three in ten. And of those who, while alive, keep moving toward death, there are also three in ten.

Those who can draw the essence from external things to nourish themselves belong to the kind tending toward life. Those who indulge in sensory pleasures such as sound, color, and fragrance until they harm themselves belong to the kind tending toward death. The paths of life and death are clear from this. I also know that to act continually without understanding rest, to speak skillfully without understanding silence, and to think deeply without understanding how to forget will ultimately lead to exhaustion. This is what is meant by moving ever onward toward a dead end.

If we divide things into ten parts, three tend toward life and three toward death. Does this not mean that nine parts belong to the paths of life and death, while only one part belongs to the path of neither life nor death? To be neither alive nor dead is precisely what the Book of Changes calls “still and unmoving.” Laozi speaks only of those nine parts and not of this one, leaving people to realize for themselves its subtle mystery of thoughtless, effortless action.

Why is this so? Because people place too much importance on preserving life.

Where there is life, there is death. Thus, the kind tending toward life is also the kind tending toward death. The more deeply people depend on and cling to life, the more factors there tend to be that lead them toward death.

I have heard that those skilled at preserving life can walk on land without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter battle without fearing weapons. The rhinoceros has no chance to use its horn, the tiger no chance to strike with its claws, and weapons cannot harm such a person. Why is this? Because they have not entered the realm of death.

The sage abides constantly in a state that is neither life nor death. They have not even entered the realm of life, so how could they enter the realm of death?

Chapter Fifty-One: The Dao Gives Birth to Them

The Dao gives life to and nurtures the myriad things; De (Virtue/Power) gathers and nourishes them. The myriad things thereby take form, then develop through the interplay of diverse conditions.

The Dao is the source of the myriad things, so they are born from the Dao. The Dao moves and manifests as De, nurturing the myriad things tirelessly, as a herdsman tends to living beings; thus, the myriad things are sustained by De. Yet the Dao and De themselves cannot appear in physical form; they become manifest through the myriad things. Nor can the myriad things come to fulfillment by themselves. Only through the interaction of near and far, the mutual response of hard and soft, and the accumulation of diverse conditions do changes such as flourishing and decline, order and disorder come about.

Therefore, there is nothing among the myriad things that does not revere the Dao and cherish De.

Although the forms of the myriad things arise from many factors, and their fulfillment depends on many conditions, without the Dao they could not come into being, and without De they could not be nurtured. Therefore, the myriad things revere the Dao and cherish De. “Revere” is like honoring one’s father and elder brother; “cherish” is like esteeming a lord. The Dao has no particular rank or title, whereas De has a manifest status.

The Dao is revered and De is cherished, not because anyone commands the myriad things to do so, but because they do so naturally.

Things take shape through concrete forms and arise through various conditions. Yet without the Dao, they could not come into being; without De, they could not be nurtured. Therefore, people honor the Dao and cherish De, regarding the Dao as father and elder brother, and De as lord and ruler. The Dao has no fixed title or rank, while De has a name; hence this saying.

The Dao is honored and De is cherished not because anyone has bestowed titles upon them, but because they have always been so of themselves. What is esteemed only by virtue of a title is not truly esteemed.

Thus the Dao brings all things into being, and De makes them grow, develop, mature, nourish them, and shelter them. They give life to all things without claiming them as their own; they act without relying on their own merit; they help all things grow without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De”—profound and subtle Virtue.

All Under Heaven Has a Beginning, Chapter Fifty-Two

All things under Heaven have a beginning, which may be regarded as the mother of all things under Heaven.

“Nameless” is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; “named” is the mother of the myriad things. In its nameless state, the Dao is the source from which all things begin; in its named state, it becomes the source from which they are generated. Thus the Dao is called both “beginning” and “mother.” The things it brings forth are its children.

Once you know the mother, you should also come to know the things she has brought forth. And once the myriad things have come into being, return to and abide by their mother. In this way, you will not fall into danger throughout your life.

The sage follows the Dao in responding to the myriad things. Just as one understands a child through the mother, the sage can clearly discern all things. Though wise enough to respond to them, the sage does not forget the Dao by pursuing external things, and so remains rooted in what is fundamental.

Block the openings of the senses and close the gates of desire, and throughout life you will not be worn down by worry and effort. Open the openings of the senses and busy yourself with every affair, and throughout life you will be beyond rescue. Everyone under Heaven naturally possesses this understanding, yet people often forget the Dao and pursue external things: the eyes become enamored of beauty, the ears of sound; the heart gives itself over to pleasure and then busies itself with satisfying desire. As a result, people remain immersed in these things throughout life, unable to free themselves. The sage is not burdened by them throughout life because the sage gathers in the senses, closes the gates of desire, and never goes out to pursue such things.

To perceive what is subtle is called “clarity.”

The harm brought by pleasure begins small but gradually grows. To see that a small harm will become great, and to restrain it in time, is to be discerning.

To remain soft and yielding is called “strength.”

Pursuing whatever one desires without regard for the consequences, and believing oneself powerful, is not true strength. Only those who see the harm desire can bring and are therefore cautious can be called truly strong.

Use your light, then return to inner clarity, and you will avoid bringing trouble upon yourself. This is called following the constant Dao.

People indulge the desires of their ears, eyes, mouth, and nose, spending their lives chasing external things. The deeper they become entangled, the harder it is to turn back. The sage, by contrast, gathers in the senses and does not let desire lead the way. This does not mean cutting off contact with the world. Rather, the sage uses the spirit to respond to the myriad things, drawing only on the senses’ clear awareness and not allowing the self to be ruled by external things.

The ears hear, the eyes see, the nose smells, the mouth tastes, the body feels, and the mind thinks. These are all what is called “light”: the ability to perceive and be aware. When perception comes into contact with external things, those things come and go and change, while inner clarity is not worn down. The sage can therefore respond to every kind of change without becoming distressed, and calamity does not befall him. His nature remains clear, still, and at peace, continuing without end.

“If I Had Even a Little Understanding,” Chapter 53

If I had even a little understanding and walked along the Great Dao, my only concern would be that I might interfere and impose my own arrangements.

One who embodies the Dao does not act on the basis of subjective knowledge, nor deliberately interfere or impose arrangements. Instead, he lets all things change of themselves. Today, someone with only a little understanding sets out to follow the Great Dao, yet keeps interfering and imposing arrangements. This departs from the natural Way and is truly cause for concern.

The Great Dao is level and easy, yet people prefer to take side paths.

The Great Dao is plain and without obstacles. Those who do not understand it think it slow and far off, so they prefer shortcuts and seek quick results. Thus, any approach that abandons what is natural in favor of deliberate arrangements is an attempt to force an outcome.

The court is adorned with great splendor, while the fields lie fallow and the granaries stand empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat and drink to excess, and possess more wealth than they need. This is called the swagger of bandits; it is certainly not the Dao.

People in the world consider themselves discerning, while I seem dull. They are shrewd and exacting, while I seem simple and generous. Why decorate the branches while neglecting the roots, treat deliberate interference as serious business, and flaunt wealth in a way that invites theft?

“What Is Well Established Cannot Be Pulled Up,” Chapter 54

What is well established cannot be pulled up; what is well held cannot slip away. For such a person, the ancestral sacrifices performed by his descendants will never come to an end.

Where in the world is there anything established that can never collapse, or held that can never slip away? Only the sage understands that one’s nature is real and external things are illusory. He gives up attachment to external things and cultivates himself. His De (Virtue/Power) grows ever fuller. Though he seems to establish nothing deliberately, the foundation he establishes cannot be shaken; though he seems to cling to nothing, the Dao he keeps will not be lost. Thus, even among his descendants, the ancestral sacrifices continue without end.

When “De” is cultivated within oneself, one’s virtue becomes genuine. When cultivated within a family, virtue becomes abundant. Extended to a village, it grows; extended to a state, it becomes rich; extended to the world, it becomes universal. Once one has cultivated oneself well, one can extend this surplus of De outward and, even by governing the world, succeed.

Therefore, observe oneself through oneself, a family through a family, a village through a village, a state through a state, and then the world through the world. How do I know the state of the world? By this method of observation.

Ordinary people cannot see things beyond Heaven and Earth, yet they can still infer them from reason. When self-cultivation reaches its utmost, one can observe oneself through oneself and infer the world from the circumstances of a family, a village, and a state. These are all things I can understand. How, then, do we know that the sage observes the world through the world just as I observe myself through myself? Can oneself be observed through oneself, while the world cannot be observed through the world? Thus, when it says, “How do I know the state of the world? By this,” it also means that the world can be inferred through one’s own understanding.

Chapter Fifty-Five: The Deepest De

Those whose inner De is profound are like newborn infants.

When Laozi speaks of the Dao and De, he often uses the infant as a metaphor. He is describing their essence, not yet their function. An infant is quiet and untroubled, without desires; this nature is already very pure. But when things from the outside world come, the infant does not yet know how to respond, so we cannot say that the function of Dao and De is already present.

Poisonous creatures do not sting the infant; fierce beasts do not harm it; birds of prey do not swoop down upon it.

The Dao has no fixed form. The myriad things cannot see it, much less harm it. People have form because they have thoughts: with thoughts, form takes shape; with form, things that oppose it arise, and harm follows. A person without thoughts has nothing that stands in opposition to external things. How, then, could such a person be harmed? An infant can be this way precisely because it has no calculating mind.

An infant’s bones are weak and its sinews soft, yet it can clench its fists tightly. It does not yet know the union of male and female, yet its sexual organ can become erect; this shows that its Jing and Qi are abundant. Without deliberately grasping or desiring anything, it naturally clenches its fists and becomes erect. From this we can see that its Jing and Qi are abundant, not produced by the contrivances of thought.

An infant can cry all day without its voice becoming hoarse. This is because its body and mind are harmonized to the utmost.

When emotions stir, Qi (vital energy) is harmed; when Qi is harmed, a person cries out. This occurs only in infants.

An infant’s bones are weak and tendons soft, yet the infant can clench a fist tightly. The infant does not yet know sexual intercourse, yet the genitals can become erect. This shows that Jing (essence) and Qi are abundant to the utmost. The hand clenches naturally without any deliberate effort; the genitals become erect naturally, without desire. From this we can see that it is the abundance of Jing and Qi that causes these things, not the prompting of conscious thought.

An infant can cry all day without becoming hoarse. This shows that body and mind are harmonized to the utmost.

When conscious thought stirs, Qi is harmed; when Qi is harmed, a person cries out and may even become hoarse. An infant cries all day without becoming hoarse. We can therefore see that the infant’s mind has not stirred recklessly and that Qi remains harmonized.

Knowing how to harmonize is called “constancy,” the enduring Way.

Harmonizing means not allowing external things to harm what is within. Returning to one’s original nature is called constancy; so is returning to one’s root when encountering things. To know how to harmonize is to know constancy. To hold fast to the root while responding to the myriad things expresses the same principle, so both are called constancy.

Knowing constancy is called “clarity.” Deliberately trying to add to life instead brings misfortune.

Life cannot be enhanced through human contrivance. If one insists on seeking to add to it, one departs from life’s original state. Here, “auspicious omen” refers to what is abnormal and brings misfortune.

Using conscious thought to direct Qi is called “forcing.”

Qi does not take kindly to being driven recklessly. If one then tries to control it by force of thought, it becomes excessively rigid.

When things reach the height of their strength, they move toward decline and aging. This is called going against the Dao (the Way); to go against the Dao is to approach one’s end swiftly.

Deliberately trying to add to life prevents Qi from following its natural course, making it increasingly rigid. Aging follows, and in the end one loses the infant’s pure and gentle nature.

Those who know do not speak much; those who speak much often do not truly know. One must close the openings of the senses and shut the gates of the mind, blunt one’s sharpness, untangle one’s entanglements, temper one’s radiance, and mingle with the dust of the world. This is called “mysterious sameness,” being in accord with the hidden depths of the Dao.

The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, though words can express something of it. Those who truly understand the Dao may not speak much, and those skilled in speaking may not truly understand it. Only by drawing in the senses, shutting the gates of the mind, restraining one’s sharpness, dissolving entanglements, concealing one’s radiance, and mingling with the dust of the world can one become still and accord with the Dao.

Such a person can neither be drawn close nor kept at a distance; neither benefited nor harmed; neither honored nor slighted. Thus, that person becomes one whom all under Heaven revere.

One who can bring people close may also drive them away; one who can confer benefit may also cause harm; one who can be held in honor may also fall into disgrace. The person who embodies the Dao (the Way)—who observes and follows the Dao—nurtures all things equally. How, then, could they distinguish between closeness and distance? They regard favorable and adverse circumstances alike. How, then, could they distinguish between benefit and harm? They do not take honor or disgrace to heart. How, then, could they concern themselves with high and low status? These principles lie beyond personal feelings and calculations, which is why the person who embodies the Dao is honored throughout the world.

Governing the State with the Upright Way, Chapter 57

Govern the state through the upright Way, use strategic expedients in warfare, and attain all under Heaven through Wuwei (non-action) and freedom from interference.

The sages of antiquity soothed distant peoples with gentleness and drew those nearby close. They had no wish to use force, resorting to military campaigns only when there was no other choice. Thus, governing the state through the upright Way is the norm, while using force in warfare is an expedient. Yet this does not fully explain how to attain all under Heaven. All under Heaven is a sacred vessel and cannot be acted upon by force. Those who strive to seize it will fail; those who insist on controlling it will lose it. Only the person who embodies the Dao is openhearted and practices Wuwei, free from interference. Though they do not deliberately seek to possess all under Heaven, all under Heaven will come to them.

How do I know this is so? It can be seen from the following: the more prohibitions and taboos there are under Heaven, the poorer the people become.

When the ruler imposes many taboos, the people’s real circumstances cannot reach those in power. The people are therefore impoverished and have nowhere to voice their grievances.

The more “sharp tools” the people possess—that is, strategies and schemes—the more disorderly the state becomes.

When an enlightened ruler is in power, the people are generally kept from becoming too crafty or too desirous. If everyone among the people resorts to schemes, those above and below will deceive one another, and the state will fall into disorder.

The more elaborate people’s skills become, the more strange and useless objects are produced.

When people lose focus on their proper work and instead pursue minor technical skills, they produce many things that are abnormal and of no benefit.

The denser the laws and decrees, the more thieves there are.

Fearing that the people will deceive one another, the ruler continually adds laws to restrain them. The people are then left at a loss, and this in turn leads them step by step toward the path of thievery.

Therefore, the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform themselves naturally. When I cherish stillness, the people set themselves right naturally. When I refrain from meddling, the people prosper naturally. When I have no desires, the people become simple and unspoiled naturally.”

When Government Is Dull and Unobtrusive, Chapter 58

When rulers govern the people with lenient, understated policies, the people remain simple and sincere. When policies are harsh and exacting, the people are more likely to lose that simplicity. Misfortune often leans on good fortune, and good fortune may conceal misfortune. Who can know what they will ultimately become? Change has no end. What is normal may turn abnormal, and good deeds may also bring about trouble. People have long been caught in confusion.

Heaven and Earth are vast, yet ordinary people’s perceptions are often limited, without their knowing it. Good fortune and misfortune depend on each other, just as old age and youth, life and death follow one another without cease. Those who are confused cannot see this. The sage rises above the limits of all things, grasps their changes from beginning to end, and understands the Dao as a whole, letting go of petty distinctions. The sage appears unhurried and unconcerned with exacting scrutiny, as though lacking discernment. Yet this allows the people to remain simple and sincere, each preserving their own nature.

People do not understand the Dao in its entirety. They take what their ears hear and their eyes see as the whole of reality. They think they have gained good fortune without knowing that trouble lies in wait; they think they are doing good without knowing that disorder may arise from it. They are confined to close scrutiny and mistake harsh distinctions for clear insight. They may even harm the myriad things without understanding where they went wrong. Is this not lamentable?

Therefore, the sage is upright without harming others, square without cutting them, sharp-edged without wounding them, honest without being unrestrained, and radiant without dazzling. The sage knows that minute distinctions cannot exhaust the myriad things. So even when capable of uprightness, integrity, honesty, and clear insight, the sage does not readily put these abilities into practice, for fear of becoming fixed in one-sided views and unable to turn back. This is what the world calls “muddled.”

Chapter 59: Governing the People and Serving Heaven

In governing the people and following the Way of Heaven, nothing is more important than frugality and restraint. Only by practicing frugality and restraint can one align with the Dao early. Aligning with the Dao early is called continually accumulating De. When De is continually accumulated, nothing cannot be overcome. When nothing cannot be overcome, the limits of one’s power are hard to fathom. When one’s power is so deep that it cannot be measured, one can shoulder the task of governing a state. Only those who grasp the foundation of the state can make it endure.

Everything has sharp edges, and so can easily cut people; if it is keen, it can easily pierce them; if it is perfectly straight, it can easily be snapped; if it shines brightly, it can easily dazzle. The sage alone, though square and upright, does not wound; though keen, does not pierce; though honest and straight, does not flaunt it; though radiant, does not show off. This is called “restraint” (conservation and moderation). To be restrained is to have the ability to act, yet not use it lightly.

People worry that they have no way to make others obey. But if they truly have the ability and also know how to hold back, then even without ever contending with anyone, others will recognize that they are not incapable and will obey them early on. Once others have submitted, they hold back their power and use it with care. They do not readily display it, even for the rest of their lives, and their De (Virtue/Power) continues to accumulate. When their De has grown deep and abundant, nothing in the world, however strong, is beyond their ability to overcome, and no one can fathom how deep their power runs. Only then can they govern a state.

Some petty people in the world use their authority rashly as soon as they gain even a little of it. If they try once and fail to make others obey, everyone will see how limited they are and rush to defy them. By then, even if they wish to preserve their state, they will be unable to do so. So I know that understanding restraint and moderation makes it possible to govern a state; and the foundation of governing a state is precisely this restraint and moderation.

This is the way to make the roots deep and firm, so they cannot be uprooted or loosened, and to live long while sustaining one’s vitality.

Mencius said that holding fast to one’s original heart and nurturing one’s nature are how one serves Heaven. To govern the people through restraint and moderation is what makes it possible to govern a state; to serve Heaven through restraint and moderation makes the roots deep and firm. The sages of antiquity preserved the natural constancy of life and did not let external things deplete their inner Jing (essence). Their roots were therefore deep and impossible to uproot, firm and impossible to loosen, making it possible to live long and remain vital. Governing the people and serving Heaven are, respectively, outward and inward matters, but restraint and moderation are essential to both.

Chapter 60: Governing a Great State

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish.

When cooking a small fish, one must not keep turning it over. When governing a great state, one must not issue too many orders or disturb the people excessively. Complicated regulations burden the people; turning the fish too often makes it fall apart.

When the world is governed through the Dao (the Way)—the principle of following nature—even ghosts and spirits cannot display their supernatural powers.

The sage governs through Wuwei (non-action), allowing people to rest in their own natural state. There is no disturbance from outside and no fear within, so external things cannot harm them, and ghosts and spirits have no need to exercise supernatural powers.

It is not that ghosts and spirits lack divine power. Though they possess such power, they do not harm people. Spirits do not harm people, and sages do not harm people either.

Ghosts and spirits are not without divine power; they simply possess it without harming people. Sages never harm people, so ghosts and spirits have no occasion to use their power to harm them.

Ghosts and spirits and human beings do not harm one another; thus their virtue meets and comes together as one.

Ghosts and spirits do not harm people because sages above them teach and transform them. In this way, the virtue of ghosts and spirits can meet and come together with that of human beings. This is the meaning of the chapter “A Great State Is Like the Lowest Reaches of a River” (Chapter 61 of the Dao De Jing).

A great state is like the lower reaches of a river. The people of the world turn toward a great state just as all waters flow toward low places.

Relations among the states of the world are like the female, who occupies a quiet and yielding position. The female often overcomes the male through stillness, because stillness allows her to take the lower position. The many active things tend toward stillness, just as spring water flows from high places to low ones.

Therefore, when a great state treats a small state with humility, it can win the small state’s allegiance. When a small state treats a great state with humility, it can gain the great state’s acceptance. If the great state can humble itself, the small state will attach itself to it; if the small state can humble itself, the great state will accept it.

Thus some states win the allegiance of others by humbling themselves, while others are accepted by other states through humility. A great state humbles itself in order to win the allegiance of other states; a small state humbles itself in order to be accepted by a great state.

A great state seeks only to bring other states together and care for them; a small state seeks only to come under the great state’s protection and serve it. Since both can achieve what they seek, the great state in particular should humble itself.

The chapter “The Dao Is the Mystery of All Things” (Chapter 62 of the Dao De Jing) says: The Dao is the deep-rooted foundation of all things, the treasure of the good, and the means by which those of poor conduct can preserve themselves. Fine words can win respect, and appropriate actions can earn others’ recognition. If someone has faults, what reason is there to cast them aside?

Everything that appears on the outside is like the entrance hall of a house; the Dao is hidden deep within things, like an inner room. The Dao is present in all things, but people do not see it. The worthy understand and possess the Dao, so it is said that the Dao is the treasure of the good. Though the foolish cannot understand the Dao, they too depend on it to live and make their way in the world; so it is said that the Dao is also a refuge for those who are not good. This is because the Dao is never far from people; it is people who have turned away from the Dao.

If someone can truly grasp the Dao, even saying something in accord with reason is enough to give them a place in the world. If they can act in accord with the Dao, they will surpass ordinary people. Someone who was doing wrong in the morning may hear the Great Dao that evening, cast off deluded thoughts, and recover their original nature. Then, even if one wished to point out what was still bad in them, there would be nothing to say. Since this is so, how could anyone cast the Dao aside?

Therefore, when enthroning an emperor and appointing the Three Dukes, high officials who assist the emperor, even presenting pairs of precious jade and leading forward four fine horses is less worthwhile than offering them the Dao. The purpose of enthroning an emperor and appointing the Three Dukes is to use the Dao to help the people. Precious jade and fine horses, however valuable, cannot bring as much benefit as presenting the Great Dao.

Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? Was it not because those who seek the Dao can attain it, and those who bear guilt can use it to be absolved? Thus, the Dao is the most precious thing under Heaven.

The Dao is already within me. People’s trouble is that they do not seek it; if they seek, they can find it. The Dao does not judge people by merit or guilt. People’s trouble is that they do not understand this; once they do, no guilt can defile the Dao.

Chapter 63: Acting Through Wuwei

Act through Wuwei, without treating tasks as burdensome; savor things with a sense of the flavorless. Regard the great as small and the many as few. Repay resentment with De.

The sage follows the Dao and acts through Wuwei, so nothing is left undone. They attend to affairs with an attitude of noninterference, so no matter is beyond their care. They experience all things with a sense of the flavorless, so no flavor is beyond their perception. Whether faced with great or small matters, many or few, they respond in every case by following the Dao. Resentment is often what people find hardest to forget. But if one can practice Wuwei, even feelings of love and hatred fade away; then repaying resentment is just like repaying De.

When planning for difficult tasks, begin while they are still easy; to accomplish great things, begin with what is small. The difficult tasks under Heaven always begin while they are easy; the great undertakings under Heaven always begin with what is minute. Therefore, the sage never deliberately sets out to do great things, yet is able to accomplish them. Those who make promises too readily are often not faithful to them; those who regard things as too easy often encounter more difficulties. Therefore, the sage always approaches things with care, and in the end has no problems that are hard to resolve.

People everywhere fear great difficulties but dismiss small problems. They always think there are many difficulties and few easy things. If they wait until something becomes difficult before planning for it, or until it becomes great before beginning, they often fail to get it done. The sage sees that great and small are on a par, and that much and little are connected. The sage takes nothing lightly and meets every difficulty with care. How, then, could anything remain undone?

Chapter 64: When Things Are at Rest, They Are Easy to Maintain

When things are at rest, they are easy to maintain; before signs appear, they are easy to plan for. When things are fragile, they are easy to break; when they are minute, they are easy to disperse. Act before things come into being; bring order before circumstances fall into disorder.

Before something comes into being, it is enough to maintain and plan for it in good time. When it is about to arise, one must dissolve and disperse it to prevent matters from developing further. Even so, this is still easier than dealing with it after it has taken shape. Thus, the best course is to address things before they come into being; bringing order before circumstances fall into disorder is the next best.

A tree too large to encircle grows from a tiny shoot; a nine-tiered tower is built from baskets of earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Forceful action spoils things; clinging to what one holds makes one lose it. The sage does not act recklessly, so nothing is spoiled; the sage does not cling, so nothing is lost.

The arrival of disorder and order, misfortune and blessing, follows the same pattern: each grows through gradual accumulation from small beginnings. The sage responds through Wuwei (non-action) and holds on through nonattachment, allowing blessings to grow of themselves and calamities to recede of themselves. This is like growing crops: plow the land deeply and pile the soil high, and the harvest will come naturally in autumn. It is also like encountering robbers: sit calmly and observe them closely, and they will retreat. People do not understand that things have their own course of development. They think that without action, nothing can succeed, and without holding tightly, what they have gained cannot be kept. So they struggle constantly against calamity, turning blessings into burdens. When calamity arrives, they are powerless to save themselves; when blessings arrive, they are unable to bring them to fruition. That is the reason.

People often fail at their tasks just when they are close to success. If they were as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they would not ruin their work. The sage knows the harm caused by forceful action and does not let human interference obstruct what is natural. From beginning to end, the sage follows the inherent course of things, and so nothing remains undone.

People often fail when they are close to success. So, if you are as careful at the end as you were at the beginning, your work will not fail halfway through. The sage knows that deliberate action brings harm, and therefore does not use human force to interfere with nature. When things unfold from beginning to end in accordance with the natural way, nothing is beyond accomplishment.

People in the world are always preoccupied with gain and loss. At the start of a task, they may not yet understand that they should let things follow their natural course. But when success is near, they become so concerned with gain and loss that they lose what they have achieved, and conclude that the task has failed. Thus, if you approach the end as carefully as you approached the beginning, your work will not fail.

For this reason, the sage treats freedom from attachment to desire as a desire, and does not prize rare goods. The sage treats freedom from attachment to knowledge as learning, and looks back at the errors people make. By following the changes that arise naturally in all things, the sage assists them, but does not presume to act upon them.

People often follow their desires and so damage things; they also cling to what they have learned and so go against the way things are. The sage is not without desire, but has desires without clinging to them. Though the sage desires something, this does not harm anything external. The sage does not refuse to learn, but does not cling to what has been learned. Though the sage learns, this does not obstruct the way things are. In this way, both the inner mind and the outer world remain open and clear. Dwelling in Wuwei (non-action), the sage follows the changes that arise naturally in all things and waits for them to come to fruition on their own.

Chapter Sixty-Five: Those of Old Who Were Skilled in the Dao

Those of old who were skilled in practicing the Dao did not seek to make the people clever, but to keep them simple and unspoiled.

The “wisdom” spoken of by the ancients was an understanding of the Great Dao: the ability to grasp how things change from beginning to end. This kind of wisdom is worthy of respect. Ordinary people may not understand it, yet they are easily drawn into petty cleverness, mistaking close scrutiny of trivial matters for insight. Such cleverness often brings greater harm. Therefore, when the sage governs the people in accordance with the Dao, the aim is not to make them clever in every respect, but to keep them simple and unspoiled. If the people have fewer crafty thoughts and desires, and follow the rule of those above them, then even when governance goes astray, the harm will be less.

The people are difficult to govern because they have too many schemes. Governing a state through cleverness brings harm to the state.

If I treat others with cunning, they will respond to me with cunning, and those above and below will harm one another.

To govern a state without cunning is the state’s good fortune. Understanding these two ways of governing, one can take them as guiding principles. To understand this principle constantly is called “Mysterious De” (profound and subtle Virtue). Mysterious De is deep and vast: it can return all things to their nature and ultimately bring about the greatest harmony.

What I value…