《老子说略》

An Abridged Discussion of Laozi

Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries

Section Fourteen of the Masters Division

An Abridged Discussion of Laozi

Daoist Works

Summary

We, your servants, have carefully examined and verified this work. An Abridged Discussion of Laozi consists of two volumes and was written by Zhang Erqi of the Qing dynasty. Zhang’s Sentence Divisions and Reading of Zheng Xuan’s Commentary on the Book of Etiquette and Ceremonial has already been recorded in the catalogue. Many books interpret the Dao De Jing; they often become elaborate and far-fetched, placing obstacles in the reader’s way. Zhang’s work avoids these approaches. It offers only a brief clarification of the text and explains its general meaning.

In his preface, Zhang says that when he read the original text and came upon passages that were difficult to follow, he made conjectures based on his own understanding and supplied a few words between the sentence divisions. In this way, he felt that the text’s general meaning suddenly became clear. As for other commentaries, he says that he neither intends to assess them nor wishes to read them.

In the postscript, he also recounts that someone once asked Zhu Xi how to explain “The Dao that can be spoken of.” Zhu Xi replied: “If the Dao can be spoken of, it is not the constant Dao; if a name can be named, it is not the constant name.” Zhu Xi never wrote a dedicated commentary on the Laozi. Zhang Erqi believes that if Zhu Xi had commented on the Laozi, this saying could have represented his method of interpretation—and could likewise have served as a method for reading all classics. The key is not to cling to the search for a fixed interpretation, but to return to the text itself. Zhang believes that his own book, too, uses the text to interpret the text.

The purpose of this work is to reflect repeatedly on the original text and grasp its principles. It therefore does not discuss political stratagems, sophistry, or unusual doctrines, nor does it touch on techniques such as refining the Golden Elixir or turning stone into gold. Its explanations are clear and concise, making it a useful reference for reading.

In the tenth month of the forty-sixth year of the Qianlong reign, respectfully revised and submitted.

Chief compilers: Ji Yun, Lu Xixiong, and Sun Shiyi.

Chief proofreader: Lu Feichi.

Preface to An Abridged Discussion of Laozi

The “Dao” and “De” described in the Laozi probably concern both self-cultivation and the governance of the realm. Their purpose is quite different from teachings that withdraw from worldly affairs and depart from ordinary principles. Earlier Confucian scholars examined and debated the text’s origins and development, often criticizing it; yet few objected to its central teaching of quietude and non-contention.

Those who admire the Laozi and wish to place it above the Six Classics (the Confucian classics) are surely mistaken. But to dismiss it wholesale as belonging to the same category as Buddhism and the arts of the immortals may also go too far. Commentators have vied to say something novel, each taking the Laozi in their own imagination to be the real Laozi. He may not be the Laozi who served as Keeper of the Archives in the Western Zhou. The Laozi’s original intent may have been obscured as a result.

It is like water: when used to steep tea, it takes on a bitter taste; when used to soak sugarcane, it becomes sweet; when mixed with meat sauce, it turns sour; when salt is added, it becomes salty. Mix in tangerines, oranges, ginger, and cinnamon, and it takes on those flavors too. To say that water had all these tastes to begin with would be to wrong it, would it not?

This summer, I happened upon this book. My eyesight has grown very poor, and I truly could not manage the dense commentaries, so I could only skim the main text. Where I could not make sense of a passage, I guessed at its meaning and added a word or two here and there to clarify the punctuation. In doing so, I felt that the gist of the whole book suddenly became clear. When I later looked again at the various commentaries, I remembered that I could no longer read them with ease and no longer wished to try. I could not help mocking myself: “A poor man drinks only water, yet finds wine and fine liquor too much trouble. How can he talk with others about all the flavors under heaven?” Still, after a full meal and drink, water to moisten the throat and rinse the mouth may have its uses. So I copied out these readings and kept them, giving them the title A Brief Account.

On the day after the fifteenth day of the fifth lunar month, in the summer of the eighth year of the Kangxi reign, the year Jiyou (1669), inscribed by Zhang Erqi of Jiyang.

A Brief Account of the Laozi, Scroll One

Written by Zhang Erqi of Jiyang

Upper Part

A Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; a name that can be named is not the constant name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source of the myriad things. Therefore, by remaining constantly free of desire, one can observe the Dao’s subtlety; by remaining constantly in a state of desire, one can observe the boundaries and signs through which the myriad things appear. “Nonbeing” and “being” emerge from the same source, though they have different names. Both may be called profound. Profound upon profound: this is the gateway to all mysteries.

A Dao that can be put into words is not the constant Dao; the constant Dao cannot be fully expressed in words. Since the constant Dao cannot be fully expressed, how could a name define it? A name that can be given is not the name of the constant Dao. That which cannot be named is the very source from which Heaven and Earth arise.

A “Dao” (the Way) that can be clearly stated and expressed in words is not the constant, unchanging Dao. The constant Dao cannot be fully conveyed in language and therefore cannot be completely spoken of. Since it cannot be fully expressed, how could it be given a definite name? What can be named is not the name of the constant Dao. The unnameable Dao is the source from which Heaven and Earth began; only after Heaven and Earth took shape did nameable things come into being. These named and formed things all emerge from the Dao, which is like their common mother.

This is how the Dao brings forth what has form and name from what is formless and nameless. Thus, sages who understand the Dao often apprehend its subtle depth through “nonbeing.” At the same time, they do not turn away from “being”: they observe its manifestation in the boundaries and changes of concrete things. “Nonbeing” and “being” depend on each other, expressing respectively the Dao’s substance and its function. They are not two different things in the first place, but simply have different names. “Nonbeing” is indeed profound, but “being” is not merely outward appearance either; both are called “mystery” (xuan), meaning deep and unfathomable. Yet “mystery” alone is not enough to describe the Dao’s full profundity, so it is called “mystery upon mystery.” Within this unfathomable Dao, every principle is present. Is it not the gateway from which the many mysteries arise?

“Dao that can be followed” and the “Dao that guides oneself” spoken of in the Doctrine of the Mean have the same meaning: they refer to principles that people can follow and put into practice.

Some people read “constantly without desire” and “constantly with desire” as two separate phrases, and explain “desire” as thought or feeling: when free of thought, one observes the Dao’s subtlety; when thought is present, one observes the boundaries and functions through which the Dao appears. In my view, when there is desire, there is no absence of desire; when there is no desire, there is no desire. It is therefore unsuitable to interpret the passage as presenting “constantly without desire” and “constantly with desire” as two parallel states. Here, “nonbeing” and “being” should instead be read as separate phrases.

The character jiao in “boundaries” means the limits or endpoints of things. Zhu Xi said that it is like a boundary: the place where things meet and connect with one another. When a matter reaches its endpoint, further changes often follow and connect to it, such as the beautiful and the ugly, the good and the not good discussed below. By paying attention at these junctures, people can handle matters appropriately. Su Zhe said that what is distant and without limits always appears mysterious in form, which is why Laozi often uses “mystery” to indicate a realm of extreme profundity and distance. Zhu Xi also said that “mystery” refers to a place so deep and distant that it is dark and difficult to discern, where the many mysteries are concealed.

This chapter is the guiding principle of the whole book. When later chapters discuss the substance of the Dao, they observe its subtlety through “nonbeing”; when they discuss responding to concrete matters, they observe its boundaries and manifestations through “being.” The constant Dao is nameless, whereas the Dao that guides action in particular situations has a name.

Everyone in the world recognizes beauty, and ugliness thereby appears. Everyone recognizes goodness, and what is not good appears alongside it. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy take shape in relation to each other; long and short set each other off; high and low depend on each other; sounds harmonize with one another; and what comes before is followed by what comes after.

So the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action, following the natural course of things without imposing unnecessary interference) and teaches without relying on words. When the myriad things arise, he does not turn them away. He nurtures them without claiming them as his own, acts without relying on his own ability, and completes his work without taking credit. Because he takes no credit, his achievements do not depart.

When everyone in the world recognizes beauty, people compete to proclaim themselves beautiful; in this way, what is called beauty loses its real beauty. When everyone recognizes goodness, people compete to call themselves good; in this way, what is called goodness is no longer truly good. What was originally beautiful may become ugly, and what was originally good may become not good. If we can understand why beauty contains what is not beautiful, and goodness contains what is not good, and conduct ourselves appropriately, then beauty can be truly beautiful and goodness truly good.

Beauty and ugliness, goodness and what is not good, change in this way, each giving rise to the other. Being and nonbeing, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, sound and tone, what comes before and what comes after—all depend on each other and bring each other to completion in the same way. Understanding this, the sage acts through Wuwei and teaches without words. The myriad things come forth before him, and all manner of beauty and ugliness appear together, yet he rejects none of them. He nurtures the myriad things without claiming them as his own, governs all affairs without relying on his own ability, and, even after his work is complete, takes no credit. Because he takes no credit, his achievements ultimately belong to him and do not disappear. This is how, by refusing to proclaim beauty and goodness, one can preserve what is truly beautiful and good.

The first half of this chapter uses visible things to show how things appear in relation to one another. This is “observing their outward manifestations”—examining the boundaries and phenomena through which things become apparent. From there, one can go further and grasp the profound principle within.

Do not exalt the name of the worthy, and the people will not fight over reputation. Do not prize rare and precious goods, and the people will not be driven to steal. Do not display things that stir up desire, and people’s minds will remain undisturbed. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, the people’s minds are kept simple and their clothing and food sufficient. Their ambitions to outdo one another are weakened, while their sinews and strength are reinforced. The people are regularly kept free of clever distinctions and craving, and those who consider themselves clever are kept from acting recklessly. Govern by following the Dao of Wuwei (non-action), and nothing in the world will be left ungov­erned.

When those in high positions exalt the name of the worthy, the people will boast of being different and compete for reputation. When worthy names are not exalted, the people will not compete for them. When those in high positions prize rare and precious goods, the people will vie for profit, even becoming thieves. When such goods are not prized, the people will not steal for them. When those in high positions display things that stir up desire, everyone will want to possess them, and their thoughts will grow unsettled. When these things are not displayed, the people’s minds will not be disturbed.

This is, in general, how people are. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, they seek to quiet the pursuit of ornate and flashy things and to provide fully for the plain necessities of daily life. This is what is meant by “emptying the heart and filling the belly.” They seek to block the beginnings of rivalry and competition, and to support the foundations of steady self-reliance. This is what is meant by “weakening the will and strengthening the bones.” The people are regularly kept free of clever distinctions, and craving is not allowed to arise. Those who presume on their cleverness and play with schemes are also kept from using private cunning and petty methods to disrupt governance. The sage simply follows the people’s nature and does not impose action recklessly. In this way, nothing in the world will be left ungoverned.

Here, “heart,” “belly,” “will,” and “bones” are all metaphors: the heart refers to a mind unsettled by distractions; the belly, to basic needs; the will, to the desire to compete and prevail; and the bones, to the foundations of the body and livelihood.

The Dao is like an empty vessel; in use, it seems never to fill. It is deep and inexhaustible, as though it were the source of all things. It blunts its sharpness and untangles disorder; it softens its radiance and blends with the dusty world. It is profound and subtle, seeming to exist yet difficult to grasp. I do not know where it comes from; its manifest form seems older even than the sovereign of Heaven.

The Great Dao appears empty and without form, yet it can harmonize and contain all kinds of concrete things. It is everywhere, and nothing can fill it. Vast and deep, it seems to be the source of all things. Those who cultivate the Dao should draw in their sharpness and avoid contention; resolve the turmoil among things without stirring them up; rein in their own brilliance and avoid showing it off; and blend into the world without becoming separate from all things. The Dao is deep and hidden, seeming to leave no trace, yet also appearing to be everywhere. When cultivation reaches this state, the Dao still cannot be accurately named. I do not know from whom it came; I can only say that all things seem to be its descendants. It seems to have existed even before the Lord of Heaven appeared.

Shao Bian says that the first two instances of “its” refer to the cultivator, while the last two refer to other people and things outside oneself.

The original uses words such as “perhaps,” “seems,” and “appears” because it does not presume to define the Dao with certainty. This passage describes contemplating the Dao’s subtle aspect through the idea of “constant nonbeing.”

Heaven and Earth show no partiality, treating the myriad things like straw dogs used in ritual offerings. The sages, too, show no partiality, treating the people like straw dogs. This does not mean that Heaven and Earth or the sages harbor ill will; it means that they do not favor or interfere with the myriad things and the people.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? Though empty inside, it is never exhausted; once it moves, breath pours forth without ceasing. Too many words can lead one to an early end. Better to hold fast to inner emptiness, stillness, and balance.

Heaven and Earth do not show partial favor to the myriad things. They simply let them grow naturally and perish naturally. Heaven and Earth regard the myriad things as people regard the straw dogs used in ritual: before the sacrifice, they are adorned and respectfully presented, not because they are cherished; once the sacrifice is over, they are discarded, not because they are despised. All of this simply follows what is natural.

The sage governs the people without bestowing partial favor. Instead, the sage follows their nature and does not hinder them. Whether bringing life or death, giving or taking, the sage lets things develop according to their own circumstances and harbors no private designs.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows used by a skilled craftsperson? Its middle is empty, yet it does not collapse; once it is worked, air pours out without end. Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things in just this way. What need is there to bestow any partial favor? To understand Heaven and Earth is to understand the sage. In governing the people, the sage maintains a state that is empty yet never exhausted—what is called the “middle.” It is enough to hold fast to this. Speaking too much only leads to distress; why do so?

Jiao Xi says that “exhausted” means congested and oppressed, unable to unfold.

The interpretations of the final two lines seem somewhat strained; perhaps they can be understood on another level. Wang Chunfu believes that Laozi feared later generations would misunderstand the passage about the straw dogs, and so voiced this lament. This interpretation seems to have some merit as well.

The “Spirit of the Valley” does not perish along with the myriad things. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” the deep maternal power that can give birth to all things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the source from which Heaven and Earth come into being. It continues without end, seeming almost to exist and almost not to exist; when put to use, it is never exhausted.

The “Spirit of the Valley” does not perish along with the myriad things. This is called the “Mysterious Female.” The gate of the Mysterious Female is where Heaven and Earth come into being, and so it is called their source. It continues without end, seeming almost to exist and almost not to exist; when put to use, it is never exhausted.

The Spirit of the Valley—the Dao, empty like a valley yet able to contain all things—does not perish along with them. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” the profound maternal power that gives life and nourishment to all things. The gate of the Mysterious Female is where Heaven and Earth come into being; it is the root of Heaven and Earth. Those who study the Dao need only understand and practice this. It stretches on without end, seeming almost to exist. It is no visible object, yet it truly has an effect. It can meet the needs of all things without effort. This is the use of what appears useless.

Jiao says: “Valley” is a metaphor. Because it is empty, it can contain; though it can contain, it does not claim anything as its own. It is subtle and unfathomable, hence the name “Spirit of the Valley.” The female gives life and nourishment to all things, just like the “Mother” mentioned in the previous chapter. Calling it the “Mysterious Female” likewise describes its profound and unfathomable nature.

Xue Juncai says: “Female” is pronounced bǐ to rhyme with the line above. “The gate of the Mysterious Female” is an added phrase that leads into the next line and also rhymes with it.

Su says: Calling it the “Spirit of the Valley” describes its De; calling it the “Mysterious Female” describes its function. The female gives life and nourishment to all things, yet is called “mysterious” because we cannot see how it does so. This further clarifies the meaning of the opening chapter: the Spirit of the Valley does not die—that is what is meant by the constant Dao. “The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth” means the same as “the nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” “It stretches on, seeming almost to exist” describes perceiving what is subtle and hidden; “use it, and it is never exhausted” describes perceiving the signs through which the myriad things appear.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They can endure because they do not live only for themselves. Therefore, the sage puts himself last and comes to the fore; treats himself as though he were outside the matter and thereby preserves himself. Is this not because he has no selfish intent? That is why he can fulfill himself.

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They can endure because they give life and nourishment to all things without treating that work as their private gain. If Heaven and Earth cared only about their own survival, they too would become just one thing among the myriad things. How, then, could they endure? So the sage is gentle and humble: he puts himself last and comes to the fore. He has few desires and seeks nothing for himself: he treats himself as though he were outside the matter and thereby preserves himself. It is precisely because he has no selfish thoughts that “putting himself last” and “treating himself as though he were outside the matter” allow him to come to the fore and preserve himself. In having no selfish intent, he fulfills himself; his ability to come to the fore and preserve himself follows naturally from how things work.

The highest goodness is like water. Water skillfully nourishes all things without contending with them. It settles in the low places that everyone else dislikes, and so comes closest to the Dao (the Way). A person of the highest goodness should choose a suitable place to live, keep a deep and tranquil heart, treat others with kindness, speak truthfully, bring order to affairs, make full use of their abilities, and act at the right time. Because they do not contend, they incur no fault.

The highest goodness in a person is like water. Water’s nature is to nourish all things without contending. Everyone likes to be in high places, but water alone is willing to flow downward and remain in the low places that others dislike. That is why it is close to the Dao. A person of the highest goodness can adapt their dwelling to their surroundings; like water, they are at ease whether moving or still. Their heart is quiet and deep like a pool, difficult for others to fathom; water, too, is clear and still. They treat others with kindness and benefit all around them, just as water nourishes living things. They speak truthfully and do not break their word, just as water flows through dangerous places without straying from its course. They bring order to affairs, as water washes away filth, brings clear waters together, and levels high and low places. They are capable and resourceful in their work, as water can break through what is hard and seep into the smallest spaces, reaching everywhere it goes. They act in keeping with the moment and adapt with flexibility, as water avoids high places and flows downward, moving without obstruction. They embody all these forms of goodness and still do not contend; therefore, they make no mistakes in the way they conduct themselves. This is why the highest goodness is like water.

To hold on tightly until something is full is not as good as stopping at the right time. Sharpen an object too much, and its edge will not last. No one can guard a hall filled with gold and jade forever. Pride after gaining wealth and status only invites misfortune. Once your work is accomplished and your name has become prominent, step aside in good time. This accords with the Way of Heaven.

If a person insists on taking things to the point of excess, it is better to leave room to spare; this is what brings stability. If they keep calculating and honing their edge, they fail to see that an edge cannot be relied upon. No one is sure to keep a hall filled with gold and jade. Pride and self-satisfaction after attaining wealth and status can only bring trouble upon oneself. Why pursue excess and sharpness? It is enough to follow the Dao: once one’s work is accomplished and one’s name established, one withdraws. This is the way of Heaven. To possess without claiming ownership is to avoid excess; to act in accordance with the natural order is to avoid displaying one’s edge.

Different versions interpret the passage “One cannot rely on it; no one can keep a hall filled with gold and jade … act in accordance with the natural order, and there is no question of sharpness” in different ways. Some versions give the relevant wording as “hold on to fullness and hone one’s edge.”

Can you bring spirit and form into harmony, and keep them united without separation? Can you focus on cultivating Jing and Qi, becoming as gentle as an infant? Can you cleanse the mind and observe what is subtle, leaving no flaw within? Can you care for the people and govern the state with a heart of Wuwei (non-action)? Can you respond to the opening and closing changes between Heaven and Earth with the yielding gentleness of the female, without competing for strength or victory? Can you see clearly in all directions without assuming that you know everything?

Let all things grow and nurture them without claiming them as your own; act without relying on your accomplishments; guide the growth of all things without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De” (profound and natural Virtue/Power).

When the heart is constrained by external things, the spirit is disturbed. The human body carries the hun and po. If the hun is settled upon the po, and one holds steadfastly to “Embracing the One”—bringing body and mind into unity—can they remain together for a long time without separating? If Qi is used recklessly, it becomes disordered. By concentrating on guarding one’s own Qi and bringing it to a supple state, can one be as pure and simple as an infant? If selfish desires and worldly burdens have not been fully cast off, the spirit will be obscured. By washing away the mind’s dust and opening one’s awareness to what is subtle and profound, can one become free of blemish?

Once one has cultivated oneself, can one go on to govern others, care for the people, and rule the state while remaining still and governing in accord with nature, without acting forcefully? When faced with external changes, can the mind respond to things as the Heavenly Gate opens and closes, remaining yielding and free of contention, without striving to dominate? Having understood affairs and become perceptive in every direction, can one still remain quiet and reserved, as though knowing nothing? If one can do this, one can nourish the people of the world: letting them grow and caring for them without claiming them as one’s own; acting without relying on one’s achievements; and allowing the myriad things to flourish without imposing one’s will upon them. This is profound De, beyond words.

Zhu Xi says: The hun belongs to Yang and is active; the po belongs to Yin and is still. The hun belongs to Fire, and the po to Water. “Carrying the hun and po, embracing the One” means having the hun depend on the po, using stillness to govern movement and Fire to control Water, so that the two do not separate. It is like a person riding in a carriage, seated securely within it: the hun becomes settled, the po clear, Fire does not grow scorching, and Water does not overflow. This is an important method for long life and lasting vision.

“Dark Mirror” means seeing what is subtle and observing what is manifest. “Heavenly Gate” refers to the mind, while “opening and closing” refers to the mind’s activity and changes.

Thirty spokes converge at a single hub, but it is the hollow space within the hub that makes the wheel useful. Clay is kneaded into a vessel, but it is the hollow space inside that allows it to hold things. Doors and windows are cut to make a house, but it is the empty space within that makes it fit to live in and use. Thus, visible “being” provides convenience, while empty “nonbeing” makes things truly useful.

At the end, the text returns to the hub, the vessel, and the house: the hollow in the hub, the interior of the vessel, and the open space inside the house are precisely what enable them to serve their purpose. Form gives things convenience; emptiness makes them truly usable.

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel. It is precisely because the hub is empty at its center that the wheel can function. Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel; it is precisely because the vessel is hollow inside that it can hold things. Doorways and windows are cut to make a house; it is precisely because space is left inside that people can live there. This shows that tangible things become useful through the intangible space within them. The principle of all things under Heaven is this: tangible things provide convenience, while empty spaces allow them to serve their purpose. Without a definite form, convenience and use have no foundation; without empty space, a thing cannot fulfill its purpose or provide convenience. Emptiness and substance are both indispensable.

Bright colors dazzle the eyes, complicated music dulls the hearing, and strong flavors impair the sense of taste. Galloping horses while hunting and becoming absorbed in the chase can drive the mind into frenzy. Rare and precious goods can obstruct people’s conduct. Therefore, the sage values sustaining inner contentment and does not pursue sensory pleasures. The sage lets go of outward enticements and chooses inner calm.

The eyes are for seeing colors, but when the five colors are too dazzling, they confuse the eyes. The ears are for hearing sounds, but when the five tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—are too complicated, they tire the ears. The mouth is for tasting, but when the five flavors—sour, bitter, sweet, pungent, and salty—are too strong, they impair the sense of taste. Hunting is meant to provide enjoyment, but if one gallops about without pause, the mind can become frantic. Possessions can be put to use, but greed for hard-to-obtain things obstructs one’s conduct. Is this not the harm caused by greed? The senses pursue outward things and are never satisfied; inner contentment is easy to attain, like a belly that needs only enough to meet its basic needs. Therefore, the sage attends to the inner needs that are easy to satisfy and does not pursue the endless desires of the senses. The sage lets go of outward striving and chooses inner contentment.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled. Why are both favor and disgrace said to cause alarm? Because favor places one in a low position: receiving favor is like being startled, and losing favor is also like being startled. This is what is meant by “favor and disgrace are equally alarming.”

Why should we regard great calamities as we regard our own selves? The reason I suffer great calamity is that I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could befall me? Therefore, only one who cherishes the world as they cherish their own person can be entrusted with the world; only one who cares for the world as they care for their own person can be given charge of its governance.

The ancients who understood the Great Dao regarded favor and disgrace alike as alarming, because they knew that receiving favor was itself like suffering disgrace. They treated great calamity as though it concerned their own person because they held their own person in great regard.

Why are favor and disgrace both alarming? People usually see receiving favor as good and suffering disgrace as bad. But if we understand that disgrace often follows from favor, and that favor is a sign of disgrace to come, then favor itself is not worth making much of. When receiving favor, be as cautious as if disgrace were about to arrive. When losing favor, regard it as one might welcome the chance to avoid disgrace at last.

Why treat great calamity as though it concerned one’s own person? I suffer great calamity because I have this body. Because I have a body, I care for myself too deeply, and so all the gains and losses of the world can trouble me. If I could put myself last and stand apart—that is, if I did not cling to myself—then life and death, honor and disgrace, could be seen as one. What cause for worry would remain?

To take this further, a person who does not cling to the self does not regard gaining the world as an honor, but cherishes their own life and takes responsibility for the world. Only such a person can truly be entrusted with the world. A person who does not cling to the self does not simply look after their own survival, but cherishes life so that all people may live. Only such a person can truly be given charge of the world. “Esteem” means to cherish; “calamity” means something to fear.

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 traced to their ultimate source, so they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It continues without end and cannot be named, then returns to what has no form or substance. This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the insubstantial,” and also “Huhuang”—seeming to exist and not to exist, elusive and hard to grasp. Meet it head-on, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide things in the present. To know the source of all things is called the “guiding principle of the Dao,” the Dao’s fundamental order.

Look for it, but it cannot be seen; this is why it is called “Yi.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard; this is why it is called “Xi.” Try to grasp it, but it cannot be caught, and so it appears to exist and not to exist; this is called “Huhuang.” Meet it head-on, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to guide things in the present. To know the source of all things is called the “guiding principle of the Dao.”

You look at it but cannot see it, so it is called “yi.” You listen for it but cannot hear it, so it is called “xi.” You try to grasp it but cannot catch it, so it is called “wei.” These three names are only makeshift ways of speaking about it; in truth, it cannot be pursued or explained clearly. Thus, the Dao blends into a unity. Everything with a shape has distinguishable light and darkness; the Dao, however, appears neither bright nor dim, and cannot be sought by means of its shape.

The Dao flows on without end, passing back and forth through everyday life, one moment following another. It seems as though there were something that could be named, yet no name can identify it precisely; in the end, it returns to formlessness and nothingness. This is called “the shape of what has no shape, the image of what is no thing.” It is elusive and hard to discern, yet can be said to exist; it seems both present and absent, and cannot be grasped as a solid thing. Pursue it from the front, and you do not know where it came from; follow it and investigate, and you do not know where it ends. Since ancient times, this Dao has existed, and it is called the Dao. Those who attain the Dao can grasp the Dao that has existed since antiquity and use it to govern things in the present. Living today, they can understand the state of all things before they first took form. This, in broad outline, is the lineage through which the Dao has been transmitted. The whole chapter goes to great lengths to praise the Dao’s mysterious nature.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating the depths and impossible to fathom. Because they were so hard to discern, one can only describe them tentatively: cautious, like someone crossing a river in winter; alert, as if wary of being watched from every side; solemn, like a guest; yielding and dispersed, like ice about to melt; simple and unadorned, like uncarved wood; open and spacious, like a valley; murky, like muddy water.

Who can make muddy water settle and slowly clear? Who can remain still, hold steady for a long time, and then gradually stir and bring forth activity? Those who keep to the Dao do not seek fullness and completion. Precisely because they do not seek fullness, even when they decline, they do not rush to manufacture new achievements.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle, profound, and far-reaching, their state so deep that it was difficult to fathom. Since they could not truly be seen through, one can only attempt to describe them: hesitant and cautious, as if crossing a river in winter; alert and guarded, as if danger surrounded them; solemn and respectful, as if they were guests who dared not be careless; open and yielding, like ice melting away; simple and uncarved, like a block of wood untouched by tools; broad and empty, like a valley able to receive all things; and murky and reserved, like muddy water that gives nothing away.

People of great De (Virtue/Power) were much like this. They were subtle, profound, and far-reaching, and ultimately could not be fathomed. How did the cultivators of the Dao in ancient times attain this state? They simply let turbidity settle into clarity through stillness, and let life gradually grow through stability. Today, everyone is eager to appear clear-minded, but who can let turbidity grow still and wait for it to clear on its own? Everyone competes to act first, but who can remain steady and undisturbed over time, and, when acting, follow the way things are so that vitality can gradually emerge?

Generally speaking, those who hold to the Dao do not seek to be complete in themselves. When they consider themselves complete, their minds are no longer empty and still, and they can no longer hold to the Dao. Only by not considering oneself complete can one calmly accept the decline of things, without hastening to seek the new or force an outcome. In this way, one can grow still and gradually become clear; when acting, one can gradually bring forth growth, drawing closer to a subtle, profound, and unobstructed state. To accept decline without hastening to seek the new or force an outcome is to let turbidity settle and to remain still over time. Here, the subtle state of great De is described in full, and the path to cultivating virtue is also shown.

Attain the utmost emptiness and stillness, and firmly hold to tranquility; then all things grow together. From this I observe how they return to their source. The myriad things flourish, but in the end each returns to its root. Returning to the root is called tranquility; tranquility is returning to life’s nature. Returning to one’s nature is called the constant Dao. To know the constant Dao is to be wise. Not knowing it and acting recklessly brings misfortune.

Those who know the constant Dao can be all-embracing. Being all-embracing, they can be impartial; being impartial, they can serve as a model for all; serving as a model for all, they can accord with Heaven; in accord with Heaven, they can accord with the Dao. In accord with the Dao, their lives can endure, and they can remain free from danger to the end of their days.

Reduce the distracting thoughts in your heart to a minimum, and sustain a state of stillness and clarity until it is profound. As all things grow and change before me, I do not set them in motion; I simply observe how they return. The myriad things grow luxuriantly, in great profusion. When I observe their return, I am no longer stirred by the spectacle of their abundance; I see each of them returning to its root. When all things return to the root, nothing can disturb me. This is called “stillness,” and also “returning to one’s original life.” “Life” refers to the original state of my life. To return to that original state is to be beyond both movement and stillness. This is called “constancy.” One who understands constancy must have subtle and penetrating insight into the mysteries of the Dao; without it, this understanding is difficult to attain. That is why it is called wisdom. Those who do not understand constancy cannot help but act recklessly and bring danger upon themselves. Those who understand it can let go of distinctions between good and evil, and there is nothing they cannot accommodate. Able to accommodate all things, they are like Heaven, which covers everything without partiality. Free from partiality, they can become the people’s ruler and govern the world. Yet “king” still does not fully describe this state. In the end, it accords with the origin of all things: the Dao that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. When a person and the Dao become one, that person can endure for a long time and remain free from danger throughout life.

This passage focuses on the state that can be attained through emptiness and stillness. The method begins with “observing return”: watching all things return to their root. This connects with “observing the manifestations” in chapter one of the Dao De Jing, which means observing the first signs by which things appear.

The best ruler is one whom the people merely know is there. The next best is one whom they love and praise; the next, one whom they fear; and the next, one whom they hold in contempt. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient, the people do not trust him. The best ruler acts with care and speaks sparingly, issuing commands only when necessary. When the work is done and the achievements complete, the people all believe that things happened of themselves.

“Supreme” refers to the most accomplished ruler. When the best ruler governs well, the people merely know that he exists. The next best is one whom the people love and praise; the next, one whom they fear; and the next, one whom they hold in contempt. When a ruler lacks trustworthiness, the people do not trust him and may even hold him in contempt. If the people do not trust him, what use is it for him to say more? The best ruler does not act this way. Careful and sparing with words, he does not speak lightly, and the people benefit without realizing it. When the work is done, they all believe that things simply turned out as they should, not knowing who brought it about. They merely know that such a ruler exists.

Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear. When cleverness and skill became conspicuous, deceit arose alongside them. Only when family members ceased to live in harmony did people make a special point of filial devotion and parental care. Only when political order in the state fell into chaos did so-called loyal ministers appear.

When the Great Dao—the fundamental principle of natural Wuwei (non-action)—was followed, people did not know what benevolence and righteousness were. They appeared only after the Great Dao declined. People were originally simple and unspoiled, living in harmony without needing to make a point of benevolence and righteousness. Later, cleverness and talent came to be prized. People began to consider themselves wise and compete with one another in displays of intelligence, and hypocrisy arose as a result. Families had once lived in harmony, with everyone showing filial devotion and care without making a special show of them. Filial devotion and care were only spoken of once families fell into discord. The state had once been peaceful and well governed, with officials faithfully carrying out their duties, so there was no need to praise loyal ministers. Loyal ministers stood out only when the state fell into disorder.

Thus, set aside the habit of boasting of sagely wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Set aside the practice of praising one another in the name of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will recover their filial devotion and care. Set aside the display of clever skills and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will disappear. The sage considers these three demands mere outward ornament, inadequate for governing the world. People should therefore abandon them and turn instead toward what they can rely on: reveal their unadorned nature, remain simple, reduce selfishness and desire, and draw near to government through Wuwei.

When people compete in displays of sagely wisdom, each strives to show off their abilities and ends up entangled in complicated affairs. Set aside this competition, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. When benevolence and righteousness are treated as fine reputations to acquire, people chase after fame, while the genuine feeling behind filial devotion and care declines. Stop boasting of benevolence and righteousness, and their original sincerity can be restored. When people use deceitful cleverness against one another and flaunt their pursuit of profit, they become greedy and dishonest, even turning to theft. Abandon the display of clever skills and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will have no reason to arise.

The sage sees these three tendencies as mere outward adornment that cannot address the root of the problem. People should abandon them and return to what is genuine: reveal what is simple, preserve simplicity, and reduce selfishness and desire, thereby drawing near to government through Wuwei. This chapter is closely connected to the one before it.

If you stop chasing worldly labels and knowledge, you will not be troubled by distinctions and calculations. How much difference, in the end, is there between the polite replies and deference that people value, or between their judgments of good and evil? Let things follow their natural course; there is no need to study these matters deliberately or worry over them. As for what people fear and revere, I cannot help but treat it with respect and dare not neglect it. But so long as I follow what is right and act with care, I hold on to nothing else in my heart. This state of mind is vast and boundless, with no end.

I have never been absorbed in the things people love. While everyone rejoices, as if feasting at a lavish sacrificial banquet or climbing a terrace to admire the springtime view, I remain calm and unmoved, like an infant who has not yet shown desire. Neither fear nor joy can burden me. I feel only that my spirit drifts, as if with nowhere to return and no private thoughts to bind it.

Everyone feels they have gained something, while I seem to have lost something and never settle into possession. My heart truly seems like the heart of a fool, muddled and confused. The people of the world appear clear-sighted and perceptive, while I seem dim; they are sharp and discerning, while I remain quiet and generous. I drift as if surrounded by darkness and am so still that I seem to have no fixed home. Everyone has something to do, while I seem slow and unrefined.

I differ from everyone else because I value and follow the “Mother”—the root of all things, that is, the Dao—and nourish myself through it. While others busy themselves pursuing knowledge, I cast aside distinctions and calculations and return to the original state before the birth of all things, cultivating myself in this way.

Here, “great sacrificial offering” refers to the lavish ancient ritual offering of an ox, a sheep, and a pig. According to Jiao’s explanation, “po” in its ancient sense is interchangeable with “bo,” meaning calm and still.

Those with great De (Virtue) conduct themselves and carry themselves in ways that accord with the Dao (the Way). The Dao’s form is always indistinct and elusive, difficult to discern. Yet within the indistinct there are images; between seeming existence and nonexistence there are real things; and in the depths of shadow there is a subtle essence. This essence is genuine and not false, and within it there is also evidence that can be trusted. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has endured, allowing people to observe the origins of all things. How do I know that the origins of all things are as I have described? By relying on this principle.

A commentator explains that the appearance and conduct of a person with great De accord with the Dao. What, exactly, is the Dao’s essence? Though the Dao is indistinct and hard to see, it contains images and real things. Within its depths, difficult to fathom, lies a subtle and genuine essence, along with what is credible and can serve as evidence. The Dao has existed from ancient times to the present, so it can be used to observe the origins of all things. The commentator Wang Chunfu says that “observe” means to experience and examine, while “the myriad beginnings” refers to Heaven, Earth, and all things—in other words, everything born from the Dao. Wang Fusi, in turn, compares the Dao to a gateway: all things pass in and out through it, and so can be observed one by one.

Yield, and you will be preserved; bend, and you will be straightened; sink low, and you will be filled; wear out, and you will be renewed. Take little, and you will gain; grasp at much, and you will be bewildered. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the One of the Dao, its fundamental principle, and makes it the standard for all under Heaven. By not putting himself on display, he becomes clear-sighted; by not asserting himself, he becomes distinguished; by not boasting of his achievements, he achieves merit; by not exalting himself, he endures. Because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

Could the ancients’ saying, “Yield, and you will be preserved,” really be empty words? Indeed, when a person follows the way of things, in the end they can preserve themselves and become whole.

Everything has its own natural principle: what is bent can be preserved; what is pressed down can rise; what is low can be filled; what is old can be renewed. Taking little can bring gain, while taking too much can lead to confusion. This is the inevitable way that fullness and emptiness, decline and growth, follow one another.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao (the fundamental principle by which all things move) and does not relentlessly seek more; thus, he becomes a model for all under heaven. He does not display himself, and so he is made clear; he does not assert his own correctness, and so he is recognized; he does not boast of his achievements, and so his accomplishments endure; he does not rely on his strengths, and so they are preserved. These are the principles of non-contention. Because he does not contend, no one under heaven can contend with him. Even if someone still wished to contend with him, could the ancient saying “what is bent can be preserved” really be empty words? People worry only that they cannot bend in order to remain whole. If they can bend, they can indeed be preserved in the end and find a place to return to. This is truly the way things are, and it cannot be denied.

Few words accord with nature. A gale cannot blow for a whole morning; a downpour cannot last an entire day. Who makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the fierce winds and rains brought forth by Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can a person’s efforts endure? Therefore, in acting, one must know how to bend in order to remain whole. If one can bend, one can indeed be preserved in the end and find a place to return to. This is truly the way things are, and it cannot be denied.

Few words accord with nature. A gale cannot blow for a whole morning; a downpour cannot last an entire day. Who makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the fierce winds and rains brought forth by Heaven and Earth cannot last, how much less can a person’s efforts endure? Therefore, those who act in accordance with the Dao are in harmony with the Dao; those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) are in harmony with De; those who lose the Dao and De are likewise in accord with what they have lost. Those in harmony with the Dao are gladly received by the Dao; those in harmony with De are gladly received by De; those in harmony with loss are gladly received by loss. When trustworthiness is insufficient, naturally there will be those who do not trust you.

People should speak little, follow nature, and act without selfish motives. That is all. A gale does not last through the morning, and a downpour does not last all day. What brings them about? Heaven and Earth. If even Heaven and Earth cannot make gales and downpours last, how difficult must it be for people to rely on eloquence and cleverness to argue with those who disagree?

Those who cultivate the Dao are not like this. When they meet someone who understands the Dao, they do not insist on talking about the Dao. When they meet someone who values De, they do not insist on talking about De. When they meet someone who has lost the way, they do not insist on talking about that, either. They simply speak little and follow nature. Those in accord with the Dao are gladly received by the Dao; those in accord with De are gladly received by De; those in accord with being lost are received by what they are lost in. Whether wise or foolish, people can live together in peace because they trust one another. If trust is lacking, even a great deal of argument will not persuade the other person. This shows how precious it is to speak little and follow nature.

Those who rise onto their toes cannot stand steady; those who take oversized strides cannot go far. Those who show themselves off cannot truly make themselves known; those who think themselves right cannot bring themselves recognition. Those who boast of their achievements have no achievements to speak of; those who glorify themselves cannot endure. Measured against the Dao, these are like leftover food and excess growths on the body, things everyone detests. Therefore, those who have the Dao do not act this way.

Rising onto one’s toes is meant to reach higher, yet it makes one unsteady; taking oversized strides is meant to move faster, yet it keeps one from going far. How are worldly people who show themselves off in hopes of gaining recognition, insist that they are right in hopes of being acknowledged, boast of their achievements, and brag about their strengths any different? From the perspective of the Dao, these are like leftover food and excess growths on the body, which people tend to detest. So those who have the Dao do not adopt such ways. As for the word “conduct” in “excess conduct,” Jiao Hong believed it should be written as “form”; in ancient usage, “conduct” and “form” could be used interchangeably.

There is something formed as a whole that existed before Heaven and Earth appeared. Silent and vast, it stands alone and never changes. Its workings reach everywhere and never come to an end. It can be regarded as the mother of all things under Heaven. I do not know its name, so I tentatively call it the Dao (the Way). If forced to give it a name, I would call it “Great.” Great, it moves and flows; this may be called “passing away.” Its movement knows no bounds; this may be called “far-reaching.” At the farthest reach, it returns to its source; this may be called “returning.” Taken together, “passing away, far-reaching, and returning” describe the vastness of the Dao.

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great. There are four great powers between Heaven and Earth, and the ruler is one of them. Humans take their model from Earth, Earth takes its model from Heaven, Heaven takes its model from the Dao, and the Dao takes its model from what is so of itself. The statement that the ruler is one of the four great powers reminds those who hold that position to consider how to preserve their own greatness. They should do so by taking Earth as their model: bearing all things without casting anything aside. Beyond Earth is Heaven, which covers all things. The Dao gives rise to Heaven and Earth; it gives rise to everything and brings everything to completion. Humans who take the Dao as their model should likewise follow what is natural. The final lines all explain how people should take Heaven and Earth as their model. Clinging to their literal wording, however, can make them harder to understand.

Steadiness is the foundation of recklessness, and stillness is the master of agitation. Thus, the sage goes about his affairs all day without leaving the baggage train—the carts carrying supplies on a journey, here a metaphor for a stable foundation. Even amid splendid sights, the sage remains at ease, unmoved by external things. As the ruler of a state powerful enough to command ten thousand chariots, how can one govern the world recklessly? Acting lightly means losing one’s foundation; rushing about in agitation means losing one’s mastery.

Heavy things can often support light things, so heaviness is the foundation of lightness. Quiet things can often restrain restless things, so stillness is the master of agitation.

Therefore, the sage travels all day without leaving behind the baggage carts that carry provisions, using steadiness and composure to keep himself in check and never losing his balance through carelessness. Even amid splendid palaces, pavilions, and towers, he remains at ease, detached and unburdened, self-possessed in stillness and never led astray by agitation. Why should a ruler with ten thousand chariots rush heedlessly about over the affairs of the world? To do so is to be frivolous. Frivolity means losing the steadiness that serves as one’s foundation, leaving nothing firm to rely on. Agitation means losing the stillness that serves as one’s master, leaving no inner anchor to depend upon.

Here, “baggage carts” use carts carrying provisions as a metaphor for never departing from one’s roots. “Splendid palaces” refers to magnificent buildings such as halls and terraces, and also serves as a metaphor for an exalted and prominent position.

One skilled at walking leaves no visible tracks; one skilled at speaking makes no mistakes in words; one skilled at planning needs no counters or calculating tools; one skilled at closing a door needs no bolt to keep it shut; one skilled at tying a knot needs no rope to keep it secure.

Thus, the sage is always skilled at guiding people, and so no one is cast aside. He is also skilled at making use of all things, and so nothing is cast aside. This is called “following and inheriting the clear Dao”—responding to and carrying forward what is understood through the Dao. The good person is the teacher of the person who is not good; the person who is not good can also serve as a lesson for the good person. If one does not respect one’s teacher or value the people and things from which one can learn, then even if one considers oneself wise, one will fall into great confusion. This is a profound and subtle truth.

Those skilled at walking leave no traces such as wheel tracks or footprints, because they always follow the right path. Those skilled at speaking make no verbal mistakes, because they say only what is appropriate. Those skilled at planning need no counting tokens or tally sticks to handle matters well, because the principles of things naturally lead to their outcomes. Those skilled at closing a door need no bolt to keep it shut, because they grasp what is essential. Those skilled at tying knots need no rope to make them impossible to untie, because they accord with what people share in common.

The sage understands these principles too. The sage acts appropriately, speaks without error, plans in accord with reason, grasps what is essential and knows how to constrain, and can also follow the wishes of the people. The sage is therefore always able to govern people well and help them, finding a proper place for each person and leaving no one out. The sage arranges things in accord with their own qualities, and so can help all things, allowing each to grow and flourish in its own way and leaving nothing out. This is called skillfully using one’s discernment to govern people and things.

Among the people under Heaven, some are good and some are not. The good are teachers to those who are not good; those who are not good can also serve as lessons for the good. Knowing that the good are teachers, one honors them. Knowing that those who are not good can offer a lesson, one treats them with kindness. In this way, one treats both the good and the not good appropriately. This is what it means to help people well and abandon no one. If one neither honors teachers nor treats kindly those who can serve as lessons, then despite considering oneself clever, one is in fact deeply confused. The key to the relationship between teacher and lesson lies in skillful use. The phrase “attaining illumination” uses “attaining” in the sense of receiving and passing something on: it means using one’s discernment to influence people and all things. Another interpretation understands “attaining” as acting in concealment, meaning that one uses one’s discernment unseen.

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 pure innocence of an infant. Know what is bright, yet keep to what is dim, and you can become the model for the world. As the model for the world, your constant De will never go astray, and you will return to the boundless. Know what is honored, yet keep to what is humbled, and you can become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, your constant De will be full, and you will return to the uncarved simplicity.

When uncarved simplicity is divided, it becomes the many particular things. The sage puts them to use and becomes the leader of the officials. Thus, truly great governance does not divide the whole.

Even while knowing the strong, one can still follow the valley’s lowly, yielding way and become the valley of the world. Constant De is thereby made full, and one returns to simplicity. When simplicity is divided, it becomes the many implements; the sage puts them to use and leads the officials. Thus, great governance does not divide the whole.

Though you understand what is strong and can wield strength, you still hold to what is soft and yielding, making gentleness your guiding principle. In this way, you place yourself below and become the stream of the world. As the stream of the world, you can keep constant De (Virtue/Power) close within you, never letting it depart, and return to the state of an infant, free of self-interest.

Though you understand what is bright and can make use of light, you still hold to what is dark and hidden, keeping yourself concealed and unexposed. In this way, you adapt to circumstances and become the standard of the world. As the standard of the world, your constant De will never stray in the slightest, and you can return to a state without bounds.

Though you understand what brings honor and can make yourself illustrious, you still hold to what is humiliating, making humility and yielding your guiding principles. Thus you can contain filth and muddy currents and become the valley of the world. As the valley of the world, you can remain constantly full and return to a state of unformed, undivided simplicity.

What is called “the uncarved block” cannot be defined by the name of any particular vessel. Only after the block is divided does it become the various vessels, each with just one function. When the sage makes use of the uncarved block, the functions of the vessels can return to wholeness: the sage does not govern only one function, but directs them all. Thus, when governing the world by the Great Dao, one should not be confined to small methods that cut things apart.

Most commentators explain the character “model” as meaning “rule.” I think that since “stream” and “valley” both borrow the names of objects, “model” may also refer to the crossbar on a carriage. An instrument for determining the seasons is also called a “model.” People use it to correct themselves, but I do not set out to imitate it.

If one wishes to take possession of the world and govern it, I think this is ultimately impossible. The world is a sacred vessel; it cannot be made or altered at will. Acting on it at will will ruin it; clinging to it will make it slip away. Among the myriad things, some move ahead and others follow; some are gentle and others hurried; some are strong and others frail; some bear up and others collapse. Therefore, the sage dispenses with extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Those who would govern the world but insist on taking action and maintaining control, forcing their rule through sheer personal will, will not, in my view, succeed. Why? The world is a sacred and precious vessel; it cannot be ruled by one person’s private cleverness or forced into submission. Forceful action will ruin things; clinging to control will ultimately mean losing it.

The myriad things of the world are all different. Some move ahead, others follow behind; some breathe out warmth, others blow out cold. Some are strong and competitive, others are yielding and keep to themselves. Some bear and bring things to completion, others damage and destroy them. Things differ in their nature, and their choices differ too. It is truly difficult to govern them all by one person’s will. So the sage follows things as they are, imposing no personal intentions upon them. The sage only removes what is excessive, extravagant, and extreme, and does nothing more. Why, then, deliberately set out to act?

Those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not use military force to dominate the world. Resorting to arms often brings retaliation. Where armies have passed, thorns and brambles grow; after a great war, famine is sure to follow. A skilled commander does no more than achieve the objective and dares not use it as an occasion to dominate. Having won, the commander does not boast, show off, or grow arrogant. Arms are used only when there is no other choice, and victory is not used to assert strength. When things reach their height of strength and growth, they begin to age. This is called departing from the Dao; what departs from the Dao soon comes to an end.

Those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not use military force to contend for dominion over the world. Warfare readily invites retaliation between sides. Once the objective has been achieved, one should stop and not use the occasion to dominate. Having won, one does not boast, show off, or grow arrogant. Arms are used only when there is no other choice, and victory is not used to assert strength. After things reach their height, they decline into age. This is called departing from the Dao; what departs from the Dao soon comes to an end.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao do not rely on military force to impose their will or seize all under Heaven. War readily invites retaliation, and the places where armies have been stationed grow over with brambles. After a great war, years of famine often follow. The calamities brought by weapons and warfare are so grave—how could they be used to assist a ruler and impose one’s will upon all under Heaven?

Those who are skilled in warfare act decisively only when there is no other choice; they do not use force to vie for superiority. Though decisive, they do not boast, show off, or act arrogantly. They act this way only because they have no alternative, and do not use it to assert their strength. All things under Heaven follow the principle of waxing and waning, fullness and decline: anything that reaches the height of its strength will eventually grow old and diminish. To vie for superiority through war is to rely on strength while going against the Great Dao. What goes against the Dao must soon perish—how could it remain strong for long?

Jiao, the commentator, says: “‘When there is no other choice’ means that the matter is difficult to resolve. In the five instances below, the character er should be read as yu, meaning ‘in’ or ‘at’: while others are busy acting decisively in matters of war, I act decisively only when there is no other choice.”

Sharp weapons are ill-omened things, and people generally detest them. For this reason, those who possess the Dao do not use them as their ordinary means. In the usual conduct of a gentleman, the left is honored; when weapons are used, the right is honored. Weapons are ill-omened instruments, not things a gentleman should use. They are used only when there is no other choice, and calm detachment is the best attitude toward their use. Even when victorious, one should not regard victory as cause for celebration. To treat victory as a joyful occasion is to take pleasure in killing. Those who take pleasure in killing cannot prevail under Heaven.

In rites of celebration, the left is honored; in rites of mourning, the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, and the supreme general on the right. This means that war should be treated with the solemnity of a funeral rite. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and mourn for them. Even after victory, the proper response is to conduct oneself according to the rites of mourning.

Weapons are instruments of ill omen, and ordinary people generally despise them. For this reason, a person who follows the Dao does not make warfare their responsibility. In ordinary times, the gentleman honors the left; in wartime, the right is honored. This reverses the gentleman’s usual way. From this we can see that weapons are inauspicious things, not instruments a gentleman takes pleasure in using. If warfare is truly unavoidable, the best course is to remain calm and detached. Even after winning a battle, one should not boast of victory. To take pride in victory is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot fulfill their aims under Heaven.

When warfare is unavoidable, the best course is to remain calm and detached; even after winning a battle, one should not regard oneself as honored. To treat victory as something good is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing will ultimately be unable to prevail under Heaven.

In auspicious ceremonies, the left is honored; in funerary rites, the right is honored. This is the usual ritual order. The deputy general stands on the left, while the supreme commander stands on the right. This shows that positions in the army are arranged according to funeral rites. Clearly, warfare is truly inauspicious. Military ritual holds that when many enemies have been killed, they should be mourned with grief; even upon returning victorious, one should conduct oneself according to funeral rites. This shows that victory is not something to celebrate, and killing is certainly not something to enjoy. “Calm and detached” means quiet and at peace.

The Dao is always nameless and without form, like an uncarved block of wood. Though small, nothing under Heaven can control it. If the lords and kings can hold fast to it, the myriad things will naturally come to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth comes together, sweet dew descends. No one needs to command it; the dew falls evenly of its own accord.

Once the myriad things begin to be distinguished and named, and names have come into being, one should know when to stop. Knowing when to stop allows one to avoid danger. The Dao is present throughout the world just as rivers and streams flow into the great seas.

The Dao takes humility as its foundation, and so nothing under Heaven can control it. If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will naturally come to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth comes together, sweet dew descends. No one needs to command it; it falls evenly of its own accord. The Dao is present throughout the world just as rivers and streams flow into the great seas.

The Dao is ordinarily “nameless,” but we may reluctantly call it “the Uncarved Block”—its natural, unworked state. Though plain, silent, and subtle, it may seem small, yet it is the source from which all things grow. All things arise from it and take shape through it. What could it fail to contain? Who in the world would dare claim mastery over it?

If rulers can hold fast to the Uncarved Block, all things will naturally come to them. Yin and Yang will harmonize, Heaven and Earth will unite, and sweet dew will descend. The influence of profound De will transform people’s hearts, and they will naturally move toward balance without waiting for commands. This is the effect of holding fast to the Uncarved Block.

For rulers to hold fast to the Uncarved Block is to keep to the constant, nameless Dao. Only by holding to the nameless Dao can they govern things that have names and forms. Systems such as ritual and music, edicts, and punishments all arise from it, but one must not pursue the branches and forget the root. Once names and systems have been established, one must know when to stop and not seek excess; the nameless Uncarved Block should still anchor them. Knowing when one has enough keeps one from danger. Why? The Dao in the world is like the rivers and streams that ultimately flow into the sea: just as they return to the sea, the world returns to the Dao. The only concern is that rulers may not know how to hold fast to the Uncarved Block.

To understand others is called “wisdom”; to understand oneself is called “clarity.” To overcome others is to have strength; to master oneself is to be strong. To know contentment is to be rich; to strive to follow the Dao is to have resolve. One who does not lose sight of the root in the conduct of life can endure. When the body dies but the Dao does not perish, this is called longevity.

To discern what is right and wrong in others is called wisdom; to understand one’s own gains and losses is called clarity. To overcome others is to have power; to conquer one’s own desires is to be strong. To be content and free of greed is to be rich; to persist in following the Dao without slackening is to have resolve. Amid the endless changes of all things, to recognize one’s root and not be swept along by change is to endure. Life and death bring great change; when the body dies but the Dao has not perished, this is called longevity.

Wisdom and clarity, power and strength refer respectively to the outward and inward. Richness and resolve refer respectively to knowing contentment and being able to put the Dao into practice. Endurance and longevity refer respectively to not losing one’s root through change, and to the Dao’s not perishing when the body dies. By holding to the constant Dao, one can avoid losing one’s place and die without perishing.

The Great Dao is vast and boundless, as if it were everywhere; it can be found to the left or to the right. All things depend on it to grow, yet it never refuses them. When its work of bringing forth and nurturing all things is complete, it does not claim the credit. It cherishes and raises all things, yet does not rule over them.

In its aspect of being constantly free of desire, still, and without form, the Great Dao is so subtle that it can scarcely be perceived; in this sense, it may be called “small.” In its aspect of receiving all things, which return to it without knowing it is their ruler, it embraces everything and has no bounds; in this sense, it may be called “great.” Such is the mystery of the Great Dao. The sage follows the Dao and never considers himself great; for this very reason, he can accomplish true greatness.

Grasp the “Great Image” (the Dao’s overarching principle) to govern the world, and the people of the world will turn to you. Once they have turned to you, if you do not act recklessly or harm them, they can become settled and peaceful, and so attain well-being. This is the function of the Dao.

Music and fine food can persuade passersby to stop, but when the music ends and the food is gone, the travelers move on. The Dao, when spoken of, seems bland and tasteless; look for it and it cannot be seen, listen for it and it cannot be heard. Yet its use is inexhaustible. How could it be compared with music and fine food? Lu Xisheng says that the “Great Image” is the Dao. Su Ziyou says that the Dao belongs neither to being nor to nonbeing, and is therefore called the “Great Image.” Music and fine food are metaphors for pleasing others with small favors.

If you want to make it contract, you must first let it expand; if you want to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; if you want to cast it aside…

To draw something in, you must first let it expand; to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; to discard it, you must first let it flourish; to take something from it, you must first give to it. This is called “subtle illumination”: clear insight that emerges from the slightest signs. Fish cannot leave the depths, and the state’s sharp weapons must not be casually shown to others.

The fullness and decline of Heaven’s Way, and the dependencies and changes of human affairs, follow natural patterns that will in time unfold. To draw something in, you must first let it expand; to weaken it, you must first let it grow strong; to discard it, you must first let it flourish; to take something from it, you must first give to it. The principle here is exceedingly subtle, yet also clear. This is called “subtle illumination.” In brief, the soft can overcome the hard, and the weak can overcome the strong. This principle can be used to cultivate oneself and to keep out of harm’s way, just as fish must hide in the depths. It can also be used to ward off danger, yet may itself become a source of danger, like the state’s sharp weapons. Fish cannot leave the depths; once they do, they can only die. The state’s sharp weapons must not be shown to others. If displayed, they may be stolen and used to cause calamities beyond telling.

The Dao is often used to ward off danger, yet may itself become a source of danger, like the state’s sharp weapons. Fish cannot leave the depths; once they do, they can only die. The state’s sharp weapons must not be shown to others. If displayed, they may be stolen and used to cause calamities beyond telling.

The Dao—the fundamental principle by which all things move—always follows its own nature and does not force action, yet nothing remains undone. If rulers can hold fast to the Dao, all things will transform of themselves. After they have transformed, should desires arise and crafty schemes take root, I will use the “nameless uncarved simplicity”—a plain state untouched by human artifice and distinctions of name—to settle them. When even this nameless simplicity is no longer something to desire, and stillness free of desire is reached, the world will naturally return to the right path.

The Dao’s substance is empty and formless, yet when put to use it produces effects. It follows its own nature and does not force action, yet nothing remains undone. If rulers can hold fast to the Dao, they too will govern the world by following its natural course and refraining from imposed action. All things will then transform of themselves and follow rule through Wuwei (non-action). After they have transformed, should desires arise and give rise to clever schemes, I will use nameless uncarved simplicity to settle them. If they then seek nothing further, even in holding to nameless uncarved simplicity, they can be said to be without desire and to have truly reached stillness. How could all things under Heaven fail to return, each in its own way, to a state without desire and naturally find the right path?

An Outline of Explanations of the Laozi, Part One

Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries

An Outline of Explanations of the Laozi, Part Two

Written by Zhang Erqi of Jiyang

Part Two

Those of the highest De (Virtue/Power) do not regard themselves as possessing De, and so truly have it. Those of lesser De never let go of their attachment to De, and therefore do not truly have it. Those of the highest De follow their natural course, with no intention of doing anything and no deliberate aim. Those of lesser De act with a definite purpose.

Those of the highest benevolence act, but without a definite purpose. Those of the highest righteousness act with a definite purpose. Those of the highest ritual propriety also act, but if they receive no response, they roll up their sleeves and force others to comply. Thus, only after the Dao (the Way) is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual propriety. Ritual propriety is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and the beginning of disorder. Taking oneself to be prescient is the Dao’s ornamental surface—and the beginning of folly.

Therefore, the great person stands in what is solid and simple, and does not dwell in what is shallow and showy. They hold to what is real and do not pursue what is ornamental. So they set aside one and choose the other.

The highest De does not claim virtue as its own; for this reason, it truly possesses De. The lower form of De clings to virtue through effort, afraid of losing it, and so has not yet attained true De. The two differ in how they are held within the heart, and their effects differ as well.

The highest De does not act deliberately. This does not mean intentionally doing nothing; it means simply acting in accord with De’s natural state, without unnecessary contrivance or deliberate pursuit. The lower form of De requires action: one gains something only after reflection and achieves something only after acting. It truly has to rely on action to accomplish its aims.

“De” refers to the state in which the Dao is present within oneself. Particular forms of De may be especially prominent—for example, the highest benevolence, the highest righteousness, and the highest ritual propriety—and each has its own expression. The highest benevolence centers on caring for others and cannot be entirely without action. Yet its action arises from the heart, coming spontaneously rather than from force. The highest righteousness centers on what is fitting: one acts because one judges an action to be fitting, and this already involves deliberate effort. The highest ritual propriety uses ritual forms to give expression to feelings. When feelings gather within, they are expressed through ritual. But ritual has many rules and forms that not everyone can follow. Someone may perform the rites and receive no response. When there is no response, one may have to roll up one’s sleeves and force the other person to comply. This goes beyond merely acting.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does one speak of De; only after De is lost does one speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost does one speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness is lost does one speak of ritual propriety. The decline from the Dao proceeds step by step, reaching ritual propriety only at the end. Ritual propriety is outward ornamentation; when ornamentation becomes excessive, inner feeling fades. Ritual calls for yielding, but if yielding is not met in return, conflict arises. Is ritual not a sign that loyalty and trust have grown weak, and the beginning of disorder?

When people rely too heavily on foresight, their cleverness and skill show outwardly. When they praise outward appearances alone, they neglect the heart within. Excessive analysis and speculation also wear people down, while too much cleverness can easily lead to confusion. Is this kind of foresight not the Dao’s superficial display, and the beginning of folly? Ritual weakens loyalty and trust and gives rise to disorder; superficial display leads people toward folly. For this reason, the great man grounds himself in what is substantial and does not turn toward what is shallow; he rests in what is genuine and does not chase after superficial display. He therefore sets aside outward cleverness and ritual forms, and chooses the Dao and De.

In the past, those who attained the One through the Dao—the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe—brought clarity to heaven and peace to earth. Spirits became efficacious, valleys were filled, all things grew, and rulers became the rightful masters of the world. Heaven, earth, spirits, valleys, all things, and rulers are different, yet none can do without the same fundamental source.

If heaven could not remain clear, it would likely collapse. If earth could not remain peaceful, it would likely shake. If spirits could not be efficacious, they would likely lose their power. If valleys could not remain full, they would likely dry up. If all things could not grow, they would likely perish. And if rulers could not use the Dao to set themselves right, relying only on their high status, they too would likely fall. Clearly, the One is essential to everything.

The exalted takes the lowly as its root, and the high rests on the low. That is why rulers call themselves “orphaned,” “bereft,” or “unworthy”: they place themselves below others and take the lowly as their foundation. The world’s dignity is made up of many parts that may seem lowly, just as a cart is made of wheels, shafts, axles, and a canopy. Without those parts, there would be no cart. Only by setting aside their own dignity and high rank can rulers become the rightful masters of the world.

Do not regard yourself as precious as jade, nor set yourself apart as proudly as a stone. Both jade and stone stand out in their own way, reflecting an excessive distinction between high and low.

Reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the way it works. All things under heaven arise from being, and being arises from nonbeing.

People cease chasing things outside themselves and return to their inner nature. This is the starting point for entering the Dao (the Way). “The movement of the Dao is return”: the Dao’s workings take the form of a turning back. A person who has the Dao does not compete with external things but rests in softness and weakness. The Dao works through softness and weakness because everything under Heaven arises from “being,” while “being” arises from “nonbeing.” “Nonbeing” is the Dao’s original state. To return is to let go of attachment to “being” and move toward “nonbeing”; this is why it is called the Dao’s movement. When a person becomes one with the Dao, there is no longer any basis for speaking of stillness or movement—so how could one speak of “movement”? Softness and weakness belong to the realm of “being,” yet do not depart from “nonbeing”; this is why they are called the Dao’s workings. At their source, they are nothing but “nonbeing.”

Those of the highest capacity hear the teaching and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling capacity hear it and half understand: at times they remember, at times they forget. Those of the lowest capacity hear it and laugh. If a teaching does not provoke laughter from those of the lowest capacity, it is not worthy of being called the Dao. Why is this so? The ancients made this point in their sayings: the bright Dao seems dim; the way forward seems to lead backward; the level path seems rough. The highest De (Virtue/Power) is as open and receptive as a valley. What is purest seems stained; abundant De seems deficient; firm strength seems slack; what is genuine and unadorned seems to change. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed last; the greatest sound is scarcely heard; the greatest image has no form. The Dao is hidden and does not show itself, and has no fixed name. Yet only the Dao is able to give generously and bring all things to fulfillment.

People of great understanding hear of the Dao (the Way) and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling understanding hear of it and are half convinced, half doubtful, often failing to persevere. Those of shallow understanding hear of it and burst out laughing. If they did not laugh at it, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. Why is this so? The ancients once put it this way:

Those who understand the Dao keep their understanding to themselves and do not compete with the world to display it, so they seem dim. Those who cultivate the Dao keep moving forward without competing with the world to get ahead, so they seem to fall behind. The level great Dao accords with all things. Even though ordinary people cannot attain it, it appears much like what they know. People of profound De (Virtue/Power) do not claim to possess De; they are humble as a valley. What is truly white does not avoid filth to show its whiteness. It mingles with the world and seems stained. Vast De does not consider itself vast and often seems deficient. Those who establish De diligently cultivate their nature, yet deal with others simply, so they seem perfunctory and slack. Those who are genuine and unadorned follow nature freely and do not cling to fixed ways, so they seem changeable. Those who are truly upright are straight of heart, but act without self-consciousness or force, and so show no sharp edges.

A great vessel takes long to complete; its achievement cannot appear at once. The greatest sound is scarcely heard. The greatest image has no form that can contain it. How could people of middling or shallow understanding measure or grasp these truths? They naturally criticize and laugh at them. The essence of the Dao is subtle and hidden, impossible to name in words. When it appears among the myriad things, it is expressed in its capacity both to give and to bring things to completion. All things receive its gifts, though they may not recognize it. So it is hardly surprising that people of shallow understanding laugh at it.

The Dao gives rise to One; One gives rise to Two; Two gives rise to Three; and Three gives rise to the myriad things. All things carry Yin and embrace Yang, and the two Qi (vital energy) intermingle to form harmony. People dislike being called “orphan,” “widower,” or “one who lacks grain”—humble titles used by rulers—yet lords and kings use these names for themselves. Thus, at times, things are diminished and thereby gain; at other times, they are increased and thereby suffer loss. What others teach me, I teach in turn: the forceful and overbearing do not meet a good end. I will take this as the fundamental principle for teaching others.

“Dao gives rise to One; One gives rise to Two” describes the nameless and formless state, the beginning of Heaven, Earth, and all things. “Two gives rise to Three; Three gives rise to the myriad things” describes how all things are generated and come into manifestation. [At this point, the original continues from the preceding passage, restating the teaching that gain and loss work in opposite ways, along with the warning that the forceful and overbearing do not meet a good end.]

The Dao gives rise to “the One,” and the One gives rise to “the Two.” This means that the nameless Dao is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. The Two gives rise to “the Three,” and the Three gives rise to the myriad things. This means that the named Dao is the source of the myriad things. All things turn their backs on Yin and face Yang; only when the two Qi meet and harmonize do they form a state of harmony. What is there that is not generated and brought about by the Dao?

People dislike only the names “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy,” yet the ancients deliberately used them as titles, and even had rulers call themselves by them. They did so in the hope that rulers would not forget humility when honored, or modesty when in high positions. Thus, something may seem to suffer a loss but end up gaining; or seem to increase but end up suffering a loss. These are the respective consequences of humility and complacency. I, too, have taken the ancients’ teachings as instruction. They say, “The violent and overbearing often meet a violent death.” Does this not show that what one takes to be a gain can instead bring great loss? I will make this the foundation of my teaching.

The passage up to “the Qi of Yin and Yang harmonizes” in this chapter seems to continue the preceding idea of “being good at giving and bringing things to completion.” Yet it does not connect closely in meaning with what follows. Perhaps something has been omitted, though we cannot know for certain. Explanations that forcefully interpret the passage and insist on linking all its parts are merely far-fetched conjectures.

The “Dao” mentioned here is principle; “the One” is Qi; “the Two” are Yin and Yang; and “the Three” are Yin and Yang together with the Qi formed by their interaction—that is, the “blended Qi” mentioned below. “All things turn their backs on Yin and face Yang; the Qi of Yin and Yang harmonizes” further explains how “the Three gives rise to the myriad things.” This passage on “the One giving rise to the Two” differs from the Confucian account. Li Xizhai’s commentary is especially clear here and merits close consideration.

The softest thing under Heaven can control the hardest thing under Heaven. What has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this I know that Wuwei is beneficial. To teach without words and bring benefit through Wuwei—few under Heaven can do this.

Only the softest thing under Heaven can control and make use of the hardest thing under Heaven. Only what has no form or substance can enter where there is no opening, and so reach everywhere. From this I know that Wuwei is beneficial. Like the supremely soft, like what has no form or substance, where could Wuwei not travel or enter? Yet few under Heaven can teach without words and bring benefit through Wuwei. Here the passage laments how rare it is for anyone to achieve this.

Which is closer to a person: their reputation or their own life? Which matters more: life or possessions? Which brings greater distress: gaining or losing? Those who cherish something too dearly will surely pay dearly for it; those who hoard too much will surely suffer great loss. Know contentment, and you will not be disgraced; know where to stop, and you will not be endangered. In this way, you can endure.

Those who pursue reputation know only its importance, and not the value of their own lives. They should ask themselves: which is closer to them, their reputation or their own person?

Those who pursue reputation know only reputation and disregard themselves; those who covet possessions know only possessions and disregard themselves. They should ask themselves: which matters more, their own person or their possessions? Those who pursue reputation and covet possessions delight in gaining and fear losing. They should ask themselves: which brings greater distress, gaining or losing?

To cherish something too dearly is to pursue it relentlessly, and one will inevitably pay a great price for it. The more one accumulates, the more people will covet it, and the greater the loss in the end. Only then do people understand that reputation can become a burden on one’s person, possessions can become a source of trouble, and the distress brought by gain can sometimes be worse than that brought by loss. If a noble person knows contentment, they will not be disgraced; if they know when to stop, they will not be endangered. This is how one can endure.

What is most complete seems to have something lacking, yet its function never fails. What is most full seems empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. What is most straight seems crooked; what is most skillful seems clumsy; what is most eloquent seems inarticulate. Movement can dispel cold; stillness can overcome heat. Through clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), one becomes a model for all under Heaven.

The Dao (the Way).

One who truly attains completeness does not consider themselves complete, but often feels they still fall short; therefore, their function never fails. One whose abilities are truly abundant does not consider them abundant, but often feels they remain empty; therefore, their function is inexhaustible. One whose conduct is truly upright acts in accordance with what is right and does not contend with things, so they appear bent. One who is truly wise and skillful follows nature and does not deliberately embellish, so they appear clumsy. One who is truly eloquent understands that things are as they are, and does not rely on argument to prevail, so they appear inarticulate.

This is the virtue of clarity and stillness. Cold and heat are unavoidable for things with form; movement can ward off cold, and stillness can overcome heat. The inner state can prevail over external conditions. Given this, how could one who possesses the virtue of clarity and stillness fail to become a model honored by all under Heaven?

When the world is clear and peaceful and people follow the right way, they can retire their warhorses to plow and fertilize the fields. When the world is troubled and people turn away from the right way, warhorses breed in the suburbs, ready to be sent into battle at any moment. Here, “manure” means fertilizer for the fields. No fault is greater than stirring up greed; no calamity is more serious than not knowing when one has enough; no error is greater than always wanting more. So those who know enough and are content with enough can remain content.

When the Dao is followed throughout the world, there is no need for conflict, and people can retire their warhorses to plow and fertilize the fields. When the Dao is abandoned, people are caught up in conflict day after day, and warhorses breed in the suburbs. Why does this happen? No fault is greater than stirring up greed: displaying things that arouse people’s desire invites theft. No calamity is more serious than not knowing when one has enough: wanting to keep adding to what one already has brings disorder. No error is greater than wanting to possess more: constantly seeking to take what belongs to others eventually brings great calamity. When ordinary people act this way, disaster is bound to befall them; when lords and kings do so, war follows, and warhorses appear in the suburbs. So when people know their limits, recognize that they have enough, and are content with it, they do not feel deprived. Without a sense of deprivation, there is no struggle to possess more.

Without leaving the doorway, one can know the world. Without peering out the window, one can understand the way of Heaven. The farther one travels, the less one knows. Thus, the sage need not travel in person to gain understanding, need not see with their own eyes to comprehend things, and need not act forcefully to bring things to completion.

Without leaving the household, one can understand the world; there is no need to wait until one has stepped outside to learn what is happening in it. Without looking out through the window, one can discern the Dao—the patterns by which nature operates. The Dao need not wait to be revealed through a window. If one does not understand the underlying causes of the world and the Dao, but seeks only outside oneself, how much can one know after going out? And how much can one see by looking through a window? Even if one exhausts all that can be known and seen and then uses it to investigate the Dao, one will still grow ever more distant from it. The farther one goes, the less one knows.

Thus, the sage understands the world without searching for knowledge beyond it, and discerns the Dao without seeking insight outside it. Knowledge and understanding are not found outside; therefore, one need not travel in person to seek them in order to know, nor see with one’s own eyes in order to discern. The sage does not act recklessly, yet things are accomplished. This is the function of the sage embodying the Great Dao—the fundamental principle of the cosmos—at its highest level.

Those who pursue learning increase their knowledge day by day; those who cultivate the Dao reduce their desires and attachments day by day. Continue reducing them until there is Wuwei (non-action), and one can reach a state in which nothing remains undone. Therefore, in governing the world, one should always take having no affairs as the foundation. Once one deliberately creates too many affairs, one cannot fulfill the aim of governing the world. This, too, is the highest expression of the sage’s embodiment of the Great Dao.

Learning aims to increase knowledge, so it advances day by day. Cultivating the Dao aims to return to the root, so it diminishes day by day. To diminish is to remove desires and let go of rigid, unyielding views. Continue diminishing until there is no deliberate contrivance, and one will be in accord with the Dao. When cultivation of the Dao reaches Wuwei, one can follow the nature of all things, allowing each to follow its own course, responding flexibly and accomplishing everything.

Thus, the ancient sages governed and transformed the world precisely through having no affairs and practicing Wuwei. Deliberate action often brings ruin; insistently holding on often leads to loss. How, then, could one govern the world? Here, “taking the world” means governing and transforming it; “having no affairs” means Wuwei.

The sage has no fixed opinions but takes the people’s hearts as their own. The sage treats the good with kindness, and treats the not good with kindness too. In this way, De reaches true goodness. The sage trusts those who keep faith, and trusts those who do not keep faith as well. In this way, De reaches true trustworthiness.

Living among all under Heaven, the sage is always anxious, concerned that people may fail to treat one another with kindness and keep faith with one another. So the sage works to bring everyone’s hearts together as one, without making distinctions. People watch one another’s words and actions, scrutinize one another, and judge what is right and wrong. The sage, however, regards them all as children. To regard them as children means to treat them like infants: not to rejoice when they do something right, nor to become angry when they do something wrong. This is what it means for the sage to have no fixed opinions and to take the people’s hearts as their own. The word “die-die” describes a state of anxiety and apprehension.

People travel from birth toward death. Three in ten belong to the long-lived; three in ten die young. Another three in ten could have lived well, but head toward death because they act unwisely. Why is this? It is said to be because they cling too fiercely to life and pursue the cultivation of health to excess.

Those skilled at preserving life, when walking on land, do not encounter rhinoceroses or tigers; when entering a battlefield, they do not shy away from weapons. The rhinoceros has nowhere to use its horn, the tiger nowhere to sink its claws, and weapons nowhere to pierce. Why is this? Because such people do not place themselves in situations that bring death.

Among all the changes in the world, none is greater than life and death. Emerging from the side of life means entering the side of death. Roughly speaking, among people alive today, about three in ten would naturally live out a long life; about three in ten are destined to die young; and another three in ten think they are pursuing survival, while their actions in fact lead them toward death.

Why do those who clearly want to go on living act in ways that bring them closer to death? Because they place too much value on life and pursue the art of nourishing it too fervently. The more they lavish care on their lives, the sooner they approach death. Thus, those who seek survival yet move toward death ultimately do not know how to preserve life.

It is said that those skilled at preserving life can walk on land without encountering tigers or rhinoceroses, and need not avoid armor and weapons in the ranks of an army. A rhinoceros finds nowhere to use its horn; a tiger, nowhere to strike with its claws; a weapon, nowhere to pierce. Why is this so? Because there is no vulnerable place where death can strike. What is meant by a “place of death” is taking the body as one’s most fundamental support. If one does not cling to the body, but regards life only as a temporary lodging, one will not cherish it excessively. If one does not cling to one’s own life, what could make one fear death? This is what is meant by being skilled at preserving life.

Many commentators explain “emerge” in this passage as appearing from nonbeing into being, and “enter” as returning from being to nonbeing. They interpret “there is no place of death” to mean that one’s original nature endures forever.

The Dao (the Way) generates the myriad things, and De (Virtue/Power) nurtures them. The myriad things thereby take shape and, relying on natural conditions, come to completion. Thus, nothing among them fails to revere the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is revered and De cherished not because anyone has bestowed rank upon them, but because this is simply their natural way.

The Dao generates and nurtures the myriad things, helping them grow, develop, mature, and reproduce, while nourishing and sheltering them. It gives life to things but does not claim them as its own; it acts but does not take pride in its achievements; it helps things grow but does not rule over them. This is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and natural power of virtue.

The Dao existed before the myriad things appeared and is their source, so all things arise from the Dao. As the Dao moves and transforms, it gives rise to De. Here, “De” refers to the Qi of Yin-Yang, through which all things come into being; thus all things are nourished by De. When Qi gathers, things take shape. Only once they have form can they be seen, so matter constitutes their physical form.

Once things have formed, their shapes interact with and affect one another, creating various relationships and configurations. In this way, their substance and function become complete. Thus, configurations bring things to completion. The physical form of things comes from the Dao’s generative power and De’s nourishment; their completion, too, comes from the Dao’s generative power and De’s nourishment.

For this reason, there is nothing among the myriad things that does not revere the Dao and cherish De. Is the Dao revered and De cherished because someone granted them this standing? No. They are so naturally, of themselves. The Dao continually brings all things into being and nourishes them. It also makes them grow, develop, mature, and reproduce, providing for and sheltering them. This is how the Dao acts upon all things, yet everything happens naturally: it gives life to and nourishes things without possessing them; it acts without relying on its own power; it helps things grow without ruling over them. How could these actions be named in words or measured by the mind?

All things under Heaven share a common source, which may be called the “Mother of All Under Heaven.” Knowing this source allows us to understand the things it brings forth. After understanding those things, we must still hold fast to the source; then we will not fall into danger throughout our lives. Block the openings of the senses and close the gates of desire, and you will not be worn out over a lifetime. Give free rein to the senses, pursue desires, and become caught up in affairs, and your life will be beyond saving. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to gentleness is called strength. Use the wisdom of illumination, then return to inner clarity, leaving no calamity for yourself. This is called following the constant Dao.

All things in heaven and earth have a source, the mother from which everything under heaven is born. People should understand and attain it. Once they grasp the root, they can know all the things that arise from it, and there is nothing they cannot see clearly or bring to completion. But they must not pursue the branches and forget the root. After coming to know the myriad things, they must return to the source and hold fast to it; then they will remain free from danger throughout their lives.

How can one hold fast to the source? By closing the openings of the senses and shutting the gates of desire. Then one need not toil throughout life, and things will come to completion of themselves. Otherwise, if one gives free rein to the senses and pursues desire in the hope of getting things done, one will remain in danger for life, beyond anyone’s power to save. How could people fail to understand that they should return to the source and hold fast to it?

To look at it and not see it is because it is minute. To perceive what cannot be seen is called “clarity.” To guard it and find nothing concrete to guard is because it is weak and yielding. To hold fast to this formless, traceless root is called “strength.” After using the light that shines outward, one must also draw it back and return to one’s original clarity, not letting the mind and spirit wander outward, so as to avoid bringing calamity upon oneself. This is called receiving and practicing the constant Dao, and becoming one with the Dao.

These words all describe the practice of embodying the Dao. “Beginning” and “mother” both refer to the Dao; “child” refers to the myriad things. Perceiving what is minute and holding to what is yielding mean holding fast to the source. “Minute” and “yielding” correspond to “subtle,” “indistinct,” and “faint” in the preceding chapter. “Receive” means to accept and follow, as in the Zhongyong’s phrase “below, it follows the nature of water and earth.”

If I have even a little knowledge, then, as I walk the great Dao, what I fear most is straying from it. The great Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer narrow paths. Court halls and palaces are lavishly adorned, while fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords at their waists, overindulge in food and drink, and have wealth to spare. This is like thieves running rampant and encouraging thievery; it does not accord with the Dao.

If I have even a slight understanding of the Great Dao (the Way), then acting in accordance with it, there is in principle nothing I cannot do. What should truly concern us is boasting about ourselves and acting recklessly; in the end, these will make us lose the Dao.

The Great Dao is broad and level, and should be easy to follow, yet people often prefer shortcuts, only to drift farther and farther from it. What do these shortcuts look like? Look at the court: its palaces are built in great luxury, showing that punishments and decrees are numerous. Look at the fields: they lie neglected and untilled. Look at the granaries: they are completely empty, showing that farming, sericulture, and other essential occupations have been abandoned. Yet rulers wear fine clothes, carry sharp weapons, indulge in food and drink, amass great wealth, and openly accept bribes from their favorites. Great treachery and evil arise from this, and petty thieves follow in their wake. This is called leading the way for bandits and thieves, like the yu pipes sounding first and drawing every other instrument into the music. Can this really be a way that accords with the Dao?

Those skilled at establishing the roots cannot have their foundations uprooted; those skilled at holding fast do not let what they hold slip away. In this way, the ancestral sacrifices of their descendants can continue without interruption. When moral cultivation is put into practice in oneself, De (Virtue/Power) becomes genuine and firm; when put into practice in a family, De becomes abundant; when put into practice in a village, De continues to grow; when put into practice in a state, De becomes rich; when put into practice throughout the world, De can be widely enacted.

Thus, from oneself one can understand others; from one family, other families; from one village, other villages; from one state, other states; and from the world, one can observe the world. How do I know what is happening in the world? By these principles.

Those who are skilled at establishing things leave them unshaken; those who are skilled at holding on to things keep them from slipping away. This principle is passed down from generation to generation. Even when it reaches their descendants, they continue to make offerings to their ancestors.

To be skilled at establishing and holding on to things, in the end, means to be skilled at cultivating De (Virtue/Power). Cultivation of De begins with oneself: when one is upright, one’s De is genuine. When one puts De into practice within the family, the family lives in harmony and De has room to grow. When one puts it into practice in the community, the community accepts its teaching and De endures. When one puts it into practice in the state, the state is well governed and De becomes abundant. When one puts it into practice throughout the world, everyone finds their proper place and De circulates everywhere. This is why what is established cannot be uprooted, and what is held fast cannot slip away.

How can we tell whether De has been well cultivated? Observe oneself through oneself, the family through the family, the community through the community, the state through the state, and the world through the world—that is all. How do I know the condition of the world? By this principle. (The original text’s note says that the meaning of the lines beginning “Observe oneself” is unclear.)

Those with deep De are like newborn infants. Poisonous insects do not sting them; fierce beasts do not harm them; birds of prey do not attack them. Their bones are weak and their sinews soft, yet they can clench their fists tightly. Though they know nothing of sexual union, their genitals can become erect—this shows that their Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) are abundant. An infant cries all day without becoming hoarse—this shows that its harmonious Qi is abundant. Knowing how to harmonize is called “constancy”; knowing constancy is called “clarity.” Deliberately trying to augment life instead brings misfortune. Using the will to control Qi is to force things. When things grow strong and flourish, they move toward old age; this is called being out of accord with the Dao (the Way). To be out of accord with the Dao is to meet an early end.

An infant’s erect genitals show that its Jing and Qi are abundant; crying all day without becoming hoarse shows that its harmonious Qi is abundant. Knowing how to harmonize is called “constancy”; knowing constancy is called “clarity.” Deliberately trying to augment life instead brings misfortune. Using the will to control Qi is to force things. When things grow strong and flourish, they move toward old age; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. To be out of accord with the Dao is to meet an early end.

Someone with profound inner De can approach the state of an infant. Venomous creatures do not sting the infant, fierce beasts do not pounce on him, and birds of prey do not seize him. These are responses brought about by profound De. Though an infant’s bones are weak and his sinews soft, he can grasp things firmly. Though he knows nothing of sexual union, his sexual organ becomes erect: his Jing and Qi are pure and unified to the utmost. Though he cries all day, his voice does not grow hoarse: his mind is undisturbed and his breathing is harmonious to the utmost.

To understand this principle of perfect harmony is to understand the Constant Dao, the unchanging Way. To understand the Constant Dao is to possess true insight. Understand harmony, know the Constant Dao, and hold fast to it without letting it slip, and you will have profound De, like an infant. By contrast, if you do not understand that life cannot be increased through external force, yet insist on trying to augment it, disaster will follow. If you strive to win and show your strength, letting your mind command your body, you do not understand weakness and softness; instead, you fall into hardness. When things reach the height of their strength, they inevitably decline into old age. To rely on strength is to go against the Dao; to go against the Dao is to decay before one’s time. This is far removed from the state of profound inner De.

Those who understand the Dao do not say much; those who love to talk often do not understand it. Draw in the senses and close the gates of desire; blunt the sharp edges and untangle confusion; soften the light and merge with the dust of the world. This is called Mysterious Union (Xuántóng), becoming one with the deep and hidden Dao. One who attains Mysterious Union is neither drawn near nor held at a distance, neither tempted by profit nor harmed, neither exalted nor debased. Thus, that person becomes one whom all under Heaven honor.

Those who truly understand the Dao do not speak carelessly; those who are always debating often do not truly understand it. Those who understand the Dao restrain their inner desires, use their senses with care, blunt their sharpness, untangle confusion, dim their dazzling brilliance, and blend into the dust of everyday life. This is called forgetting the distinction between self and things, bringing the inner and outer into harmony, and resonating with “mysterious sameness”—merging completely with all things and returning to the Great Dao. What, then, could such a person cling to or rely upon in speech?

Those who have not yet attained mysterious sameness may agree with some things and disagree with others. Agreement at first does not guarantee agreement to the end. When they agree, they draw near, favor, and esteem; when they differ, they distance themselves, cause harm, and look down on one another. Those who have attained mysterious sameness do not deliberately seek agreement, and so there is no such thing as difference. Others cannot make them favored or shunned, benefited or harmed, honored or debased. For this very reason, they become the most honored people under Heaven.

Govern the state through the correct Way, meet war with unconventional strategies, and govern the world through Wuwei (non-action), without acting recklessly. How do I know the world will be this way? The more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more weapons among the people, the more disorder in the state; the more people prize clever techniques, the more ingenious devices appear; the more numerous the laws and decrees, the more thieves there are. Therefore, the sage says: “When I do not act recklessly, the people transform themselves naturally; when I cherish stillness, the people set themselves right naturally; when I do not meddle, the people grow prosperous naturally; when I have few desires, the people become simple and sincere naturally.”

A ruler should govern the state by the right way, direct warfare through stratagem and change, and win all under Heaven through stillness and Wuwei (non-action). How do I know that all under Heaven can be won through Wuwei? I have observed that the more prohibitions there are in the world, the more people lose their means of livelihood, and the poorer the people become. The more eagerly people pursue schemes and plots, the more chaotic the state becomes. When people neglect their proper work and instead pursue every kind of skill, rare and useless things become ever more plentiful. The more laws are made to restrain people, the more thieves there are. All this is caused by the many measures taken by those in power. Once we understand that excessive government harms the world, we also understand that Wuwei and fewer affairs are enough to win all under Heaven.

Thus the sage says: “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform themselves naturally. When I cherish stillness, the people set themselves right naturally. When I avoid meddling, the people grow prosperous naturally. When I have few desires, the people become simple and genuine naturally.” This means that Wuwei and fewer affairs are enough to win all under Heaven.

The commentary notes that “transform” may also be read as “become corrupted” or “return.” Su Ziyou holds that “sharp instruments” refers to schemes and plots.

When government orders are lenient and imprecise, the people are generous and sincere; when they are harsh and exacting, the people are distressed and deprived. Within calamity lies good fortune, and within good fortune calamity lies in wait. Who can know what they will ultimately become? Is there no constant standard? The right way may turn into the strange and unexpected, and goodness may become something uncanny. People have been confused by this for a long time. Therefore, the sage is square yet does not injure, sharp-edged yet does not wound, upright yet not overbearing, and bright yet does not dazzle.

When a ruler governs with leniency and generosity, the people become simple and sincere. When he governs with scrutiny and harsh attention to detail, the people lose their sincerity, and relationships grow distant and cold. Lenient, generous policies may seem to gain nothing from the people, yet the people respond with sincerity. Strict, exacting policies may seem to gain much from them, yet the people respond with distance and indifference.

What people regard as misfortune may be where good fortune rests; what they regard as good fortune may conceal misfortune. Who can know how things will turn out in the end? When people first put exacting policies into practice, did they not believe they were following the right way? With time, the right way can turn into deviance, and good deeds into strange distortions. This is the harm caused by scrutinizing governance. People have long been drawn to small, immediate benefits while overlooking distant troubles.

Thus, the sage is upright without injuring others, pure without wounding them, honest without being reckless, and bright without showing off. He abandons scrutiny and chooses generosity. In this way, what is right does not veer into deviance, and what is good does not become strange and distorted. This is attaining the Dao.

“Strange” refers to what is deviant, and “monstrous” to transformations that are uncanny. “Wounding” means causing harm; “cutting” also means to wound.

In governing the people and following the course of Heaven, nothing is better than restraint and moderation. Only through restraint and moderation can one prepare in advance; preparing in advance is called continually accumulating De. When De has been deeply accumulated, there is nothing one cannot undertake. When there is nothing one cannot undertake, one’s limits are difficult to fathom. When one’s limits are difficult to fathom, one can take on the responsibility of the state. Once the root of the state is in hand, the state can endure. This is called having deep roots and a firm foundation: the way to live long and preserve one’s vitality. Some editions write “stem” instead of “root.”

A later passage says again: “In governing the people, act through De, and there is nothing you cannot undertake. When there is nothing you cannot undertake, your limits are difficult to fathom. When your limits are difficult to fathom, you can take on the responsibility of the state. Once the root of the state is in hand, the state can endure. This is called having deep roots and a firm foundation: the way to live long and preserve one’s vitality.”

Governing the people should not make public affairs burdensome; serving the Way of Heaven should not exhaust the spirit. In both, one must practice “frugality”: drawing inward, holding back, and remaining empty and still. Only by understanding frugality can one begin cultivating the Great Way early, before calamity has shown itself. To cultivate the Great Way early is to accumulate one’s De (Virtue/Power) without cease. When De has grown deep and abundant, one can meet the affairs of the world without fail. When no affair can overcome one, the capacity of one’s De has no known limit. When De is so deep and vast that it cannot be measured, one can govern a state. Governing a state then establishes the root by which the whole state is nurtured and cared for; this is “having the mother of the state.” Govern by this principle, and stability will endure without calamity. Apply it to cultivating oneself and nourishing life, and one can put down roots as deep and firm as a tree, reaching the state of long life and enduring vitality. Thus, whether governing the people or serving the Way of Heaven, nothing is more important than frugality.

Han Feizi said, “Ordinary people, when they use their spirit, are easily agitated. Agitation causes great expenditure of spirit; great expenditure is extravagance. When sages use their spirit, they are calm and settled. Calmness brings little expenditure; little expenditure is ‘frugality.’” He also said, “Those who understand how to govern the people are quiet in their deliberations; those who understand how to serve the Way of Heaven keep their senses and mind’s openings empty and still. When deliberations are quiet, De does not drain away; when the mind’s openings are empty and still, harmonious, flowing Qi (vital energy) enters day by day.” These words are all worth reflecting on.

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish. When the world is governed through the Dao (the Way), ghosts and spirits cannot exert their power. This does not mean that ghosts and spirits do not exist, but that their numinous powers cannot harm people. They do not harm people, and the sage does not harm them. When neither side harms the other, De gathers between them and returns to a single place. Jiao says, “The character ‘cook’ should not have the ‘fire’ radical added to it.”

Governing a great state should not be like stirring and fussing over a small fish. It is enough to govern in accordance with the Dao (the Way). If a ruler can truly govern the world by following the Dao, then spirits and ghosts will quietly remain in the unseen realm, neither manifesting nor causing trouble. This does not mean they lack supernatural powers. Rather, even if they are spiritually potent, they will not turn into harms that injure people, and will seem as though they had never manifested. Nor is it that spirits and ghosts simply do not harm people on their own. It is that the sage governs the world without harming people, and harmony calls forth harmony. Thus, though spirits and ghosts possess numinous powers, they do not cause trouble or injure anyone.

The sage refrains from harming people because of the sage’s De (Virtue/Power). That neither the sage nor the spirits and ghosts cause harm is a De they share, and it belongs to the sage. The word “also” here must be read precisely: it looks back to the preceding text and explains that the sage and the spirits and ghosts each refrain from harming people. It does not mean that people and spirits and ghosts refrain from harming one another.

A great state is like the lower reaches of a river: it is where all under Heaven converges, and it is the feminine principle of the world. The feminine often overcomes the masculine through stillness, because through stillness it takes the lower position. When a great state humbles itself before a small state, it can win the small state’s allegiance; when a small state humbles itself before a great state, it can gain the great state’s acceptance. Thus some states take the lower position and win the allegiance of others, while others take the lower position and gain their acceptance. A great state seeks only to embrace and nourish others; a small state seeks only to enter under the great state’s protection. Both can achieve what they desire, so a great state should especially take the humble, lower position.

A great state is like the lower reaches of a river, where the waters of the realm converge; it is also like the female of the world. The female often overcomes the male through stillness, remaining soft and quiet in a low position. Those who understand the principle of the female also understand how a great state should act.

If a great state humbles itself before a small state, it can win the small state’s heart and draw it into allegiance. If a small state humbles itself before a great state, it too can win the great state’s heart and be welcomed. Thus, sometimes humility wins others over, and sometimes it brings acceptance from others. This is the benefit of being soft and still, and remaining in a low position.

Consider the aims of a great state: it wants, above all, to absorb and accommodate other states. A small state’s aim is simply to depend on and serve a great state. If a great state can now humble itself and welcome a small state, while the small state humbles itself and attaches itself to the great state, both can fulfill their aims. A great state, then, must not rely on its strength but should humble itself. If this is true of a great state, how much more so of a small one?

The Dao (the fundamental principle of nature’s workings) is the profound source on which all things depend. It is a treasure to the good and a means by which those who lack virtue can preserve themselves. Fine words can earn respect, and good conduct can influence others. Even if someone lacks virtue, on what grounds should they be cast aside?

Therefore, when enthroning the Son of Heaven and appointing the Three Dukes (high-ranking officials in ancient times), even if one is led by someone bearing a great jade disc, with a four-horse carriage following behind, this is not as good as sitting down and offering the Dao. Why did the ancients prize the Dao? Was it not because, by seeking it, one could obtain it, and even after committing a crime, rely on it to escape disaster? That is why the Dao is treasured throughout the world.

The Dao is the profound principle to which all things return and through which they find stability. It is a treasure for the good person who cultivates himself and governs the world, and a means of protection for the unworthy. Why can the unworthy also rely on the Dao? Even if someone has poor conduct, a single good thing they say may earn the world’s appreciation; a single deed worthy of respect may win people’s esteem. If an unworthy person recognizes their mistakes, repents, and turns to seek the Dao, how could people cast them aside at once? The Dao can even serve as a means for the unworthy to correct their faults and begin anew.

The Son of Heaven can be established and the Three Dukes (important ministers who assisted the ruler in ancient times) appointed because the Dao exists and people therefore follow them. Even offering precious jade discs carried before a four-horse chariot is not as valuable as sitting down and presenting the Dao to someone. Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? Was it not because those who seek it can gain something, and even those who have committed offenses can use it to free themselves from blame? Those who seek the Dao gain from it, so it is a treasure for the good; those who have committed offenses can use it to correct their faults and begin anew, so it is also a means of protection for the unworthy. For this reason, all under Heaven honors the Dao.

Act with Wuwei (non-action), handle affairs with a mind free of fuss, and experience flavor without imposing one. Regard the great as small and the many as few; respond to resentment with De (Virtue/Power). Address difficulties by beginning where things are easy; accomplish great tasks by beginning with what is small. The difficult tasks under Heaven must begin with what is easy; the great undertakings under Heaven must arise from what is small. Thus the sage never deliberately undertakes great deeds, and for that very reason is able to accomplish them.

Those who promise too readily are seldom trustworthy; those who regard things as too easy often encounter more difficulties. The sage therefore approaches matters with care and fully weighs their difficulties. In the end, there is nothing they cannot resolve.

The sage acts in accord with nature and does not impose actions of their own. In handling affairs, they do not interfere deliberately; in understanding how things work, they do not chase after superficial pleasures. They approach great matters by attending to what is small, and deal with many tasks by beginning with few. They resolve resentment through kindness and virtue, plan for difficulties while they are still easy to address, and act on great matters while they are still minute.

The difficult matters under Heaven must begin with what is easy; the great matters under Heaven must arise from what is minute. Thus the sage handles the affairs of the world without waiting for them to grow large before acting, and so is able to accomplish great things. Those who promise too readily often find it hard to keep their word, and so lack trustworthiness. Many people think a task is easy, only to encounter difficulties later. The sage considers the difficulty of a task from the outset, and so ultimately completes it without falling into trouble. [Jiao Shi says: “To act” means to manage or carry out. Wang Chunfu says: “Affairs” are what one intends to do, “flavor” is the principle and interest within them, and “arise” means to come into being.]

Things are easy to keep in order when they are stable, easy to plan for before signs appear, easy to break apart when they are fragile, and easy to disperse when they are minute. Therefore, deal with things before they happen and bring order to turmoil before it takes shape. A tree that takes several people to encircle grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-tiered tower is built from baskets of earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet.

Trying to act at all costs makes it easy to ruin things; insisting on holding on makes it easy to lose them. Therefore, the sage does not impose actions of their own and so avoids failure; they do not cling or force matters and so lose nothing. People often fail when they are close to success. If they take as much care at the end as they did at the beginning, they will not ruin what they have done.

Thus the sage seeks what ordinary people do not seek and does not prize goods that are hard to obtain. They learn what ordinary people do not learn and return to the principles that everyone else overlooks. In this way, they help the myriad things follow their own natural order, yet do not presume to interfere. [The version of the Han Feizi cited by Jiao Shi reads “rely on”; the wording here is judged to follow another version.]

Matters under Heaven are easy to manage when circumstances are stable, and easy to plan for before any signs have appeared. Things that are still soft and weak are easy to break; things that are minute are easy to disperse. So action should begin before something has happened, and governance should begin before disorder has arisen. This is what it means to be skilled at acting and governing.

Consider a tree so large that it takes both arms to encircle: it grew from a tiny sprout. A nine-tiered tower was built from basket after basket of earth. A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath one’s feet. What does not begin small and eventually grow large? How, then, could one fail to act before something has happened and govern before disorder has arisen?

How should one act and govern? Simply by following the natural patterns of things. Those under Heaven who deliberately try to make things happen often ruin them; those who insist on holding fast often lose something. The sage practices Wuwei (non-action), not forcing matters according to personal will, and so does not ruin them. The sage has no attachments, and so loses nothing. This is why the sage can act before something has happened and govern before disorder has arisen.

Care is needed not only at the beginning of a task. People often fail just as they are about to finish. If they were as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they would not spoil their work. Thus, the sage makes having no desires the object of desire, and does not prize rare and valuable goods. The sage makes not deliberately pursuing knowledge the object of learning, and leads everyone back to their original state, so they no longer repeat their mistakes. In all this, the sage assists the natural course of the myriad things and dares not act recklessly.

The lines beginning, “Therefore, the sage takes this as the point of departure…” do not connect with the meaning of the preceding passage. Perhaps they were displaced through an error in the order of the bamboo slips.

Those of old who were skilled in following the Dao did not seek to make the people clever and cunning, but sought to keep them simple and unspoiled. The people are difficult to govern because they have too many cunning schemes. Governing a state through cunning brings calamity to the state; governing without cunning brings good fortune. Understanding these two points is a guiding principle for governance. One who understands this principle is said to possess “Mysterious De” (profound and subtle Virtue). Mysterious De is deep and vast, seeming to go against ordinary reason, yet in the end it brings the greatest harmony.

Those skilled in governing through the Dao in ancient times did not try to make the people clever and cunning. They sought instead to lessen their cleverness and deceit, and return them to simplicity. The people are difficult to govern because they have too much cleverness. If I govern the state through cleverness, the people will also use cleverness in response, and deceit will grow ever more deeply rooted, bringing serious unrest in its wake. This will become a calamity for the state. Only when one rests in Wuwei (non-action) and does not govern through cleverness will the people stop deliberately seeking knowledge and accept governance naturally. This is the state’s good fortune. To understand what is fortune and what is calamity is to grasp the principles of governing. This is called “profound De” (deep and subtle Virtue). Profound De is deep and enduring. While everyone in the world competes to show off their cleverness, only the sage regards cleverness lightly. This goes against ordinary human conventions; but even though it runs counter to them, it must be so, in order to bring harmony between those above and below and reach a state of great accord.

The rivers and seas can become sovereigns of the hundred streams because they are adept at staying low, so all the streams flow toward them. If the sage wishes to stand above the people, he must be humble in his words; if he wishes to go before them, he must place himself behind them. Thus, though the sage occupies a high position, the people do not feel burdened by him; though he stands before them, the people do not harm him. People throughout the world are glad to raise him up and do not grow tired of him. Precisely because he does not contend, no one in the world can contend with him.

The rivers and seas are adept at staying low, and so become sovereigns of the hundred streams. If the sage wishes to stand above the people, he must first be humble in his words; if he wishes to go before them, he must first place himself behind them. Thus, when the sage is above, the people do not feel oppressed by him; when he is before them, they do not resent or harm him. Not only does no one feel oppressed or harmed, but people throughout the world are glad to raise him up and do not grow tired of him. Because he is adept at staying low and does not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with him.

This passage points out that Laozi’s original intent is that the sage is humble and takes a step back, and so naturally comes to stand above and before others. It does not mean that the sage actively wishes to stand above the people or go before them. Su Zhe (courtesy name Ziyou) also held that “wishing to be above others” and “wishing to be ahead of others” are merely embellishments. Later scholars often introduced embellishments of this kind when interpreting the Laozi or Buddhist scriptures.

Everyone in the world says that my Dao is vast, yet those who put it into practice seem out of step with ordinary ways, as if they have no particular ability. Precisely because the Dao is vast, it does not look like any specific skill; if it showed itself as some conspicuous talent, it would long since have seemed narrow.

I have three treasures, which I have always cherished and held fast: the first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not daring to put myself ahead of everyone under Heaven. These are precisely the practices that people may regard as “unworthy.” Because compassion can bring people well-being and dispel calamity, it gives one courage. Because frugality allows one to build up ample reserves and have enough to spend, it enables one to give generously. Because one does not contend to be first or compete with the myriad things, people are glad to recommend such a person, who can therefore become a leader whom everyone follows.

Today, if one casts aside compassion and seeks only to display courage; casts aside frugality and seeks only extravagance; or casts aside yielding and devotes oneself to being first, one will invite resentment, head toward danger, and may even lose one’s life. Compared with those who know how to cherish these three treasures, what benefit could such conduct bring to the world?

Take compassion as an example. If those in high positions fulfill their responsibility to act with compassion, the people will draw near and rally to them, willing to do their utmost to protect them. Used in battle, this brings victory; used in defense, it brings security. The saying, “When Heaven is going to save someone, it protects them with compassion,” means that when Heaven intends to help a person, it leads them to practice compassion, so that they gain the people’s support and protection. People see only that this person protects everyone through compassion; they do not realize that Heaven is using compassion to protect them. Those who harm the people and seek only to satisfy their own desires are probably the very ones whom Heaven has abandoned.

A skillful general does not prize martial valor. A skillful warrior remains calm and is not quick to anger. One who is skillful at defeating an enemy does not struggle with them for dominance. One who is skillful at employing others can place himself below them and show them respect. This is the virtue of non-contention: a way of drawing on the strength of others. It accords with the Dao (the Way) and has been the highest guiding principle since ancient times.

A saying among military strategists goes: “I dare not take the initiative in attack, but instead respond to the other side; I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.” This is not contending for superiority. One who is skillful at employing others places himself below them. With these qualities, one can draw on the strength of others without contending. This accords with the Dao and has been the highest guiding principle since ancient times.

Military strategists also say: “I dare not initiate hostilities, but take the position of responding after the other side has acted; I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot.” This is called moving as though there were no ranks to form, raising one’s arms as though there were no arms to raise, meeting an attack as though there were no enemy to face, and taking up weapons as though there were no weapons to wield. No calamity is greater than underestimating the enemy; doing so nearly costs one what is most precious. Therefore, when two armies clash, the side that grieves and feels compassion for the dead and wounded will prevail.

When military strategists say, “I dare not initiate hostilities, but take the position of responding,” they mean that one should not start a war, but wait for the other side to act first and then respond. “I dare not advance an inch, but would rather retreat a foot” means not seizing another’s territory, but yielding ground and keeping to one’s proper place. Even when caught up in warfare, one should still hold in one’s heart the wish not to use force. With this attitude, it is as though there were no ranks to form, no arms to raise, no enemy to face, and no weapons to wield. How could such a person incur the faults of warfare? A state’s greatest calamity is to underestimate its enemy. To do so is almost like destroying one’s own treasure with one’s own hands. Therefore, when two states go to war, only the side that grieves for the dead and wounded and takes no pleasure in killing can prevail.

My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven understands or practices them. Why is this? Words have their roots, and actions have their governing principle. Only by understanding the roots of words and the guiding purpose of actions can one truly understand and put them into practice. Because people do not understand these roots and purposes, they do not understand me. Few understand me, and that is why I am held in high regard. Thus the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside, while keeping jade within.

My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under Heaven can truly understand or carry them out. Why is this? Speech has its roots, and action has its guiding principle. Only those who understand the roots of speech and the principles that guide action can truly grasp them and put the Dao into practice. Because people do not understand these roots and principles, they still fail to understand me, even after hearing my words. Few understand me; this shows how precious the Dao I uphold is. Thus the sage wears coarse cloth while keeping jade hidden in his breast. How many can see this inner worth?

One who truly understands knows there are still things they do not know. To think oneself all-knowing is a failing. Only by recognizing this failing as a failing can one avoid being troubled by it. The sage is free of this failing precisely because he knows it well and remains wary of it; therefore, it does him no harm.

To know without thinking oneself knowledgeable is great skill. To be ignorant yet think oneself knowledgeable is a failing. Only by recognizing this failing as a failing can one avoid falling into it. The sage has no habit of feigning wisdom and thinking himself all-knowing because he is deeply wary of this failing; therefore, it does not trouble him.

When the people no longer fear authority, true calamity is at hand. Do not make your dwelling too cramped, and do not grow weary of the life on which you depend. Only by not growing weary of it can you avoid becoming weary of it. Thus the sage knows himself but does not put himself on display; he cherishes himself but does not exalt himself. He lets go of the latter and chooses the former.

If the people no longer fear the force of punishment, they will inevitably break the law and ultimately bring upon themselves even harsher penalties. They do not fear that force because they feel their circumstances are too restrictive while single-mindedly pursuing a better life. They despise the livelihood they have and covet more, until they are willing to risk death without a second thought. Everyone has limits and should be prudent: do not regard your present standing as too low, and do not despise the means of life you already have.

The people’s hearts are not fixed; those in power guide them. When rulers do not despise the lives they already have, the people will not despise theirs either. If those above delight in luxury and crave abundance, how can the people’s aspirations be settled? The sage knows himself but does not flaunt himself to impress others; he cherishes himself but does not exalt himself above others. Thus he lets go of the habit of rejecting the ordinary way and chasing novelty, and chooses a life of quietude.

Forcing one’s way forward and daring to act recklessly often brings a fatal disaster. Yielding gently, stepping back, and taking care not to act rashly can preserve one’s life. These two approaches have different consequences: one brings benefit, the other harm. Daring to act recklessly is what Heaven’s Way abhors, but who truly understands why it brings disaster? So even when the sage faces forceful, reckless conduct, he treats it with caution.

Heaven’s Way does not contend with others, yet excels at overcoming; it does not speak, yet responds well. Nothing needs to summon it: things come of themselves. It proceeds calmly and at ease, yet skillfully provides for all things. Heaven’s net is vast and boundless; though its mesh seems wide, nothing slips through. The mysterious original uses the image of “Heaven’s net” to explain the cause and consequence, and the retribution, of Heaven’s Way: if people engage in conduct that Heaven’s Way abhors, how could they possibly escape?

Ordinary people often do not fear death. Why, then, do rulers use the death penalty to frighten them? If the people were always afraid of death, then whenever I seized and executed those who caused disorder, who would dare to continue causing trouble? Yet if killing goes on without end, that shows the people do not truly fear death. Those who govern the people through punishment should reflect on this.

Moreover, when the people commit offenses, those charged with administering punishments and executions can deal with them according to the law. If someone kills out of personal anger or favor, he is acting in place of the one entrusted with administering executions. This is like taking the place of a skilled carpenter and chopping wood: few who wield an axe in a carpenter’s stead can avoid injuring their hands. Here, “the one who administers executions” refers to those legally entrusted with carrying out punishments. A sage’s laws should accord with the order of Heaven; punishments must not be made harsher or lighter at will, according to private intent. The scripture uses this to warn people against abandoning legal standards and acting arbitrarily.

The people go hungry because rulers levy excessive taxes; that is why they suffer hunger. The people are difficult to govern because rulers issue too many edicts and force too many measures upon them; that is why society cannot be brought to peace. The people take death lightly because they pursue the comforts of life too intensely and crave too much; as a result, they are not afraid to die. Only those who do not make the pursuit of survival and comfort their foremost concern can surpass those who value comfort above all else.

The people go hungry because rulers tax them too heavily, draining their strength. They are difficult to govern because rulers issue too many edicts, leaving their minds unsettled and confused. The people take death lightly because they pursue an abundant life too intensely and their cravings know no limit; as a result, they are not afraid to die. Only those who are not attached to the pursuit of comfort can surpass those who value it too highly. If rulers are not attached to it, they will not levy excessive taxes or add unnecessary government business to burden the people. If the people are not attached to it, they will not dare break the law or commit wrongful acts that bring trouble upon their rulers.

While alive, the human body is soft; after death, it becomes stiff. When plants and trees grow, they are tender and fragile; once they wither and die, they become dry and hard. Thus hardness and strength belong to death, while softness and gentleness belong to life. An army that relies on force finds it harder to win, and trees that are too rigid are easily broken. The strong should take the lower position; the weak, by contrast, can rise above.

While alive, the human body is soft; after death, it becomes stiff. When plants and trees grow, they are tender; once they wither and die, they become dry.