《老子道德经憨山注》Vol. 2

Misfortune cannot be avoided. Thus it is said: “The reason I suffer great calamity is that I hold a position of honor. Without such a position, I would have none of these calamities.” Honor itself, then, is a great calamity, something to fear just as one fears one’s own person.

The Bicheng cites the story of Prince Sou: he did not dislike being ruler; he feared the calamities that came with ruling. Zhuangzi also says that a fortune of a thousand pieces of gold is a great profit, while the office of minister is a position of honor. Have you never seen an ox used in the suburban sacrifice, a rite performed outside the city? It is fed for several years, dressed in splendid embroidered garments, and led into the Grand Ancestral Temple, where the ancestral spirit tablets are enshrined. By then, even if it wished to become a fox or a piglet again, how could it? This shows that holding the exalted office of minister brings calamity with it.

Laozi says that if we understand the body itself to be an unavoidable great calamity, we will also understand that an honored position inevitably brings great calamity. Yet people do not understand this. Instead, they treat honor as glory, cling to their own persons, and seek high office, eventually burdening themselves throughout their lives. These are not the actions of a person who has the Dao.

Only a person who has the Dao governs the world when there is no other choice, and does not treat office as a source of personal distinction. Even when occupying such a position, they think only of using the Dao to help the people, not of making it a personal glory. Such honor means shouldering responsibility for the world, not seeking personal enjoyment. Only a person like this can be entrusted with the great responsibility of governing the world.

A person who has the Dao and occupies a high position cherishes their own person, but not to covet power, rank, and stipends, or merely to preserve themselves. They do so to nourish body and mind and preserve life, so that they can put the Dao into practice. In other words, they cherish themselves for the sake of the world, not solely for themselves. Only someone like this can be entrusted with the power of the world. As a ruler, such a person can govern through Wuwei (non-action); as a minister, they can accomplish great deeds and earn lasting renown. The Dao, therefore, is what the world truly values.

Thus, only someone who can offer their own precious life in service to the world can be entrusted with the world; only someone who can devote the person they cherish to serving the world can be entrusted with its governance.

Chapter Fourteen

What cannot be seen is called “Yi”; what cannot be heard is called “Xi”; what cannot be touched is called “Wei.” These three qualities cannot be pursued to their limits, so they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. It continues without end, yet cannot be named, and finally returns to a state without form or substance. This is called “the form of the formless” and “the image of the imageless,” and also “the elusive”—something faint and difficult to grasp.

Face it, 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 the myriad things of the present. To know the source of all things is to grasp the guiding thread of the Dao.

This commentary says that the Great Dao—the fundamental order underlying all things in the universe—is empty and still in its essence, beyond the reach of sound, shape, names, and thought. The sage grasps the Dao and uses it to govern worldly affairs.

“Yi” means without color, so it cannot be seen; “Xi” means without sound, so it cannot be heard; “Wei” means without form or appearance, so it cannot be grasped even by reaching out. Though these names have been assigned to them, their nature cannot in fact be pursued or clearly distinguished. The Dao is a single, undivided whole, and so it is called “the One.” Above, neither the sun nor the moon can make it brighter, so it is said not to shine; below, even darkness cannot make it dimmer, so it is said not to be dark.

The Dao stretches on without end, yet in the end cannot be named in words. It is utterly empty and still; though it gives rise to all things, it does not possess them, and so it is also said to return to “nothing.” In the depths of the dark and distant, there is an exquisitely subtle presence, hence the phrase “the shape of the shapeless.” Amid what is indistinct and elusive, something seems to be present, hence “the image of the imageless.” This is what is meant by “the elusive and indistinct.” The commentary also draws on the Śūraṅgama Sūtra to explain that even where emptiness is difficult to perceive, an exceedingly subtle presence remains.

Tracing the Dao back into the past, one cannot see its beginning; following it forward into the future, one cannot see its end. This is the Dao that has existed since ancient times. What came before describes the Dao’s mystery; what follows turns to the person who has attained the Dao. The sage becomes a sage by grasping this subtle Dao and using it to govern worldly affairs. Thus it says: “Grasp the Dao of ancient times to govern the things of the present.” Those who can recognize this ancient, original Dao inherit the Dao’s guiding principles and its underlying threads. To know the Dao of the ancient beginnings, then, is to grasp its guiding principles.

Chapter Fifteen

Those in ancient times who excelled in cultivating the Dao had subtle, profound insight and understood its hidden principles. They were unfathomable. Because they were so difficult to fathom, one can only try to describe them: cautious, like crossing a river in winter; alert, like guarding against neighbors on every side; dignified, like a guest; yielding and relaxed, like ice about to melt; plain and solid, like uncarved wood; open and spacious, like a valley; and murky, like muddied water.

Who can let the muddied water settle and slowly clear? Who can become still and remain so for a long time, gradually bringing forth life? Those who hold to the Dao do not seek fullness. Because they do not seek fullness, even as they decline, they can continually renew themselves.

Sages who possess the Dao deeply understand its mystery, so both their bodies and spirits seem transcendent. When people remain calm and keep their hearts open and clear, their innate nature can endure. Zhuangzi says that when desires run too deep, the inborn clarity of the spirit grows faint. Ordinary people are often blinded by profit and desire. Their bodies and minds become coarse and turbid, and they cling stubbornly to their views, unable to reach a subtle, open understanding. Their thoughts lie close to the surface, so others can easily see through them. They hardly resemble those who have attained the Dao; none of this is the way of people skilled in cultivating the Dao.

Thus Laozi says that those who were skilled in cultivating the Dao in ancient times did not reveal their thoughts, and were not easy to see through. They were subtle and open, so deep that they could not be fathomed. Since they could not be fathomed, they could hardly be described; one can only make a reluctant attempt to portray them.

In their movements, they were as cautious as someone crossing a river in winter, unwilling to step forward rashly. They were also like people wary of those around them, unwilling to act carelessly. This describes composure and caution, without haste or agitation. Their bearing was dignified, as if they were guests, courteous and humble, never rushing forward. Their breath was harmonious, like ice about to melt, warm and approachable. Their outward appearance was sincere and plain, without embellishment; within, they were open and still, empty and quiet like a valley. Their presence left no sharp edges, seeming almost turbid: they did not display themselves, but lived among ordinary people without standing apart.

Those who possess the Dao are inwardly open and clear, without attachment. Their actions, bearing, presence, and breadth of heart are therefore easygoing, subtle, and open. As the saying goes, “The appearance of great De follows only the Dao”; such people can be sensed, yet are hard to see through. Ordinary people, by contrast, are often pulled along by fame, profit, and desire. Their bodies and minds grow turbid, and they cannot show this kind of presence.

Laozi sighs and asks: Who can remain still and withdraw inward amid this turmoil and confusion, nurturing themselves and holding fast to inner calm, then, through long cultivation, allow the mind to clear little by little? The human mind is like muddy water stirred up. When it is settled through stillness, it gradually becomes clear. This is like letting muddy water stand: the sand sinks, and clear water appears. This may be called an initial subduing of the dust and troubles that come from outside. Since complete clarity cannot be reached all at once, Laozi says “clear it gradually.”

Everyone competes to get ahead for the sake of profit, and Laozi asks again: Who can remain settled and keep to themselves, waiting patiently until the time is ripe, and only then act? Here, “life” means setting things in motion and putting them into practice; it refers to the sage responding and acting only when there is no alternative.

After this sigh, Laozi teaches people how to hold fast to the Dao: “Those who preserve this Dao do not seek fullness.” Fullness means being filled to the brim; “not seeking fullness” means not being insatiable and knowing when enough is enough. People in the world give themselves over to desire and always feel they have too little, without realizing that Heaven’s Dao shuns fullness: what is too full will overflow. As the saying goes, “To hold and fill it is not as good as stopping in time.” Rather than holding something until it overflows, it is better to stop in time.

Finally, Laozi explains why contentment brings lasting sufficiency: by not seeking fullness, one can preserve what one already has instead of constantly pursuing new achievements. Old things may be worn, yet they often withstand wind and frost; new things may look bright for a time, but soon can be damaged. People in the world covet perfection and new renown. Though they may enjoy temporary splendor and pleasure, when misfortune arrives, they can lose even what they already possessed. Only those who possess the Dao understand when to stop and when they have enough. Even without seeking further fame or profit, they can preserve what they have and keep it from being lost over time.

The story of Zhang Liang, courtesy name Zifang, a strategist of the Western Han, who asked to leave worldly affairs behind, withdraw, and live by fasting, may be said to illustrate the principle of preserving what one already has rather than seeking new achievements. This is what I mean when I say that Zifang understood Laozi’s intent.

Chapter Sixteen

Bring the heart to a state of utmost emptiness and stillness, and firmly hold to calm. As the myriad things grow and change together, I observe how they return to their source. The myriad things flourish and grow, yet each in the end returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to one’s nature; returning to one’s nature is called the constant Dao. Knowing the constant Dao is called clarity. Those who do not know the constant Dao and act recklessly invite misfortune.

Those who know the constant Dao can be inclusive. Being inclusive, they can be impartial; being impartial, they can become leaders of the people; being leaders of the people, they can accord with the way of Heaven. In accord with the way of Heaven, they are in harmony with the great Dao. In harmony with the great Dao, their lives can endure, and they remain free from danger throughout their lives.

This passage continues the previous chapter, urging people to experience the Dao through quietude and stillness, and explaining how to practice this.

“Attain the utmost emptiness; hold fast to deep stillness” means to bring the mind’s emptiness and stillness to their furthest extent and guard them firmly. “Emptiness” here means that external things have no fixed, real, unchanging substance; “stillness” means that the mind’s original nature is unmoving. People do not understand this. They mistake external things for realities, so their minds are pulled along by them and deluded thoughts arise one after another. Like fire, the mind rushes forward and cannot turn back. Seeing a benefit, people forget themselves; gaining a small advantage, they lose their true nature. They struggle without end and cannot preserve the Dao.

Those who cultivate the Dao should first examine the things before them and understand that they are not eternally real. Sounds, sights, possessions, and benefits seem to exist, but they are all illusory and impermanent. Through repeated contemplation, even when things appear before them, the mind is no longer moved by them. When nothing seems worth coveting, the mind naturally settles and desire subsides. To guard stillness in this way is to guard it deeply and firmly.

Laozi goes on to say that his practice has no special secret: when all things appear together, he observes how they return to their root. “All things arise together” means that everything appears at once. “Observe their return” means watching them go back to their root—that is, not allowing the mind to stir in delusion along with them. Although things take many forms, they ultimately return to their origin. The “root” here means that all things finally return to original nonbeing.

When all things return to their root, the mind no longer clings to them. Self and things are then both forgotten, and all is silent and unmoving. “Returning to the root” is stillness; stillness is returning to “life.” Here, “life” refers to a person’s own nature, the root that enables one to live. Though people have bodies, the body is not eternally real at its root. Seeing this clearly allows one to let go not only of worldly affairs but also of attachment to oneself. When neither body nor world holds one back, one has returned to one’s original nature. The constant Dao that is expressed through one’s own nature is called “constancy.” Only by turning inward to observe the mind and recognizing this wondrous, constant nature can one be called “enlightened.”

Those who do not understand their own nature chase after external things, with desires that have no end. They ultimately bring upon themselves the calamities of damaging life, harming their nature, and ruining body and family. Thus the text says, “Not knowing constancy, one acts recklessly and brings misfortune.” Recognizing the constant Dao makes clear that Heaven, Earth, and all things share one root and are connected with one another. The mind can then embrace all things under Heaven; this is called “knowing constancy and being all-embracing.” With a broad mind, one regards the people as kin and all things as companions. To have a mind that is impartial and free of selfishness is called “being all-embracing leads to impartiality.”

This constant Great Dao, when present within a person, gives rise to sage virtue; when put into practice outwardly, it gives rise to the kingly way. Thus the text says, “Impartiality leads to kingship.” A king models his conduct on Heaven and accords with Heaven’s heart. Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao follows what is natural. When people accord with the Dao of Heaven and Earth, the Dao endures without cease. Even when the body dies, the Dao does not end with it. “Peril” here means to end or be cut off. The constant Dao is already within oneself, yet people do not know to turn inward and observe it. Instead, they wear out their lives chasing after external things and desires. This is truly to take the wrong path.

Chapter 17

Of the best rulers, the people know only that they exist. The next best are loved and praised by the people; those below them are feared; those below these are held in contempt. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient, the people will not trust him. Therefore, the best ruler is cautious and sparing in speech. When the work is done and the achievement complete, the people all say, “We did it ourselves.”

Hanshan’s commentary holds that people in ancient society were simple and whole, without cunning or pretense. There was no need to say much: the people trusted and followed their ruler naturally. As people gradually developed distinctions and schemes, deception also grew more common. Laozi saw the world in continual decline and therefore hoped to restore the ancient governance of stillness and Wuwei (non-action).

“Those at the highest level, the people only know that they exist” means that in the ancient, primordial age, people had only a vague awareness of their ruler. Simple and unpretentious, they were in harmony with the Dao (the Way) and did not even feel that they needed to depend on anyone. Later, people began to recognize that their ruler existed, though they had not yet strayed far from the Dao. Later still, the people came to feel affection for their ruler. At that time, human desires had not yet run rampant, and there was little mutual blame, slander, or praise in society.

As the world continued to decline, human desires grew increasingly unrestrained, and acts of theft and banditry multiplied. Only then did notorious villains such as Jie and Zhi appear, along with praise for Yao and Shun. Later, people’s minds were clouded by desire and they strayed still farther from the Dao. They came to think that following the Dao was difficult, and shrank back in fear. Confucius resolved to study at fifteen and only by seventy reached the state of “following his heart’s desires without overstepping the bounds.” Though Yan Hui loved learning, he could maintain the virtue of benevolence for only three months; others found it even harder to do so for long. This shows that cultivating the Dao is not easy: people often fear the difficulty and seek comfort. Here, “the Dao” means the fundamental principles people should follow and the path of self-cultivation.

In an even more degenerate age, people feared the Dao but still knew not to treat it lightly. Later, they simply turned away from the Dao, caring only for fame, status, and wealth, and no longer believing it existed. Hanshan argues that the reason was simple: those in positions of authority stopped believing in the Dao first, and the people followed their example.

Once the people no longer believe, rulers should practice Wuwei themselves and, through their own stillness and rectitude, guide the people so that they do not develop a desire to steal. If rulers fail to do this, then, seeing theft and wrongdoing increase, they only add more laws to prohibit evil and keep demanding that people value morality and benevolence. This will only make people believe even less. This is the meaning of “how cautious they are in valuing words”: rulers should speak sparingly and with care, and should not issue commands lightly.

The preceding passage describes how the world declines step by step. What follows imagines how to restore the ancient order of Wuwei: when rulers speak little and do not act recklessly, the people naturally trust and follow them, and things are accomplished of themselves. The people work at sunrise and rest at sunset; they draw water from wells and eat what they grow in their fields. When the work is done, they all feel that things have simply turned out as they should. Hanshan holds that Laozi’s teaching centers on self-cultivation and governing the state. It often warns rulers not to let their own failure to remain still and upright stir the people’s desire to steal. If rulers put the teaching into practice themselves, they truly can restore the ancient way of governing.

Chapter Eighteen

Only after the Great Dao fell into disuse did benevolence and righteousness come to the fore. Once cunning and cleverness arose, large-scale deceit followed. Only when relations among family members became discordant did people make a special point of emphasizing filial devotion and parental care. Only when the state fell into disorder did so-called loyal ministers appear.

This passage follows the previous chapter. It explains that the names “affection” and “praise” appeared only as the ways of the world gradually declined.

When the Great Dao is at work, it shows no partiality, yet everything finds its proper place. To speak of benevolence and righteousness is to deliberately care for all things, and this gives rise to distinctions between those who are close and those who are distant. Thus, the names “benevolence” and “righteousness” appeared only after the Great Dao had fallen into decline.

Here, “wisdom” refers to the clever methods used by sages to govern the world, including systems of ritual and music, instruments of measurement, and laws. In ancient times, people were simple and natural, so there was no need to impose such methods deliberately. By the middle period, people’s dispositions had gradually become more calculating. Rulers then tried to govern the people through clever methods, without realizing that once such methods took hold, the people would also find ways around the laws. Hence the saying: “When wisdom appears, great hypocrisy follows.”

In ancient times, although there were no names such as “filial piety” and “kindness,” affection between parents and children was naturally abundant. When the ways of the world declined, unkind fathers became more common, so standards of “kindness” were established to guide fathers everywhere. As unfilial sons became more common, “filial piety” was used to instruct sons everywhere. This shows that the names “filial piety and kindness” appeared only after the six relationships had fallen into discord.

The name “loyal minister” also became visible only when the state was in disorder. In ancient times, rulers governed through Wuwei (non-action), and the world was naturally at peace. Ministers were not disloyal; they simply did not present themselves under the name “loyal minister.” Later, rulers became excessively indulgent, and their governance brought no results. Ministers were even forced to risk death by remonstrating, yet they could not necessarily fulfill their loyalty. Thus, the name “loyal minister” appeared only after the state had fallen into disorder.

Laozi saw the ways of the world in decline and therefore sought to restore the governance of high antiquity. These words are not merely a complaint about the times or an exhortation for people to correct their faults.

Chapter Nineteen

Set aside the esteem for sagehood and cleverness, and the people will gain many practical benefits. Set aside attachment to the names “benevolence” and “righteousness,” and the people will recover their feelings of filial piety and kindness. Abandon cleverness, and thieves will grow fewer, until they disappear. If these three statements are treated merely as polished slogans, they are still not enough; so they must be grounded in something: reveal one’s unadorned nature, preserve a simple heart, reduce thought, and restrain desire.

As discussed earlier, cleverness cannot be used to govern the world, nor is it enough to bring peace to it. The sages of the middle ages believed that people’s lives were inconvenient, so they established systems such as measures of capacity, weights and balances, tallies and seals, and benevolence and righteousness, hoping to benefit the people. These measures may seem to embody the sages’ wisdom and ingenuity, but they did not realize that people would grow increasingly calculating, finding loopholes in the laws and committing crimes. The systems of measures, weights and balances, tallies and seals, and benevolence and righteousness were instead used by people to sow disorder.

If we now wish to restore the ancient, simple way of governing, we should do away with all these systems, sit upright in stillness, and govern through Wuwei (non-action), allowing the world to settle naturally. Sage wisdom was originally meant to benefit the people, but since people have used it to sow disorder, it has instead become a source of harm to them. If these methods are no longer used and people are left to live in peace and contentment, the benefits will be a hundredfold greater.

Benevolence and righteousness were originally meant to guide those who were unfilial or unkind. Since people now use them to sow disorder as well, it would be better to abandon them and allow the natural filial affection and kindness within people to reemerge. This is what Zhuangzi called “the benevolence of tigers and wolves”: tigers and wolves have an innate affection and care; they do not need to be taught to behave this way. How much more so is this true of human beings, the most spiritually endowed of all creatures?

Cleverness was originally meant to bring peace to the world. Since it has now become a resource for thieves, abandoning it will leave no ground for thieves to arise. Sage wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness are not simple and genuine things; they are embellishments applied to the world. If we now remove them, it may seem on the surface that ornamentation is lacking, but in fact we will preserve simplicity. People do not understand the principle of uncarved wholeness, so they continually pursue external things, and their thoughts and desires multiply. To abandon the superficial and preserve what is genuine is to give people’s minds a place to rest, returning them to the simple Dao. If everyone can “show the unadorned and embrace simplicity,” their thoughts and desires will naturally diminish. To understand Laozi’s teaching here, it is enough to explain it with Zhuangzi’s “Horses’ Hooves” and “Rifling Trunks.”

Chapter Twenty

Cut off worldly learning, and you will have no worries. How great is the difference between a respectful “Yes” and a casual “Yeah”? How far apart are good and evil? What the world fears, one cannot help but fear too. This bewildered, disoriented state seems to have no end.

Everyone is cheerful and exuberant, as if attending a great feast or climbing a terrace in spring to admire the view. I alone am calm and detached, showing no sign of emotion, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. I drift aimlessly, as though I have nowhere to return. Everyone seems to have more than enough; I alone seem to have lost something. How foolish my mind must be—so confused and unclear.

People of the world appear perceptive and clear; I alone am dull and indistinct. People of the world are sharp and exacting; I alone am easygoing and slow. I am calm and tranquil, deep and vast as the sea; I drift like the wind, as though I have nowhere to settle. Everyone has some ability; I alone am stubborn and crude. I am unlike other people: what I treasure is simply the nourishment I receive from the mother. Here, “mother” refers to the Dao that nurtures all things, the source of life.

The harm caused by sage-like wisdom is not only that it cannot be used for self-display; worldly cleverness and knowledge should not be made the goal of cultivation either. Ordinary people pursue intelligence, skill, fame, and profit, wearing themselves out with worry and rushing to succeed. Thus “the clever are worn out, while the wise are anxious”; those who seek nothing have none of these worries.

When the sage “abandons learning,” this does not mean becoming ignorant. It means no longer seeking to learn by continually accumulating knowledge, cleverness, and desires. Worldly learning makes knowledge and wants grow ever greater. The sage’s practice of following the Dao, by contrast, gradually diminishes desires and attachments, diminishing them again and again until one follows nature and makes no demands. Both are called “learning” on the surface, but they move in opposite directions.

People pursue sights, sounds, wealth, and profit, treating pleasure and honor as happiness. The sage turns away from desires before they take root and rests in simplicity and Wuwei (non-action), like an infant who has not yet developed likes and dislikes. The expressions “calm and still” and “having nowhere to return” describe a mind that is not bound by external things and can respond to all things in emptiness and stillness; they do not mean literally having nowhere to go. People think themselves clever and calculate everything shrewdly. The sage seems dull and unpolished, engaging in no arguments or calculations. “Dull” and “muddled” here do not mean mental confusion, but rather not displaying cleverness or clinging to distinctions.

The sage seems ordinary, yet inwardly is clear, still, and open, as unconstrained as an empty sea or a sweeping wind. What distinguishes the sage from others is “seeking nourishment from the Mother.” The “Mother” in the commentary refers to the empty, formless Dao that gives birth to and nurtures all things under Heaven; all things are its “children.” People turn away from the Dao and pursue external things, like children who abandon their mother and seek sustenance from one another. The sage lets go of attachment to external things and returns to the Dao. “Nourishment” here means reliance or a cherished pursuit. By cultivating the Dao in this way, the sage leaves little room for worry and trouble to enter.

The previous chapter’s “abandon sageliness and discard wisdom” means not treating sage-like wisdom as a tool for display or for controlling all things. This chapter’s “abandon learning and be free of worry” means letting go of the pursuit of ever-greater worldly knowledge and desire, and returning to the Dao. The next chapter’s “the appearance of great De” describes how the Dao, though without fixed shape or name, can still manifest its De.

Chapter Twenty-One

The form of great De follows only the Dao. The Dao as a presence is elusive and hard to grasp; within the elusive, there are images. Within the deep and distant, there are things. It is profound and obscure, yet within it lies a subtle, real essence. This essence truly exists, and within it there is something that can be trusted.

From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never vanished. Through it, we can observe the beginning of all things. How do I know what the beginning of all things is like? Through the Dao.

This chapter explains that the Dao can be understood through the Virtue and workings it reveals, but cannot be depicted in any fixed form.

“Vast Virtue” refers to great Virtue. “The appearance of Vast Virtue follows only the Dao” means that the expressions of great Virtue all emerge in accordance with the Dao. The Dao has no fixed form, so it seems at once present and absent, difficult to identify precisely. Yet within the formless, it seems to contain images and all things. The Dao is deep and unfathomable, yet within it is a real, subtle essence.

The commentator draws on the Shurangama Sutra to connect this subtle essence with the “aggregate of consciousness”—the deeper workings that make cognition possible. Though it has no form, it functions when the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—the “six faculties”—encounter things. Thus, the Dao contains a trustworthy and real ground.

The world’s many fine reputations mostly arise from external things. They are names without any fixed substance and can easily disappear. The Dao, by contrast, has a real foundation, and its name has endured from ancient times to the present, through all manner of beautiful things. Sages make their achievements last and their reputations endure because their Virtue flows from the Dao. If fame and achievement arise only from human desire, they cannot last in the end. Thus, sages possess within themselves the Dao’s real foundation, while outwardly expressing great Virtue; all kinds of goodness and beauty arise naturally from this. The commentator says that this is how he understands why the goodness and beauty of all things are as they are.

Chapter 22

Bending can bring preservation; being twisted can bring straightening. Low places can become full; what is worn out can be renewed. Taking little can bring gain; grasping for too much can lead to confusion. Therefore, sages hold to the “One”—the unified root of the Dao—as the standard for all under Heaven.

Sages do not deliberately display themselves, and so they are seen clearly. They do not insist that they are right, and so they become evident. They do not boast of their achievements, and so they accomplish things. They do not exalt themselves, and so they endure. Because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them.

When the ancients said, “Bending brings preservation,” were they merely speaking empty words? Indeed, those who preserve themselves ultimately return to the Dao.

Hanshan continues from the previous chapter: A sage’s Dao and De are complete, and every kind of goodness is present in him because his inner life is empty and still. He has realized the Great Dao and does not contend with anything, so the many virtues gather in him.

“Bent” means adapting with care so that nothing is left incomplete. In governing worldly affairs, the sage gives each matter his full attention and helps every person find their proper place. This is like spring nourishing all things: even the smallest plants receive the moistening warmth of spring. If anything were missed, spring would not have done its work fully. The sage treats people in the same way. If he failed to give his full attention in every situation, his De would be incomplete. Hence the saying, “What is bent becomes whole.”

“Yielding makes straight” means that only by yielding to others can one allow the Dao to extend outward. The sage’s moral stature is lofty, but unless he lowers himself and adapts to all things in his dealings with people, they will find it difficult to trust him. Without their trust, the Dao cannot be put into practice. The sage therefore yields first, so that the Dao may extend.

“Low places fill up” means that water gathers in low ground. Rivers and seas lie below, so streams flow toward them. The sage’s heart is humble, empty, and still; for this reason, the many virtues gather in him and his De becomes complete.

“What is worn becomes new” means that clothes, once old and dirty, can be washed until they are clean as new. Hanshan uses this as a metaphor for the sage: he forgets his physical form and clever schemes, lets go of fixed opinions day by day, turns away from material desires, cleanses his inner life, and gathers his spirit. Without removing desire, the Dao cannot be renewed.

The sage does not cling to knowledge and learning, but devotes himself to holding fast to the One. In this way, he realizes the Great Dao. Hence, “Less brings gain.” Ordinary people know and hear many things, yet this may take them farther from the Dao. Hence, “More brings confusion.” The sage pities people for losing the Dao as they chase many desires, so he holds fast to the One as a model for all under Heaven to follow in learning the Dao. “Model” means a rule or standard.

Showing off one’s intelligence and talent is called “display.” Those who put themselves on display cannot see the Dao clearly; not showing off is what it means to understand. Insisting that one must be right is called “being right.” Those who think themselves right cannot make their De shine; when they do not assume they are right, their De becomes clear. Boasting of one’s achievements is called “boasting.” Those who boast of their accomplishments have achieved nothing truly worthy; not boasting is what counts as achievement. Relying on one’s own abilities is called “self-importance.” Those who brag about their abilities do not develop them; those who do not boast can instead make progress.

Hanshan holds that these four forms of “not doing” all express non-contention, and only the sage can put them into practice. Precisely because the sage does not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with him. In this way, the sage humbly yields and acts with care, so the many virtues gather in him and every kind of goodness is present. When the ancients said, “Yielding allows one to remain whole,” were they speaking empty words? It is precisely through acting with care that all forms of goodness come together in one person.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Few words accord with nature. A gale cannot last through the morning; a downpour cannot last all day. What brings them about? Heaven and Earth. If even Heaven and Earth’s gales and downpours cannot last, how much less can human actions endure?

Thus, those who act in accordance with the Dao become one with the Dao; those who act in accordance with De become one with De; and those who lose the Dao and De become one with their loss. Those who become one with the Dao are welcomed by the Dao; those who become one with De are welcomed by De; and those who become one with loss are welcomed by loss.

When trust is insufficient, there will be distrust.

Here it says that sages do not rely on excessive speech to understand the Great Dao; they can change naturally with the times. “Xi” means “few,” so “sparse speech” means speaking little. The preceding passage says that too much talk can easily lead to trouble, and that it is better to keep the heart in balance. Forcing an argument takes one ever farther from the Dao and prevents one from following nature. Those who speak little are more likely to accord with nature.

A gale does not last all morning; a downpour does not last all day. Wind and rain here serve as metaphors for people who love to argue. Arguments often arise from anger and a sense of grievance, just as gales and downpours express disharmony in the energy of Heaven and Earth. Though fierce, they cannot last. If even such violent winds and rains in Heaven and Earth cannot endure, human arguments are even less worthy of reliance. Those who love to argue do so because their faith in the Dao is unsteady and they have not truly put the Great Dao into practice. They have therefore not yet reached “mysterious sameness”—the state of being wholly in accord with the Dao and at one with all things.

Sages put the Great Dao into practice and are deeply in accord with mysterious sameness. Whatever their circumstances, they remain at ease. When they meet a person of virtue, they join with him in the Dao and in De. When they meet worldly people who lack virtue, they can go along with the ways of the world. If someone calls them an ox, they respond as an ox; if someone calls them a horse, they respond as a horse. They are not attached to any fixed way of being. They gladly accept their affinity with virtuous people and remain at ease among worldly people. This is because their faith is genuine: even without arguing, others believe them. Those who love to argue chatter on and force their claims, yet only make others distrust them. The root cause is their own lack of faith.

Chapter 24

Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who take oversized strides cannot walk far. Those who show themselves off cannot see things clearly; those who think themselves right cannot make themselves known. Those who boast of their achievements have no merit; those who are arrogant cannot endure. In the midst of the Great Dao, these things are like leftover food and excess baggage, loathed by everyone. Therefore, people who possess the Dao do not act this way.

There is something whole and undivided that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. It is silent and still, vast and formless. It stands alone and never changes; it moves in cycles without ever ceasing, and can be the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its name, so I reluctantly call it the Dao (the Way). Reluctantly, I also give it the name “Great.” The Great moves ceaselessly; moving ceaselessly, it extends far away; extending far away, it returns to its origin.

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is great. Among Heaven and Earth, there are four great things, and the king is one of them. Humanity takes its model from Earth; Earth takes its model from Heaven; Heaven takes its model from the Dao; and the Dao takes its model from what is natural.

Earlier, it was said that worldly scholars often take their own views and judgments as something they have gained, without realizing that the mysteries of the Great Dao cannot be known merely by hearing or seeing. This passage describes the nature of the Great Dao so that people may come to understand something of it.

“The thing that exists” refers to the Dao as a whole. It originally had no name, so it is simply called “one thing.” It is a seamless unity, without the slightest gap, and is therefore called “formed in confusion.” It existed before Heaven and Earth took shape, so it is said to have been born before them. It has no sound to be heard and no form or color to be seen; thus it is silent and formless. It stands beyond all things and never changes, hence “standing alone and unchanging.” It moves and circulates, passing through the four seasons without ever ceasing, hence “circulating everywhere without exhaustion.” “Exhaustion” means reaching an end. Since all things under Heaven arise from it, it may be called the source of all things under Heaven.

Laozi considered this existence wondrous and subtle, yet did not know what to call it. He therefore reluctantly gave it the single character “Dao,” and then reluctantly called it “Great Dao.” Here, “great” does not mean great in contrast to small. It means boundless and inexhaustible in its vastness. Hence, “Great means passing onward.” “Passing onward” means moving on without end. Its movement reaches the utmost distance and then goes beyond the range of hearing and sight; hence, “Passing onward means far-reaching.” In “Far-reaching means returning,” “returning” means going back to the root, where no trace can be found and no name can be established. The Dao is so great that, at its furthest limit, even a name cannot be assigned to it. This is precisely why it is great.

The Great Dao can give birth to Heaven and Earth, and it can also bring forth spirits and kings. Thus, what is called “great” under Heaven has four forms: the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the king, with the king among them. People know that a king is exalted, but do not know that sages take Heaven and Earth as their model. Heaven and Earth stand above the king, yet they arise from the Dao and take the Dao as their model, so the Dao stands above Heaven and Earth. Even so, the Dao still has names such as “Great Dao.” Its true subtlety lies in a state that transcends words and accords with what is natural. Hence, “The Dao takes Nature as its model.” How could the Great Dao, vast and subtle as it is, be fully understood or judged correctly through one-sided views? Those who think they see it clearly cannot see it; those who think they are right cannot make its principles clear.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation. Therefore, though the sage travels all day, he does not leave the baggage cart behind. Even when dwelling in a splendid palace, he remains composed and unmoved by external things. As the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots, how can one treat the affairs of the realm lightly and lose one’s steadiness? Lightness means losing one’s foundation; agitation means losing one’s mastery.

This passage warns rulers to distinguish between what should be valued and what should be treated lightly, and to understand the difference between stillness and agitation, so they can preserve themselves and cherish life.

Here, “heavy” refers to oneself, while “light” refers to things outside oneself—that is, fame, status, and wealth. “Stillness” refers to the original nature of one’s life, while “agitation” refers to the passions of desire. The body is the foundation of life and should naturally be cherished. Fame, profit, sensual pleasures, and possessions are all external things and should naturally be treated lightly. Moreover, external things depend on the body in order to have meaning, so the body is the foundation of what lies outside it.

One’s life and nature are the foundation of the physical form and should, by their nature, remain still. Striving after success, restlessness, and immersion in material desires all arise from preferences and cravings. Since these desires also emerge from one’s nature, the still nature should govern agitated desires.

People of the world do not understand what is heavy and what is light, so they abandon themselves to pursue external things and damage their lives for fame and profit. They do not understand movement and stillness, so they harm their nature and lose their true character, indulging their emotions through desire. The sage is not like this. Even when traveling all day, the sage does not leave behind their “baggage train”—the carts that carry a military force’s provisions and supplies. In a military campaign, food and supplies are the foundation on which the whole army depends for survival. No matter how far the army marches or how deeply it enters enemy territory, it must protect its baggage train to avoid collapse from hunger and exhaustion. The sage travels the perilous roads of life and death without damaging life and nature through attachment to office and salary or pursuit of material desires. This is because the sage regards body, mind, and life as supremely precious. Hence the saying, “does not leave the baggage train.”

Even as ruler of all under Heaven, the sage can remain calm and content, detached from material desires. This is like Yao and Shun: although they possessed all under Heaven, they did not treat it as their private property. Later rulers, by contrast, became absorbed in sensual pleasures and material gain, damaging their lives and nature without realizing it. They treated external things as weighty and themselves as light. Hence the saying, “The body is light, all under Heaven is heavy”: one treats oneself as unimportant and the things of the world as important. When external things are given too much weight, life is harmed; hence “If it is light, the root is lost.” When desire becomes excessive, one’s nature is harmed; hence “If it is agitated, the ruler is lost.” “Ruler” here means one’s nature. Passages such as “Rang Wang” in the Zhuangzi express similar ideas. Su Zhe’s commentary reads “If it is light, the minister is lost”; “minister” probably also refers to the body. In “Qiwulun” in the Zhuangzi, the body is compared to a minister or servant, and nature to the true ruler. This may be related to the present passage.

Chapter 27

One who is skilled at walking leaves no tracks. One who is skilled at speaking makes no mistakes. One who is skilled at calculating needs no counting tokens or calculating devices. One who is skilled at closing a gate uses no bolt, yet no one can open it. One who is skilled at tying knots uses no rope, yet no one can undo them.

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people, and so no one is abandoned; skilled at helping things, and so nothing is abandoned. This is called “inheriting illumination”: receiving and putting wisdom into practice. The good person is a teacher to the person who is not good, and the person who is not good can also serve as a lesson for the good person. If one does not honor the teacher or cherish the lesson, then even if one believes oneself clever, one remains deeply deluded. This is a profound and subtle principle.

Hanshan explains that this passage describes how the sage is adept at entering the turmoil of the world and yet can transform all things. Wherever he passes, he brings about instruction, while his inner spirit remains undisturbed. This is the subtlety of “passing through and transforming, abiding in spirit.”

People in the world always set themselves against others. They compete with one another in their actions and keep one another in mind, so their actions leave traces. The sage lets go of self. In dealing with the world, he does not clash with the myriad things but follows their natural state. He forgets external things, and they no longer contend with him. Neither side clings to anything: this is what it means to act skillfully, leaving no trace.

“Flaws and faults” means criticism and mistakes. The sage does not cling to his own preconceptions but responds in keeping with what others say: if something is right, he says it is right; if it is wrong, he says it is wrong. If something is possible, he says it is possible; if it is not, he says it is not. He does not insist on distinguishing what is hard from what is white, or force distinctions between sameness and difference. His words leave no fault open to criticism.

“Counting sticks” refers to weighing when to advance or withdraw and calculating gains, losses, and risks. The sage does not try to control the affairs of the world. He responds only when he has no choice, and never with his mind fixed on gain or loss. If even life and death cannot move him, how much less can ordinary gains and risks? This is what it means to plan skillfully, so there is no need to use counting sticks.

A “bolt” is the mechanism that secures a door: the device used to control an entrance. People in the world devise ingenious mechanisms, hoping to ensnare everyone under Heaven. They think their designs are so thorough that no one can break them, but whoever can set a mechanism may also meet someone who can undo it. The schemes devised by those in ages past who competed in cunning and strove for victory were all eventually undone. The sage alone forgets clever contrivances and follows the myriad things, allowing each being to find its proper place. He takes the Dao as his foundation and sets no net, yet nothing can escape the workings of the Great Dao. His “closing” is therefore perfectly secure: he uses no mechanism, yet no one can force it open.

“Binding cords” refers to tying people’s hearts to oneself and drawing them in. People in the world deliberately bestow favors, hoping to bind others’ hearts, but they do not realize that anything that can be tied can also be untied. If one gives a favor expecting repayment, it is easily forgotten. The commentators call this the failing of “Virtue with intention.” The sage’s compassion is vast, yet he does not claim credit for it. He benefits all under Heaven without expecting anything in return, so people remain grateful to him and never forget. This is what it means to bind people’s hearts skillfully: he uses no cords, yet no one can sever their connection to him.

In dealing with the world, there is no one the sage cannot transform and no matter he cannot handle. All things have their own principles, so he abandons neither people nor things. Here, “things” may also refer to affairs. He applies the principles of affairs without finding them difficult. He simply takes up the inherent clarity in all things and, following the circumstances, clears whatever is obstructed within them. This is called “following the brightness.” “Following” means taking something up and proceeding in accordance with it.

The commentators compare this to Cook Ding carving an ox in the Zhuangzi. Cook Ding follows the ox’s natural structure with his knife; at the slightest movement of the blade, the ox comes apart of its own accord. Zhang Liang, courtesy name Zifang, a strategist in the early Han dynasty, also understood how to act in accord with circumstances. He seized an opportunity to ask Liu Bang for a fief and drew on the Four Graybeards of Mount Shang to secure the position of the Han crown prince. These acts show his ability to adapt to events as they unfolded. This way of handling affairs by following the circumstances can truly be called skillful in helping and bringing things to completion. Who could surpass him?

Good people in the world are teachers to those who are not good; those who are not good can, in turn, serve as a lesson to the good. Ordinary people take pains to display their intelligence and expose others’ foolishness, cultivating themselves so that others’ failings stand out. Thus people know that teachers deserve respect. They also choose people like themselves to instruct and take pleasure in nurturing those with promise, so people know they can benefit from others.

The sage, however, is the teacher and protector of all under Heaven. He transforms countless people without letting them recognize the worth of having him as their teacher or even notice that they have benefited from him. It is not hard to forget the world; what is hard is to make the world forget you. Even clever people often remain confused about this without realizing it, much less those of limited understanding. Wherever the sage passes, all things are transformed. He abides serenely in the world, yet the effects of his spirit reach far. This is the subtlety of “passing through and transforming, abiding in spirit.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Know the strong, yet hold to the weak, and you can become the ravine of the world. Become the ravine of the world, and constant De will never depart from you; in the end, you return to the pure, natural state of an infant.

Know the bright, yet hold to the dark, and you can become the model for the world. Become the model for the world, and constant De will never go astray; in the end, you return to the boundless Dao.

Know the honored, yet hold to the humble, and you can become the valley of the world. Become the valley of the world, and constant De will be complete; in the end, you return to the uncarved original state.

When the original simplicity is divided, it becomes the various vessels. The sage makes use of it and so can become the leader of all. Thus, truly complete governance does not divide things apart.

Note: This passage says that the sage’s Dao and De are complete. When the times call for him to enter public life and govern the people, he should practice Wuwei (non-action) and avoid disturbing them. He must not take an excessively active role.

The previous chapter says that when the uncarved “block” is divided, it becomes a variety of vessels, and that the sage can use these vessels to serve as an official. Laozi therefore cautions that anyone who wishes to gain the world should follow its natural course and not pursue it deliberately out of self-interest. Insisting on doing so will surely bring failure. The world is a great vessel, governed by spiritual powers; how could human strength, cleverness, or private schemes seize it? One must not force things. To force them is to invite failure. Even if one gains the world for a time, one must not claim it as one’s own; those who insist on possessing it will eventually lose it.

For example, the Qin state relied on military force to annex the six other states and unify the world. This was forcing things. It then vowed that the Qin dynasty would endure for ten thousand generations. This was insisting on possession. The dynasty soon fell, collapsing under Qin Er Shi, the Second Emperor. This shows that forcing things leads to failure, and insisting on possession leads to loss.

Failure and loss come from going too far, from extravagance carried to its extreme. Whenever anything reaches an extreme, it turns in the opposite direction; this too is the natural course. Things sometimes move ahead and sometimes fall behind; sometimes they are warm and sometimes they grow cold; sometimes they are strong and sometimes they weaken; sometimes they have only just taken shape, yet are soon destroyed. This happens because force has been overused and extravagance carried to its extreme. The sage does not remain in these extreme states, and so lets go of excess, extravagance, and extremes.

Chapter Thirty

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao—the principle of following nature—do not use military force to dominate the world. Wherever troops have been deployed, brambles and thorns grow; after a great war, years of famine follow.

A skilled commander considers it enough to achieve the objective and does not dare use the victory to dominate others. After winning, he does not boast, show off, or grow arrogant. He uses force only when there is no other choice, and does not use victory as an excuse to press his advantage. When things grow strong to the utmost, they begin to age; this is called departing from the Dao. What departs from the Dao soon perishes.

Heshan’s commentary continues from the previous passage, explaining that sages do not take things to excess. They therefore warn people against using military force to dominate the world. Subduing others through military power is excessive conduct. When a situation reaches an extreme, it reverses, so such actions easily invite retribution. Places where armies have been stationed are often left with trampled fields, plundered people, and thorns covering the ground. After a great battle, killing and destruction damage the forces of life; crops are also more likely to suffer disease, and the harvest to fail. These are common consequences of excessive warfare.

Yet when it is necessary to support the weak, rescue a perilous situation, eliminate tyranny, or aid the people, one may sometimes have no choice but to use force. The key is to use it well. To use force well means to stop as soon as the aim is achieved. “Achieve” means to accomplish something and attain a result; “stop” means to cease. As the saying goes, once the task is done, let it go: seek only to restore order, and do not treat military force as a means of prolonged domination. Even after accomplishing the task, do not boast of one’s ability, flaunt one’s achievements, or grow arrogant on the strength of one’s power. Always regard the use of force as a last resort. This is what it means to achieve one’s aim without becoming overbearing: accomplish the purpose, but do not use it as an excuse to press one’s strength further. Overbearing conduct easily leads to defeat.

When things reach the height of their strength, they often begin to decline; military power is no different. Anything that relies on strength and acts to excess is liable to be harmed. Someone who overexerts through physical strength may die early from exhaustion and injury; excessive drinking and sexual indulgence can also damage one’s vital energy. When vital energy is depleted, death comes sooner. In the same way, flaunting military power brings rapid decline. This is why such conduct is said to go against the constant Dao; what goes against the Dao soon heads toward ruin. Here, “stop” can also be understood literally: once one knows that flaunting strength is contrary to the Dao, one should cease in time. Mencius’s statement that one should not use the advantage of weapons to intimidate and subdue the world likely expresses a similar idea.

Chapter Thirty-One

Fine weapons are inauspicious instruments, and people generally detest them, so a person of the Dao does not rely on them in daily life. In ordinary circumstances, a gentleman honors the left; when weapons are used, he honors the right. Weapons are inauspicious things, not the instruments a gentleman normally uses. They should be used only when there is no alternative, and restraint and detachment should be held above all. Even when victorious, one should not regard victory as something worth celebrating. To take pride in victory is to delight in killing. Anyone who delights in killing can never truly prevail in the world.

For auspicious occasions, the left is honored; for inauspicious occasions, the right is honored. In the army, the deputy general stands on the left and the commander in chief on the right. This means that a commander should regard war in the manner of a funeral rite. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even after winning a battle, one should observe the attitude appropriate to mourning.

The Dao considers that however ingenious weapons may be, they are inauspicious things. Those skilled in warfare are often willing to kill, and the more advanced the weapons, the greater the harm they may cause. For this reason, a person who follows the Dao does not regard warfare as something worthy of esteem, and a person of compassion is unwilling to engage in it.

How can we tell that warfare is inauspicious? In ordinary life, the gentleman honors the left, but in warfare, the right is honored. In ritual convention, the right represents ill fortune, especially matters related to funerals. This shows that weapons are not things a gentleman should prize. If warfare is unavoidable, one should remain calm and at peace, seek neither fame nor profit, and never treat victory as something glorious to boast about. Anyone who takes pleasure in killing should not be allowed to prevail over the world, for that would lead to endless slaughter.

In ancient ritual, the left was honored for auspicious occasions and the right for inauspicious ones. Thus, honoring the right in warfare means treating it as a tragic and ill-omened affair. In the army, the assistant general stands on the left and the senior general—the commander of the entire force—on the right. This, too, treats war according to funeral rites, since the commander bears the grave responsibility of directing the killing. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even after victory, the occasion should be treated with funeral rites. In this way, Laozi emphasizes that warfare should be undertaken only when there is no other choice.

Chapter 32

The Dao is eternal and unchanging, yet has no fixed name. The uncarved “Pu”—the natural, unadorned source—may be small, but nothing in the world can command it. If the lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will naturally come to them. When the Qi of Heaven and Earth joins, sweet dew descends; the people need no commands or arrangements to live together in natural harmony and balance.

When Pu first takes form, it acquires a name. Once names have appeared, one should know when to stop. Knowing where to stop allows one to avoid danger. The Dao in the world is like streams flowing into rivers and seas.

If rulers can keep to the Dao and practice Wuwei (non-action), the myriad things will naturally submit, and the world will be harmonious. Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth will unite and bring down sweet dew. The people will come into harmony of their own accord, without needing orders, and each will find their proper place. This far-reaching way of governing accords with the Dao more than using military force to compel obedience.

“Constant” means remaining unchanged throughout. Things that have names all change; the Dao is constant because it has no fixed name. Thus it is said, “The Dao is constantly nameless.” “Uncarved wood” refers to timber that has not been worked, and serves as a metaphor for the Dao’s nameless state. Once timber is fashioned into an object, it acquires the object’s name. People often prize status and reputation, and regard uncarved wood as insignificant. Yet the Dao, though it may seem plain and small, is the foundation of Heaven, Earth, and all things, and even ordinary people know it should be honored. It is only that rulers have failed to keep to the Dao. If they could do so, the myriad things would naturally submit. What need would there be to rely on military force?

Weapons are dangerous things, and may not truly bring a whole state into submission. Using military force also damages the harmony between Heaven and Earth and brings famine and disaster. Governing by the Dao draws the myriad things back; Heaven and Earth come into harmony and bring down sweet dew, and the people come into harmony of their own accord, without orders, each living in peace. The benefits brought by the nameless Dao are so profound. Yet, regrettably, rulers have failed to hold fast to it and put it to good use.

Once uncarved wood is fashioned into an object, it acquires a name. Things with names can then give rise to ever more names. Chasing after names leads one further and further away, until one forgets the root and no longer knows when to turn back. Thus Laozi cautions people against pursuing fame and profit without restraint: they should know when they have enough. Those who do not know contentment fall into danger; those who know when to stop can avoid peril.

The Dao is the source of all things under Heaven. It nourishes them without end, like rivers and streams flowing into the sea. The waters of valleys and streams enter the great rivers and the sea; likewise, all things return to their root in the Great Dao and naturally submit to it. This shows that if rulers can keep to the Dao, the results of their governance will come swiftly.

Chapter 33

Knowing others is a kind of wisdom; knowing oneself is true understanding. One who can overcome others has strength; one who can overcome oneself is truly powerful. One who knows contentment is rich; one who presses forward with resolve has purpose. Only by not losing one’s roots can one endure. When a person dies, if their spirit and influence continue to remain, this is called longevity.

The previous passage said that feudal lords and kings should hold to the Dao and practice Wuwei (non-action). Here, it explains more fully what holding to the Dao involves.

“Knowing others” means recognizing the worthy and the unworthy, distinguishing right from wrong, overseeing appointments and dismissals, making clear judgments about rewards and punishments, and pointing out other people’s faults. All of this counts as intelligence. But those who are good only at blaming others often fail to see their own problems. Understanding others is wisdom; knowing oneself is true insight. The phrases “seeing seeing” and “hearing hearing” in Zhuangzi express the same idea: what matters is not seeing and hearing other people, but seeing clearly and hearing attentively within oneself.

People who can overpower others have strength, but that is all; those who rely on force will eventually meet a worthy opponent. It is better to conquer oneself: that is true strength. Desires damage one’s nature and are far harder to overcome than external enemies. Only those who can restrain their desires and conquer themselves can be called strong. The classic’s words, “Be harmonious without being swept along; stand centered without leaning,” likewise speak of holding to the right way and striving tirelessly to strengthen oneself.

Those who crave without limit always feel that they have too little. Even an emperor may raise taxes and harm the people; even a feudal lord may keep expanding his military and seeking wealth. Even when their desires are temporarily satisfied, they still worry that they lack enough. No matter how much they possess, they never feel rich. Those who understand contentment are like the wren and the mole: they can live happily and in abundance on plain food. This is what it means to be content and rich.

“Having resolve” does not mean being intent on surpassing others; it means steadfastly putting virtue into practice. The word “place” evokes the North Star settled in its position, and also refers to a person’s original nature. People in the world indulge their desires, exhaust their bodies, and hope only to establish lasting achievements. They do not realize that this harms their life and nature, and soon brings decline and death. Only by holding to the great Dao, settling the spirit, and returning to one’s original nature can virtue endure and be passed down. This is what it means to “endure by not losing one’s place.”

People delight in rich flavors, thinking they will nourish life and bring long life. They do not realize that overly rich food harms the body and hastens death. Only by nurturing one’s nature and returning to one’s original state can one undergo changes in the body while one’s nature endures. This is what it means to “live long by dying without perishing.”

Laozi’s meaning is this: the great Dao is vast and boundless. People wish to hold to it but often do not know where to begin. If they understand the principles above and set aside craving in favor of self-knowledge, self-mastery, contentment, and steadfast practice, they can set out on the path of cultivating the Dao. If feudal lords and kings can do this, they can preserve their nature, return to simplicity, and remain in harmony with Heaven and Earth for a long time. Their purpose will be more than ruling all things and governing the people; they will also avoid fighting over petty gains at the cost of their lives and nature.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The great Dao flows everywhere, present on the left and the right. All things depend on it to grow, yet it does not refuse them or claim credit. It brings all things to completion without taking credit for their achievements; it nurtures them without becoming their master.

The Dao is often without desire or craving, so it may be called small. All things return to it, yet it does not become their master, so it may also be called great. The sage never considers himself great; for this very reason, he is able to accomplish greatness.

The Dao is vast and boundless. The sage’s mind accords with the Dao, so its workings are vast and nothing can constrain them. This also confirms what was said earlier: if a ruler can uphold the Dao, such effects will follow.

“Vast” means empty and free from attachment. The Dao is boundless, inwardly empty and unconfined; its workings can therefore reach everywhere, so it is said to function in all places. The Dao has no private self of its own; it simply lets the myriad things grow naturally. When they come into being and their work is complete, it does not claim the credit. The Dao and the myriad things are one: though it nurtures them, it does not rule over them.

The Dao endures without change because it is utterly plain: it has no flavor and offers nothing to covet. Because it desires and seeks nothing, it does not stand out and may seem small. Yet the myriad things all return to it, and it does not make itself their ruler; in this sense, it may also be called great. But “small” and “great” are names established in relation to external things. Is the Dao itself really like this?

Therefore, the sage forgets the body and sets aside cleverness and cunning. Beginning with what is subtle, the sage brings the mind into accord with the Dao, never claiming greatness, and thereby accomplishes what is great. If rulers devote themselves to pursuing power, how can they achieve true greatness? The lesson implied here is also profound.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Grasp the fundamental principle of the Great Dao, and people throughout the world will come and return to it. Once they have returned, they will suffer no harm and will be settled, peaceful, and at ease.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop; but when the Dao is spoken of, it is so plain as to have no flavor. Look at it, and it is not visible; listen for it, and it is not audible. Yet its use is inexhaustible.

This passage explains what the previous chapter left unfinished.

The formless is called the “Great Image”: an image with no particular shape that can contain all things. The Great Image has no fixed form, yet it can enter every form and draw all shaped things toward itself. The sage governs the world with a selfless heart, and so there is no one in the world who does not turn to him. This is because the sage is one with all things. All things depend on the Dao (the Way) for their life. The Dao is therefore everywhere and benefits everything; this is why it “moves on without causing harm”—wherever it goes, it does not injure the myriad things.

When people can forget their claims of ownership over all things, the things themselves no longer contend with them. Then each thing finds its proper place and can be at rest. With no contention between them, all can live in peace; as gentle as a spring day, the world becomes secure. This is the scene in which all things turn toward one another, Heaven and Earth come into harmony, and the people live in concord. The sage never claims greatness for himself, and so achieves greatness.

Earlier, it was said that the Dao endures because it is bland and tasteless, and does not arouse greed. Pleasing music and delicious food have flavor and can stir desire. If fine food is laid out by the roadside, passersby may stop; but they will not stay long, because the food will eventually be eaten up and cannot endure.

The Dao can be spoken of, but it is bland and tasteless, unlike delicious food, which entices us. It cannot be seen or heard, and so is not pleasing like music. The Dao may therefore seem small. Yet its substance is real and enduring, and its workings are inexhaustible, so it may also be called vast. The image of the Great Image illustrates that if a ruler can grasp the Great Dao in governing the world and remain calm and practice Wuwei (non-action), the world will still turn to him, willingly support him, and never grow weary of him—even if he does not win the people over with sights and sounds or tempt their hearts with wealth and goods. This is what it means for all things to turn toward him while he does not regard himself as their master. How could the use of the Great Dao ever be exhausted?

Chapter 36

If you want to draw something in, you must first let it expand. If you want to weaken something, you must first let it grow strong. If you want to abolish something, you must first let it rise. If you want to take something, you must first give it. This is called the subtle principle of insight.

The yielding can overcome the hard and strong. Fish cannot leave the depths; a state’s sharp instruments—the powers and means used to govern the country or defeat its enemies—must not be casually revealed to others.

This commentary explains that when things develop to their extreme, they turn toward their opposite. This is a natural tendency, though people often have difficulty noticing it. For example, just before the sun begins to set, it appears especially bright; just before the moon wanes, it first becomes completely full; and just before a lamp goes out, its flame may suddenly flare up. These are all natural changes in the course of things. Thus, when something expands excessively, signs of contraction have often already appeared; weakness has already taken root amid strength; decline is contained within prosperity; and giving may also foreshadow taking.

Changes in the weather, human affairs, and all things follow this pattern. Yet people often cannot anticipate or recognize it when they encounter it, so it is called “subtle illumination”: signs so fine that they are difficult to detect. This shows that the soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong.

Fish are safest in the depths, but they cannot leave them; once removed, they are helpless. The soft and weak are likewise a useful instrument of governance. A ruler should conduct himself with humility and calm, without openly displaying the Way of softness to others. If he deliberately flaunts it, he may instead invite hostility and contempt, putting himself at a disadvantage. The “subtle illumination” discussed here does not mean using schemes or clever tricks, but observing the Dao and following the natural order.

Chapter Thirty-Seven says: “The Dao is constantly Wuwei (non-action), yet nothing is left undone.” If rulers can hold to the Way of Wuwei, all things will transform and develop of themselves. After things have changed and developed, if someone gives rise to excessive desires and tries to force things into action, I will use “the uncarved simplicity without a name”—the plain Dao, unshaped by carving or deliberate labels—to bring them to rest. The Way of simplicity can also make people stop pursuing what they do not need. When desire subsides and the heart becomes still, the world will naturally return to peace.

This passage explains how a ruler can follow the Dao and eliminate social ills.

The Dao constantly practices Wuwei (non-action), yet nothing is left undone. If rulers can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things need not wait for outside forces to move them; they will transform of themselves. This shows how quickly the effects of keeping to the Dao can appear. Yet when things reach their height, flaws also emerge. At first, the myriad things have no desires. As change goes on, people’s trustworthiness declines, private feelings and clever schemes grow, and desires eventually arise again.

When desire first begins to stir, a ruler who knows how to remedy the problem should use “the uncarved simplicity without names”—a plain state untouched by human shaping or distinctions—to settle people’s minds and block desire at its source. Various methods based on names and distinctions are unlikely to work. Yet although the uncarved simplicity without names can restrain desire, clinging to it without adapting can make it a new source of agitation.

This is like using medicine to cure an illness: once healed, if one cannot forget the medicine, clinging to it may bring about a new illness. So one should not covet even the uncarved simplicity without names. If even this impulse to seek can be let go, then stillness alone can quell all kinds of agitation, and people will not dare to act recklessly. In this way, the world will “set itself right”: it need not be forcibly put in order but will naturally return to what is right.

The word “zhen” means to suppress or steady, like placing a stone on grass. The grass does not stop growing forever; it is only held down for a time. The uncarved simplicity without names, too, is used to settle desire; it is not a fixed method to be clung to. As long as the thought of seeking simplicity remains, the mechanism that sets desire in motion has not fully stopped. Stillness must subdue it, and then the mechanism will naturally fall quiet. When it falls quiet, the mind settles, and the world naturally returns to what is right. Thus, the uncarved simplicity without names can be put to use, but one must not cling to it—much less to methods based on names and distinctions.

The Upper Part ends here.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A person of the highest De does not deliberately display their De, and so truly possesses it. A person of lesser De clings to the name “De,” and so lacks genuine De. The highest De acts naturally, without the intention “I am going to do this.” Lesser De also acts, but with a clear purpose. A person of the highest benevolence acts without seeking anything through their actions. A person of the highest righteousness acts with the deliberate intention of doing so. A person who insists on ritual acts, and if others do not respond, rolls up their sleeves and forces them to comply.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does De become a subject of discussion; only after De is lost does benevolence become a subject of discussion; only after benevolence is lost does righteousness become a subject of discussion; and only after righteousness is lost does ritual become a subject of discussion. Ritual is what remains when loyalty and trust have grown thin, and it is the beginning of disorder. Cleverness that presumes to know in advance is the outward glitter of the Dao, and the beginning of folly.

Therefore, a person of true stature makes their home in what is substantial and does not linger in what is superficial; they make their home in what is genuine and do not linger in what is showy. So they let go of the latter and choose the former.

This commentary says that the world has continually declined and people have grown ever more distant from the reality of the Dao (the Way). For this reason, people must be taught to return to the root. Here, “Dao” means the root of all things, while “De” (Virtue/Power) means the power through which all things come to fulfillment. The Dao is the root; De is its manifestation and functioning. Thus, the Dao honors namelessness, while De prizes Wuwei (non-action). The Dao speaks of being and nonbeing, while De speaks of what is above and below.

“Higher De” refers to the sages of high antiquity. They were one with the Dao and shared a single body with all things. They let each thing grow according to its own nature, without claiming the merit for themselves. Because they did not deliberately set out to practice De, its beneficence reached all living beings and was not forgotten for a long time. Hence the saying: “Higher De does not act as though it has De; therefore it has De.” That is, those with higher De do not deliberately advertise their virtue, and so they truly possess it.

“Lower De” refers to people from the middle antiquity onward. They did not understand the Dao and knew only how to speak of De. Their conduct arose from deliberate effort; they kept in mind what they had done and even expected a reward in return. As a result, they could not readily influence others and were easily forgotten. Hence the saying: “Lower De does not lose sight of De; therefore it has no De.” That is, those with lower De do not forget that they are practicing virtue, and for that very reason their De is not genuine. Here, “lose sight of” means to forget, and “because” means to rely on.

Higher De is truly De because it arises from Wuwei: the work is completed and the task accomplished, yet there is no sense of relying on one’s own merit. Hence the phrase “without anything to act upon.” Lower De cannot be counted as genuine De because it arises from deliberate action, accompanied by boasting of one’s merit and reliance on one’s own deeds. Hence the phrase “with something to act upon.” From this we can see that the Dao itself admits no distinction between genuine and false, but De can be genuine or counterfeit. This reflects the way customs have shifted from simplicity to superficiality.

As De declined further, higher De was no longer praised, while lower De came to be revered. Thus the terms “benevolence” and “righteousness” began to appear. Both benevolence and righteousness arise from deliberate action and inevitably involve intention. Yet superior benevolence acts without relying on its own actions, whereas superior righteousness does rely on its conduct. The higher forms of benevolence and righteousness are genuine; the commentary cites the Three Kings as examples. The lower forms are false; the commentary cites the Five Hegemons.

Further down, benevolence and righteousness declined, and ritual became the object of people’s admiration. By then, people valued only the empty name of ritual and no longer understood benevolence or righteousness. Superior ritual seeks to be performed, yet no one responds. The commentary cites Confucius’s writing of the Spring and Autumn Annals: Confucius tried to set right the names and their proper distinctions, but ultimately could not change the reality. This is what it means for no one to respond. Not only did no one respond; some actively resisted and persisted in old habits. The commentary sees this as the prevailing mood in the Warring States period, after the Five Hegemons. Since people no longer practiced benevolence and righteousness, they retaliated against one another in turn. “Persist” also carries the meaning of following on and repeating. Ritual thus became a sign that loyalty and trust had grown thin, and the beginning of disorder. The decline of virtue had reached its extreme, and even the sages could no longer govern the world.

Thus, only after the Dao 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. Ritual is a sign that loyalty and trust have grown thin, and the beginning of disorder. The world’s growing deviation from the Way is caused by the excessive use of cleverness.

“Foreknowledge” means anticipating gains and harms too soon. Confucius’s idea of being wise enough to preserve oneself means protecting one’s own person. People such as Fan Li and Yue Yi used this kind of foresight to avoid fame and preserve their integrity. At a lower level, it became the practice of people such as Su Qin and Zhang Yi, who relied on persuasion and diplomatic maneuvering to advance their aims. When sages use expedient methods, they do so from the Dao; in the commentary’s view, Fan Li and Yue Yi acted out of ambition for fame. Fame is an appendage of substance, and so is called “the flower of the Dao.” Su Qin and Zhang Yi used clever techniques to pursue profit, and this became the beginning of folly. The same talent can bring a gentleman fame, while in the hands of a petty person it may bring ruin.

Therefore, the highest course is to honor De; benevolence and righteousness come next. A great man is content with what is substantial and does not pursue what is superficial; he devotes himself to substance and does not chase outward splendor. So one should discard the superficial and choose what is substantial.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

In ancient times, each of the myriad things received the One—the unified root of the Dao—and came into being. Heaven received the One and became clear; earth received the One and became still; spirits received the One and became efficacious; valleys received the One and became full; the myriad things received the One and grew; and lords and kings received the One and brought order to the world. All of this was so because they received the same root.

If heaven could not remain clear, it might collapse; if earth could not remain still, it might quake and cave in; if spirits could not remain efficacious, they might lose their power; if valleys could not remain full, they might dry up; if the myriad things could not grow, they might perish; and if lords and kings could not bring order to the world, their exalted positions might topple.

Thus, the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the high takes the low as its foundation. Lords and kings call themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “unworthy”—all humble forms of address. Is this not a way of placing themselves below and making the lowly their root? Surely it is. A cart is made of many parts; take it apart, and it is no longer a complete cart. A person should be neither like fine jade, deliberately made to shine, nor like a stone, crude and obstinate.

“Lonely,” “bereft,” and “without grain” are all humble titles by which lords and kings referred to themselves. “Isn’t this taking what is lowly as the root?” Indeed, it is. A cart is assembled from many parts. Its individual parts can be counted, but its function comes precisely from their being joined together. A person should not appear noble and dazzling like fine jade, nor aloof and neglected like a stone.

This passage says that the Dao seems to act without action, yet nothing is left undone. It shows that the use of what seems useless is the greatest function of all. Those who wish to govern the world should model themselves on the Dao and govern through Wuwei (non-action).

“One” refers to the essence of the Dao. The essence of the Dao is utterly empty and still, without action and wholly undivided; all purposeful activity takes it as its root. Heaven and Earth, and the myriad things, all take the Dao as their root: when Heaven obtains the Dao, it is clear and covers all things; when Earth obtains the Dao, it is peaceful and bears all things; when people obtain the Dao, they can become the most spiritually endowed of all beings. “Valley” here refers to the sea: when the sea obtains the Dao, it can receive a hundred rivers and remain full for a long time. When the myriad things obtain the Dao, each grows and flourishes in accordance with its nature. When lords and kings obtain the Dao, they can become leaders of the world. Their expressions differ, but when traced back to their root, they are one and the same. Thus it is said that they “return to the One.”

The scripture then explains the reverse: if Heaven loses the Dao, it may fall apart and no longer fully cover all things; if Earth loses the Dao, it may become unstable and no longer securely bear all things; if people lose the Dao, their vitality may be cut off and their descendants may fail to continue; if the myriad things lose the Dao, they may perish; if lords and kings lose the Dao, they may be overturned and unable to keep their exalted position. Hanshan believed that Laozi especially meant to warn lords and kings: if they do not take the Dao as their standard, they may lose their rule despite occupying a high position. A ruler should therefore understand the Dao’s Wuwei and govern through non-action.

Those who follow others’ arrangements and serve others’ purposes are often regarded as lowly; the Dao is like this, too. The Dao has no fixed name, yet Heaven and Earth and the myriad things draw upon it. If lords and kings lack the Dao, their exalted position may be overturned. Hence the saying, “The noble takes the lowly as its root; the high takes the low as its foundation.”

Lords and kings call themselves “lonely,” “bereft,” and “without grain”—titles that all convey self-effacement and lowliness. To call themselves this is precisely to take what is lowly as their root. Through these words, Laozi urges rulers to forget their exalted titles, embody the Dao and gather their spirit, and understand that great use is inherent in Wuwei.

Lords and kings are exalted because officials each perform their duties and together assist them. The officials take action, while the ruler need not personally take charge of everything: this is action on the part of ministers and Wuwei on the part of the ruler. A cart is assembled from parts such as its wheels, spokes, crossbar, and yoke. The parts can be counted one by one, but the function of the cart as a whole cannot be attributed to any single part. Precisely because the cart is not any one part by itself, it can serve as a cart. A lord or king, too, should take the Dao of Wuwei as the foundation in order to accomplish great things.

The Dao makes no distinctions among the myriad things based on nobility or lowliness, highness or lowness. Lords and kings should therefore embody the Dao and let go of attachment: they should not cling to their own exalted status or regard the myriad things as lowly, lest they bring about their own downfall. Laozi warns them not to see themselves as precious and dazzling like fine jade, while seeing the myriad things as cheap and neglected like stones. If they can forget distinctions between noble and lowly, everyone can be of use to them. This is precisely how great use is contained within Wuwei.

Chapter Forty

The Dao’s movement is expressed as a return; its function is expressed as softness and weakness. The myriad things under Heaven are born from “being,” and “being” is born from “nonbeing.”

This passage continues the previous chapter, explaining that the Dao is the root of Heaven, Earth, and all things. “Reversal” is how the Dao operates: the Dao’s essence is empty and utterly still, yet it governs the activity of all things. People see movement as movement alone, unaware that stillness is always present within it. The Book of Changes says that the movements of all things under Heaven ultimately return to a single source. The movement and stillness of all things both arise from emptiness and utter stillness. Thus the Dao does not move, yet it sets all things in motion. This is called “reversal is the movement of the Dao.”

The Dao’s essence is utterly empty and yielding. It seems useless, yet it is the root of everything useful under Heaven. People know only what useful things can do; they do not know that what is accomplished through the useless has even greater reach. Hence the saying, “weakness is the function of the Dao.” People therefore know only that all things under Heaven are born from “being,” but do not know that “being” arises from “nonbeing.” If they understand that “being” comes from “nonbeing,” they will naturally cease clinging to external things and be able to experience the Dao and gather their spirit. This is not easy to achieve.

Chapter 41

People of the highest capacity hear of the Dao and diligently practice in accordance with it. People of middling capacity hear of the Dao and sometimes remember it, sometimes forget it. People of the lowest capacity hear of the Dao and laugh loudly. If it were not laughed at, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao.

Thus the sages of old who set down teachings said: the clear Dao seems obscure; advancing along the Dao seems like retreating; the level Dao seems rough. The highest De is as open and receptive as a valley; the purest white seems stained; abundant De seems deficient; firm and robust De seems slack. Simplicity and sincerity seem to have changed their character. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed last; the greatest sound cannot be heard; the greatest image cannot be seen. The Dao is hidden and has no name. Only the Dao is skilled at nourishing all things and helping them come to fruition.

Those of the highest natural capacity have aspirations aligned with the Dao. When they hear its teachings, they put them into practice themselves. Yan Hui understood everything he heard, and once he understood it, he always put it into practice. Hence the saying: “The highest people hear of the Dao and diligently put it into practice.”

Those of middling capacity half believe the teachings of the Dao and half doubt them. At times they draw near to it, and at times they turn away. Hence the saying: “They seem to have it, then seem to have lost it.” Those of the lowest capacity cannot understand the Dao at all when they hear of it; they find it strange and burst out laughing. The Dao goes beyond ordinary worldly understanding and cannot be grasped by shallow minds. If such people did not laugh, the Dao’s extraordinary nature would not be made clear. For the Dao often runs counter to worldly convention.

The ancients once set down these words. The twelve sayings below all explain this paradoxical principle:

“The bright Dao seems dim”: Lesser people rely on their cleverness and abilities, showing off at every turn. The sage, though wise, does not display that wisdom. So one who understands the great Dao may appear foolish.

“Advancing on the Dao seems like retreating”: Lesser people boast and compete, eager to get ahead. The sage is humble and keeps to himself, so cultivating the Dao may look like falling behind.

“The level Dao seems ordinary”: People regard themselves as superior and different from others. The sage’s heart accords with the Dao and mingles with the world without losing its true nature. So the broad, level Dao may seem like something commonplace.

“The highest De is like a valley”: People’s minds are narrow and cannot tolerate even the slightest difference. The sage’s heart is spacious, like a valley that is empty and able to receive all things.

“Great purity seems sullied”: Lesser people have flaws within but make a show of outward purity. The sage’s nature is upright and clear, untouched by worldly dust, yet able to accommodate what is sullied. Outwardly, the sage may seem like an ordinary person.

“Abundant De seems insufficient”: Lesser people keep a mental tally of even a little merit, think highly of themselves, and expect others to repay them. The sage benefits all beings without taking credit for it, and so may seem to lack De.

“Established De seems furtive”: Lesser people do a small good deed and boast about it everywhere, hoping others will notice. The sage practices goodness and De in secret, and when doing someone a kindness is afraid of being found out. Taibo, for example, yielded the throne several times, yet the people could not say what merit he had.

“True substance seems to change”: Lesser people follow whatever benefits them and shift their position at every turn. The sage’s heart is steadfast, like jade that cannot be changed, yet the sage can adapt gracefully as circumstances change. “Change” here means to alter.

“The greatest square has no corners”: People cling to fixed positions and rigid boundaries. The sage’s heart is as open as the Great Void and can adapt to anything. “Corner” refers to a fixed direction or place.

“The greatest vessel takes long to complete”: Lesser people rely on a little cleverness and rush to achieve success. The sage builds deep reserves and cultivates De, acting only when the time is right. The sage acts only when compelled, responds to the moment, and becomes a force that benefits all under Heaven.

“The greatest sound is rarely heard; the greatest image has no form”: The most immense sound seems faint, and the most immense image has no fixed shape. They cannot be seen or heard as easily as worldly things, so it is no wonder that those of the lowest capacity laugh when they hear of the great Dao. People value fame, while the great Dao remains hidden and nameless. How could ordinary understanding easily grasp it?

The sage is vast and difficult to fathom because the sage possesses the great Dao. All things receive nourishment from the Dao and are never depleted. The Dao brings all things to completion, leaving nothing out. Hence the saying that the Dao is skilled at giving and skilled at bringing things to completion. When the sage acts in this way, people feel that the sage does not resemble what they ordinarily call a worthy and capable person, so they look down on and laugh at the sage. Yet without being laughed at, the great Dao would not be made manifest.

Chapter Forty-Two

The Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; and Three gives birth to the myriad things. The myriad things bear Yin and embrace Yang. When the two kinds of Qi stir against and harmonize with each other, a state of harmony takes shape.

People dislike the titles “orphan,” “widower,” and “unworthy”—humble terms used by rulers to refer to themselves—yet princes and kings use them for themselves. This shows that things may sometimes gain through being diminished, and sometimes lose through being increased.

What others teach people, I too teach them: those who use force and assert their strength do not meet a good end. I will take this as the foundation of my teaching.

Hanshan Deqing continues from the previous passage, explaining that the Dao, empty and without form, is the root of Heaven, Earth, and all things. He uses this to urge people to keep the Dao in mind and live with humility.

The Dao originally has no name; it is only called “Dao” for want of a better term. The Dao gives rise to “One”; One gives rise to the two aspects of Yin and Yang, and their union forms “Three,” from which all things come into being. All things turn their backs to Yin and face Yang. They can grow without meeting an untimely end because each contains an inherently empty and receptive nature. Yin and Yang, joined in harmony, gather within all things, allowing radiance to appear and flowers and fruit to grow. These are all workings of the Dao, so it is said that all things take shape through the Qi of emptiness and harmony. From this we can see that everything takes emptiness and receptivity as its foundation.

Emptiness, receptivity, and weakness seem unlike the myriad things and appear useless, so people often look down on them. Yet within what seems useless lies great usefulness. People dislike the titles “orphan,” “widow,” and “unworthy,” considering them inauspicious. Yet kings and dukes use these self-deprecating titles, showing that weakness and humility can be powerful qualities in governing the world. If rulers refuse to humble themselves, the people will not rally to them. Yao and Shun possessed the world without claiming it as their own; for this reason, they are still praised today, and their kindness continues to endure. They diminished themselves, yet others added to them. Thus it is said, “One may be diminished, yet gain.”

Jie and Zhou, by contrast, used everything in the world to satisfy themselves. They were cruel and unrestrained, caring only for themselves and not for others. Though they possessed the world, in the end its people turned against them. They sought to add to themselves, yet others diminished them. Thus it is said, “One may gain, yet be diminished.”

Everyone inherently possesses the Dao, but people are unaware of it in daily life, so they need instruction. People commonly teach others, but if teaching merely increases knowledge and learning, making people arrogant and self-important, boastful, and eager to fight, it fails to understand the principle that “the forceful do not meet a natural end.” Hanshan says that his teaching is to reduce desire, remain humble, and preserve the Virtue of emptiness and harmony. This is why he takes these as the foundation of instruction, proclaiming them like a wooden clapper announcing commands, so that people throughout the world may esteem humility.

Chapter Forty-Three says: The softest thing in the world can pass through what is hardest in the world. What has no form or substance can enter where there is no gap. From this we can see that Wuwei (non-action) truly brings benefit. The teaching that needs no words and the benefits that come from Wuwei are things few in the world can achieve.

Which is closer to you, your name or your body? Which matters more, your body or your possessions? Which brings greater anxiety, gain or loss?

Excessive attachment to what you love will inevitably exact a heavy cost. The more you accumulate, the greater your loss is likely to be when it comes. If you know contentment, you will not be humiliated; if you know when to stop, you will not fall into danger. In this way, you can endure for the long term.

Hanshan’s commentary says: This passage continues the preceding discussion of the benefits of Wuwei (non-action), explaining “teaching without words”—instruction that relies not on verbal admonitions but on setting an example. The hardest things in the world can be pierced only by the softest. Water can cut through mountains and seep into the earth, gradually penetrating stone and metal. This is one example. When one solid thing enters another, they collide and leave gaps between them; when emptiness and formlessness enter something solid, they can seep into it completely. Emptiness pervades all solid things, reaching even the tiniest places, precisely because it is empty. Understand that emptiness, too, has its uses, and you will see that Wuwei, too, brings benefits.

The preceding passage says that those who are poor teachers always have too much to say. The more they speak, the more traces they leave; once they leave traces, they rely on cleverness and skill; and relying on cleverness and skill makes them prone to self-importance. Those who are self-important boast of their abilities and delight in acting rashly, but those who delight in acting rashly often fail. This shows that teaching through words and acting through deliberate effort bring no benefit. We can therefore understand why so few in the world are able to teach without words and recognize the benefits of Wuwei.

This commentary says that fame and profit can damage one’s life. It warns people to be content and to know when enough is enough. People know only that fame is worth pursuing, so they neglect themselves to gain it, without realizing that fame is merely an empty reputation outside themselves. Compared with oneself, one’s body is close at hand, while fame is distant. So which is closer?

“Goods” refers to wealth and profit. People know only that profit is worth coveting, so they neglect themselves in pursuit of it, without realizing that wealth is merely something extra, outside themselves. Compared with oneself, as long as the body remains, there is still room to spare. So which is greater?

People fail to see this. They often rush about for fame and profit, coveting them without satisfaction, and thereby damage their lives and harm their nature. Rather than gain fame and profit but lose one’s life, it is better to preserve oneself and avoid calamity. So which is the true misfortune: gaining fame and profit, or losing one’s life?

The more one cherishes something excessively, the greater the price one often pays; the more one stores away, the greater the loss when it is gone. For example, using the Marquis of Sui’s Pearl—a legendary precious jewel—to shoot at sparrows high in the sky means losing the pearl before hitting a single bird. This is what happens when one prizes the quarry too much and fails to see that the price paid is greater still. Again, when wealth from across the realm was seized to satisfy the extravagance of the Deer Terrace, the palace built by King Zhou of Shang, the people rebelled and the terrace was left empty. This is what happens when one amasses too much and fails to see that the eventual loss will be far worse.

Excessive attachment brings waste, and hoarding too much brings loss. One may even end up dead and forgotten, with the state in peril. All this comes from not knowing contentment and when to stop. Those who know contentment avoid disgrace; those who know when to stop avoid danger. In this way, they can endure.

Alas, Laozi’s words can be said to sweep away the deep confusion that has persisted since ancient times. They are like a marvelous remedy for a long-standing illness: clear and plain, like the sun and moon hung high in the sky. Yet people have not understood this. What a pity.

Chapter Forty-Five

What is most complete seems to have flaws, yet its function never fails. What is most full seems empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. What is most straight appears bent; the most skillful craft appears clumsy; the finest speaker appears inarticulate.

Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Through clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), one can become the standard for all under Heaven.

The sage models action on the Dao of Heaven, bringing himself into unity with the Dao. In this way, he can guide the myriad things without being controlled by them. This illustrates the benefits of the “teaching without words” and “Wuwei” (non-action) discussed in the previous chapter.

The most complete achievement seems, on the surface, to be deficient, yet its effects never wear out. Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things, enabling each to reach its full potential without omission; this may be called a great achievement. Yet the myriad things must pass through spring’s sprouting, summer’s growth, autumn’s harvest, and winter’s storing away, which may seem insufficient on the surface. If they only grew without the process of autumn and winter, which brings decline and restraint, they could not mature, and Heaven and Earth’s power to nurture and transform them would be exhausted. It is precisely because this achievement seems deficient that it is vast and its effects never wear out.

The fullest state seems, on the surface, to be empty, yet its effects have no end. The harmonious Qi of Yang fills Heaven and Earth, reaching everywhere and touching everything; it may be called utterly full. Yet its original substance is empty and formless. If it condensed into something visible, its effects would also have an end. Precisely because it seems empty, the more it gives to others, the more complete it becomes; the more it expends for others, the richer it grows. Thus its effects have no end.

The most upright power seems, on the surface, to be crooked. Take the vast, upright Qi—broad and unyielding—as an example: it is supremely great and supremely firm, and may be called utterly upright.