《老子道德经憨山注》Vol. 3

Things lie hidden and latent in what is minute, winding through every place and entering everywhere; thus they appear curved. It is precisely because they can wind their way deep within that they can unfold the vitality of life.

“Great skill seems clumsy” means that the greatest skill appears, on the contrary, like awkwardness. For example, Heaven gives life to all things and shapes them in countless forms, yet does not display its skill. That is why it seems clumsy. If someone acts only by relying on skill, appearing clever in one respect but clumsy in another, that does not count as truly great skill.

“Great eloquence seems inarticulate” means that those most adept at speaking appear, on the contrary, to lack words. Earlier, “great completeness seems deficient” meant that the workings of Heaven and Earth seem somehow incomplete, leaving people with a sense of regret. Yet what does Heaven say? The four seasons proceed as usual, and all things continue to grow. The efficacy with which Heaven and Earth bring forth and nurture all things is revealed naturally, without relying on words or argument. That is why it seems inarticulate.

Heaven and Earth do not speak, yet all things grow and come to completion. The sage does not rely on verbal commands, yet their teaching takes effect. The sage models their governance of the world on Heaven and Earth. Thus the sage employs “teaching without words” (guidance that does not rely on verbal commands) and “transformation through Wuwei” (governance that follows things’ natural course without forcing or interfering). These may seem to lack power, yet in the end nothing can surpass them.

Restlessness can ward off the cold, but not the heat; stillness can ward off the heat, but not the cold. Each approach has what it can and cannot do. The sage therefore values stillness and takes it as the standard for the world. Few things in the world can surpass the benefits of this wordless teaching and Wuwei.

Chapter Forty-Six

When the Dao prevails in the world, warhorses are retired and put to work plowing fields and hauling manure. When the Dao does not prevail, warhorses breed in the outskirts of the city, ready to be sent into battle.

No fault is greater than indulging desire; no calamity is greater than failing to know contentment; no mistake is greater than craving gain. Therefore, only those who know contentment can remain content.

The commentary holds that this passage goes on to explain the benefits of clarity and stillness, and especially warns rulers that excessive desire and reckless action bring disaster. They should know when they have enough and hold to their proper course.

In ancient times, rulers who followed the Dao were still and free of desire. They governed the world through Wuwei (non-action), so the people lived in peace and took pleasure in their work. They no longer pursued fine horses; instead, the horses returned to the fields to plow and enrich the soil. As a result, every household prospered, and everyone felt that nothing was lacking.

Later, the age declined and Virtue fell into obscurity. Sages no longer appeared, and the feudal lords fell into disorder. Each state devoted itself to becoming wealthy and militarily strong, with desires that could never be satisfied. They fought one another for gain and waged war without end, until warhorses appeared in the countryside. The people could no longer live in peace, and deceit and fraud arose. The commentary holds that all this came from grasping for gain without knowing when to stop.

The greatest fault in the world is to regard certain things as indispensable. Such desires harm life and one’s nature, corrupt human relationships, and upset the proper measure in bonds such as those between ruler and minister, and parent and child. The ruin of states and the destruction of families through greed are also consequences of never knowing when one has enough. When people are not content, they see what others possess and want to claim it for themselves. This greed is the root of many faults and disasters. Thus, no failing is greater than covetousness. The ancients said: if the heart always feels it has too little, when will it ever be satisfied? Only by knowing contentment can one feel that nothing is lacking and remain satisfied.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Without leaving one’s door, one can understand the world; without peering out through a window, one can know the Dao—the natural course of things. The farther one travels, the less one may come to know. Therefore, the sage need not travel far to understand how things are, need not see them with their own eyes to discern them, and need not act personally to bring things to completion.

This continues the explanation above: the reason the sage can accomplish everything through Wuwei (non-action) is that his inner nature is already complete. The sage’s nature is true and whole, so his wisdom extends throughout the myriad things, leaving no hidden or subtle place beyond its insight. Thus, even though affairs under Heaven are many, he can know them without leaving his doorway; and though the Way of Heaven is subtle, he can perceive it without peering out the window. This is because his private desires have been entirely purged, leaving nothing to obscure his vision.

Ordinary people, by contrast, are absorbed in profit and desire, their thoughts rushing outward. Profit and desire cloud their judgment, gradually drawing them away from their nature, while the dust of passion and emotion grows ever thicker. The thicker this dust becomes, the more clouded the heart-mind grows. So the farther they rush outward, the less they truly see.

The sage is calm and free of desire, unburdened by external things, so his heart-mind rests in stillness. When something stirs a response in him, he can understand the patterns and principles of all things under Heaven. This is what it means to “know without traveling.” Though the sage remains still and unmoving, he can manifest transformations like a dragon; though deep and silent, he can send forth an influence like thunder. This is what it means to “be known without making himself known.” The sage embodies the Great Dao; his De (Virtue/Power) reaches all living beings, and without many words he transforms the myriad things. This is what it means to “accomplish without deliberate action.” All of this comes from the completeness of his own nature.

Chapter 48

In the pursuit of learning, knowledge increases day by day; in the cultivation of the Dao, private desires and human contrivances decrease day by day. Keep reducing them until you reach the state of Wuwei (non-action). Once you reach Wuwei, nothing remains that cannot be accomplished. Therefore, in governing the world, the usual principle should be not to disturb the people or act recklessly. If commands are excessive and interventions imposed by force, the world cannot be governed well.

This continues the explanation above: the De of Wuwei is attained by gradually reducing human contrivances. Those who cultivate the Dao keep setting aside private desires and attachments until they finally reach Wuwei. In Wuwei, nothing remains that cannot be accomplished. Therefore, governing the world should generally mean refraining from reckless intervention; if everything is subjected to forceful interference, the world cannot be governed.

This commentary continues the discussion above, explaining that the Virtue of Wuwei is attained through the practice of “daily reduction.” Those who pursue learning continually add to their knowledge and experience; this is called “daily increase.” Those who cultivate the Dao restrain and remove their desires, bringing both the body and cleverness to a state of simplicity; this is called “daily reduction.” At first, using reason to restrain desire can be called reduction. Once desire has faded, reason too is no longer clung to, and so it must be reduced further. In this way, neither the mind nor external things bind a person, and private desires are completely cleared away, allowing one to reach the state of Wuwei.

The saying “I practice Wuwei, and the people transform themselves” means that when a ruler does not act rashly, the people naturally come to follow the Dao. Once they have transformed themselves, nothing remains that cannot be accomplished. One first achieves Wuwei, and only then can one accomplish everything; hence the phrase “nothing remains undone.”

For those who govern the world, what matters is to maintain an attitude of doing nothing. With no interference, there are no private desires; when the ruler has no private desires, the people naturally become upright. When the people are naturally upright, the hearts of all under Heaven turn toward the ruler. Once their hearts have turned, governing the state is as easy as looking at one’s own palm. This is the principle by which doing nothing is enough to attain the world. Conversely, when a ruler meddles in many things, desires arise. When desires arise, the people are disturbed; when the people are disturbed, their hearts lose their natural uprightness. Once their hearts have lost it, people turn away, and even those who were close become estranged. Thus, meddling in many things is not enough to attain the world. This is why few in the world can match the benefits of Wuwei.

Older commentaries interpret “attain” as “govern,” implying guidance and command. Here, “attain” should be understood as in the phrase “attain a state” in the Spring and Autumn Annals: it means to obtain with ease.

The sage has no fixed opinions, but takes the people’s hearts as his own. I treat the kind with kindness, and I also treat the unkind with kindness. In this way, everyone can return to goodness. I trust those who keep faith, and I also trust those who do not. In this way, everyone can return to trustworthiness.

The sage lives among all under Heaven, yet remains restrained and humble, bringing the hearts of the people back to simplicity. The people focus on what they see and hear before them, and the sage treats them as children, helping them preserve their innocence.

The sage teaches without relying on lectures, following people’s nature so that they transform naturally. Thus there is no one who cannot be taught. “Constant” means unchanging from beginning to end. The sage’s mind is empty, still, and free of selfishness. With utmost sincerity, the sage treats all things and never clings to preconceived ideas, taking the people’s minds as their own.

The sage returns to the original goodness of human nature and therefore sees everyone as possessing a good nature. The sage naturally treats those who are good with goodness; even those who are not good are treated with goodness. Moved by the sage’s Virtue, they gradually develop good intentions. Thus it is said that the sage uses Virtue to lead people toward goodness.

The sage treats others with utmost sincerity and believes that everyone has an innate capacity for trustworthiness. The sage naturally trusts those who keep their word; even those who do not are treated with sincerity. Moved by this example, they gradually become trustworthy. Thus it is said that the sage uses Virtue to make people sincere.

As people’s hearts grow increasingly shallow, the sage remains steadfast in a way of honesty and kindness, earnestly hoping that people everywhere will return to simple goodness. The people watch intently and listen closely, trying to discern right from wrong. The sage, however, behaves as though nothing is being grasped at: making no deliberate judgments about right and wrong and showing no trace of preference for good or condemnation of evil. Instead, the sage consistently treats others with a generous, simple Virtue, showing them the broad kindness and gentleness one would show an infant. Thus it is said that the sage treats all the people as infants.

Treating people as infants means being harsh with no one. With this attitude in mind, the sage wins people’s trust without speaking at length and brings about their natural transformation without deliberate action. Thus there is no one in the world who cannot be taught.

People move from birth toward death. Among the population, about three in ten belong to the long-lived, about three in ten die young, and another three in ten reach death because they wear out their lives through excess. Why is this? Because they place too much importance on preserving life and, as a result, expend it too freely.

I have heard that those skilled in preserving life walk on land without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers, and enter battle without avoiding weapons. The rhinoceros has no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to sink its claws, and weapons cannot harm them. Why is this? Because they do not put themselves in situations that invite death.

Here, “preserving life” means nourishing and safeguarding it; a “si” is a fierce beast of the rhinoceros kind. The commentary reiterates that those skilled in preserving life enter battle without avoiding armor and weapons because they have not placed themselves in a deadly situation.

Hanshan explains that sages can transcend life and death because their minds are calm and free of desire, and they even forget their bodily forms. In this way, they understand the principle that there is no birth. “Entering death through life” means that death arises from life. Ordinary people do not understand that life is originally without birth. They focus only on preserving their bodies and cling to life, but in the end their craving to live leads them toward death. Roughly nine out of ten people are like this. Only a few do not fall into the cycle of life and death, though people often fail to recognize them.

“Those who cling to life” refers to people who focus only on caring for the body and pursuing longevity. “Those who cling to death” refers to people who sink into desire and forget themselves, charging ahead like a surging blaze without knowing to turn back. “Moving toward the land of death” refers to people who indulge their appetites, harm their lives, and think nothing of the consequences. Most people belong to these groups and cannot avoid death in the end. The reason is that they cling too tightly to life and insist on nourishing it. People know only how to preserve the body, not the root of life. Without understanding how to care for life at its root, one cannot truly be skilled in nurturing life.

Here, “nurture” means to care for and preserve. Those skilled in nurturing life do not focus only on the body; they nurture the master of life. The body is what life inhabits, while one’s nature is the master of life. When one’s nature is nurtured and restored to its original state, the body can be forgotten. Once the body is forgotten, one no longer clings to the “self”; without attachment to the self, nothing can harm one. Thus, walking through the wilderness, one will not be injured by rhinoceroses or tigers; standing amid an army, one need not avoid weapons. Sexual desire harms one’s nature more than rhinoceroses, tigers, or weapons do. Yet once there is no self, even these cannot cause harm: the rhinoceros has nowhere to gore, the tiger nowhere to claw, and weapons nowhere to strike. Why is this so? Because one has not entered the “land of death.”

From this we can see that the “self” merely inhabits life, while life itself is the place on which death depends. If there is no self and no birth, what is there to die? Confucius said, “If you do not understand life, how can you understand death?” To understand that life is originally without birth is also to understand that death is not a true ending. Hence the saying, “Hear the Dao in the morning, and it is worth dying that evening.” Those who have not transcended life and death can scarcely attain this state.

Chapter Fifty-One

The Dao gives life to and nourishes the myriad things; De (Virtue/Power) sustains them. The myriad things take shape through this, then grow by relying on their own conditions and capacities. Therefore, none fail to honor the Dao and cherish De. The Dao is honored and De cherished not because some force compels it, but because everything happens naturally.

Thus the Dao gives life to the myriad things and sustains them; it helps them grow, reproduce, and mature, and provides them with care and shelter. The Dao gives life to the myriad things but does not claim them as its own. It acts without taking pride in its accomplishments, and helps them grow without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De”: profound and natural virtue.

Dao and De (Virtue/Power) are the foundation of all things. If people wish to understand the Dao, they should empty their minds and practice Wuwei (non-action), thereby reaching the highest virtue. The Dao is the root of Heaven and Earth, so without it nothing could come into being. Yet the Dao only brings things into being: without De to nurture them, they could not grow. Here, “nurture” means to nourish and sustain. It is like the warm, gentle Yang Qi (vital energy), which embraces and nourishes all things; this is the function of De.

Dao and De themselves have no form, yet they become visible in the forms of all things. “Form” here means manifestation. To understand the vastness of Dao and De, one need only observe particular things and reflect on them. Hence the phrase “things give them form.” The Dao brings all things into being through the flow of primordial Qi; but without the order of the seasons and their changes in heat and cold, growth and decline, things could not mature, even if they had come into being and been nourished. Their growth must therefore follow the seasons. Here, “impetus” means to propel or compel: the Qi of spring propels things to sprout, while the Qi of autumn brings them to maturity.

By observing the effects of the generation of all things, we can see that the Dao, though it holds no rank and bears no title, is naturally revered. This reverence arises from the Dao’s own nature; no one confers it. Hence the saying, “No one commands it, yet it has always been so.” The rank of feudal lords and kings comes from the Mandate of Heaven, while the standing of ministers and chancellors comes from a ruler’s appointment. Whatever is granted by appointment can also be taken away, and so is not eternal. The reverence accorded to Dao and De, by contrast, arises naturally and is therefore enduring.

The Dao can function eternally because its substance is empty, while its effects are vast. All things rely on it to grow; it nourishes them, brings them to maturity, and protects them. The Dao gives things a beginning and an end, yet does not claim their lives as its own. It acts, yet takes no credit for its achievements. It is the root of all things, yet does not make itself their ruler. This is “profound De”: a deep and far-reaching virtue that makes no claim to merit. Those who govern the world should therefore emulate the Dao’s open-hearted Wuwei and attain the highest virtue.

Chapter 52

The world has a common beginning, which may be regarded as the mother of all things. Once you know this beginning, you can go on to know the things it produces. After knowing those things, you should still hold fast to the root. In this way, you will remain free from danger throughout your life.

Block the openings of the senses and close the gates through which desires and disturbances from outside enter the heart, and you will not spend your life in toil and restless activity. If you indulge the senses and endlessly pursue affairs, there will be no saving you from hardship throughout your life. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to gentleness and weakness is called strength. Use your brightness, then return to inward discernment, and you will not bring disaster upon yourself. This is called following the constant Dao.

The essential practice of cultivating the Dao’s own nature is to turn away from attachment to external things and return to accord with the Dao. All things begin with the Dao, which is why it is said, “If one knows the beginning of the world, one may regard it as the mother of the world.” In other words, the Dao gives rise to all things. The Dao is their root; all things are its activity and manifestation. Thus the Dao is like a mother, and all things are like her children.

If one knows only that the Dao’s own nature is empty, but does not know that all things arise from the Dao, one knows the mother but not her children and may fall into the view that everything ends in extinction. If one sees only all things and does not know the Dao, one will chase after external things, forget the Dao, and lose one’s original nature. One must therefore understand both the Dao as the root and all things as its manifestation: both substance and function. Knowing that all things arise from the Dao, one should not become absorbed in external things. After recognizing all things, one must still hold fast to the Dao as their root. In this way, substance and function remain complete, and movement and stillness do not separate; throughout one’s life, one will neither fall into danger nor be exhausted.

What follows explains how to hold fast to the root. “Dui” refers to the mouth, while “gates” refers to the eyes and ears, the openings through which we see and hear. The Dao is originally without words; attachment to speech can easily cause one to lose its underlying principle. When deluded thoughts arise, one talks on and on, moving ever farther from the Dao. So one should restrain speech and remain still, for, as the saying goes, “Too much speech leads repeatedly to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” This is what “block the opening” means. The Dao is present in all things. When the ears encounter external things, they hear sounds; when the eyes encounter them, they see colors. If one constantly chases sounds and colors and forgets to turn inward and observe oneself, one follows external things and turns away from one’s original nature. So one should draw back the gaze, quiet the hearing, and look within, bringing clarity to the heart-mind. This is what “close the gates” means. By practicing the Dao in this way throughout one’s life, one will not feel worn out.

If one takes speech itself as a possession and uses it to satisfy the desires of the eyes and ears, the spirit will race about like a raging fire and never turn back. This is like opening the gates of the senses and encouraging the pursuit of external things: the spirit is lost among them, and it becomes difficult to recover throughout one’s life. All this comes from failing to guard against danger in its earliest, hidden stages and overlooking the first stirrings of desire. It is not true understanding. Confucius said, “To discern the signs as things begin to emerge—is that not wondrous?” Thus, to see what is subtle is called clarity.

One uses the Dao to restrain oneself; for this reason, “holding to softness” is said to be strength. Those who cultivate the Dao should use their inner light and return to their original discernment. In this way, they will not bring misfortune upon themselves. Here, “light” refers to the Dao’s function, and “clarity” to its substance. Function does not depart from substance: the more clearly function manifests, the more clearly substance is seen. Thus one can avoid bringing misfortune upon oneself.

“Xi” means to inherit or carry on. The constant and true Dao is originally present in everyone, but ordinary people cannot carry it on and instead cut themselves off from it. If one practices in this way, one can continue without interruption; this is called “inheriting the constant.”

Chapter 53

If I had even a little understanding and walked on the great Dao, my one fear would be straying from it. The great Dao is broad and level, yet the people prefer the narrow paths. The courts and palaces are lavishly adorned, while the fields lie fallow and the granaries are empty. People wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, eat their fill of rich food, and have wealth to spare. This is domineering display, like the behavior of thieves, and is entirely contrary to the Dao.

This passage says that the world has fallen into decline, moral principles have weakened, and people’s hearts are no longer as they once were. It laments that the Great Dao is difficult to put into practice. “Jie ran” means “slightly” or “a little,” and is also a modest way of speaking. Laozi seems to be saying: Suppose I had a little insight and wanted to put the Great Dao into practice throughout the world. But people’s hearts are deceitful and malicious—who, then, could I put it into practice for? Hence the saying, “Putting the Great Dao into practice is cause for concern.” If one insists on putting it into practice when no one will accept it, there is no benefit; instead, it may bring calamity. To uphold the ancient Dao in one’s own age may bring disaster upon oneself. This is indeed frightening.

The Great Dao is broad, level, and straight, yet people’s hearts are crooked and wayward. They refuse to follow the Great Dao and instead prefer crooked paths and shortcuts. When people favor shortcuts, moral instruction declines. As moral instruction declines, wrongdoing becomes more severe; as wrongdoing increases, laws become harsher. In the phrase “the court is greatly swept clean,” “swept clean” means removing abuses. Yet the more numerous and intricate the laws become, the more thieves there are. The court’s laws grow ever stricter, while people exploit loopholes to commit crimes. They neglect their essential work and make their living by roaming about. As a result, fields grow increasingly neglected, granaries—the storehouses for grain—grow increasingly empty, and the state is put in danger.

When customs have deteriorated and people’s hearts have become so treacherous, the ruler ought to practice frugality himself and remain calm and free of desire, thereby setting people’s hearts right. But those in high positions remain unsatisfied, pursuing empty show and luxury and indulging their appetites and pleasures: they wear fine clothes, carry sharp swords, feast and drink, and amass wealth. The conduct of those above soon influences those below; what the upper ranks favor, the lower ranks often take to even further. The people become thieves because those above have led the way. This is why they are called “the reeds that lead the tune.” The reed is an ancient musical instrument; here it is a metaphor for someone who leads the way in doing evil. With the hearts of those above and below in this state, the Great Dao is naturally difficult to put into practice.

Chapter 54

One who is skilled at laying foundations will not see them shaken; one who is skilled at holding fast will not see what is held slip away. Such a person’s descendants, too, will be able to continue the ancestral rites. When moral cultivation is put into practice in oneself, De is genuine and dependable; when put into practice in a family, De has room to flourish; when put into practice in a village, De can spread; when put into practice in a state, De becomes abundant; when extended throughout the world, De can encompass all.

Thus, one can observe a person through their own cultivation, a family through its members, a village through its people, a state through its inhabitants, and then the world through its people. How do I know the condition of the world? I know it by observing in this way.

Those who deeply contain Dao and De are like newborn infants. Venomous creatures do not sting them, fierce beasts do not pin them with their claws, and birds of prey do not swoop down on them. Their bones are weak and their sinews soft, yet they can clench their fists tightly. They know nothing of sexual union, yet their genitals become erect; this shows that their vital essence and Qi are abundant. They cry all day without becoming hoarse; this shows that their original Qi is in harmony.

To understand harmony is to understand the constant Dao. To understand the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted. Deliberately prolonging life and greedily seeking nourishment are ominous signs. Forcing the breath to follow the will is an act of strain. When things grow too strong, they age; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. To be out of accord with the Dao is to perish quickly.

The foundation of the sages’ lasting merit and their enduring kindness to later generations lies in their genuine cultivation of the Dao. People in the world who seek fame and achievement all want to build secure accomplishments and leave an enduring legacy. Yet such accomplishments often do not last. If they are built through clever schemes and force, someone wiser or more powerful may overturn them. If they are protected through cunning and political maneuvering, someone more skilled in strategy may seize them. None of this is true skill in establishing and preserving.

The sages return to the truth of their original nature and establish Dao and De throughout the world, winning people’s heartfelt trust so firmly that it cannot be shaken. Their achievements are therefore handed down for ten thousand generations, and their kindness extends without end; no one can take it away. This is true skill in establishing and preserving. Their blessings reach their descendants, and the ancestral rites continue without interruption.

For this reason, those who study the Dao begin by cultivating themselves; only then does their De become genuine. Zhuangzi said that the true part of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself; what remains can be used to govern the state, and what is left beyond that can be extended throughout the world.

Cultivate it within the family, and De will abound. Cultivate it in the village, and De will grow. Cultivate it in the state, and De will become abundant. Extend it throughout the world, and De will be universal. Use one’s nature to contemplate oneself, and one will know that nature is true while the body is only a temporary form. Use oneself to contemplate the people of the world, and one will understand that human nature is shared, and will no longer cling to differences of physical form. Apply this understanding to the family, and the family will be harmonious; to the village, and the village will be at peace; to the state, and the state will be settled; to the world, and the world will be at peace. When one’s nature connects with all things, the world is transformed. When all things are seen as connected with oneself, the world comes into alignment. Thus the sages take only this true Dao as their foundation; they have nothing else to do.

Chapter 55

Those who deeply contain Dao and De are like newborn infants. Venomous creatures do not sting them, fierce beasts do not pin them with their claws, and birds of prey do not swoop down on them. The infant’s bones are weak and sinews soft, yet it can clench its fists tightly. It knows nothing of sexual union, yet its genitals become erect; this shows that its vital essence and Qi are abundant. It cries all day without becoming hoarse; this shows that its Qi is in harmony.

To understand harmony is to understand the constant Dao; to understand the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted. Deliberately prolonging life and greedily seeking nourishment are ominous signs. Forcing the breath to follow the will is an act of strain. When things grow too strong, they age; this is called being out of accord with the Dao. To be out of accord with the Dao is to perish quickly.

Hanshan points out that sages are able to conduct themselves well and remain steadfast, unmoved by external things, because their inner cultivation is profound. Human life is sustained by Shen, Jing, and Qi. When these three are nurtured as fully as they are in an infant, they are not easily harmed by external things. Thus, a person of profound De is like an infant.

Poisonous insects, fierce beasts, and birds of prey can all harm people, yet an infant is neither stung by poisonous insects nor attacked by fierce beasts or birds of prey. Why is this? The infant has no knowledge or awareness, its spirit is whole, and it harbors no calculating intent. It forgets external things, and they seem to forget it in turn. It enters a herd without disturbing the animals, and mingles with a flock without causing the birds to stir. Though they are fierce, they cannot harm the infant, because it presents no vulnerability for them to attack. This means that the sage allows the spirit to remain in command.

An infant’s bones are very weak, yet its sinews are supple. Its hands hold nothing, but its fists are tightly clenched and hard to pry open. It knows nothing of sexual union, yet its genitals can become erect: this is a sign of abundant Jing and Qi. The sage’s sinews and bones are weak, yet his grasp is firm, also because his Jing and Qi are pure and abundant. When plants and trees are full of sap, they are supple and strong; when their fluids are spent, they wither and decay. We can see, then, that the sage is like an infant because Jing and Qi are nurtured.

An infant may cry all day without its voice becoming hoarse, because its heart is not disturbed by emotion. It has no sorrow, resentment, or attachment, and so its breath is perfectly harmonious. The sage’s state of mind is the same. Only when Shen, Jing, and Qi are all deeply nurtured can one attain the state of an infant.

Of these three, Shen is the ruler, Jing protects the body, and Qi sustains and guards it. Therefore, when Laozi teaches people to nourish life, he first instructs them to regulate their breathing, saying, “Knowing harmony is called constancy.” Jing moves with Qi, and Qi arises from the heart. When the heart moves recklessly, Qi becomes disordered; when Qi is disordered, Jing is depleted. Hanshan cites the release of semen during sexual desire as an example, showing how the arising of desire consumes Jing and Qi. Those skilled in nourishing life should first keep watch over the heart and not let it move recklessly. When the heart is settled, Qi is harmonious; when Qi is harmonious, Jing naturally remains secure and Shen is at peace. One’s constant nature can then be restored. This is why it is said, “Knowing harmony is called constancy.” When one does not mistake the mind that is stirred by external circumstances for one’s original mind, one’s constant nature becomes manifest. To understand this constant nature is “knowing constancy is called clarity.”

If one does not understand constant nature and merely knows how to preserve the body, seeking to prolong life through food and indulgence in desire, one will instead damage life and harm one’s nature. Thus it is said, “Increasing life is called inauspicious.” Here, “inauspicious” refers to an omen of calamity: deliberately trying to increase life can itself become a source of harm to it. When the heart is unsettled, it moves recklessly and drives the breath; when Qi disperses, Jing is depleted; when Jing is depleted, the body withers. Hence the saying, “The heart’s command of Qi is called force.” “Force” is like the withering of plants and trees; when strength is excessive, it is called “vigor.” All things that become excessively vigorous eventually decline. If a person does not know how to nourish the spirit and primal Qi, but instead depletes them excessively, this is a grave departure from the Dao, and the result is an accelerated death. Hence, “Not following the Dao leads to an early end”; “end” means termination or death.

Hanshan holds that Laozi’s path of cultivation has its roots here. Later scholars did not understand the fundamentals and recklessly devised many unorthodox methods, thereby departing from Laozi’s original intent.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Those who truly understand the Dao speak little; those who speak much do not truly understand the Dao. Draw in the senses and do not let the mind and spirit race outward; close the gateways through which desires enter and leave; blunt sharpness, resolve confusion, let the light within grow subtle, and become one with the dusty world. This is called “mysterious sameness”: being in accord with the mysterious Great Dao.

One who has attained mysterious sameness is not swayed by intimacy or estrangement, is not changed by gain or harm, and is not moved by honor or low status. Thus, such a person becomes the most precious person under Heaven.

The sage is esteemed by all under Heaven because he knows how to nurture the inner life and grasp the profound meaning of the Dao. He does not rely on words to express it, yet can unite with the Dao. The sage understands his own nature, so he nurtures genuine insight within himself instead of putting it on display. True realization cannot always be fully expressed in words. Those who chatter incessantly and use verbal argument to show off their understanding do not truly understand the Dao. Hence it is said: “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.”

What follows is a method for cultivating body and mind. “Dui” refers to the mouth and to speech. The sage keeps his mouth closed and guards himself, taking no pleasure in disputation; this is called “blocking the openings.” He does not become absorbed in sensory pleasures; this is called “closing the gates.” He meets people and handles affairs with ease, without showing an edge; this is called “dulling the sharpness.” He keeps his heart quiet and clear, setting aside tangled worries; this is called “untangling the knots.” Here, “knots” refers to disordered thoughts. The sage reins in his radiance and responds to things as they are, without letting his mind become attached to them; this is called “softening the light and becoming one with the dust.” Only those who have truly experienced the deep and mysterious Dao can attain these states. They are therefore called “mysterious sameness,” meaning union with the Dao.

The sage’s cultivation of the Dao is profound and expansive, and his heart rises above worldly concerns. People cannot regard him as either close or distant. His sincerity transforms others, and when they see him, they cannot bear to leave; so it cannot be said that he is distant. He is simple and free of desire, and cannot be bought with profit. He transcends life and death, and cannot be threatened with harm. He sees kings, nobles, and the powerful as no more than dust, and does not prize their authority. Though he wears coarse cloth, he holds precious De within, so his plain appearance cannot make him contemptible. The sage lives among the world, yet his heart transcends external things. He is not swayed by closeness or distance, gain or loss, honor or low status. This is why all under Heaven esteem him.

Chapter 57

Govern the state by the right way, direct war through expedient measures, and gain all under Heaven through Wuwei (non-action). How do I know this is so? I see it in these examples: the more prohibitions there are under Heaven, the poorer the people become; the more weapons the people possess, the more disorderly the state becomes; the more people show off their skills, the more strange and novel things appear; and the more numerous and conspicuous the laws and decrees, the more thieves there are.

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

To govern the world and the state, one should take stillness and freedom from desire as the foundation, rather than using clever schemes and manipulations to lead the people. Devious stratagems belong to the way of deceit. They may be used in war, but not in governing a state. Hence the saying, “Govern the state by the upright way; use stratagems in war.” Yet weapons are inauspicious things, to be used only when there is no other choice. Those who delight in warfare cannot win the world. Therefore, govern the world through Wuwei (non-action) and by keeping affairs simple.

How do I know that the world can be governed through Wuwei and keeping affairs simple? The circumstances described below make it clear. These circumstances are the political measures that burden the people: numerous prohibitions, tight controls, the deliberate cultivation of techniques, and laws that grow ever more demanding. Why are such measures inadequate for governing the world?

The more prohibitions there are in the world, the poorer the people become. “Prohibitions” forbid people from doing certain things; “taboos” forbid them from saying certain things. For example, King Wen of Zhou had a royal park seventy li around, yet he opened it for the people to use together. They could gather firewood and grass, and hunt pheasants and rabbits, without restriction. Even when something harmed the people, they could speak plainly about it, and so live in peace. When those above trouble the people less, the people grow more prosperous day by day.

Today, killing a deer in the park is treated as a crime equal to murder, and anyone who takes one without permission may be put to death. The people dare not voice their grievances; if they do, they are punished. They can scarcely make a living, and have nowhere to put their hands and feet. This is what it means for the people to become poorer as prohibitions multiply.

Able and worthy people are important assets of the state. When the state turns away from the right way, such people remain among the common people. If talent stays among the people instead of serving at court, the state falls into greater confusion. When those above have many desires and delight in novelty, they shape and manipulate people’s minds, and techniques multiply. As techniques increase, so do novel things. The more novelty there is, the stronger people’s greed becomes; and as greed grows, thieves appear. Then laws become ever stricter, yet thieves multiply all the more, and the world falls into disorder and unrest. All this is caused by reckless action, excessive government, and unrestrained desire.

Thus the sages of old said: “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform themselves. When I cherish stillness, the people set themselves right. When I keep affairs simple, the people grow prosperous. When I have no greed, the people return to their natural simplicity.” These words are indeed true.

Chapter 58

When government orders are lenient and not harsh, the people are simple and sincere. When orders are strict and exacting, the people suffer loss and lose their sincerity. Within misfortune, good fortune is often concealed; within good fortune, misfortune often lies in wait. Who can know where their transformation will end? There is no absolutely fixed standard in the world: the upright may turn into the strange, and goodness may turn into evil. People have lost their way for a very long time.

Therefore, the sage is square but does not wound others; upright and principled but does not cut them; honest without flaunting it; and bright without dazzling anyone.

This chapter explains in detail the harm caused by the active methods of governance discussed in the previous chapter and points out the value of Wuwei (non-action). “Mundane and unassuming” describes a state of simplicity and unknowing. The people need only live in accordance with the right way; they do not need to be taught to be clever and discerning in every matter. When cleverness is displayed everywhere and people are made to focus on what they see and hear, the result is as described earlier: the more numerous and intricate the laws become, the more thieves there are. Therefore, the sage governs quietly, without showing off cleverness, allowing the people to rest in simplicity and refrain from deliberate scheming, so that deceit and hypocrisy do not readily arise. When governance is lenient rather than harsh, the people remain simple and honest. But if orders are excessively scrutinizing and every matter is subject to calculation, the people grow uneasy and feel that something is always lacking. Hence the saying: “When governance is exacting, the people are discontented.” Here, “discontented” means worried and feeling deprived.

How misfortune and good fortune transform into one another depends on the thoughts that arise in people’s hearts. A good thought may turn misfortune into good fortune; an unworthy thought may turn good fortune into misfortune. This is how misfortune and good fortune depend on and transform into one another. When people continually resort to clever schemes and calculations, misfortune and good fortune take turns in a cycle. Who can know when it will end? Confucius’s saying, “To know the turning point—is that not spirit-like?” speaks precisely of understanding this principle of change.

If misfortune and good fortune cycle without end, is there no one who truly understands the Dao (the Way) and can set the world right according to what is right? Yet as the world declines and moral principles grow weak, people’s hearts are no longer simple; right and wrong become hard to distinguish, and good and evil are turned upside down. When shown the right way, people find it strange; when taught to do good, they think it is bizarre. Just as a person offering remonstrance may be taken for someone scolding and slandering others before earning their trust, so too, when people’s hearts have long been confused, even a sage’s teaching may not bring them back to the right path. Zhuangzi said that if three people travel together and one loses the way, the other two can still guide that person. But if two of the three lose the way, it is difficult to set them right. Now that everyone under Heaven has lost the way, who is there to guide them?

Therefore, when the sage teaches the people in a troubled world, the key is to live among ordinary customs without standing out. This is called “blending with the dust and softening the light.” In this way, though square, the sage does not seem sharp or hurtful; though upright, the sage is not deliberately severe; though straightforward, the sage does not act recklessly; and though bright, the sage does not flaunt personal insight. The sage has strengths yet keeps them in check, and is therefore valued by all under Heaven. This is the way of governing through Wuwei, cherishing stillness and calm, and allowing the people to return naturally to the teaching.

Chapter 59

In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing is better than thrift. “Thrift” means restraint and care in conserving one’s strength, without wasting it needlessly. Through restraint, one can return to the Dao early; returning early means continually accumulating De (Virtue/Power). When De has been deeply accumulated, nothing cannot be overcome. When nothing cannot be overcome, one’s power is unfathomable. With unfathomable power, one can govern a state. By holding to the fundamental Dao of the state, it can endure for a long time. This is called having deep roots and a firm trunk: the way to sustain life and preserve lasting perception.

The sage reduces desires and restores the original nature, thereby fulfilling the way of governing the state and cultivating oneself. “Restraint” means possessing something without making excessive use of it. Zhuangzi explains clearly what is meant here by “the human and the Heavenly”: one should not let human desires damage one’s inborn nature, nor let external things harm it. “The human” refers to desires for material things, while “the Heavenly” refers to the virtue inherent from the beginning.

For managing human affairs and following the Way of Heaven, nothing is more fitting than restraint. The sage occupies a high position and possesses all under Heaven, surrounded by wealth, sensual pleasures, and advantages, yet holds fast to the Dao, remaining detached and free of desire. Though possessing these things, the sage does not use them excessively. This is managing human affairs through restraint. The sage embraces the four seas and has wisdom that reaches throughout the myriad things, yet does not let private cleverness and deliberation wear down the original nature. The sage has wisdom but does not insist on putting it to use. This is following the Way of Heaven through restraint.

Nothing restores the original nature more swiftly; hence the phrase “an early return,” meaning a swift return to one’s nature. “Return” is like what the hexagram Fu in the Book of Changes says: “If one has not gone far astray, one can return.” It is also like Yan Hui restraining selfish desires and returning to ritual propriety, after which benevolence prevailed throughout the world. Zhuangzi says that the greatest harm is turning virtue into something deliberately cultivated. Virtue deliberately displayed outwardly has shallow roots. For one who restores the original nature, inborn virtue grows fuller each day. Without deliberately seeking to return, one returns naturally, like the renewed emergence of life in Heaven and Earth.

When virtue has accumulated deeply, nothing cannot be overcome. Here, “overcome” means to conquer, and it can also be connected with Yan Hui’s idea of “overcoming the self”: as one’s innate virtue deepens, desires for material things gradually fade. Wherever such virtue reaches, it transforms and nurtures all things; nothing can stand against it. This virtue is so vast and lofty that the people can scarcely describe its limits. Thus the sage can shoulder the great responsibility of governing the state.

Once inner cultivation is complete, even without intending to govern the world, one is fit to be entrusted with it. Cultivating oneself is the foundation; the virtue that overflows from this cultivation can extend to the world and the state. The Dao precedes Heaven and Earth without growing old, and outlasts Heaven and Earth without coming to an end. This is the way the ancients called deep-rooted and firmly established, a way of long life and lasting vision. The passage ends by quoting an old saying to sum up what came before.

Chapter 60

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish: one must not turn it over repeatedly or interfere too much. When the world is governed through the Dao, the powers of spirits and gods do not appear efficacious. This does not mean that spirits and gods have no power at all, but that their power does not harm people. Not only do spirits and gods refrain from harming people; the sage, too, does not harm the people. When people and spirits and gods do not harm one another, their beneficence and virtue flow together throughout the world.

This passage explains the benefits of governing through Wuwei (non-action). A large state should be governed with calm and without disturbing the people. It should do as little as possible, so that people can live in peace and prosper. This is like cooking a small fish: turn it over repeatedly and it will fall apart. The same is true of governing the people. Harsh rule harms them and brings one disaster after another, leaving them to endure suffering.

Those who do not understand the Dao of governance blame disasters on the mischief of ghosts and spirits. After harming the people, they then rely on sacrifices to pray for blessings. In truth, calamities arise because rulers act against the Dao. Governing the world through virtue can bring Qi into harmony and invite auspicious signs. Ghosts and spirits exist and may indeed show their efficacy, but they do not thereby harm the people. The statement that “ghosts and spirits are not divine” means that they cannot bring disaster or bestow blessings on people. Their efficacy serves to protect the people, not to injure them.

This is also because the sage cares for the people as one nurtures an infant. Sharing Virtue with Heaven and Earth and aligning with the auspicious and inauspicious workings of ghosts and spirits, the sage has no desire to harm the people. Ghosts and spirits, in turn, are in harmony with humanity and join in bringing blessings. The Jing (scripture) says that ghosts and spirits do not harm people, and that the sage does not harm the people either. During the reign of King Tang of Shang, a seven-year drought occurred. Tang offered himself in place of a sacrificial animal, spread grass beneath himself, and prayed; rain then fell to a depth of three feet. People saw this as the result of Tang’s sincere devotion reaching Heaven and Earth. At its root was the mutual refusal to cause harm, through which their Virtue came together. This is how the Virtue of Wuwei brings blessings to the people.

Chapter 61 says: A great state is like the lower reaches of a river: it lies low and is where all under Heaven converge. It is also the female of the world. The female often overcomes the male through stillness, occupying the lower position through humility. Thus, when a great state humbles itself before a small state, the small state will turn to it; when a small state humbles itself before a great state, the great state will accept it. Whether one wins another’s allegiance by being humble, or is accepted by another through humility, the principle is the same. A great state seeks only to unite with and care for others; a small state seeks only to join a great state and serve it. Since both can have their wishes fulfilled, the great state above all should humble itself.

Those who govern the realm should make calmness and humility their guiding principles. They must not rely on force alone to prevail. The rivers and seas lie low, so all streams flow toward them and join them. A great state is likewise a place toward which people throughout the realm look and gather. It should therefore be like a stream in a low place: the meeting point of all under heaven, able to contain filth and exclude nothing. It should also be like the “female” of the realm—the receptive, yielding side—empty, calm, and able to receive.

Among living things, the female is called “female” and the male “male.” The commentator holds that the male is active and the female still. Agitation makes it hard to bring forth life; only settled stillness can nurture and give birth. Thus the female overcomes the male through stillness. This serves as a metaphor for the virtue of the sage. The sage becomes the “female” of the realm because the people depend on their rulers for food and clothing, receive rank and stipends from them, and bring all the realm’s affairs before them. The ruler’s way should be to govern through Wuwei (non-action), allowing the people to fulfill their wishes and grow in their own way. All things depend on it, yet it is never exhausted—just as the female overcomes the male through stillness.

Stillness is where all activity ultimately returns, so one should take the lower position. A great state treats a small state as small; a small state serves a great one. Both must rely on humility. When a great state humbly treats a small one, it is like a mother raising a child. When a small state humbly serves a great one, it is like a child serving its mother. When their intentions are in harmony, they can readily accept one another, as easily as picking something up. Yet a great state must show forbearance in its humility toward a small one, and a small state must show restraint in serving a great one. If neither acts recklessly, they can associate and come into accord. What a great state seeks is simply to unite and care for the people; without forbearance, it cannot achieve greatness. What a small state seeks is simply to attach itself to and serve another state; without restraint, it cannot accomplish this. Once both have obtained what they seek, the great state in particular should remain humble. Its position is already high, which makes humility harder for it; that is why Laozi urges it especially to do so.

Laozi saw that the feudal lords of his time devoted themselves to warfare, relying on force instead of virtue. They knew only reckless action and did not understand how to preserve stillness. They saw only how difficult it was to make others submit, and failed to realize that humility was the simplest means. These words express his concern about the state of the world in his day.

Chapter Sixty-Two

The Dao is the hidden treasury of all things. It is the treasure of the good and the means by which those who are not good can preserve themselves. Fine words can win people’s regard, and actions worthy of respect can earn them respect. What reason, then, is there to cast aside those who are not good?

Thus, when installing the Son of Heaven and appointing the Three Dukes—the highest officials who assisted the ruler in ancient times—even if someone were to lead the way with a ceremonial jade disc held in both hands, followed by a team of four horses, this would be worth less than sitting quietly and offering the Great Dao. Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? Was it not because seeking it brought gain, and even those who had committed offenses could find release through it? That is why the Dao is the most precious thing in the world.

The Dao is most precious, so people are urged to seek it earnestly. Even if someone presents a great jade disc held in both hands, accompanied by a chariot drawn by four horses, it is no match for sitting quietly and cultivating the Great Dao. Why did the ancients value the Dao? Was it not because those who seek the Dao can attain it, and even those who have committed offenses may thereby be pardoned? Thus, the Dao is the most precious thing under Heaven.

The Dao is the fundamental root hidden deep within all things. The word “hidden” originally referred to the southwest corner of a house. Every house has such a secluded, shadowy corner; people live in the house, yet may not know it. The Dao is the same: it exists within all things and runs through daily life. People follow the Dao every day, often without realizing it.

Since the Dao exists within all things, we can understand that human nature is originally the same in everyone. People differ in good and evil because their customs and habits have become skewed in different ways, not because their underlying natures are fundamentally different. When good people attain the Dao, they treasure it. Even evil people, though they have lost the Dao, still depend on it to sustain their lives. Without the Dao to sustain them, they would be like roof tiles and stones, devoid of feeling and awareness. This shows that the fundamental principle in people is originally the same, just as the natures of Yao and Shun were the same as those of ordinary people. From this, we can see that no one under Heaven should be wholly cast aside.

A fine saying can bring benefit; a worthy deed can earn respect. The Great Dao is, of course, far more precious than a good saying or an act that wins praise. People already possess the Dao in full, lacking not even the slightest part of it. Even an unkind person, then, has no reason to be rejected.

An old saying tells us that when an emperor is appointed and the Three Dukes—the high officials who assist him—are installed, even if someone presents a great jade disc accompanied by a chariot drawn by four horses, this is no match for sitting quietly and cultivating the Dao. Laozi explains that the positions of emperor and Three Dukes are not truly noble, and jade discs and teams of four horses are not truly glorious. None compares with sitting quietly and advancing in the Great Dao.

Why is the Dao so precious? Because those who seek it can attain it, and even those who are guilty may thereby be pardoned. Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang were emperors, yet could not escape execution. The Four Evildoers held high positions, yet could not avoid punishment. They possessed jade discs and teams of four horses, but still could not escape their offenses. Boyi and Shuqi remonstrated with King Wu of Zhou, who did not raise an army to harm them. Chaofu and Xuyou scorned the position of emperor and were not punished. Is this not because those who attain the Dao may be pardoned even when guilty? How much more, then, can a single thought of returning to one’s original nature instantly dispel all manner of wrongdoing? If one can attain the Great Dao, one can transcend the ordinary world at once. Thus, the Dao is the most precious thing under Heaven.

Chapter 63

Act with Wuwei (non-action), handle affairs without causing disturbance, and savor things with a mind free of strong flavor. Deal with great and small matters, with many matters and few, in this way. Respond to resentment with De (Virtue/Power).

Plan for difficult undertakings by starting where they are easy; accomplish great undertakings by starting where they are small. The difficult tasks under Heaven must begin with what is easy; the great undertakings under Heaven must begin with what is small. Therefore, the sage never thinks of himself as doing anything great, and is thus able to accomplish great things.

Those who make promises lightly often find it hard to keep them; those who think matters too easy often encounter greater difficulties. The sage therefore always takes difficulties seriously and plans from what is easy; he begins with what is small to accomplish what is great. In this way, the difficult and great undertakings under Heaven can all be brought to completion. The sage treats every matter with care, and so in the end nothing is difficult.

Things are easy to preserve when they are settled; plans are easy to make before problems show any sign. What is fragile is easy to break, and what is slight is easy to disperse. So make arrangements before things have happened, and bring order before disorder has taken shape.

A great tree with a trunk too broad to encircle grows from a tiny shoot; a nine-story terrace is built basket by basket, with earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath your feet. Deliberate force tends to spoil things; insistently holding on tends to make them slip away. The sage follows the natural course of things and does not act willfully, so he does not spoil them. He does not cling to them, so he loses nothing.

People often fail just as they are about to succeed. If they were as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they would not spoil what they had done. Therefore, the sage seeks what others do not seek and does not prize rare goods. He learns what others do not learn and makes good the mistakes people commonly make. He assists all things according to their own nature and dares not act willfully.

The Heshan commentary says these words explain the essentials of the sage’s entry into the Dao and offer practical guidance for cultivation. “Acting with intention” means using cleverness to force an outcome; “having affairs” means pursuing achievements; “having tastes” means craving fame, profit, and desire. These are what people of the world value. The Dao, by contrast, is empty and free of deliberate action, still and free of affairs, plain and without flavor. The sage takes the Dao as his heart: he gives up what the world pursues and chooses the Dao. So he does not act willfully, does not cling to achievements, and does not prize worldly pleasures.

People think status is great and emoluments abundant, and so they strive to obtain them. The Dao is empty, still, and plain; it seems small and offers no gain, so they look down on it and leave it aside. The sage lets go of achievement and reputation, sets aside cleverness and attachment to the body, and alone joins with the Dao. He gives up what the world considers great and many, and takes up what it considers small and few. Thus he can treat small things as important and regard little as enough.

The principle is also clear in the teaching “repay resentment with De.” Among the hardest things to deal with in the world is resentment. It often begins with a misspoken word or a poorly handled matter. People then bear grudges against one another, and these may grow into calamities that cost lives, destroy families, or bring down states. Some deep-seated resentments even lead fathers, sons, and later generations to seek revenge across the generations. Such patterns of human feeling have been common throughout history, and they seem weighty and widespread.

Yet the sage sees clearly that before resentment takes shape, it does not exist; when it first arises, its cause is often slight. Even once resentment has formed, he does not treat it as something that must entangle him. He does not cling to his own view or set himself against others. When the matter is over, he lets it fade and does not pursue its traces. So even if others still feel resentment, the sage has no thought of revenge. Instead, the other person feels that the sage has treated him with De.

Thus, “repay resentment with De” does not mean deliberately yielding and using kindness to bargain for the other person’s resentment to end. It means having no thought of revenge at all. The commentator holds that this is also what Confucius meant by “repay resentment with what is right.” Resentment may seem weighty and hard to resolve, yet there is a way to resolve it with ease. This is “acting through Wuwei, handling affairs without fuss,” and treating small things as important while finding sufficiency in little. The same holds for everything else in the world: what is difficult has an easy beginning, and great undertakings begin in what is slight. If we overlook what is easy and slight, and only plan around difficulties and exert ourselves over great matters, we are unlikely to succeed. But if we begin with what is easy and work from what is slight, there is little that cannot be accomplished.

“Difficult things under heaven must begin with what is easy; great things under heaven must begin with what is slight.” This means that difficult undertakings start from what is easy, and great undertakings arise from what is slight. “Begin” means to start. The sage empties his heart and embodies the Dao, withdrawing into hidden places. The more inconspicuous his traces, the more clearly the Dao’s radiance shines; his benevolence endures through the ages and remains alongside Heaven and Earth. This is how, by not deliberately seeking greatness, he is able to accomplish great things.

At this point, Laozi worries that people may mistake “easy” for careless or effortless, so he gives another warning: those who make promises lightly often lack trustworthiness; those who regard things as too easy often encounter more difficulties. Agreeing to something rashly makes it easy to break one’s word; starting carelessly because a task seems simple makes it easy to leave it unfinished. Here, “easy” does not mean that a task is truly effortless. It means that the sage can regard as easy what ordinary people find difficult, while treating with greater care what ordinary people find easy. The sage is therefore always especially cautious, and in the end does not fall into difficulty. The commentator says that “you” here should be read as “especially,” meaning “all the more.”

King Wen of Zhou’s caution and apprehension, and the Duke of Zhou’s diligence and reverence—even when no one could see or hear him—show how carefully the sages conducted themselves. The commentator recalls that, as a young man, he read “plan for difficulty through what is easy; accomplish greatness through what is slight” and took it only as advice about handling affairs. Later, when he went into the mountains to study the Dao, cultivation at first seemed extremely difficult. Only after he learned how to direct his mind did he discover that cultivation too could become easy. Yet the difficulty at the beginning is the very foundation for later ease; what is easy now would still be difficult if one returned to the beginning. This is true of training the mind and equally true of all affairs in the world. This is the practical method by which the sage guides people into the Dao and its cultivation. Those whose aspirations lie in the Dao should strive to put it into practice.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Things are easy to hold steady when they are secure; plans are easy to make before signs appear. What is fragile is easy to break, and what is slight is easy to disperse. So begin before things have happened, and bring order before disorder has taken shape.

A tree too broad for two arms to encircle grows from a tiny shoot; a nine-story terrace is built basket by basket, with earth; a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step beneath your feet. Deliberate force tends to spoil things; insistently holding on tends to make them slip away. The sage does not act willfully, so he does not spoil things; he does not cling to them, so he loses nothing.

People often fail just as they are about to succeed. If they were as careful at the end as they were at the beginning, they would not spoil what they had done. Therefore, the sage seeks what others do not seek and does not prize rare goods. He learns what others do not learn and makes good the mistakes people commonly make. He assists all things according to their own nature and dares not act willfully.

This passage explains the meaning of the previous chapter’s words, “Plan for what is difficult while it is easy; accomplish what is great while it is small.” The key to the sage’s way of governing people and serving Heaven is to begin where others pay no attention and are unwilling to act. This is the shortcut to learning the Dao (the Way).

Before an event shows any sign of taking shape, before a thought arises in the mind and before joy or anger is expressed, all is still and unmoving. Good and ill fortune have yet to appear, but this is precisely where their changes begin. The sage is attentive at all times in daily life, keeping clear awareness before a thought arises and never letting that awareness lapse. As soon as a thought stirs, the sage sees and knows it at once: if it is good, the sage allows it to develop; if it is harmful, the sage promptly stops it. This is how one turns back in time. Confucius’s saying, “To know the subtle beginnings—is that not spirit-like?” also speaks of perceiving the faint beginnings of change.

Working before a thought arises is easiest, takes the least effort, and brings the greatest results. That is why the text says, “When it is still at rest, it is easy to maintain.” “Sign” refers to the first appearance of a thought; “before any sign” means while the thought has not yet arisen. The “planning” mentioned here does not mean scheming or calculation. It means a cautious, alert state of mind, watchful and on guard. When a thought has just begun to emerge, good and evil are not yet clear. Even though it is faint and fragile, one must observe it promptly. This is how to bring order before disorder arises.

The lines beginning “A tree that takes many arms to encircle” are all metaphors. A tree growing from a tiny sprout represents how an event develops from its first thought; a handful of earth beneath one’s feet represents the first step of practice. The earlier passage describes working inwardly on the mind; what follows describes acting in external affairs. Ordinary people do not apply themselves while matters have yet to arise. They wait until problems appear and then try to repair them, so the more they do, the more likely they are to fail; the more tightly they grasp, the more likely they are to lose. The sage, by contrast, sees how things stand at the subtle beginnings of change and observes calmly when nothing is happening. The sage therefore does not act rashly and does not fail. With a mind that is empty, still, and clear, the sage does not cling or grasp, and so does not lose.

The sage handles affairs by following their natural course. Ordinary people do not work on their thoughts; they deal only with the surface of things, exhausting themselves and often falling short just before success. They rely on cleverness and schemes to force an outcome. Even if they succeed for a time, their success cannot last, because they do not understand how to follow what is natural.

“To be as careful at the end as at the beginning” means to act cautiously at the start and to remain just as careful when the work is complete. Though the affairs of the world are many, the sage looks to their beginnings and understands that they are not fixed from the outset. When something is about to happen, the sage lets it unfold according to its natural course, without a mind bent on contriving an outcome. Once it is complete, the sage does not treat the result as unshakable or become fixed in rigid convictions. In this way, failure can be avoided.

The passage concludes by saying that the sage returns to the constant Dao and becomes one with it. People pursue fame, profit, treasures, and possessions; they study schemes and clever techniques, become absorbed in them, and cannot turn back. They look down on De (Virtue/Power) and Wuwei (non-action), dismissing them as useless and refusing to learn them. Relying on cleverness and delighting in action, they damage their natural, unspoiled nature. The sage, by contrast, casts off greed and sets aside clever contrivances, guiding people back to their natural, true state. By letting the myriad things follow their own nature, the sage never acts rashly. Zhuangzi’s teaching of inner sageliness and outer kingship has its roots here. Understanding this principle in daily life can lead one gradually into the realm of the Dao; applying it to worldly affairs can also accomplish great things. From this perspective, the achievements of Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were merely traces left by the Dao.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Those in ancient times who were skilled in practicing the Dao did not aim to make the people seem clever and calculating. They aimed to keep them simple and free of desire. The people are difficult to govern because they have too much cleverness and calculation. Governing a state through cleverness brings disaster to the state; governing it without cleverness brings good fortune.

To understand these two ways of governing is to grasp the guiding principle. To understand and follow that principle is called “Mysterious De”—a profound and subtle Virtue. Mysterious De is deep and far-reaching. It runs counter to the usual tendencies of the myriad things, yet in the end it brings the greatest fulfillment.

A sage governing the state should take simplicity as the foundation and not display cleverness to the people. Here, “illumination” means making matters plainly visible; “ignorance” means allowing the people to follow the Dao without being led at every turn by cunning or desire.

The people’s inclinations often depend on the example set by those above them, whom they watch closely. Their many desires, too, are often first stirred by their rulers. Whatever those above them favor, those below often pursue even more eagerly. A sage who governs the people is skilled at guiding them through the Dao, beginning with his own example: when those above do not flaunt their cleverness, keep far from desire, remain still and free of preferences, and seem to take no deliberate action, the people can be content with their daily lives and cease to chase novelty or compete with one another. Cunning schemes then fade, and wickedness and theft diminish. This is the meaning of “When I am still, the people naturally become upright; when I practice Wuwei, the people naturally transform.”

Thus the classic says, “It is not a matter of making the people seem clever, but of bringing them back to simplicity.” The emphasis here is on the word “by.” Earlier, it says, “Everyone has something by which to act,” meaning that each has something to rely on and a way of doing things. When rulers do not flaunt their cleverness, the people are easier to govern. The people are difficult to govern precisely because those above them make excessive use of cleverness. From this we can see that governing the state through cleverness brings harm and becomes a source of calamity for the state; refraining from cleverness and allowing the people to live contentedly is a blessing for the state. Whoever understands these two points can take them as principles for governing.

To understand and put these principles into practice is to embody “Mysterious De,” a profound and subtle virtue that is not easily seen through. Hence it is said that Mysterious De is deep and hidden, beyond the understanding of those with shallow insight. The people’s desires rush forward like fire and are hard to turn back. Only by teaching them in this way can they gradually change their habit of chasing external things and return to a state of accord with the wondrous Dao. An old saying holds that one transformation can bring Qi closer to the customs of Lu, and one transformation can bring Lu closer to the Dao. Yet even this still contains a calculating mind—how much more does Mysterious De?

Chapter Sixty-Six

The rivers and seas can become the places where the waters of countless valleys gather and flow because they are good at staying low; thus they can become the kings of all valleys. If a sage wishes to stand above the people, he must speak with humility. If he wishes to lead the people, he must willingly place himself behind them in his actions. Thus, although the sage occupies a high position, the people do not feel oppressed; although he is at the forefront, they do not feel hindered. People throughout the realm are glad to support him and do not grow weary of him. Because he does not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with him.

A sage governs the world through the virtue of selflessness. For this reason, people throughout the world turn to him, as water naturally flows to low places. The waters of all rivers, clear or turbid, converge in the great rivers and seas. The seas can contain them because they are content to remain below. This is a metaphor for how the sage occupies the highest place while people throughout the world willingly turn to him: it is precisely because he does not put himself at the center.

If you wish to lead the people, you must be humble in your words. “Words” are the voice of the heart. The ruler of the world is exalted as the Son of Heaven, yet the sage meets all things with an open mind and does not regard himself as noble. That is why he speaks with humility. He calls himself “orphan,” “lonely one,” or “unworthy”—modest titles used by rulers in ancient times—and does not use his exalted status to place himself above the people.

If you wish to stand before others, you must put yourself behind them. The “self” is the outward expression of the heart. The ruler of the world is exalted as the Son of Heaven, and the people raise him to the foremost place. Yet the sage forgets himself and cares for others, without displaying his own nobility. In the face of external things and desires, he remains detached and covets nothing; he does not harm the world to satisfy his private wants.

“Burden” means what the people find difficult to bear. The sage holds the world in his heart, but does not treat it as his private possession. So although he occupies a high position, the people can accept his rule in peace and do not find it burdensome. Although he stands before them, they can live freely and do not feel hindered. That is why people throughout the world are glad to elevate him and do not grow weary of him.

Selflessness brought to its utmost is the virtue of non-contention. “Non-contention” here does not mean refusing to struggle with others; it means that the heart does not chase or compete for external things. Because he does not contend, no one in the world can contend with him. Zhuangzi said that forgetting the world is easy, but getting the people of the world to forget you is difficult. The sage can make the people of the world cease to be attached to him personally, and so no one can contend with him.

Chapter 67

Everyone in the world says, “My Dao is vast, unlike any particular thing.” It is vast precisely because it is unlike any particular thing. If it resembled something specific, it would long ago have become narrow.

I have three treasures, which I always cherish and hold fast to. The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is not daring to place myself before the people of the world. Because I am compassionate, I can be brave; because I am frugal, I can be generous; because I do not dare to lead the way, I can become the leader among all.

Today, if one abandons compassion and seeks only courage, abandons frugality and pursues expansion without restraint, or abandons humility and competes to stand before others, one will move toward ruin. If you go to war with compassion, you will prevail; if you defend with it, you will be secure. When Heaven wishes to protect someone, it uses compassion to guard them.

The commentary says that the Dao Laozi understood was so vast it could scarcely be described, yet people of the world did not grasp it. They saw Laozi displaying courage, generosity, and distinction, and took these qualities to be his Dao. He seemed unlike ordinary people, and they could not see any practical use in him. Drawing on Confucius’s description of the exemplary person as “not a vessel,” the commentary explains that the Dao is not confined to any one particular ability or purpose. Had Laozi truly been like a worldly person, he would long ago have fallen into narrowness.

The principles Laozi truly upheld were in fact simple: compassion, frugality, and not daring to put oneself ahead of all under Heaven. “Compassion” means embracing and nurturing all things as a loving mother cares for an infant. “Frugality” means holding something in reserve rather than using up all one’s strength and resources. “Not daring to put oneself ahead of all under Heaven” means letting go of self-interest and not competing to stand before others. Because one cherishes all things, one can be courageous; because one is content and does not readily exhaust everything, one can be generous; because one does not vie to be first, one can become a leader whom all esteem.

People of the world abandon compassion in order to show off their courage, abandon frugality in pursuit of expansion, and cast aside humility to compete for the lead. The commentary considers this a loss of the Dao’s vitality, a rigid and lifeless way of acting. Of the three principles, compassion is especially important: whether cultivating oneself or governing a state, one should take compassion as the foundation. Applied in warfare, it can defeat the enemy; applied in defense, it can make a position secure; and the people will therefore be willing to support the state. The greatest virtue of Heaven and Earth is to nurture life. The sage follows Heaven and Earth, and so places compassion first.

The commentary also points out that Laozi speaks of practices close to everyday life and capable of being put into effect, rather than engaging only in remote and abstract talk. When Emperors Wen and Jing of the Han governed the realm, they too applied some Daoist methods and achieved good results in government. Those who study the Dao will find it hard to benefit from it if they regard it only as lofty and mysterious and refuse to put it into practice themselves.

Chapter Sixty-Eight says: Those skilled as generals do not show off their courage; those skilled in battle are not easily angered; those skilled at defeating an enemy do not struggle against others; those skilled at employing people place themselves humbly. This is called the virtue of non-contention, and also the ability to draw on the strength of others. It accords with the Way of Heaven and has been the highest principle since ancient times.

Here it says that the sage is skilled at placing himself below others. This illustrates the virtue of non-contention and explains the meaning of the “Three Treasures” mentioned earlier: compassion, frugality, and not presuming to be first under Heaven. The main point of the previous chapter is that “one who is skilled at employing people places himself below them.”

The author uses the circumstances of warfare to explain compassion and non-contention. A shi is a warrior clad in armor and helmet; wu means martial prowess. Warriors rely on force, draw on anger in battle, and use contention to defeat their enemies; all three, in turn, depend on a forceful spirit. Yet those skilled at being warriors do not flaunt their strength; those skilled at warfare do not act out of anger; and those skilled at defeating enemies need not contend. This is precisely what the earlier passage means by using compassion in warfare. Force, anger, and contention may seem indispensable in battle, but they can cost people their lives. Thus those truly skilled at warfare do not rely on them. How much less should ordinary people treat them as dependable resources?

When people are arrogant and self-reliant, refusing to place themselves below others, others will not accept their leadership. This is what it means to be unskilled at employing people. In ancient times, those skilled at employing people always placed themselves humbly below others. This is the virtue of non-contention. How many people can one compel through force? When one humbly places oneself below others, people throughout the world will instead come and join them. Thus treating others with humility is the most powerful way.

This is what is meant by “the highest good is like water”: water nourishes all things without contending with them, yet its power is great. For this reason, this virtue is said to accord with Heaven and to be the highest principle since ancient times. Qian symbolizes Heaven, and Kun symbolizes Earth. If Heaven and Earth each remain in their own place, separated above and below, the result is the “Obstruction” hexagram, Pi, as described in the Yijing, and the myriad things cannot grow with ease. If Qian is below and Kun above, the result is the “Peace” hexagram, Tai: Heaven and Earth join, and the myriad things flourish. From this we can see that although Heaven is above, it enables the myriad things to grow below. The sage dwells above the people but inwardly places himself humbly below them. This is a virtue that accords with Heaven, and it is the foundation on which sage kings of old governed the world, enabling the people to live in peace and harmony.

The key to this chapter is to work at not acting from forceful emotion. The earlier passage says, “Concentrate Qi and attain softness; can you be like an infant?” Its intent is to make the breath single and the body and mind gentle, like the pure and harmonious nature of an infant. Upon reaching this state, the body and fixed attachments gradually dissolve, and the mind no longer clings to external things. When one does not regard the myriad things as objects opposed to oneself, there is no need to deliberately place oneself below others; one naturally dwells below them. This does not mean deliberately using humility as a means to control others. Those who cultivate the Way and aspire to the virtue of humility will, paradoxically, become more honored and radiant. How much more so for the sage, who has already reached the state of selflessness.

Chapter 69

Those who wage war have a saying: “I dare not take the initiative to strike; I would rather respond after the other side acts. I dare not advance an inch; I would rather retreat a foot.” This is called “moving as though there were no ranks”—that is, not adopting an aggressive posture; “rolling up one’s sleeves as though one had no arms”—that is, not flaunting one’s strength; “facing the enemy as though there were no enemy”—that is, harboring no desire to prevail; and “holding a weapon as though one had no weapon”—that is, not relying on weapons. Here, “weapons” refers to arms such as halberds, spears, tridents, and shields.

No calamity is greater than underestimating the enemy. To underestimate the enemy is almost to lose my Three Treasures. Therefore, when two armies face one another, the side that meets the conflict with compassion can prevail.

The principle I speak of is easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet few people in the world can understand or follow it. My words have a foundation, and my actions have a governing principle and standard. Because people do not understand these foundations, they do not understand me. Few truly understand me, and those who take me as their model are rarer still. Thus, the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside, yet keeps precious jade hidden within.

This chapter explains that Laozi’s purpose in speaking was to help people understand and practice the principles of the Dao, deepen their experience of them, and ultimately realize them for themselves. Laozi believed that everything he taught consisted of the simplest and least strenuous methods of self-cultivation in everyday life: their meaning was clear and they were easy to put into practice. Yet people often failed to truly understand them or live by them. In speaking and acting, Laozi took the Great Dao as his foundation; his words were not aimless speculation. Thus he says, “Words have a source; deeds have a guiding principle.” “Source” and “guiding principle” both mean a foundation or a governing authority.

For example, the practices discussed earlier—“rejecting sagehood and abandoning cleverness,” “emptying the heart and letting go of the self,” “being humble and not contending,” and “forgetting the body and releasing intellect”—are all undemanding methods. One need only let go of attachment; there is no need to pursue more knowledge or explanations. The key is to let the mind become still. Is this not easy to understand and easy to practice? People fail because they are always applying their minds to knowledge and opinions. Once they stop relying on “knowing,” they feel they have nothing to depend on. What Laozi calls “being without knowledge or awareness” is what people find hardest to accept, and so they do not understand him. Hence he says, “Precisely because I do not take ordinary knowledge and opinions as my mind, people do not understand me.”

“Being without knowledge” was not Laozi’s teaching alone; Confucius expressed a similar idea. Confucius said, “Do I possess knowledge? In fact, I do not. If someone comes to ask me something, even if the person is simple-minded, I respond with an open mind.” This too shows that Confucius made openness and freedom from reliance on one’s own knowledge and opinions the method of the heart. The commentator believes that Confucius arrived at this insight only after meeting Laozi. People called Laozi “like a dragon” because his depth and mystery were beyond measure.

To meet “being without knowledge” with “being without knowledge” is like emptiness joining with emptiness. But to pursue a state of not knowing with a mind intent on knowing is like pouring water onto a stone: the two cannot come together. For this reason, over the centuries, few have truly understood the way of the heart taught by Confucius and Laozi. Hence the saying, “Those who understand me are few.” Whoever can realize this state of mind in the present moment can at once become a sage. Hence the saying, “Those who take me as their model are precious.” “Model” means to follow as a standard—to take me as one’s guiding rule.

A sage lives among people while embodying the subtle Dao of an open and empty heart. Though he spends the whole day interacting with others, they do not notice anything unusual about him. He is like someone dressed in coarse cloth while carrying precious treasures within. Master Yongjia said, “In poverty, one is always clad in coarse cloth; upon attaining the Dao, one keeps priceless treasures in the heart.”

The commentator believes this chapter should serve as the conclusion to the preceding discussion: by this point, the meaning of the Dao of Heaven and the affairs of human life that Laozi discussed has been fully revealed. The chapters that follow call on people to continue their practice in everyday life until they attain deep realization.

Chapter Seventy-One

To know that one does not know is wisdom. Not to know, yet to think that one knows, is a flaw. Only by recognizing this flaw as a flaw can one avoid suffering from it. The sage is free of this flaw precisely because he regards the belief that one knows as a flaw, and so is not trapped by it.

This passage continues the previous discussion, explaining that the Sage is misunderstood by ordinary people precisely because of what the Sage calls “not-knowing.” Laozi worries that people will mistake “not-knowing” for knowing nothing at all, so he carefully explains the difference.

Ordinary people’s “knowing” consists in distinguishing and judging external things; it is a kind of “knowing something.” The Sage’s “knowing,” by contrast, does not depend on external things or stand in opposition to them. It is an inward seeing that is independent and unmoving, a kind of “knowing nothing.” The Sage’s “not-knowing” is therefore not a loss of awareness like that of wood or stone. It simply means having none of the ordinary person’s knowledge based on distinctions and attachment. The state unknown to ordinary people is precisely the state the Sage alone understands. To recognize what one does not know is wisdom; hence the saying, “Knowing that you do not know is wisdom.”

To speculate without basis or make reckless judgments, insisting that one knows when one does not; or to mistake “not-knowing” for the complete extinction of awareness, like wood or stone—neither is true knowing. Both are afflictions of “knowing.” If one recognizes these as afflictions, one can let go of fixed views and stop forcing oneself to know, thereby avoiding the faults of false or forced knowing. Hence the saying, “When you recognize an affliction as an affliction, it ceases to be one.” The Sage does not force knowledge upon himself, and so is called one who “does not know”; this does not mean that he has entirely lost awareness. Hence the saying, “The Sage has no afflictions.”

The practice involved here has no hidden mystery. It consists simply in seeing that false and forced knowing are afflictions, and no longer clinging to them. In this way one is no longer troubled by fixed views, and this “not-knowing” becomes true knowing. Even while discerning things clearly throughout the day, one’s mind does not cling to knowing something. This is the Sage’s own realization, which ordinary people do not easily grasp. The principle may seem simple, and putting it into practice is not complicated, yet people often find it difficult to understand and follow.

The ancients said that the character “knowing” is both the gateway to all wonders and the gateway to all calamities. To enter the Sage’s state of not-knowing, one must first make use of “knowing.” Once not-knowing is realized, false knowing naturally falls away: this is “knowing” as the gateway to all wonders. But if one clings to knowing something and tries to attain not-knowing through it, one only deepens the obstruction of fixed views. This is “knowing” as the gateway to all calamities, and it is precisely the affliction of knowing described here.

In “Knowing that you do not know is best,” the first “knowing” is the key to entering the Dao. Yongjia Xuanzhe, a Chan monk of the Tang dynasty, said, “What is called knowing is simply knowing.” These words are very simple, yet the hardest to understand. Those who practice the Dao should begin their daily cultivation here.

Chapter 72

When the people no longer fear the ruler’s authority, a greater calamity is on its way. Do not oppress the people until they have nowhere to live; do not burden them until life becomes difficult. Only when the people are not weary of the ruler will they not grow weary of him. Therefore, the Sage understands himself but does not display himself; cherishes himself but does not exalt himself. Thus, he sets aside self-display and self-importance, and embraces self-understanding and self-care.

Han-shan holds that this chapter concerns letting go of attachment to the body and its desires as a form of cultivation for entering the Dao, thereby attaining the sage’s state of having no knowledge or desire.

A power that inspires awe and fear is called “might.” The state’s severe punishments and Heaven and Earth’s power to wither all things are both forms of “great might.” The commentator uses “great might” as a metaphor for things that damage life and harm one’s nature. People think that small evils are not worth guarding against and feel no fear of them, unaware that they may ultimately lose their lives as a result. When people do not fear these calamities, grave consequences follow.

People know only how to pursue their desires, believing that this is how to preserve life. They do not realize that many desires actually harm life and should be treated with caution. Those who crave wine and sex may die because of them; those who crave wealth and profit may die because of them; and those who crave food may also be harmed by it. Any craving pursued without restraint may ultimately damage life and harm one’s nature.

People crave things without knowing fear because they see only that the body is precious and life is valuable, and believe that possessing these is enough. They do not realize there is something more fundamental than body and life: “nature,” a person’s original nature. This nature is vast and shares one substance with the Great Void, the boundless emptiness; it is our true destination. Seen from the perspective of nature, the body is like a drop of water in the ocean or a speck of dust in the Great Void: so tiny that it is not worth esteeming too highly. Those who do not understand this and take the small body as their entire destination, believing that this is enough, have a narrow outlook. The commentator therefore uses the scripture to urge people not to confine themselves to the body as a narrow dwelling, or to be satisfied with the life they have now.

Here, “being satisfied” can mean either contentment or letting go. If one understands that body and life are not what most deserve to be cherished, then external desires may harm the physical body, but they cannot harm one’s true nature. Nature is not something that birth and death can destroy. Thus, by “not being satisfied,” one can come to “be satisfied.” The sage understands the worth of nature and does not make caring for the physical body the highest aim. Cherishing nature, the sage is not attached to the body’s value. This is something the sage alone understands, while ordinary people generally do not. The sage relinquishes what everyone else clings to and makes use of the nature that others do not know to cherish, thereby grasping the mysteries of the Great Dao. From this we can see that what ordinary people cling to is often the very root of their afflictions. The sage sees this clearly and does not pursue it, and so is free of such afflictions. The next three chapters also illuminate the meaning of this one.

Chapter Seventy-Three

To act rashly through forcefulness and daring may bring death; to be courageous in refraining from rash action can preserve life. These are two kinds of courage: one brings benefit, the other harm. What Heaven’s Dao abhors—who knows the reason for it? Even the sage finds it difficult to determine.

Heaven’s Dao does not contend, yet is skilled at winning; it does not speak, yet responds well; it does not summon, yet all things come of themselves; it is calm and unhurried, yet skilled at arranging and planning. Heaven’s Dao is like a vast, boundless net: its meshes seem wide, yet nothing can slip through.

The commentary says: Heaven’s mandate inspires awe, and retribution is plain to see; for this reason, people are taught not to take it lightly. “Courage” means firmness of will; “daring” means resolving to act without regard for gain or loss. The “killing” and “preserving life” spoken of here refer to death and life. When people act without regard for consequences and without fear of life or death, recklessly insisting on taking risks, they often end up in a situation where death is certain. Hence the saying, “Courage in daring leads to death.” If they can restrain themselves and avoid rash action, they may preserve their lives. Hence the saying, “Courage in not daring leads to life.” This is the regular course of the Dao of Heaven.

Yet sometimes taking a risk leads to survival, while caution and retreat still end in death. Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, died young, while Robber Zhi, a legendary bandit, lived to an old age. It seems that those who should suffer instead prosper, while those who should prosper meet with disaster. How can this be explained? The Dao of Heaven favors humility and abhors self-satisfaction; it draws near to good conduct and detests evil. If evildoers are not punished at once, does that mean retribution has gone astray? People often wonder about this, so the text asks: “Who can know the reason for what Heaven abhors?” The “reason why” something happens is its underlying cause.

Confucius said: “Do not preserve your life at the expense of benevolence, nor sacrifice yourself in order to fulfill benevolence.” From this we can see that to live while harming benevolence is to be dead while still alive; to lose one’s body while fulfilling benevolence is to be alive though dead. Seen in this light, Robber Zhi did not truly live a long life, and Yan Hui did not truly die young. This is precisely how subtle and hard to fathom the Dao of Heaven is; ordinary people cannot easily understand it. Therefore, even the sages stand in awe of it and dare not treat it lightly. This is what is meant by “to revere Heaven’s might and thereby preserve oneself for a long time.”

The text goes on to explain how the Dao of Heaven operates. Those who go against it will ultimately perish; therefore, one can prevail without contending with others. Its responses are subtle yet mutually attuned; therefore, one can receive an answer without speaking much. Good and ill fortune, blessing and disaster, follow close behind like shadows; therefore, they arrive of their own accord without being summoned. When retribution comes quickly, it can alert people to their ways. When it comes slowly, they may have no time to repent: their wrongdoing deepens, until at last it brings calamity. Thus the Dao of Heaven “proceeds calmly and plans well,” allowing the consequences of evil to follow in its wake until wrongdoing comes to an end.

The Dao of Heaven is clear above us, like a net spread wide. Its mesh may seem loose, yet the responses to good and evil never miss a thing. This is what is meant by “Heaven’s net is vast; its mesh is wide, yet nothing slips through.” People who do not understand that Heaven’s mandate works this way rely on boldness and force to compete for wealth and status. They believe that if they disregard consequences and life or death and plan with all their might, they can reach their goals through their own cleverness. In truth, this is to misunderstand Heaven’s mandate and take the road to ruin. How could this fail to inspire fear?

Chapter Seventy-Four

If the people do not fear death, how can they be frightened with death? If the people always fear death, yet some still break the law and stir up disorder, I can seize and execute them. Who would then dare to do such things? But there is always a power appointed to carry out executions. To kill in its place is like taking over from a master carpenter and cutting wood for him. Those who cut wood in place of the master carpenter seldom avoid injuring their own hands.

Hanshan argues that the previous chapter says Heaven’s Way, though it does not speak, never fails to reward good and punish evil. This shows that those who govern the world should revere Heaven’s Way and care for the people. They should not deliberately resort to excessive killing and thereby damage their compassion.

If rulers do not understand Heaven’s Way and constantly use punishments and force to frighten the people, Laozi asks in reply: if the people do not fear death, how can the death penalty frighten them? People often do not understand what is right. They focus only on satisfying their appetites and bodily needs: some seize things for profit, while others crave pleasure and become lost in drink and sex. They know these actions may bring death, yet still pursue them without concern. That is what it means not to fear death. There are many such people—can they all be killed, one by one? If the people truly feared death, executing just one person who committed an unusually heinous crime would be enough to stop violence throughout the world. But when the people do not fear death, killing is useless and only harms compassion.

Heaven gives life to the people and naturally provides the means for them to survive. Those who do not understand Heaven’s Way or accept their fate, who indulge their greed in pursuit of pleasure and even recklessly commit evil without regard for the consequences, show no reverence for Heaven’s power. Heaven’s Way is clear and will punish evil deeds. Thus, a power that governs killing often acts; rulers need not deliberately kill people with a murderous intent. This is “Heaven gives life, Heaven takes life”: the pattern of the Dao.

A ruler holds the power over life and death and should act on Heaven’s authority to protect the people. If the people’s crimes are grave, Heaven’s Way will surely punish them. When a ruler carries out punishment on Heaven’s behalf, it is as though he were acting for the power that governs killing. Heaven’s Way observes all things with clarity and judges them with due measure. Its punishments follow nature, like a skilled carpenter wielding an axe: the movements are practiced and do not injure the hand. But those who cut wood in place of a skilled carpenter rarely avoid injuring their hands. To kill with deliberate intent is to delight in killing, and this damages compassion. When Heaven’s Way carries out punishment, its underlying purpose is still to protect life. Those who delight in killing go against Heaven’s Way and thereby invite calamity, as though injuring their own hands. Mencius said, “One who does not delight in killing people can unify the world.” Hanshan considers this statement to capture the deeper meaning of Laozi’s thought. Mencius vigorously refuted the teachings of Yang Zhu and Mozi, yet did not criticize Laozi or Zhuangzi; there was good reason for this. These are indeed words of profound truth from a person of compassion.

Chapter 75

The people go hungry because the taxes imposed by their rulers are too heavy; that is why they are hungry. The people are difficult to govern because the rulers’ laws and orders are oppressive and their interventions excessive; that is why the people are difficult to govern. The people regard death lightly because the rulers pursue an excessively lavish life, forcing the people to risk their lives to make a living; that is why they do not fear death. Only those who do not place excessive importance on preserving and prolonging life surpass those who prize life above all else.

This commentary explains the reason for the previous chapter’s statement, “The people do not fear death,” and admonishes those who govern the realm to make simplicity and freedom from desire their foundation. All living beings depend on food to survive. The ruler depends on the people to farm and provide for him, while the people depend on the ruler to govern them; their livelihoods are bound together. Those in high positions obtain their food by taxing the people. A farmer’s harvest is already insufficient to support his parents, wife, and children. When taxes are imposed in moderation, the people can still avoid hunger and cold. When taxes are excessive, the people’s food is taken to support the ruler, driving them toward death.

Thieves often arise from hunger and cold. When the people are starving and have no way to make a living, they may resort to theft, fraud, and other acts; even severe punishments cannot deter them. It follows that the people are driven into becoming thieves by those above them. The rulers first force the people into crime, then use political schemes and laws to punish them. The more stringent the laws, the more thieves there are, and the harder the people are to govern. Even when axes and battle-axes are brought into use—that is, when severe punishments are imposed—the people, having little regard for death, still risk breaking the law.

The root reason the people do not fear death, then, is that those above them pursue their own livelihoods and comforts excessively, leaving the people with no way out; there is no other cause. The commentator suggests that the word “rulers” may have been omitted before “the people’s disregard for death,” which would make the meaning more complete. “Valuing the pursuit of life too highly” means treating one’s own life as excessively precious, attending only to one’s self-preservation while failing to understand what truly governs life. If one understands the way of nurturing life, one will not cling to the body as something lovable or life as something precious. Desires will naturally fade, the mind will grow calm, and the realm will be at peace. This is the meaning of: “When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform of themselves; when I love stillness, the people set themselves right; when I am free of affairs, the people enrich themselves; when I have no desires, the people become simple.” Thus, those who do not obsess over preserving life surpass those who value life above all else. The commentator says that the deeper meaning is difficult to express fully. Readers may consult the chapters “Nurturing Life,” “Horses’ Hooves,” and “Opening the Trunk” in the Zhuangzi, and reflect on them repeatedly alongside the preceding chapters.

Chapter 76 says: When people are alive, their bodies are soft; after death, they become stiff. When plants and trees are growing, they are tender; after they wither and die, they become dry and hard. Thus, hardness and strength belong to death, while softness and weakness belong to life. For this reason, an army that relies on force will not win, and a tree that grows too hard is easily cut down. The character “gong” is read as “gong,” meaning to encircle with both hands. The powerful occupy the lower position, while the soft and weak occupy the higher one.

This commentary holds that the chapter laments how difficult it is to teach people. Those in power should first correct themselves; only then can they guide the people. The preceding passages use warfare and trees as metaphors to explain this principle.

Laozi takes “an open mind, Wuwei (non-action), and not daring to take the lead” as the foundation of teaching. He esteems softness and weakness and opposes hardness and strength. “The strong and hard are companions of death; the soft and weak are companions of life” uses people and plants to make the point: in warfare, only by remaining vigilant and never underestimating the enemy can one preserve the army and defeat an opponent. A tree thrives when its branches are supple and its interior remains open and unobstructed. When its branches grow thick and hard, it loses its vitality. From this we can see that those who remain vigilant, open-minded, gentle, and receptive to others are fit to stand above the people. The stubborn and self-willed, who flaunt their strength and insist on taking action, will ultimately lose their vitality. This is a principle worth heeding.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The movement of Heaven’s Dao is like drawing a bow: when the string is pulled too high, it is pressed down; when it is pulled too low, it is raised. Where there is excess, some is taken away; where there is not enough, some is added. Heaven’s Dao reduces what is in excess and replenishes what is insufficient. The ways of the human world are the opposite: they often take from those who have too little and give to those who already have plenty.

Who can take what they have in excess and offer it to the world? Only one who has the Dao. Thus the sage acts without claiming credit, and completes the work without taking possession of its merit. Does the sage do this because they do not wish to display their own virtue?

[Commentary] This explains the mysteries of Heaven’s Dao, showing how sages model themselves on it to arrange and make use of things.

A bow naturally has excess height and strength in its back, while its tips are low and weak, so it cannot be used when unstrung. When the bow is drawn to shoot, its high part is pressed down and its low part raised. The excess strength in the back is reduced, and the weakness at the tips is made up. Once the upper and lower parts are balanced, the archer can hit the target. Otherwise, even famous archers such as Yang Youji and Feng Meng would have no chance to display their skill.

Heaven’s Dao works the same way. It gives without taking, continually reducing what is in excess within the single Qi and making up what is lacking among the myriad things, so that all sides are brought into harmony and balance. Thus, the myriad things can grow and flourish. Human ways, by contrast, often take without giving. A ruler makes the realm support him, taking what the people already lack to meet one person’s excess needs. When the few are deprived to benefit the many, the people find such rule hard to endure.

Who can take what they have in excess and use it to support the realm? Only a person of the Dao understands that what lies within one’s proper share is already enough, and that everything beyond the body can be regarded as excess. Thus, although Yao and Shun possessed the realm, they did not claim it as their own. They used what they had to nourish the people, reducing the excess of the few and making up for the insufficiency of the many. In this way, they could use what was abundant to supply what was lacking.

Therefore, the sage becomes one with the Dao and walks alongside Heaven’s Dao. He models himself on Heaven’s Dao to arrange and make use of things: he acts, yet does not rely on his own abilities; he brings things to completion, yet does not claim the credit. This is bringing “reduction” to its utmost. Because he reduces to the utmost, people throughout the realm are glad to choose him and do not grow weary of him. Even if he has no wish to display his virtue, people naturally regard him as wise. This kind of increase is achieved through reduction. That is why it is said, “Only Heaven is great, and only Yao could model himself on Heaven.” This is precisely what the saying means.

Chapter 78

Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet nothing can surpass it in striking what is hard and strong, for nothing can take its place. The soft can overcome the hard, and the weak can overcome the strong. Everyone in the world knows these truths, but few can put them into practice.

Thus the sage says, “One who can bear a nation’s humiliation is worthy to be its ruler; one who can bear the realm’s calamities is worthy to be the ruler of the realm.” These words may sound paradoxical, but they mean that a ruler deserves the title only if he can shoulder the nation’s humiliation and calamities.

This commentary summarizes the text’s praise of softness throughout, urging people to understand this principle and put it into practice.

In “nothing can surpass it,” “surpass” means to take lightly or treat as easy. The Zuo Tradition says, “An army must not take its enemy lightly”; “lightly” is used in the same sense here. If an army appears weak, its enemy can easily assess and underestimate it, then seize the opportunity to win. Water appears soft and weak, yet people cannot fathom it, so they cannot take it lightly; in the end, no one can defeat it. Thus, when seeking to overcome hard and powerful things, nothing is more effective than softness. “Nothing can come before it” means that no method can surpass it.

People generally think softness is not worth valuing and often look down on it. Although everyone in the world has heard of the principle of softness, few can put it into practice, because they regard softness as shameful and dishonorable. Here, “auspicious” means good and fortunate. For example, people often praise a ruler as strong, decisive, and energetic, believing this is what makes a wise ruler. As for Wuwei (non-action), people often consider it shameful and lacking in honor.

So the sage says: If someone can hold a high position with a soft and yielding attitude, govern calmly and modestly through Wuwei, and bear the shame and disgrace of an entire state, that person is its true sovereign. If someone can bear the reputation that people under Heaven consider dishonorable, that person is a wise ruler of all under Heaven. When Yao governed the world naturally, with his robes hanging loose and his hands folded, an old man in the countryside once sang, “What have the emperor’s power and authority to do with me?” This is precisely how a ruler bears the state’s disgrace while allowing the people to live in peace and contentment. Softness and Wuwei accord with the fundamental principle of the Dao (the Way); it is only common opinion that treats them as their opposites.

Chapter 79

Settling a deep-seated grievance often leaves some resentment behind. How, then, can it be called truly good? Therefore, the sage holds the creditor’s half of the contract but does not use it to press others for payment. A person of De (Virtue/Power) administers the contract by honoring its terms without making demands; a person without De oversees collection and insists on payment. The Way of Heaven shows no favoritism, yet it always aids the good.

[Commentary by Hanshan] This passage says that when sages bestow kindness, they seek nothing in their hearts: they give without asking for anything in return. It is directed at people of that time who weighed every matter in terms of self-interest.

Kindness and resentment often give rise to one another: kindness may provoke resentment, and resentment may also lead to kindness. At that time, feudal lords held grudges against one another, and hegemonic rulers convened alliances to bring the sides to terms. Even when a great resentment had been settled, demanding repayment could stir it up again if no repayment came, leaving a fresh cause for discord. Zhuangzi said, “There is no greater calamity than deliberately practicing Virtue.” How, then, could doing good be treated as a debt that must be repaid? Sages bestow Virtue without seeking repayment; they simply give and make no claim in return.

“Like a lender holding the left half of a contract” means that the lender holds the left half of a loan document, yet behaves as though he does not have it. In ancient times, loan documents were divided into left and right halves. The person who lent the goods held the right half, while the owner held the left, and the halves served as proof when repayment was demanded. The phrase “the virtuous person administers the contract” means that a person of Virtue is like someone who holds a contract but only gives and makes no claim: though the proof is in hand, he does not use it to collect a debt.

“The person without Virtue administers the tax levy” means that such a person is like an official in charge of the chet tax system of the Zhou dynasty: regardless of whether the people have anything left over, he collects the tax due. “Chet” was the Zhou dynasty’s tax system; when the time came to collect, taxes were taken from the people.