《道德指归论》

The Daode zhigui lun (Discourses on the Pointers to Dao and De) is in six juan and is traditionally attributed to Yan Zun of the Han dynasty. Sui-dynasty catalogues recorded it in eleven juan, while the Old and New Tang Histories list Yan Zun's Laozi zhigui in fourteen juan and Feng Kuo's annotated edition in thirteen juan, with no mention of forty juan. The figure in the Dushu zhi (Record of Reading) may therefore be the result of transposed characters in transmission.

The version in circulation today was first printed by Hu Zhenheng. Its printing blocks later passed to Mao Jin, who included it in the Jindai mishu (Secret Library of the Jindai Studio), where it survives in only six juan. Qian Zeng reports that he obtained a manuscript copy from Qian Shubao containing juan seven through thirteen, with a general preface at the front and four further chapters at the end, all of which have since been lost. He also quotes a preface by Gushenzi stating that the Daode zhigui lun had already lost half its text during the Chen and Sui periods, and that only the chapters discussing De had survived. The six-juan edition printed in Jiaxing in recent times differs greatly from what this preface describes, and the Hu Zhenheng edition was probably based on the Jiaxing edition.

In the preface to his Yuanyu waibian, Cao Xuezhao argued that the recently published Daode zhigui lun attributed to Yan Junping was a forgery made by someone from the Wu region. Examination of the relevant materials also reveals many doubts. The Wenxian tongkao (General Survey of Literature), citing Chao Gongwu, notes that the chapter divisions of this work differ considerably from other editions. For instance, the final seventeen characters of the chapter on "bending and being whole" (qu ze quan) have been moved to the beginning of the following chapter. The postscript to the Daode jing zhigui also refers to the scripture text, yet the surviving work does not include it, so the two do not share the same format.

Furthermore, the Gushenzi commentary edition recorded by Chao Gongwu is in thirteen juan, and no mention is made of its being incomplete. Yet the Gushenzi preface attached to the present work claims that half had been lost during the Chen and Sui periods. If the upper scripture had already been lost, why does this work preserve a separate chapter, the "Shuo mu" (Explaining the Items)? Some passages from the Zhuangzi quoted in the book cannot be found in the received text, and the material Yan Zun drew upon should not have consisted entirely of the portions that Xiang Xiu and Guo Xiang later discarded. These phenomena all contradict the existing records.

On this basis, one may conjecture that after Yan Zun's book was lost, someone read Wu Cheng's postscript to his commentary on the Daodejing, which states that "Zhuang Junping transmitted seventy-two chapters," and then fabricated a table of contents of forty chapters for the upper scripture and thirty-two for the lower. Moreover, since Han-dynasty catalogues recorded the Zhuangzi as having fifty-two chapters while the present text has only thirty-three, the forger also produced large numbers of Zhuangzi sentences and attached them to supposedly lost chapters. The forger probably never saw Chao Gongwu's record, which is why the spurious Gushenzi preface contains such obvious contradictions.

Viewed in this light, Cao Xuezhao's suspicion is not without foundation, whereas Qian Zeng's analysis dwells only on details and fails to grasp the root of the problem. Nevertheless, the views expressed in this book are not entirely without merit. It may be the work of a later writer of some literary talent who issued it under Yan's name, and so it is still included in the catalogue as a record of a Daoist work. In the third month of the forty-fifth year of the Qianlong reign (1780), the compilers received imperial orders to collate and revise it. The chief compilers were Ji Yun, Lu Xixiong, and Sun Shiyi, and the chief collator was Lu Fubi.

The commentaries on the Daode Zhigui Lun number some dozens, and only Heshang Gong's is the most famous. In terms of date, however, none predates Yan Junping. Yan lived during the reigns of Emperors Yuan and Cheng of the Han and was a contemporary of Yang Ziyun. He lived in seclusion, declined office, and earned his living by divination. His command of the Dao arts was profound and his learning broad. He was skilled at discerning and probing subtle principles, and his discourse was unhurried and far-reaching. He could almost perceive transformations, trace the past, and foretell the future. He consulted with ghosts and spirits and had yin and yang at his command. His learning accorded with that of Laozi, so he drew on the chapters of the Laozi to elucidate their underlying purport.

He held that the Dao begins from non-being (wu). Non-being within non-being gives rise to being, and the beginning that has never begun is the Taishi (the Great Beginning, the primal source of all things). Its substance is originally formless, so it can only be called emptiness. Since it has not yet begun, there is no way to discern its endpoint. Precisely because it has no boundary, it pervades everything. When emptiness reaches its utmost, where could there be any exhaustion? Tracing the generation of the myriad things, what first appears is utmost softness. Weakness is the beginning of life, while strength is the force that manifests after life has taken form. Things that seek to be full and great must first begin from emptiness and softness. Softness is the root, and to hold to the initial state is to accord with the Heavenly Dao.

Thus, the Heavenly Dao descends, and the Earthly Dao occupies the low place. Rivers, deep valleys, and lakes contain the waters because they are empty and lower than everything else. Kings and lords who humble themselves and take the lower place thereby reveal their nobility. They make the low into the high and the last into the first. They cast off extravagance and arrogance, set aside self-pride, understand strength, and yet hold to weakness. This holds whether one governs a state or cultivates oneself. Calamity is thereby kept away and blessings are preserved. Such continuity makes one a standard for all under heaven. Accumulating constantly, returning early to the root, perceiving the elusive and indistinct Dao, practicing wuwei (non-action), and not acting recklessly: in this way, Heaven and Earth bring the myriad things to completion, and all things grow together. Such a person nourishes the world and benefits all under heaven, yet claims no merit and seeks no personal name, nor does he wear down his own spirit. Therefore his influence endures for ten thousand generations. This is the purport that Yan Junping elucidated, and it is also the essential meaning of Laozi's thought.

People have always interpreted Laozi according to their own inclinations. Some explain "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong" as military strategy, using it to justify treacherous and cunning tactics. Some explain "treating the myriad things as straw dogs" (straw dogs were made for sacrifice and discarded afterward, here a metaphor for letting all things follow their own nature) as the harsh politics of Shen Buhai and Han Feng, who advocated discarding sagacity and wisdom to keep the common people ignorant. Some explain quiet non-action as the teaching of Gai Gong, who held to constant norms so that the state would be stable and unified, as was the governance of Cao, the Chancellor, in assisting the Han. Still others explain "the valley spirit does not die" (the valley, a metaphor for the Dao, which is empty and still yet unceasingly generative) as the pursuit of immortality and longevity techniques. They trace its origin to Laozi, the Archivist of the Pillar, and, together with the writings of Master Guanyin, it became the school of Neo-Daoist (xuanxue) pure conversation.

Yet all these views are only tributaries of Laozi's thought, not its complete form. Could Laozi have foreseen that later generations would interpret his teaching in this way? Even the Six Classics have been taken as pretexts for rebellion. Zhuangzi praised the great true persons of antiquity, yet he did not attach his own teaching to Laozi's name. Today, to place Yan Junping alongside Liezi and Zhuangzi would still be hardly appropriate, let alone those commentators who each set up their own doctrines. A slight deviation can produce a great gap. How, then, could one understand his teaching merely through the glossing of words and phrases?

Yan Junping's writings resemble those of hermits such as Sima Jizhu. They both held the Great Dao in their breasts without taking office, and they lived peacefully in mountain forests. They spoke above of the Heavenly Dao, recorded below the geography of the earth, and examined human affairs in between. They probed the subtle matters of antiquity, examined later developments, broadly observed the conditions of the myriad things, fathomed deep and obscure principles, recorded omens not yet manifest, and understood the affairs of ordinary people. When Song Zhong and Jia Yi heard Yan Junping's words, both composed their minds, bowed over the carriage rail, and listened with bated breath. Master Yan, meanwhile, set the divining stalks (the instruments of divination) straight in his fortune-telling stall and discoursed freely on the Great Dao. During Wang Mang's disorder, he kept to his integrity and did not change. He did not follow the customs of the world, and he remained pure and untainted.

Yan Junping's writing is vast and broad, deep and comprehensive, integrated and clear in its lines of argument. His language flows on in long, unfolding passages, analyzing layer by layer, orderly and coherent, with beginning and end corresponding, gentle yet rich. On first reading it feels familiar; on close study its meaning proves profound. He does not rely on display of talent, nor does he prize ornate diction. Rather, he prevails through the force of reason. Thus his writing is like a thousand-li fine horse that circles among small mounds: it does not stray from its course, nor is it bound by the reins, yet everywhere it goes with propriety and with room to spare. It is also like rivers and seas nourishing the myriad things. They soak, wash, and spread widely, so that people benefit without realizing it. It seems as though the Creator bestowed form upon all things, each shaped according to its endowment, ever changing, with a mechanism difficult to fathom.

Although Yan Junping's writings bear the name of an explanation of Laozi, they form a school of their own. Six fascicles have been lost. Yet the surviving chapters are still enough to leave the reader without regret. It is only regrettable that so little of the work has been transmitted.

Preface by Liu Feng

I once read the Junping Suo Chong Ju, and its novel ideas seemed inexhaustible while its meaning was hard to fathom. Though it presents itself as a commentary on the classics, it forms a school of its own. Six of its volumes have been lost, but what survives is still enough to satisfy, and one need not regret its brevity.

I once read Yan Junping's (Western Han thinker) Zuo You Ming (Motto for the Seat): "Though one walks swiftly, one cannot escape one's own shadow; though a sound be loud, it cannot hide its echo. If one can remain silent and rest upon something, shadow and echo have no way to arise. Constantly keeping to lowliness and softness, calamity will not take root." I admired how deeply he grasped the intent of Laozi. Later I learned that Yan Junping also wrote the Daode Zhigui (Guide to the De of the Dao), and I tried to track it down but never found it. In the winter of the Renyin year, Xiaoyuan obtained the book from Zhao Yuandu, and I read it through. The work broadly connects with heaven, earth, and the four directions, probes deeply into the principles of myriad things, examines the movement of Yin-Yang and the transformations of things, and finally returns to Xuantong (Mysterious Oneness, union with the Great Dao). I read it repeatedly and loved it without letting go.

The text often rhymes by shifting rhyme, as if it had been handed down from turtle-shell and milfoil divinatory formulas. There are also lines such as "Without righteousness, without benevolence, within the six directions harmony and natural kinship unite all; without measure, without ritual, within the four seas all are brothers," in which the three lines rhyme from beginning to end. As for passages such as "nameless name" in the chapter "Which Is Closer, Name or Person," Wang Bi once drew on them to explain the top line of the hexagram Kui in the Yijing (Book of Changes), calling them subtle insights. It is regrettable that the book is fragmentary both before and after and cannot be preserved in full.

One manuscript copy of the Dao Han bears a preface signed "Gushenzi" (Master Valley Spirit), without revealing a name. Chao Gongwu believed Gushenzi was Feng Kuo of the Tang dynasty. When Shen Shilong of Xiushui examined the Daode Zhigui, he found that its chapter divisions corresponded to the lower section of the Heshanggong edition of the Daodejing. However, Yan Junping fixed forty chapters as the Upper Scripture and thirty-two as the Lower Scripture. Checking against the surviving chapter titles, two are still missing. Moreover, "Reversal Is the Movement of the Dao" was merged into the chapter "Obtaining the One," "Governing the People, Serving Heaven" and "Square yet Not Cut" were merged into the chapter "Being a Good Scholar Greatly Resembles the Unworthy," and "Cut Off Goodness, Return to Goodness Becomes Calamity" was appended to the chapter "Correctly Governing the State." Read this way, the flow of argument is continuous and the meaning coherent.

The seven chapters from "The People's Hunger" onward are all lost. Judging from the order of the surrounding chapters, together with the two chapters "Governing the People" and "Being a Good Scholar" that were merged into other chapters, the chapters from "Study Daily Increases" onward, along with the seven missing ones, should be counted as the Lower Scripture of Yan Junping's Daode Zhigui. The nine chapters before "Not Leaving the Door" still belong to the Upper Scripture. If we supplement these with chapters from the Heshanggong edition, Yan Junping's Upper Scripture totals forty-six chapters, which means six chapters must have been merged as well, though the chapter list does not mark them separately.

As for the saying "Yin eight, Yang nine," although Lin Xiyi held that it was not Laozi's original intent, it seems to contain an insight of its own. Yan Junping, in profoundly elaborating the mysterious principles and promoting the Daoist school's tradition, also fulfilled his proper role as a transmitter of Laozi's teaching. The above is the account recorded by Hu Zhenheng of Haiyan.

Yan Junping was a native of Chengdu in Shu Commandery. His original surname was Zhuang, which is why he was first called Zhuang Zi. During the Zhanghe reign of the Eastern Han, when Ban Gu compiled the Book of Han, he changed "Zhuang" to "Yan" to avoid the personal name of Emperor Ming of Han. "Yan" is also a common surname, both in ancient and modern times.

Zhuang Junping lived in the middle of the Western Han. After Wang Mang usurped the Han throne, he withdrew into seclusion, keeping himself at peace, and was perhaps something like an ancient Zhenren (Perfected Person). He wrote several juan of the Daode Zhigui Lun (Treatise on the Ultimate Meaning of Dao and De). By the period between the Chen and Sui dynasties, half of this work had been lost, and what survives today is only the chapter "Lun De" (On De). Later scholars gathered its errors, edited the remaining text into six juan, and placed Junping's remarks as chapter headings at the beginning of the volume, hoping to preserve the general meaning of the whole work. This is the preface written by Master Gushen.

Explaining the Headings (Shuo Mu)

Master Zhuang says: In the past, when Laozi wrote his book, he aimed to explain the source of the transformations of all things. He took Dao and De as its foundation, arranged its chapters according to the order of the classics, and used Heaven and Earth as its symbols. The upper part of the Daodejing (Dao De Jing) corresponds to Heaven, and the lower part corresponds to Earth. The yin number is eight and the yang number is nine. The upper part pairs the yin number with the yang number and has seventy-two chapters in all. The lower part pairs the yang number with the yin number, and so it is divided into two parts. The upper part multiplies five by eight to make forty chapters and returns in a cycle to its beginning. The lower part multiplies four by eight to make thirty-two chapters and ends there.

Yang is odd and yin is even, so the upper part is discussed first and the lower part afterward. Yang is great and yin is small, so the upper part has more chapters and the lower part fewer. Yang lies on the left and yin on the right, so the upper and lower parts resemble two opposing faces: one turns over as it comes, the other turns over as it goes. They move back and forth, interlocking, and in the end merge into one body. Within the deep and chaotic darkness, Dao occupies the central position. The chapters repeatedly list matching verifications to reveal the threads running through them.

The lower part is like a gate, and the upper part is like a doorway. A wise person who sees the efficacy that the scripture displays can then understand the numerical patterns of Heaven and Earth, the governing principles of yin and yang, and the relations between husband and wife, father and son, and ruler and minister. From this, they can comprehend the generation and transformation of all things and the order that governs them.

Chapter on the Highest De Is Not De (Shang De Bu De Pian)

The root of all things under heaven and earth is the Dao (the Way), which is the origin and foundation of the myriad things. De (Virtue) is the beginning of the myriad things, shenming (spiritual brightness) is their basis, and Taihe (Great Harmony, the most harmonious state of heaven, earth, and the myriad things) is their ancestral source. The Dao has depth and shallowness, De has thickness and thinness, shen and qi have clarity and turbidity, and harmonious qi has higher and lower grades. Clear qi rises to form heaven, and turbid qi congeals to form earth. Yang qi forms men, and yin qi forms women. The qi that each being receives varies in abundance. Natures range from pure to coarse, lifespans from long to short, dispositions from fine to ugly, and minds from broad to narrow. Thus some become petty people, and some become gentlemen. As the myriad things change and divide, each takes a different form, and so there are those who cultivate the Dao, those who cultivate De, those who practice benevolence (ren), those who uphold righteousness (yi), and those who observe ritual propriety (li).

What, then, distinguishes the conduct of these people, and why do they bear different names? Zhuangzi says: one who is empty and still, who awakens the myriad things, is called a "person of the Dao" (daoren). One who is pure and accords with things, and who can do anything, is called a "person of De" (deren). One who loves all things broadly and extends favor widely is called a "benevolent person" (renren). One who distinguishes names from realities and acts appropriately is called a "righteous person" (yiren). One who is humble and yielding, reverent and guarding harmony, is called a "person of ritual" (liren).

These five kinds of people all delight in nourishing life, honoring abundant virtue, and cherishing good reputation. Each brings his own intelligence and talents into play, follows the direction in which he excels, and moves toward the place where he feels at ease. The paths they take differ, some converging and some opposing. Their virtue is high or low, their ages rise or fall, their customs vary, and the natures and fates of the people are not the same. Therefore some rulers dwelt in obscure depths and left no name. Some were so unformed and undifferentiated that they were called Huang (Sovereign). Some were so vast and boundless that they were called Di (Emperor). Some were so open and clear that they were called Wang (King). Some had far-reaching fame and uneven influence and were called Ba (Hegemon). These names can only roughly describe the conditions of the world.

In truth, a Ba is not necessarily a true Ba, and Wang, Di, and Huang are not necessarily true Wang, Di, and Huang. There is existence that is not absolute existence, and there is non-existence that is not absolute non-existence. Transformations are countless and cannot be calculated, and they cannot all be named. Those rulers who, after dynasties changed, were enthroned as kings and performed the Fengshan sacrifices on Mount Tai (rites by which sovereigns reported to heaven and earth) numbered seventy-two. Among those whose traces are blurred and unrecognizable, there are even more, beyond counting. Is this because their natures and fates differed, and their achievements and reputations were not the same? It is not so.

Therefore, the ruler of the highest virtue embodies the Dao, holds the spirit-brightness within, and moves along with the transformations of the myriad things. His De operates in subtle obscurity. The world honors him, yet few perceive his deeds. His bounty returns to the myriad things, and they all think that everything has always been this way. The ruler of lesser virtue acts according to De. His spirit and qi drift along with the transformations of the myriad things, and his De accords with heaven and earth. Some people in the world see him, some hear of him, his bounty spreads across the myriad things, and they in turn submit to him.

Why is this so? The ruler of superior virtue receives the subtle essence of the Dao by nature and is allotted the pure portion of the single qi by destiny. His nature accords with what is natural, and his feelings and intentions accord with the spirit-brightness. His conduct is in harmony with Great Harmony, and his choices follow heaven's will. His mind dwells in no thoughts, and his will holds no worries. His intelligence is profound and far-reaching, and his stillness is empty and void. When he acts, he seems formless. When he is at rest, he seems never to have been born. His achievements are like the movements of heaven and earth, and his conduct is like that of an infant, following nature. He forgets his form and gathers in his will, joining with the Dao. He is vast and all-encompassing, so that no one under heaven can discern his traces. He transcends the mundane world and roams in distant realms. He employs Yin and Yang as servants and takes the ghosts and spirits as counselors. He himself transforms with the Dao, extending without limit above and below, advancing and retreating, shifting and changing, and always moving in step with transformation.

Thus, though he is tranquil and non-acting, his De is full of profound depths. Though he is quiet and solitary, his teaching flows on without end. His grace cannot be measured, his depth cannot be fathomed, his embrace is vast, and he moistens the myriad states. His transformations cannot be matched by wisdom, and his words are not enough to guide the worldly. All the people under heaven receive his teaching and bathe in his harmonious qi, yet they do not know who has made them so.

The ruler of lesser virtue receives the upright qi of the Dao and is allotted the more ordinary portion of the single qi. His nature approaches what is natural, his feelings and intentions communicate with the spirit-brightness, his conduct approaches Great Harmony, and his choices embody supreme virtue. He entrusts his mind to the Great Void and hides his foundation in dark obscurity. His actions are gentle and yielding, and he dwells in calm harmony. He follows the standards and observes clearly and brightly. His transformations are hard to fathom. He responds to things without revealing his traces, and his subtlety is so great that it can hardly be named or described. He acts according to the earth and changes according to heaven, and his bounty flourishes and reaches the four directions. Before his virtue is made manifest, the people under heaven remain simple and ignorant. The four seas are like one family, silent and broad. The ruler and the common people look up and down together, and dwell together with the myriad things.

In such an age, the great Dao has not yet been divided, and the pure and thick nature has not yet been broken. The world seems to contain only one person. Governance follows the principle of simplicity and does not adorn itself. Affairs are only put in order, and nothing is forcibly contrived. The ruler does little, and the people keep to what is plain and frugal. Their customs are sincere and trustworthy, and the world is peaceful and tranquil. They store up water and grass, dress in coarse cloth and fur, make great trees into palaces, and take caves as homes. The ruler is like heaven and earth, and the people are like grass and trees. Everyone accords with the Dao and attains De, calm and without desire. Yin and Yang are in harmony, the myriad things flourish, there are no harsh decrees, and the world naturally submits. Auspicious grains, vermilion grasses, and peonies grow together. The divine dragon and the phoenix live at ease with people. Sweet dew descends, and auspicious winds blow without cease. There is no artificial benevolence or ritual under heaven. The four seas are intimately united, and the people are as close as brothers. They draw near one another without deliberately seeking harmony or reverence. Heaven, earth, and the myriad beings are thoroughly interconnected.

The ruler of superior benevolence has a pure and clear nature by birth, a mind that is empty and still, and a spirit that is harmonious and gentle, and he is able to govern heaven, earth, and the myriad things. He grasps the essentials from the subtlest details, and he uses visible knowledge to perceive invisible principles. He is skilled at nourishing life and cultivating virtue, and he loves the people as his children. When he observes things and responds to change, his reactions are swift, like a shadow that follows its form. He understands the seasons of heaven and the principles of the land, and he distinguishes what is suitable for each person and thing. He opens the people's minds, manages affairs, increases their welfare, and causes the common people to benefit.

He records what is important and does not get bogged down in trifling details. He guides the people through a gentle and harmonious Way, and his thinking is careful and profound, drawing in talented people from all quarters. His laws are even, his commands are mild and gentle, and his measures accord with the times, so that everyone under heaven rejoices. Thunder is not violent, and wind and rain do not come suddenly. Grasses and trees do not wither, and the people do not die young. Birds and beasts all delight in living, and flying and crawling insects each find their proper place. The old and weak wander about in groups, and the strong till the fields and raise silkworms. The people's descendants multiply, and elders with white hair and children losing their baby teeth all live in peace. The ruler is like a father and mother, the people are like infants, and his bounty reaches the four seas, yet he does not claim it as his own.

The ruler of superior righteousness has a nature that is even, upright, and penetrating to the principles of things. He can perceive what is subtle, distinguish benefit from harm, and see clearly. His mind is like a compass, with a standard, and his aspirations are like a measuring scale, with a criterion. He handles affairs as calmly as water and is as straight as a plumb line. He values the establishment of great achievements, delights in initiating welfare, and dislikes bringing about calamity. He holds the reins of power and responds to circumstances as they change, adapting to his age. He honors benevolence and righteousness and governs the people accordingly. He follows the principles of heaven and earth and arranges for each of the myriad things its proper task. He serves his parents as though worshipping the spirits, and he faces the people as though treading on the edge of an abyss. He widely hears the views of many, and decides matters by the Way of the Mean. He is awe-inspiring without being cruel, gentle without being indulgent, severe without being brutal, and discerning without being harsh.

He traces the causes of things, determines the ultimate outcomes of affairs, and establishes order to govern the people. He advances and withdraws as the times change, and he bends and stretches in accordance with the course of the world. Tasks and labor change as conditions change, and customs are also adjusted as the age requires. His commands are always trustworthy, his institutions are clearly differentiated, his principles are clear and without omission, and his laws are upright without being excessive. He entrusts government to his ministers and reserves the final authority of decision for himself. He corrects what is improper, is cautious in keeping to the Dao, honors good conduct, exposes wicked deeds, and establishes the five punishments (wuxing), with which he punishes crimes.

He honors what is fundamental and guards against calamity at its first stirrings. He makes decisions according to proper measure and acts in accordance with principle. He establishes his authority by following circumstances, and his prestige shakes the seas within. He sets aside private interests, follows the wishes of the people, and makes life convenient for them. He does not demand perfection in small faults, nor does he lavish excessive praise for minor merits. He governs his royal house internally and extends his influence to the myriad things externally. He takes over declining situations and understands how things change, so that states about to perish continue to exist, and lines about to be cut off are carried on. He supports the weak and revives benevolence. A ruler like this holds a fief, and his descendants inherit it for generations.

The ruler of superior ritual has a nature that is gentle and yielding, and a mind that is open and clear, with firm aspirations. In governing, he observes the changes of Yin and Yang, and his commands accord with the four seasons. He establishes guiding principles, regulates all affairs, and draws people's hearts into his net. He honors the ruler and father, restrains the ministers, rectifies the order of superiors and inferiors, and makes clear the distinctions of rank. He arranges the order of elders and juniors and the relations between husband and wife, so that human relationships are orderly. He observes the Way of friendship and the various procedures of affairs.

Affairs are divided into grades. Those who are restrained receive praise and are employed, while those who are unrestrained are dismissed and rebuked. He shows favor and tolerance toward the arrogant and guides the people by custom, so that they follow the Way of the Mean. He accords with people's wishes while harmonizing them through ritual. He restrains desires before they exceed measure and guards against feelings before they become uncontrolled. He leads people into the established order of ritual and custom, so that they do not stray beyond bounds.

However, ritual may also cause people to suppress their feelings and go against their nature. It forces people to do what they do not wish to do, wearies their minds, injures their nature, and burdens them with endless and confusing affairs. Although it can govern a crisis and turn turmoil into stability, it may also allow cunning and falsehood to gradually arise, causing sincerity to disappear, the Dao to be cut off, benevolence to decline, heavenly intent to be difficult to harmonize, and the order of heaven, earth, and the four seasons to fall into disarray. Thunder injures the myriad things, and calamities harm fathers and sons, yet the seasons are not thereby brought into harmony. The world is desolate, yet people still cannot be changed. Bells and chimes play elegant music, yet customs are not necessarily transformed by them. People yield and step back, yet the world does not believe them. Those who promote gentleness and yielding are not necessarily drawn close by the world. Even when ranks and rewards are hung out as bait, worthy men are still unwilling to take office, and gentlemen are unwilling to come. Why is this? Because their outward words are beautiful, but their inner hearts do not practice sincerity.

Therefore, the foundation of a ruler's governance is the Dao. When the Dao is lost, one turns to De. When De is lost, one turns to benevolence. When benevolence is lost, one turns to righteousness. When righteousness is lost, one turns to ritual. When ritual is lost, one falls into chaos. These five were originally of one body, yet they differ in height and in order. Worldly rulers often make affairs turn out in forms they do not truly desire, and they pursue what they ultimately cannot obtain.

The institution of ritual often makes the inner heart contrary to the outer appearance. The outside is ornate, but the substance is harmed. Its branches flourish, but its roots wither. Ritual is less sincere than loyalty, scheming is less authoritative than dignity, trustworthiness falls short of righteousness, and De is inferior to benevolence. Ritual is the most superficial layer of the instruments of governance, and it may also become the beginning of disorder, the cause of deception and falsehood and the occasion for strife. Therefore people establish rites and music, change the calendar and clothing, and regulate the postures of advancing and retreating, so that each action has a fixed measure, and they try to foresee the gains and losses of the future. These are merely the outward ornaments of the Dao, temporary measures used when De declines, partial techniques. They cannot be used to respond to the endless transformations of the age or to the diverse customs of different regions, and so they may give rise to disorder and delusion.

Zhuangzi says: the movement of heaven and earth follows concrete things, things change along with transformation, and transformation has no fixed moment. Therefore affairs cannot be arranged in advance, and changes cannot be planned beforehand. It is like pain, which cannot be rubbed away in advance, or an itch, which cannot be scratched in advance. The five flavors cannot be harmonized merely by measuring with a dipper, and the zither and lute cannot be tuned merely by measuring with a rule. The most subtle signs are difficult to express, and the most refined principles are difficult to transmit. Utmost sincerity and perfect trustworthiness cannot be produced by ritual ornamentation, and the sequence and harmony of the seasons cannot be maintained by fixed standards.

Even if one is intelligent and learned, with a mind full of thoughts, able to observe the principles of Yin and Yang, understand the regularities of the myriad things, and comprehend the Way of ghosts and spirits, examining the heavens above and the earth below, if one constantly instructs the people and intervenes in every matter, one still cannot necessarily bring peace to the world. The myriad things depend on the ruler, just as the spirit dwells in the human body, or as well water exists in a courtyard. Water cannot be made clear by human effort, and the mind cannot be made tranquil by thinking.

Among heaven and earth, the myriad things grow side by side, and peace cannot be achieved by intervening in every affair. Therefore, when a great man (dazhangfu) transmits teaching, he embodies the Dao and embraces De, and his heart is as penetrating as the Great Void. Though he accomplishes his undertakings, he seems to fall short, and though he possesses everything, he seems to have nothing. When he is still, he has no fixed form, and when he acts, he does not proclaim or display himself. He is loyal and sincere, yet he is not aware that he is practicing loyalty and sincerity. He values what is deep, quiet, plain, and natural. He diminishes private thoughts and desires, does not display his dignity, and does not pursue contrivance. He responds to change like a dragon or a serpent, and he does not cling to the surface forms of ritual and righteousness. He returns to non-action and governs through it, responds to circumstances as they arise, and does not set rules in advance. He grasps the subtle roots and moves along with the currents of the times. He advances, withdraws, takes, and gives, bends and stretches, and changes, always in accordance with the moment. He seeks the causes of calamity within himself, and he does not seek auspicious blessings from others through selfish means.

"The One" is what the Dao gives birth to. It is the root of all spirits, the origin of heaven and earth, and the foundation of Taihe (Supreme Harmony) qi. When a person looks for the causes of disaster and error within themselves rather than placing blame on others, they can follow the circumstances of the time, know when to take and when to give, when to yield and when to advance, and so obtain good fortune.

What is called "the One" seems formless to the spirits, yet for the Dao it is real. It is vast and subtle, empty yet able to bring all things to completion. It has no fixed shape, boundary, or direction, cannot be measured by any standard, and is not bound by birth and death or by motion and stillness. It takes emptiness as its constant and stillness as its governing quality, and it pervades heaven and earth so that the myriad things each grow and change. It does not itself make heaven, earth, and the myriad things, yet it enables them to take form. It does not give birth to the myriad things, yet they arise of their own accord. It does not act deliberately, yet they are accomplished of their own accord.

Everything between heaven and earth, with its various forms, kinds, and endowments of qi, receives life from the One and takes shape by following its transformations. The One is therefore the root of all things and the pivot and measure of change. Its name is "One," and it is called De (Virtue/Power). It dwells in non-being, operates through non-action, and takes formlessness as its standard. It returns to the root of the Great Dao, harmonizes with the myriad things, and works through softness. One who guards the One does not lose the root even as change multiplies. One who does not guard the One may appear fortunate for a time, but a state will perish under such governance, and a person's body will be ruined by such cultivation.

In antiquity, those things that obtained the One each preserved their lives by following their own nature.

Heaven obtained the clarity of the One but did not pursue clarity deliberately. It has no mind, no intention, no striving, and no affairs. It moves according to its nature, and so it is vigorous without rest, bright and penetrating, covering the myriad things and enabling them to begin to grow.

Earth obtained the tranquility of the One but did not pursue tranquility deliberately. It does not act through knowledge or desire. It bears the myriad things according to its nature, and so mountains and rivers are formed, hardness and softness each find their proper place, and things can grow.

Spirit obtained the numinous subtlety of the One but did not scheme or deliberate. It follows its nature, and so its transformations recur without end. Although things flourish and decline, prosper and falter, they can always recover their vitality.

The valley obtained the fullness of the One but did not seek to be full. It neither grasps nor gives, but preserves its life according to its nature. And so water and marshes flow together without cease until they fill the rivers and seas.

Lords and kings obtained the rectitude of the One but did not regard themselves as right. They set aside private concerns and attachments, respond to things in emptiness and stillness, and follow their nature. Thus they can accord with De and the Dao, follow heaven and earth, communicate with the myriad things, and bring all under heaven into harmony and correctness.

These five obtained the One, and therefore their vitality does not fade, their achievements are not lacking, their circulation does not stop, and their light is not extinguished. If Heaven acts presumptuously and does not follow the One, it loses its loftiness and clarity, yin and yang fall into disorder, the principles that bind society decay, and the myriad things lose their order. If Earth acts presumptuously, mountains and rivers collapse, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) fall out of balance, grasses and trees wither, and living beings suffer disease. If Spirit acts presumptuously, its transformations lose their order, and birth, death, flourishing, and decline all go awry. If the valley acts presumptuously, emptiness and fullness are reversed, and water can no longer flow together. If lords and kings act presumptuously, the noble and the base, the correct and the deviant, all become confused. Government issues from private desire, officials lose their standards, the people scatter, and the order between heaven and earth is broken.

Thus, although the lives of the myriad things between heaven and earth differ and their changes are endless, their advance and retreat, their yielding and extending, never depart from principle. Those who obtain the One can endure, and those who lose it will decline. How much more so when someone without the virtue of a sage seeks to rule the myriad people, or discards established standards and acts solely on their own mind. Such a rule will be even harder to sustain.

The patterns of affairs among heaven, earth, and humanity often reverse. What is abundant may become scarce, what is lowly may become noble, what is high may become low, and what succeeds may fail. Constant increase brings loss, and single-minded pursuit of profit brings harm. Reasoning from the opposite side of a matter can yield results, and striving intently for something can at times cause one to lose it. Therefore, the wise ruler, though placed above the people, dwells in humility, labors diligently, restrains private desire, and does everything possible to serve the people. They do not consider themselves noble, nor do they raise themselves above others. For this reason they win the people's support and govern the myriad things without claiming the achievement as their own.

This is not true only of rulers governing a state; the principle applies equally to all undertakings. A craftsman who builds a cart and labors all his life does not aim merely at the wood, but at making the cart complete and able to function. Jade and stone come from the same kind of material: jade is scarce and precious, while stone is plentiful and cheap. The worth of things, too, depends on scarcity and abundance. Success and failure likewise depend on whether one accords with the principles of things.

Therefore the sage acts while holding to softness, bending or rising with circumstances and responding to the transformations of things. They do not rigidly fix themselves as either jade or stone, but dwell between the two, neither too much nor too little, neither exalting nor debasing themselves. With the One as the guiding thread and the Dao as the root, they can govern all under heaven so that power does not invite calamity and the myriad things are preserved with boundless grace. They dwell in high position without anxiety, and in lowly position they remain secure. They clearly perceive the recurring transformations of things, return to profound stillness, understand the relation between being and non-being, and come back to the origin of the Great Beginning. By imposing no action on themselves, they keep the spirits from departing. By not claiming all under heaven as their own, all under heaven turns toward them.

This is because moving in accordance with the Dao and following the One accords with the fundamental law. Change often arises through reversal, and harmony and subtle adjustment are the constant way. Existence may turn into decline, yet heaven and earth are born from Taihe, and Taihe in turn is born from Xuming (the dark void).

Those of Superior Capacity Comprehend the Dao

The Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) each manifest themselves across heaven and earth. The ten thousand things differ in height, and qi (vital energy) differs in length. Each takes delight in, worries about, sees, and hears different things, so their choices diverge and their directions of fear and affection vary. The quail and the yan sparrow do not fly high. They run about all day, and their minds dwell only among the mugwort. The great swan soars high, going east and west to reach a thousand or ten thousand li, yet its mind lingers by the pond and marsh. The luan and feng phoenixes soar above heights of ten thousand ren and roam freely in the clear void, yet still feel that their place is not high enough. They stretch their necks, spread their wings, and pass beyond the clouds, sun, and moon, flying far away. They fast for long periods, roam the nine regions, and perch in the eight directions, and only then do they feel at ease. Each of these three birds has a way of life suited to itself, and each takes joy in it.

The boundless deep pools and ten-thousand-zhang springs are where divine dragons return and where small fish depart. High mountains, great hills, deep forests, vast valleys, dense trees, and spreading branches are where great birds, tigers, and leopards delight, yet they are where chickens and dogs find no comfort. Lamentably, among the customs left from the Three Dynasties, the Confucians, the Mohists, and their kind recite the Odes and Documents, practice ritual observances, chant the Ya and Song odes, and play the qin and se zithers. They exalt benevolence and righteousness, revere the ancients, examine past affairs, master the arts of calculation, distinguish right from wrong, and weigh gain against loss. They secure their own lives, seek fame and glory, and pass their learning on to the younger generation of their villages. These are the things that people of middling capacity esteem and that people of superior capacity abandon.

Some sit alone in contemplation, forcing themselves to remember myriad things. Others deliberately fabricate and conceal their faults, pursue reputation with empty words, and fuss over name and reality. They busy themselves with advancing and retreating, rising and falling, kowtowing and attending assemblies, and with the minutiae of etiquette within the gates, all in order to flatter the customs of the age. They bend and tilt with the world, striving to fit the present era. They fawn upon the wealthy, obey the powerful, and seek to capture the eyes and ears of the crowd, winning esteem and favor. This is what people of inferior capacity practice, and what people of middling capacity abandon.

Rules differ, yet they need not obstruct one another. But with natures so varied, who could be entirely at ease with everyone else? Worthies and sages cannot be placed on the same level as ordinary people, and fools find it hard to keep company with the wise. The great person delights in tranquility, while the petty person is often anxious and uneasy. The multitude may not understand vast undertakings, and the great man does not love trivial, hurried affairs. Birds and beasts each have their proper places, and scholars who govern the world likewise have their own directions of return.

Therefore, one who understands the Great Dao sets aside cleverness, cunning, and calculation, returns to genuine simplicity, and roams in the realm of undivided purity. Such a person regards external things lightly, is not entangled by worldly concerns, and stands alone without being defiled. Joy and anger do not coil within the heart, and profit and harm do not touch the mind. They regard nobility and lowliness as one and the same situation, and they treat life and death as a single ordinary principle. Their actions seem to involve no doing, and they observe how the myriad things each arise and each tend toward their own course. Their spirit (shen) is peaceful and still, and they neither deliberately reveal nor record anything. They embrace De, hold qi within, and naturally return to the way of transformation. The sages esteem this, and people of superior capacity strive toward it. People of middling capacity are bewildered by it, and people of inferior capacity greatly ridicule it.

Thus, what people of middling capacity hear is not necessarily the most sublime, and what people of inferior capacity see is not necessarily the most excellent. What they find bewildering and laughable may in fact be the very extreme of beauty and goodness. When one expounds grand principles, elucidates profound insights, makes the natural Dao manifest, and probes subtle and mysterious reasons, people of middling capacity grow confused and people of inferior capacity mock. When one speaks in floating phrases, advocates shifting strategies, pursues responses that change without end, and seeks blessings, profit, and achievement, people of middling capacity agree, and only then do people of inferior capacity feel they understand. This is not because they deliberately dislike auspiciousness, prize calamity, disdain blessings, or favor misfortune. Their nature is simply far from the Dao, and their feelings run counter to it. It is like someone in the Yellow Springs beneath the earth trying to hear and see what lies above the nine heavens. They are separated from one another and cannot perceive each other.

Therefore, the sages establish their teachings by speaking of "being" (you). The "being" spoken of here signifies that the Dao is hard to recognize. Only one who grasps the natural tendency of things and gathers together the intentions of all directions can comprehend it, and ordinary people cannot understand it. Why is this so? The sages' Dao is profound, subtle, vast, and boundless. It is both dark and luminous, empty and silent. The myriad things are born from it; the minute and the immense both lie within it, yet it has no fixed form. Pursue it to its end, and wisdom cannot grasp it. Summarize it, and words cannot exhaust it. Extend it and disperse it, and books cannot convey it.

To advance on the Dao seems like retreating, and to lose the Dao seems like still possessing it. Whoever wishes to govern the world must return to the self. Stillness is the gate of emptiness. Vacuity is the doorway through which the Dao is reached. Tranquil non-desire is the root of the spirit. Quietude is the source of harmonious qi. Restraint is the means by which essential qi (jing) is contained, and subtlety is the skill by which undertakings are accomplished. The Dao dwells behind the formless, yet it exists before the formed. One should abandon the disorder of the world and first preserve oneself, nourish the spirit, accumulate qi, and in this way govern the inner mind. The heart is the master of the body, and the body is the foundation for governing the state. When these are in order, the world responds on its own, as if following its own nature.

The governance of the Great Dao is smooth and unobstructed, yet it appears rugged and uneven. One must remove artificial laws and burdensome regulations, set aside man-made divisions of order, follow the original hearts of the people, and let each of them live as they will. One eliminates superficial ornament, levels dangers and obstacles, and dismantles barriers and bolts, so that treachery naturally ceases. One tears down city walls and removes prisons, so that the people can preserve themselves. One lets soldiers rest and ends war, so that the world becomes a thoroughfare for all. The people of every region turn toward it, as the hundred rivers flow into the sea.

De is as humble as a valley stream. It does not bestow deliberately, does not flaunt its favors, does not seek affection, does not pursue profit, and does not claim merit, yet it does not abandon the myriad things. Its non-action is accompanied by a far-reaching grace. It does not claim the name of benevolence, yet it moistens everything and remains deep. It nourishes all beings, like the mother of the world. The purest and whitest virtue seems as if stained with dust and always appears somewhat fearful. It makes its strength manifest without compulsion, and it exerts an important influence without relying on power. It communicates with creation and is intimate with the world.

It moves in and out between light and darkness. It does not pursue fame, does not chase merit, and does not flee from reputation, yet it remains manifest for a long time. Those who possess abundant virtue are sincere and earnest, and they seem to lack something. Having no fixed form, they simplify their desires and alter their habits, as if returning to a state of innocent simplicity. They do nothing and act without purpose, appearing foolish and deaf. Their bodies are focused, yet their spirits can respond to ten thousand changes. They do not readily reveal their likes and desires. It is as though they close their eyes and stop their ears, existing only in accord with the Dao. To establish virtue may seem like a kind of idleness, yet nothing is left unaccomplished.

To make the people less subject to external enticements, one must not let superficial display cover their eyes and ears, nor disturb their spirits with artificial embellishment. One reduces desires to preserve the people's nature, and lessens pleasures to prolong their lives. One reduces refinement in clothing so that the people do not compete, and calms disordered thoughts so that the people are at peace. Genuine simplicity may seem to fade, yet it becomes the mysterious standard that the people follow.

One uses the Dao to make the people grow, nourishes them with De, guides them with spirit, and harmonizes them through laws and measures. One lets them dwell between heaven and earth, be illuminated by the sun and moon, change with yin and yang, eat water and grain, be governed by the formless Dao, and be connected with Wuji (the Ultimate of Non-being). All the people of the world admire and submit to this, the four seas are at peace, and the myriad things flourish. Yet this is not described as the merit or virtue of the ruler.

The great Dao seems vast yet appears minute, sincere yet seems shallow. The square need not be confined to squareness; it embraces all things. The square can exceed fixed squareness, and the upright is not bound to a fixed straight line. The Dao has no boundary and no fixed pattern. Precisely because it does not cling to square and straight, the myriad things each obtain their place, and heaven and earth move according to their nature. The ruler dwells in the yielding position so that yang firmness has somewhere to return. Centering himself in harmonious qi, the patterns of the myriad things become naturally clear, and he is united with heaven and constant with earth.

Therefore, great vessels are often completed late, for they encompass everything. They transform within the formless and generate where there are no signs. Their operation makes no sound, and their action leaves no trace. Their majesty and virtue cannot be seen, and their achievements cannot be perceived. Calamity sprouts in dark places, blessings arise in the far distance, and both take shape silently. This is called the supreme skill. The myriad things grow, yet no one knows how they grow. They continually flourish, and for this reason they can endure long.

Therefore, the greatest sound is the faintest to hear. Teaching is carried out through non-speech, transmitting the spirit within silence. When one is still and unmoving, the world becomes accessible. When one is soundless, one can still startle the myriad things, and when one is voiceless, one can still make them respond. Heaven, earth, humans, and things come into harmony without prior agreement, like echoes answering a call. The greatest image has no fixed shape, and the greatest form has no fixed appearance. When the Dao advances, the myriad things can live; when it recedes, the myriad things return to dispersal. Heaven and earth bend and rise with it, yin and yang stretch and contract with it, and the myriad things imitate it and manifest it, as a shadow follows the body.

Therefore, the greatness of the Dao cannot be described by any name, and the abundance of De needs no posthumous title to praise it. Its merit, however lofty, cannot be measured, yet the world does not consider it exaggerated. Its grace reaches the four seas, yet the world does not consider it noble. Its radiance shines in all directions, yet it ultimately returns to the subtle and undifferentiated. Why is this so? Because the transforming and nurturing of the Dao begins in non-being and ends at the tips of the myriad things. It exists within what is unmanifest, and it bestows upon the myriad things without claiming them as its own. When it moves, the myriad things are accomplished; when it is still, the world is at peace.

The most empty layer of the void opens up all things and allows them to receive their endowments. It lets things come about of their own accord, yet cannot force them into being by intention. Within the void there is a power of transformation and nurturing, from which the myriad things begin to grow. It brings about life, but life cannot be made like a physical object. Within non-being there is a subtle and mysterious power that allows existence to continue, yet it cannot preserve existence by itself. Within non-being there is also a minute and profound transformation that propels things into form, yet it cannot make things the way an artisan does.

Therefore the utmost void gives rise to emptiness, the utmost non-being gives rise to non-being, and non-being in turn gives rise to things with form. Whatever has form belongs to a kind of thing, and each kind has a root that it follows. Heaven and earth are the greatest things, and humanity comes next. Heaven gives birth to humans because the human body relies on qi, qi relies on harmony, harmony relies on spirit (shen), spirit relies on Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), Dao and De rely on naturalness, and through this the myriad things come to exist. Therefore, what makes Heaven Heaven is not Heaven itself, and what makes a human a human is not the human itself.

How can we know this? The Zhuangzi asks: when the human body decays, where do perception and responsiveness come from? Where do transformations come from? And who causes the beginning and end of life? From this it is clear that being arises from non-being, and substance originates in the void. Between non-being and non-being there is no traceable starting point, and it cannot be preserved as a physical thing. It has no form and no sound, so it is neither seen nor heard. That non-being bestows being upon the myriad things cannot be explained in words. Non-being beyond non-being is the beginning before the myriad things have started, the root from which their lives and natures arise. It has no fixed name, so people call it "Dao."

Dao is the utmost emptiness within the void, and so it can give rise to "One." There is a primal chaos, dim and indistinct, which when still is light without floating and when moving is heavy without stagnating. It has yang without outward appearance and yin without inner substance. It has no boundaries of up, down, left, or right, and it penetrates without limit. It is the guiding thread of Dao, containing emptiness and enveloping things not yet formed. It has no form or name. It is vast and boundless, murky and confused, too deep to examine. It does not belong to sound or color, and nothing can be compared to it. Point at it and there is no direction; grasp at it and nothing is held. It is immense and inexhaustible, cannot be exhausted in words, and is a single unified whole without beginning or end. It is the dwelling place of the myriad things and the root of primordial beginning, and therefore it is called "One."

"One" gives rise to "Two" because of its emptiness. "Two" is two kinds of things arising together, subtle and minute, generating endlessly and changing along with the myriad things. It has no fixed shape. It grows and continues without exhaustion. It is dark and traceless, nowhere to be found, yet it contains heaven and earth, and no one can see its source. It cannot be followed by sound, nor escaped by form. It causes things to exist, and without it the myriad things would perish. Human intelligence cannot reach it, and power cannot command it. This is called "Two."

"Two" gives rise to "Three" because of the non-being within non-being. "Three" is three kinds of things forming together, vast and unified, with no visible form and no audible sound. Its threads cannot be grasped, and its gate cannot be found. It cannot be counted or measured. It is deep and expansive, where clear qi and turbid qi merge and move, and it is the earliest root of heaven and humanity. The myriad things have as yet no traces, only the faintest hints. Their roots connect to "One," and they receive life from spirit. This is called "Three."

"Three" in turn gives rise to the myriad things through non-being. The clear and the turbid separate, heights take shape, yin and yang begin to differ, harmonious qi circulates, the sun, moon, and stars move, and every kind of life arises. Whatever has form that can be examined, and whatever has sound and color that can be seen and heard, is called the myriad things.

The myriad things come into being from the void and are born of non-being. They turn toward yang with their backs to yin, and they favor softness while avoiding hardness. If a person remains quiet and still, without stirring the mind recklessly, the body can expand and life and nature can flow freely. This is because they nourish their harmonious qi, yield with softness, and accord with the formless Dao. Therefore emptiness, formlessness, minuteness, and softness are the origin from which heaven and earth arise and the basis on which the myriad things are generated. The common people dislike these qualities, yet lords and kings call themselves "orphan" (gu) and "lonely one" (gua) in humble self-reference. These qualities are also the source of the myriad things and the foundation of great accomplishment.

Therefore the wise ruler, though seated in a noble position with great power, can place themselves in solitude and lowliness and remain at ease with incompleteness. They do not chase after what arrives, nor cling to what is about to leave. They look at great matters yet are content with small ones, they are at peace in humility, and they delight in reduction. They act without leaving traces and remain still without revealing form. They act before fortune arrives and restrain themselves at the first sprouting of misfortune. They do not act rashly or stir up trouble, so the realm settles of its own accord. They do not cling to what the eyes see and the ears hear, but guard harmonious qi and keep tranquil, so the spirit grows and their conduct naturally becomes upright. They advance and withdraw by constant measure and do not alter the proper Way. They influence the people through De like the wind and govern the multitude. For this reason they receive the protection of heaven and earth, and the myriad things turn to them.

Common people are not like this. They take what they see and hear as knowledge and respond only after affairs have already taken shape, so they fail to perceive changes not yet manifest. They value hardness, manipulate power, create momentum, and try to control everything through many affairs. Their deep schemes take them far from softness and from having few selfish desires. Their actions go against Dao, and their stillness defies nature. As a result their spirit is disordered, affairs multiply, their thoughts grow confused, and their joy and anger lose balance. Before fortune has entered the door, disaster has already arrived, and once the Way of Heaven sets calamity in motion, it is hard to reverse.

When calamity surges in, people are startled into awareness. Only in distress do they speak of humility, and only at death do they speak good words. Even if they wish to reform, they have already departed from the path of few selfish desires and yielding to nature, and they are far from the road of life. In the end they may lose their state and their families, and calamity may fall upon their descendants.

Common teaching aims to turn ignorance into intelligence and weakness into strength. It abandons the hidden and pursues the conspicuous, competes for favor and glory, and in the end dies for the sake of fame and honor. The teaching of the sage reverses this. It makes people not flaunt cleverness or value splendor. It returns the conspicuous to the hidden, the many to simplicity, and the strong to softness. It lets go of scheming and fixation and pursues namelessness, non-knowing, and non-discernment, returning to profound stillness. Different people walk different roads: some preserve themselves, and some walk toward their own perishing.

The mighty Qin and the mighty Chu governed arbitrarily and perished in the end, while the Han rose and prospered through harmony. The overbearing turn away from Dao, and the violent distance themselves from spirit. Those who govern can endure long only if they understand how to yield. People do not examine themselves but blame their fate and reproach Heaven. Out of compassion for this, the sage wrote down these principles so that later generations could understand them. If later ages persistently go against this path, they will ultimately suffer calamity.

Dao-De (the Dao and its De, or Virtue) is the most subtle and spirit-like of all things, and the shenming (spirit-illumination) manifests by relying on it. It has no form or shape, yet it can govern Yin-Yang and regulate the myriad things. It runs through the inside and outside of heaven and earth, and all things are born by relying on it, yet no one can see or hear it. Gentleness is not enough to describe it, and softness is not enough to name it, so the sage can only apprehend it with the mind and call it "the utmost softness" and "formlessness."

Because it is formless and bodiless, it does not become firm through hardness, nor strong through force. It can therefore dissolve the solid things of heaven and earth and pass above and below the sun and moon. It comes and goes swiftly and circulates without cease, yet it remains serenely self-possessed, as if merged into the myriad things. How can this be explained? An echo has no sound of its own, yet it carries infinitely far. A shadow has no body, yet it cannot be exhausted. Water is soft and low, yet it can pierce metal and stone and bear up all things. The earth is yielding, yet it accomplishes great works. The tongue and ears have none of the hardness of horns and teeth, yet they suffer fewer breakages. From this we see that softness can wear down hardness, and emptiness and stillness can master what is solid.

This is not the result of deliberate action but the natural Dao. When a state's territory is small, its population few, its soldiers insufficient, and its grain limited, the ruler may still prevail if their mind is subtle and refined and their desires are light. Such a ruler guards the shen (inner clarity and spirituality), corresponds with the Way of Heaven, regards the people as children, and possesses deep virtue and far-reaching grace. If officials are loyal and soldiers keep their word, if the ruler is compassionate toward hardship and generals keep wary vigilance, and if the state remains humble and yielding over a long period, willing to stand behind the people, then even when it suffers humiliation it can dwell low like the female principle. The feudal lords will submit, and the common people will turn to the ruler as to their parents. When everyone is of one mind, authority forms naturally: the strong cannot bully them, and the clever cannot seize them. Though situations may reverse and strength and weakness may shift, Heaven, Earth, and the spirits will all come to their aid. When the moment arrives, there is no need to force control, and the ruler becomes lord of all under Heaven. Why is this? Because the ruler takes the Dao as their substance, remains soft and humble, and neither covets nor shows off.

Conversely, if a state has vast territory, a large population, abundant wealth, and mighty forces, if its officials are fierce and its soldiers strong, and if its ruler and generals are harsh, rewards and punishments are heavy, and decrees are severe, so that the hundred officials tremble with fear, then the state is in danger. If it relies on its advantages of terrain, despises the enemy, delights in war, rashly moves its armies, plays with statecraft, scorns Heaven and Earth, and forces the lords into submission, its awe-inspiring power may terrify beyond its borders. Although the ruler may appear outstanding, the people will be filled with dread. If the ruler does not take De as the root, they will be cut off from the spirits. When the multitude turns against them and the people do not submit, the state may ultimately perish, and its clans will be scattered. Why is this? Because the ruler clings to rigidity and accumulates stinginess and cruelty.

The Dao reaches the myriad things through "non-being" (wu), unobstructed and not bound to fixed principles. It illuminates the realm of purposive action and also dwells in the stillness of non-action, going out and coming in without bounds and passing through the myriad things without leaving a trace. How can this be explained? Even a sharp physical object cannot enter the realm that has no form or trace. The shen dwells within the body, entering and leaving without seam or aperture. In a single glance, one seems to travel a thousand li. From this we see that deliberate action often invites ruin and fails to achieve its aims, while non-action accomplishes limitless things. Heaven and earth are transformed by this, and the myriad things rise through it.

A sound that has voice carries no more than a hundred li, but a soundless sound can stir things beyond the sky and shake the four directions. What language expresses may not reach different things, yet without words Yin and Yang can be transformed and Heaven and Earth can respond to one another. When De is non-acting, Heaven and Earth are accomplished. When Heaven and Earth do not speak, the four seasons run their course. These are the confirmations of the spirits and the verifications of nature.

Therefore the sage empties and stills the heart in order to seek out Dao-De, calms the breath in order to guard the shen, gathers the hearing in order to observe the soundless, and sets aside visual attachment in order to contemplate the formless. The sage examines the changes of Heaven and Earth and the original condition of the myriad things, and understands that purposive action is the source of disorder, while non-action is the root of good governance, that much speech is the gateway to calamity, and that not speaking is the path to good fortune.

Thus one must abandon displays of cleverness and brilliance, and set aside the deliberate advertisement of benevolence and righteousness, so that the original heart of the Dao is revealed and the function of De is advanced. One follows the spirits, nurtures harmonious qi, lets Heaven and Earth each keep their place, and lets Yin and Yang move and the seasons turn. Only in this way can the source of disorder be eliminated and the myriad things dwell in their proper places. When the ruler is quiet and tranquil, the people have little disturbance. They are taught without words and transformed without contrivance, guided by a formless model to return to the mysterious Dao. The ruler restrains the people's desires, following their nature and their life, so that the people are not governed by cunning schemes and may attain longevity.

When the ruler is wordless and acts through non-action, Heaven and Earth are also non-acting. When Heaven and Earth are non-acting, Dao-De is also non-acting. The three move together and succeed one another. Harmonious qi fills the land, great peace begins to grow, and the myriad things gather under Heaven in mutual accord. The gate of calamity is closed, and the people of the realm become simple and genuine. They are not disgraced, and they do not cling to fortune and misfortune or to clever calculation. Artificial blockages are removed, and the course of nature flows unhindered. Each school receives the protection of the spirits, and people can give full play to their sagely virtue.

In such an age, the ruler is like Heaven and Earth, and the people are like infants, drinking of the ruler's De and enjoying the harmonious qi the ruler brings. Yin and Yang come and go, and the people walk in accordance with the Dao. Though the ruler and the father stand above, they seem non-acting and formless. The people of the realm are at peace and undisturbed, answering one another with babbling sounds like newly hatched fledglings. They live through non-action, do not rejoice at birth, do not grieve at death, and remain quiet and self-sufficient, with long lives. They seek nothing, yet blessings arrive naturally. Why is this? Because the ruler does not disturb the people with words, and so follows the non-action of the Dao.

The key to non-action and the essential secret of wordlessness lie in subtlety and mystery, manifested in the hidden recesses of the shen. It is the beginning of spirit-illumination and the root of refinement. It has no fixed root and no door of entry or exit. It constantly dwells between acting and not acting, and it is the source by which the seasons are harmonized. Therefore it can be apprehended but is hard to make manifest, can be seen but is hard to explain, can be obtained but cannot be transmitted, and can be used but is hard to put into words. To grasp it and put it into practice is, in sum, what is called the "Yi Dao" (the Way of Simplicity, the simple principle of the Dao). It can be explained to people of wisdom, yet it is hard to make clear to the shallow of understanding. Why? Because it is vast and profound, and many have been unable to reach it for a long time. It seems to be on high yet turns back downward, so the multitude cannot enter it. It is distant and expansive, so the people of the world cannot hear it. It is deep and dim, so worldly rulers cannot put it into practice.

This chapter concerns the relationship among fame, wealth, and personal safety.

Human nature is endowed by the Dao and De (the Way and its Virtue), the fundamental principles by which nature operates. Human life is born through shenming (the spiritual and numinous workings of Heaven and Earth), it is generated through Taihe (Great Harmony), the state in which Yin-Yang are balanced and all things are in accord, and it takes form from Heaven and Earth. These forces make a person human, yet a person cannot govern them by his or her own power. For this reason, nothing surpasses De as the foundation for emulation, nothing surpasses shenming as the standard of measure, nothing surpasses Taihe as the broad and pervasive model, and nothing surpasses Heaven and Earth as the most luminous and evident basis. De and shenming give birth endlessly, clear and turbid qi blend together, and Taihe transforms without limit. The Way of Heaven and Earth endures, and the movement of Yin-Yang never ceases.

From this we see that the greatest calamity is death, and the greatest blessing is life. The sage examines the intent of De above and attends to the mind of Heaven and Earth below. The sage understands that blessings such as honor, distinction, auspiciousness, and prosperity are none greater than life itself, and that among all the rare treasures, gold, jade, pearls, and jewels displayed in the world, none is more precious than oneself. What most disturbs the world and harms the state is the pursuit of fame. What most endangers the realm and injures the self is the craving for wealth. Greed for fame and profit impoverishes the common people and weakens the state, throws the mind into confusion and multiplies desire, and even leads people to defy the Way of Heaven and vie with one another in theft. The realm falls into discord, warfare arises repeatedly, and in the end there is loss of life.

The gains and losses that come from fame and wealth sometimes appear beneficial and at other times prove harmful. If, in pursuit of fame and profit, one loses De, shenming will not remain, and when life reaches its end, the Way of Heaven cannot save it. Glorious fame and vast riches cannot be placed on the same level as the true Dao, and to disregard oneself while valuing the interests of the state above all, is still insufficient ground for seeking private gain. To be without fame and without profit is the very place where life finds its rest, whereas the pursuit of fame and wealth may become a trap that harms oneself. Those who cherish fame and profit excessively will strive and toil beyond their measure, forcing their nature and draining their spirit. The more they accumulate, the closer they come to fullness and decline, and in the end fame and profit will also disperse.

De nurtures all things, and Heaven and Earth follow their regular patterns. Yin-Yang divide into the four seasons, transformations give rise to the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), and all things have their own limits that must not encroach upon one another. Creative transformation holds to the principles of harmony and fairness, showing neither favor nor aversion toward any being. It regulates what is long and what is short, reduces surplus, and supplements what is lacking. Insatiable greed and excessive accumulation only invite calamity. If one still does not know contentment, the mind of pursuing profit will keep arising. Deceiving the foolish with cleverness and seizing from the weak through force both disrupt the natural balance. When people alternate between worry and joy over gains and losses of fame and profit, their minds drift and become unsteady. When worry and joy are excessive, the spirit disperses, and one may even die and lose one's name, bringing misfortune upon one's descendants.

Fame and profit relate to life as charcoal fire relates to ice and snow. They are opposite and cannot be held together. To pursue fame while also wishing to preserve one's life and keep one's family enduringly prosperous is something that does not exist in the world. To disturb one's intent and exhaust one's spirit, to rush about day and night, to adorn one's appearance and speech, to worry over the affairs of the multitude, and to exhaust one's strength in exchange for honor is precisely to deplete what life depends upon for its existence. To endure hunger and cold, to be ill-fitted in food and clothing, and to bear humiliation, all for the single purpose of seeking wealth and honor, often results in the failure to preserve one's wealth, while one's spirit and life are harmed first, and calamity follows in their wake.

Therefore, success or failure depends on whether one acts with purpose, and survival or ruin depends on knowing what to discard and what to keep. The person who knows contentment understands the principles and accords with De. They cast aside empty fame, let go of greedy profit, and do not regard the self as too important. They nourish all things without seeking benefit only for themselves, and they live among the myriad beings without insisting on possessing them. As long as one keeps faith and follows principle, one can nourish the spirit in peace. When one's household property is sufficient to sustain life, one can live in tranquility. They follow nature and dwell in emptiness and stillness. They do not allow fame or external things to soil them, and they do not covet what they should not seek, and therefore they can endure for a long time in security.

One who knows contentment, even if they are the Son of Heaven, does not betray their original heart for the sake of power and position. Even if they dwell in poverty within a mountain cave, they do not thereby harm their spirit. In advancing, they do not take glory in prominence, and in withdrawing, they do not feel shame at hardship. They do not deliberately seek good fortune, nor do they fear its loss. They do not contend for merit, nor do they seek to grasp it. Their hearts are as broad as rivers and seas, they penetrate the profound and mysterious, and they commune with shenming. Their actions accord with Heaven and Earth, and therefore they are not easily harmed. Such a person cherishes their jingqi (essence and vital energy) and does not allow it to scatter. They guard their spirit and do not let it depart. Their bearing is like that of Heaven and Earth, and their brightness like that of the sun and moon, and in this way they preserve themselves. Knowing contentment and stopping at the proper time, they can ultimately endure. This is what is meant by: avoid fame, and fame will instead follow you; flee from greed for profit, and profit will instead pursue you.

When Dao and De operate through Wuwei (non-action), the divine radiance (shenming) naturally appears. When the divine radiance acts through non-action, the Great Harmony qi (taihe zhi qi) naturally arises. When Great Harmony acts through non-action, the myriad things naturally each attain their proper place. Some things have no roots yet can grow, some have no feet yet can walk, some have no ears yet can hear, and some have no mouths yet can make sounds. Things of different kinds and varied forms all live by the same principle. A mother loves her child, and the child loves its mother. Male and female complement one another, and the myriad things each honor their own governing principle. Egg-born birds peck for food, and womb-born beasts nurse their young. When birds are startled they become wary, and when beasts are startled they gather together. Yin-natured creatures dwell in burrows, and Yang-natured creatures roost in nests. The momentum of fire rises upward, and the flow of water runs downward. The myriad things sprout in spring, grow in summer, bear fruit in autumn, and ripen in winter, and in the end all return to the earth. None of this is arranged by political decree or moral teaching; the myriad things simply follow their own nature.

From this we can see that if one artificially makes things grow, one may instead obstruct their growth, and if one artificially makes things clear, one may also obstruct their clarity. Neither forcing things into being nor forcibly preventing them, neither insisting on understanding nor deliberately concealing, is how one grasps the constant pattern of things. Therefore, the Great Dao is broad and level and need not pass through gates or doors, and the farther one searches outward, the less one ends up understanding. The Dao lies within oneself, not in distant places. Transformation arises from oneself and does not depend on external things. The myriad things already move on their own with ease. When wisdom does not stir, the sage takes centrality and harmony as the standard and uprightness as the foundation, and governs the world without visible effort. He wanders in the boundless realm and contemplates the pure and tranquil Heavenly Dao with a clear and luminous mind. Casting off the burden of the hun and po souls, gathering jing (essence) and settling shen (spirit), he acts through Wuwei spontaneously, remaining silent yet winning trust.

The Great Dao is profound and vast, clear and open, existing alone and eternally. It seems to draw things along, yet it allows each of the myriad things to keep its genuine simplicity. Its functioning never exhausts, and it is not easily seen or heard. Why is this? Because it is subtle and all-encompassing, taking stillness and purity as its root. Before it has manifested shape or sound, the source of transformation has already been opened by it. It opens up the myriad things like yang qi and closes and stores them like yin qi. It bears all things like the earth and moves like the celestial bodies. Culture and martiality, the hidden and the manifest, each operate in their own way, and the great De (Virtue) naturally differentiates from it. Therefore it appears full yet like emptiness, substantial yet like lacking. It does not ostentatiously display benevolence and righteousness, does not display ritual standards and models, does not enact cumbersome laws, and does not force action.

When those above do not covet, the world transforms of itself. The people are simple and unpretentious, like infants, innocent and unaware of seeking anything, and bewildered as to where they are going. Such governance has inexhaustible effect and never runs dry: without plowing there is food, and without weaving there are clothes. In heat they quietly go unclothed, and in cold they put on animal hides. Without taboos, they live alongside deer, let their hair hang loose, hold food in their mouths, and play together in companionship. The ruler's virtue is abundant, and the people's wealth is abundant. Teaching reaches all things and nothing fails to be accomplished, yet no one sees how it is carried out. Only the profound and mysterious Dao exerts its marvelous function, causing Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things to transform together. A person seems to ride the void, moving with the Dao, traveling through the four seas and circulating through every direction of Heaven and Earth, vast and boundless, dwelling in the utmost emptiness.

Why is this? Uprightness seems crooked, and rectitude seems bent. The ruler is like a sound, and the world is like its echo. The ruler is like a form, and the world is like its shadow. Thus there is no need to go to the outskirts to sacrifice, yet Heaven's intention is harmonious. Without leaving the seat, the four seas are at peace. Therefore it is said that great skill appears clumsy. The Heavenly Dao abides in lowliness. Without establishing a calendar, Yin and Yang are harmonized. Without issuing almanacs, the four seasons alternate on schedule. Without setting up standards of law, the world submits. Without applying rewards and punishments, names and actualities correspond.

Concealing military force and hiding awe-inspiring power, yet nothing cannot be won. Abandoning warfare and punitive expeditions, yet nothing cannot be overcome. Without issuing commands, the people rectify themselves. Without producing elaborate documents, the world becomes clear. Without using tallies and seals, the world trusts one another. Without fixing measurement standards, the myriad things each attain their balance. Being abundant yet seeming to lack, obtaining yet seeming not to possess. Without bells and drums, the people are joyful. Without elaborate seasoning, the people find their food sweet. Without concern for ornate garments and colors, the people find their clothing fine. Without accumulating goods, the people become prosperous. Why is this? Because they follow the Dao and accord with nature, without intervening with cleverness, and the myriad things balance themselves. Doing so is precisely to let the people be natural.

Heaven and Earth move with advance and retreat, and therefore the myriad things are born and accomplished. Transformation cannot be blocked, and contraction and extension cannot be obstructed. When yin qi reaches its extreme, the earth splits from cold, ice congeals, cold winds are sharp, and frost and snow are severe. Fish and turtles hide away, and the myriad things curl up. Even if one stays in a warm chamber near the stove, wrapped in thick fox and badger furs and woolen blankets, one still cannot withstand the severe cold. But if one can settle the mind and gather one's essential qi, moving the body and engaging in labor so that qi and blood flow freely and sweat emerges, then taking off one's clothes and stepping out of the house, the body will feel more than warm enough.

When yang qi reaches its extreme, sand and stone are scorched, flying birds dare not approach water, insects in the water are also tormented, the myriad things wither, and rivers and lakes dry up. Even if one dives into cool springs, wears light hemp garments, dwells in a high, airy place, and takes cooling stones, one can still hardly endure the heat. But if one can dissolve the attachments in the heart, make the spirit pure and still, keep the burdens of the body far away, and let the mind wander in the realm of nothingness, calm and at ease, then one will feel more than cool enough.

Governing affairs and nurturing the living through cleverness can make virtue extend to Heaven and Earth and make achievements accord with Yin-Yang, yet disorder also arises from it. It sprouts from the formless, begins in the soundless, changes with the advance or withdrawal of policy, and spreads along with the development of worldly affairs. When it draws near people it seeps in like damp, and when it affects people it covers them like a shadow. It is like an echo answering a sound and a shadow following a form. The more one governs, the more disorder tends to arise, and the more one rectifies, the more tangled things become. Even the wise cannot fully control it, and severe punishments cannot prohibit it.

Therefore, the one who practices Wuwei is the ruler who governs well and the master who can accomplish great undertakings. He grasps the root of political teaching and follows the source of transformation. Other disorders can be resolved by adjusting body and mind, just as agitation can overcome cold and tranquility can overcome heat. Thus the sage sets aside cleverness and anxiety, empties his heart and concentrates his qi, and responds to change with a pure mind. He follows the heart of the Heavenly Dao and conforms to the nature of the earth. When governance is carried out and teaching spreads, it is like sunlight shining everywhere. When disorder dissipates, it is like clouds and mist scattering. When the world imitates him, nothing fails to be accomplished, and when the myriad things take him as their teacher, each dwells securely in its affairs.

A person's life and safety depend upon the ruler, and whether the ruler can stand firm depends upon the common people. If the ruler accords with the Dao (the Way), the people will flourish; if the ruler loses the Dao, the people will decline. When the people flourish, the ancestral temple shines with glory; when the people decline, the ancestral temple collapses. Therefore, the ruler is the source of the people, and the people are the root of the ruler. When the root is damaged, flowers and fruit cannot grow; when the source is exhausted, the stream cannot fill. Only when ruler and people preserve one another, above and below, can the state endure for a long time.

Thus, when the ruler attains the Dao, the realm is at peace, the feudal lords submit, distant peoples live in harmony, and the customs of the four seas become uniform. No wars arise, so fierce warriors have no occasion to display their strength, and brave men have no chance to achieve merit. Clever and talented people follow the seasons in their farming, and fine horses pull carts and plow the fields. The world is tranquil and at ease; each person attends to their own occupation, customs are simple and sincere, and the common folk devote themselves to weaving clothing and planting food. Heaven and earth are in harmony, the myriad things yield abundant harvests, and auspicious omens appear one after another. This is not because Heaven specially bestows blessings, but because the ruler possesses Dao and De (Virtue/Power).

When the Son of Heaven loses the Dao, the feudal lords no longer come to court, laws and institutions differ from one region to another, and the four quarters rebel. The strong oppress one another and raise armies to contend for power. The weak are reduced to captives, and the strong set themselves up as rulers. The realm then selects generals, conscripts soldiers, sharpens weapons, and lights beacon fires, with signals answering from all four directions. Treacherous men plot upheaval within the court, and schemes multiply without end. The states form alliances, both vertical and horizontal, and light chariots and elite cavalry march out to fight. Soldiers and horses fall dead in the wilderness, and many people are unable to return home for years.

In such times, people prize deception and force, and place killing the enemy and winning merit above all else. The ruler busies himself raising warhorses and has no time to attend to his kin, while the people rush to the battlefield, and those who arrive first often have nothing but beans and grain to eat. Greedy men occupy the posts of chief ministers, and mediocre men gather followers and stir up rebellion. The common people are exhausted, their wealth is spent, and their strength is drained. Corvée labor and military service continue for long periods, and they never gain rest. Soldiers think of their families and grieve as they long to return; loving fathers and mothers worry and sorrow, and their children, far away, are dispirited. Soldiers fall by the roadside, their bones exposed in the wilds, too many to count. Of those who travel the roads, many have become orphans. They long for their kin and, crying out, stamp their feet in grief: "What crime have we committed that we should suffer such calamity?" Wives lose their husbands, young children lose their fathers, and the aggrieved gather together. The eldest children are made leaders, and the older ones are made managers. They band together in mutual aid, responding to one another within and without. They are not related by blood, yet they treat one another like brothers. They bind sprouting grain into banners, dig pits in the ground to serve as war drums, and take up weapons and form orderly ranks, ready to fight at any moment. They discuss how to deal with the ruler, their hearts in accord and their momentum mutually stirred.

Therefore, the yin and yang of Heaven and Earth become blocked, the stars lose their order, the sun and moon grow dim and suffer eclipses, rebellion and deceit flourish, and all kinds of portents appear one after another. This is not Heaven sending down disaster, but the result of the ruler's lack of Dao.

Humans receive the great mandate of Heaven and succeed the sages of antiquity. Honored as Son of Heaven and possessing the four seas, holding the most noble rank and receiving favor to the utmost, no one can compare with him. Even if he wears coarse cloth and eats vegetables and coarse grain, the people of the realm will praise him; even if he lives frugally, the people will consider it admirable. When the ruler transforms the customs of the age, it is like wind bending the grass; when the people receive his teaching, they follow it like fish swimming with the current. The ruler should honor the great Dao, extend his benevolence widely, cultivate himself, and rectify his conduct. He should bear the cares of the people, so that he may carry out sacrifices, bring glory to his ancestors, and pass his undertakings on to later generations.

But if the ruler instead pursues extravagance, reputation, and power, violates the patterns of Heaven and Earth, and wantonly oppresses others, then men of discernment will rise up one after another, risk deep incursions into enemy territory, and take pride in being the first to arrive. The enemy comes from afar, yet no one is willing to ally with the ruler. Close kin scatter, and there is nothing to rely on within or without. In the end, he dies and the state perishes, and the ancestral temple collapses. The fault lies not with the people of the realm but with the ruler's boundless greed. When his power, honor, titles, and glory already exceed all others, yet he remains unsatisfied, this is the fundamental reason for calamity and the path to ruin.

The great Dao and De (Virtue/Power) are like spirit: they nourish the myriad things and bring about their transformations. Once a person has received life, they should preserve their spirit and nurture their body, so that their movements are easy, their eyes and ears keen, and their mind roams in open and bright realms. Observe above the laws of nature, and examine below the gains and losses of the ancients. Dig wells to drink, till fields to eat, establish a household and raise children, and accord with the years Heaven allots you. Those who can be content with this have truly achieved fulfillment. How much more so should the Son of Heaven, who rules a state of ten thousand chariots, and the feudal lord, who rules a state of a thousand chariots, understand contentment.

If the mind of desire for profit constantly arises, greedy men will covet the lands and treasures of other states and of others, endlessly annexing and grasping for more. This is the root of anxiety and guilt. From ancient times to the present, flying birds, running beasts, and all living creatures have wished to obtain and preserve their own lives. Yet rulers are often made captives, and the strong, like tigers, become prey. Their reputations may rise to the clouds, but their bodies may be buried beneath the Yellow Springs. To stand in the position of oxen and horses does not necessarily mean suffering the calamities of oxen and horses, and to be counted among dogs and sheep does not necessarily mean bearing the disasters of dogs and sheep.

Therefore, those who attain the Dao place their hearts in contentment, let their minds rest at the limit, relinquish authority, give up position, dwell alone, let go of all things, and hold fast only to the spirit. In this way they preserve themselves, leave behind a good name, endure without decline, and all under Heaven come to submit to them.

The Bu Chu Hu chapter says that the Dao and De transform and nurture the myriad things, allowing each to receive its own nature and life (xingming) in the profound depths of the Great Void. At first, Heaven, Earth, and all things were mixed together and undifferentiated. Then the spirit-illumination (Shen) converged, the pure qi and the turbid qi separated, the Supreme Harmony (Taihe) qi circulated, and the myriad things came into being. Heaven and Earth divided into above and below, and humans, creatures, plants, fish, and birds each took on their own forms and categories. Among the myriad things, distinctions of honor and humility and of auspiciousness and misfortune gradually emerged.

From this we can see that Heaven, Earth, humans, and things all arise from the same source and form one whole. Qi transforms and circulates, and the myriad things differentiate: there are above and below, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), black and white, water and fire, sour and salty, the five musical tones, and also male and female. Although they differ in form and stand in different positions, and may even be opposed to one another in their interests, they are like brothers born of a single root. The myriad things take different shapes, yet their dispositions all issue from the same source of life, and their minds share a common principle of mutual response.

Zhuangzi said that a person's body is born of both parents. The limbs and the nine orifices each have their own duties, and the five viscera and six bowels each govern their own functions. The upper and lower, inner and outer parts of the body seem not to know or see one another. The head and feet are like Heaven and Earth, the elbows and knees are like the Four Seas, the liver and gallbladder are like the lands of Hu and Yue, and the eyes and brows are like the states of Qi and Chu. They appear different, and when they move they may not respond to one another; when they are still, they do not wait for one another. Yet when the head aches, the feet cannot walk, and when there is illness in the chest, the mouth cannot speak. When the heart is settled, the ears and eyes become keen; when the body bends and stretches in harmony, the joints become light and supple. This is because they belong to one body.

When something changes nearby, what is far away responds; when things change here, Heaven and Earth respond there. Between Heaven and Earth, which are vast and broad, the myriad things respond to one another, and not even the subtlest detail is missed. This is because they originally form one whole.

Therefore, the sage does not leave his doorway, yet he can trace back to Heaven, Earth, and his parents, and look forward to observe his descendants. He clearly understands safety and danger, benefit and harm, life and death, and transformation, and he grasps the root of right and wrong and of order and disorder. By inferring the household from oneself, and then inferring others and the myriad things from the household, he can grasp the outline of affairs and the order of things. In action he knows his direction, and in stillness he knows what to preserve.

The sage takes the Dao and De as his father, takes spirit (Shen, the wondrous and numinous function of intelligence) as his mother, takes stillness and purity (qingjing) as his teacher, and takes Supreme Harmony as his friend. He regards the whole world as one family and the myriad things as one body. He treats others as he treats himself, and treats himself as he would treat others. He does not readily give rise to private desires, nor does he recklessly stir his will. He abandons fixed prejudices and no longer clings to elaborate distinctions. Therefore he follows what is natural and does not act rashly or willfully. He dwells in caves and rock shelters, does not kill living creatures, does not eat live grass, does not pick plants before they have matured, and does not cut trees before the lives of the myriad things have ended.

Tracing back to the time before one's own form had appeared, one can understand how nature and life are formed, where spirit comes from, where the blood and qi begin, and what the body is rooted in. From this one knows that the real arises from the void, and that form is produced from the formless: the minutest things enter everywhere, and the greatest things encompass everything. Human life is nurtured by the Dao and De, and is already contained within them before it takes shape. Only when it emerges from the dark obscurity does one come to know the function of what is subtle, yielding, moist, and penetrating.

Without knowledge or consciousness, without deliberate action or affairs, one can still produce enormous effects. Observe how you grew from an infant into an adult and gradually acquired knowledge, and you can see how softness gives rise to hardness, how weakness develops into strength, how brevity becomes longevity, how ignorance turns into wisdom, and how darkness moves toward clarity. Observe your own breathing and its bending and stretching, and you can understand that loss sometimes brings benefit, while gain sometimes causes harm. Advance and retreat, fortune and misfortune, often have the same root.

Climbing high, descending slopes, and traversing dangerous obstacles tire the body and cause panting and palpitations. After resting quietly, the spirit becomes calm, the breath becomes even, and both inner and outer parts are preserved intact. From this we know that stillness, emptiness, non-action (wuwei), and transformation have profound effects. The four limbs and nine orifices each busy themselves, with different abilities and forms, yet all are rooted in a single mind. From this one can also understand that although the benefits, harms, and changes of the myriad things are numberless, all ultimately come from the root that governs them. By examining Heaven and Earth and verifying past and present, one finds that the transformations of the myriad things accord with the Way of Heaven and Earth.

The family is the foundation for knowing others, and the body is the deep place for knowing the Dao of Heaven. One cannot observe the Way of Heaven apart from oneself, nor understand others apart from the family. If one leaves one's home to search far away, one may not see the whole world. If one looks out of a window without first turning inward, one may still fail to understand the Dao of Heaven. The farther one goes, the less one may know; the more one seeks, the less one may actually gain. Seeking outward is not as good as turning back to observe oneself. By inquiring into the relationship between Heaven and humanity in this way, the Great Dao can be understood.

Therefore, the sage does not need to personally examine each household's likes and dislikes in order to judge the affairs of the common people throughout the world. He does not need to travel a thousand li in order to understand the changes in the Nine Regions. He does not need to ascend to Heaven in order to perceive the conditions of the Nine Heavens, and does not need to enter the earth in order to see into the changes of the Nine Earths. The waxing and waning of Yin and Yang, the changes of the four seasons, and all matters that are deeply hidden and subtle, cannot escape his understanding. This is because he examines the inner in order to understand the outer, infers the vast from the small, infers other things from himself, and explains distant things with principles drawn from what is near.

When the sage governs the state, he is like the heart ruling the body. He does not interfere recklessly; he follows the Dao. He does not act on private desires; he accords with the Way of Heaven. He governs the world through non-action, nourishes the people without disturbing them, and maintains deep stillness, so that the myriad things each transform and nurture themselves and each attains its proper place. Upward, he undergoes transformations together with the spirits; downward, he shares the same mind with the myriad things. In action he follows change, and in stillness he preserves what is genuine. Through emptiness, quietude, and placidity, he lets the myriad things grow naturally.

The teaching of the Dao De (Daode), the Daodejing, is infinite in its transformations: empty, still, and profound, vast yet silent, flowing yet formless, murky and undifferentiated, without beginning or end. It cannot be seen or heard, yet it inspires, guides, and gives life to all things, and it is present everywhere. The accomplishments of the myriad things all depend on it. To achieve everything through wuwei (non-action) is the root of all things. From this perspective, seeking knowledge without discriminating minds is the source of knowledge; teaching without deliberate instruction is the foundation of education; acting without willfulness is the beginning of action; and managing affairs without artificial contrivance is the basis of accomplishment. These principles are what the spirits (shenming) rely on and what Heaven and Earth return to, and they are what the mysterious sages expounded and the hermits transmitted.

Later, benevolence and righteousness grew increasingly shallow, and people no longer understood true life and nature (xingming) or the Great Dao. They could not follow nature and instead indulged in cleverness and old opinions. Attachment to favors and desires multiplied, and their spirits (jingshen) became entangled with external things. People schemed deeply and worried excessively, refusing to hear unwelcome words or accept views that displeased them. They did not honor the Dao but instead exalted cleverness, merit, and fame. Thus they created various techniques and institutions, gathered words, wrote essays, and compiled canons to teach the common people. They governed the realm with rules and regulated Yin-Yang and human affairs with systems, dividing and reshaping the simple root and thereby producing countless falsehoods. Customs changed accordingly, the proper Way collapsed, ordinary principles decayed, and even clothing was altered.

Ritual and music grew ever more elaborate. Beyond bells, drums, zithers, and lyres, the reed organ (yu) and panpipes (sheng) were added, and every advance, retreat, rise, and descent, along with every posture and bearing, had to be ornamented and arranged. Rituals numbered three hundred, and ceremonial dignities numbered three thousand. People argued with one another and competed for credit, twisting words to defeat their opponents and using cleverness to outdo each other. Minor details multiplied without end, becoming endlessly tedious. As a result, the people of the realm turned away from the root and pursued branches and embellishments. They studied widely and questioned deeply, and every household considered itself learned. Worse still, they imitated the names of the sages to establish systems of ruler and minister. Those who shared the ruler's mind might be incompetent yet hold office, while those with differing minds might suffer disaster even after great service.

Therefore the realm fell into chaos, and people had no time to care for their own kin, attending only to minor details and currying favor with the ruler. They blended the five flavors to satisfy their palates, pursuing rich and sweet foods without regard for the people's livelihood. They varied the five colors to please their eyes, pursuing dark and bright ornamentation without concern for the people's poverty. They tuned the five notes to please their ears, exhausting the skill of musical pitch while never worrying about the decline of customs. They built high towers and vast halls to satisfy their whims, disregarding the people's suffering. They galloped and hunted to gratify their inclinations, and the more they captured, the more they pleased the ruler, yet they did not accord with Heaven's will. These acts were not truly meant to do good; they were only meant to please the ruler.

The people of the realm imitated one another, becoming hypocritical and ostentatious. Treachery grew while harmony was destroyed, and the roots of turmoil gradually became customs. Those who relied on opportunism were regarded as worthy, the lives of the common people were harmed, and their toil continued to increase. The fine nature of humans was injured, and their vexations grew ever greater. At that time, each region enthroned its own ruler, and each of the Four Seas had its own regime. People revered rank and power, valued strength above all, and their struggles grew fiercer as they relied on force to display their might. The strong restrained the weak, the many oppressed the few, chaos was used in place of order, and error was taken for correctness. Ministers killed their rulers, sons killed their fathers, and the contests for supremacy grew ever more intense, until no one could maintain order. Many pursued profit, but few actually obtained it. The roads were filled with sorrow and anxiety, the armies were clamorous and disordered, and things even reached the point where people boiled and devoured one another. Why was this so? It was precisely because people embellished their writings, multiplied their affairs, and used these artificial rules to arrange and restrain one another.

Thus the sage abandoned the deliberately displayed benevolence and righteousness and returned to the great Dao. He cut off cunning knowledge, abolished artificial doctrines, and sought the Dao from within himself. Each day he spoke less, and each day he did less, steadily diminishing day and night. The sage embraced all things with the profound and mysterious Dao, so that the common people were not bound by shameful minds or burdensome ceremonies, and he let the realm settle on its own. He reduced artificial contrivance so that people's cunning knowledge would not arise. He avoided fame, preserved his body and spirit, grasped the essentials of virtue, and held fast to the crucial points of life and death. He did not become the master of affairs, nor did he become the teacher of cleverness.

He was so still that he seemed not to exist. Having reached the state of non-action, Heaven and Earth operated naturally, all goodness followed of its own accord, the myriad things each manifested their own nature, and the hundred clans lived in natural harmony. All things were interconnected, yet people did not know where they would return. The sage followed the changes of light in their coming and going, relied on the movement of the four seasons, and calmly nourished his spirit without letting his mind scatter outward. His heart was empty and tranquil, like wood floating on water or a clod of earth lying still. He did not cling to benevolence and righteousness, nor did he deliberately master ritual. His mind had no desires, and his intentions did not seek to accomplish anything. When he walked, his steps were unsteady; when he looked, his gaze was unfixed; when he spoke, he was reticent, and his expression was profound and mysterious. Outwardly he seemed like a beast, yet inwardly he was utterly distinctive.

He was silent and non-acting. Though there seemed to be no distinction between ruler and minister, the realm was well governed, and the people became sincere and loyal and attained peace. With spirit settled and essence-qi (jingqi) at rest, human life was preserved, the myriad things grew in succession, and all drew close to virtue. Why was this so? Because the ruler imposed no commands, and so the people were not disturbed by the reputation of commands.

Therefore, when wishing to govern the realm, one should often begin with non-interference. Not speaking, not acting rashly, not imposing instruction, and not indulging desires is the precious course; not valuing cunning knowledge is the root. As long as one follows the Dao, there is nothing that cannot be guided. Discard the false and return to the real, and take returning to the root as the essential task. Above, one understands the loftiness of Heaven; below, one comprehends the depth of Earth, and one also understands the distinctions of Yin and Yang and the number of the myriad things. Even if one could see the stars in the heavens by day and the fish in the abyss by night, hear the harmony of the winds from the eight directions, and distinguish the fur colors of the various beasts, this would only be thought carried to its extreme, and it would not aid the stability of life.

Strength ten times that of Wu Huo, momentum a hundred times that of Meng Ben, and valor a thousand times that of Xia Yu, leading the three armies, advancing like light and shadow, retreating like floating clouds, striking like thunder, and standing still like dark clouds: these are all power carried to its extreme, yet they do not benefit true victory. If all the people of the realm observed ritual, understood the Book of Changes, the Book of Poetry, and the Book of Documents, were familiar with laws and edicts, and obeyed commands; if every household had officials, every neighborhood had headmen, every district had granaries, and every post station had storehouses; if they were closely watched everywhere and judged at every turn; and if strong soldiers and armed force were used to pursue everyone in the realm, then the people would tremble with fear and look at one another sidelong. Fathers and sons would not dare to conceal anything from each other, and brothers could not tolerate one another. This is treating governance as a means carried to its extreme, yet it does not benefit governance.

Therefore, to seek knowledge through knowledge is to depart from the Way of Heaven; to act through artificial contrivance is to go against the Way of Heaven; and to handle affairs through tangled busyness is to lose the original intent of the Way of Heaven. When governing a state, the more institutions and actions there are, the more the wealth is exhausted. Constant doing still fails to accomplish anything; constant pursuit still yields no result. The people of the realm are driven onward, and in the end they can only return to chaos.

Dao and De (the Great Way and its Virtue, dào and dé) have no fixed form, yet they govern all things. This is because they possess a "mind without mind" (wúxīn zhī xīn), one that does not cling to personal intention. Heaven and Earth do not act deliberately, yet all things naturally follow their course. This is the "thought without thought" (wúlǜ zhī lǜ) at work. From this we see that the mind without mind is the root of the mind, and that action without deliberate application is the source of all action.

Zhuangzi said: "Is it because of myself that I become myself?" The body becomes a body because the "self" sustains it, and the "self" exists because there is shen (shén, spirit). That the shen remains within me is the doing of the Dao. The method of following the Dao and preserving one's spirit takes stillness and purity as its foundation and emptiness as its constant state. It cannot be attained through intention and calculation alone.

In ordinary life, people let their eyes and ears constantly see and hear, their minds never cease scheming, and they are busy with food, desire, and cleverness, handling affairs day and night and calculating everything. They seek to determine safety and danger and to distinguish gain from loss, in order to preserve the body and extend life. Yet this only drains the spirit, corrupts the qi (qì, vital energy) and blood, unsettles the hun and po (the ethereal and corporeal souls), and harms life itself. In sleep, the mind sets aside its intentions and the eyes and ears cease their activity. Without thinking or scheming, neither eating nor drinking, the spirit is harmonized, the qi and blood are nourished, the heart is at ease, and the body is less troubled by illness. Even when injured, wounds heal, broken bones knit, and every part of the body returns to normal. If a person can set down their cares, a perilous situation may turn to safety. If one persists in laboring with the mind, a stable state will decline. How much more so for those who practice De, accord with the spirits, receive the mandate of Heaven, and nourish the people!

Therefore the sage establishes a "body without body" and holds a "mind without mind." He does not grasp at existence, yet accomplishes what is real. He rests in wuwei (wúwéi, non-action), yet enables life to endure. Above, he receives the transforming power of De; below, he attends to the hearts of the myriad people. He has no partiality or aversion, neither affection nor hatred. He does not make enemies of the wicked, nor does he deliberately seek intimacy with the virtuous. He does not form factions because someone is sincere, nor harbor resentment because someone deceives. He bears all things as the earth does, covers them as the sky does, illuminates them as the sun does, and transforms them as spirits do. Whether things are great or small, he treats them equally, regarding them as part of himself.

The sage governs before calamity arises, cutting it off at its first sign. He acts before fortune arrives, opening blessings from their root. He abandons private desires and adopts measures that bring the people ease. He sets aside his own cleverness and calculation so that people return to nature. He transforms the people with harmony and guides them with humility. Above, he accords with the intent of De; below, he wins the heart of the spirits. The radiance of his De reaches Heaven and Earth, and his grace connects all the myriad people.

The common people need not be burdened by taxes and corvée labor, and the ruler need not establish numerous offices and officials. Everyone can live according to their nature and preserve their spirit. They do not strive to chase after sight and sound, nor cling to the workings of mind and thought. They take the ruler's intention as their common guide, following his lead in bending and rising, sinking and floating, lying down and rising up, extending and withdrawing. The ruler issues no commands, yet the realm responds of its own accord. The ruler does not force action, yet the myriad things still grow. Within the four seas there are no compulsory decrees, yet every heart is transformed. The good grow more inclined to goodness, and the wicked gradually grow gentle. The sincere attain deeper sincerity, and the false gradually turn to genuineness. The cruel return to kindness, the perverse return to truth, and distinctions of good and evil, sincerity and insincerity, all gradually return to naturalness.

At this time, the people immerse themselves in the Great Void (tàixū, the formless and boundless realm of the Dao) and in supreme harmony. They forget their calculating minds and roam at ease. They no longer cling to what they dislike, yet they obtain what they need. They advance and retreat together with the Way of Heaven, and flow and move with the Great Dao. People do not abandon wrongdoing because they are coerced or forbidden, nor let go of attachments because they are bound by regulations. They transform naturally through the influence of wuwei, without even perceiving that they have changed.

Why is this so? The ruler transforms the myriad people through emptiness and stillness. His bearing is broad and calm, like withered wood, unassuming. His mind is like a bellows, empty yet able to move. His aspiration is like rivers and seas, vast and unfathomable. His giving is like valleys and streams, able to contain all things. He does not deliberately distinguish east, west, north, and south, nor cling to bitter and sweet or black and white, nor forcibly fix square and round or straight and crooked. He concentrates on profound and subtle principles while concealing his own doings, dwelling among the myriad things without controlling them and roaming freely in the boundless. He sets aside personal desires so that each of the myriad things obtains what it needs.

The myriad things flock to the ruler, yet he dwells in non-action. Heaven and Earth are like a furnace, the qi of Great Harmony like a bellows, the spirits like the wind that feeds the bellows, and the myriad things like iron in the furnace. De is the great artisan, and the Dao is the rule of crafting. No thing under heaven fails to be nourished. Therefore the sage can mold the hearts of the people and transform the customs of the age, so that above he embraces all and below he perfects all things. He responds to the varied circumstances of things, sensing and stirring all beings, so that his influence reaches the eight directions. Under vast heaven, the multitudes may not be able to articulate the distinction between beauty and ugliness. Yet subtle principles and formless efficacy will naturally form a standard that all under heaven follows.

The chapter "Emerging into Life and Entering Death" says that Dao and De (Virtue/Power), as the subtle and mysterious source that pervades all things, join the clear and the turbid into a single, undivided whole. Myriad things take form through them, respond to one another, and undergo constant transformation. The world is vast and boundless, yet people may not fully grasp the distinction between beauty and ugliness. Within their subtle and nearly invisible workings, the myriad things naturally form their own patterns.

All things rely on Dao (the Way) to grow and flourish, yet they cannot see its form or know its name, so it is called "life-giving" (sheng). Life cannot be measured by Yin-Yang alone, nor inferred through ordinary reasoning. It is profound and difficult to describe, mysterious and hard to name. It is radiant yet indistinct and formless, without sound or shape or fixed image. It moves within the realm of empty stillness: when one obtains it, life endures, and when one loses it, life perishes.

Life is lodged within the bodily form. Shen (spirit) is its master, and Jing (essence) is its root. Nutritive qi (yingqi) and refreshing qi (shuangqi) make up its dwelling, the nine orifices are its gates, and the senses, such as the ears and eyes, are responsible for perception. The emotions are like a carriage, while the hun and po souls assist from the side. Life advances and withdraws with the movement of Dao, and unfolds and contracts with the transformations of De. It stretches out, rests, bends, and rises in softness and emptiness, in harmony with the circumstances of the times. Those who regard death lightly draw close to Dao, while those who cling to life go against it. Without any deliberately sought gain, there is no need to hurry toward departure, but once life is treated as a mere tool to be exploited, it is hard to preserve it for long. Therefore, Wuwei (non-action) is the place where life dwells securely, while purposive action (youwei) is the root of the path to death.

When standing, do not cling to the body; when sitting, do not dwell on thoughts. Be placid like an infant and still like something without form. Do not deliberately look, listen, act, or speak. Let change wax and wane, with no fixed pattern in movement or stillness. Advance and withdraw with Dao, rise and sink according to De, merge with the spirit-light (shenming), and connect with harmonious qi. In dealing with the world, do not belittle oneself or exalt oneself. Be detached and formless, do not act by design, and respond to change. Regard life and death as one, and therefore do not cling to existence or extinction. This is the Wuwei of cultivating the person.

Spring generates, summer grows, autumn harvests, and winter stores. Following the seasons is the rule for serving life. Inwardly, be loving toward parents; outwardly, do not chase fame and profit. Without delusion or forcing, come and go alone with a tranquil mind. Treat others with humility, and do not contend with the times for advantage. This is the Wuwei of managing the household.

Revere Heaven and Earth, and do not forget the ancestors. Cultivate oneself, rectify standards, set aside private interests, and let each person fulfill their own role. Examine the facts, fix names and roles, follow the nature of things, and bring the hearts of the people into harmony. Attend to all sides, continue from past to future, act in accordance with the seasons and principles, and proceed with the flow of circumstances, letting the myriad things develop on their own and return to naturalness. This is the Wuwei of governing the state.

Taking "non-existence" as the crown and "formlessness" as the garment, keep the heart empty and stand upon Supreme Clarity (Taiqing). Bear De and penetrate the spirit-light, holding fast to Supreme Harmony (Taihe). Drive Heaven and Earth, move Yin-Yang, and apply the Five Phases. Enter with the myriad things into the profound and mysterious realm, do not seek merit, and return to namelessness. This is the Wuwei of governing all under Heaven.

In contrast, some seek longevity and fear their lifespan is insufficient. They forcibly restrain the mind, block the ears and eyes, and continually guide the breath and exercise the sinews, expelling the old and taking in the new, adjusting the breath, and relying on the stars, sun, and moon for cultivation, so that both body and spirit never rest. This is the purposive action of cultivating the person. Others set aside the seasonal timing and rely solely on human effort, seeking honor while lowly and wealth while poor. They crave fame and power, keep their minds constantly in pursuit, live extravagantly in clothing and food, and act beyond their station. This is the purposive action of managing the household.

Relentlessly expanding territory, rashly warring, and exalting force, a ruler seeks fame through intimidation and power through domination. Harsh punishments and dense legal nets make the state cruel and devoid of grace. The feudal lords fear one another, and the strong continually struggle for hegemony and the throne. This is the purposive action of governing the state.

Honoring filial piety, fraternal duty, benevolence, and righteousness, a ruler adorns rites and the teachings of names. He prizes sounds, colors, and flavors to please the popular heart, and uses bells, drums, zithers, and lutes to harmonize the people's feelings. The ruler issues commands and the ministers obey; the ruler moves and the subjects follow. Honoring merit and encouraging conduct, he uses favor and reputation to draw the common people close, arranging all matters himself so that the multitudes look up to the court. This is the purposive action of governing all under Heaven.

Emptiness, stillness, few desires, softness, humility, restraint, conformity with the seasons, gentleness, and frugality are practices that help life continue. Turbidity, disorder, display, multiplicity, rigidity, self-satisfaction, excess, and extravagance easily invite decline. Why is this so? The sage acts on a basis, and even in stillness responds appropriately. The bodily structure, including the four limbs and the nine orifices, as well as the changes between emptiness and fullness and between hardness and softness, all lie within the range of life and death. The scripture summarizes these aspects of life's constitution and transformation with "thirteen."

Emptiness enables life to be full, and Wuwei enables life to endure. Stillness makes people intelligent and perceptive, and a clear mind can discern subtleties. Few desires make what one obtains abundant. Softness in fact generates strength, humility in fact reaches the heights, relinquishing in fact brings gain, conforming to the seasons allows smooth passage, and gentleness attains the Middle Way. Doing so benefits life. Those who practice this path can last long as individuals, and the state can be governed for a long time. Even if one does not wish it, the regularities of Heaven and Earth will not permit defiance.

Conversely, pursuing substance causes emptiness to vanish, and clinging to existence wears life down. Turbidity blocks perception, and disorder deprives one of clear discernment. Display suppresses the subtle, and multiplicity brings scarcity. Rigidity draws in softness, strength turns to weakness, height invites lowliness, self-satisfaction leads to loss, excess blocks the way, extravagance brings poverty, and waste invites calamity. These are all inauspicious. If one persists in this, one's actions will eventually reach distress. An individual cannot long endure, and a state cannot stay stable. Even if one does not wish it, Heaven and Earth will not comply, and the common people will in the end bear the consequences.

People originally each have their own life, yet they keep adding desires. They each originally have their own bodies, yet they ceaselessly cherish and guard them, and their scheming thoughts rise accordingly. Thus they leave emptiness to pursue substance and abandon Wuwei to rely on possession. They move from clarity to turbidity, from stability to disorder, from subtlety to display, and from few desires to multiplicity. They leave softness to chase rigidity, give up humility to seek high position, abandon restraint to pursue satisfaction, and indulge in reckless action that destroys harmony, substituting purposive action for frugality. This is because they value only the body and forget the fundamental principle of preserving life.

Those who understand how to nourish life are broad-minded and transcend the world. They are not entangled by worldly sentiment or bound by affairs. They bring the body to a state of non-attachment and let the spirit roam in boundless realms. They do not treat life as a benefit or death as a calamity. They bestow equally, regarding the myriad things without distinction of great or small, as though regarding themselves, with neither aversion nor partiality. Their spirit is full and their virtue and fortune complete. With Dao as their inner master, their light shines naturally, and they can adapt to change, so neither Heaven and Earth nor people and things can harm them.

When they walk on land, tigers and rhinoceroses (xi, a fierce beast of the rhinoceros kind) cannot harm them, and when they enter armed formations, weapons cannot harm them. This is not because they possess some other power to defeat or control weapons, but because their qi and spirit are in communion, and the intention to harm has long vanished from their hearts. Sounds respond to one another, and things follow their own kind: tigers and rhinoceroses do not attack what is formless, and weapons do not strike what has no substance. Those who understand how to nourish life have no thoughts of harm or contention within their hearts, so externally they are not easily brought to injury or death.

The root of the sage's wisdom does not descend from heaven or arise from the earth. It dwells within the self and also appears in the myriad things. To govern all affairs by the natural Way (Dao) is to leave nothing that cannot be penetrated. To observe things by following the laws of nature is to exhaust all their transformations. Therefore, one who understands the Dao does not cling to being, nor linger in non-being. One who understands De (Virtue/Power) does not fixate on a single extreme. Heaven is high and earth is low, each following its original order. Why is this so? Because people know things through cognition, and things have their own forms and kinds. Form comes into being from the formless, and actuality arises from emptiness. Seeing a subtle sign, one knows the conspicuous result. Observing a thing's beginning, one understands its end. This is not the deliberate display of clever skill but compliance with the spontaneous regularities of things. The sage follows these regularities and so accords with the movement of heaven and earth.

To understand the Dao is to realize the Great Void, the vast and empty realm, and so there is nothing it cannot bear. To understand De is to realize utter non-being, not clinging to form, and so there is nothing it cannot give. The Dao governs the myriad things through non-action (wúwéi), that is, without forcibly imposing its will, yet it does not presume to be their master. De brings the myriad things to completion in their forms without contrived arrangement and leaves no trace of human artifice. Thus the Dao and De can cultivate people's nature and life (xìng mìng), harmonize their feelings, shape their aspirations and desires, and bring about change in all affairs.

What are nature, feeling, aspiration, and desire? People receive their original nature from the Dao and form their bodies from it. Human and thing, male and female, the wise and the foolish, the brave and the timid, the tall and the short, the long-lived and the short-lived, the benevolent and the incorruptible, the greedy and the cruel, the strong and the weak, the light and the heavy, as well as differences of sound, color, appearance, texture, and rank, are all called "nature" (xìng). People receive their circumstances and encounters from De: wealth and poverty, nobility and lowliness, longevity and early death, suffering and joy, fitness and unfitness. These are called "heavenly allotment" (tiānmìng). When changes come from a ruler, a father, or the shifting conditions of heaven, earth, and the times, and one meets with fortune or misfortune, rise or decline, survival or ruin, this is called "encountered fate" (zāo mìng). Facing the display of the myriad things, people make choices: to act or not, to take or to relinquish, to advance or to withdraw. Fortune and misfortune follow these choices. This is called "fate that follows" (suí mìng).

Human emotions stir with one's nature. Contact with external things produces sensations, and from these arise love and hatred, liking and disliking, fear and alarm, joy and anger, sorrow and delight, and grief and indignation. This is called "feeling" (qíng). Human thought stirs with one's circumstances. From this one reflects, plans, judges safety and danger, manages affairs, and distinguishes right from wrong and same from different. This is called "intention" (yì). Feeling and intention move outward and engage with things. The heart takes delight in certain things, and this in turn brings fortune or misfortune. Pursuing fame and achievement is called "aspiration" (zhì). To follow nature and accommodate feeling, yet be drawn away by different things and bound by countless affairs, becoming tangled and unable to free oneself, is called "desire" (yù).

All these aspects are rooted in the Dao and De, and they transform endlessly without exhaustion. Only those who hear and comprehend the Dao and De can follow the laws within them. Those whose nature is pure and whose allotment is rich can be changed. Those whose nature is coarse and whose allotment is thin can also be diminished or increased. If one grasps the root and does not get stuck in being or non-being, one can understand the principle within these matters.

Heaven, earth, and the myriad things all possess a mind-nature and contain their own roots. Each kind of thing is born by obtaining the Dao, yet the Dao does not claim them as its own. The myriad things are completed by obtaining the One (the unified root), yet the One does not demand any return from them. The myriad things revere, draw near to, and cherish the Dao, yet they have nothing with which to repay its De. Why is this? The Dao is lofty and remote, De is vast and broad, and both are beyond words. External things cannot enrich the Dao, and rank cannot make it honored. The Dao accomplishes the myriad things through non-action and does not treat them as its private possessions. It is not compelled from outside to be so; its nature is simply constant.

The Dao has no visible doorway and no discernible boundary. It cannot be pointed to as a body, nor can its appearance be described. The mind cannot fully grasp it, and words cannot fully express it. The myriad things are born from it, yet it does not diminish. The myriad things return to it, yet it does not increase. It extends above and below without limit, vast beyond measure, and its waxing and waning cannot be gauged. It moves within the tip of an autumn hair without feeling cramped, and it embraces the ten thousand heavens without feeling excess. Whether it shines brilliantly or sinks into darkness and withering, it cannot be made to change its resolve. It lets the myriad things move together and each unfold its own nature, favoring none.

The Dao enables the myriad things to receive their nature and life, and there is nothing it does not bring to completion. De flows through the myriad things without requiring a return. It forms grace yet does not claim that grace as its own. It makes all under heaven abundant yet is not thereby depleted. It accomplishes all affairs yet never runs dry. What the Dao does for the myriad things is not merely to let them be born. It gives them form and shape, arranges their kinds, sets them in motion, and brings them to rest in completion. It is both the end and the beginning, it dwells before them and after them, and it can stand behind the myriad things and yet precede them.

Because of it, spirit illumination (shénmíng) finds its dwelling, and Great Harmony (tàihé), the state of balance and concord, is preserved. Clear qi rises, and turbid qi sinks and congeals. Heaven becomes round because of it, and earth becomes square. Yin and Yang each attain their nature, the sun and moon shine because of it, the stars move because of it, the four seasons change because of it, and the Five Phases (wǔ xíng) check one another because of it. Fire is hot because of it, and water is cold. Grasses and trees are soft, and metal and stone are hard. Flavors are sweet or bitter, colors are dark or yellow, sounds are high or low, and things are arranged in lengthwise and crosswise patterns of change. Mountains are steady because of it, and wind and rain circulate. Fish swim, birds fly, beasts run, and humans become intelligent. Different kinds and different lineages all continue to exist through it. Whatever goes against the laws of change perishes.

The myriad things differ in form, their lands and waters differ, their customs conflict, their interests diverge, their appearances vary, and their minds do not communicate. Yin and Yang cannot fully reach them, and the sun and moon cannot illuminate them all. Yet all of this begins in the Dao and ends in the Dao. In the moment a person opens the mouth or eyes, bends or stretches, rises or bows, and in the span of a single breath, wherever spirit illumination passes, wherever the mind is entrusted, wherever affection is bestowed, and wherever female and male transform into one another, all is guided by the Dao and all lies within the Dao's movement. The Dao makes the myriad things grow, yet does not treat them as goods. It brings them to completion, yet does not seek to possess them. It nourishes them, yet does not hold them as its own. The people of the world are bewildered and often fail to recognize this.

Some say: "The Dao and De are the spirit of heaven and earth, and heaven and earth are the visible forms of the Dao and De." How can this be explained? The Dao and De embrace the ten thousand heavens. The Zhuangzi says that heaven and earth have form and kind, but the Dao and De have no body. Things with form and kind have quantity and boundary, while the formless has no exhaustion. To rest finite quantities upon the infinite is hard to illustrate by comparing grasses and trees leaving the soil, or stars leaving the sky. If one thinks this is not the case, one fails to understand the principle by which being and non-being contain each other, and emptiness and substance mutually embrace.

It is like the segments of a melon that cannot see the vines connecting them, or like lice hidden in coarse cloth that do not know of the great cities outside. Therefore, beyond the cosmos and within the range of heaven and earth, what appears bound by limits actually has no absolute prohibitions or restrictions. Safety and danger, growth and decline, have no true division of inside and outside. The myriad things share one body and are equally harmonized and regulated by the Dao, and so they are able to preserve their vitality, grow well, and avoid harm and decay. The various auspicious signs and blessings are all sheltered by the Dao. Its efficacy is profound, its operation silent. The world does not hear its name, and the realm does not see its traces, yet it accomplishes the myriad things without ever ceasing.

The Great Dao (Dao, the Way) has no form, no intention or thought, no knowledge or consciousness, and no beginning or direction. It does not act, nor does it undertake affairs. It is empty and still, tranquil and pure, dim and clear. Its transformations occur within what does not change, and its movement is manifested within stillness. Reversal and return give rise to one another: being arises from non-being, and non-being also appears from within being. The myriad things run their course naturally within this cycle of mutual dependence. To hold to wuwei (non-action) and yet act is to let the myriad things rise; not to contrive affairs is to let them grow smoothly.

Thus wuwei is the substance of the Dao and the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Wuwei is subtle and profound, pervasive and reaching everywhere. It is gentle and quiet, yet there is nothing it cannot regulate. Through it the myriad things grow, and wisdom and ability are made manifest; it reaches the four quarters and nourishes all. Therefore it is said that wuwei is the root of purposive action and the mother of all affairs. The sage who grasps this conforms to the nature of the myriad things, thereby penetrating the original heart of the Dao, understanding the regularity of the Way of Heaven, and becoming the source from which all affairs arise.

The sage opens the gate to undertaking affairs. He draws on the wisdom of many, exhausts the arguments of the multitude and the crafts of the various schools, and in governing human affairs he changes with the times, adjusting and ordering according to the trend in an unending cycle. Though change may seem sudden, it attains the subtle and spirit-like, causing spirits and ghosts to appear within the formless and handling every affair appropriately. Exploring the infinite, he also reaches what is without being. In this way he carves and shapes the myriad things and returns them to their root, turning again and again, and becomes the foundation of all under Heaven. The sage roams the realm of the mysterious and profound, and throughout his life is never in danger.

Therefore the sage gathers in his eyes and ears and does not let his senses and cleverness race outward. He uses the tongue as a gate and the mind as a lock. He does not stir before the moment is ripe, and he does not act when the Qi (vital energy) is out of harmony. In this way the state endures, and the individual is free from anxiety throughout life. Why is this so? Without relying on the ears, he hears as keenly as Heaven; without relying on the eyes, he sees as clearly as Heaven. Without teaching through words, he shares the De (Virtue) of Heaven; without contrivance, he shares Heaven's accomplishment. The sage grasps the root and acts with careful deliberation, so the light of De is not obscured, and the intent behind the operation of Heaven and Earth is thereby made clear. He responds to the myriad things like an echo answering a sound or a shadow following a form, illuminating them without end, and becomes the source of blessing and the ancestral origin of all transformations. He circulates and extends himself, penetrates the vast realm of central harmony, preserves his own life, and brings the myriad things to fulfillment, so that the people under Heaven need not toil for it.

To look with excessive effort harms the eyes; to listen with excessive effort harms the hearing; to speak hastily obstructs De; to seek merit through false pretense ruins one's achievements. Thus people give free rein to their words, open wide their eyes and ears, and cunning and calculation rise together, while the myriad things compete to flourish and vie for supremacy. The human heart is stirred, thought spreads outward, and one chases fame and status. Once reputation is won and affairs accomplished, calamity follows, and blessings are finally exhausted. To act easily is to violate the net of the Way of Heaven, and stillness too may fall into disaster. When the spirits cannot protect and the process of creation cannot nurture, the common people perish, and the state falls into crisis.

Therefore the sage withdraws. He does not take contrived action as his accomplishment, nor does he take numerous affairs as his aim. He embodies the mind of the Dao, practices the intent of De, grasps the crucial points amid endless change, and masters the essentials of natural operation. He acts before the myriad things are born and returns to the mysterious realm. He perceives before others have heard or seen, and understands before sprouts have stirred and signs have appeared. He alone sees formless transformation, penetrates what cannot be spoken, and clearly discerns the realm without traces. He does not let the slightest calamity arise, and he does not let manifest disaster descend.

The sage acts without many words. He eliminates distracting thoughts, accumulates softness, maintains humility and weakness, and returns to the uncarved original nature. He eliminates violence, reduces desire, and accords with the mysterious transformations of creation. No opponent can surpass him, and no affair is beyond his accomplishment; no intelligence can outdo him, and no one under Heaven can scheme against him. He governs the people and handles the myriad things in accordance with the changes of Yin-Yang. Within, he employs illumination, while outwardly his conduct does not violate nature. Clothing, food, plowing, harvesting, raising silkworms, and weaving are all sufficient; blessings accumulate, calamities dissipate, the common people have ample food and clothing, and every household is secure.

The sage holds no private desires in his heart. He does not seek lowliness, nor does he hope for high rank; he does not regard poverty as misfortune, nor does he consider wealth a cause for joy. Even in small matters he knows to respect and be frugal, and inwardly and outwardly he is never excessive. Above, he can nourish his elders; below, he can care for the young; the way of human relations is thus fully complete. Then he returns to the heart, so that his Shen (spirit) is not depleted. He accumulates strength yet does not regard himself as clever. The sage is like rivers and seas: he consults with the Way of Heaven, keeps far from affairs that would harm him, and does not let them fill his mind and make it obstructed. He seems to be without speech or hearing, dwelling together with Heaven and Earth; dark and silent, he communes with the Dao. He avoids calamity and keeps far from misfortune. He is not disturbed by vanity or by harmful forces, he bears peace within, and therefore he can overcome everything.

Thus a person can enter the Dao, and the Dao can enter a person; the two interpenetrate and at last become one. Hold to stillness and empty the heart, and I become the dwelling of the Dao. Together with the myriad things I follow what is natural, in undivided wholeness, returning to the original source. Then the Great Dao enters my body and mind.

The Great Dao is level and broad, yet the De (Virtue) of the Dao does not rely on cleverness to govern Heaven and Earth or to shape the transformations of Yin and Yang. Instead, it nurtures the myriad things, and Heaven and Earth do not deceive it. Heaven and Earth follow what is natural, embracing and transforming, so that the myriad things grow and die, and the myriad things cannot escape this pattern.

If the Dao were to abandon what is natural and rely on cleverness, the mind could not find stillness, and how could it shape Heaven and Earth or bring about the changes of Yin and Yang? If Heaven and Earth abandoned what is natural and acted with deliberate contrivance, they could not endure, nor could they contain and preserve the myriad things. Therefore, emptiness, non-action (Wuwei), non-knowing, and non-desire are the original mind of the De and also the intent of Heaven and Earth. Quietude, taking nature as the model, and responding to things by following their natural momentum are the operation of the De and also the transformation of Heaven and Earth.

How can we know this? The Zhuangzi says: "The Dao gives birth to what has no origin of birth; Heaven arises from what has no origin of arising. Beginning begins with no beginning, growth grows from no growth, persistence persists in no persistence, and perishing perishes in no perishing." Such statements are clear evidence that natural operation is constant and that transformation is unceasing.

If people's actions do not accord with the Dao, the Dao will not protect them; if they do not accord with the De, the De will not aid them; if they do not accord with Heaven, Heaven will not shelter them; if they do not accord with Earth, Earth will not support them. Lacking the protection of the Dao and De and the sheltering and support of Heaven and Earth, calamity will not stay away, and good fortune will not draw near.

Thus, the Xuansheng (the sage who has penetrated the Great Dao) dwells in the world with a mind that is clear and open, with keen hearing and sharp sight, yet still holds fast to the Dao and preserves the De. They abandon cunning and self-attachment, fix their resolve, and remain watchful, fearing above all to stray from the proper Way. They strive to achieve a skill that appears unskillful and pursue a wisdom that appears unremarkable. They are sincere and compliant, gentle and humble, farm with their own hands to sustain their livelihood, and often know when to stop and seek no fame. They are cautious and careful, fearing above all to lose their natural nature.

They do this because they fear that calamity will descend from Heaven and Earth and reach the common people. Auspiciousness and good fortune therefore arrive, like a shadow following a body or an echo answering a sound. This is not by prior agreement; action and result arise together.

The Great Dao is level and broad, and its transforming nurture leaves no trace. It seems distant, yet it is right before the eyes; it seems dim, yet it can be made clear. It is smooth and free of danger, simple and easy to practice; through non-action its achievements are completed, and through non-striving its blessings overflow. Heaven and Earth move according to the Dao, and therefore the myriad things grow. But if the common people turn away from the Great Dao, rely on their own cleverness, act at will, abandon the Dao, and oppose Heaven and Earth, things will become their opposite:

People take cleverness as their standard and calculation as their measure, and they act through deceit and falsehood. Those who hold power play with stratagems and manipulate the laws, look down on weaving and farming, so the fields lie waste and are overgrown with weeds, the crops cannot ripen, and the granaries stand empty. People wear brocade garments of intricate colors and dazzling splendor, pursue sharp swords, sturdy armor, and strong crossbows and bows, ride light carriages and fine horses, and gather knights-errant and retinues. Power, reputation, and authority are displayed everywhere, and with them they attack and slaughter their own villages, reducing the common people to servitude.

They envy purity and humility, hate loyalty, poison good faith, conspire with evil, and collude with falsehood. They honor strife, prize force, and insult others at will. They also form ties with foreign powers and often plot regicide. They crave rich and heavy flavors, harm living beings, cut open wombs to take the fetus and kill young birds, and act against the will of Heaven. In daily life they indulge in drunkenness and gluttony, take without restraint, and hoard gold and jade like mountains, with treasures enough to rival those of the ruler. They go in and out in luxury and strangeness, flaunt their glory, and stand out in their eminence.

In a chaotic age, such people are instead raised up and called "great persons" (Daren). But their crimes are deep and their calamities far-reaching: a virtuous father will not receive them, and a wise ruler will not employ them. The Dao does not protect them, spirits do not stand beside them, Heaven does not shelter them, and the myriad things resent them. Such people, while alive, suffer calamity, and after death they leave behind disaster; even if they themselves are spared, misfortune will reach their descendants.

The vast and distant expanse of heaven and earth holds customs that differ from place to place, countless myriad things, transformations without end, and benefits and harms so intricate they are hard to fathom. Therefore some things can be controlled, while others cannot be forced under control; some matters may be acted upon, while others should not be forced.

If I wish to dominate the world, the world will in turn dominate me. When two sides face each other, the external forces are many and one's own are few. When the few oppose the many, the stronger side is secure and the weaker side is endangered. Thus, if one establishes oneself through one's own cleverness, cleverness will be taken away. If one establishes oneself through skill, skill will invite attack. If one establishes oneself through strength, strength will be suppressed. Only by refraining from presumptuous action can nothing easily defeat oneself.

How can we know that this is so? If a person silently waits for an echo, no echo will answer. If one hides in the shade to seek a shadow, the shadow will not follow. If one, fearing a sound, strikes metal, the sound will ring out even louder in reply. If one, disliking one's shadow, walks into the sunlight, the shadow will follow all the more closely. From this we see that through wuwei (non-action) one cannot avoid good fortune, while through deliberate action one cannot escape calamity. Therefore the sage sets aside forceful action, and so nothing can easily defeat him.

The sage sets aside force, skill, and cleverness, and does not regard himself as worthy. He establishes the Dao (the fundamental principle by which nature operates), embraces De (Virtue), gathers in his emotions, and nurtures his Shen (spirit). He is content in tranquility and keeps to softness and yielding. He treads the earth and holds up the sky; his heart is empty and still, as if present and yet absent. Both within and without he returns to stillness. He transforms within the profound and mysterious, follows wuwei and non-striving, and returns to simplicity and genuineness. He does not cling to fixed standards but moves together with change. He holds fast to small things yet can entrust great affairs to them, and he governs the myriad people. Whether in matters of square or round, first or last, he accords with nature and preserves himself for a long time. His body is upright and his spirit is at peace. His De passes down to later generations, and his transforming influence spreads without end. Even when it declines, it can revive, and it endures as long as the Way of Heaven (Tiandao) itself.

In governing oneself, one's nature becomes simple, one's emotions are easily settled, and one's thoughts become clear and one's aims bright. Distant matters no longer seem distant, and things not yet understood gradually become clear. One values the spirit and cherishes original Qi (vital energy), and does not esteem external things or minor reputation. One's thoughts are not confused, one's blood and Qi are balanced, one's sinews are supple, one's ears and eyes are keen, one's skin is glossy, and one's complexion is radiant. One's Jing (essence) and Shen are concentrated and firm, one's vitality is abundant, and one's body is light and full of life, with a beautiful countenance.

In governing the household, the husband is trustworthy, the wife is faithful, the father is kind, the children are filial, the elder brother is friendly, and the younger siblings are respectful. The clan lives in harmony and affection. Farming and sericulture follow the seasons, stores are ample, the six domestic animals thrive, and the family estate is managed properly, with a surplus of wealth. The people of the village also admire them.

In governing the village, one can perceive the principles and their details, and one's conduct accords with moderation and balance. Name and reality correspond, black and white are distinct, straight and crooked are differentiated, and right and wrong can be discerned, so that treacherous deeds find it hard to arise. Commands carry authority, and orders are obeyed and prohibitions observed. Those in higher positions instruct the people with fairness, as between father and son, and they love and trust one another. Superiors and inferiors rejoice together, and the common people live in harmony and gather together. Officials leave no duties unfinished, each fulfills their responsibilities, and their reputation is good; they are called gentlemen. Having accumulated virtue throughout their lives, they face no danger even at the end.

In governing the state, the ruler is wise and the ministers are loyal. The court does not block the advancement of worthy people, scholars do not envy one another's merit, evil does not conceal the upright, and slander does not harm the just. Those above and below are in harmony and accord, and no resentment arises between them. The officials are glad to fulfill their duties, and all affairs follow their natural course. People from distant lands cherish admiration, and the customs of the realm come into unity. The state is rich and the people prosperous, and it is strong without boasting. The ancestral temples are honored, the state is peaceful and enduring, yin and yang are in harmony, and disorder does not arise. The myriad things yield abundant harvests, the land within its borders is at peace, and neighboring states rely on it for security. Later generations flourish, and its De is abundant and remains constant alongside the Way of Heaven.

In governing the realm, the ruler dwells on the side of stillness and softness, while the ministers bear the responsibility for action. The ruler keeps to roundness and harmony, while the ministers embody squareness and uprightness. The ruler follows circumstances, while the ministers advance and implement. The ruler remains quiet, while the ministers offer counsel. In this way the state is settled, later generations flourish, and its De is abundant and endures alongside the Way of Heaven. When conduct is upright and just, and harmony and unity prevail, when one is calm and acts through wuwei, and when stillness is free of noise, then virtue can be transmitted and the spirit and intent can communicate. Its operation has no fixed starting point, and its transformations resemble the Way of Heaven. One does not act deliberately yet accomplishes all things, in accord with the Great Dao. The realm returns to its original genuineness, free of affairs and worries, and great peace arises naturally.

Therefore, I myself can serve as the measure for judging the body and mind of others. My household can serve as the standard for judging other households. My village can serve as the rule for judging other villages. My state can serve as the yardstick for judging other states. The ruler is the core of the realm, and the realm is like the ruler's body. The realm and the ruler share benefit and suffer illness together, and they will likewise move toward either deviance or rectitude together. The ruler and the realm are closely bound; if the ruler can rectify himself, the realm will naturally be settled. Thus, one who knows how to govern oneself knows everything that can be known. One who is able to govern oneself is able to govern anything. What benefits oneself is appropriate in every case. If something is unsuitable for oneself but suitable for others, then there is no such thing in the realm.

Dao De Zhi Gui Lun (Treatise on the Guidance of the Dao and De), Scroll Three.

By according with nature, those who understand me, the Dao (the Way), know everything, and those who govern me, the Dao, govern in every respect. Nothing that benefits me is impermissible or unacceptable. Things that are harmful to me but beneficial to others……