《道德真经新注》

The natural Dao (Dao, the fundamental principle of quietude and non-action, qingjing wuwei) is still and tranquil, and so all things between Heaven and Earth come into being through it. Humans are the masters among the myriad things, which is why they are named together with Heaven and Earth as the "Three Powers" (sancai). Lord Lao (Laozi) lived at the end of the Western Zhou and upheld the Way of Dao and De, intending to rescue the customs of his age. By "Dao" is meant the fundamental principle of quietude and naturalness. By "De" (Virtue) is meant the cultivation and the results that people attain by following these principles.

Thus the scripture says: "The Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great." These are the four greats between Heaven and Earth. The king should take as his model the natural and wondrous principles of Earth, Heaven, and the Dao in governing the realm. When the realm is thereby settled, this is called De. The "human" mentioned here refers to humankind as a whole. The scripture's words "Humans model themselves on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on naturalness (ziran)" should be understood as saying that humans take as their model the natural principles of these three. To model oneself on Earth is to bear all things without self-interest, as the earth does. To model oneself on Heaven is to cover all things without self-interest, as the sky does. To model oneself on the Dao is to generate all things without self-interest, as the Dao does. This is like the ruler fulfilling the duties of a ruler, the minister those of a minister, the father those of a father, and the son those of a son, each following its own principle.

Later scholars did not grasp the sage's intent, and they mistakenly transmitted some twenty commentaries that all read the scripture as "Humans model themselves on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on naturalness." The author holds that this reading turns the original "four greats" into "five greats," contradicts the scripture, and strays from the purpose of moral instruction. Must the king model himself only on Earth and not on Heaven and the Dao? Moreover, explaining "Earth models Heaven, Heaven models the Dao, the Dao models naturalness" step by step makes the meaning seem remote.

When the source is muddied, the later tributaries become unclear. Some classify the Daodejing as a book of immortals, while others describe it as a teaching of emptiness and nothingness. Some who discuss it claim that Huanglao learning (the Daoist thought represented by the Yellow Emperor and Laozi) predates the Six Classics (liujing) and ranks above them. This is a shallow view, for they do not realize that the Six Classics are merely the branches and leaves of Huanglao learning. In my youth I grasped its essential meaning, and so I have analyzed and explained it here. These principles are the methods for clearing the mind and nourishing qi, bringing peace to the family, and preserving the state.

New Annotations on the True Classic of the Dao and Its De, Scroll One

Part One: The Dao Classic (Daojing)

The nature of ziran (what is naturally so) is stillness and purity, and for this reason Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things are able to grow. When things have grown for a long time, they decline. To cultivate oneself so as to return to what is natural is called "Dao" (the Way). The whole book has thirty-seven chapters.

The Dao, if it could be spoken in words, would not be the eternal and unchanging Dao. It is always so, yet it is difficult to put into words, and can only be described as hazy and elusive. A name, if it could be made clear in language, would refer to the form and qualities of things, and so it too would not be the eternal and unchanging name. Expressions such as "great" and "passing away" are only descriptions of the Dao.

"Nameless" (wuming) is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. This shows that the Dao is profound and subtle, and that if one tries to express it in words, one will stray from the Dao itself. To give it a name is also to impose limits on it. When Heaven and Earth first came into being, there were no humans yet, and so no one could force a name upon the Dao.

"Having a name" (youming) is the root of the myriad things. Once the Three Powers of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity (sancai) are complete, the various things take on visible forms, and the meaning of nurturing and raising the myriad things becomes clear. The names "mother" and "child" are thereby established, and the sage begins from this point to display teachings and transformation.

One who is constantly free of desire can observe the subtlety of the Dao; one who has desires can observe the boundary (jiao) of what the Dao manifests. Jiao means boundary. The fundamental condition of humans comes down to roughly two states, having desire and being without desire. Those who are immersed in desire cannot move freely within the Dao. Only those who can set down their attachments are able to see the Dao's fine essence.

These two arise from the same Dao yet bear different names. At the level of the Dao they are one, but when they become particular things they divide into two. Together they are called "xuan" (the mysterious). Xuan carries the sense of dimness and depth, like five colors placed in darkness, which become hard to tell apart. To bring these different names back to a single source is to enter the deepest mystery within mystery. Mystery upon mystery: the deeper it goes, the harder it is to fathom. This is the gateway through which all the manifold wonders arise and appear. Once one understands this, one can comprehend the source of the transformations of the myriad things and of their movement in and out of being.

Under Heaven there is a master of all under Heaven. Everyone knows that beauty is beautiful only because ugliness appears alongside it. If what one takes to be beautiful is the same as the view of the multitude...

All things under heaven have their own governing principles. Once people all agree that beauty is beautiful, the distinction between beauty and ugliness arises with it. If everyone praises the same thing, that very uniformity may reveal its shortcomings. Once people all agree that goodness is good, the distinction of not-goodness arises as well. If what is taken to be good differs from what the multitude agrees upon, it may indeed fail to meet the standards of the many.

Thus, being and non-being arise by depending on one another; difficulty and ease are established by contrasting with each other; long and short become apparent only through comparison; high and low draw each other out and contend for balance; sound and tone respond to one another and cannot form a melody alone; front and back follow each other, and their relation is not fixed. All of these confirm the principle described above.

Therefore, the sage does not cling to his earlier words but handles affairs through wuwei (non-action), settles his mind in stillness, carries out a teaching that does not depend on speech, and rectifies himself in order to lead the people. When the myriad things arise, he does not interfere with them, nor does he claim them as his own. He does not disturb the myriad things, so the people are able to fulfill their own duties. When the myriad things grow, he does not possess them; when they are brought into being, even if they have his assistance, what is there for him to claim as his own? He acts, yet does not rely on merit; even when he accomplishes something, he does not think of the achievement as belonging to himself. Once the work is done, he does not dwell on it, because he does not deliberately display his own worthiness. Precisely because he does not dwell on it, the merit does not vanish. To govern things without deliberate intention is called not dwelling on merit; when the achievement arises naturally, it can endure for a long time.

Because he does not promote the reputation of worthiness, the common people do not compete to display themselves. The sage does not boast of his own worthiness, so who would contend with him? He does not claim merit as his own and does not deliberately reveal his worthiness, and therefore his achievements can endure.

Without prizing talent and worth, the people will not compete with one another. When the ruler does not display his own abilities, who will contend with him? Without valuing rare and precious goods, the people will not turn to theft. When the ruler treats not coveting as the true treasure, those below him will be transformed by his example, and who then would steal? Without showing anything that could arouse desire, the heart will not be confused. Whatever stirs the heart by facing it, one does not hold in mind, and the heart naturally becomes still. For this reason, the sage has the methods of governance described below: he keeps the mind empty and still, so that external things do not constantly intrude; he fills the belly, so that the primal harmonious Qi (the inner, balanced primordial qi) does not dissipate outward; he keeps the will yielding and focused on the soft Dao (the Way); and he strengthens the sinews and bones, so as to preserve jing (essence) and Qi. Constantly keeping the people low in cleverness and desire is the principle behind all this. When the people are transformed, they return to simplicity, and those who rely on their own cleverness dare not act recklessly. When they see the model of returning to simplicity, they will be willing to take it as their standard. To act in accord with Wuwei (non-action) is to have nothing left ungoverned, and so long as one does not depart from non-action, there is no need to worry that affairs will go ungoverned.

The Dao is like an empty vessel, yet its function is inexhaustible, and the sage too should keep his heart empty in order to respond to the myriad things. It seems never to be full, and therefore its merit is enduring and sufficient. It is profound and still, like the source of the myriad things; deep and settled, there is nothing it cannot govern. It cannot be fathomed, and so it seems to be the ancestor of all things.

To blunt one's sharpness is to restrain the mind that competes to be first; to resolve conflicts is to be skilled at dissolving resentment and enmity; to temper one's brightness is to harmonize one's light with that of others; to mingle with the dust of the world is to merge into the obscurity of the mundane realm. It is deep and subtle, as if it exists yet is hard to grasp. Its function reaches everywhere, yet its nature is not mixed with external things. I do not know whose offspring the Dao is; I only know that it possesses this capacity, and I do not know its parents. It seems to have existed before the Heavenly Emperor. The Heavenly Emperor is the lord who governs the growth and transformation of all things, yet the generation and transformation of the myriad things all come after the Dao, and only the Dao stands before them. "Seems" (si) means "as if." The Dao's nature is humble, so it does not declare this as an absolute conclusion, saying only that it seems to precede the Heavenly Emperor.

Heaven and earth have no partial favor toward anyone. The "ren" (benevolence) spoken of here means loving kindness and the bestowing of grace. Grace arises from inner feeling, but heaven and earth have no private intentions, so how could they deliberately bestow favor? Heaven and earth let the myriad things grow and develop on their own, treating them like the straw dogs used in sacrificial rites: without partiality and without expecting anything in return. A return is born of feeling, and a straw dog has no feeling, so heaven and earth do not look for repayment.

The sage likewise does not deliberately bestow favor. He follows the way heaven and earth act without selfishness or deliberate mind. He dwells in emptiness as he deals with the world, and so he has no partial benevolence. He regards the common people as straw dogs, letting them live according to their own nature. The people, like straw dogs, do not seek repayment, and so they forget whose merit it is and are able to live in peace and security.

Between heaven and earth is something like a bellows or a flute. The bellows is hollow, so when it is worked it produces wind; the flute is hollow, so when it is played it produces music. Both function as needed because they are hollow, and neither grows tired from it. Heaven and earth are the same, and therefore they do not bestow their love unevenly.

Emptiness does not run dry; because it is empty, it does not become exhausted. The more it moves, the more its function appears, and so it can respond to the myriad things all the more. Too many words lead instead to difficulty; it is better to keep to the stillness of the inner heart. Words spoken with deliberate intent always reach an end, but a heart that is empty and still, and so able to respond to things, has no moment of exhaustion.

The Valley Spirit (gushen, the infinite responsive function within an empty valley) does not die. A valley is hollow, so it can answer sounds with echoes, but who is it that responds? People do not know, nor can they fathom it, so it is called spiritual and wondrous. Why does this spiritual response endure without end? When a person empties and quiets the heart, nothing external fails to be responded to. This is like the spiritual function never leaving the body, and so it lasts. This is called xuanpin (the dark, profound female, the generative root). Xuan means deep and subtle, and pin refers to the female. A woman dwelling quietly in a secluded inner chamber can serve to illustrate the xuanpin. The nature of the xuanpin is gentle and tranquil, not allowing external things to harm what is within, and so it preserves the immeasurable spiritual function in the body.

Xuanpin may also refer to the nose and mouth. The nose and mouth are empty, drawing in and expelling primal qi, and this is the root from which Yin-Yang arises. The gate of the xuanpin is the root of Heaven and Earth. If one's conduct can be as empty, tranquil, and gentle as the xuanpin, one may be said to have found the gateway to attaining the Dao. Once the Dao is attained, the Dao becomes the root of Heaven and Earth. The movement of the Dao is long, subtle, and seemingly present and absent at once, yet it has been constant from antiquity to the present, and when it functions it never tires. If a person can comprehend and attain it, they can preserve their nature, keep their spirit vigorous, and gain long life. This passage also speaks of the way of breath regulation, that is, nourishing life through regulating the breath.

Heaven is long-lasting and Earth endures. The reason Heaven and Earth can persist so long is that they do not exist for their own sake, and therefore they endure. They do not labor solely to sustain themselves, yet they last. Therefore the sage (shengren) emulates Heaven and Earth. By placing the self behind, the sage is able to stand before others. By withdrawing, the sage becomes foremost. By setting personal gain outside the self, the sage paradoxically preserves the self, and by not regarding the self as too weighty, the sage does not fall into danger. The sage is selfless, and so paradoxically fulfills their own aims. One who considers not only oneself but also others may find that even when others' private wishes cannot all be realized, one's own aims have already been accomplished through this.

The highest virtue is like water (shang shan ruo shui). Water nourishes all things yet does not contend with them for advantage. It always follows the course of least resistance and settles in the low places that people despise, which is why it comes close to the Dao (the Way). What is meant by "the highest goodness is like water" is that the most perfect person is also like water.

Water dwells in low places and is skilled at choosing its position. Its surface is deep and still, and it is skilled at keeping its depth. It nourishes all things and is skilled at bestowing benevolence. Its flow is regular and it is skilled at keeping faith. It channels and is skilled at ordering. It adapts to different circumstances and is skilled at making the most of its strengths. It changes with the seasons and the terrain and is skilled at seizing the right moment. Because it does not contend, it has no faults. The original commentary (yuan zhu) says that you (fault) means error, and that a good person who emulates the nature of water will likewise commit few mistakes.

If a person does not put themselves first, they can paradoxically bring their own self to fulfillment. The original commentary elaborates: one who plans not only for oneself but also considers others may not be able to fulfill the private wishes of others, yet their own affairs are in fact brought to completion.

If you grasp something in your hand and try to fill it to the brim, it is better to stop in time. The original commentary says that those who force themselves to reach fullness rarely avoid overturning, and it is better to stop and keep to a moderate state. If an implement is ground too sharp, it is difficult to preserve for long. The original commentary takes the sharpening of a blade as an example, pointing out that an edge that is too thin breaks easily. A house filled with gold and jade may still not be secure, and greed for treasure and excessive accumulation may even invite deadly disaster. Becoming arrogant after wealth and rank brings calamity on oneself, and arrogance while in a high position also invites disaster that one cannot blame on others. Once an achievement is completed and an affair is accomplished, one should withdraw and no longer occupy a conspicuous position. The original commentary holds that this accords with the regularity of tian dao (the Way of Heaven), in which what is full is diminished.

"Zai ying po, bao yi neng wu li hu" (Can you carry the ethereal and corporeal souls and embrace the One without letting them separate?) asks whether a person's form, which bears the hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul), can keep to baoyi (embracing the One, that is, unifying body and mind) so that these souls do not drift apart. The original commentary says that at birth a person necessarily bears both hun and po. The hun is the yang spirit, which drives a person to be active and to grow, while the po is the yin ghost, which...

People die. For this reason, Laozi taught methods for nourishing body and mind and guarding life, so that one would avoid the calamities that come from reckless action. The most important of these methods is "embracing the One" (bao yi). "One" means singleness of focus. When the mind is held in singleness, the hun and po souls are less likely to leave the body, and one can also come into accord with the things before them.

"Can you concentrate your qi and attain softness, so that your limbs become as supple as an infant's?" This asks whether one can wholeheartedly nurture one's harmonizing qi so that the body's limbs remain soft, like those of a baby. "Can you cleanse and purify the Xuanlan (mysterious mirror), so that no flaw remains?" Xuanlan refers to the heart-mind. When the heart-mind is clear and penetrating, even things that are deep and distant can be perceived and understood. People often have many desires and are ruled by them without restraint, so defilement arises in the heart and the capacity to discern things is lost. Therefore one must wash the heart clean with the Dao and remove the entanglements of worldly dust.

"Can you love the people and govern the state through wuwei (non-action)?" One who has cultivated himself well has never been known to govern a state poorly. The people are the foundation of the state, and wuwei is the essential principle of governance. To govern by grasping this essential principle is to love the people and to bring order to the state.

"Can you open and close the Heavenly Gate and remain in the role of the feminine?" A ruler of virtue receives the assistance of Heaven, loves the people, and holds to softness and stillness. His actions never depart from the proper Way, and so the Heavenly Gate stays open and Heaven bestows blessings and prosperity. Without this, the Heavenly Gate will close.

"Can you understand clearly in all directions and yet remain without knowledge?" The supreme virtue of the sage is like the sun, whose light reaches everywhere. Yet can such a ruler keep his ministers from sensing that light falling upon them? To give birth to and nurture the myriad things without claiming them as one's own is essential, for if one claims them, the things will perceive it. To act without boasting of one's achievements is also essential, for boasting runs contrary to the way of the sage. To nurture the myriad things without dominating them is to let them remain unaware of where their life came from. This is called xuande (mysterious virtue), a deep and ineffable power, the realm reached when the Dao operates unseen.

Thirty spokes converge on a single hub (the central part of a wheel where the spokes are joined). It is the empty space within the hub that makes the cart usable.

The thirty spokes converge on a single hub, and it is the empty space at the center of the hub that makes the cart useful. In the earliest days of cartmaking, wheels were made from solid blocks of wood. Later, with thirty spokes, the wheel could turn and the cart could move. What makes a cart truly useful lies in the empty space within the carriage. It is by means of this emptiness that the cart can carry loads and travel.

Clay is kneaded into vessels, and a vessel can hold things only because it is hollow. The ancients fired clay into bowls, basins, and other objects. A vessel's usefulness likewise depends on the emptiness within it, and people rely on that space to regulate their food and drink.

Doors and windows are cut and houses are built, and a house can serve as a dwelling only because it leaves open space. The ancients carved out hills to make homes, hollowed out doorways for people to pass through, and opened windows to let in light. People live in these dwellings because there is empty space inside them. By relying on this emptiness, people keep their lives from becoming stagnant.

Thus, tangible forms provide convenience, while empty space allows things to function. The formless Dao (dào, the Way) is entrusted to concrete objects, and only then does its function become manifest.

Vivid colors dazzle the eye, and if one stares at them for a long time, the vision blurs until nothing seems visible. Complex music deafens the ear, and after listening for long, the ears grow dull until nothing seems audible. Rich flavors disturb the palate, and one who keeps eating loses the ability to distinguish tastes. Galloping after horses and hunting drive the mind into frenzy. Chasing foxes and hares leaves one exhausted with no time to rest. Rare treasures impede conduct. People will risk their lives for them, yet gain nothing in virtue, and so their actions are obstructed.

Therefore, the sage uses the sage's own way of dealing with the world to restrain the five temptations described above. Since people are busy chasing these things and never learn to yield, the sage reminds them through the Dao of "for the belly." "For the belly" means satisfying the body's actual needs, while "for the eyes" means endlessly pursuing stimulation of the outer senses. When the eyes' desires are never satisfied, the sage does not chase them. When the belly knows contentment, the sage chooses contentment. Thus one discards the former and chooses the latter. Here, "that" (bǐ) refers to outward pursuit of sensory desire, and "this" (cǐ) refers to satisfying inner, real needs.

Being favored or being humiliated both feel like being startled. If one regards favor and humiliation as the same, one will not rejoice at favor or fear at humiliation, and so will not bring humiliation upon oneself. One should value great calamity as one values one's own self; when one regards the self and calamity as a single whole, one can be free of calamity's burdens.

What is meant by "favor and humiliation"? Being honored and glorified is called favor, and being belittled and blamed is called humiliation. Favor places a person in a lowly position, and humiliation also arises from favor, which is why the text says that humiliation is in the higher place. As Ji An (a minister of the Han dynasty) put it in the saying about piling firewood, one who is favored should be as wary as one who is startled, fearing that humiliation will follow. One who has lost favor should likewise be as alert as one who is startled, using the loss to examine one's own faults. This is what is meant by "regarding favor and humiliation as startling," and it can also be understood as treating favor and fright as closely related circumstances.

What is meant by "valuing great calamity as one values one's own self"? The reason I have great calamity is that I have a body. If one values the self excessively, one will encounter sorrow everywhere. Once one no longer clings to the self, what calamity remains to be feared? If one does not treat the self as a private possession and forgets the physical form, one will find no place where sorrow can settle.

Therefore, only one who can regard the world as precious as one's own self may be entrusted with it. If a ruler cherishes only their own person and pursues fine clothing and rich food, they will inevitably exhaust the people's wealth, and who would not resent them? Such a person cannot bear the heavy charge of governing the world for long. Only one who regards the world as precious as their own self may be entrusted with it. One who reveres favor and humiliation and governs the world with caution cherishes their own self, and so guards against humiliation and does not harm the people. The people will naturally draw close and attach themselves to such a ruler, and will be willing to entrust the world to them. To "entrust" means to hand the world over to them.

Looking at it and not seeing it is called "yi" (level, formless). The eyes can see all kinds of colors, yet they cannot see the Dao (the Way); one who observes the Dao can only perceive its state of being even and plain, without any distinct differences.

Listening for it and not hearing it is called "xi" (rare, faint). The ears can hear sounds, yet they cannot hear the Dao; one who listens for the Dao can only perceive that it is subtle and soundless. "Xi" carries the meanings of emptiness and scarcity: some people never come to comprehend it throughout their lives, while others are able to gain some understanding of it.

Reaching for it and not touching it is called "wei" (subtle). The hand can grasp concrete things, yet it cannot grasp the Dao; one who tries to touch the Dao can only perceive that it is subtle and hard to discern, as if it exists, yet when pursued it slips away.

These three experiences cannot be pursued to their ultimate ground, so when taken together they are called "hun er wei yi" (blended and made one). If one clings to investigating these three separately, one will ultimately gain nothing; it is better to regard them as a single, undivided whole. Above, the Dao is not bright; below, it is not dark. Ordinary things have distinctions of brightness and darkness, high and low. The Dao is so lofty that there is nothing higher, so it is said to be "bu jiao" (not manifestly bright); it is so low that there is nothing lower, so it is said to be "bu mei" (not manifestly dark).

The Dao stretches on without end and cannot be named; when one examines its substance and tries to give it a name, it returns to formlessness and the absence of things. This is called "wu zhuang zhi zhuang" (the form of formlessness). Since it cannot be named, it truly has no fixed shape; but why, then, speak of it as having a "form"? Because the Dao itself has no shape, yet it truly gives rise to all the various shapes of the myriad things, it is called "the form of formlessness."

The Dao is "the image of no-thing," not a concrete figure that can be seen, and this is called "hu huang" (elusive and indistinct). "Huang" implies existence and "hu" implies emptiness; to say it exists is not entirely right, and to say it does not exist is also not entirely right, so "hu huang" is used to describe it.

Facing the Dao and looking for its head, one does not see it, because it has no beginning. Following it and looking for its tail, one does not see it either, because it has no ending. Holding fast to the Dao of antiquity, one can govern the things of the present. Although the Dao cannot be perceived by eyes or ears, and cannot be known through searching or grasping, it has existed since antiquity, and so it is called "Dao." To hold fast to the Dao, the method lies in emptying and stilling the mind. When the mind is truly empty and still, the Dao naturally manifests; then, holding to the Dao in responding to the myriad things, all affairs can each attain their proper order. To be able to know the beginnings of the myriad things and to act in accordance with the Dao is called grasping the guiding threads of the Dao, which is the fundamental principle of the transformations of the myriad things.

The ancient masters who were skilled at cultivating the Dao (the Way), those who took the Dao as their root, were profound and subtle, penetrating and far-reaching, so that others could hardly fathom them. They alone explored the supreme Dao and examined its finest points thoroughly, and their attainment was so lofty, like a high wall, that no one could see over it. Because they were so hard to know, one can only give a rough description of their appearance: the Dao dwells within the heart and does not show itself outwardly. To teach and guide others, their conduct is described in words, so that people may come to understand through these descriptions.

They were as cautious as people crossing a river in winter. The river's surface is frozen, and the one crossing keeps wariness in mind, so they were careful and never reckless. They were also as watchful as someone who fears those around him. Though they lived in the world, they were not stained by external things, and like someone crossing a winter river, they dreaded leaving any traces that might cause concern. They drew in their sharpness and concealed themselves, as if fleeing from calamity, fearing lest those around them notice.

They were dignified like guests and did not act presumptuously. Yet they were also like ice about to melt, loose and transparent, no longer congealed. They were simple and unpretentious, like unhewn wood, fearing that by drifting along with the world they would forget to return to their origin, and so they always sought to come back to the root. Their minds were open, like an empty valley able to receive all things, and yet they were deep and reserved, like muddy water, not striving to be clear.

Who can let muddy water settle and slowly become clear? Only one skilled in the Dao can do so. Who can remain in motion within stillness so that vitality gradually arises? The one skilled in the Dao does not cling to fixed stillness. Instead, they let things come and go, wax and wane, and change, and this is the way they practice the Dao.

Those who return to the Dao do not seek fullness, for to be overly full leads toward loss. Precisely because they do not seek fullness, even when things have grown worn, they are not hasty to renew or replace them.

To hold the mind at the extreme of emptiness, free of distracting thoughts, and to keep stillness deeply and steadily preserved. Here "Du" (steadfast) means deep and firm. One who seeks the Dao and wishes it to gather within the self must first empty the heart. When emptiness reaches its utmost, the Dao naturally comes to dwell in the body.

All things grow and transform together, and through them I observe how they return to their origin. To show that guarding stillness is the way to attain the Dao, Laozi uses the myriad things as illustration. All things are in constant motion and change, yet when the grasses and trees wither, their vitality everywhere returns to quiet stillness.

The myriad things flourish and grow, reaching their peak in autumn. As autumn gives way to winter, the nature of life all returns to the roots, because the roots are at rest. When things return to their roots, this is called stillness. If they continue in constant activity, they cannot grow anew.

Stillness is also called returning to the source of life. When things reach the tenth month, their vital breath has all returned to the roots. After the winter solstice, a single yang (yi yang) first begins to stir, and only then do the myriad things start to sprout and move. This cycle of recurrence is the fundamental law of nature.

To return to the source of life is called constancy (chang). Constancy is the principle of ceaseless generation. To recognize the constant Dao is called clarity (ming). Clarity exists because one is able to know. Those who do not recognize the constant Dao act in disorder and invite calamity. Those who do not understand the constant Dao will have their undertakings go astray, and they will find it hard to meet with good fortune.

To recognize the constant Dao is to have a mind capable of embracing all things. Because the heart is empty and still, it can recognize the constant Dao, and therefore it can contain a multitude of things. To contain everything is to be impartial; to hold all without exception is to be without private interest. Impartiality makes one fit to be king; being without private interest makes the myriad things come to submit. The kingly Way is like Heaven, fair and without bias, covering all things as the sky overspreads them. Heaven accords with the Dao; the efficacy of the Dao is immense, yet it does not claim its achievements. The Dao endures without cease. A ruler who forgets his own merit and acts without self-interest has deep and abundant virtue (De). Who could harm such a person? Such a one will never meet danger throughout life.

"Love extended to the sweet pear tree: does it cleanse the man?" Here the love shown to the sweet pear tree serves as illustration. The Perfected Person (Zhiren), one whose virtue accords with the Dao, establishes achievements, accomplishes undertakings, leaves teachings, and sets forth standards that can be transmitted for ten thousand ages. Though the body dies, the spirit and influence endure.

End of Volume One of the New Commentary on the Daode Zhenjing (Daode Zhenjing Xinzhu).

New Commentary on the Daode Zhenjing (Daode Zhenjing Xinzhu), Volume Two.

"Love extended to the sweet pear tree: does it cleanse the man?" Here again the love shown to the sweet pear tree serves as illustration. The Perfected Person establishes achievements, accomplishes undertakings, leaves teachings, and sets forth standards that can be transmitted for ten thousand ages. Though the body dies, the spirit and influence endure.

New Annotations on the Dao De Jing, Volume One, concludes here.

New Annotations on the Dao De Jing, Volume Two, discusses the second part of the Dao Jing (Classic of the Dao).

The best ruler is one whose people merely know that he exists. In remote antiquity, the people knew only that their ruler was there and never heard him issue commands. The next best ruler is one whom the people draw close to and praise. They feel attached to him because of his favor and praise him because they have been nourished by his benevolence. Lower still is the ruler whom the people fear and also hold in contempt: the upright fear him, and the treacherous despise him.

When a ruler's trustworthiness is insufficient, the people will not trust him. At first he guides them through deceptive means, which shows that he lacks good faith. Later, even when he offers sincerity, the people no longer believe him. The ruler still values his own words, yet he does not realize that prizing words while neglecting good faith has already produced this ill. If he continues to value words above all, the simple and harmonious customs cannot be restored. When affairs are accomplished and the work is complete, the people all say, "We did this ourselves." This is because there were no numerous decrees, and so this climate took shape.

Only after the Great Dao (Da Dao) declined did benevolence and righteousness appear. It is not that the Dao deliberately rejected benevolence and righteousness and thereby fell into decline. Rather, once these virtues were specially promoted, the Dao was bound to decline, because the people of that time had abandoned the root and exalted the branches.

Once cleverness and contrivance are displayed, grave hypocrisy arises. This is not because people deliberately manufacture falsehood. Hypocrisy grows out of reliance on outward signs. When relatives within a household are not in harmony, filial piety and kindness become especially conspicuous. In an age when the father is kind and the children are filial, where would a reputation like that of Zeng Shen (a disciple of Confucius renowned for filial conduct) come from? When the state falls into disorder, loyal ministers appear. In an age when the ruler is worthy and the ministers are good, where would a name for integrity like that of Bi Gan (a minister of the Shang dynasty known for upright loyalty) come from?

Abandon the so-called sagacity (shengming) and cleverness, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Abandon the reputation for wisdom (sheng zhi), and there will be no need to set up numerous statutes. Without these statutes, the people need not worry about breaking prohibitions. With no such worry in their hearts, people can live at ease. As for those who profit by seizing the moment of the character "han," their gains will also exceed a hundredfold. (The meaning of "han" is unclear in this passage; it is left as in the original.)

Abandon deliberately advertised benevolence and righteousness (ren yi), and the people will recover the natural filial devotion to parents and loving care for children. Abandon benevolence and righteousness practiced against nature, and the people of the realm will no longer follow impractical standards that are hard to reach. They will instead return to natural filial piety and compassion (xiao ci).

Abandon cleverness and private gain, and thieves will not appear. Abandon cleverness that exceeds ordinary measure, and benefits can be distributed evenly. When benefits are even, each person is content, and who would then become a thief?

These three points are still not enough to fully express the meaning of moral teaching, so four more sentences are added. "Shu" means to continue or attach. The first three points are sufficient to instruct the ruler and sufficient to instruct the people, so four more are appended. "Jian su" means revealing simplicity and removing adornment. "Bao pu" means holding fast to the root. "Shao si" means reducing private self-interest and forgetting the self. "Gua yu" means reducing desire. The meaning of "sang ou" is left as in the original, and its sense in this context is unclear.

Cut off worldly learning and cleverness, and there will be no worries. Studying the knowledge of the human world often leaves one with regrets in what one does, and so one grows anxious. "Wei" and "a" are both words of response, yet how far apart are they? They come from the mouth in the same way, but one can express joy and the other anger. How far apart are good and evil? Both arise from the heart, so how could they be as distant as the lands of the Hu in the north and the Yue in the south? What people fear, one cannot help but fear. What calls for vigilance must be watched, or disaster will arrive quickly.

If worldly learning develops in this way, then the innate nature of humanity will grow more neglected and withered with each passing day, and it seems there will be no end to it.

The multitude is elated and busy chasing desires, like people feasting at a lavish sacrificial banquet, revealing a craving heart. It is also like climbing a spring terrace, where excitement rises and desire grows with it. Only I am cautious and fearful. My emotions have not yet surfaced, and I am like an infant who does not yet understand things. Laozi said: I have long been separated from worldly learning. Even now, when I see it, my heart still feels unsettled. My emotions have not yet surfaced, and like an infant who does not yet understand, I do not grasp the thoughts of the world.

I follow whatever circumstances I meet, as though I have no fixed place to settle. What is called following is simply moving forward with the situation before me. The sage holds no preconceptions and proceeds by yielding to whatever arises. How would such a person distinguish between here and there? And even if one spoke of a destination, which place would it be?

The multitude seems at ease with worldly learning, while I appear to have forgotten something and seem to lack spirit. My heart is truly like that of a fool! It is whole and simple, untroubled only because it has not been disturbed by the worldly habit of discriminating and scheming.

Worldly people are sharp, keen, and eager to show strength and win. Only I seem muddled, as if I lack any ability. Worldly people think they understand and boast of their insight. Only I seem dim and ignorant, as if I have hidden my sharpness away. I am vast and unbounded like the sea, still as though I alone have halted somewhere. I drift like an empty boat on the great sea, never moored.

The multitude all believes it has something to rely on, and so it cannot rest. Only I am as dull and stubborn as a person from a remote countryside. I seem not to understand the affairs of the human world, and I am as clumsy as the people of the frontier. I differ from others: though my body is among the crowd, my inner mind transcends all things. What I cherish is drawing nourishment from the Mother of all things, the Dao (the source of the myriad things). Here "Mother" refers to the Dao, and "nourishment" means sustenance. Because I have cut off worldly learning, the Dao nourishes me with primordial harmony and wondrous qi (the subtle, harmonious qi produced by the Dao).

A person of profound De (Virtue/Power) follows only the Dao (the Way) in conduct. Kong (kǒng) here means "very" or "exceedingly," rong (róng) means to receive or contain, and cong (cóng) means to comply or follow. A person of deep De keeps the mind inwardly still and empty, able to contain the Dao and act in accordance with it.

The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp. It dislikes clutter and dwells in stillness and emptiness. Within this elusiveness, an image seems to arise in the mind. If the mind follows hu (hū), it becomes empty of anything at all. If desire arises from huang (huǎng), the Dao takes on a form that cannot be clearly discerned. If the mind, though stirred by desire, can return to emptiness and freedom from desire, the Dao becomes subtle once more and remains clear within the heart.

The Dao is deep, distant, and dark, and within it is contained a refined qi, or vital energy. Yao (yǎo) means deep and distant, ming (míng) means dark and obscure, and jing (jīng), or essence, refers to the subtlety of the Dao. The Dao moves through all things as this refined qi, yet its traces cannot be seen; only a person with an empty mind can perceive it. The refined qi of the Dao is real and not illusory, and whoever receives it may become a perfected person (zhenren). If the mind can truly become empty and still, this qi will respond and will not be lost.

From antiquity to the present, the name of the Dao has never changed. People today, through an empty mind that responds to the Dao, find that it does not slip away, and so they know the ancients experienced it in the same way. Looking back at the beginnings of antiquity, we find many who attained the Dao, and every one of them attained it through wuyu (non-desire).

Laozi said: "How do I know that the ancients attained the Dao in this way? I know it from the principles set out above."

Bending allows one to remain whole. Yielding to the course of things leaves little that can become one's own calamity. Whoever suffers wrong will ultimately be able to extend himself, and whoever holds back for a time, without hurrying to dispute, will in the end make his principle manifest. Dwelling in low places, one can receive abundance, and one who willingly remains humble will have all under heaven turn their hearts toward him. Old things worn and damaged can be renewed, and one who does not prize what he has already attained leaves room to keep cultivating and advancing. Taking little brings gain because the mind is not scattered; taking much leads to confusion, as one chases in many directions and runs about with the crowd.

Therefore the sage holds fast to the One (the root of the Dao) and takes it as the standard for all under heaven. Simply by holding to the Dao, he ensures that no one under heaven dares to defy him. The sage does not deliberately display himself, and so he comes to be clearly understood. He does not boast of his abilities, and so those abilities eventually reveal themselves. He does not regard himself as right, and so he becomes distinguished. He does not cling to his own opinions, and so his strengths shine forth. He does not praise himself, and so he endures. He is willing to acknowledge his shortcomings, and so his merits return to him. He does not parade his achievements, and so his deeds are recognized. Because he does not occupy fame, fame does not leave him. Because he does not contend with others, no one under heaven can contend with him. Acting according to the principles set out above, no one fails to submit wholeheartedly. The ancients said, "Bending allows one to remain whole." Is this an empty saying? Truly, one preserves oneself and draws people's hearts toward oneself. So long as one acts appropriately, the effect will naturally appear.

Speaking little accords with nature (ziran). Guarding one's words is not only a way of avoiding many faults; it is also a way of conforming to the natural Dao. A violent wind cannot blow through a whole morning, and a downpour cannot last a full day. These two kinds of weather do too much harm to the myriad things, so they cannot persist for long. Who brings them about? Heaven and earth. If heaven and earth cannot sustain violent winds and storms for long, how much less can a human being? Heaven and earth are the greatest of all bodily forms, yet even the fierce winds and rains that harm the myriad things do not dare to last. Human beings, by contrast, are so small. How, then, could one expect to speak at length without harming the natural qi? Therefore, one who follows the Dao is precisely one who speaks little.

What is alike to the Dao will join with the Dao, what is alike to De (Virtue) will join with De, and what is alike to the loss of the Dao will also join with that loss. Things gather with their own kind. The Dao receives those who join with it, De receives those who join with De, and the loss of the Dao receives those who join with it. Like meets like, and each responds to the other. When sincerity is lacking, others will not believe. If one does not trust that speaking little accords with the Dao, and instead incurs faults through much speech, then, regretting it afterward and seeking the Dao, one may declare one's sincerity, but those who follow the Dao will perhaps no longer believe him.

Standing on tiptoe, one cannot stand steadily, and walking on tiptoe cannot be kept up for long. Taking long strides, one in fact cannot walk quickly. If the steps are too large, how can one go far?

Those who only seek to display themselves cannot see things clearly. The self-righteous do not gain recognition. Those who boast of themselves have no merit, and those who are overbearing cannot endure. These behaviors are like standing on tiptoe and taking long strides: they are forced and contrived, and they also go against natural human disposition. If a person is afflicted with only one of these faults, others will regard him as unreasonable, let alone one who gathers all of them into himself.

In relation to the Dao (the Way), such behaviors are like surplus food and superfluous limbs, which are repugnant, or like leftover scraps and excess flesh on the body. Even the myriad things despise them, and so one who embodies the Dao does not act in this way. Ordinary things still provoke disgust, so one who embodies the Dao would naturally not turn his mind to such conduct.

There was an undifferentiated oneness that existed before Heaven and Earth took form. At that time the primordial Qi (vital energy, yuanqi) had gathered into a single whole, and Heaven and Earth had not yet appeared. It was silent and empty, utterly vacant and still. It stood alone without change, did not mingle with the myriad things, and did not transform along with them. It circulated everywhere without ever being exhausted, dwelling within the myriad things yet never falling into peril. For this reason it may be called the mother of all under Heaven, because it is able to give birth to and nourish the myriad things.

I do not know what it was originally called, and I cannot find a fitting name for it, so I reluctantly give it a single character and call it Dao (the Way). The character expresses that it possesses the De (Virtue) of generating Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. I further reluctantly call it "great." A "name" is used to refer to what is real. Because it encompasses everything, I call it "great," so that those who wish to cultivate the Dao have something to call it by and something to follow.

To be "great" means to keep moving onward and farther away; having reached the farthest extreme, it returns. When a person pursues it into the distance, it still cannot be grasped, yet suddenly one finds oneself back at the empty and still original mind. Therefore the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. Although the king cannot be placed alongside the Dao, Heaven, and Earth for comparison, his greatness still stands behind theirs. Within the whole of Heaven and Earth there are four kinds of greatness, and the king is one of them. Heaven and Earth, which lie below the Dao, are both born from the Dao. The king, however, should model himself on the Dao, Heaven, and Earth.

Humans model themselves on Earth: like Earth, they should quietly bear and nourish the myriad things. Earth models itself on Heaven: like Heaven, it should cover broadly and without partiality. Heaven models itself on the Dao: like the Dao, it should forget its own achievements. If the king is able to model himself on Earth, Heaven, and the Dao and integrate them thoroughly, then he deserves to be called king; otherwise he is merely one person among the many. Earth, Heaven, and the Dao all possess the natural and wondrous principle, and the king ought to model himself on them. What is called the natural principle is this: in covering, bearing, and nourishing the myriad things, there is no partiality.

Heaviness is the root of lightness. Nothing grows without a root, so the root is what matters most. Stillness is the master of restlessness. The common people are all governed by their ruler, so the ruler should remain settled and calm.

For this reason, the noble person, though traveling all day, never leaves the baggage cart that carries their provisions. Before setting out for any destination, the noble person prepares their supplies in advance, to guard against the hardships of cold, heat, hunger, and want.

Even amid splendid scenery, the noble person can dwell at ease and remain detached and self-contented. "Detached" describes the appearance of transcendence. "Splendid scenery" refers to places for spring outings, and "dwelling at ease" refers to a leisurely residence. Only by holding fast to weightiness and stillness can one achieve this detachment.

Why, then, would a ruler who governs the realm treat their own person lightly? All things and all people abide by the principle of weightiness and stillness. How, then, could the ruler of the realm fail to value themselves and instead act rashly? When conduct is light, the ruler loses the support of their ministers. When restless, the ruler loses the position that properly belongs to a sovereign.

One who is skilled at walking leaves no obvious wheel ruts or footprints; one who is skilled at practicing the Dao (the Way) leaves no traces in their conduct. One who is skilled at speaking makes no flaws or faults in their words; one who is skilled at discussing the Dao makes no deviation in their speech. One who is skilled at calculation does not need counting rods (suanchou); by guarding stillness and purity (qingjing), they do not rely on rod-reckoning. One who is skilled at closing doors needs no bolt, yet others cannot open what they have shut; by closing the gates of the seven orifices (qiqiao), the swarm of demons cannot invade. One who is skilled at tying knots needs no cord, yet the knot is so firm it cannot be undone. By purifying the spirits (shen) dwelling in the five viscera (wuzang), a person cannot be lured by external things.

Therefore the sage is always skilled at rescuing people, so no one is abandoned; and always skilled at dealing with all things, so nothing is discarded. To practice these virtues (de) quietly, in secret, the Dao reaches even grass and trees, how much more so people! This is called ximing, "concealed illumination," meaning the practice of clarity within the heart without displaying it outwardly.

Thus the good person is the teacher of the not-good person, and the good person is able to pass the good Way on to others. The not-good person is the resource and support (zi) of the good person. The term zi in the scripture means provision and reliance: even the not-good person can become one whom the good person cultivates and teaches. If one does not respect the teacher, nor cherish these supporting things, all will ultimately return to the Dao, and teacher and student, good and bad, will no longer cling to such distinctions. Although to worldly eyes this approach seems close to bewildering, this is precisely the subtle essence of the Dao.

To know one is strong and vigorous, yet to abide in softness and weakness, is to become a place where all under heaven converges. Though one may possess martial talents, one does not readily display them. When the heart is humble and yielding, people will be drawn to it, just as the valleys of the world gather all the streams. When the constant De (enduring Virtue) does not leave the self, one returns to the pure harmony of the infant, and the whole body is filled with harmonious Qi (vital energy).

To know what is bright and manifest, yet to abide in obscurity and concealment, is to become the standard (shi) for all under heaven. Shi means standard. When one restrains a display of brilliance and wisdom and dwells as though in darkness, all under heaven will not dare to be disrespectful. Becoming the standard of the world, the constant De will not go astray. Embracing this hidden and withdrawn Virtue, one returns to Wuji (the Limitless), the primordial state without boundaries, undifferentiated and original. When Virtue reaches such a state, blessings and longevity become immeasurable.

To know what is glorious, yet to abide in humiliation, is to become the deep valley of the world. Regarding glory as though it were disgrace, the heart becomes as broad as a valley, able to receive all things. Becoming the deep valley of the world, the constant De is abundant and the Virtue is complete in every respect, and so one returns to Pu (the uncarved block), the unworked, natural state. Pu is the root of all vessels. When Virtue is complete, one can return to the root, and the root is the Dao (the Way).

When the uncarved block is dispersed, it becomes the various vessels; when the Dao is divided, it forms the myriad things. The sage makes use of the Dao and so becomes the leader of the people, standing above all talented individuals and teaching those who have not yet grasped the principle. Therefore, the highest governance does not sever or fragment the myriad things. Holding to the ultimate Dao, one can embrace all things, and one should guard them through Wuwei (non-action), rather than governing by adding punishments.

Seeking to win all under heaven by deliberately doing things to earn the goodwill of the people is, I think, impossible. Trying to gain all under heaven through artificial action will, in the end, not succeed. The word "yi" in this sentence is a modal particle. All under heaven is a spiritual and precious vessel (shenqi) that cannot be handled by arbitrary action. What is called "shenqi" refers to the human being. Spirits dwell within the human body, which is why it is called "shenqi." Human nature detests disturbance, and forcing action will throw the common people into disorder. For this reason, one cannot win all under heaven through deliberate action.

Forcing action will ruin affairs, and the people will scatter. Clinging stubbornly to control will lose all under heaven. Those who do not believe these sincere words and insist on their own intentions will certainly lose the imperial enterprise. Among all things, some go ahead and some follow behind. If someone forces action at the front, failure and loss will follow behind. Some are like breath blown out gently, and some are like breath blown out harshly. Benevolence (ren) and virtue (de) are like warm breath, while harsh punishment is like cold breath. When the people are settled, the state flourishes; when they scatter, it weakens. When they are nurtured, they can bear burdens and grow; when they are mistreated, they collapse.

Therefore the sage removes excess, extravagance, and extremes. Forcing action produces many serious consequences, so how could those who govern all under heaven fail to eliminate such practices? When the sage governs all under heaven, they remove excess, extravagance, and extremes from among its affairs.

Those who assist a ruler through the Dao (the Way) do not rely on military force to assert themselves over the world. In antiquity, those skilled at aiding rulers stabilized the common people and strengthened the state by means of the Dao, not by means of war. Warfare tends to invite retaliation: before the defeated army has even returned home, the reprisal has already arrived. Where armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles grow, because the fields are damaged and cultivation is hindered. After great wars, famine years inevitably follow. Once a war is over, the air of killing has not yet dissipated, and the harmonious breath of heaven and earth that nurtures and generates life has not yet returned, so good harvests are hard to obtain.

For this reason, one who is skilled in using soldiers seeks only to achieve what is necessary and does not dare to use force to show off strength. Those who assist a ruler should accord with the Dao and should not resort to war. When it is unavoidable to employ troops, one should choose a person who is skilled at commanding them. Such a person acts decisively but does not treat victory as a goal in itself. They achieve their results without boasting, without displaying merit, and without arrogance. Because the use of arms is a matter of necessity, they act resolutely yet do not overreach. Even if a skilled commander leads an army to pacify disorder, they will certainly not boast, display merit, or grow arrogant. Why? Because their decisiveness springs from humility rather than from a desire to dominate, and to overreach is to go against the Dao.

When things grow excessively strong, they proceed toward decline. This is called not according with the Dao. When things reach their peak, they turn toward decay, and when an army reaches the height of its strength, it may still be defeated. All of this happens because such conduct is not in accord with the Dao, and what is not in accord with the Dao soon perishes. To recognize that one's actions are not in accord with the Dao and to stop early is wise. The word meaning "to stop" here is pronounced yi.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments. The character pronounced zhui here means "to be fond of," and bing refers to all kinds of weapons. Weapons are tools for inflicting harm, so to be fond of them is not a good thing. The myriad things mostly detest warfare, and so one who possesses the Dao does not place themselves in such a situation. All living beings love to live and hate to die. If even the myriad things detest a warlike state, how much more would a person of the Dao, who is a junzi (gentleman), be unwilling to dwell there? When the junzi is at ease in ordinary times, what they value most is...

The gentleman takes benevolent virtue (Ren De) as his foundation, leading the multitude so that all things may grow. For this reason, in matters of orientation the left is honored, since the left symbolizes generation and growth. In warfare, however, the right is honored, because those who direct military affairs take killing and punishment as their duty, and the direction employed in battle symbolizes decline.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments, and they are not things the gentleman values. He governs the realm through civil virtue (Wen De) and does not act through arms. He uses weapons only when he has no alternative, precisely because they are not the way of governing a well-ordered age. A tranquil and detached state of mind is the best course. Military action serves only to halt incursions, and there is truly nothing about it worth praising.

Even after a victory, one should not regard the triumph as a fine thing. To consider victory fine is to delight in killing, and one who delights in killing cannot realize his aims in the world. Since everyone detests death, who would sincerely submit to such a person?

Therefore, in auspicious affairs the left is esteemed, and in inauspicious affairs of mourning the right is esteemed, each arranged according to the nature of the matter. The deputy general stands on the left. Although he too is a commander responsible for killing, he does not hold the authority to direct it. The supreme general stands on the right, presiding specifically over campaigns. This arrangement follows the rules of funeral rites, as if a coffin were placed in its proper position.

When many have been killed, one should respond with grief and weeping. The gentleman, when serving as a commander, says: "I truly lack virtue. What crime have the common people committed? Once fighting begins, many are wounded, and some are brought close to death." As he reflects on these things, he speaks and tears fall.

After victory, the affairs of war should still be treated according to the manner of mourning rites. Placing the commander in the corresponding position does not necessarily require him to wear mourning garments. This serves two purposes: it accords with the ominous, mournful atmosphere that killing brings, and it restrains the military leader's self-satisfaction arising from his victory.

The Dao (the Way) has no fixed name; calling it "Dao" now is only a makeshift label. It is like unhewn wood (pu): small in form, yet deeply concealed, so that it cannot be seen or grasped, and no one under heaven dares to make it a servant. One who embodies the great Dao may still serve as teacher to kings, so how much less could anyone dare to treat the great Dao as a minister or servant to be commanded?

If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, the people of the world will naturally turn to them. Here, bin means to obey and submit. If one keeps to the Dao without fail, even people from distant lands will come to pledge allegiance. When the Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth join, sweet dew descends. This signifies the harmony of heaven and earth and also shows that lords and kings are able to hold to the Dao. Without any command, the myriad things will naturally harmonize and become even. The royal way shows no partiality, so its favor and grace reach everywhere. Why would it need commands to set things in motion?

When the Dao begins to establish names and ranks, one can then govern things that have names and forms. The "named things" here refer to the mountain and river spirits who may be sacrificed to, and to the worthy scholars who live in seclusion among springs and forests and may be summoned to office. Once names and ranks are established, these named things will follow a ruler who has the Dao. The enfeoffed mountain and river spirits receive sacrifices, and the worthy recluses answer the summons and come to court.

They also know when to stop and remain content in the places that belong to them. One who knows when to stop does not fall into peril. Even "named things" will attach themselves to a ruler who has the Dao and dwell in places of peace and security, and the common people need not be mentioned.

The Dao runs through the world like valleys flowing into rivers and seas. When a ruler who has the Dao governs, the way of ruler and minister is in accord. The favor of those above flows downward, and the sentiments of ministers and the people rise upward to communicate, just as valleys connect with rivers and seas and waters flow back and forth.

To understand others is a kind of wisdom, and one who has wisdom is not easily confused, so they can discern other people. To know oneself is true clarity. The clear-sighted perceive things before any sign of them appears, and so they do not set out on a path that departs from the Dao (the Way).

To overcome others depends on strength. A person can prevail over others only through either power or physical force. To overcome oneself is true strength. Cultivating De (Virtue) so that people are won over willingly is far superior to prevailing over others by force alone.

One who knows contentment is truly rich. If one can be satisfied with a single gourd of water, one may be said to be richer than one who possesses all the myriad states.

One who persists in their undertakings has resolve. When one remains constant from the beginning of a matter to its end, this is called steadfastness of purpose.

One who does not leave their root endures. Without an unchanging standard, a person cannot long practice their Dao.

To remain undiminished after death is true longevity. If a person practices the Dao and benefits all under heaven, the principles and institutions they leave behind all derive from their spiritual insight and keen wisdom, and once established, these can be transmitted for ten thousand generations. Though their body dies and their form dissolves, their spirit and influence endure, and therefore they are called "long-lived" (shou).

Dao, the Way that runs through all things, spreads everywhere without leaning toward either side, so it may be said to be on the left and also on the right. These two ends are named only to show that the Dao pervades all things.

All things depend on the Dao to come into being, yet the Dao does not refuse them, nor does it claim the merit of giving them life. It nurtures and sustains them, yet it does not act as their master. To say that it "does not act as master" is not to forget its own accomplishment, but to refrain from claiming merit for it.

The Dao is constantly without desire, and so it may be called small. Among people in the world, those without desire are like infants. Yet the Dao makes no demands on the myriad things; can it then be as small as an infant? All things return to the Dao, yet the Dao does not act as their master, and so it may be called great. All things belong to the Dao, and still it does not regard itself as their master. Could this mean it is proud and indifferent?

For this reason the sage never regards himself as great. The sage emulates the Dao, taking up its humble, unassuming aspect rather than its aspect of self-declared greatness, fearing lest he lose his modesty. Precisely because he has no intention of achieving greatness, he accomplishes an enterprise that is profound and vast.

Holding fast to the Great Image (Daxiang), the overall form of the Great Dao (Dadao), which is the Dao (Dao) itself, one can govern all under heaven, and all under heaven will turn to it. The Great Dao is the root from which the myriad things take their forms. Once people have turned to it, they are not harmed, and so they become settled, peaceful, and content. Having turned to it, they should be allowed to dwell in security. Governance should be pure and tranquil, so that people may rest at ease and feel comfortable.

Music and fine food can make a traveler stop in his tracks. Music and food are things people love, so who that passes by them does not linger? The Dao, when spoken, is bland and tasteless. Travelers stop because there is something before their eyes that pleases the sight or satisfies hunger. If the Dao is uttered from the mouth and explained to others, yet it is so flavorless that it has no taste at all, how could it draw people to long for it? Yet human nature dislikes the tangle of many affairs and favors non-action (wuwei). The nature of the Dao is precisely non-action, and so people long for it.

Looking at it, one cannot see it; listening for it, one cannot hear it; yet when one uses it, it is never exhausted. Even if sight and hearing cannot grasp its form and sound, once one makes use of it, its functioning has no end.

The third volume of the New Annotations on the True Scripture of the Dao and De (Daode Zhenjing Xinzhu) belongs to the Upper Section of the De Jing (Scripture of De) and comprises forty-one chapters.

The highest De (Virtue/Power) does not deliberately display its possession of virtue, so others cannot see the traces it leaves and may even assume it has no De at all. It is for this very reason that it truly possesses De. When the myriad things keep their original simplicity and are not altered, this is how one can see that they possess such De. The lower De, by contrast, is preoccupied with not losing its De. It admires the virtues of earlier rulers, respectfully observes them, and strives to keep them from declining, and for this reason it does not amount to true De. When the inherent nature of the myriad things undergoes even a slight change, this shows that De has already departed.

The highest De follows nature and engages in no deliberate action. It has no purpose in acting, yet it accomplishes things even without striving. The lower De takes action and does so with a clear purpose. The highest Ren (humaneness) takes action but harbors no intention of seeking anything in return. The highest Yi (righteousness) takes action with a clear purpose, concentrating on distinguishing right from wrong. As for the highest Li (ritual propriety), it appears only after the Dao has been lost. If one performs the rites and no one responds, one rolls up one's sleeves and forces a response. When the give-and-take of ritual goes beyond proper measure, anger and coercion arise.

Therefore, De is spoken of only after the Dao has been lost. The highest De accords with the Dao, which is why it is described as the level just below the Dao once the Dao is lost. Only afterward do Ren, Yi, and Li arise. When the highest De is lost, the lower De takes its place. Once De declines, the teaching of Ren rises; when the teaching of Ren also declines, Yi comes into practice; and when Yi is lost as well, Li flourishes. Once the climate in which right and wrong are properly judged and mutual fitness is maintained has faded, ceremonies such as bowing and the exchange of jade and silk grow increasingly prevalent.

Li is a sign of the thinning of loyalty and sincerity, and it is also the beginning of disorder. The disorder spoken of here is a situation in which the ruler does not act as a ruler, the minister does not act as a minister, the father does not act as a father, and the son does not act as a son. Loyalty and sincerity belong originally to the Dao and De. If one sets Li against the Dao and De, Li indeed appears thin and weak. Yet when it comes to rescuing the world from disorder, what else could one rely upon besides Li?

"Qianshi" (foreknowledge) refers to those who, from the very beginning, treat the ritual norms as the way of governing the world. The outward radiance of the Dao, namely Li, can delight the eyes and so appears as an ornament of the Dao. Yet it can also become the beginning of ignorance, for people easily pursue only outward forms and neglect the inner De. The dafu (the person of vigorous character) should practice De and not esteem the trivial rites. The Changyan says: the dafu must practice De and does not value the minor observances of ritual.

Therefore, one should dwell in what is substantial and not in what is thin; one should abide in what is real and not pursue what is showy. Reality is like the fruit that a plant bears, which can satisfy hunger and nourish people; showiness is like the flower of a plant, which serves only to be looked upon. One should discard the flower and choose the fruit.

In antiquity, all things obtained the "One" (yi, the fundamental unifying power) from the Dao (the Way). Heaven obtained the One and so became clear; earth obtained the One and so became settled; valleys obtained the One and so became full; spirits obtained the One and so became efficacious; the myriad things obtained the One and so were able to grow; lords and kings obtained the One and so could become the rightful rulers of all under heaven. That heaven, earth, valleys, spirits, the myriad things, and even lords and kings each attained their proper order is because each obtained the Dao's One. Therefore, lords and kings should rectify themselves in order to rectify the common people, which is why it is said they can become the rightful rulers of all under heaven. "Zhen" (rectitude) means correct.

If one understands that all things are accomplished through obtaining the Dao, then how could their existence be easily lost? If heaven loses its clarity, it is likely to crack apart; if earth loses its stability, it is likely to quake; if valleys lose their fullness, they are likely to run dry; if spirits lose their efficacy, they are likely to cease; if the myriad things lose their vitality, they are likely to perish; if lords and kings lose their nobility, they are likely to be overthrown. The "ling" in this passage is to be understood as "overturning." If one obtains the Dao but cannot preserve it, calamity will arise in exactly this way.

Thus, nobility takes lowliness as its root, and high station is founded on what is low. Lords and kings are noble while the common people are humble, yet lords take the common people as their root, and only with the common people is there a ruler. A high mountain likewise takes its foot as its foundation: a mountain nine ren high was at first built from only a basketful of earth, and if its foundation is not firm, the mountain will topple. If lords seek only to preserve their lofty positions without comforting the people, the people will scatter, and their thrones will be overturned.

So lords call themselves "gu" (orphan), "gua" (widower or solitary one), and "bugu" (one without nourishment), self-deprecating terms used by ancient rulers that carry the senses of isolation, lacking support, and lacking blessing. Is this not a way of taking lowliness as the root? "Gu" means having no father, "gua" means having no husband, and "bugu" means having no one to provide for one. These three conditions are all things people despise, yet rulers used them to refer to themselves, which shows that they take lowliness as their root.

Even if one takes a cart apart and counts its parts one by one, one counts only wheels, shafts, and other materials, and cannot thereby obtain a complete cart. Likewise, if one divides a kingdom and counts it piece by piece, one counts only ministers and common people; if the people scatter, where would a ruler be? Therefore, one should not seek the dazzling splendor of jade but should be plain and ordinary like stone. "Lulu" describes the preciousness of jade, while "luoluo" describes the commonness of stone. Though jade is precious, it also forms within stone; though rulers are exalted, they exist because of the common people. What is emphasized here is a return to the root, so one does not wish to be noble like jade, but would rather be unadorned like stone.

"Reversal is the movement of the Dao (Dào)." This means that the Dao's motion takes the form of cyclical return and reversion. The Dao's essence is still and quiet, and when it moves, that motion turns back toward reversion. The inherent nature of the myriad things contains a strong and unyielding aspect, so it must be met with expedient and forceful means, in the hope of eventually returning to stillness. The function of the Dao, however, is yielding and weak. Yielding weakness is the Dao's usual mode of operation. Everyone knows this, so why explain it again? The concern is that people, seeing expedient and forceful measures, might mistakenly assume that the Dao's functioning is always forceful.

The myriad things of the world are born from being (yǒu). This refers to the myriad things being transformed from the visible heaven and earth. Being, in turn, is born from non-being (wú), meaning that the visible heaven and earth come forth from the Dao. The "non-being" here refers to the Dao.

Jade, though precious, is formed from stone, and a ruler, though noble, exists because of the common people. Therefore, not wishing merely to be distinguished like jade, but preferring to be like stone and guarding simplicity, is a way of consolidating and deepening one's root.

Those of superior capacity (genqi, innate capacity), on hearing of the Dao (the Way), diligently follow it. Having understood it, they cultivate all the more and return to the root. Those of middling capacity seem to remember the Dao and then seem to forget it. Having heard it, they feel doubt, yet they can still be taught and gradually come to understand the Dao. Those of inferior capacity burst out laughing when they hear the Dao, because they are bewildered by it. If they come to understand through this, they too will diligently cultivate and return to the root. Those of middling capacity waver between doubt and belief as they listen, and though they remain confused after hearing it, they can still be taught and brought to understanding. Those of inferior capacity, however, laugh out of bewilderment, and so they cannot be made to understand the upright principle of the Dao.

If the Dao is not laughed at by those of inferior capacity, it is not yet enough to be called the Great Dao. If the Dao is only a commonplace principle that those of inferior capacity grasp at once, it is not worth treasuring.

An ancient text offers this explanation. "Establishing words" (jianyan) refers to statements that set forth and propose ideas, and here they explain why those of middling and inferior capacity doubt or laugh. The bright Dao appears dim, because its workings are conspicuous while its application lies hidden. The advancing Dao appears to retreat, because its inner diligence shows outwardly as slackness. The level Dao appears rugged, because walking a smooth road feels like walking a dangerous path. The highest De (shang de, supreme Virtue or Power) is empty and without mind, like a valley, yet it responds skillfully to things. The purest whiteness appears to suffer disgrace, because its nature is pure while its outward form seems soiled. The vast De appears deficient, because the Dao does not show itself outwardly. Established De appears slack, because its talent is not displayed. Genuine simplicity appears to have deteriorated, because the state of utmost purity seems mixed and unclear. The greatest square has no corners and no discernible boundary. The greatest vessel is completed very late, and one cannot expect it to be achieved quickly. The greatest sound is nearly silent: xi (faint, rare) means "none," as though there were no sound at all. The greatest image has no fixed shape; it is the form of the formless. The Dao is hidden and not manifest, and it has no name that can be spoken.

From "establishing words" onward, these passages all explain that the great Dao is hidden and nameless. Therefore, those of superior capacity thoroughly awaken and diligently cultivate. Those of middling capacity doubt and waver between advance and retreat. Those of inferior capacity are bewildered and laugh. Understanding this, one can know the reasons behind it.

Only the Dao is skilled at bestowing and completing the myriad things. The Dao does not treat the three classes differently because of their differing responses. It bestows the same harmonious Qi (qi, vital energy) upon all of them, so that the myriad things grow and take form. Those who diligently cultivate return alone to the harmony within the Dao. Those who doubt or laugh sink together into the primordial qi (yuanqi).

Dao gives birth to "One," meaning that in responding to resonance it produces a single stream of primordial Qi (yuanqi). "One" gives birth to "Two": first the primordial Qi produces yin Qi, and then yang Qi. "Two" gives birth to "Three," which refers to the harmonious Qi (heqi) formed when yin and yang resonate with and blend into each other. When this harmonious Qi gathers, the myriad things are born.

The flesh and skin that wrap the outside of the myriad things are called "bearing yin" (fuyin), because skin and flesh belong to yin. The bones and marrow that fill the interior are called "embracing yang" (baoyang), because the bodily frame belongs to yang. The Qi of the Dao is gentle and subtle. It passes through the inside and outside of all things and brings yin and yang into harmony.

The only titles people despise are "orphan," "lonely one," and "the unworthy one," which were humble terms of self-reference used by ancient rulers. Yet kings and dukes call themselves by these names, because they understand that the gentle, humble harmonious Qi is the root of all things. For this reason, by calling themselves by names that people regard as inauspicious, they are able to become rulers of all under heaven.

Some things seem to be diminished but in fact gain benefit. When a ruler calls himself "ill-omened," he is truly being humble, and yet the myriad things come to him in allegiance. Is this not a gain? Other things seem to be increased but in fact suffer loss. When someone relies on his nobility to raise himself up, he thinks he is gaining, yet the common people become estranged from him. Is this not a loss?

The teaching I pass on to others is also taught through the principle of softness and humility. Anyone who wishes to establish a teaching and instruct others should likewise take this principle as the basis of instruction, so that all who follow it may return to the right way of securing their lives. Those who are forceful and overbearing often do not die a natural death. A tyrannical ruler loses the support of his subjects, and his downfall comes swiftly. An individual who is domineering is rejected by the crowd and soon falls. I will make the principle of softness and humility the foundation of my teaching of the people. "Father" implies leading and origin, and I take the meaning of softness as the first of all teachings.

The softest thing under heaven can pass through the hardest things under heaven. Those who are forceful and overbearing often do not die a natural death, and they are rejected by the crowd and soon fall. I will make the principle of softness and humility the foundation of my teaching of the people.

Those who are softest in the world can master what is hardest in the world. Harmonious qi (the mild, gentle Qi, or vital energy) is the softest thing under heaven, yet if a person forces it, it becomes the hardest thing. Emptiness can enter where there is no gap. To restore harmonious qi and make it gentle again, one need only be free of the intention to force it and understand that harmonious qi can by nature enter where there is no gap. Then it will transform into something soft. Therefore I know that Wuwei (non-action, refraining from rash intervention) is beneficial.

Laozi says: I see that those who act through Wuwei can keep harmonious qi preserved within the heart, remaining soft and yielding, and so they live long. From this we know that Wuwei benefits people. To bring benefit through Wuwei without teaching by words is something few under heaven can achieve. To speak little to others and to refrain from rash action toward oneself is a benefit that few under heaven can equal.

Which is closer to oneself, fame or life? Fame can be discarded, but life cannot, so is fame not the more distant of the two? Which is more precious, life or possessions? Lost possessions can still be sought again, but lost life is hard to recover, so are possessions not the lighter of the two? Which is more harmful, gain or loss? To gain possessions at the cost of one's life is harmful, while to lose possessions and preserve one's authenticity is beneficial, so which is truly advantageous? Thus, excessive craving necessarily incurs a great price, and desires that exceed one's proper measure bring heavy losses. The more one stores up, the more grievous the loss tends to be when it comes. To accumulate without end and refuse to disperse and spend: compared with loss, which is more harmful? If gaining possessions harms one's life while losing them preserves one's authenticity, which is beneficial? Thus excessive craving necessarily incurs a great price, and desires that exceed one's proper measure bring heavy losses. The more one stores up, the more grievous the loss tends to be. To accumulate endlessly and refuse to spend often leads, because of possessions, to the loss of one's life.

One who knows contentment will not be humiliated, and one whose heart is content can always remain at ease. One who knows when to stop will not fall into danger, and one who keeps to his proper station can remain secure for a long time. Only in this way can one endure long and not perish midway.

The most complete thing seems to be lacking. One whose De (Virtue) is truly full often appears incomplete on the outside, yet its function never runs dry. In responding to all things, there is nothing it cannot accomplish.

The most abundant thing seems empty. One whose inner substance is full often appears still and empty on the outside, yet its function is inexhaustible, and in aiding the multitude it never runs dry.

The most upright person seems crooked, because they can embrace defilement and are in no hurry to make their own uprightness known. The most skillful person seems clumsy, because they do not boast of their talents. The most eloquent speaker seems to be inarticulate.

Restlessness can overcome cold. When things reach their extreme, they turn into their opposite, so at the summer solstice, yin qi (Yin-Yang) begins to sprout within it. Stillness can overcome heat. When blockage reaches its extreme, it turns into penetration, so at the winter solstice, yang qi begins to sprout within it.

Purity and stillness are the standard of all under heaven. What is called "correctness" (zheng) is the state in which restlessness and stillness are exactly balanced, like the seasons of the second and eighth months. Therefore, the principles spoken of from "great accomplishment" to "great eloquence" are all expressions of harmonizing restlessness and stillness, in accordance with the standard of all under heaven.

When the Dao (the Way) prevails under heaven, war horses are sent back to the fields to plough and fertilize the land. A ruler who embodies the Dao inherits the chaos left by a foolish predecessor, quells the disorder, restores order, ceases military campaigns, and turns instead to cultivating culture and education. The horses that once carried soldiers into battle are no longer sent to war but are returned to the fields to labor in farming.

When the Dao is absent from the world, war horses breed in the outlying countryside. A ruler without the Dao inherits a peaceful and prosperous age, yet relies on a well-stocked treasury to indulge in warfare, seizing the lands of other states. Soldiers are kept stationed on the frontiers for long periods and cannot remove the saddles from their horses.

The greatest fault is to indulge desire, for even when what is sought is limited, a craving heart invites calamity. The greatest disaster is not knowing contentment, so that everything the eye sees becomes something one wishes to possess. The greatest error is to pursue acquisition without end: whether one has seen a thing or not, one wants to obtain it, and the wealth of the realm is stripped bare. These are the practices of a ruler without the Dao.

Therefore, one who knows sufficiency and abides in contentment will not feel lacking, even when living in a house with earthen steps and thatched walls. One who is often content, does not overstep his proper station, and values the tranquility of the common people above all, is a ruler who truly embodies the Dao.

One can know the world without going beyond one's own door, and understand it by reasoning from one's own feelings and principles. Without peering out of a window, one can grasp the Dao of Heaven (the natural order of the cosmos), and by following that order one need not seek everything outside oneself. The farther one travels, the less one tends to know. If one does not understand that the people's peace arises from non-interference, and instead creates all manner of affairs to keep them settled, then the more numerous and tangled these affairs become, the less peace the people will enjoy.

Thus the sage knows the world without traveling, because he understands that the people's tranquility depends on whether he himself stirs up few disturbances. If he does not interfere rashly, the people will naturally be at peace. The sage need not see with his own eyes to grasp the principles of things. So long as he holds to the Dao and dwells steadily in his position, the order under heaven will naturally stabilize. Why would he need to lean out of a window to observe before he understands? Without deliberate action, affairs are still accomplished. Such supreme principles are achieved through Wuwei (non-action). If one forcefully insists on action, one will not reach such results.

Learning adds to what you know day by day, while cultivating the Dao means reducing artificial desires and deliberate effort day by day. Subtraction begins shallowly, but as it continues it goes deeper, until one reaches Wuwei (non-action). When nothing more can be removed, one can rest securely at the center of the Great Dao (the Way). Through Wuwei, nothing is left unaccomplished. When merit is achieved but not claimed as one's own, this is Wuwei; when all things are nourished and brought to life, this is the sense in which nothing is left undone.

In governing the realm, one should always take not disturbing people without cause as the principle. The "non-action" spoken of here does not mean doing nothing at all. It means not acting against the people's will or pursuing one's own convenience, and instead following the likes and dislikes that people share. If one seeks private gain and acts rashly, one will not be fit to govern the realm. Such measures trouble the common people and scatter their hearts. How could the realm then be well governed?

The sage (shengren) holds no fixed opinions and moves like an empty boat drifting with the waves, taking the people's wishes as his own. When the people are glad to do something, the ruler helps them accomplish it. He treats the good with goodness and does not violate their nature. He also treats those who are not good with goodness, so that they gradually turn toward what is good. The sage cultivates his own virtue and does not force others to obey him, so even those who were not good change of their own accord.

He trusts those who keep their word and does not take away their aspirations. He also deals sincerely with those who do not keep their word. In this way, he transforms people through trustworthiness. When the sage extends sincerity to all under heaven, people gradually become trustworthy, without being compelled to be so.

The sage, dwelling in the world, always keeps a cautious and anxious heart, constantly concerned that someone may not be at peace. He brings his mind into complete harmony with all under heaven. Because the people wish to live in peace, the sage also aligns his heart with their aspirations. When the people attentively watch with eyes and ears to see whether he accords with their will, he cares for them as one tends to an infant.

"Going forth into life and entering death" means that a person's body exists within the process of birth and death. When deluded thoughts arise in the heart, they lead a person toward death. When they sink deeply into the heart, they cause a person to fall into a deadly place.

The saying "Of those who seek life, thirteen in ten; of those who go toward death, thirteen in ten" has two interpretations. One holds that the body contains five viscera within and, outside, eight sense organs and limbs, which together make thirteen. The eight external sense organs and limbs are the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, hands, feet, and three orifices of excretion. The five viscera receive and store within, while the external senses and limbs run outward. Taken together, these inner and outer factors can all lead a person toward either life or death. The other interpretation combines "five viscera, five bodily forms, and three fields" to make thirteen. The five forms refer to the head and the four limbs, and the three fields are the upper, middle, and lower Dantian (energy center), the places in the body where Qi (vital energy) gathers, as described in Daoist internal cultivation. The Yellow Court Scripture (Huangting Jing) places the upper Dantian in the head, the middle Dantian between the heart and the spleen, and the lower Dantian in the Sea of Qi within the kidneys.

A person is meant to be active and to live, yet may also be led into a deadly place by that same activity. Many people, anxious to preserve their lives, keep moving toward danger, and they are drawn in by these thirteen factors. Why does this happen? Because they overvalue and overindulge their lives, crave material goods, and eat and enjoy too lavishly. This gives these factors an opening to harm both body and mind.

Those skilled at nourishing life quiet these thirteen factors so that body and mind are not pulled by external things, and they reach a state in which they forget attachment to the physical form. Such a person walking on land will not be harmed by rhinoceros-like beasts (si) or tigers, and entering an army formation will not be harmed by weapons. The beasts find no opening to use their horns and claws, and no blade can reach them. If one harbors a murderous intent, even a tiny creature such as a wasp may sting with its poison, let alone a fierce beast. If one has no intent to harm any being, then even when facing fierce beasts and sharp weapons, what could harm oneself?

Commentators further likened the rhinoceros-like beasts, tigers, and weapons to the greed and deluded thoughts within the body and mind. When body and mind are quiet and one acts through wuwei (non-action), misfortune has no opening to enter, and illness has no ground in which to grow.

Why can one escape death? Because one never enters a deadly place. Quietude can remove the thirteen harmful factors and keep the Five Thieves (the various desires that damage body and mind) and the Three Corpses (the evil forces within the body that Daoism holds cause disease and harm life) from entering the heart. Without a deadly place for them to exploit, they have no opportunity. If one strays even slightly from quietude, the Five Thieves and Three Corpses will slip in through the gap, causing harm just as a beast extends its horns, a tiger extends its claws, or a weapon draws its blade.

Dao gave birth to the myriad things and, at the outset, bestowed upon them their primordial qi (yuanqi). De (Virtue) enabled the myriad things to be nourished and stored up, and then to gestate and grow. Through this, the myriad things acquired their physical forms, and their concrete material substances became complete. Then, as circumstances changed and the four seasons alternated, they kept growing and transforming until they reached maturity.

For this reason, there is no thing among the myriad things that does not revere the Dao and treasure De. Even the most dull-witted creatures know to draw near to and respect their parents. The Dao is revered and De is treasured not because someone conferred titles upon them, but because they are naturally so. The worldly honored are often those who have received the rewards and appointments of rulers; the Dao and De, however, do not depend on such things. They possess in themselves the efficacy of giving birth to the myriad things, and therefore the myriad things revere them.

The Dao generates, nourishes, and raises the myriad things, causing them to grow and develop, to mature and become abundant, and then provides them with protection and shelter. Possessing this power, it needs no title or conferred mandate, and so it is naturally revered by the myriad things.

The Dao causes the myriad things to grow but does not take them as its own possession; were it to claim them as its own, it would lose its benevolence. The Dao acts, yet does not rely on its own merit; if it relied on merit and took pride in it, it would claim the achievement as its own. This profound and unmanifest virtue is called "Xuande" (Profound De), which may also be described as "Yinde" (Hidden De): the bestowing of benefit in secret without seeking any return.

Everything in the world shares a common source. This source is the root from which all things arise, and so it is called "the mother of the world." It also nourishes all things and allows them to take form. To know the source is to understand that all things are its offspring. Having understood that all things come from the source, one should hold fast to it, and in this way all things are preserved. Abiding in this for a lifetime means one will not encounter danger. Since the Dao sustains all things, what danger could there be?

"Blocking the openings" means restraining the senses so that the eyes do not chase after things in every direction. "Shutting the doors" means guarding one's speech so that the mouth does not open and close at random. Doing so, one need never rush about after external things for a lifetime; the body is at ease, and the spirit is full and strong. If one indulges the senses and busies oneself with managing every affair, one will sink deeply into desire and be unable to save oneself; once calamity takes shape, it is difficult to reverse.

To perceive the first signs of things in what is subtle is called "clarity" (ming). To hold to softness is true strength. Using one's own light and then returning it to inner discernment: the method of holding to the source and preserving all things lies in restraining sight and hearing and keeping the mind steady. "Perceiving the small" and "holding to softness" are precisely these methods of cultivation. In this way one does not bring calamity upon oneself, and this is called "accords with the constant" (xi chang), that is, secretly aligning with the constant Dao in order to move toward lasting life.

If I, a solitary and upright man, could understand the principles of the world, I would let the straight Way (Dao) flow through all under heaven. "Solitary" (gujie) describes one who stands apart with integrity and does not follow popular custom. In reality, however, people do not walk the right path, and so all one can do is sigh: how could one who alone promotes the upright Way not worry that deviant winds prevail?

The Great Dao was originally level and smooth, a broad road that rulers and ministers alike could follow in harmony, yet people favor shortcuts. Because the people of that time preferred deviant paths, and I stood alone and weak, I was unable to stop them.

The court is adorned with great splendor, yet the fields lie waste and untended. This is because the people's labor was conscripted and the planting season was lost, so the granaries stand empty and the common people lack food. The rulers wear splendid robes and carry sharp swords, indulge in lavish and refined food and drink, and hoard their wealth in abundance. These riches were obtained by unrighteous means, so how is this any different from theft? Not only are they not ashamed, they boast of it and display their extravagance. This is what it means to turn away from the Dao. To seize goods already violates the Dao, and to boast of it besides is truly lamentable.

Something well established cannot easily be uprooted. One who excels at establishing a state and securing oneself must take De (Virtue) as the root. If a person establishes themselves through De, they will not fall into peril. If a state is governed through De, it will not collapse. Ba (uprooting) means overturning or pulling up.

One who is skilled at holding fast will not lose what they hold. Tuo means to lose. One who establishes a state must guard its common people, and one who secures oneself must guard the spirit (Shen). If both take De as their foundation, nothing will be lost. Therefore descendants will flourish, and sacrifices to ancestors will continue generation after generation. Chuo means to cease, and jiqi refers to sacrifice to one's ancestors.

When De is applied to self-cultivation, one's virtue becomes genuine and pure. When one cultivates oneself through De, false habits are dispelled. When De is applied to managing a family, its bounty overflows, and its blessings extend to later generations. When De governs a village, its bounty grows ever more lasting. When De governs a state, its bounty becomes abundant, and both ruler and people are replete and secure. When De governs all under Heaven (Tianxia), its bounty reaches everywhere. In this way, every household can become a well-transformed, good people, and the transforming influence of De extends even to distant foreign lands, so that people do not hesitate to cross mountains and seas to come and offer tribute.

Therefore, one may observe cultivation by looking at the individual, observe household management by looking at the family, observe the customs of a community by looking at the village, observe the governance of a state by looking at the state, and then observe all under Heaven by looking at all under Heaven. Comparing these levels against one another reveals the causes of prosperity and decline. How do I know the circumstances of all under Heaven? I rely on these principles. What has been said above is precisely the method by which one observes and comes to know all under Heaven.

A person who holds deep De (Virtue) can be compared to a newborn infant. Such a person is like an infant in both inner nature and outer condition. When an infant is born, its skin is reddish, so it is called chizi (the "red infant").

Poisonous insects will not sting him, fierce beasts will not pounce on him, and birds of prey will not attack him. The poisonous insects mentioned here are bees, wasps (jiangfeng), and similar creatures that inject venom with their tails. "Ju" refers to a beast pressing down with its claws, and "bo" refers to a bird of prey striking with its wings and talons. A person of deep De can preserve the shen (spirit) and is not disturbed by external things, so these three kinds of creatures often keep away from him. Another reading holds that the three represent greed, wicked thoughts, and harmful poisons within a person. Just as the chizi embodies De, these harmful things have no way to intrude.

The infant's bones are soft and its sinews are pliant, yet its grip is very tight. It does not yet understand joy or anger, but its fist is surprisingly strong because its xin (heart-mind) is undivided. The infant does not yet understand sexual union, yet its genitals can become erect, a sign of abundant jing (essence) and qi (vital energy). This is not because it understands sexual matters, but because its jing and qi are complete. An infant may cry all day without its voice becoming hoarse, which shows that its harmonious qi (heqi) is abundant and in perfect balance.

To understand this harmony is to understand the constant Dao. The chizi has these three abilities because its heqi is abundant. A person who holds De and understands this principle can therefore preserve the self for a long time. Knowing the constant Dao is called enlightenment (ming).

Adding even a little to what is natural and proper invites calamity. When the mind's intent drives the breath so that it becomes rigid, this is called forcing (cheng qiang, "showing strength"). Harmonious qi is naturally pliant, but when anger rises in the heart, it becomes stiff. When things grow too strong, they move toward decline, and strength is precisely the beginning of old age. This is called deviating from the great Dao. One who cannot return to youth cannot preserve the complete state of harmony, and deviating from the great Dao leads to early death.

The truly wise do not cling to words. To be able to forget the words and grasp their meaning is the sign that wisdom has reached fullness. Those who talk endlessly have not yet truly understood, and so they are held captive by language.

Block the openings of the senses, and do not let the eyes chase after external things. Close the doors, and do not rely on speech to express everything. Gather in your sharpness, and blunt the urge to contend and outdo others. Resolve the entanglements, and let the heart become empty and still. Let your light harmonize with the light of the multitude: shine forth when it is time to shine. Let yourself blend into the dust of the mundane world: be dim when it is time to be dim. This is called Xuantong (union with the profound Dao), and such a person no longer stands at odds with the myriad things.

Such a person will not be drawn close by others, because they do not display the posture of benevolence. Nor will they be pushed away, because they leave no traces of defilement. They do not seek profit from others, because they are skilled at regarding external things lightly. Nor are they easily harmed, because they do not grasp at bait. They are not despised, because they embrace the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), and so they are respected throughout the world.

When a person has cultivated themselves to this state, they may be regarded as an embodiment of the supreme Dao (the Way) under heaven.

Governing a state through decrees is to govern by administrative method (zhengshu), and directing war through strange schemes and cunning plots is to esteem deceit and stratagem. If one governs the world through non-action (Wuwei) and non-interference, one can win the hearts of the people, and by following those hearts one becomes sovereign. How could this be compared with those two methods?

How do I know whether the world is well governed or badly governed? It is by these principles. How do I know that decrees and clever schemes alone are not enough to win the world, and that only one who practices non-action and non-interference can win the hearts of the people and become lord of all under heaven? This becomes clear from what follows.

When there are more prohibitions in the world, the people grow poorer. This speaks of a ruler who relies on decrees to govern. With dense and numerous prohibitions, the people fear transgressing them and dare not act, so their livelihood becomes ever more impoverished. When the people possess many sharp instruments, the state grows more chaotic. The people fear death and so must hide bows, arrows, and other weapons to protect themselves, and thus the state falls increasingly into disorder. The more ingenious people become, the more strange objects appear. This speaks of a ruler who esteems clever schemes. Fixated on warfare, fond of deceitful plots, and vigorously producing offensive and defensive weapons, he leads the people to compete in cleverness, making crooked and bizarre devices. When laws are made ever more explicit and numerous, bandits and thieves multiply. The so-called "fawu" (law-objects, or crafted goods) are things that people have skillfully made. When such objects are extraordinary and exceptionally fine, they invite others to copy their forms and steal their wealth. This is precisely the harm that comes from an excess of goods.

Therefore the sage says: "I practice non-action, and the people naturally transform themselves." By simply remaining still, I let the people educate themselves. "I love stillness, and the people naturally become upright." By holding myself to clarity and quiet, the people no longer turn to wrongdoing. "I refrain from affairs, and the people naturally become prosperous." By not multiplying disturbances, the people do not lose their livelihood and so become prosperous of their own accord. "I have no desires, and the people naturally return to simplicity." Because I have no greed, the people come to value what is fundamental.

When a ruler's decrees are relaxed and unhurried, and he does not stir up affairs to trouble the people, he may seem to be doing nothing remarkable. Yet the people become sincere and simple, dwell at ease in stillness, and grow ever more honest and generous. When a ruler's decrees are strict and rigorous, scrutinizing every detail... [The final stray word in the source text appears to be an artifact and has not been translated.]

When a state is governed leniently and quietly, a ruler who does not stir up trouble to disturb the people may appear to be doing nothing at all, a practice known as wuwei (non-action). The people, as a result, grow simple and sincere, settle into tranquility, and day by day become more honest and generous. When governance is harsh and minutely detailed, the people have no way to know what to do and do not even know where to place their hands and feet. A single misstep brings them into conflict with the law, so they live in fear and avoidance, and day by day they wither and are diminished.

Misfortune often rests upon good fortune. "Yi" means to lean on or rely upon. A wise ruler who examines himself and cultivates his De (Virtue) can turn the people from decline back to simplicity and harmony. Good fortune also conceals misfortune within it. "Fu" means to lie hidden. A mediocre and confused ruler takes the people's simplicity and harmony as his own achievement, then imposes cruel decrees, and the people turn again from harmony to decline.

Who can see the end of the transformations of misfortune and fortune? They are like threads knotted and entangled together. Is there not a constant principle in them? Misfortune and fortune depend on one another and transform into each other, so there must indeed be a constant principle. The true constant lies in a ruler who possesses the Dao (the Way) being able to rectify himself. The upright may turn into the crooked, and the good may turn into the bad. People have been lost in this for a long time. They regard uprightness as deceit and goodness as falsehood, a notion common among the confused. This confusion did not form overnight; it has a long history.

Therefore, the sage is upright yet does not harm others. He rectifies himself yet does not despise the crookedness of external things. He is straightforward yet does not flaunt it, and does not deliberately display himself to others. He is bright yet does not show off, guarding his inner light without making a display. He is pure yet does not reject filth, and does not regard others as dirty because he himself is clean.

Governing the people and conforming to the Way of Heaven (Tiandao) depend on nothing more fitting than frugality. Frugality means having restraint. Winning the hearts of the people and serving the Way of Heaven in accordance with heavenly principle both rely on restraint.

Only by truly practicing frugality can the people be brought to submit early. When the people submit early, this is called accumulating deep Virtue (De). Frugality is the first step, and the people's submission is the second. Moving from the first step to the second is the layering up of Virtue. When Virtue has accumulated deeply, nothing is beyond accomplishing, and when nothing is beyond accomplishing, one's capacity becomes immeasurable. Only a capacity that is immeasurable is sufficient to possess a state, and only a Virtue that is deep and immeasurable can make a ruler who holds land and governs the people.

The foundation of possessing a state lies in nourishing the people through the Dao. When the people are nourished through the Dao, the state's blessings can endure over the long term. This is the principle of deep roots and a firm trunk, which allows something to last for a long time. Consider a tree: when its roots go deep, its trunk stands firm, and even when great winds come, it cannot be uprooted or have its flowers and fruit blown away. Accumulating Virtue to consolidate the state works in just this same way.

As for "long life and enduring sight" (changsheng jiushi), this refers to the sage establishing a lasting and undying principle, so that all under heaven continually receive aid and the benefits of survival. It does not mean keeping the physical body free from harm and existing forever.

The third fascicle of the New Commentary on the Daode Zhenjing (Daode Zhenjing Xinzhu) ends here. The fourth fascicle is the Lower Part of the De Jing (Dejing Xia).

Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish. When you cook a small fish, leave it alone so it cooks slowly on its own, and its body stays whole. Stir it constantly and it falls apart. A person who governs well lets the people settle into their own places and follow their natural course, and so they become peaceful. Disturb them too much, and the order collapses.

When the realm is governed by the Dao (the Way), ghosts and spirits cannot work harm. Where the Dao's teaching reaches, the people suffer no calamity, so the ghosts and spirits seem to have no power. This is not because they lack power, but because their power does not injure people. The ghosts and spirits do have divine presence, yet they do not harm the myriad things. Nor is it only that they do not harm people: the sage (Shengren) does not harm people either. The sage loves the people as a mother loves her infant, and the ghosts and spirits also help and bestow blessings. Ghosts, spirits, and sages do not injure one another, and the realm of the dead and the human world each keep to their proper place. Thus their kindness converges and gathers together. The ruler does not lack the rites of sacrifice to the spirits, and the spirits in turn bring the ruler blessings, which is why it is said that their kindness gathers in mutual exchange.

A great state should be like the lower reaches of a river, the place where all under heaven converge and come to submit. A great state is vast, yet it can humble itself. Who would dare not to submit to it? The place where all under heaven meet is like the feminine: it overcomes the masculine through stillness, and it lies in a low position. It is because the feminine stays still and humble that it can overcome the masculine. The masculine moves to seek the feminine, which shows that stillness and lowliness are able to draw in those who act.

Therefore, when a great state humbles itself before a small state, it wins the submission of the small state. When a great state willingly takes the lower place, the small states will sincerely submit to it. When a small state humbles itself before a great state, it wins the acceptance of the great state. When a small state willingly takes the lower place, the great state will treat it with courtesy. So sometimes a great state gains smaller states through humility, and sometimes a small state gains a great state through humility, each for its own reasons. What a great state seeks is only to embrace and nurture other states broadly. When it humbles itself, it wants the smaller states to become its dependents and to expand its territory. What a small state seeks is only to enter under the protection of a great state. When it humbles itself, it wants to serve the great state, and it also hopes that other states will not dare to attack it. When both the large and the small states obtain what they seek, each realizes its own wish. For this reason, a great state especially ought to be humble. The admonition is directed at great states because there is a concern that they may rely on their strength and be unwilling to humble themselves.

The Dao (the Way) enables a lesser state or party to sincerely enter into the affairs of a greater one, so that other states do not dare to raise armies against it. Each side obtains what it desires and can fulfill its aspirations. For this reason, a great state should willingly take a lower position. The warning is aimed especially at great states, out of concern that they will rely on their strength and refuse to yield.

The Dao is the deepest root hidden within the myriad things, the most profound of all, and it can serve as the source from which the myriad things arise. It is the treasure of good people. Those who cultivate the Dao can nourish themselves and prolong their lives, which is why it is regarded as a precious thing. The Dao is also something that the not-good rely upon. The "not-good" here refers to the xiashi (lower scholars). In ordinary times, lower scholars have no inclination toward the Dao, and only when they meet calamity and hardship do they turn to it as a refuge, hoping for protection.

Fine words can be used to bring about agreements. In dealings with others, speaking kindly and sincerely makes matters easy to settle, and what one seeks is easily obtained. Noble conduct can be used to teach others. Only those whose conduct is lofty are fit to serve as models and to instruct others. Where, then, is there anything in the not-good that is worth discarding? People are not without good nature. It is only that their transformation has not yet been completed.

Therefore the Son of Heaven and the Three Excellencies (sangong) are established. The Son of Heaven is the master of the myriad people, and the Dao should be entrusted to him so that he may teach the not-good. Fearing that he might neglect it, the Three Excellencies are set up to assist him. Even if someone were to place a great jade disc (dabi) before him and present it with four fine horses, this would be no better than sitting quietly and offering the Dao to the ruler. For the Three Excellencies to present fine jade and fine horses is the proper duty of a loyal minister. Yet it is not as valuable as presenting this profound Dao to the ruler, so that the realm may achieve the transformation of peace, harmony, and flourishing.

Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? It is to illustrate the mystery of the Dao. The scripture answers that the Dao cannot be obtained within a single day. One must pass through many years, accumulating merit and cultivating oneself, before it can be attained. One who has achieved the Dao and completed the practice may, even if he commits the offense of affronting the ruler, be spared punishment. "Mianye" is an expression of praise. For this reason, the Dao has been revered by all under heaven since antiquity.

Act with the attitude of non-action (Wuwei). If one deliberately sets out to accomplish something, thoughts become tangled. When handling affairs, if the mind holds no stray thoughts but one fixates on calculating and forcing one's way, the mind will become confused. Take tastelessness as flavor. If one indulges in craving for tastes and eats greedily, the sense of taste will instead be harmed.

Whatever the size or number of matters, respond to resentment with De (Virtue/Power). The De spoken of here is the three kinds of "non-" mentioned above: non-action, non-affairs, and non-flavor. If a person can achieve these three, the heart-mind will become empty, still, and clear. When the mind is clear, one can see the first signs of resentment as they just begin to arise. Resentment starts from something small. If it is cut off early, it will not grow into great resentment. If it is eliminated in time while still accumulating from little bits, it will not become much. Responding in this way with De, how could resentment remain? Resentment throws the mind into disorder and dulls the Shen (spirit), and it also clouds one's clarity of perception.

When dealing with difficult matters, begin with what is easy, for when a matter is still small, it is easy to handle. To accomplish great things, begin with what is subtle and minute. "Few" means small and fine. The difficult things under heaven must begin where they are easy, and the great things under heaven must begin in the subtle and minute. This is an inevitable principle. One who is skilled at planning and acting takes action as soon as the matter first shows signs. Therefore, the sage never regards themselves as doing great things, and they are especially cautious about what is subtle and minute, so in the end they are able to accomplish great things.

Rash promises are often hard to keep. One who is sincere within takes their promises seriously. Regarding matters as too easy often leads to encountering more difficulties. Failing to consider the outcome is why one becomes careless at every turn. Therefore the sage still regards matters as difficult, handles the beginning with caution, and in the end does not fall into hardship. Taking difficult problems seriously at the start means they will become easy in the end.

Things at rest are easy to hold; signs of trouble not yet visible are easy to plan for. Therefore, act before things happen, and set things in order before disorder arises. This is the way of one who guards what has already been achieved and considers the consequences in advance.

A tree that takes two arms to encircle grows from a tiny sprout; a tall terrace rises from baskets of earth; a journey of a thousand li begins with the first step beneath one's feet. Once a tree has grown, it is hard to cut down; once a terrace has risen, it is hard to conceal; once a path has been traveled far, it is hard to halt. Therefore, one should attend to things from their smallest beginnings.

Reckless action only spoils affairs. What is meant by "acting" here is letting the sprouts of disaster grow unchecked until they mature, and so it is called "ruin" (bai). A failure may still be remedied by retracing the same path. But to insist on grasping and controlling things brings about "loss" (shi); when one stubbornly fosters evil without knowing when to stop, one ends in extinction, and so it is called loss. Once a thing reaches the point of loss, it can no longer be restored.

The sage does not act recklessly, and so there is no ruin. Ruin arises from reckless action; if one does not act recklessly, how could ruin come about? The sage does not cling, and so there is no loss. Loss arises from clinging; if one does not cling, what is there to lose?

When people undertake affairs, they often fail just as success is near, because they have a beginning but do not bring things to a good end. If one attends to the end with the same caution as at the beginning, affairs will not fail. Maintaining the same care from start to finish, nothing is beyond accomplishment.

Therefore, the sage pursues what ordinary people do not pursue, and does not prize rare goods. What he treasures is precisely what people commonly fail to value, and so he regards gold and jade as no more than earth. The sage learns what ordinary people do not learn in order to correct the faults of the multitude; he studies the principles that people are unwilling to study, and thereby is able to restrain the myriad beings from overstepping their proper bounds. He does this to assist all things in following their own natures, returning each to its natural and authentic state. The sage holds to caution and therefore does not dare to act recklessly.

The ancients who were skilled in applying the Dao (Dao) would recount the deeds of those in antiquity who had attained the Way, hoping that the rulers of their own time would emulate them. They did not explain the Dao plainly to the common people, fearing that doing so would give rise to disloyal intentions among them. Instead, they quietly steeped the people in the transforming influence of the Dao, causing them to return to their original simplicity and innate nature.

The people are difficult to govern because their cleverness is excessive. When deceitful schemes multiply, people resort to tricks and glib slander, and so they become hard to manage. Therefore, governing a state through cleverness is a calamity for the state: when those who are overly crafty hold office, they will inevitably enact policies that harm the state and throw the people into disorder. Not governing through cleverness is the state's blessing. If one administers affairs by the simple Dao and practices wuwei (non-action, that is, not recklessly interfering), the people will be at peace.

To understand these two situations is to grasp the standard. "Kai" (pattern) is the model, and "shi" (measure) is the rule. Calamity and blessing are two distinct roads, and they are easy to tell apart. Once one understands this, one should avoid calamity and choose blessing. To hold to this standard constantly, understanding it and following it without fail, is called profound De (xuan de), a virtue that is deep and subtle. To know that blessing can be relied upon and calamity must be removed, bringing the people to great peace, is the unfathomable virtue of the ruler.

Profound De is deep and hard to fathom. It runs contrary to the ordinary inclinations of the myriad things, yet it causes the myriad things to return to their natural original character. In this way, the myriad things ultimately attain great harmony: all recover their genuine, natural nature, and so nothing is left that fails to go smoothly.

Rivers and seas are able to be the king to which the hundred streams return because they lie low. The "wang" (king) here carries the sense of "returning to": since rivers and seas lie below all the waters, no stream fails to gather in them.

The sage should likewise take rivers and seas as a model. Wishing to stand high above the people, one must first lower oneself in speech; wishing to be placed before the people, one must first put oneself behind them. In this way, when the sage occupies a high position, the people do not feel burdened and instead gladly lift him up; when he walks at the front of the crowd, the people do not feel harmed and instead gladly follow him. Therefore, people are glad to advance him and never grow weary of him. This is the power of humility.

The sage teaches the people through the virtue (De) of humility, and the people, moved by his example, learn to yield. Precisely because he does not contend with others, no one under heaven is able to contend with him.

Under heaven, people say that my Dao (the Way) is vast, yet it seems to defy common sense. It is precisely because it is vast that it appears unlike what people are familiar with. Let me tell you: those who possess true great wisdom often appear dull and clumsy, and others cannot match them. If a principle seemed so agreeable to ordinary sense, it would long ago have been regarded as something small and shallow. If a principle could be grasped easily by anyone, it would already have become the most superficial principle under heaven.

I have three treasures, and I hold them dear. Although my Dao appears to defy common sense, these three kinds of De (Virtue/Power) may be called the most essential instruments for cultivating the self and governing the state. Cherish and preserve them, and you will succeed in whatever you undertake.

The first is compassion, that is, benevolent kindness. The second is frugality, that is, restraint in what one takes. The third is not daring to place oneself ahead of all under heaven, that is, willingly remaining behind the multitude.

Because of compassion, one can be courageous and bold in rescuing others. Because of frugality, one can be abundant, for by economizing on expenditure one accumulates reserves. Because one does not dare to put oneself ahead of all under heaven, one is able to become the leader among people. To do one's work well from a lowly position naturally raises one's standing, and one's achievements are thereby accomplished; therefore one can become the ruler of all under heaven. Yao once served as the common sovereign of the Nine Provinces, and he is such an example.

Now, if one abandons compassion and seeks only boldness, this unbenevolent courage will certainly harm others. If one abandons frugality, one will slide into extravagance. If one abandons humility and yielding and insists only on competing for first place, caring only for oneself and placing others behind, people will surely harbor resentment and in the end bring about their own ruin. If any one of these three virtues is lacking, disaster may follow; how much more so if none of them is practiced at all?

One who is compassionate will win in battle and stand firm in defense. When a commander nurtures his soldiers with a compassionate heart, the soldiers will not harbor disloyal thoughts, and so they will win in battle and hold firm in defense. When Heaven wishes to save a person, it protects him with compassion. Because the power of compassion moves Heaven, Heaven will aid those who protect their soldiers with compassion.

The skilled commander does not indulge in displays of bravado, because he follows the Dao (the Way) and does not rely on brute force. One who delights in war does not lose his temper easily, because he acts through strategy rather than anger. One who is good at defeating enemies does not contend with others for strength, because he prevails through De (virtue) and not through struggle. One who is skilled at employing people takes a lower position and treats others with humility, rather than subduing them by force. This is called the "virtue of non-contention" (bu zheng zhi de). It is also called the power of employing people well, it accords with the Tiandao (Way of Heaven), and it is the highest standard since antiquity. If a person can practice these four excellent qualities, there will be nothing that does not receive a response. Doing so allows one to align with the Way of Heaven and reach the highest standard of the past.

There is a saying about the Dao of warfare: one speaks of the Dao of warfare according to the circumstances and the ruler's inclinations, and the discussion of military matters follows below. "I do not dare to advance first, but prefer to respond" (bu gan xian xing). The guest should answer and should not provoke conflict. One does not dare to advance an inch, nor does one presume to encroach on others, but rather withdraws a foot. One should hold to oneself and wait for the situation to change. This is called "acting without appearing to act" (xing wu xing), meaning one moves without displaying the posture of attack. When enemies invade our borders, we send out troops to stop them, but without a mind set on killing. "Pushing away without an arm" (rang wu bi) means not displaying the gesture of swinging the arm in battle. When the mind has no anger, it is as if one had no arm. "Still without an enemy" (reng wu di) means one does not contend for strength or invite others to fight. "Holding without weapons" (zhi wu bing) means acting through De rather than relying on force.

No calamity is more serious than underestimating the enemy. As the one who responds, the most essential thing is caution, and to underestimate the enemy is nearly to lose one's treasure. Here, the "treasure" refers to oneself. If one underestimates the enemy and penetrates deep into enemy territory, one will inevitably leave one's soldiers dead on the battlefield. Therefore, when the two sides have comparable forces and are locked in confrontation, the side that feels compassion and cherishes its soldiers will be victorious. This is to run the compassion of the heart through the Dao of warfare.

My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice. What is called "I speak of non-action" (wu wei) means not acting recklessly, which is why it is easy to understand. Yet when it comes to actual practice, what difficulty could there be? As stated earlier, the side that cherishes its soldiers in battle will win, and this is the application of the Dao of compassion to warfare.

My words are very easy to understand and very easy to put into practice. Take Wuwei (non-action, not forcing things and following what is natural): the principle is not hard to grasp, and if one truly follows it, what difficulty could there be? Yet few people in the world understand it, and fewer still practice it. Worldly people bustle about in confusion, all chasing after deliberate action (youwei). Because deliberate action runs counter to Wuwei, they cannot achieve it.

Speech has a root, and conduct has a master: the Dao is the root, and De (Virtue/Power) is the master. Because the people of the world lack genuine understanding, they do not know me. To lack understanding means that one's insight has not yet reached the depths of the principle. When people cannot grasp the supreme truth I speak of and do not practice Wuwei, how could the Dao and De become manifest?

Those who understand me are few, and there is almost no one in the world who can perceive that I possess De. Such people are precious, and if one can understand and emulate them, that is more precious still, beyond compare. Therefore the sage wears coarse cloth and holds jade within his bosom. He keeps a supreme treasure within, yet shows no radiance outwardly, so the people of the world find it hard to perceive.

To know that one does not know is the mark of excellence. Even one whose wisdom penetrates all things and who seems to know everything can still say, "What do I really know?" This is true knowing. Is it not the highest excellence? To take not-knowing for knowing is a flaw. Standing like one facing a wall, seeing nothing yet presuming to know everything, is the mark of a reckless person. How can this not be called a flaw?

Only by treating a flaw as a flaw can one avoid being troubled by it. One who truly knows is able to regard false cognition as a flaw and correct it. In this way, true knowledge does not become a flaw, and only false knowledge is one. The sage has no such flaw because he is able to recognize and correct flaws. If one takes one's own flaws to be correct, one cannot point out the flaws of others. Therefore it is said that the sage has no flaw, and from this one can also understand the principle within.

If people do not stand in awe of what is authoritative and majestic, then a great threat will arrive. The greatest threat is death. People often regard small faults as inconsequential and let them accumulate until they can no longer be controlled, and in the end these faults bring about death. Is this not precisely the arrival of the great threat?

Do not let the dwelling of the mind-spirit become cramped. The heart is the dwelling place of shen (spirit), the spirit and vital life-energy of a person. When desires are too many, shen cannot easily settle. Do not despise your life. Shen is the root of life, and as long as shen remains within the body, a person can survive. Only by not despising life will life not be wasted away lightly. If one can be pure and still and keep the heart empty, then shen and the person will draw close to each other and become one.

Therefore, the sage knows how to look inward, keeps the heart empty, and lets shen dwell peacefully within the body. They do not display themselves, for to display oneself is to disregard the threat that awe should guard against. They do not despise their own body, for to despise the body is to despise life. They do not consider themselves noble above others, for to do so narrows the dwelling place of shen. One should therefore abandon self-display and self-exaltation, and choose self-knowledge and the cherishing of life.

Those who are bold in advancing and insist on showing their strength bring destruction upon themselves. If they insist on their strength in matters of desire, the Heavenly Dao (Tiandao) will surely punish them. Those who are bold in restraint, who dare not act recklessly, can preserve their lives. If one dares not indulge in the face of desire, the world too will thereby find peace.

To constantly understand these two courses, that is, "daring" and "not daring," is to know that each carries its own benefits and harms: not acting recklessly is beneficial, while forcing one's way and acting recklessly is harmful. What the Heavenly Dao detests, who can know the reason for it? The Heavenly Dao detests those who force their strength, so even the sage is cautious in facing this matter. Here the Dao is invoked to admonish the world: the Heavenly Dao does not contend, yet it excels at prevailing; it issues no commands, yet all things respond; it does not summon, yet all things come of their own accord; it is unhurried and at ease, yet it excels at arranging.

The Heavenly Dao appears loose and unhurried, yet it makes those who force their strength and do evil receive punishment, and it preserves those who restrain themselves from acting recklessly. Heaven and earth move through day and night without cease, never making a mistake. It is as though there were a master skilled at planning. The net of the Heavenly Dao is vast and boundless; it seems sparse and loose, yet it never lets pass a person who does evil.

The common people often do not fear death because they have already been driven into desperate straits by punishments. Since this is so, how can one still frighten them with death? If one threatens them further with capital punishment, who would still be afraid? If the people can truly be made to fear death, those who do evil will not escape punishment.

The common people are often unafraid of death because the punishments have already driven them to desperation. In that case, how can one still use death to frighten them? If the threat of execution is used, who would still be afraid? If the common people normally hold death in awe and the government's decrees are lenient, they will not rashly risk their lives. Those whose conduct is bizarre and who violate prohibitions may be arrested and dealt with according to law, but who would dare to act on their own in such matters? Even if someone is unafraid of death and commits fraud and crime, the ruler, relying on his authority, can of course arrest and execute them. But the ruler does not dare to execute on his own, because he does not dare to take the power of killing and punishment in place of Heaven. Those who govern killing and punishment have their own offices, and the taking of life should be decided by them. Therefore, killing and punishment will not be misapplied. If the ruler acts in place of the one who governs killing, it is like a clumsy person taking the place of a skilled carpenter in hewing wood. Those who take the place of a master craftsman in cutting wood seldom fail to injure their own hands. The incompetent who acts in place of the capable not only may fail to shape the wood well but will certainly injure themselves.

The common people go hungry because the rulers impose excessive taxes. When those above extract heavily, there is not enough grain below, and so the people starve. The people are hard to govern because the rulers issue numerous decrees and force their own actions. The more affairs there are above, the more those below will devise ways to cope, and so the people become hard to govern. The common people treat death lightly because the rulers compel them to pursue livelihood to excess. The more desperately they struggle to survive, the less they fear death. This means that the condition of the people depends on the rulers. When the rulers covet lavish provision and take too much, the people will be greatly impoverished and will resent their rulers, and the regime will ultimately fall. This is not because the people truly despise life, but because they have been driven to a dead end. Only one who does not single-mindedly pursue self-preservation surpasses one who cherishes the self excessively. Excessive craving to preserve one's life may instead cost one's life, while not regarding oneself as too weighty may instead preserve one's life. Comparing these, the one who does not cling to valuing the self surpasses the one who cherishes the self excessively.

Living bodies are soft and pliable because the Dao (the Way) dwells within them; when a person dies, the body stiffens because the Dao has departed. Grasses and trees are tender and fragile while they grow because their qi (vital energy) is still present; once they wither and die, they become dry and hard because the qi has dispersed. Thus, hardness and strength belong to the side of death, while softness and weakness belong to the side of life, and this can be seen plainly before our eyes.

For this reason, an army that relies on its strength and prides itself on victory will find it difficult to win. Weapons are ill-omened objects, for warfare runs contrary to Heaven's intention to cherish life. Therefore the Dao of Heaven restrains armies that display their strength, so that they cannot prevail.

The branches of a tree are soft, while its trunk is thick and hard; the supple branches grow by clinging to the firm trunk. The strong dwell below, and the weak dwell above. Viewing this together with the principle of life and death, the soft and weak are alive, while the hard and strong tend toward death; and if we look at the positions above and below, the weak stand above and the strong below. Those who think themselves strong, and who willingly place themselves below only to invite death, have indeed turned the principle upside down.

Is not the Dao of Heaven much like the drawing of a bow? This is an analogy drawn from things people are already familiar with.