《道德真经注（宋苏辙）》

The Dao (the Way) that can be explained in words is not the constant Dao.

Nothing is outside the Dao, yet any principle that can be made clear in words cannot remain fixed and unchanging. Benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), propriety (li), and wisdom (zhi) can all be spoken of, but benevolence cannot directly stand in for righteousness, nor propriety for wisdom. This shows that principles which can be articulated each have their limits and cannot be constant. Only the Dao, which words cannot bound, becomes benevolence within benevolence, righteousness within righteousness, propriety within propriety, and wisdom within wisdom. Its concrete expressions differ from one another, yet the Dao itself remains constant.

A name that can be spoken is not a constant name.

If the Dao cannot be fully explained in words, how much less can it be named? Names are used to designate things that can be clearly described. Once a name is established, things are divided into categories such as round, square, curved, and straight, and so the names themselves cannot remain unchanged.

Namelessness is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; having names is the source of the ten thousand things. Constantly dwelling in non-being (wu), one observes the subtle essence of the Dao; constantly dwelling in being (you), one observes its boundaries and its manifest forms.

At first the Dao is nameless and appears as Heaven and Earth. After Heaven and Earth settle into their places, names begin to be established. The Dao unfolds from the state of having names and gives rise to the ten thousand things; once the ten thousand things flourish, names become countless. Therefore, namelessness is the substance of the Dao, and having names is its function. The sage grasps the substance of the Dao and applies it to the world. Amid concrete things, they keep their hearts empty and still, so as to observe the subtle essence of the Dao. Grasping the utmost emptiness of the Dao, they remain among real things, so as to observe the boundaries of its manifestation. If one acts only at the boundary of manifestation and does not understand its subtle root, one becomes superficial and lacks marvelousness. If one dwells only in the subtle root and does not understand how it appears among the ten thousand things, one becomes too abstruse to reach everywhere.

These two both come from the same Dao and differ only in name, and both may be called profound mystery (xuanmiao).

If we distinguish you (being, existence) from wu (non-being, nothingness) by their outward forms, they do appear to be two different things. But how can we know that wu will not turn into you, or that you will not return to wu? The two never share one root. Though their names differ, their origin is one. To recognize that the origin is the same is to reach a profound state. Whatever is deep without limit appears dark and hidden, so Laozi often used xuan (the dark, the mysterious) to point to the deepest place. Xuan has already reached its extreme depth, yet there is still an attachment to xuan. Only "xuan upon xuan" (xuan zhi you xuan) can be called complete exhaustion, for nothing deeper is then possible. The myriad subtle things all arise from this, and so it is called "the gate of all subtleties" (zhong miao zhi men).

When everyone takes beauty as beauty, ugliness thereby appears; when everyone takes goodness as goodness, non-goodness thereby appears. Therefore you and wu give rise to each other, difficulty and ease bring each other to completion, length and shortness set each other off, height and lowness lean upon each other, sounds answer one another, and what comes before follows what comes after.

People judge beauty and ugliness by outward form and name. Are the beauty and goodness they assign truly absolute? You and wu, difficulty and ease, length and shortness, height and lowness, sound and sound, front and back all appear through mutual generation and transformation, and none has a fixed standard. When a person thinks himself tall, someone taller makes him appear short. When a person thinks himself in front, someone who walks ahead of him makes him a laggard. If one trusts only the standard of goodness one has fixed for oneself, one moves further and further from the actual condition of things.

Therefore the sage (shengren) acts in accordance with the principle of things and holds no deliberate intention to act (wuwei, non-action). In teaching, he speaks according to the moment and does not cling to words. This does not mean he refrains from acting or speaking. He does what should be done and says what should be said, but he does not impose his own intention upon things.

For this reason the sage transcends the measure of length and shortness and is not bound by the order of before and after. He clings neither to beauty nor to ugliness, neither to goodness nor to non-goodness. How, then, could ordinary people judge such a person by their usual standards?

Chapter Three: Not Exalting the Worthy

As the myriad things rise and develop, the sage does not turn them away. They nourish the myriad things without claiming them as their own, aid them without relying on their own accomplishments, and when the work is done, they do not claim the merit for themselves.

The myriad things grow by relying on me, and I do not reject them. I cause them to grow and aid them, yet I do not claim them as mine, nor do I rely on these works. When affairs succeed, I never take credit for them. This is responding to the myriad things through non-action (wuwei) and non-speaking. Such a way is both beautiful and good, so how could evil and unrighteousness ever arise from it?

It is precisely because one does not claim merit as one's own that one's achievements do not depart.

The sage may be in poverty and lowliness yet is not troubled by it, or may be in wealth and nobility yet is not burdened by it. This is what is meant by "not dwelling" (bu ju). I do not possess, and I do not cling. How, then, would things depart? This is the highest realm of settled abiding.

Not especially venerating the worthy and capable keeps the people from contending with one another. Not prizing rare and precious goods keeps them from stealing. Not displaying what arouses desire keeps the human heart from being disordered. Therefore, in governing the realm, the sage empties the people's minds of excessive scheming, fills their bellies, weakens their ambition to contend, and strengthens their bodies.

Venerating the worthy and capable leads the people to feel shame at not being as good as others, and so they compete and seize from one another. If one does not prize rare and precious goods and does not display what tempts desire, the human heart will not be disordered. Therefore, in governing the realm, the sage empties the people's minds of excessive scheming, fills their bellies, weakens their ambition to contend, and strengthens their bodies.

If one exalts the worthy, the people will feel shame at not being as capable as others and will compete with one another. If one prizes rare goods, the people will suffer from being unable to obtain them and will turn to theft. If one displays objects that stir desire, the people will worry about not getting them and will fall into disorder.

Although everyone under heaven knows that these three practices bring calamity, to wish to enact their opposites across the board and abolish them entirely is also a kind of confusion. The sage does not refuse to employ capable people, but does not deliberately elevate them. He does not discard rare goods, but does not treat them as treasures. He does not eliminate every object of desire, but does not deliberately display them. Therefore, when the capable are employed, the people do not compete; when rare goods and objects of desire are kept out of sight, thieves and disorder do not arise. Is this not the way to quiet the mind without hindering the fullness of the body, and to soften the will to contend without weakening the sinews and bones?

If one persistently promotes the worthy, esteems rare goods, and displays objects of desire to the people, their minds and desires will be filled to overflowing. If, conversely, all of these are abolished, disorder may not arise, but the will and the sinews will grow weak. When minds and desires are filled, the people will scramble for possession; when the will and sinews are weak, people cannot establish themselves.

One should constantly keep the people free of cunning knowledge and excessive desire, and ensure that those who consider themselves clever do not dare to act recklessly.

When these three kinds of things are not deliberately displayed, the people have no special objects to envy or pursue. Their minds are calm and their desires diminish. Even if clever people exist, they have no opportunity to exercise deceit.

To act in accordance with wuwei (non-action, meaning not acting recklessly and not intervening deliberately) is to leave nothing ungoverned.

To accord with the natural state in which these three kinds of things exist, without deliberately promoting them, particularly valuing them, or intentionally displaying them, is what is called wuwei.

Chapter Four: The Dao Is Empty (Daochong)

The body of the Dao is empty, yet it functions without end, as though it can never be filled. It is deep and profound, seeming to be the root from which the myriad things arise.

The Great Dao is empty and formless, yet it enables all things with form to exist. Even where heaven and earth stretch wide and mountains and rivers reach far, there is no place it cannot reach. Because it has no form, it seems as though it could never fill anything. It is profound and subtle. I know it is the root of the myriad things, but I dare not name it with certainty, so I say it "seems to be the root of the myriad things."

Blunt the sharpness, untie the knots, soften the glare, and let oneself merge with the dust of the world. The Dao (the Way) is deep and still, as if it were both present and absent.

Everyone has the Dao, yet the sage is able to fully embody it in themselves. Blunting the sharpness guards against thoughts and actions falling into disorder. Untying the knots guards against conflict with external things. When one does not act recklessly and does not entangle oneself with external things, outer troubles recede, and the inner light appears on its own. Then softening that light guards against appearing different from the myriad things. The light is extremely pure, while the dust is extremely tangled. Although the sage dwells among the world, they do not abandon the myriad things because of it. Only in this way can the Dao be fully manifested and endure in profound stillness. Yet even though it endures, people find it hard to perceive, so it is said to "seem to exist."

I do not know whose descendant the Dao is. It seems to have come before the Thearch of Heaven (Tian Di).

Although the Dao endures, it ultimately cannot be given a name, yet it cannot be said not to exist. Hence the question: could it be that it precedes the Thearch of Heaven? If the Thearch of Heaven is already the earliest, then the Dao precedes even that, and nothing is earlier than the Dao.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

Heaven and earth show no partiality. They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrificial rites. The sage shows no partiality either. They regard the common people as straw dogs used in sacrificial rites.

Heaven and earth show no partiality, allowing the myriad things to change naturally according to their own patterns. Thus the myriad things grow and perish on their own, and no force stands behind them to favor or arrange them.

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

Heaven and earth show no partiality. They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrificial rites. The sage shows no partiality either. They regard the common people as straw dogs used in sacrificial rites.

Heaven and Earth show no partiality; they simply let the myriad things follow their own natures. Therefore the myriad things grow on their own and die on their own. When they die, it is not that I cruelly cause their deaths, and when they grow, it is not that I benevolently cause their growth.

This is like straw dogs (chugou) bound together for sacrificial rites, displayed at the ceremony, carefully adorned, and reverently offered. Is it because one loves them? It is only that the occasion required them. Once the sacrifice is over, they are discarded, and passersby trample them. Is it because one hates them? Again, it is simply following the circumstances. The sage treats the common people in the same way. As long as they are not harmed, the people can preserve their natural endowments. As for life and death, gain and loss, the sage does not intervene. Though the sage does not deliberately practice benevolence, the benevolence is nonetheless great.

Between Heaven and Earth, is it not like a bellows alone? It is hollow yet never exhausted; once set in motion, its breath pours forth without end. When the bellows moves, the air flows wherever it reaches, and everything stirs in response. Those who do not understand it may think its mechanism is supremely ingenious. But what does the bellows itself actually do? It is merely hollow and never exhausted, so once put into motion, the airflow is continually produced. That Heaven and Earth give birth to and destroy the myriad things, and shape their forms, is no more than this principle.

The more one speaks, the more one is driven into straits. It is better to guard the inner stillness and emptiness (xujing) of the heart.

People see that when the bellows moves, the air pours out without end, but they do not realize this comes from the effect of its hollowness. Therefore Laozi warns that words, when many, will inevitably run out, and it is better to guard inner stillness and emptiness so that their function never runs dry.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The principle of the valley is no different from this.

The more one speaks, the more one is driven into straits. It is better to guard the inner stillness and emptiness of the heart.

People see that when the bellows moves, the air pours out without end, but they do not realize this comes from the effect of its hollowness. Therefore Laozi warns that words, when many, will inevitably run out, and it is better to guard inner stillness and emptiness so that their function never runs dry.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The Valley Spirit (gushen, the Dao that, like a valley, is empty yet able to generate and transform) does not die. This is called the Mysterious Female (xuanpin, the profound Dao of maternal fecundity that gives birth to the myriad things).

A valley, though open and vast, still has a physical form; the Valley Spirit is empty and formless. Since it is empty and formless, it has not even been brought into being, so how could it ever die? To call it the "Valley Spirit" speaks of its virtue (de), and to call it the "Mysterious Female" speaks of its function. The female is able to bear the myriad things, yet it is called "mysterious" because people can see that the myriad things come forth from it, but cannot see how it actually brings them into being.

The Gate of the Mysterious Female (xuanpin zhi men, the gateway through which the myriad things emerge) is called the root of Heaven and Earth.

To say "the Gate of the Mysterious Female" means that the myriad things are produced from here. To say "the root of Heaven and Earth" means that Heaven and Earth are also formed from it.

It extends on and on, seemingly present yet difficult to grasp; when put to use, it never runs out.

Chapter Seven: Heaven and Earth Endure Long

Heaven and earth endure for a long time.

Although heaven and earth are vast, they still have bounded form and measure, so their endurance has a limit. When Laozi says that heaven and earth last long, he is speaking in terms of what people can observe. If we speak of endurance in its fullest sense, it is the state that existed before heaven and earth began.

Heaven and earth can endure because they do not exist only for their own sake. For this reason, the sage places himself behind others and yet comes to stand before them. He sets his own person aside and yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no private aims? Thus he fulfills himself.

Heaven and earth give birth to and nourish the myriad things, yet they do not act only for themselves. They stand apart from the myriad things, and for this reason they can endure. The sage puts himself after the people and lets others come first. He sets himself aside for the benefit of others, and so he is able to lead and to preserve himself. If heaven and earth competed with the myriad things for existence, and the sage competed with others for advantage, then heaven and earth would be merely one thing among the myriad things, and the sage merely one person among the many. What, then, would make them appear exceptional? Yet the sage's selflessness is not a means of securing private gain. His lack of self-interest accords with the Dao (the Way), and so he naturally fulfills himself.

Chapter Eight: The Highest Goodness Is Like Water

The highest goodness is like water. Water excels at nourishing the myriad things without contending with them. It settles in the low places that people all dislike, and so it comes closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle by which all things operate).

Confucian-style reading aside, here is the translation.

The Book of Changes says: "The alternation and transformation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; what carries forward and advances this transformation is goodness; what the myriad things receive as their formed nature is called nature." It also says: "Heaven produces water from the One." The Dao, in its operation and manifestation, becomes goodness, just as the primordial qi (yuanqi) in its movement produces water. Therefore it is said, "The highest goodness is like water." Both accounts hold that things begin from formlessness and gradually take on concrete shape, and so their principles are interconnected.

The Dao is everywhere and benefits all things, and water is likewise. But once water has manifested as a concrete form, it differs somewhat from the formless Great Dao, and so it is said to be "nearly close to the Dao." Yet if we seek something that may rightly be called "good," nothing fits better than water, and therefore it is called "highest goodness."

In dwelling, it excels at choosing low ground; in the mind, it excels at keeping itself deep and still; in giving to others, it excels at benevolence; in speech, it excels at keeping faith; in governing, it excels at bringing order; in handling affairs, it excels at making use of one's strengths; in action, it excels at seizing the right moment.

Water shuns heights and flows toward low places, never moving against the current; this is its excellence in dwelling in lowly places. Water is empty, tranquil, and deep, impossible to measure; this is its excellence in preserving depth, breadth, and quietude. Water nourishes the myriad things and gives without seeking return; this is its benevolence. When it meets a round vessel it turns, when it meets a square one it bends, when blocked it stops, and when the obstruction is removed it flows on again; this is its faithfulness. Water can wash away filth and level what is high and low; this is its excellence in governing. It takes on the shape of whatever it encounters without clinging to a single form; this is its excellence in making use of its capacities. In winter it freezes, in spring it melts; though its volume may dwindle or swell, it always accords with the changing seasons; this is its excellence in seizing the right moment.

Precisely because water does not contend with the myriad things, it is without fault.

Some people, though they do good deeds, are still criticized, because they engage in contention. Water does not contend, and therefore it embodies all seven of these excellences without fault.

Chapter 9: Holding and Filling

To hold a vessel until it overflows is not as good as stopping in time; to whet a blade until it is overly sharp is not as good as keeping it lasting.

To know that a vessel filled will surely spill, and yet still clutch it tightly to keep it from being full, is not as good as never filling it too full from the start, which is more secure. To know that an overly sharp blade will inevitably break, and yet deliberately grind it sharper still, is not as good as not treating sharpness as something to rely upon. The sage possesses things without regarding them as his own; how then could there be overflow? He acts only after following the patterns of things; how then could there be excessive sharpness? Without overflow, there is no need to labor at holding; without excessive sharpness, there is no need to grind it deliberately.

Chapter Ten: Embracing the Hun and Po

Gold and jade filling the hall, no one can hold on to them forever. Wealth and rank that lead to arrogance only bring calamity upon oneself. To withdraw once merit is accomplished and reputation is established is in accord with the Dao (the Way).

The sun moves past its zenith at noon, and the moon begins to wane as soon as it is full. The four seasons turn in their cycle, and once achievement is complete, one should depart. If Heaven and Earth are bound by this, how much more so are human beings?

Can one embrace the hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul) as a unity, keeping them together without separation?

The difference between po and hun lies in this: po belongs to the bodily form, while hun belongs to spirit, or shen (spirit). The Classic of Changes says, "When jing-qi (essential qi) condenses, it becomes things; when the wandering hun transforms, it becomes the ghostly and spirit realm." Through this, one can understand the nature of ghosts and spirits. Po belongs to the form, so it tends to become scattered and lingering; hun belongs to spirit, so it can be focused and transformative. To speak of ying po (the encamped po) is to say that the hun and po dwell together within the body.

The Dao is present everywhere, and in human beings it appears as xing (nature). The mystery of nature is shen. What is pure and free of defilement is called yi (the One); what is gathered and not dispersed is called pu (the uncarved block, simplicity). These terms each have their own emphasis, but ultimately they all point to the Dao.

The sage's nature is settled, his shen concentrated, and he is not swayed by external things. Although po dwells within the form, when shen moves to act, po follows it. Thus shen commands the form. The ordinary person, however, has his nature governed by external things. His shen is confused and cannot act as master, so shen obeys the form instead. The ears and eyes are burdened by sounds and colors, and the nose and mouth are wearied by odors and flavors. Whatever the form desires, shen follows, and so the form in turn governs shen.

For this reason, the sage teaches people to concentrate shen and settle the hun and po so that the two do not separate. This is a vital method of self-cultivation. The ancient zhenren (perfected persons), who could firmly preserve their roots, live long, and keep their shen clear, also followed this principle.

Can one concentrate the shen and soften the breath until it is like that of an infant?

Spirit (shen) that is not governed by deluded thoughts will not let the breath (qi) fall into disorder. Strong people compete and fight, and timid people are easily frightened; these are signs of which one is not aware. When the spirit is settled, the qi does not stir at will, and joy and anger each follow their own causes. This is called "concentrating the qi" (zhuan qi), which means bringing the spirit to utmost emptiness and stillness, and letting the qi begin to become full and settled. When emptiness and stillness reach their extreme, they become gentle; when the fullness of qi reaches its extreme, it becomes vigorous. If one can keep the original nature unified and undisturbed by the agitation of qi, this is called "reaching softness" (zhi rou). An infant does not yet know likes or dislikes, so its original nature remains whole and unharmed. When the nature is whole, the qi is faint and calm; when the qi is calm, the body is also supple. To cultivate the qi single-mindedly until it reaches softness is to come close to the state of an infant.

Can one clear away distracting thoughts so that the mind reflects all things like a clear mirror, without any flaw?

The sage is not drawn outward by form and desire, and is not driven inward by the breath. In this way, the dust and grime in the mind can be completely cleared away. Then the spirit becomes open and clear, able to observe all things from a distance and to understand that all things arise from their original nature. Whether they are pure or impure, the sage regards them equally, and the mind holds no bias or flaw.

Can one practice non-action (wuwei) while caring for the people and governing the state?

Having already cultivated oneself by this method, one extends it to others. Even in caring for the people and governing the state, one should keep the spirit open and clear, observe all things from a distance, understand that all things arise from their original nature, and regard the pure and the impure equally, without bias.

Can one practice non-action (wuwei) while caring for the people and governing the state?

Having already cultivated oneself by this method, and having extended it to governing the people and the state, one should respond with a mind without mind (wuxin), that is, without private intention or fixed opinion. If one holds private intentions, then caring for the people may instead harm them, and governing the state may instead throw it into disorder.

When the Heavenly Gate (tianmen), the pivot where the rise and fall of the realm's governance turns, opens and closes, can one hold to softness and remain in a lowly place?

The Heavenly Gate is the place from which order and disorder, prosperity and decline, arise. Since the sage takes the whole world as his responsibility, when the situation opens and closes, the multitude values gain and worries about loss, and so they rush ahead to seek good fortune. The sage, however, follows the principles of things and understands the Mandate of Heaven, and waits until the signs of an event appear before responding. The Book of Changes says: "To act before Heaven's timing, Heaven will not oppose him; to act after Heaven's timing, he follows the timing of Heaven." This does not mean that the sage actually moves before the timing of Heaven or falls behind it, but that his actions always accord with the Mandate of Heaven. Otherwise, acting too early misses the moment, and acting too late also misses the moment. Therefore, what is called "guarding the feminine" (shou ci) means only responding to the moment and not losing its timing.

Can one be clear and penetrating, perceive in all directions, and yet not regard oneself as possessing knowledge?

Chapter Eleven: The Thirty Spokes

Dao (the Way) is needed for cultivating oneself, governing the state, and responding to all kinds of change. If a person's mind is not clear and penetrating, how could they accomplish this? "Clear understanding in all directions" refers to the mind. The mind knows everything, yet it holds no thought of "I am now knowing." The mind is originally one; if another mind were added to recognize it, there would be two. From one dividing into two, obscuration arises, and ignorance begins there.

For example, a mirror faces the myriad things. When things come, the mirror reflects them; once reflected, it rests. How could the mirror have a separate mind that knows "I am reflecting"? Originally there is no such distinction, yet intention adds one, and this is the source of deluded thoughts.

Dao gives birth to and nourishes the myriad things and causes them to grow, yet does not possess them. It acts, yet does not rely on its own ability. It causes them to grow, yet does not master them. This is called "profound De" (deep, far-reaching, and subtle virtue).

Dao can give birth to and nourish the myriad things, yet it does not possess them, does not rely on itself, and does not dominate them. Although it has supreme virtue, the myriad things do not perceive it, and so it is called "profound De."

Chapter Eleven: The Thirty Spokes (see note)

Thirty spokes converge on a single hub, and it is the emptiness within the hub that gives the wheel its function. Kneading clay to form vessels, it is the hollowness within the vessel that gives it the function of holding things. Cutting doors and windows to build a house, it is the space within the house that gives it the function of dwelling. Thus, material form brings convenience, while emptiness brings practical use.

People exert their cleverness to make objects, yet the usefulness of objects often lies in the empty parts. Without substance, emptiness has nothing through which to function; without emptiness, substance has no means of exerting its convenience. Therefore the sage often perceives the subtle principles of things from non-being, and observes the manifest forms of things from being. To understand that being and non-being depend on each other and cannot be separated is to reach the state of thorough penetration.

Chapter Twelve: Five Colors

Five colors, five tones, and five flavors all originally come from human nature. Before a person has contact with external things, their nature is in a natural state of completeness. Once the eyes become attached to colors, the ears indulge in sounds, and the mouth and tongue chase after tastes, and these sensory desires draw a person away and make them forget their nature, then, although they see, it is as if they were blind; although they hear, it is as if they were deaf; and although they taste, it is as if their sense of flavor were disordered.

Racing horses in the hunt drives the mind to frenzy, and rare and precious goods obstruct a person's conduct. For this reason, the sage (shèngrén) attends to satisfying inner needs and does not chase after sensory pleasures. They give up the one and choose the other.

When the sage sees colors, hears sounds, and tastes flavors, they do so just as ordinary people do. As for whether racing horses in the hunt drives the mind to frenzy, or whether rare goods obstruct conduct, the sage has not never engaged in such things or never used such objects. Yet ordinary people regard these things as calamities, while the sage can regard them as blessings. Why is this? Because the sage values inner fullness, whereas ordinary people chase after outer sensory pleasures. The eyes that pursue external things cannot bear excessive stimulation, while the inner nature, which is able to receive things, is not harmed by them. External things come from without, while nature gathers within the heart.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace

Whether one receives favor or suffers humiliation, one should be as cautious as if startled. To value the body is to value it as one would value a great calamity.

The ancients who understood the workings of things were alert when they received favor, as if they had been humiliated, because they knew that favor is often the forerunner of humiliation. They valued the body as they would a great calamity, because they knew that the body is precisely the root from which misfortune arises. Therefore, they did not cling to favor, so humiliation had no way to fall upon them. By letting go of attachment to the body, they made it difficult for calamity to descend.

What is meant by favor and disgrace? Favor itself occupies a lowly position. When one receives it, one is startled, and when one loses it, one is also startled. This is what is meant by "treat favor and disgrace as though startled."

Favor and disgrace are not two unrelated matters. Humiliation arises from favor, yet the world fails to grasp this and assumes that favor is noble and humiliation is base. If one understands that humiliation arises from favor, one will see that favor in fact occupies the lowly position. Therefore, the ancients who understood the workings of things remained watchful when they received favor and equally watchful when they lost it. They never rested comfortably in favor, but waited with apprehension for humiliation to arrive. What is meant by "as if startled" is not truly being alarmed; it is simply maintaining vigilance.

What counts as "valuing oneself as one values the world, and regarding the greatest calamity"? Su Zhe explains: "I receive favor because favor has always stood in a lowly position. For this reason, people of ancient times who had attained understanding were startled when they received favor and startled when they lost it. They never settled comfortably into favor, and they were not thrown into panic by disgrace. To be 'startled' does not mean truly fearing anything. It only shows a cautious bearing."

Why does the greatest calamity relate to oneself? Because I have this body, I face the greatest calamity. If I had no body, what calamity could I have?

In this passage, the word gui (difficult) carries the sense of something hard to accomplish. The body is the root of great calamity, yet people feel that calamity is hard to bear, while they do not feel that possessing a body is itself difficult. For this reason, the sage follows people's fear of calamity and teaches them to recognize that possessing a body is also a difficulty. Once one understands that the body cannot be firmly held, calamity recedes.

The nature (xing) of a person does not increase with birth or diminish with death. It is vast enough to fill heaven and earth, subtle enough to seem to pass through water and fire and enter metal and stone, and nothing can bring it to rest. Yet people often forget their nature and value only the body. Once their attachment to the body grows too deep, external things can control them. Death and sickness intrude from within, while favor and disgrace, gain and loss, come interwoven from without, and hardly any matter fails to become a source of anxiety. Only those who understand reach the Dao know that nature cannot be destroyed, and they also understand that the body is not something real and unchanging. They therefore release their attachment to the body. In this way, anxieties gradually dissipate, and one can live in the world without being entangled.

Therefore, if one can value oneself as one values the world, then the world can be entrusted to that person. If one can love oneself as one loves the world, then the world can be handed over to that person.

People chase power and profit, indulge in wealth and rank, and even take risks without regret, all in order to make their own lives better. Now, if the emoluments of the realm were given to such a person, and they were asked to bear the burden of governing the world with their own self, they would completely forget themselves. A person like this, even if the world were entrusted to them, could never let its vastness become a calamity to them.

Chapter Fourteen: "Looking but Not Seeing"

What cannot be seen when looked at is called yi (the colorless); what cannot be heard when listened for is called xi (the soundless); what cannot be grasped when touched is called wei (the formless). These three cannot be definitely apprehended by the senses, so they are combined and called hun er wei yi (blended into one).

What the eye sees are colors and shapes, yet the root that enables one to see colors and shapes cannot itself be seen. What the ear hears is sound, yet the root that enables one to hear sound cannot itself be heard. What the hand touches is tactile sensation, yet the root that enables one to feel it cannot be directly touched. Even wise people find it hard to explain these three functions of sight, hearing, and touch. The key is to return them to a single source, and only then can one understand. This source is xing (inner nature), and seeing, hearing, and touching are its functions. At first a person possesses only nature. Later, on contact with external things, its functions divide and become sight, hearing, and touch. People use these senses every day without knowing how to return to the source. If they cannot rejoin the original unity, they drift further and further from their nature. The same holds for the six sense functions described in Buddhism. The Shoulengyan Jing (Śūraṅgama Sūtra, a Buddhist scripture) says: "Turn back the outflowing functions of the senses so that they return to wholeness and unity, and the six functions no longer operate separately." This is what the passage means.

Dao is above, yet it does not appear bright. It is below, yet it does not appear dark.

All things with form depend on yin-yang, so it is unavoidable that what is above is bright and what is below is dark. Dao, though above, does not appear bright, and though below, does not appear dark. Dao cannot be inferred from form or quantity.

Dao moves on in an unbroken flow. It cannot be named, and in the end it returns to the formless and the immaterial.

Shéngshéng describes ceaseless motion. When people see Dao moving without end, they take it to be some substantial thing, not realizing that it ultimately returns to formlessness.

This is called "the shapelessness of shape and the imagelessness of image." It is also called huhuang, a state that is hard to grasp clearly, seemingly present yet absent.

Facing Dao, one cannot see its beginning. Following Dao, one cannot see its end.

Dao is everywhere, so there is no visible before or after, no visible beginning or end.

The Dao of antiquity is what one must grasp in order to govern the changes of things in the present. To recognize the original source of all things is called "daoji" (the guiding threads and fundamental principles of the Dao).

"Gu" (ancient) refers to the source from which all things are born, and "you" (existence) refers to the forms that things now display. Since "wu" (non-being) is the original state of all things, "wu" is the root of "you." Once one grasps the root of all things, advancing and retreating, moving quickly or slowly, all come under one's own control.

The ancients who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were profound and subtle, penetrating without obstruction, and their attainment was so deep that others could not comprehend it.

They moved from the coarse to the fine. When subtlety reached its utmost, it was called "miao" (wondrous), and when the wondrous reached its utmost, it was called "xuan" (profound). Once one reached the state of "xuan," nothing was beyond reach, and so it was unfathomable.

Because they were hard to understand, they were described by means of images: cautious as one crossing a river in winter.

"Yu" (hesitant) describes acting only after being on guard. When they intended to do something, they seemed to respond only under compulsion, as cautious as one wading through water in winter, setting out only when it seemed unavoidable.

They hesitated as though afraid that others nearby might see them.

"You" (irresolute) denotes harboring doubts and not acting rashly. Toward matters they did not wish to undertake, they deliberated at length, as though worried that their neighbors would see them making any move.

They were solemn, as though offering a respectful salute.

They held reverence toward all things and never grew slack.

They were dissolving, like ice about to melt away.

They understood that the appearance of things is neither eternal nor truly real, and therefore they did not cling to anything.

They were simple and sincere, like unhewn wood.

Artificial embellishment had been entirely removed, and their original nature restored.

They were open and empty, like a valley.

Their inner mind was empty and still, able to contain all things.

They were murky, like turbid water.

They tempered their brilliance and dwelt among the mundane world without appearing out of step with external things.

Who can make turbid water settle and slowly become clear? Who can keep a state of stillness lasting, and, amid long-enduring change, gradually bring forth vitality?

Worldly people, disturbed by external things, have their original nature clouded, and so it becomes difficult for them to regain clarity. Withered people, by contrast, try to extinguish their original nature through stillness. Although they appear settled, they lose their vitality. Now, understanding that turbidity disturbs one's nature, let the mind be still. Once it is still, it gradually becomes clear. Understanding that extinguishing one's nature does not accord with the Dao (Dào, the Way), let the mind be active. Once it is active, vitality gradually returns. The Yijing (Book of Changes) says: "Still and unmoving, yet when stirred it penetrates all the affairs under heaven." The "movement" spoken of here carries this same meaning: the mind does not move recklessly, yet it can respond to external things and thereby comprehend principles.

Those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness.

Fullness is the result of reaching an extreme. If the mind is turbid, it cannot become clear; if it stagnates, it cannot recover its vitality. Therefore it overflows.

Because one does not seek fullness, when things decline, they need not wait for new things to form. Decline passes of its own accord.

Nothing fails to decline, and the principle is the same. Only by not seeking fullness does decline pass of its own accord, without waiting for new things to appear.

Chapter 16: Attaining Utmost Emptiness and Stillness

Let the mind reach the utmost emptiness, and hold to stillness until it is profound.

If emptiness has not reached its utmost, something still remains in the heart. If stillness is not held to the end, activity remains within. Even when the mountain has been moved away, if fine dust has not been fully swept clean, this is still not utmost or profound. Deliberately retaining "emptiness" is still not free from being, and deliberately retaining "stillness" is still caught in activity, let alone other conditions. To demand that emptiness and stillness function when they have not reached their utmost is very difficult to achieve.

The myriad things rise together, and through this I observe their return.

When emptiness and stillness reach their utmost, one can observe the transformations of the myriad things without being disturbed by them. From this we know that whatever arises must return. If one is oneself rising and falling along with the myriad things, one cannot see this.

The myriad things flourish, and each returns to its root.

All things arise from their original nature and also return to it. This is like flowers and leaves growing from the roots and ultimately returning to them, or like waves surging up from the water and at last subsiding back into it.

Returning to the root is called stillness.

All things arise from their original nature and, in the end, return to it, just as flowers and leaves grow from the root and then go back to the root, and waves rise from the water and at last settle back into the water.

To return to the root is called stillness (jing).

If one has not yet returned to one's nature, then forcibly halting activity and quieting thought in the pursuit of stillness is not true stillness. Therefore, only by returning to the root can stillness be attained.

When one becomes still, this is called fuming (returning to the source of life).

The ming (life-decree or destiny) here refers to the subtle, profound, and ineffable wonder within nature. Nature can still be explained in words, but once one reaches the level of ming, it can no longer be expressed in language. The Book of Changes (Yijing) says: "Exhaust the principles of things and fully realize one's nature, and thereby reach the level of ming." The sage's pursuit of the Dao must begin by exhausting the principles of things, then fully realizing one's nature, and finally returning to the source of life.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are the means by which the sage engages with external things, and the application of these four must have a fundamental reason behind it. One who does not understand that reason and merely follows the names and forms in carrying them out is an ordinary person; one who understands the principle and then puts it into practice is a gentleman. This is what is meant by qiongli (exhausting principle).

Yet even when one exhausts the principles of things with full devotion, one must still reach them through inquiry, and without inquiry one cannot understand them. Daily affairs constantly appear before us, and if each one required laborious deliberation before we could respond, we would be exhausted and our results would be limited. The sage is not obscured by external things; his inner nature is clear and tranquil. He acts without contrivance yet accords with the proper Way, comprehends without lengthy deliberation, and responds appropriately whenever things come before him. This is what is meant by jinxing (fully realizing one's nature).

However, although this is one's own nature, if one still divides oneself from external things into two sides, one is already close to delusive thought. A ruler's command is called ming, and the fate Heaven bestows is also called ming. The sage responds to all things through his nature without clinging to the notion that "I" am the one responding, and therefore he attributes his conduct to ming. This is what is meant by fuming.

To return to the source of life is called chang (constancy).

When things come into being, even those as vast as heaven, earth, mountains, and rivers are all subject to change and decay. Only by returning to one's nature can one be clear, tranquil, and enduring in constancy.

To recognize constancy is called ming (clarity).

If one does not regard the return to one's nature as true clarity, then whatever one attains is merely worldly cleverness, and even if one thinks oneself enlightened, it is not true clarity.

Those who do not understand the constant Dao (changdao), the principle that does not change, will act rashly and recklessly and bring calamity upon themselves.

Those who do not understand returning to their original nature (fanguī benxing) will be driven to act by external things, and nothing they do fails to bring calamity. Even if they profit for a time, they will lose in the long run.

If one does not regard returning to one's original nature as true wisdom, then what one relies on is merely worldly cleverness. Even if one believes one understands, it is not true understanding.

One who understands the constant Dao has a mind that can embrace all things.

If one is lost in delusive thoughts (wangnian), one becomes self-righteous and regards others and external things as opposites. How could such a person contain them? But if one understands that these distinctions are all delusive thoughts, then even when facing an enemy, one will feel pity for him. What then could one not embrace?

Being able to embrace all things, one becomes impartial and selfless. With no further clinging to distinctions between self and other, what partiality would remain?

Being impartial and selfless, one can become a king. Being wholly without partiality, the people of the world will naturally turn to him.

Becoming a king, one reaches the state of Heaven (tian). With a heart that embraces the whole world, what could surpass even Heaven?

Heaven still has form and trace; reaching the state of Dao is the ultimate. Beyond Dao, there is no higher realm to advance toward.

Reaching Dao, one endures long and is free from danger for the whole of life.

Chapter 17: The Highest Ruler (Taishang)

The highest ruler: the people merely know that he exists.

He nourishes and shelters all under heaven by means of the Dao, and never governs through deliberate design. The people do not know why things are thus, so they only know that there is such a ruler.

The next ruler: the people draw near to him and praise him.

He governs all under heaven by means of benevolence and righteousness. His kindness is cherished and his achievements are visible, so the people draw near to him and praise him. Though his reputation is good, the manner in which he governs and benefits the people also begins here to divide into degrees of superiority and inferiority.

The ruler below that: the people fear him, and also despise him.

He orders the people through decrees and regulations. The people are not without fear of him, yet once the ruler's power no longer reaches them, they will despise him.

Where the ruler's trustworthiness is insufficient, the people will not trust him.

When the Dao prevailed, benevolence and righteousness were naturally contained within it, and the common people did not perceive them. Only after the Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness come to the fore.

When people do not realize that the Dao alone is sufficient to bring all things to their fulfillment, they resort to cleverness and contrivance to intervene, and so the common people begin to respond with falsehood.

When family relations are discord, filial and compassionate persons come to be noticed; when the state falls into disorder and confusion, loyal ministers come to be noticed.

Chapter 19: Abandon Sageliness, Discard Wisdom

When harmony prevails among the six relations of the family, who would fail to show filial piety and kindness? When the state is at peace, who would fail to become a loyal minister? Yao was not unfilial, yet he alone was praised for Shun, because Shun had a father like Gusou and a younger brother like Xiang. Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal, yet they alone were praised for Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan, because those two encountered rulers like Jie and King Zhou of Shang. Fish stranded in a dried-up pool moisten one another with their damp breath and wet one another with their spittle, which is no better than forgetting one another while swimming in the rivers and lakes.

Abandon the display of sageliness and the cleverness of wisdom, and the common people will benefit a hundredfold.

Sagely wisdom is originally a necessary condition for recognizing the Dao (the Way). If people of sagely wisdom governed the world, would they fail to guide the myriad things in accordance with the Dao? Yet people do not understand the root of sagely wisdom and see only its outward appearance, supposing that sagely wisdom means outdoing the myriad things through cleverness. Thus people compete to chase these secondary branches, and the common people begin to suffer for it. Therefore, when the display of sageliness and cleverness is abandoned, the common people will instead gain a hundredfold.

Abandon the public proclaiming of benevolence and righteousness, and the common people will recover filial piety and kindness.

Those who are truly benevolent do not abandon their kin, and those who truly uphold righteousness do not neglect their ruler. Benevolence and righteousness are originally the very source of filial piety and kindness. But once benevolence and righteousness decline, people steal their reputation to seek worldly advantage, so sons rebel against their fathers and fathers abuse their sons. This arises precisely from clinging to the surface names of benevolence and righteousness. Therefore, when the public proclaiming of benevolent and righteous names is abandoned, the common people will recover filial piety and kindness.

Abandon the fashion of showing off skill and pursuing profit, and there will be no thieves.

Skill is originally meant to make affairs convenient, and profit is originally meant to help the multitude; neither is intended for theft in itself. But once thieves cannot obtain these usable means and gains, they find it difficult to succeed. Therefore, when the fashion of displaying skill and chasing profit is abandoned, thieves will disappear.

These three points may still seem incomplete, so a few more sentences are added to indicate where they belong and how they are to be carried out: reveal the simple original nature, preserve an unadorned heart, reduce selfish intention, and lessen desire.

People esteem sagacity and wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit because they believe the world is unstable, and that this is due to insufficient cultivation through ornamentation and moral instruction. Some therefore place their hope for the peace of the world in sagacity, some in benevolence and righteousness, and others in cleverness and profit, seeking to govern the world through these embellishments and regulations. Yet the world only grows more unstable. Why not return to the root? If people can keep to simplicity and genuineness and reduce private concerns and desires, then everyone under heaven will naturally recover their original nature. At that point, even if sagacity, benevolence and righteousness, and cleverness and profit still existed, they would have no use.

Therefore it is said: "When I practice non-action (wuwei), the people are naturally transformed; when I love stillness, the people naturally become upright; when I do not meddle, the people naturally grow prosperous; when I have no desires, the people naturally return to simplicity." This is precisely the manifestation of sagacity brought to its utmost, of benevolence and righteousness brought to their highest realization, and of cleverness and profit applied most appropriately.

Yet Confucius governed the world with benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Laozi advocated cutting off and discarding them, and so some people conclude that the two masters held different views. The Classic of Changes (Yijing) says: "What is above form is called Dao (the Way); what is within form is called implements." Here "implements" refers to concrete ritual norms, institutions, and methods of instruction.

Confucius, with deep foresight, worried that later generations would find it difficult to grasp the Great Dao, and so he displayed concrete ritual norms that people could follow, concealing the Dao within them. In this way, those of middling or lower capacity could observe the rites without being bewildered by the profound mystery of the Dao, and still become gentlemen who conform to proper standards. Those of middling or higher capacity could, through these norms, further comprehend the Dao.

Laozi was different. Devoted to clarifying the Dao and eager to awaken people's minds, he spoke of the Dao directly and said relatively little about concrete rules. Fearing that those who studied the Dao would know only the rites and institutions and fail to see the Dao itself, he advocated cutting off benevolence and righteousness and discarding ritual and music, in order to make the Dao manifest.

The Great Dao cannot be fully expressed in words; whatever can be spoken is only an approximate appearance of it. The discerning can perceive the real through appearances, while the confused cling to appearances and fall into delusion. Thus later people who clung to Laozi's words used them to disturb the world, whereas those who studied Confucius seldom committed grave errors. Many have come to understand the Dao through Laozi's words, but those who follow Confucius's teaching in seeking the path to the Dao often feel they have no place to begin.

Both sages acted out of necessity, each emphasizing a different aspect. To preserve one side completely is inevitably to leave the other side out.

"Cut off learning and be free of worry" (jué xué wú yōu) means that one who is not led around by the tangled web of learning can be spared from anxiety.

Pursuing learning makes knowledge grow day by day, while cultivating the Dao (Dao) requires gradually diminishing it. If one does not understand the original principle of xingming (nature and life) and only seeks knowledge outwardly through study, continually adding to what one sees and hears, yet cannot penetrate it all with a single fundamental principle, then one will use the standard of the round to obstruct the square and the standard of the straight to obstruct the crooked. The mind becomes utterly confused, and worry follows. Laozi feared that students of learning would arrive at this state, and so he said "cut off learning and be free of worry." The sages did not refuse to learn. Rather, they took the Dao as their foundation. Even without learning, they lacked nothing because of it, and even with broad learning, their minds were not thrown into disorder. Their hearts were open and free of worry, so why would they deliberately cut off learning?

"Wei" (a respectful reply) and "a" (a dismissive reply): how far apart are they? "Shan" (good) and "e" (evil): how much do they differ?

Students who are absorbed in what they have heard, and who cannot penetrate it with the fundamental principle, will regard "wei" and "a" as entirely different, and will regard good and evil, which are opposites, as even more so. Only the sage understands that all things come from one and the same origin, yet appear distinct because of false perception. This is like painted oxen and horses, or carved tigers and leopards, none of which are real things. If one can grasp this, one will not cling to absolute right and wrong, or to sameness and difference, and so one can see how much these things actually differ. Once this principle is understood, all things can grow together without harming one another, the various paths can run side by side without conflict, and one need not be surprised by this.

"What people fear, one must also not fail to hold in reverence."

The sage regards self and others, sameness and difference, as equal, and their mind does not cling to distinctions. Yet this does not mean they look down on the rules of the world or act beyond their proper station and against reason. What people revere, they also revere; what people do, they too continue to do. Though they stand within relationships of ruler and minister, father and son, they also follow the norms of ritual, music, punishment, and government, so that no one in the world can see any difference in them. That they are not bound by external things lies only in the fact that their mind does not cling.

Vast and boundless, it seems to have no end.

People are confined within the scope of what they know, and so they cling to their preconceptions and refuse to step beyond their own boundaries. The sage comprehends both being and non-being, and there is nowhere they cannot enter. Therefore their realm is vast and boundless, impossible to exhaust.

The multitude are jubilant, as if attending a lavish banquet or ascending a terrace on a spring day to admire the scenery. Only I remain tranquil and unassuming, as if I have not yet shown any sign, like an infant who has not yet grown and cannot yet laugh.

People become absorbed in what they love and believe it as delightful as a lavish banquet, as joyful as an outing on a spring terrace. And so they chase after these things noisily, unaware of their delusion. Only the sage sees through these illusions, and when faced with them remains still and unmoved, like an infant who cannot yet laugh.

Following along with the myriad things, it seems they have no fixed resting place.

The sage follows the patterns of the myriad things, does not place themselves at the center, and does not claim anything as their own. Therefore they appear to have no fixed resting place.

The multitude all feel they have more than enough, while I alone seem to lack something.

People hold fast to what they know and each feels it is sufficient. The sage embraces all things yet does not cling to any one of them, and so they are transcendent and at ease. In this way they appear, on the contrary, to be lacking something.

My mind is truly that of a fool, simple and sincere.

What is called "sincere" means appearing dull-witted, though in truth one is not dull-witted.

The worldly appear bright and discerning, while I alone seem obscure. The worldly are shrewd and exacting, while I alone seem substantial and unassuming.

The vulgar world takes discrimination and analysis as cleverness, but the sage knows that the myriad confused thoughts are not worth distinguishing one by one. Therefore, the sage outwardly seems dim and benighted, and inwardly seems gloomy and unclear.

He seems dark and obscure, as quiet as if he had no fixed dwelling.

He appears dim and hard to discern, with no visible boundary. He is so still and leaves so little trace that one cannot tell where he remains.

Everyone has some specialty; only I seem dull and crude.

Each person has talents, so all of the world can be employed. The sage's De (Virtue/Power) is complete, yet he seems to have nothing to display, and therefore he appears dull and crude.

I am different from others; I only cherish and depend on the Mother, like an infant.

The Dao (the Way) is the mother of the myriad things. Ordinary people chase after external things and forget the Dao, while the sage sets aside the myriad things and takes the Dao as his root, just as an infant eats nothing else and relies only on its mother's nurturing.

The form of great De wholly follows the Dao.

The Dao originally has no form. When it operates and manifests as De, it takes on shape. De is therefore the manifestation of the Dao. Extending this outward, the forms that the myriad things present are likewise manifestations of the Dao within them.

This Dao is elusive (huanghu) and hard to grasp. Within the elusiveness there are images, and though it seems indistinct, within it there are real substances.

The Dao cannot simply be described as being or non-being, so it is described as huanghu. Yet when the Dao operates to form images and manifest as concrete things, all of these arise out of this elusive and obscure state.

Within what is deep and dark, there is contained a subtle essence.

When being and non-being are not yet distinct, the Dao is elusive and hard to see. Once being and non-being unite, a deep and subtle state appears. Although no concrete form has yet taken shape, within it there is already a subtle essence.

This subtle essence is very real, and within it lies a trustworthy basis.

When the states of having and not-having are not yet distinct, everything is hazy and obscure, and nothing can be seen. Once having and not-having begin to intermingle, a profound and subtle appearance emerges. Although no concrete form has yet taken shape, a refined essence already exists within it.

This refined essence is genuine and without falsehood, and within it there is a trustworthy basis.

Once the myriad things take concrete form, the real and the false become mixed together. When the refined essence first appears, falsehood has no way to enter. But once the real and the false are mixed, what was one divides into two, two divides into three, and all manner of changes arise in profusion, so that one can no longer be certain of them. When the refined essence first appears, it does not deceive people.

From antiquity to the present, the name of Dao (the Way) has never disappeared, and so it is able to observe the origins of the myriad things.

Though the present differs from the past, Dao has not vanished, so the term "not departed" is used to explain it. Precisely because Dao has never left, it can observe the transformations of the myriad things. "Fu" means fine or beautiful, and even when the myriad things are fine, they cannot escape change.

How do I know the circumstances of the origin of the myriad things? I know them through Dao.

The reason sages are able to know why the myriad things are as they are is that they realize Dao and follow it, never departing from it.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Yielding Preserves Wholeness

Yielding and bending result in preservation.

The sage's conduct always follows the principles of things. Where a principle lies, sometimes straightness is required and sometimes winding, and the key is to let affairs flow through smoothly. Being able to flow through, one does not collide with things, and not colliding, one is preserved.

Being bent results in being straightened.

A straightness that does not accord with principle is not true straightness. By following principle, even one who is bent for a time embodies the true uprightness of the world.

Dwelling in a hollow results in being filled.

The multitude returns to what is low, so one who dwells in a lowly position, even without wishing to be full, will naturally become full.

Being worn and old results in renewal.

To consider oneself clear-sighted about everything is not in accord with Dao. A state that is vague and generous, one that seems about to decline, is precisely the source from which renewal constantly flows.

Taking little results in gaining.

Dao is one. Grasping this One, nothing is left ungained.

Excess results in confusion.

To study much yet be unable to unify it under one fundamental principle leads to bewilderment.

Therefore, the sage holds fast to this fundamental Dao and takes it as the standard for all under heaven.

Having learned much without being able to unify it under one fundamental principle leads to confusion.

Therefore the sage holds fast to the One (the common fundamental principle of all things) and takes it as the standard for all under heaven. To hold fast to the One is to return to one's original nature. Yielding allows one to remain whole, bending allows one to become straight, hollowness allows one to be filled, wornness allows one to be renewed, and taking little allows one to gain. These are all the results of holding fast to the One, which is why this passage concludes with "embracing the One."

Not displaying oneself is why one becomes clear; the eye cannot see itself, and only thus can it see other things clearly. A mirror that does not reflect itself is able to reflect other things. If one fixates on oneself and mirrors oneself, one is too busy attending to oneself to have any spare capacity to see other things clearly.

Not regarding oneself as right is why right and wrong become evident; not boasting is why merit comes to light; not being self-important is why one can endure. Precisely because one does not contend with others, no one under heaven can contend with him.

Not displaying oneself, not regarding oneself as correct, not boasting, and not being self-important are all concrete expressions of non-contention (Bu Zheng), which is why this passage concludes with "non-contention."

When the ancients said that "yielding allows one to remain whole," was this an empty word? It truly preserves everything and allows all things to attain their proper place.

People tend to think that frankness is right and yielding is wrong. Yet if one wishes to act in accordance with the principles of the world, yielding is sometimes unavoidable, which is why this passage concludes with "non-contention."

When the ancients said that "yielding allows one to remain whole," was this an empty word? It truly preserves everything and allows all things to attain their proper place.

People tend to think that frankness is right and yielding is wrong; yet if one acts in accordance with the principles of the world, yielding is sometimes unavoidable. Therefore this chapter's conclusion again asks: was this an empty word? It truly preserves everything and allows all things to attain their proper place. What is meant by preservation is not only preserving oneself. Inwardly, one preserves oneself; outwardly, one also preserves all things, so that both self and all things are preserved and ultimately return to their original nature. Only this is true, expansive uprightness.

Chapter 23: Rare Speech Accords with Nature (Xi Yan Ziran)

Sparing speech is what accords with nature.

Words that arise from nature are concise and hit the mark. If one speaks against one's original nature and forces utterance, speech becomes tangled and ostentatious, and people find it hard to believe. Thus it is said that the Dao, when spoken, is bland and tasteless; when looked at, it cannot be seen; when listened to, it cannot be heard; yet when put to use, it is never exhausted. This is what is meant by "sparing speech."

A violent wind does not blow through an entire morning, and a sudden downpour does not last a whole day. Who makes them so? Heaven and earth do. If the winds and rains of heaven and earth cannot endure for long, how much less can humans?

Yin and yang (the yin qi and yang qi) that harmonize with one another and do not contend bring wind and rain at their proper seasons. They move neither hastily nor slowly, following the force of nature, and they stop only when they have reached their end. If yang qi rises high above while yin qi lies hidden below, and yin and yang are blocked and cannot flow, yin cannot be released, and it turns into violent winds and driving rain that seem about to overwhelm everything. Yet such fierce momentum cannot last even a full day.

The words of the ancient sages were plain and few, and their conduct was simple and unremarkable. They followed nature, and so they could endure without running dry. People sometimes grow weary of such things, finding eloquent debate more pleasing and strange behavior more astonishing, without realizing that these approaches cannot be sustained.

Therefore, one who follows the Dao (the Way) becomes one with the Dao; one who follows De (Virtue/Power) becomes one with De; and one who acts with error also corresponds to error. Those who are one with the Dao are received by the Dao; those who are one with De are received by De; and those who correspond to error are met with the corresponding consequences of that error.

Confucius said, "If one sets the will on benevolence, one will not do evil." Thus, one who sets the will on benevolence, even when at fault, is able to correct it readily. If setting the will on benevolence is already like this, how much more so for one who sets the will on seeking the Dao? So long as one sincerely follows the Dao and one's actions accord with the Dao, one will attain the Dao; and if they accord with De, one will attain De. Even if misfortune brings error, and the matter is not carried out well, one will certainly gain understanding from it and reap the rewards of Dao and De.

Insufficient faith gives rise to disbelief.

Those who do not understand the Dao have unsteady conviction in it. Upon encountering error, they doubt the Dao, and so their disbelief only deepens. Only one who truly understands the Dao will not doubt it because of temporary gain or loss.

Chapter 24 of the Daodejing, "Those who stand on tiptoe do not stand firm" (Kua zhe bu li).

Those who rise onto their toes cannot stand steadily; those who take long strides cannot go far. Those who display themselves do not see clearly; those who regard themselves as right are not made manifest; those who boast of themselves have no merit; and those who are self-important and self-aggrandizing cannot endure.

Chapter Twenty-Five: "You Wu Hun Cheng" (Something Formed in Undifferentiated Unity)

People are all born able to stand and walk. If someone feels standing is not enough and rises onto tiptoe, or feels walking is not enough and takes long strides, they will inevitably lose their steady stance and natural gait. Those who display themselves, consider themselves right, boast of their merits, and exalt themselves are no different.

For the Way (Dao), such practices are like excess food and superfluous flesh on the body.

Eat until you are satisfied, and that is enough; eat too much, and it will instead make you ill. The limbs of the body need only to be whole and sound; extra flesh becomes a burden instead.

People may loathe these superfluous things, so those who embody the Dao do not act this way.

These practices, for the Way (Dao), are like excess food and superfluous flesh on the body.

Eat until you are satisfied, and that is enough; eat too much, and it will instead make you ill. The limbs of the body need only to be whole and sound; extra flesh becomes a burden instead.

People may loathe these superfluous things, so those who embody the Dao do not act this way.

There is a thing formed in undifferentiated unity that existed before Heaven and Earth came into being.

The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low, neither departing nor arriving, neither good nor evil. It is undifferentiated and completes itself naturally. When it is realized in a person, it appears as that person's inherent nature, which is why it is called "a thing formed in undifferentiated unity." Before it arose, no one knew where it came from. It is deep, still, and enduring, and Heaven and Earth were generated within it.

It is silent and without sound, empty and without form. It stands alone and does not change, and it moves without ceasing, so it may serve as the source of all things under Heaven.

It is silent and formless, stands alone, has no equal, and never changes. It moves among the myriad things yet never becomes exhausted. It nourishes and transforms the myriad things, and therefore all things take it as their root.

I do not know its original name, so I call it "Dao." Forcing a name upon it, I call it "Great."

The Dao originally has no name. The sage, seeing that all things are born from it, calls it "Dao"; seeing that nothing can surpass it, reluctantly calls it "Great." Yet in truth, no name is adequate to name it accurately.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Heaviness as the Root of Lightness

When "Great" reaches its utmost limit, it departs from its original position and begins to move. When it moves for a long time, it reaches distant places, and having reached them, it turns back.

If one sets out from "Great" to pursue it, it runs outward and away. If one follows it from the direction of its motion, one finds it beyond reach. Although it moves far and departs far, if one turns back and seeks it inwardly, then so long as one holds fast to a single mind, one can apprehend it.

Therefore, the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the sovereign may all be called "great." Among Heaven and Earth there are four kinds of greatness, and the sovereign occupies one of them. Humans model themselves on Earth, Earth models itself on Heaven, Heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on naturalness (ziran), the state of things as they are of themselves, without artificial contrivance.

From the standpoint of the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the sovereign are still not truly great. Yet people are familiar with the vastness of Heaven, Earth, and the sovereign, and do not believe in the vastness of the Dao. For this reason, Laozi clarified the actual gradations: humans fall short of Earth, Earth falls short of Heaven, Heaven falls short of the Dao, and the Dao falls short of naturalness. Nevertheless, if humans one day restore their original nature, they are sufficient to embody within themselves the greatness of Heaven and Earth, the Dao of Heaven, and naturalness, all three at once.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Heaviness as the Root of Lightness

Heaviness is the root of lightness, and stillness is the master of agitation.

Among all things, the light cannot bear the heavy, and the small cannot steady the large. What does not advance can keep the one who advances secure, and what does not move can restrain the one who stirs. Therefore, lightness must take heaviness as its root, and agitation must take stillness as its master.

Thus, the noble person (junzi) may travel all day without leaving his baggage cart, the vehicle that carries the provisions and supplies for a journey. Even when splendid scenery lies before him, he remains composed in his dwelling and is not drawn away by external things.

One may travel light, yet one must not abandon the baggage cart. Even when splendid scenery delights the eye, there should be a quiet place to rest. This shows that heaviness and stillness must never be lost.

As the ruler of a state of ten thousand chariots, a great state with ten thousand war chariots, how could he treat his own person lightly or govern the realm rashly?

A ruler takes the responsibility of the realm upon his own person. If he acts rashly, he will not be fit to bear the realm.

Rashness loses the reliance of ministers, and agitation loses the dignity proper to a ruler.

Rashness and agitation are unsuitable wherever they are applied. When the ruler is rash, the ministers know he is not worth relying on; when the ministers are agitated, the ruler can see that they are intent on pursuing private gain. Therefore it is said that rashness loses the trust of the ministers, and agitation loses the ruler his position.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Skilled Traveler Leaves No Tracks

A skilled walker leaves no wheel-ruts or footprints.

This means that one proceeds in accordance with principle, and therefore leaves no traces.

A skilled speaker leaves no flaws or openings for fault.

Speaking only at the right moment, one never makes a mistake in speech, even when the words reach everywhere under heaven.

The skilled calculator uses no counters or reckoning tools. When the numbers of all things lie plainly before the eye, one can know them without calculating, so why would one need any instrument?

The skilled walker leaves no wheel ruts or footprints. Because he follows the pattern of things in acting, he leaves no trace.

The skilled speaker makes no verbal faults. Speaking only at the right moment, one never makes a mistake in speech, even when the words reach everywhere under heaven.

The skilled calculator uses no counters or reckoning tools. When the numbers of all things lie plainly before the eye, one can know them without calculating, so why would one need any instrument?

The skilled closer of doors needs no bolt to keep a door from opening, and the skilled tier needs no rope to keep a knot from being untied.

A person of complete De (Virtue/Power) treats all things as a mother treats her children. Even when the children move about freely, they do not leave her, so the door is shut without a bolt and the knot is tied without a rope.

Therefore the sage is always skilled at rescuing people, so no one is abandoned, and is always skilled at rescuing all things, so nothing is discarded.

Those who rely on counters to calculate, bolts to close doors, and ropes to tie knots achieve only limited results. The sage does not merely accept others but also skillfully helps them. "I abandon no one; how could others fail to turn to me?" This is what is called ximing, the passing on of a hidden and concealed clarity.

Rescuing people from danger is not the greatest form of rescue. When people, turning through birth and death, are blinded by external things, the sage transmits his thoroughly clear understanding to them, so that those who were dim become bright like lamplight. This light is handed on from one to another without end, and only this can truly be called skill in saving people.

Thus the good person is the teacher of the not-good person, and the not-good person is the mirror for the good person. If one does not value the teacher or cherish the mirror, then both the good and the not-good lose their meaning.

When the sage teaches, he has no intention of instructing, so he does not treat the learner as an object to be used. When people learn from the sage, they likewise have no intention of studying, so they do not regard the sage as a teacher they must depend upon. The sage not only forgets the world himself but also causes the world to forget him.

To one who has wisdom, the sage's Dao (the Way) appears like a deep and bewildering maze. This is the essential and mysterious quality of it.

Knowing what is hard and strong, yet keeping to the soft and yielding, one becomes like the streams and valleys of the world, receiving the hundred rivers and nourishing all things. Living as a stream or valley does, constant De (Virtue) is not lost, and a person can return to the pure and gentle state of an infant.

Knowing what is bright and visible, yet keeping to the dark and hidden, one becomes a model for all under heaven. Becoming a model for the world, constant De does not appear forceful or overbearing, and a person can return to Wuji (the Limitless), the state without boundaries and beyond name.

Knowing what is glorious, yet keeping to disgrace, one becomes like the valleys of the world, empty and receptive. Living as a valley does, constant De becomes full and sufficient, and at last one returns to Pu (the Uncarved Block), the simple and natural state unshaped by carving.

Here, "keeping" (shou) means consciously holding to the aspects that seem weak, dark, or humiliating. "Stream" (xi) and "valley" (gu) are both metaphors for humble receptivity. The infant, Wuji, and Pu symbolize, respectively, purity, the boundless original state, and the natural nature unadorned by artifice.

"Male and female, first and last: these are different positions that act upon me. White and black, bright and dark: these are different states that act upon me. Glory and humiliation, nobility and lowliness: these are different circumstances that act upon me. To want to occupy the first position and to dislike falling behind, to want brightness and to dislike obscurity, to want nobility and to dislike lowliness: this is the common disposition of people. Yet the influence of first and last upon me is less immediate than that of bright and dark, and the influence of bright and dark is less profound than that of noble and base.

The ancient sage removed illusory attachments and sought to restore original nature. The clearer one's understanding of original nature, the more humble one's bearing becomes; the more humble the bearing, the deeper one's De (Virtue) grows; and the deeper one's De, the more people are drawn to return. Not contending because one does not know any better is inferior to not contending even after one understands the principle, and only the latter is the higher attainment.

To know the strong yet keep to the weak is to understand original nature. Once one understands original nature, the mind of competition comes to rest, and then those in the world who contend for precedence will turn toward such a person, just as streams flow into a valley and never leave it. Even so, this is still like an infant who can endure, yet has not learned to make use of this nature. Therefore it is said that one must "return to the infant," that is, return to the pure and gentle state of an infant.

To know brightness yet keep to darkness is to see original nature. To dwell in darkness and yet see clearly into brightness: no matter how manifest things in the world may be, none can conceal their traces from such a person. Therefore the multitude takes them as a standard. Though they respond to all things, they never depart from that standard, and their application of it is inexhaustible. Therefore it is said that one must "return to the Wuji" (return to the state without limit).

To know glory yet keep to humiliation is to restore original nature. When all illusory attachments have been exhausted, one bears humiliation without resentment; the mind is open and empty like a hollow valley, and when things arrive, one is able to respond to them. Here De is already sufficient, and original nature is pure and free of contamination. Therefore it is said that one must "return to the pu" (return to the uncarved, genuine state).

Once the pu (the uncarved block) is dispersed, it forms the myriad concrete things. When the sage makes use of these things, he becomes the leader of the multitude. Therefore it is said that the truly great governance does not cut things apart or forcibly divide them."

The sage, having returned to simplicity, then divides the uncarved wood into various vessels to meet the needs of the myriad things. This is like a ruler dividing administrative duties and appointing officials: it follows the natural shape of affairs. Although the sage makes things, the sage does not violently cut the whole into pieces.

Chapter 29: Those Who Would Take the World

To seek to take the world and govern it by one's own will, I think, cannot be done.

The sage possesses the world not because the sage seized it, but because the myriad things return to the sage, and the sage accepts it only because there is no alternative. The sage governs the world not by forcing deliberate action but by following the natural condition of the myriad things, removing only what harms them. If one seeks to seize the world by force and act arbitrarily, one cannot succeed.

The world is a spiritual and wondrous whole, and it cannot be manipulated at will. Whoever forces action will ruin it, and whoever insists on holding it will eventually lose it.

None of the myriad things can be arbitrarily manipulated. Even a small group of a hundred people, if one does not follow each one's natural condition and acts recklessly, will have some who clash with one another and refuse to submit, much less the whole world. When affairs are small and people few, one may still take them by strength and control them by cunning; but the world is vast and governed by a wondrous, unseen order. If one does not wait for the myriad things to come of their own accord, they will rebel; if one does not let the world be governed according to its natural course, it will fall into chaos.

The changes of the myriad things are such that some go before and some follow after; some are warmed by heat and some are chilled by blowing wind; some are strengthened by being aided and some are weakened by being diminished; some carry and some are carried. Therefore the sage sets aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Yin and Yang interact and transform: what is high and what is low press upon each other, and the great and the small act upon one another. Some go first and others follow; some warm things and others chill them; some bring increase and vigor, while others cause harm and decline. Some bear up the myriad things and bring them into being, while others revolve and return, bringing them to ruin. All of these are the spontaneous transformations of things, and in the unfolding of circumstances they are unavoidable.

Yet foolish people in the world look only to themselves and strive to grasp what they can gain, even wishing to forcibly oppose these transformations. Doing so brings disaster in the form of either collapse or loss. Only the sage understands that the regularities of things cannot be opposed, and so follows their transformations while also setting aside excess, extravagance, and arrogance, so that things do not develop beyond their proper limits and suffer harm. Then there is no calamity under Heaven. This is the highest state that "not acting rashly" (buwangwei) can reach. When Yao met the great flood and Tang met drought, they could not entirely avoid the disasters, but in the end they were not destroyed by them. The reason lies here.

The Hexagram of Peace (Tai) in the Book of Changes (Yijing) says: "The ruler regulates the course of Heaven and Earth and assists what is fitting to them, and by this governs the people." The lower trigram of the Tai hexagram consists of three yang lines and the upper of three yin lines, an image of security and abundant flourishing. The sage worries that excessive peace will in turn harm the myriad things, and so regulates and assists it, keeping it from going too far. This is what is meant by setting aside excess, extravagance, and arrogance.

Chapter 30: Assisting the Ruler with the Dao

To assist a ruler with the Dao (the Way) means not seeking to dominate the world through military strength, for the calamities that arise from employing arms tend to rebound upon oneself.

The sage uses soldiers only out of necessity. If it is not truly unavoidable, yet one seeks to conquer the world by brute force, then even if one wins for a time, disaster will certainly return to oneself. King Ling of Chu, Duke Min of Qi, the First Emperor of Qin, and Emperor Wu of Han all illustrate this: some lost their lives because of it, and others brought misfortune upon their descendants. What the people resent and the spirits detest, once done, no one can escape the retribution it brings.

Where armies have camped, brambles grow; after great wars, famine must follow.

Because the chaos of war leaves the people no time to farm, the fields go untended. After war, the air of killing is strong, and the harvests are harmed as well. All wars are generally like this, and how much more so when one seeks to dominate the world through force?

Therefore, one who is skilled at using soldiers stops once the aim is achieved, and does not dare to rely on force to display strength.

"Achieving the goal" is a second-rate choice in warfare. When moral transformation cannot pacify and commands cannot make people obey, only then is military force used as a last resort.

Even when military results are achieved, one should not boast of them. This applies to all warfare, let alone to those who rely on force to show off their strength across the world.

Therefore, one who is skilled at warfare seeks only to reach the unavoidable aim and does not dare to use it as a display of strength.

"Achieve the goal but do not boast" means accomplishing one's aim without bragging about it: not taking pride in merit, not growing arrogant or self-satisfied, and using force only when it cannot be avoided. Only then is one not showing off strength.

Not boasting, not taking credit, not becoming arrogant, and using force only when it cannot be avoided: these four points together make up "not showing off strength."

When a thing reaches the peak of its vigor, it ages. This is called being contrary to the Dao, and whatever is contrary to the Dao soon perishes.

Once something has grown strong, it must age, and no creature is an exception. Only a person who embodies the Dao, though accomplished, seems to lack something, and though full, seems still empty. Never relying on strength, such a person therefore does not move toward decline and death. One who wields force to show off across the world, reaching the peak of strength, how could such a person avoid aging?

Chapter 30, "Fine Weapons"

Fine weapons are ill-omened instruments. The myriad creatures generally loathe them, so one who possesses the Dao does not regard them as ordinary tools.

To use weapons to quell disasters and subdue the world is already a state of extreme strength. How could it avoid leading to decline?

Chapter 30, "Fine Weapons"

Fine weapons are ill-omened instruments. The myriad creatures generally loathe them, so one who possesses the Dao does not regard them as ordinary tools.

Using weapons only when calamities must be quelled, and not treating them as a routine means, is what is meant by "not regarding them as ordinary."

The gentleman normally honors the left, but in warfare he honors the right. Weapons are ill-omened instruments and not things the gentleman favors. When forced to use them, one should regard calm and detachment as supreme. Even after winning a battle, one should not consider it cause for celebration. To take victory as glorious is to take pleasure in killing, and one who takes pleasure in killing cannot truly achieve his ambitions across the world.

Auspicious affairs honor the left, and funeral affairs honor the right. The deputy general is stationed on the left and the commander-in-chief on the right, which means that war is to be treated according to the rites of mourning. When many have been killed, one should weep with grief, and even after a victory, one should treat it with the rites of mourning.

Chapter 32, "The Dao Is Forever Nameless"

The Dao has no fixed name forever. The uncarved block, the original simplicity of pu, appears small and insignificant, yet the world dares not treat it as a subject. If kings and lords are able to hold fast to the Dao, the myriad creatures will naturally submit to them.

"Pu" (the Uncarved Block) is the original nature of human beings. The Dao is constant and nameless, so original nature cannot be fixed by a name. As the root of all things, the Dao is present everywhere when it expands, and when it contracts it is so small that not even a single hair can fill it. Therefore, though it is minute, it cannot be dominated. If common people can preserve it, then even dust, dirt, husks, and chaff, such humble things, are enough to produce sages like Yao and Shun. If kings and lords cannot preserve it, the myriad things will not come to them.

Where the Qi of heaven and earth join, sweet dew descends. No one commands it to fall, yet it naturally and evenly moistens the myriad things.

Between heaven and earth, the harmonious Qi (the Qi of balance and blending) rises and falls in circulation, joining into one, and sweet dew descends with it, spreading over the myriad things so that nothing fails to be moistened. The sage embodies the great Dao in his own person to respond to the affairs of the world. Like sweet dew, he leaves nothing out, and therefore the myriad things come to him.

When things begin to be made, names arise to match them. Once names have arisen, one should know when to stop. Only by stopping at the proper point does one avoid danger.

The sage unfolds the undivided pu and forms various vessels, and on that basis establishes names. But he does not chase after names, forgetting original nature and abandoning the root for the branches. Rather, he knows how to return to original nature, and therefore he can respond to myriad changes without falling into danger.

The situation of the Dao in the world is like the relation between rivers and seas, and between streams and valleys.

Rivers and seas are where waters gather, and streams and valleys are where waters flow divided and pass through. The Dao is the root of the myriad things, and the myriad things are the tips that the Dao manifests. They are of the same water, so the waters of streams and valleys return to rivers and seas. They share the same origin in the Dao, so the myriad things return to their root.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Knowing Others Is Wisdom

To know others is to be clever; to know oneself is to be truly enlightened.

Distinguishing things and making judgments belongs to "zhi" (wisdom). Removing obscurations and seeing one's nature clearly is called "ming" (clarity). As long as the discriminating mind has not been dissolved, one can only know others and cannot truly know oneself. When all obscurations are gone and one no longer clings to distinctions, one can know oneself, and this clarity can also be used to understand others.

To overcome others is to have strength; to conquer oneself is to be truly strong.

Able to overcome others is strength; able to overcome oneself and restore one's original nature is not something accomplished by force alone, and therefore it is true strength.

Those who are content are rich.

Whatever a person encounters, if they can feel satisfied, they will never lack wealth. Even one who possesses all under heaven, if their heart always feels that it is not enough, will never experience true abundance for their whole life.

Those who persevere and act with resolve have ambition.

They do not compete with external things for superiority, yet they continually strive to improve themselves, so external things cannot take away their aspirations.

Those who do not lose their foundation endure.

Though all things change without end, when the heart never loses its root, such a person can endure.

Those whose spirit and original nature do not perish when the body dies are truly long-lived.

Death and birth are great transformations, yet human nature is pure, profound, and does not perish. The ancient Zhiren (Perfected Persons, those whose cultivation reached the highest attainment) were therefore able to transcend life and death.

The Great Dao Flows Everywhere, Pervading All Things (Chapter 34)

The Great Dao (the fundamental law by which all things operate) flows widely, present everywhere, to left and right, above and below.

It holds to no partiality and there is no place where it cannot adapt, so it circulates throughout heaven and earth, reaching every place.

All things rely on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao does not refuse them; when all things are accomplished, the Dao does not claim their merit as its own.

Among the world's things, there are those who nurture all beings without refusing, yet often speak of the merit as their own; there are also those who shun all beings and refuse to possess anything, and as a result cease to nurture them. Only the Dao nurtures all things without refusing, and accomplishes them without claiming them as its own.

The Dao loves and nourishes all things, yet does not act as their master; it is constantly without desire, and so may be called "small." All things return to it, yet it does not act as their master, and so may also be called "great." Therefore, the sage never regards himself as great, and in this way achieves true greatness.

Those who consider themselves great and cling to a reputation for greatness instead appear insignificant.

Holding to the Image of the Dao, and the World Turns to It (Chapter 35)

Holding fast to the "Great Image" (the whole form of the Dao, formless and encompassing all things), the world will turn to it.

The Dao does not fall on the side of either form or formlessness, and so it is called the "Great Image." If it manifests a clear shape, there will be distinctions of sameness and difference: what is the same, people like; what is different, people dislike. What is liked draws people in, and what is disliked drives them away, and this is not enough to make the whole world turn toward it.

Where there are likes and dislikes, there will be corresponding gains and harms. Once the mind of likes and dislikes is exhausted, nothing among the myriad things can cause harm. Therefore, one who has reached this state is at peace, harmonious, and composed wherever they may be.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop in their tracks. The Dao (the Way), when spoken, is bland and tasteless. Looked at, it cannot be seen; listened to, it cannot be heard; yet its functioning is never exhausted.

Should one strike up music and set out fine food to entertain guests, would this not make travelers stay? Yet when the music ends and the food is consumed, they gather their belongings and leave. If one can hold fast to the Da Xiang (Great Image), the fundamental principle of the formless Dao, in governing all under heaven, then people under heaven neither know how to love it, much less how to dislike it. Though it has no scent, form, or sound to please people, its functioning is inexhaustible.

Chapter Thirty-Six: When One Wishes to Contract It

If one wishes to contract something, one must first let it expand. If one wishes to weaken something, one must first let it grow strong. If one wishes to abolish something, one must first let it flourish. If one wishes to seize something, one must first give to it. This is called Wei Ming (subtle insight), the clarity that manifests from what is minute.

To seize without first having given is to act before the situation has reached its extreme, and the principle is not yet complete. If the situation has not reached its extreme, it is difficult to attain what one seeks; if the principle is not complete, things will not submit. Yet this approach already borders on the use of strategic cunning. How is it different from Guan Zhong or Sun Wu? The sage and the worldly person may appear alike in their methods: the sage follows the patterns of things, while the worldly person employs calculation. Following the patterns of things is like a physician who excels at prescribing according to the illness; employing calculation is like a merchant who excels at seeking profitable opportunities.

The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong.

The sage understands that relying on strength alone is unreliable, and so keeps to softness and yielding. Among the world's hard and forceful people, there is constant strife and rivalry, while I alone respond with softness. When the strong are wounded and the weak perish, I still do not contend with them but remain at ease in my own place. Such non-contention, paradoxically, is what brings victory. Yet the sage does not do this deliberately in order to defeat others. They simply understand that this is how circumstances truly are, and so follow what is natural.

Fish cannot leave deep water, and a state's sharp instruments must not be readily displayed to others.

Fish have no sharp claws or fangs and cannot subdue other things through force. Yet while they remain in deep water, even the strongest person cannot catch them. Once they leave the abyss and reach dry land, they become merely clumsy and useless fish, able to do nothing at all. When the sage keeps to softness, the strong cannot harm them. Not only can they not be harmed, but they are also able to restrain their opponent first, so that the opponent's later actions become constrained. Is this not also a kind of sharp instrument of the world?

Only when a fish leaves deep water can it be subdued. The sage dwells constantly in softness without tiring of it, and therefore is ultimately able to bring the world into submission. Is this principle something everyone can share in grasping?

The Way (Dao) follows what is natural and does not act with deliberate intent, yet nothing fails to be accomplished.

If lords and kings are able to hold fast to this principle, the myriad things will transform of their own accord. If, within that transformation, desires and reckless movements arise, I will settle them with the nameless and simple Dao.

The Sage teaches the myriad things through the non-acting Way (Wuwei, non-action), and the myriad things transform in response. The transformation begins with non-action but gradually develops into deliberate doing, just as an infant grows up and the affectations and artifice of the human heart increase day by day. By the decline of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, changes in human feeling had become increasingly severe. When people first begin to act deliberately, if those in high positions are also swayed, the people of the realm will all follow them, and the changes will become too numerous to describe. If one remains unmoved when people first begin to act, and always settles them with the nameless simplicity (pu, the uncarved state, the original condition untouched by human adornment), perhaps these changes can be brought to an end.

Nameless simplicity itself has no desires. If people do not pursue things recklessly, their hearts become tranquil, and the realm naturally returns to the correct Way (Dao).

The Sage holds no deliberate intention to guard simplicity within, and displays no practice of preserving simplicity without. For this reason simplicity remains whole, and the functioning of the Dao is vast. If one still harbors a deliberate intention to seek simplicity in the heart, one is already far from simplicity.

End of Volume Two of the Commentary on the Daodejing (Dao De Zhen Jing Zhu).

Collation note: some phrases in the original text differ from the later Baoyan edition. Here the characters have been changed to follow the Baoyan edition.

Commentary on the Daodejing, Volume Three

Commentary by Su Zhe of Meishan

Chapter 38: The Highest De Is Not De (Shangde Bude)

The highest De (Virtue/Power) does not claim to be virtuous, and so it truly possesses De. Lesser De strives to keep from losing its De, and for this very reason it does not count as true De.

The Sage acts according to his heart yet does not overstep the rules. This is not a deliberate pursuit of De; it is that De is naturally complete. Those of a lesser grade know that De is precious and so exert themselves by force in order not to lose it. This is merely forcing oneself to hold on, so how could it be called true De?

The highest benevolent De acts in accordance with what is natural and has no purpose of deliberate doing. Lesser De, by contrast, acts deliberately, and does so with a clear aim.

Ren and yi both cannot avoid deliberate effort, though the two differ in character: ren takes not acting deliberately as its strength, while yi takes purposeful action and visible accomplishment as its merit. Among the grades of De (Virtue), why do ren and yi form only an upper tier with no lower tier? Because the so-called "lower De" (xia de) lies between ren and yi; anything below ren and yi is not worth discussing further.

Those who esteem ritual (li) deliberately promote ritual observances, and if others do not respond, they roll up their sleeves and compel compliance.

To descend from De to li is the limit of what the sage's methods for ordering the common people can achieve. Therefore, when the promotion of ritual meets no response, it develops into coercion of the people; when coercion still proves ineffective, punishments arise, and war follows. Such efforts are merely toilsome, with no benefit.

Thus, only after the Dao is lost does De appear; only after De is lost does ren appear; only after ren is lost does yi appear; and only after yi is lost does li appear. Li arises when loyalty and trustworthiness (zhong xin) have thinned, and it is the beginning of chaos.

If a person possesses loyalty and trustworthiness but lacks ritual forms, these qualities are not easily made manifest; once ritual is established, the beauty of loyalty and trustworthiness can appear outwardly. Between ruler and minister, between father and son, and in the dealings of husband and wife or friends, outward ceremonial observances may appear orderly and distinct, while inward feeling may have little room left. Therefore, when one follows the demands of ritual, society can be governed; when one violates ritual, society falls into disorder. Order and disorder lie very close, separated by barely a thread, and so it is said that ritual is the beginning of chaos.

To infer things through foreknowledge is the ornamental surface of the Dao, and it is the beginning of ignorance.

The sage observes the myriad things with a deep, tranquil mind, so that right and wrong, gain and loss, all appear before him as a mirror reflects form, with nothing left unseen. For the sage, what difference could there be between before and after? Ordinary people, however, rely only on eyes to see, ears to hear, and minds to think; they grope their way among the myriad things, exhaust their wits in seeking knowledge, and when they happen to discover something, they consider themselves clever, not realizing that ignorance begins precisely in this self-satisfied certainty.

The Chapter on Those Who Attained the Dao in Antiquity (Chapter 39)

Therefore, the truly virtuous great man (dazhangfu) establishes himself in substance and sincerity and does not pursue superficiality. He values inner authenticity and does not indulge in outward ornament. Thus he gives up the former and chooses the latter.

Shallow people in the world are content with what lies immediately before them, base and lowly, and forget the more fundamental and lofty principles. They therefore love the superficial and abandon the substantial, chase after ornament and discard authenticity. If one were not a great man, who could give up the former and choose the latter?

In antiquity, all things attained the One (yi), which is the Dao (the Way) that unifies all things. Heaven attained the Dao and became clear; Earth attained the Dao and became stable; the spirit (shen) attained the Dao and became efficacious; the valleys attained the Dao and became full; the myriad creatures attained the Dao and came to life; and the feudal lords and kings attained the Dao and became the rightful rulers of the realm.

"The One" is the Dao. The reason all things can be the things they are is that they possess the Dao. People in the world see the myriad things but forget the Dao. They know only that Heaven is clear, Earth is stable, spirits are efficacious, valleys are full, things grow, and lords and kings become the rightful rulers of the realm, but they do not know that what makes all of this possible is the Dao.

If the Dao were lost, Heaven might crack, Earth might quake, the efficacy of the spirits might vanish, the valleys might run dry, the myriad things might perish, and the lords and kings might fall from their noble station.

"Reaching this point" means that matters have developed to their extreme. If Heaven lost the Dao, it would not crack immediately; if Earth lost the Dao, it would not quake at once; if the spirits, valleys, myriad things, and lords and kings lost the Dao, they would not immediately decline or perish. But when things are carried to an extreme, they will inevitably arrive at this state in the end.

Therefore, the noble takes the lowly as its root, and the high takes the low as its foundation.

Returning Is the Movement of the Dao (Chapter 40)

The vastness of Heaven and Earth and the nobility of marquises and kings are all governed by the One (Dao). What, then, is this One? It cannot be seen or grasped, and so it is also the most minute and lowly thing under Heaven. This is what is meant by lowliness and humility.

Thus, when marquises and kings call themselves "orphan," "widower," and "unworthy" (all terms of self-abasement), is this not taking lowliness as the foundation? Is it not so?

The ancients called themselves by these names, raising up the root while overlooking the surface.

Thus, if one takes apart the parts of a cart and counts them, there is no longer a "cart" as a whole. One should not be dazzling like fine jade, nor prominent and aloof like stone.

A cart is assembled from the wheels, spokes, canopy, yoke-bar, yoke, and hub. Each component can be counted separately, yet the "cart" cannot be counted as a single independent object. From this we know that the cart's function arises from the combination of its parts, and also from the empty space not occupied by any one of them. This is what is meant by the function of "non-being" (wu). Since this is so, do Heaven and Earth become Heaven and Earth merely through their vastness? Do marquises and kings become marquises and kings merely through their nobility? Within vastness and nobility there is the One. Heaven and Earth and the marquises and kings are able to stand precisely because of this Dao, though people fail to notice it. Therefore the One occupies the position of nobility without regarding itself as noble, and occupies the position of lowliness without being made lowly by it. It is not like jade, dazzling and precious yet unable to be humble, nor like stone, aloof and prominent yet unable to be exalted.

Returning is the way the Dao moves.

Returning to one's original nature leads to stillness. Yet the Dao is quiet and unmoving; once it responds to stimulus, it can penetrate the patterns of all things under Heaven. Movement arises from this.

Softness and weakness are the means by which the Dao functions.

The Dao has no form and no sound, and nothing under Heaven is more yielding than the Dao; yet nothing under Heaven is more strong. For this reason, the Dao is able to employ all things.

All things under Heaven are born from being (you), and being is born from non-being (wu).

People do not understand that stillness can be the source of movement, or that softness can achieve strength. Therefore this passage explains where all things come from. People know that a mother can govern her children, yet seldom consider that children can also govern their mother. Likewise, since all things arise from non-being, one should understand that non-being is the root of all things.

Those of superior capacity, on hearing the Dao (the Way), diligently practice it. Those of middling capacity hear it and sometimes remember, sometimes forget. Those of inferior capacity hear it and burst out laughing. If such people did not ridicule it, it would not be enough to be called the Dao.

The Dao has no form, so it cannot be seen, and no sound, so it cannot be heard. If one does not first understand that all things are illusory, and does not attain an open, unobstructed mind and a genuine awakening, one will inevitably fail to believe in the Dao. Thus, those of inferior capacity, on hearing of the Dao, find it absurd and remote, and so they laugh. Those of middling capacity take up the teaching with an attitude that comes and goes, and they harbor doubts. Only those who truly understand the Dao practice it with diligence, hold it in their hearts, and never grow lax. Confucius said, "Of those who hear my discourse on the Dao and do not grow lax, perhaps only Yan Hui?" Such a person is precisely what is meant here by one of superior capacity.

The ancients had words to this effect, which Laozi quoted as follows:

The bright Dao appears dim. It illuminates all things, yet it does so without deliberate scrutiny.

The advancing Dao appears to retreat. It seems to stand still, yet nothing is swifter than it.

The level Dao appears uneven. Wherever it reaches, it becomes naturally even, not by planing away obstacles.

The highest De (Virtue/Power) appears like an empty valley. One who possesses great De does not regard himself as virtuous.

The purest white appears sullied. If one insists on whiteness and refuses any contact with dirt, one becomes a rigid, self-regarding person, not the state of a sage.

Expansive De appears insufficient. If one considers oneself already vast and makes no further effort to advance, then one is not truly expansive.

Establishing De appears slack. By following the natural course of things and not deliberately erecting anything, one's outward appearance seems loose and idle, yet in truth one is establishing the De of the sage.

The greatest extent that cannot be expanded any further is where it stops, and this is not true greatness.

A person of profound virtue (De) seems idle and non-acting.

Following the natural inclinations of all things, without deliberately setting anything up, they appear lax on the outside, yet in truth they are perfecting their virtue.

Their essential nature is pure and genuine, yet they seem to have changed.

One who preserves their original nature, nurtures their spirit, and changes as the myriad things change, yet does not lose their authenticity, may outwardly appear transformed.

The most square thing has no corners.

True and complete squareness does not deliberately reveal fine corners.

The greatest vessels are often the slowest to complete.

The larger a vessel, the harder it is to make quickly, and it cannot be put to use right away.

The greatest sound cannot be heard.

It is not a sound that the ears can perceive.

The greatest image has no fixed form.

It is not an image that the eyes can see.

The Dao (Dào) is hidden and nameless. Only the Dao is skilled at giving to the myriad things and helping them fulfill themselves.

Wherever the Dao reaches, its function manifests. The twelve statements above are all manifestations of the Dao within concrete things; the Dao as a whole, however, remains hidden and nameless. The Dao always accords with whatever it encounters, giving what is in excess to what is lacking, so that the myriad things rely on it and are thereby accomplished.

Chapter 42: The Dao Generates the One

The Dao generates One, One generates Two, Two generates Three, and Three generates the myriad things. The myriad things turn their backs to yin and face toward yang, and the two Qi of yin and yang (yīnyáng) agitate and interact with one another, forming a harmonious state.

The Dao originally is neither One nor Two. Only when it stands opposite the myriad things does it become One, and since the myriad things differ from one another, "One" is used to name the Dao. But the Dao itself is not merely a particular "One." When "One" stands against another "One," it becomes "Two"; when "Two" is joined by "One," it becomes "Three." From this point on, the myriad things are constantly produced. Though the myriad things are diverse, they all turn their backs to yin and face yang, and through the interaction of the yin and yang Qi they reach harmony. This is because the myriad things arise from "Three," "Three" originates from "One," and the principle behind this is naturally so.

The appellations that people despise are nothing other than "orphaned" (gū), "widowed" (guǎ), and "unworthy" (bùgǔ), yet kings and dukes use these very terms to refer to themselves.

People in the world do not understand where the myriad things come from. They tend to look down on the few and the small, and to esteem the many and the great. Yet the noble kings and dukes instead call themselves "orphaned," "widowed," and "unworthy" (humble titles used by ancient rulers), which shows that the ancients who thoroughly understood the principles of things had long grasped this.

The world commonly holds that softness and weakness bring loss, while force and domineering bring gain, but this is not so. For this reason, I want to teach the world this principle. Have you not seen that those who act with domineering force and reckless willfulness often do not meet a good end? "Qiangliang" refers to the strong and overbearing, those who act recklessly and willfully to the extreme. If people understand that the domineering and the reckless are bound to die, they will see that reckless conduct is not to be pursued. Once this is understood, one can then speak of the Way (Dao). Therefore, I take this principle as the foundation of my teaching.

The Softest Things Under Heaven (Chapter 43)

The softest things under heaven can pass through the hardest things under heaven. That which has no form and no substance can enter where there is no gap. From this I know that non-action (wuwei) is beneficial.

To meet hardness with hardness is to be either broken or shattered. To meet hardness with softness, the soft thing is not worn away by it, and the hard thing is not harmed by it. Observing concrete things, water is like this. When a material object enters another material object, they resist each other and cannot coexist. But when something formless enters a material object, the formless thing exerts no effort, and the material object is not aware of it. Observing concrete things, spirits and ghosts are also like this. Therefore, when the sage is able to practice non-action, they can command all the great forces and move freely among the myriad things.

Few people under heaven can attain the benefits of teaching without words and of following the natural course through non-action.

Fame and Life (Chapter 44)

Which is closer to us, fame or life? Which is more precious, life or possessions?

To place life before fame, to value life and to despise possessions, still does not amount to true selflessness. One who is truly selfless does not cling even to their own body, let alone fame and possessions. Yet to govern the world by the nobility of one's own self is not the same as selflessness.

Chapter 45: The Great Accomplishment Seems Deficient

Fame and possessions matter more than the body. Although one has already recognized the principle of "valuing the body and despising possessions," one has not yet truly forgotten the self. One who truly forgets the self does not regard even the body as their own, let alone fame and wealth. Yet to serve all under heaven with oneself, one can do so only by forgetting the self. Therefore, one must first help people understand that fame is not worth pursuing and possessions are not worth accumulating in excess, and then teach them to cherish the body. Only after cherishing the body can they go further and understand forgetting the self. This is what Laozi meant.

Which is more troubling, gaining or losing? Before one has gained, one regards loss as a source of anxiety. Once one has gained, one fears losing what one has, and this anxiety weighs more heavily than the loss itself. Only when one regards existence and non-existence, gain and loss, as equally ordinary can one avoid being troubled by such worries.

Therefore, excessive craving necessarily brings great expenditure, and hoarding too much necessarily invites heavy losses.

Loving something too deeply, one will do almost anything to obtain it, and how could such a person avoid paying a great price? The more one hoards, the more people covet what one has, and how could there be no loss?

Knowing contentment, one will not be disgraced. Knowing when to stop, one will not fall into danger. Only in this way can one endure for a long time.

Chapter 45: The Great Accomplishment Seems Deficient

True great accomplishment appears to be lacking, yet its function never wears out. True great fullness appears empty, yet its function never runs dry.

People think that only what is without flaw is complete, so whatever seeks completeness will eventually decline. They think that only what has no gaps is full, so whatever seeks fullness will eventually be exhausted. The sage pursues true completeness and does not mind apparent deficiency, and pursues true fullness without rejecting apparent emptiness. Therefore, accomplishment does not decay, and fullness does not run out.

The greatest straightness appears crooked, the highest skill appears clumsy, and the best eloquence appears halting.

Insisting on straightness and refusing to bend, one easily breaks. Following the logic of things, even a winding path remains upright in truth. Showing off skill and refusing to appear clumsy, one only wastes effort in vain. Conforming to things as they naturally are, one appears clumsy yet is in fact skillful. In debate, refusing ever to pause and asserting oneself at every turn, one easily runs out of words. Following reason, and sometimes yielding for a moment, one appears slow yet in fact explains the principle more clearly.

Acting with mere outward directness tends to break things, while acting in accordance with the principles of things, even if the path seems roundabout, will ultimately lead one straight. Pursuing only cleverness and refusing to appear clumsy only adds to one's exhaustion, while conforming to things as they naturally are, even if they appear clumsy, will be just right. Relying only on eloquence to argue and refusing to appear slow of speech tends to lead one into difficulty, while speaking according to principle, even if one seems inarticulate, will make matters clear.

Hastiness can ward off cold, and stillness can dispel heat. Only pure stillness and non-action (Wuwei) are the standards the world should follow.

Striving to complete everything without any flaw may backfire. Pursuing abundance without leaving any margin tends to overflow. Being direct without allowing any turning, being clever without allowing any plainness, and being eloquent in argument without allowing any silence are like hastiness being unable to become still, and stillness being unable to become hasty: each is fixated on one extreme. Hastiness can ward off cold but cannot dispel heat; stillness can dispel heat but cannot ward off cold. Each is limited to its own aspect and is not a state that accords with the fundamental Dao (the Way). Only by being calm and detached, not clinging to any one extreme, and not attaching to completion or incompleteness, fullness or overflow, straightness or bending, cleverness or clumsiness, eloquence or slowness, can one respond to all situations and become the standard for the world.

Chapter 46: When the Dao Prevails in the World

When the world is well governed and in accord with the Dao (the Way), war horses are retired to till the fields and fertilize the soil.

When everyone in the world keeps to their proper station, there is no strife, and the state governs itself. Therefore the war horses can be retired to work the fields.

When the world is in disorder and has turned away from the Dao, war horses breed on the outskirts of the capital, ready at any moment for battle. The greatest crime is nothing other than provoking human desire; the greatest calamity is nothing other than not knowing contentment; the greatest fault is nothing other than the mind's desire to obtain more.

Displaying things that provoke craving naturally invites transgression. Being unsatisfied with what one already has brings a greater calamity. Wanting to obtain everything produces the greatest fault. If ordinary people succumb to even one of these, disaster may befall them; if feudal lords and rulers act in this way, war will arise from it.

Therefore, one who knows how to be satisfied with what they already have will always feel content.

One who is contented feels that whatever they encounter is enough, and so never feels lacking.

Chapter 47: Not Venturing Beyond the Door

Without going out the door, one can know the whole world; without peering out the window, one can perceive the Dao of Heaven (the regular patterns by which heaven and earth operate). The farther one travels from the outside world, the less one may actually come to know.

Chapter 48: The Daily Increase of Learning (Wéi Xué Rì Yì)

Human original nature is vast and boundless, filling the entire cosmos and unconstrained by distance or by past and present. The ancient sages could know all things without leaving their doors, simply because they kept their original nature whole. Ordinary people, however, are blinded by external things. Their original nature is confined to what the eyes and ears can reach, their hearts are held captive by the turmoil of body and mind, and outwardly they are blocked by mountains and rivers. They cannot perceive beyond the range of their gaze, nor hear beyond the reach of their ears. Even a narrow barrier such as a door or window is enough to cut off their perception. Ordinary people do not understand that the sage needs only to restore original nature to be sufficient. Instead, they want to go out and seek outside themselves, so the farther they chase, the less they gain.

Therefore, the sage knows without traveling, recognizes things without seeing them directly, and accomplishes affairs without deliberate effort.

What original nature can reach is not merely knowing and recognizing. The sage can also follow the inherent patterns of things, accomplishing affairs effortlessly.

In learning, knowledge increases daily.

One who does not know the Great Dao (the Way, the fundamental pattern underlying all things) but pursues learning blindly will hear and see more and more, yet cannot integrate these into a unified understanding. Such a person is still an ordinary learner. Confucius said: "Listen widely and choose what is good to follow; observe widely and record what you have seen." Although this broadens one's knowledge, it is only a second-rate kind of understanding.

In pursuing the Dao, selfish desires and deluded thoughts decrease daily.

If one day one truly comprehends the Great Dao and then looks back upon the myriad things, one will find that none of them is not illusory. Only by removing these illusions can one restore original nature, and original nature is in fact not complicated. Confucius once asked his disciple Zigong: "Do you think I have learned so much and remembered it all in order to understand the Dao?" Zigong replied: "Is that not so?" Confucius said: "No. I thread everything together with one fundamental principle."

Continually diminish, diminishing again and again, until reaching wuwei (non-action). Once one reaches non-action, nothing cannot be accomplished.

Restoring one's original nature by removing deluded thoughts can be called subtraction. But if the mind still holds the thought "I must remove deluded thoughts," one has not truly let go. Only when even this thought is forgotten, and the original nature is pure without remainder, can one respond to all things naturally without violating the way of wuwei (non-action).

Governing the world should ordinarily avoid creating disturbances. If one constantly stirs up affairs and acts everywhere, this will in fact be insufficient for governing the world.

Everyone has a mind that wishes to command all under heaven, and so they keep creating disturbances to pursue this goal. Revealing their intentions, external things will dislike and reject them, and so in the end they cannot succeed. The sage follows the Dao (the Way) and practices wuwei, and therefore does not create disturbances. He does not reveal his private intentions, and so the myriad things can calmly accept him. Such a person does not deliberately compete for the world, yet the world turns to him.

The sage has no fixed preconceptions, and takes the hearts of the common people as his own heart. Those who are good, he treats with goodness; those who are not good, he also treats with goodness, and in this way he achieves a generous virtue (De). Those who keep their word, he trusts; those who do not keep their word, he also trusts, and in this way he achieves a sincere virtue.

Emptiness originally has no fixed shape, yet it takes on the shapes of things: when an object is square, the empty space is square; when an object is round, the empty space is round. If emptiness itself had a fixed shape, how could it contain and reveal the shapes of all things?

Therefore, the sage has no fixed preconceptions, but establishes his mind by following the wishes of the common people. Whether they are good or not, he treats them with goodness; whether they keep their word or not, he treats them with trust. Whether the other person is good or trustworthy is the other's circumstance; the sage's attitude of treating others with goodness remains constant, and this is profound virtue. His attitude of treating others with trust remains constant, and this is profound sincerity. Otherwise, if one drew near only to the good and abandoned the not-good, trusted only the trustworthy and distrusted the untrustworthy, how could one be said to be always skilled at helping people and to abandon no one?

The sage, dwelling among the people of the world, always uses a calm and generous manner to bring their hearts back to primordial simplicity (hunpu). The common people closely watch his words and deeds, yet the sage regards them as children.

People in the world each judge what is good or bad, true or false, and they blame and harm one another without knowing what standard to rely on. The sage is troubled by this, so he does his utmost to return people's hearts to primordial simplicity, no longer distinguishing good from bad or true from false, but treating everything with equal regard. When people watch closely to see how he rewards and punishes, he treats them as an infant is treated: he does not favor them for good deeds, nor does he hate them for wrongdoing. Therefore, those who do good do not become self-satisfied, and those who do wrong do not harbor resentment. As people gradually let go of their distinctions, the world can at last be at peace.

Chapter Fifty: Coming Forth into Life and Entering Death

Life is the manifestation of emergence from the Dao (the Way); death is the return to the Dao. The original nature of a person has no inherent distinction of life and death: to appear is to live, and to return into it is to die.

Those who accord with the Way of life are three in ten; those who move toward the Way of death are also three in ten. The remaining three in ten are people who, though they are alive, bring themselves to a place of death through their own doings.

To know how to draw on the essence of external things in order to nourish oneself is the Way that accords with life; to indulge in sound, color, scent, and flavor, thereby harming oneself, is the Way that tends toward death. These two modes of conduct already mark the different paths of life and death. Beyond these, I also know of a kind of person who knows only to labor and not to rest, knows only to speak and not to be silent, knows only to think and not to let go, and thus constantly exhausts himself. These are people who, by acting, move toward a place of death.

If we divide the Way of life and death into ten parts, the three categories above each take up three parts. Then the Way of life and death occupies nine parts. Is there, then, one part belonging to the Way of neither life nor death? What is called neither life nor death is what the Yi (Book of Changes) describes as "still and unmoving" (jiran budong), a state of quiet non-action in which one is not stirred by external things. Laozi spoke of the nine parts but did not state this one, leaving the reader to personally realize the subtle state of thoughtlessness and non-doing within it.

Why is this so? Because people place too much value on nourishing life and are excessively attached to it.

What has life must also have death, so one who pursues life is also pursuing death. The more a person depends on life and clings to it, the closer that person comes to the road of death.

I have heard that one who is skilled at preserving life will not meet rhinoceros or tiger when walking on land, and will not be harmed by weapons when entering the army's ranks. The rhinoceros has no place to use its horn, the tiger has no place to use its claws, and weapons have no place to lodge their blades. Why is this? Because such a person does not place themselves in a land of death.

The perfected person (zhiren, one who has reached a profound state) always abides in a condition that clings neither to life nor to death. If there is no circumstance of life to begin with, then where could there be a circumstance of death?

Chapter 51: Dao Gives Birth (Dao Sheng Zhi Zhang)

Dao gives birth to and nourishes the myriad things, and De (the nourishing and perfecting function of Dao within the myriad things) cultivates them. Each of the myriad things takes on its own form, and circumstances and conditions cause them to grow and reach completion.

Dao is the source of the myriad things, so the myriad things are born from Dao. When Dao operates, it manifests as De, which nourishes the myriad things without ever tiring, so the myriad things are cultivated by De. Yet Dao and De cannot themselves show form; they must rely on the myriad things in order to appear. Nor can the myriad things accomplish anything on their own. Near and far act upon one another, and firm and yielding respond to each other, gathering into definite configurations, and it is through these that changes such as rise and fall, order and disorder, come about.

For this reason, there is nothing among the myriad things that does not honor Dao and value De.

Although the myriad things appear through their individual forms, and their accomplishments depend on configurations and conditions, without Dao they could not come into being, and without De they could not be nourished. Therefore the myriad things honor Dao and value De: honoring Dao is like respecting one's elder brothers and father, and valuing De is like revering the feudal lords and kings. Dao holds no rank, while De has a designated station.

That Dao is honored and De is valued is not because anyone bestowed these honors upon them; they are simply naturally so.

Thus Dao gives birth to the myriad things, cultivates them, causes them to grow, develop, and mature, and nourishes and shelters them. It gives birth to them without claiming them as its own, acts without relying on its merit, and guides them without dominating them. This is called profound De (xuan de, a deep and natural virtue).

Chapter 52: The World Has a Beginning (Tian Xia You Shi Zhang)

Everything under heaven has a beginning, and this beginning may be regarded as the source of all things under heaven.

Everything under heaven has a source, which can be regarded as the mother of all things. Before the Dao (Dao, the Way) has shown a name, it is the beginning of heaven and earth. Once it has a name, it becomes the source from which the myriad things grow. The Dao is that from which things begin, so it is called shi (beginning). It is also that by which things grow, so it is called mu (mother). In this way, the things the Dao gives birth to and nourishes are like its children.

Once one understands the source of things, one can understand the things themselves. Having understood them, one must still return to the source and hold fast to it, and then one will be free of danger throughout one's life.

The sage observes and responds to the myriad things through the Dao, just as one comes to know one's children through their mother, and so sees clearly and completely. Yet although the sage uses wisdom to understand the myriad things, the sage does not, through attending to them, forget the Dao. Therefore the sage always holds fast to the source.

Block the openings of the senses and shut their doors, and one will not have to exhaust oneself with toil throughout life. If one releases the senses, constantly chases after what one desires, and acts to satisfy one's cravings, one will be sunk in them for life and unable to extricate oneself. Everyone originally possesses the Dao, yet often lets go of attentive awareness of it and instead chases after external things. The eyes are delighted by color, the ears by sound, and the mind follows these pleasures, and one acts in various ways to satisfy them, so one becomes absorbed and cannot save oneself. The sage is unmoved throughout life precisely because the sage gathers in the senses, guards the spirit (shen), and does not go outside to chase desires.

To see what is subtle is called ming (illumination). The harm caused by desire begins small but gradually grows. One who perceives it developing from its small beginnings and promptly restrains the thoughts is called wise.

Holding to softness and stillness, one grows stronger day by day. To chase after what one likes without restraint and consider oneself strong is not truly strength. Only one who, upon seeing the lure of desire, knows to be wary, can be called strong.

To use one's own light and then return to inner clear perception is to avoid bringing calamity upon oneself. This is called inheriting the constant Dao (changdao).

Worldly people indulge the senses and desires they cherish, letting the body chase external things, going farther and farther without ever turning back. The sage, by contrast, gathers in the senses and closes the gates of desire, yet this does not mean cutting off all contact with the outside world. The sage simply uses spirit (shen) to respond to external things, relying on the clear discernment of the senses without letting the body and desires be led about by external things.

Hearing with the ears, seeing with the eyes, smelling with the nose, tasting with the mouth, touching with the body, and thinking with the mind are all perceptive faculties of spirit (shen). When perception makes contact with external things, the power of clear discernment is not impaired even after those things have departed. Therefore the sage can respond to all manner of transformation without feeling exhausted, misfortune does not fall upon the self, and the constant inner nature stays clear and settled, flowing on without end.

shǐ wǒ jiè rán yǒu zhī, xíng yú dà dào, wéi shī shì wèi.

If I had even a slight understanding and walked along the Great Dao, what I would most fear is taking deliberate action and imposing contrivance.

Those who embody the Way (Dao) have no fixed knowledge or action and do not deliberately arrange anything, so the myriad things transform of their own accord. Now, having a little understanding and then acting according to the Dao while still deliberately imposing and establishing institutions goes against nature, and that is truly something to be wary of.

dà dào shèn yí, mín shèn hào jìng.

The Great Dao is very level and easy to follow, yet people are very fond of byways.

The Great Dao follows nature and has no obstacles. Those who do not understand it find it slow and roundabout, so they love to take shortcuts and seek speed. Therefore, every practice that departs from nature and imposes contrivance is a hasty pursuit of quick results.

cháo shèn chú, tián shèn wú, cāng shèn xū. fú wén cǎi, dài lì jiàn, yàn yǐn shí, huò cái yǒu yú, shì wèi dào kuā. fēi dào yě zāi.

The court is extravagantly lavish, the fields are overgrown, and the granaries are empty. Yet people wear embroidered finery, carry sharp swords, grow sated with food and drink, and have wealth to spare. This is called robbery and boasting, and it is far from the Dao.

sú rén zhāo zhāo, wǒ dú ruò hūn; sú rén chá chá, wǒ dú mèn mèn.

Worldly people appear bright and clear, while I alone seem muddled. Worldly people are sharp and scrutinizing, while I alone seem dull and heavy.

The author uses this image to describe one who embodies the Dao, who does not chase worldly cleverness or calculation and does not compete through deliberate display. The passage closes with the phrase qǐ fù shì mò fèi běn, which means: Would one further embellish the branches and neglect the root?