《唐玄宗御註道德真經》

This passage discusses the concept of "Dao" (the Way). If Dao could be easily explained in words, it would not be the eternal, unchanging Dao; if "names" could be simply defined, they would not be constant names. Dao is the mysterious function of utmost emptiness, while "names" are the specific designations given to things. Because Dao acts upon all things, we may say it is "expressible"; names arise from actual functions, so we may say they are "nameable." Yet the application of Dao is infinitely varied, never fixed in a single form, just as the myriad things differ in their names and are never confined to one designation. Thus, we reluctantly call it "Dao," though the true Dao is ultimately unnameable.

"Namelessness" is the origin of heaven and earth, while "nameability" is the mother of all things. "Namelessness" refers to the mysterious root, which manifests as primordial Qi (vital energy) and gives birth to heaven and earth. "Nameability" refers to concrete function, which shapes and nourishes all things, allowing each to find its proper place.

Only by maintaining a state of stillness and desirelessness can one observe the profound mystery of Dao. If driven by desires, one can only perceive its superficial manifestations. These two—namelessness and nameability—both originate from Dao, differing only in name. Their shared essence is "Xuan," the unfathomable mystery. This mystery within mystery is the source of all wonders.

The second chapter states: When all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when they recognize goodness as goodness, the notion of badness appears. Beauty and goodness stem from human desires—once the mind craves something, even what is ugly or evil may be mistaken for beauty or goodness. People take what they deem beautiful as beauty and what they deem good as goodness, yet such judgments are illusory, born from rigid distinctions that divide things into opposites—being and non-being, difficulty and ease, the divine and the decayed—for the sake of debate. The truly wise understand that all these are empty and unreal.

All things in the world exist in mutual dependence and unity of opposites. Being (you) and non-being (wu) give rise to each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low reflect each other, musical notes and sounds harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. These six pairs of opposing concepts may seem contradictory, but they are actually names artificially assigned by humans—just as beauty and ugliness are not inherent attributes of things themselves but arise from the discriminating delusions of the human mind.

Therefore, the sage who comprehends the Dao handles worldly affairs with an attitude of "non-action" (wuwei) and teaches through "wordless instruction." What is called non-action means not imposing interference but simply following nature; what is called wordless instruction means teaching not through verbal preaching but by personal example. The sage allows all things to develop naturally without interference and enables the people to find their proper places without feeling indebted.

The sage nurtures all things yet does not claim possession, accomplishes deeds yet does not boast of merit, achieves success yet does not dwell on it. Precisely because the sage does not dwell on merit, the achievements never fade. Just as when governing the world reaches a state of peace, one must still cultivate virtue daily with caution, never indulging in complacency.

Chapter Three speaks of not exalting the worthy. By not excessively praising ability, the people will not compete for fame and profit. If worthiness is glorified, it will provoke emulation and comparison. When both the worthy and unworthy abide peacefully in their original nature, contention naturally ceases. By not treasuring rare objects, the people will not be tempted to steal. So-called "rare goods" refer to things beyond one's proper station—forcing their acquisition leads to the loss of one's true nature. By not displaying objects that arouse desire, people's minds will not be confused.

Thus, the sage's method of governing the world is this: purifying the people's hearts (so they are not disturbed by desires), strengthening their foundation (when virtue is abundant, contentment follows naturally), weakening their contentious will (when the mind is peaceful, ambition becomes gentle), and fortifying their physical health (when the foundation is solid, sinews and bones grow strong). Always keep the people simple and natural, free from cunning minds and covetous thoughts.

This passage presents Emperor Xuanzong of Tang's commentary on the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), rendered in modern terms:

Regarding the phrase "making the clever dare not act recklessly," it means that when society attains a state of purity and tranquility, people become free from greed and cunning minds. Even if a few intelligent individuals remain, they will be naturally influenced by the environment and refrain from reckless actions. By implementing the principle of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), the world can be properly ordered. When rulers refrain from deliberate interference, the people maintain their innate simplicity, and social harmony emerges spontaneously.

Chapter Four describes the characteristics of the Dao (the Way): Though empty and formless, its function is inexhaustible. The Dao generates all things through the harmonizing Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang, yet it never overflows. The use of phrases like "seems to suggest" reflects the commentator's caution against making definitive claims about the Dao. Profound and far-reaching, it appears as the origin of all things. It ceaselessly creates without ever becoming complacent—this unfathomable nature makes it the sovereign of all existence.

Through its harmonizing Qi, the Dao blunts sharp edges and resolves conflicts. Worldly learning (referring to artificial human contrivances) becomes increasingly entangled the more it tries to restore original nature. The Dao permeates everything, merging with all beings whether in light or dust, yet its essence transcends these manifestations. Clear and pure, it seems to both exist and not exist. We cannot know from where the Dao arises, for it was never born—it appears to have existed even before the Creator ("Di").

Chapter Five discusses the attitudes of Heaven-Earth and sages: Heaven-Earth shows no partiality, treating all things as straw dogs (sacrificial objects); similarly, sages show no partiality, treating the people as straw dogs. Here "non-benevolence" does not imply cruelty, but rather the absence of deliberate favoritism. Just as straw dogs have canine form but cannot bark or guard, Heaven-Earth views humans as humans view straw dogs—without special expectations. True benevolence ("ultimate benevolence") makes no distinctions between intimate and distant—restricting love to one's own kin actually limits compassion. When no one is singled out as special kin, all people under heaven become kin.

The space between Heaven and Earth resembles bellows ("tuo") and flutes ("yue")—bellows pump air and flutes produce music, both functioning through emptiness. This metaphor illustrates the Dao's mode of operation—appearing empty yet containing infinite vitality.

All things in heaven and earth operate continuously and resonate with each other precisely because they maintain a state of emptiness and no-mind. Just as the bellows (tuóyuè) can generate wind only when its interior is hollow, the more it moves, the more sound it produces. So too is the sage—with a heart free from selfish attachments, one never encounters exhaustion and responds to the myriad changes of existence with inexhaustible adaptability.

Speaking too much often leads to entanglements; it is better to maintain inner harmony. Excessive expression invites refutation, while favoritism breeds resentment—thus, it is wiser to abide in the natural state of balance.

Chapter Six speaks of the mystery of the "Valley Spirit" (Gushen): the void-like realm of the valley never ceases. Though empty, the valley responds to sound, unfathomably divine and endlessly transforming. "Deathlessness" refers to this unending movement. Just as the valley echoes sound, the Dao's wondrous function of nurturing all things is beyond words—hence the metaphor of the "Valley Spirit."

This state is called the "Mysterious Feminine" (Xuánpìn)—"xuán" meaning profound, "pìn" meaning maternal. The divine function of emptiness gives birth to all things, much like a mother bears children, thus the term "Mysterious Feminine" describes the Dao's creative and nurturing power. This gateway of generation is the root of heaven and earth. Though heaven and earth have form, their origin lies in this empty portal.

This divine function continues endlessly, seemingly present yet imperceptible, effortlessly applied. As Chapter Seven states: Heaven and earth endure precisely because they do not strive for their own existence. Understanding this, the sage steps back yet finds oneself ahead, forgets the self yet preserves life. Though heaven and earth's merit in nurturing all things is vast, they never claim credit—thus they endure eternally.

These chapters of Laozi's Daode Jing elucidate the principles of "selflessness" and "the highest goodness resembles water."

On selflessness: Heaven and Earth nurture all things yet never claim merit. Precisely because of this selflessness, they endure eternally. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) puts personal interests last, yet thereby leads the multitude and preserves oneself. This is the wisdom of "achieving self-fulfillment through selflessness."

Chapter Eight specifically expounds the principle that "the highest goodness resembles water":

The supreme goodness is like water. Water nourishes all things without contention, willingly dwelling in low places people disdain—this nature most closely resembles the Dao.

Concretely:

• Skillful in choosing abode: Like water content to settle in low places that nurture all things
• Heart-mind deep and still: Like the profound stillness of deep pools
• Benevolent in conduct: Bestowing grace as water moistens all beings
• Trustworthy in speech: Like water maintaining its nature even through treacherous terrain
• Adept at governance: Cleansing impurities as water purifies all things
• Adaptable in action: Taking shape according to circumstances like water conforming to containers
• Timely in movement: Acting in season, freezing in winter and thawing in spring

Precisely because it contends with nothing, water is without fault. Those of supreme goodness maintain empty minds and accord with external things. Like water that both accumulates and flows without clashing with the myriad things, they naturally remain blameless.

Chapter Nine explains how things reverse at their extremes:

• Trying to carry a brimming bowl without spilling is harder than stopping in time
• Overly sharpened blades cannot long endure
• Halls filled with gold and jade cannot be guarded forever
• Wealth and pride invite their own calamities
• When merit is achieved and fame secured, one should emulate the celestial Dao—like the waxing and waning sun and moon, understand when to withdraw—only thus can disaster be avoided

These principles all demonstrate how things inevitably reverse at their extremes. Therefore, in conducting oneself one must understand moderation and humble yielding—this is the wisdom that accords with the Dao of Heaven.

This chapter expounds the principles of self-cultivation and governing the state.

Regarding "embracing the One with body and soul": At birth, humans first acquire the Po (the yin aspect of spirit), then the Hun (the yang aspect). One must nurture this fragile Po until yang energy fills it, allowing the Hun to become active and life to flourish. "Embracing the One" means maintaining a state of pure concentration, preventing the dispersal of spiritual energy.

On "concentrating Qi to attain softness": One must focus on regulating internal Qi until it becomes supple, attaining the innocent desirelessness of an infant.

Concerning "cleansing the mysterious mirror": This refers to clearing mental distractions (the "mysterious mirror" symbolizes the mind's reflective capacity), maintaining a flawlessly pure consciousness.

Regarding "loving the people and governing the state": Rulers should follow nature's way, governing through Wuwei (non-action) so people transform naturally. Only by first cultivating these self-cultivation principles can one become a true sovereign.

On the "opening and closing of the celestial gate": The celestial gate represents the changes of heavenly mandate. A ruler must adapt to circumstances while maintaining softness, stillness and humility—moving as naturally as the celestial gate's movements—to ensure lasting prosperity.

About "understanding all directions": Though a ruler perceives everything with clarity, they must refrain from flaunting wisdom or claiming merit.

Regarding "creating without possessing": The profoundest De (Virtue) manifests in nurturing all things without claiming them, acting without self-importance, guiding without domination.

The subsequent wheel analogy illustrates: thirty spokes converge at the hub—precisely because of the empty space at the wheel's center that the carriage becomes functional. This demonstrates the mutual dependence of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu).

This passage explores the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu), while warning against the dangers of excessive sensory indulgence.

Regarding "being" and "non-being," the text illustrates with three examples: A wheel must have an empty hub to turn, a clay vessel must have a hollow space to hold things, and a house must have doors and windows—empty spaces—to be livable. The tangible aspects ("being") provide utility, but what truly enables function is the intangible ("non-being").

The passage then critiques the harm of overindulging the senses: Dazzling colors blind the eyes, chaotic music dulls the ears, and rich flavors numb the palate. Obsessive hunting and chasing agitate the mind, while coveting rare treasures distorts behavior. Thus, the sage cultivates inner nourishment ("for the belly") rather than outward sensory pleasures ("for the eyes").

On the topic of "favor and disgrace," it observes that receiving favor breeds arrogance, which often invites calamity—hence both favor and disgrace demand vigilance. To excessively value oneself is to make oneself a great misfortune, for the very act of "valuing" is itself a pathological attachment.

The text particularly emphasizes: Tangible objects (qi, "vessels") are concrete and visible, yet the formless Dao is fundamental. The wondrous function of the intangible Dao is revealed through tangible things, while abstract principles are illuminated via concrete examples.

This passage discusses two key Daoist concepts: "being alarmed by favor and disgrace" and "valuing great calamities as one's body."

Regarding "being alarmed by favor and disgrace," it means people become anxious when receiving favor and panic when losing it. In truth, favor and disgrace are mutually transformative—favor often marks the beginning of disgrace. Ordinary people only feel distressed when disgraced but revel in favor. Thus, the sage warns us: when receiving favor, remain as vigilant as when facing disgrace, so that when favor is lost, one can maintain equanimity.

The concept of "valuing great calamities as one's body" explains that people's greatest troubles stem from overvaluing their physical form. The body is ultimately illusory and insubstantial; it is precisely because of attachment to this physical form that various sufferings and illnesses arise. If one realizes the body is not truly existent and merges with the Dao, these calamities will cease.

The subsequent references to "look but cannot see it," "listen but cannot hear it," and "grasp but cannot hold it" describe the nature of the Dao: the Dao has no concrete form and thus cannot be seen (yi), makes no sound and thus cannot be heard (xi), and has no physical substance and thus cannot be grasped (wei). Yet it is precisely in this formless, shapeless state that the Dao can give birth to all things.

This passage describes the three characteristics of the Dao (the Way) — described as "smooth" (yi), "subtle" (xi), and "minute" (wei) — which cannot be fully grasped through language, ultimately returning to a state of undifferentiated unity. Though these terms attempt to describe the Dao, it transcends concrete phenomena like sound, color, or form, making accurate verbal expression impossible. Even when forced to use "yi, xi, wei" as approximations, the Dao surpasses these concepts, necessitating a return to the primordial chaos of wholeness.

The Dao exists in a unique state: above, it does not appear bright; below, it does not seem dark. Ordinary things become visible when elevated and obscured when lowered, yet the Dao remains neither illuminated above nor shadowed below. It moves ceaselessly (referred to as "endless weaving") and defies precise definition, ultimately returning to emptiness. This perpetual motion gives rise to all things, yet it cannot be confined by any name. Though it generates the myriad beings, it retains its nature of emptiness—hence it is said to "return to no-thing."

This state may be called "form without form, image without substance"—an indistinct, elusive presence. Facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot discern its end, for it has neither origin nor conclusion.

To grasp the natural Dao (the Way) that has existed since antiquity ("the ancient Dao") is to skillfully manage present affairs ("what is now"). By applying this principle of wuwei (non-action) to worldly engagement, one returns to the simplicity of the source. Understanding this eternal origin means mastering the fundamental law of the Dao ("the thread of the Dao").

The passage then describes the qualities of ancient Daoist adepts: those who truly comprehended cultivation ("skilled officers") could perceive the subtle and profound, reaching depths beyond ordinary understanding. Because they were ineffable, their demeanor can only be approximated:

They acted cautiously, as if crossing a winter river—where others cling to material desires in fear, the adept moves with ease, free from attachments. Yet they remained vigilant, like neighbors wary of their surroundings, appearing relaxed yet ever-alert. Their bearing was dignified as a guest, while their inner state flowed freely, like melting ice—serene and unconstrained.

This passage describes the mental states a Daoist cultivator should maintain. First, it explains that while practitioners appear solemn and reverent like honored guests on the outside, their inner selves remain unbound by external matters, flowing naturally like spring-melted ice. Even upon attaining such a state, they avoid self-satisfaction, instead preserving their simple, genuine nature without making distinctions among the myriad things.

A cultivator's mind should be as open and vast as a mountain valley, capable of embracing all. Though they may appear turbid when mingling with worldly affairs, their inner clarity remains undisturbed. Who can maintain stillness within this turbidity, gradually becoming lucid? Who can sustain practice in quietude, allowing their innate purity to manifest spontaneously? Those who uphold this path of cultivation never chase perfection, because fixation on pursuing "purity" and "vitality" would instead cause them to lose the Dao.

Only those who don't seek perfection can avoid being constrained by new attainments. Chapter Sixteen speaks of pursuing the ultimate state of emptiness and stillness. Humans are born with this innate nature of emptiness and stillness, but it becomes obscured by physical desires. To return to one's original nature, one must discard worldly distractions and steadfastly maintain a state of tranquil depth. Observe how all things grow and operate—they ultimately return to their source. Just as lush branches and leaves eventually return to their roots, returning to the root means stillness, and stillness means returning to the authentic state of life.

(Note: "Miaoben" refers to the original source of the Dao; "cijing" denotes the yielding, quiet cultivation state; "fuming" means returning to life's primordial origin)

Though flowers and leaves may flourish in profusion, they all ultimately return to their roots in stillness. When a person can return to this original state of tranquility, it may be said they have recovered their innate nature.

Returning to one's nature is called "the Constant" (the eternal law), and understanding this law is called "illumination." Maintaining stillness and returning to one's nature means grasping eternal truth—those who comprehend this truth become increasingly clear and penetrating. Those who fail to understand this law and act recklessly will invite misfortune. Without preserving the constancy of one's nature, impulsive actions will inevitably lead to peril.

Those who comprehend eternal truth possess expansive minds, like open valleys that contain all things. The capacity to embrace all things leads to impartiality, and impartiality qualifies one to become a leader whom others follow. Such a leader's virtue (De) resembles heaven's canopy over all creation, in harmony with the Dao. Virtue like heaven's enables one to embody the Dao, and embodying the Dao ensures enduring blessings. Such persons will encounter no danger even at life's end.

Regarding governance by the supreme ancient rulers (Taishang): The most ideal sovereign was one whose people merely knew of his existence. These rulers of pristine simplicity governed so subtly that subjects only recognized a ruler's heavenly dignity without perceiving traces of deliberate governance—thus the people could not praise them through specific virtues.

The next level of rulers were those whom the people cherished and praised. This occurred when the ruler practiced benevolent governance—the people felt his kindness and thus drew near, witnessed his achievements and thus offered praise. The third level were rulers whom the people feared and despised. This resulted from harsh decrees that burdened the people with fear, compounded by the ruler's lack of discernment that invited deception.

When a ruler lacks sincerity, the people naturally distrust him. Those rulers cherished and praised by the people earned this through virtuous governance—thus their words were valued and their persons esteemed. When true sage-rulers accomplished their work and all affairs prospered, the people perceived this as entirely spontaneous—this is the state where "the people merely knew of his existence."

It is only when the great Dao declines that emphasis shifts to the regulations of humaneness and righteousness.

When society becomes ostentatious and primitive simplicity dissipates, the Great Dao (the supreme principle of natural non-action) ceases to prevail. It is then that people begin emphasizing secondary moral virtues like benevolence and righteousness. All manner of petty cleverness and minor achievements consequently emerge.

Like fish stranded in shallow puddles moistening each other with spit to survive, the world's various forms of degeneration all stem from artificial contrivance. The sage's (one who has attained the Dao) intention to save humanity never changes, though their methods naturally differ when facing times of peace versus turmoil.

When people begin valuing cunning intelligence, severe hypocrisy appears. Laws were originally established to govern the state, but once enacted, crafty individuals exploit their loopholes - much like how counterfeiters might steal official seals (ancient symbols of authority). Shouldn't this make us vigilant?

Only when harmony is lost among the six family relations (father-son, husband-wife, elder-younger siblings) do particular filial sons and devoted mothers become conspicuous. These phenomena actually arise precisely because of deviation from the Great Dao, manifesting as fragmented virtues and labels.

Loyal ministers only gain public acclaim when the nation falls into chaos. In times of peace when all levels of society are harmonious, who would particularly emphasize loyalty? It's only during crises when people sacrifice themselves for righteousness that so-called "loyal ministers" become apparent.

Chapter Nineteen teaches: Abandon the labels of sagehood and wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Without deliberately promoting the teachings of sages, transformation occurs naturally; without employing ordinary people's cunning tricks, human hearts return to simplicity. When simple honesty prevails, crafty hypocrisy finds no foothold; governing through Wuwei (non-action) naturally eliminates competitive striving for fame and profit. When all preserve their innate nature and nothing in creation suffers harm - this is the true hundredfold benefit.

Relinquish forced benevolence and discard rigid righteousness, and people will return to their authentic filial and compassionate nature.

Eliminate opportunistic thoughts and abandon the pursuit of fame and profit, and thieves will naturally disappear. When people flaunt specialized skills, competitive minds inevitably arise. Without valuing cunning, none will compete; without emphasizing private gain, all will know contentment, and the contented don't become thieves.

Merely discussing these three principles (rejecting sagehood/wisdom, benevolence/righteousness, and cunning/profit) isn't enough - one must point toward concrete practice. The path is this: preserve pure innate nature, hold fast to simple beginnings, reduce selfish thoughts, and restrain greedy desires.

(Note: This represents Emperor Xuanzong of Tang's commentary on the Daode Jing, integrating governance philosophy with self-cultivation essentials, emphasizing the concept of returning to primordial simplicity and governing through non-action.)

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang explains in this commentary on the Dao De Jing:

Abandoning worldly learning brings freedom from troubles. By severing artificial and contrived conventional knowledge, one preserves innate simplicity, reduces selfish desires, and naturally attains carefree serenity.

Between a respectful response and a negligent one, the surface difference seems slight. How far apart are good and evil, really? Both are words spoken from the mouth—yet courtesy constitutes goodness, while negligence constitutes evil. This resembles worldly learning: sever it and find peace; cling to it and invite calamity. The key lies in inner awakening, for the distinction is not as vast as it appears.

What ordinary people universally fear, we too should guard against. Common folk dread arrogance and wickedness, but Dao cultivators must be especially wary of worldly learning and deliberate striving—these should be decisively severed.

Without vigilance against such vulgar knowledge, the innate purity of sentient beings will gradually decay without end. Ordinary people indulge in worldly learning and utilitarian pursuits, eagerly chasing external objects with exhilaration, as if attending grand banquets or climbing heights in springtime—every stirring thought breeds covetousness.

Only I maintain serene detachment, with desires yet to sprout, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. I follow nature’s flow, as untethered as a wanderer without fixed abode. Common people always feel abundantly fulfilled, engrossed in worldly affairs, flaunting cleverness and skill to demonstrate their superiority. Yet I perpetually sense incompleteness, as if something has been forgotten.

Do I possess the mind of a fool? In truth, it is because my heart-mind is immaculately pure that I appear forgetful. Worldly people shine with outward brilliance, while I alone seem dull and obscure. The masses are exacting and calculating, while I alone am broad and accommodating. Outwardly I seem muddled and inarticulate, yet inwardly my spirit is clear and tranquil—having severed worldly learning, I manifest no attachments. Ordinary people all engage in deliberate action, while I alone remain simple and different.

While the multitudes pursue worldly knowledge and external attainments, I alone appear dull and uncouth. This "dullness" refers to non-discrimination between good and bad, while "uncouthness" seems superficial yet conceals inner clarity. The outward appearance seems lacking, hence described as "seeming" (似).

My difference from ordinary people lies in this: common folk are bound by emotions and desires, while I transcend attachments; ordinary people deviate from the Dao, while I harmonize with it. Like an infant who seeks only mother's milk without craving other desires—the earlier chapter mentions "pure as an infant," and later texts state "one whose De (Virtue) is profound resembles a newborn." This is precisely what makes me different. The "two characters" were added by later scholars. When sages expounded scriptures, they needed no taboos, but later generations, for pedagogical purposes, had to clarify principles without altering the meaning, hence required appropriate adjustments in wording. Sima Qian noted that Laozi's five thousand words emphasized elucidating principles rather than counting characters.

Chapter 21 describes the form of great De (Virtue): supreme De completely follows the laws of the Dao. "Supreme De" (孔德) refers to the highest Virtue, whose manifestation is complete accord with the supremely empty Dao.

The Dao's existence is indistinct and elusive, neither being nor non-being, defying description. Within this haziness (惚惚恍恍), all phenomena manifest ("images" being the visible signs), and within the indistinctness (恍恍惚惚), the Dao's essence resides ("things" referring to the Dao itself). In the profound darkness (杳冥) lies the subtle essence—this essence is utterly real and reliably constant ("信" denoting inevitable verification).

From ancient times to the present, the Dao's name never perishes. Because the Dao perpetually generates all things, phenomena establish their names through the Dao's function. This generative function remains constant across ages, hence the Dao's name eternally endures. By observing the beginnings of all things ("众甫" meaning the origins), one comprehends the Dao's timelessness.

This scripture expounds two fundamental principles: the wisdom for worldly conduct and the essential methods for cultivating the Dao (the Way).

Regarding worldly wisdom, it presents the dialectical concept that "yielding may lead to preservation." Specifically: by humbling oneself to accommodate others, one ultimately preserves oneself; by lowering one's stance to meet others, true integrity is revealed; through maintaining humility and restraint, one achieves fulfillment; by embracing simplicity, daily renewal occurs; focusing on fundamentals brings attainment, while grasping for excess leads to confusion. Thus the sage holds fast to the pure and singular Dao, becoming the model for all under heaven. Not displaying oneself brings clarity, not asserting oneself reveals the true path, not boasting accomplishes deeds, not exalting oneself ensures endurance. Precisely because they contend with none, none under heaven can contend with them. The ancient saying "yielding preserves wholeness" is no empty phrase—those who truly understand the way of bending ultimately achieve perfect fulfillment.

Concerning Dao cultivation, it reveals the supreme state as "rare speech follows nature's way." "Rare speech" doesn't mean abandoning language entirely, but rather not clinging to words after comprehending their meaning. Just as violent storms don't last all day, excessive attachment to verbal instruction obscures the great Dao. If even heaven and earth cannot maintain violent states indefinitely, how much less can humans? Therefore, Dao cultivation must seek the realm of natural Wuwei (non-action).

Even something as vast as Heaven and Earth, if suddenly subjected to violent upheaval, would harm all living things and could not endure for long—how much more so for humans? If one stubbornly clings to doctrines and texts, it damages the comprehension of the Dao (the Way). How, then, could one possibly grasp its principles in full?

Thus, those who truly cultivate the Dao should not be bound by words and teachings. Those who unite with the Dao do so by grasping its essence, transcending the constraints of language. Those who align with De (Virtue/Power) recognize that De is the manifestation of the Dao. If one comprehends the great Dao without obsessing over merit, their actions will naturally follow its rhythms. But those who lose their way, clinging rigidly to doctrines without awakening, will inevitably keep company with the lost.

Just as a square vessel can scoop water and a sun-mirror can summon fire, the principle of like attracting like is unmistakable. If faith in the Dao is lacking, true belief remains impossible. Stubborn adherence to doctrine without awakening is a sign of weak faith—ultimately leading one to the lost, and the lost, in turn, will find them.

Those who rise on tiptoe to stand taller only lose their balance; those who take giant strides to move faster cannot go far. This is no different from those who deliberately flaunt themselves to seek fame—they never achieve their aims. What difference is there between standing on tiptoe to last longer and striding wide to go farther? Those who show off never truly shine; those who insist on being right never stand out; those who boast accomplish nothing; those who grow arrogant cannot endure.

To those who cultivate the Dao, such behaviors are like spoiled food or useless growths on the body—even ordinary people detest them. Thus, those who attain the Dao do not act this way.

There exists something perfectly whole, formed before Heaven and Earth came into being. To explain the origin of the name "Dao," we say "there is a thing"—referring to this undivided unity that contains all things. Tracing its emergence, we find it precedes even the birth of Heaven and Earth.

This passage describes the fundamental nature and function of the Dao (the Way). The Dao is silent and empty, existing independently and never changing, circulating ceaselessly without exhaustion—it is the source from which all things are born. Though formless and without appearance, its essence is profoundly still and eternally unchanging; its function permeates all things, operating continuously yet never becoming perilous. All beings rely on it for growth and development, receiving its nourishment, thus it can be said that the Dao is the mother of heaven and earth.

We do not know the name of the Dao, so we reluctantly call it "Dao," and because it encompasses all things, we also reluctantly call it "Great" (Da). This "Great" is ceaselessly moving (Shi), extending to the farthest reaches (Yuan), and ultimately returning to its origin (Fan). The mysterious workings of the Dao cannot be fully described in words—pursuing it through "Greatness" leads to its disappearance, and further pursuit makes it seem distant and unreachable. Yet, with awakening, one realizes it is actually present within our own body and mind.

Thus, the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the ruler is also great. In the cosmos, there are these four greats, and the ruler is one among them. Heaven can cover all things, earth can bear all things, and the ruler can emulate the Dao of heaven and earth to govern the country.

The ruler should model the stability and stillness of the earth, then emulate the movement and creativity of heaven, and ultimately follow the Dao's purity and Wuwei (non-action), allowing all things to develop naturally. A ruler who can achieve this aligns with the Dao's inherent nature of natural spontaneity.

Chapter 26 states: Steadiness is the root of recklessness, and stillness is the master of agitation. Because steadiness can restrain recklessness, and stillness can control agitation. Thus, the noble person never travels without the supply wagons (Zizhong), just as one who values stillness can avoid calamity. Even amidst bustling scenes, they remain transcendent, preserving inner tranquility.

(Note: "Supply wagons" here refers to the carts carrying provisions and equipment in ancient military campaigns, metaphorically representing the fundamental principles and reliance in human conduct.)

This scripture expounds the wisdom of rulers cultivating themselves, governing the state, and navigating human affairs. Let me explain it layer by layer:

Regarding the Way of rulership: A true sovereign should maintain dignified composure. Even when dwelling in magnificent palaces, one should remain as serene as swallows building their nests, transcending worldly attachments. Alas (the exclamation "奈何" conveys regret), those rulers commanding ten thousand chariots indulge their selfish desires and act recklessly, ultimately losing the Mandate of Heaven ("大宝之位" refers to the imperial throne). A frivolous ruler loses ministers, while an impatient one forfeits sovereign authority.

The text then illustrates superior ways of conduct through five examples of mastery: Those truly skilled at walking leave no wheel ruts (indicating how Dao-realized individuals act without trace); skilled speakers leave no openings for criticism (their words harmonize with nature); skilled calculators need no counting rods (they comprehend the essence of all things); those adept at closing require no bolts yet cannot be opened (a mind free of distractions naturally remains undisturbed); skilled binders use no cords yet cannot be untied (alignment with the Dao creates unshakable stability).

Therefore, sages (Dao-realized beings) excel at saving both people and all things, never abandoning anyone or anything. This state is called "袭明" (subtle wisdom), where one comprehends the great Dao by forgetting all traces of form. The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous become resources ("资") for the virtuous to reflect upon. Yet the highest attainment is forgetting even the concepts of "teacher" and "resource," completely merging with the natural Dao.

The passage emphasizes: Governing requires dignified stability; living demands natural wuwei (non-action). By eliminating artificial striving, one achieves unity with the Dao.

This passage discusses how Daoist practitioners should conduct themselves in the world, centering on the wisdom of "maintaining softness" and "forgetting the self."

First, it addresses the teacher-disciple relationship. True Dao cultivators neither cling to the status of being a teacher nor crave the offerings of students. When both the forms of teacher and disciple are seen as empty, distinctions of nobility and baseness naturally disappear. This state of transcending dualistic relationships is the natural way of the Dao. While worldly people may consider such an attitude foolish, from the Dao's perspective, it represents the most profound wisdom.

Chapter 28 illustrates the way of being through three contrasting pairs:

Knowing the power of strength, yet abiding in the soft position—like the valley streams of the world. Thus, eternal De (Virtue) will not be lost, returning to the purity of an infant's state. For strength easily invites misfortune, while maintaining softness and humility allows all things to return of their own accord.

Understanding the principles of brightness, yet willingly dwelling in obscure places—becoming a model for the world. Thus, De will not deviate, ultimately returning to the boundless Dao. Though inwardly clear, outwardly one should appear simple and unknowing—this is how to apply De without error.

Recognizing the value of honor, yet remaining content in humble circumstances—like an empty valley with vast capacity. Thus, De becomes complete, returning to the original state of simplicity. Though possessing noble virtue, one should respond to all things like a low valley—only then can unity with the Dao be achieved.

When this simple De disperses into application, it transforms into concrete methods. Sages employ these methods to govern all things—like spring nourishing plants without claiming merit, allowing natural growth without interference or harm.

Chapter 29 warns those who would forcefully seize the world: The world is the most precious position, attainable only by those who follow celestial mandate. If one tries to obtain it through violence, Laozi says "I see this cannot succeed." Here "the celestial sequence residing within" refers to aligning with the natural patterns of Heaven's movements.

The most sacred thing in the world (referring to state power) cannot be forcibly controlled—those who attempt to do so will inevitably fail. The imperial throne, that supreme position, is a treasure bestowed by heaven, earth, and the divine, known as the "Divine Vessel" (Shenqi). Thus, it cannot be seized by force. This serves as a warning to ministers with ulterior motives.

Similarly, those who cling stubbornly to power will ultimately lose it. Even if one ascends the throne by the Mandate of Heaven (Tianming), if they abuse their authority to oppress the people and mistreat the spirits, the Dao of Heaven will strip power from those who commit excessive evil. This is a warning to rulers.

All things in the world follow their own natural patterns: some lead while others follow; some are warm like the spring breeze, others cold like the north wind; some are strong, others weak; some build, others destroy. This illustrates that forcing things leads to failure, and clinging leads to loss. Thus, all things sometimes advance actively and sometimes follow passively; sometimes they need warmth and care, other times the stimulus of cold. Support strengthens, while suppression weakens. Following the Dao (the Way) allows one to sustain endeavors, while losing De (Virtue) leads to collapse and ruin.

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) rejects extremes, extravagance, and excess. Observing the patterns of advance and retreat in all things, they understand that forcing inevitably brings loss, and thus they eliminate excessive behavior.

Chapter 30 discusses how to assist rulers with the Dao. A true minister who assists a ruler with the Dao does not rely on military might to dominate the world, for the use of force inevitably invites retribution. As a minister, one should persuade through virtue, not through the intimidation of armies. Weapons are inauspicious tools, and war is a perilous affair. If you use force to oppress others, they will inevitably resist. Once this cycle of vengeance begins, the outcome becomes unpredictable.

Where armies are stationed, fields lie fallow; after great wars, years of disaster follow. Military campaigns disrupt farming, and neglected farmland becomes overgrown with weeds. The baleful energy of war also triggers floods and droughts—agriculture is the first to suffer, calamity follows, and famine inevitably ensues.

Thus, those skilled in assisting rulers seek only to halt war and know when to stop, never daring to act out of arrogance or desire for victory. Even if they succeed in stopping war, they do not boast, flaunt, or grow proud. The true aim of an excellent minister is to quell chaos and bring peace to the people. Though they may successfully repel invaders, they never treat enemies as mere bandits. One must be especially vigilant against pride in achievement, for pride leads to downfall—this is a profound warning.

Only when invaders must be resisted is military force used to stop them. Such use of force is a response to aggression, not an attempt to dominate or bully.

This passage expounds on the principles of warfare. Laozi observes that things relying on brute force tend to decline prematurely, just as excessive strength accelerates decay—this violates the natural rhythm of the Dao and should be restrained.

What are called "excellent weapons" are in fact ominous objects, despised even by ordinary things. Those who embody the Dao never depend on military might. The left side symbolizes Yang Qi and vitality, which is why noble persons honor the left in daily life; the right represents Yin Qi and execution, reserved only for wartime arrangements.

Weapons are inherently inauspicious instruments, unfit for noble individuals. They should be employed only when absolutely necessary (such as during foreign invasions), and even then with detachment. Victories warrant no celebration—those who revel in them take pleasure in killing. Such bloodthirsty individuals can never win the people's allegiance.

Military hierarchy reflects this philosophy: the lieutenant general (偏将军) stands on the left, while the commander-in-chief takes the right position—the same orientation used in funeral rites. When casualties mount, one should mourn with solemnity; after triumph, observe mourning rituals to honor life's sanctity.

This text embodies the Daoist tenet that "arms are instruments of doom," emphasizing warfare as a last resort. Even when unavoidable, compassion must temper military action, rejecting militarism and glorification of violence.

The victorious warrior who triumphs in battle is honored with noble rank and placed in the position of honor on the right. Yet the veneration of the right is inauspicious, which is why we treat such occasions with funeral rites - for warfare itself is an ill omen, what need is there to further adorn it with white mourning garments?

On the nature of the Dao: The Dao eternally remains nameless. It manifests its constancy through responding to all things, capable of adapting to infinite variations, and thus cannot be confined by any fixed designation. The Dao resembles uncarved block ("pu") - though seemingly insignificant, nothing in creation dares claim it as subordinate. This primordial Dao is the subtle origin; though infinitesimal, it gives birth to all existence, and thus none dare make it their subject.

If lords and rulers could preserve this essential purity of the Dao, governing through wuwei (non-action), then all beings would naturally submit. When heaven and earth harmoniously unite, they send down sweet dew (auspicious nectar) that needs no human decree to distribute itself evenly. Similarly, when enlightened rulers maintain the Dao's essence, heaven and earth align to bestow blessings spontaneously, nourishing all without compulsion.

Rulers employ the Dao to establish governance, first creating systems of names and distinctions. Once these classifications exist, all things find their proper place. Yet one must understand moderation, recognizing boundaries, to avoid peril. The Dao's movement through the world resembles streams inevitably flowing into rivers and seas.

To understand others is wisdom; to know oneself is true enlightenment. The wise use knowledge to engage with phenomena, while the enlightened perceive subtle truths. Wisdom has limits, but enlightenment illuminates all. To conquer others demonstrates strength, but to master oneself reveals true power. Those who know contentment are truly wealthy; those who persevere possess authentic resolve.

He who knows contentment is free from greed—this can be called true wealth. He who perseveres in practice without slackening may be said to possess genuine aspiration and integrity. Only those who do not lose their root can endure.

To understand sufficiency, to persist in diligent practice, and to remain steadfast in one's foundation—those who consistently embody the Dao in this manner may perish physically, but their spirit will never vanish. This is true longevity. Death is merely the natural conclusion of life's cycle, premature demise an untimely calamity, while genuine longevity lies in fulfilling life's complete course.

Those who constantly seek to surpass others inevitably invite misfortune, while the contented and steadfast, whose actions align with the natural order, may perish in body but endure in spirit. This is the completion of life's journey—what we call true longevity.

The Dao is like an overflowing river, omnipresent (the Dao refers to the fundamental law of the cosmos). Unconstrained yet harmonizing with all things, impartial and balanced. All beings rely on it for growth, yet it never refuses them; it accomplishes all yet claims no merit. It nourishes the myriad creatures yet does not dominate them—free from selfish desire, it may be called subtle (for it does not proclaim itself).

Though all things return to it, it never presumes to be their master—thus it may also be called great. Neither small nor large, it defies measurement. Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) never considers himself great, yet thereby achieves true greatness.

When a ruler governs the world by holding to the great Dao (the "Great Image" signifies the Dao), all things under heaven return to him. They return yet suffer no harm, dwelling in peace and prosperity, enjoying universal harmony.

Music and fine food may detain a passing traveler (symbolizing worldly temptations), just as a ruler governing with the Dao brings peace, drawing all things to return naturally. But music entices through sound, food through flavor—both offer only fleeting respite, unable to endure. Like an inn where none may linger overlong, excessive emphasis on benevolence and righteousness invites reproach instead.

This passage explains how rulers should govern the state by following the principles of Dao (the Way). If a ruler maintains inner purity and simplicity, free from ostentatious desires, they can avoid issuing harsh and complicated decrees from the outset. Ultimately, this approach transforms the people, making them return to natural simplicity. Thus, the text later states that applying Dao in this way yields inexhaustible results.

When Dao is spoken aloud, it sounds plain and flavorless. When a ruler educates the people with the principles of moral purity and tranquility, it may initially seem unremarkable—unlike worldly teachings that evoke intimacy, admiration, fear, or disdain. Governing the world with Dao might appear at first as if there is no special instruction, and its words may not sound astonishing. Yet, when simplicity prevails, all things flourish naturally, and abundance is sustained year after year. This is why its efficacy is boundless.

Chapter 36 discusses the principle of "letting go to grasp." To contract something, one must first allow it to expand; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first let it prosper; to take something, one must first give it. This is the subtle yet evident truth. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states, gentleness can employ strategic flexibility, and though such flexibility may seem contrary to common sense, it aligns with righteousness. When noble individuals employ flexibility, they emphasize its accord with righteousness, but when petty people use it, it becomes deceit. Hence, earlier in the text, Laozi emphasizes "holding fast to the great Dao" as the foundation, while this chapter introduces "letting go to grasp" as a method of flexibility—adapting guidance to the innate nature of different individuals.

The soft and weak overcomes the hard and strong. A gentle attitude allows for strategic flexibility, and flexibility enables control over affairs. Thus, it is understood that softness ultimately prevails over strength. Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, a state’s strategic maneuvers should not be carelessly revealed. If fish leave the water, they are easily caught; if strategic methods are disclosed to the wrong people, they will be exploited for deception.

Chapter 37 states that Dao is eternally natural and Wuwei (non-action).

The essence of the Dao (the Way) lies in appearing to take no action (Wuwei), yet accomplishing all things. If rulers can uphold this principle, the myriad beings will naturally grow and transform.

The mysterious substance of the Dao is serene and non-acting, yet all things rely on it for their existence and development. If a sovereign follows the Wuwei principle of the Dao, the people will naturally be transformed. When the ruler governs through non-action, society can return to a state of pristine simplicity.

When all things follow their natural course, if some individuals give rise to selfish desires or reckless ambitions, I use the "nameless simplicity" (the unadorned nature of the Dao) to settle them. This means that when the people have already attained serenity and non-action through the ruler’s guidance, if there are still those who wish to act willfully, the unadorned essence of the Dao is employed to pacify them.

The "nameless simplicity" refers to the Dao itself.

Yet when applying this simplicity, one must also avoid attachment. If a ruler uses the Dao’s unadorned nature to settle the people but becomes fixated on this method of transformation, he will lose the essence of the Dao and fall back into forced action. Therefore, one must transcend even the concept of "nameless simplicity" and reach a state free from desire and grasping. Only through such detachment and purity will the world naturally return to the right path.

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang emphasizes here that true governance through Wuwei is not deliberate effort—even the notion of "non-action" must be relinquished. Only by fully aligning with spontaneity can lasting peace be achieved.

This passage discusses the hierarchical distinctions in moral cultivation. The highest form of virtue (Shangde, Superior De) does not consciously display virtue, and thus truly possesses it. Lower forms of virtue (Xiade, Inferior De) rigidly cling to virtuous appearances, thereby losing genuine De. De is the concrete manifestation of the Dao—as Zhuangzi said, all things are endowed with De by virtue of attaining the Dao.

In ancient times, when folk customs were simple and pure, the function of De manifested naturally without leaving traces. Thus, though it seemed no one deliberately practiced virtue, the profound De never dissipated. Governing through Wuwei (non-action) brought peace to the world. Later, as the world declined, people began consciously flaunting virtue. Though they understood the Dao in their hearts, their actions carried intentionality—this very attachment made their virtue shallow.

The highest De governs through Wuwei while never considering itself virtuous. Those who truly attain the state of Wuwei do not deliberately pursue its reputation; rather, their innate simplicity naturally leads them to non-action, leaving no trace of effort. The next level of De may be internally non-acting, but because its achievements are visible, traces of deliberate action remain.

Benevolence (Shangren, Superior Humanity) manifests as broad compassion. Though practicing humaneness, such individuals forget they are doing so, appearing close to Wuwei—yet in their hearts, the intention to do good still lingers. Righteousness (Shangyi, Superior Justice) corrects wrongdoing, entirely consciously judging right from wrong and making decisions—both in motivation and action, this belongs to "having deliberate intent."

As for ritual propriety (Shangli, Superior Rites), it stands even lower on the hierarchy: when interpersonal relationships falter, rites are employed as remedy. But if ritual gestures go unreciprocated, people roll up their sleeves in anger, demanding obligatory returns. This shows that when society relies on rites to maintain order, the simple purity of De has already been utterly lost.

[Notes on bracketed terms:

1. Shangde/Xiade: The higher and lower levels of moral cultivation

2. Wuwei: A core Daoist concept denoting natural, unforced action

3. Six Relationships (Liuji): Ancient foundational social bonds like ruler-subject, father-son, and husband-wife]

When people deviate from the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle), they can only rely on De (natural virtue); when virtue is lost, they must emphasize ren (universal love); when love fades, they stress yi (righteous conduct); and when righteousness perishes, li (external rituals) becomes the last resort for maintaining order.

This "loss of the Dao" refers to the forfeiture of supreme virtue, which originally harmonizes with the Dao. These concepts of Dao-De-Ren-Yi are merely labels created by people according to the rise and fall of social order: when the great Dao declines, virtue manifests; when virtue decays, love remains; when love vanishes, righteousness is established; and when righteousness disappears, rituals become remedial measures. These are all temporary expedients.

To discuss rituals in an age of simple customs is either arrogance or folly; to abandon rituals in an age of moral decline is either stupidity or absurdity. The truly wise approach is this: when rituals become mere formality, return to righteousness; when righteousness becomes rigid, return to love; when love becomes corrupted, return to virtue; and ultimately transcend virtue to unite with the Dao—only then can people return to their original simplicity and attain the state of supreme Wuwei (non-action).

Rituals emerge when sincerity and trust wane, yet they often become the source of chaos. Establishing rituals stems from the decline of loyalty and trust, intending to prevent disorder. But the true purpose of rituals should be to stabilize society and educate the people—how can they be reduced to superficial formalities like jade and silk tributes?

Those who impose external norms before natural human expressions may seem to adapt to circumstances, but in truth, they lose their innate purity. Hence, this is called "the superficial flourish of the Dao." Rituals are meant to remedy chaos, valuing harmony above all. But if they focus solely on jade and silk tributes or ceremonial prostrations, they become the beginning of folly.

Therefore, a great man in life chooses depth over shallowness, substance over appearance. Deliberate action is a shallow manifestation of the Dao, and ritual norms are but superficial ornaments of virtue. Thus, the sage practices Wuwei (non-action), choosing depth; he distances himself from the formalism of rituals, abiding in substance. One should discard superficiality and hold fast to depth and substance.

Chapter 39 speaks of "the oneness of ancient times": this "oneness" refers to the harmonious state of the Dao, the blended Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang. Because its mysterious function manifests as an undivided whole in all things, it is called "oneness."

Heaven attains this "oneness" and becomes clear; Earth attains it and becomes tranquil; spirits attain it and become efficacious; valleys attain it and become full; all things attain it and grow; rulers attain it and the world is rightly ordered. These are all manifestations of the Dao's function—things are named according to their attainment of the Dao. When the Dao is present, names naturally arise; when the Dao's function vanishes, so do the names.

This scripture elucidates the fundamental principles governing the operation of heaven, earth, and all things, as well as the way of governance. Its core teaching is that all existence relies on the subtle workings of the Dao to maintain balance.

Should heaven lose its clarity, it would collapse; should earth lose its tranquility, it would quake; should the spirits (Shen) lose their numinous power, they would vanish; should valleys lose their abundance, they would wither; should all beings lose their vitality, they would perish; and should rulers lose their noble position, they would fall. Thus, those who truly comprehend the Dao must not become arrogant or complacent, lest they bring about their own undoing.

The movement of heaven and earth teaches us that rulers must take humility as their foundation. Just as the pivotal element in crafting a carriage lies in its axle (the most inconspicuous component), the essence of governance lies in caring for the people. This is why ancient kings referred to themselves as "the solitary one," "the unworthy one," or "the grainless one"—all humble titles—demonstrating their wisdom in recognizing that nobility must be rooted in humility.

Chapter 40 further explains the Dao's operational principle: the movement of the Dao often manifests as cyclical return ("reversal is the movement of the Dao"), while its function is invariably expressed through gentleness ("weakness is the function of the Dao"). Just as precious jade and ordinary stones may appear opposite yet both reveal different aspects of the Dao, sages governing the world must master both adaptability (flexible response) and adherence to the root (gentleness and stillness as foundation).

All things in the world originate from "being," yet "being" itself arises from "non-being." Just as the true essence of the heavenly Dao (the Way) manifests through skillful adaptation, "non-being" can give birth to "being." Therefore, those who employ the Dao of skillful adaptation must ultimately return to the true essence. To harness the power of "being," one must rely on the root of "non-being." However, the most profound Dao is empty, still, and silent, transcending all names and forms; all phenomena are fundamentally empty and do not depend on one another. If one can simultaneously forget both skillful adaptation and true essence, erasing the distinction between "being" and "non-being," then one may be said to have attained transcendence.

Those of superior capacity, upon hearing the great Dao, will diligently practice it because they have truly comprehended it. Those of middling capacity, upon hearing the great Dao, will waver between belief and doubt, their attitude unsettled. Those of inferior capacity, upon hearing the great Dao, will laugh heartily—precisely because it is not mocked by the shallow-minded does it prove to be the truly profound Dao.

As the ancient saying goes: Those who understand the great Dao appear dull and simple; those who diligently cultivate it seem to be regressing; the smooth and level path of the Dao feels as though it is full of obstacles. Thus, those of middling capacity will doubt, and those of inferior capacity will laugh.

The highest virtue (De) is like a valley, vast and receptive. The purest whiteness can embrace stains; great virtue always seems insufficient; establishing merit appears as though one is lazy; genuine simplicity seems to follow the current; the most upright lacks sharp corners; the most precious vessel takes the longest time to complete; the grandest sound is inaudible; the greatest form has no shape—it is precisely because of this that it can respond to all things. Though the Dao is subtle and nameless, it excels at nurturing and perfecting all things.

The Dao first transforms into the undifferentiated "One" (primordial Qi, vital energy), which then divides into the two energies of Yin and Yang. The interaction of Yin and Yang produces harmonious Qi, and these three energies give rise to all things. Specifically: the "One" refers to the harmonious and balanced Qi. The movement of the Dao generates this subtle Qi, but this Qi alone is insufficient to create all things, so it further gives rise to Yang Qi. Yang cannot exist alone, so it in turn gives rise to Yin Qi. The accumulation of harmonious Qi is called "One begets Two," and the accumulation of Yin and Yang Qi is called "Two begets Three."

When the two energies of Yin and Yang intermingle, and the harmonious Qi (referring to the balanced state of Yin-Yang) circulates smoothly, all things can flourish and grow. Thus, it is said: the Dao gives birth to the One, the One gives birth to the Two, the Two gives birth to the Three, and the Three gives birth to the myriad things.

All things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their arms, achieving harmony through the harmonious Qi. The reason all things can come into being is precisely because they receive the interaction of Yin-Yang and the harmonious Qi. Nourished internally by this harmonious Qi, they appear gentle and yielding.

What people most dislike are terms like "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (humble titles used by ancient rulers), yet kings and nobles use them to refer to themselves. This is because all things take harmonious Qi as their foundation, and maintaining it requires qualities of humility and softness. Thus, though rulers hold noble positions, they use these humble titles, grounding themselves in modesty and gentleness.

Therefore, sometimes what seems like loss turns out to be gain, and what seems like gain turns out to be loss. Those who humble themselves receive the increase of others, while those who boast invite the diminishment of others.

Laozi said: If a ruler wishes to establish principles to guide the people, they should teach them the way of softness and humility as I have described. Those who act with arrogance and force often meet untimely ends, for they constantly oppose the natural order, seeking profit but inviting harm, and thus cannot escape misfortune.

I take the way of softness as the foundation of all teachings. Having witnessed the destruction of the forceful and the preservation of the gentle, I regard the teaching of softness as the source of all instruction.

The softest thing in the world can penetrate the hardest. This utmost softness is the pure nature of humanity. But if one becomes entangled in worldly affairs, tainted by mundane distractions, and filled with desires, they become the most rigid form of hardness.

"Non-being" (referring to inner emptiness) can enter where there are no gaps. From this, I understand the benefits of Wuwei (non-action). "Non-being" means remaining unstained by worldly desires, preserving inner emptiness; "no gaps" refers to the purity of the Dao-nature, merging seamlessly with the great Dao. Undisturbed by desires, maintaining clarity of body and mind without distraction—this allows the spirit to unite with the Dao and enter the realm of no gaps. Thus, the sages say: I realize that purity of body and mind enables union with the Dao, and from this, I know that teachings based on action are less beneficial than those based on non-action.

The teaching without words, the benefit of non-action—few things in the world can compare.

Which is more precious—fame or life? Fame is merely an appendage to reality, yet people lose their lives in pursuit of it.

This passage teaches the necessity of relinquishing fame and wealth to preserve one's true nature. Which is more important - the body or material possessions? Those who chase after reputation seek to acquire riches, yet in gaining wealth they lose their lives. Is this truly worthwhile?

One must be willing to discard fine jade and shatter pearls - to let go of external things - in order to maintain inner peace. Which harms us more: gain or loss? Between acquiring fame and wealth versus losing them, which does greater damage to body and mind?

Therefore, excessive desire inevitably leads to great expenditure, and over-accumulation inevitably brings severe loss. Those obsessed with fame exhaust their spirit - is this not tremendous waste? Those who hoard excessive wealth burden their bodies - is this not immense loss?

Those who understand contentment avoid disgrace; those who know when to stop avoid danger - thus they endure. The contented do not indulge in excessive desire; those who know limits do not over-accumulate. Free from both disgrace and danger, they endure.

Chapter 45 states: The most perfect appears incomplete, yet its function never fails. Those who reach the highest level of cultivation often seem lacking - humility brings progress, thus their abilities never exhaust.

The fullest appears empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. Those at the pinnacle of status often appear humble - frugality preserves resources, thus their provisions never run short.

The most upright seem to yield (being upright without arrogance); the most skillful appear clumsy (not deliberately showing off); the most eloquent seem inarticulate (disdaining empty rhetoric).

Movement overcomes cold; stillness overcomes heat. Only serene non-action (Wuwei) is the proper way to govern. Movement overcomes cold because cold is inherently weak; stillness overcomes heat because heat eventually subsides. Thus what appears yielding is most upright - serenity is the true path.

Chapter 46 states: When the Dao prevails in the world, war horses retire to plow fields (rulers govern through non-action, without desire for conquest, so people farm peacefully). When the Dao is absent, even the suburbs breed war horses (rulers indulge desires and wage war, stationing steeds at borders).

The greatest crime is indulging desires; the greatest calamity is discontent; the greatest fault is insatiable greed. Therefore, those who understand contentment - their satisfaction is true satisfaction.

True fulfillment does not come from material satisfaction, but from spiritual contentment. When the heart knows contentment, this fulfillment becomes eternal.

Chapter 47 teaches: Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) need not step outside their doors to comprehend the principles of the world, nor peer through windows to grasp the workings of celestial patterns. Like the ancient sage-kings who governed through Wuwei (non-action) — with sleeves draped and hands folded — they required no frequent edicts to rule effectively. When human affairs are harmonious, celestial phenomena naturally align; thus there's no need to strain observing beyond windows, as the Dao's rhythms become self-evident. Those who rush about issuing constant commands, paradoxically understand less about governing. Therefore, sages perceive truth without distant travels, comprehend principles without direct observation, and accomplish merits without forced action.

Chapter 48 reveals: Those pursuing scholarly learning accumulate daily knowledge, while cultivators of the Dao progressively diminish artificial striving. Study demands continuous gathering of information, yet Dao cultivation requires gradual reduction of utilitarian actions. Reduce and reduce again, until reaching the state of Wuwei. This non-action isn't passive inertia, but mirror-like natural reflection that effortlessly accomplishes all. Governing the world requires maintaining serene non-interference — when edicts multiply and exhaust the people, true governance fails.

Chapter 49 states: The sage's heart maintains no fixed prejudices, but takes the people's hearts as its own. Like a mirror responding naturally to external phenomena, though ever-changing, it consistently guides people toward goodness with constancy of purpose. To the kind I respond with kindness; to the unkind I also respond with kindness — this constitutes true De (Virtue). To the trustworthy I respond with trust; to the untrustworthy I also respond with trust — this constitutes true integrity.

In his commentary on the Dao De Jing, Emperor Xuanzong of Tang explains: To those who are virtuous and sincere, I respond with equal virtue and sincerity; to those lacking virtue and sincerity, I still teach them through the Way of virtuous sincerity, so the people may be transformed by my De (Virtue/Power) and become virtuous and sincere. When sages govern the world, they maintain a cautious and humble mindset, merging their hearts with all under heaven.

In governing, sages consistently guide the people with this careful attitude. When qualities like De, virtue, and sincerity manifest, the sage's heart attains a state of serene clarity. The phrase "making the heart simple for all under heaven" means the sage's heart becomes completely one with the multitude. The people attentively observe the sage's words and deeds because they are transformed by the sage's De.

The sage regards the people as a loving mother regards her infant—this is the meaning of "the sage treats them all as children."

In commenting on Chapter 50's "emerging into life, entering death," he explains: Awakening to truth liberates one from the cycle of life and death, while attachment to delusion binds one to this cycle. Among living beings, about three-tenths naturally follow the Dao of life, while another three-tenths follow the way of death. Yet another three-tenths, though alive, hasten their death through excessive clinging to life—this occurs because their desperate pursuit of longevity violates natural law.

Why does this happen? Precisely because they cling too fiercely to survival. It is said that those skilled in nurturing life encounter no rhinoceros or tiger when traveling by land, nor need armor or weapons when entering battlefields. Rhinoceroses find no place to gore, tigers no place to claw, weapons no place to pierce. This is because those adept at preserving life maintain inner purity without coveting external things, thus remaining invulnerable to harm.

Why can such dangers not harm them? Because they flow with natural transformations, free from selfishness, not viewing death as a threat. Thus external things cannot injure them—this is the principle of "having no realm of death."

Chapter 51 speaks of how the Dao gives birth and nourishes all things:

The Great Dao (cosmic origin) generates harmonious Qi through subtle operations, while De (the manifestation of Dao) nurtures all beings. All things acquire their forms through the interaction of Yin-Yang (Qian as heaven, Kun as earth), and the alternation of seasons and temperatures brings them to maturity. Thus, all things revere the Dao and cherish De—this reverence is not a title bestowed by anyone but arises naturally. Just as the Dao gives birth to all things without claiming possession, accomplishes without taking credit, and governs without control, this is the most profound De. (This principle aligns with the cultivation of the human body discussed in Chapter 10, "Carrying the Hun and Po," though this chapter focuses on the operation of the Dao itself.)

All things under heaven have an origin (Chapter 52), and this origin is the "harmonious Qi of the Void" (the primordial energy of Yin-Yang fusion), which nourishes all beings like a mother. Recognizing that one is born from this "harmonious Qi," one must guard this root, and thus remain free from danger throughout life.

The specific method is: block the openings of desire (the "Dui" refers to sensory indulgence), close the gates of temptation (the indulgence of the six senses—eyes craving beauty, ears craving sound, etc.), and thus one will never exhaust oneself in lifelong toil. Conversely, if one indulges in sensory pleasures, it becomes difficult to remedy throughout life.

To perceive subtle omens is called wisdom; maintaining a gentle and yielding posture is true strength. Utilizing the inner light of wisdom, one ultimately returns to the clarity of the original mind. (Here, the essentials of cultivation are explained: controlling sensory desires, nurturing inner awareness, and embodying the wisdom of overcoming hardness with softness in life.)

This scripture primarily expounds on the way of self-cultivation and governance of the state, emphasizing the wisdom of maintaining inner softness and conforming to nature.

Laozi says: True wisdom lies in perceiving the subtle, while maintaining a soft posture brings genuine strength. If one merely flaunts cleverness and strives for dominance, one will instead lose the fundamental. Just as light illuminates external objects but ultimately must return to inner clarity, only then can one remain free from worry for long.

To avoid bringing calamity upon oneself is to follow the eternal Dao (袭常, xichang). Here "袭" means to inherit or follow. By preserving the inner light, one avoids self-inflicted disasters—this is the true application of unchanging truth.

Chapter 53 explains: When one stubbornly believes to possess truth (介然有知, jieran youzhi) and forcibly implements so-called great Dao, the opposite effect occurs. Though the great Dao is inherently broad and level (甚夷, shenyi), people always prefer shortcuts (好径, haojing). The text describes various social disorders:

When courts esteem political cunning (尚贤矜智, shangxian jinzhi), governance becomes chaotic; fields lie fallow when people neglect farming; empty granaries result from barren harvests; while people pursue ornate garments (服文采, fu wencai), artisans' livelihoods suffer; wearing sharp swords to flaunt military prowess leads to neglect of ritual and culture; excessive feasting (厌饮食, yan yinshi) accompanies hoarding of wealth (财货有余, caihuo youyu). Such conduct resembles robbers boasting of merit—complete deviations from the Dao.

Chapter 54 discusses statecraft: Those skilled at establishing foundations (善建, shanjian) create unshakable institutions; those adept at uniting hearts (善抱, shanbao) ensure people never desert them. Such rulers leave virtues that fragrance later generations, like the Zhou dynasty's centuries-long ancestral sacrifices to Houji and King Wen (不辍, bu chuo). This teaches us that only achievements built upon Dao and De (Virtue) endure through time.

This passage illustrates how the cultivation of Dao and De (Virtue/Power) manifests differently across various scopes of influence. When an individual cultivates virtue through self-cultivation, their De remains pure and authentic. When an entire family practices virtue, their De becomes abundant. Extending this to a whole village, the De endures over time. At the national level, cultivated De becomes richly expansive. When the entire world embraces virtue, De becomes universally pervasive in all things.

The text then employs comparative analysis: Judging individuals by personal cultivation standards, those who maintain clarity and stillness possess true De. Evaluating families by household governance standards, harmonious coexistence reflects abundant De. Assessing villages by community standards, orderly conduct demonstrates enduring De. Measuring nations by statecraft standards, frugal and diligent governance signifies expansive De. Observing the world by universal standards, governing through wuwei (non-action) embodies all-pervading De. Through this layered comparative observation, one comprehends the principles underlying all things in the universe.

Chapter 55 specifically describes how those with profound virtue resemble newborn infants. The conduct of perfected individuals (zhiren) mirrors the pure authenticity of infants—poisonous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't attack them, and birds of prey won't strike them, because their spiritual state transcends ordinary existence, making them invulnerable to harm. This stems from their complete absence of harmful intentions toward creation, thus attracting no harm in return.

Though infants have soft bones, they can clench their fists tightly; though unaware of sexual matters, they exhibit natural vitality—this reveals the abundance of their jing (essence) and qi (vital energy). Their constant crying never leads to hoarseness, demonstrating the purity and harmony of their primordial qi. Understanding how to maintain this state of tender harmony is called "chang" (the constant Dao), and comprehending this constant principle constitutes true wisdom. Excessive pursuit of life-nourishment ironically invites misfortune (here "xiang" signifies ominous portents), while forcibly directing qi through willpower constitutes reckless coercion.

Using the infant metaphor to represent the highest state of Dao cultivation, the text emphasizes the qualities of natural wuwei and pure harmony. Particularly noteworthy is the warning that "excessive nurturing brings calamity," revealing how deliberate attempts to prolong life may backfire—a concept deeply aligned with Daoism's philosophy of natural alignment.

The mind clings to distinctions of right and wrong, yet primordial Qi (the innate vital energy) itself makes no such divisions. To forcibly manipulate Qi with subjective consciousness is the way of those who strive to dominate.

All things that reach their zenith must decline—this is called being "not in accord with the Dao" (natural law). Whatever is not in accord with the Dao will perish prematurely. When anything becomes excessively strong, it inevitably weakens; thus we must guard against self-reliant displays of strength, for they violate the Dao's principles and inevitably invite early demise.

Those who truly understand the Dao do not engage in empty talk, while those who love to argue do not truly comprehend. Here, "knowing" refers to profound awakening, and "speaking" denotes contentious words. The awakened are neither deluded by external things nor attached to verbal disputes—hence the instruction to "block the apertures of desire" (maintaining inner purity). Without covetous attachments, the gates of desire naturally close.

Blunting sharp edges, resolving conflicts, harmonizing radiance, and blending with the mundane—this is called "mysterious unity" (the state of oneness with the Dao). This principle aligns with the earlier chapter on "the Dao's emptiness": there it describes the Dao's essence, while here it shows how humans embodying the Dao's qualities attain unity with its profound mystery.

Thus, such a person cannot be approached through worldly standards, having merged with the Dao without selfishness; nor can they be distanced, for they peacefully integrate with all. They cannot be tempted by profit, being free of desire; nor harmed, as they contend with none. Neither elevated, for they follow nature's course; nor debased, being pure and untainted. Therefore, they become the most precious existence under heaven. Those who truly realize the Great Dao speak with natural clarity, their sharp edges and conflicts dissolved—radiating light while blending with the dust, transcending distinctions of closeness, distance, nobility, or baseness to become the supreme treasure of the world.

Govern the state with orthodox methods, command armies with unconventional tactics, but win the world through wuwei (non-action). The key to ruling the world lies in governing without interference. Harsh edicts to administer a state or deceitful strategies in warfare all violate the Dao's principles. Only through serene non-action can one truly win the world—these three statements form this chapter's essence.

How do I know this is how the world should be governed? By these truths: The more prohibitions in the world, the poorer the people become. For governing through decrees creates countless restrictions, preventing people from working and living normally—thus increasing poverty.

When people admire cunning and cleverness, the nation grows more chaotic. "Sharp weapons" refer to manipulative schemes—if rulers value stratagems over returning to simple authenticity, the country descends into turmoil.

When rulers govern the nation through deceitful means, the people will likewise emulate fraudulent behavior, leading to increasing chaos in the state. If the ruler admires cunning techniques, the people will pursue extravagant pleasures, and all manner of bizarre crafts and excessive ingenuity will proliferate.

The more stringent and complex the laws become, the more thieves and bandits will emerge. This occurs because when the fundamental principle of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)" is lost, people will exploit legal loopholes to commit crimes, ultimately transforming into thieves.

Therefore, the sage says: "When I refrain from arbitrary action, the people naturally transform; when I avoid creating disturbances, the people naturally prosper; when I maintain stillness, the people naturally become upright; when I am free from selfish desires, the people naturally return to simplicity." Wuwei brings tranquility, and the people are naturally influenced; "non-interference" avoids disruption, and the people naturally flourish; "preferring stillness" aligns with their innate nature, and the people naturally become upright; "being desireless" preserves harmonious Qi (vital energy), and the people naturally remain pure. This is the principle of governing the world without deliberate action.

(Chapter 58) When governance is generous and inclusive, the people become honest and sincere. Because the government's teachings are relaxed and Wuwei, the people respond with their innate simplicity. Conversely, if laws and decrees are harsh and overly detailed, the people become cunning and hypocritical. When governance is strict and interventionist, the people resort to opportunism to cope.

Within misfortune lies fortune, and within fortune lurks misfortune—who can discern the mystery of this? A seemingly foolish, lenient governance results in people becoming simple and genuine—this is misfortune transforming into fortune. A seemingly shrewd, oppressive governance leads to moral decay among the people—this is fortune transforming into misfortune.

Is there no absolute proper path? In truth, it is because people are deluded, mistaking the proper path for something strange and virtuous deeds for ominous signs. The cycle of fortune and misfortune appears unpredictable. This confusion among the people has persisted for a long time.

Thus, the sage is square-edged yet does not wound, incorruptible yet not harsh, straightforward yet not unrestrained, luminous yet not dazzling. The sage excels in teaching: demonstrating squareness without force, displaying purity without harm, upholding integrity without ostentation, and radiating light without showiness. When these virtues are cultivated within oneself, they naturally influence others.

In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing surpasses the principles of frugality and cherishing. Here "frugality" (se) means treasuring resources. For rulers seeking to properly manage human affairs and serve the celestial order, no method proves better than conserving the people's strength and reducing expenditures. This approach fills granaries, teaches the people ritual propriety, preserves agricultural seasons undisturbed, and invites auspicious signs from Heaven. When the people live in harmony, human affairs are well governed; when blessed by Heaven, the celestial order is properly served.

Only through understanding frugality and cherishing can the people's early allegiance be secured. What binds hearts together? It is material prosperity. Thus when frugality is practiced, people from all directions will come carrying their children on their backs, submitting early to serve their ruler. "Submission" here means offering loyal service.

This state of early allegiance manifests the profound accumulation of De (Virtue). Because the ruler practices frugality, De accumulates naturally. People instinctively submit to virtuous rulers, serving them early—this is called "heavy accumulation of De" (chong ji de).

With such profound accumulation of De, nothing remains unconquerable. When sages accumulate De, the world unites under benevolent governance, leaving nothing beyond their influence. "Conquer" here means having the capacity to achieve.

When nothing is unconquerable, none can perceive the ruler's limits. A ruler whose De reaches this omnipotent state of governance extends influence to the four directions, making his boundaries unknowable to the world.

When his limits become unknowable, he can truly preserve the state. Only by reaching this boundless realm can one genuinely possess a nation.

By mastering the fundamental Dao of governance, enduring stability is achieved. Maintaining a state that nurtures its people ensures the nation's blessings continue long.

This reveals the principle of deep roots and enduring vision. Accumulating De to preserve the state resembles how deep roots make flowers and fruits secure. Such profound stability forms the foundational Dao for a nation's lasting peace and perpetual existence.

Governing a great state is like cooking small fish. When frying small fish, one shouldn't flip them too often; similarly, when governing a large nation, one shouldn't over-manage. Excessive interference will exhaust the people, just as excessive flipping will break the fish apart.

When the world is governed according to the Dao (the principle of natural non-action), even ghosts and spirits lose their power to manifest strange phenomena. This doesn't mean supernatural beings cease to exist, but because the ruler doesn't pursue illusory blessings, these entities have no opportunity to display extraordinary powers that might harm the people.

Not only do the spirits refrain from harming the people, but the enlightened ruler also avoids harming them. The reason spirits don't manifest to injure people is precisely because the ruler follows the governing principle of Wuwei (non-action) and maintains the natural tranquility of the Dao. When neither spirits nor rulers harm the people, their respective virtues (De) merge harmoniously.

A great state should position itself humbly like the lower reaches of a river, becoming the converging center of all under heaven. This "lower position" refers to the virtue of humility—when a great state remains modest and inclusive, all people will naturally gravitate toward it.

When the world comes to join, it resembles how the female often overcomes the male through stillness. Thus one should use stillness to control movement and softness to overcome hardness. Therefore, when a great state shows humility toward smaller states, it gains their allegiance; when smaller states show deference to greater ones, they gain protection. The great state's humility serves to gather smaller states as affiliates, while the smaller states' deference seeks the support of the greater power.

Whether it's a great state gathering smaller ones or smaller states attaching themselves to greater ones, both sides achieve their respective needs. But most importantly, the greater state should take the initiative to maintain this humble, lower position.

A ruler who wishes to govern a great nation must guard against complacency and arrogance, hence the emphasis that "a large state should be even more humble and unassuming."

The Dao is the most profound root of all things (the "profound" refers to the intrinsic essence). All beings rely on this mysterious foundation for their existence, thus the Dao is the basis upon which all things depend. Virtuous people treasure the Dao because they understand that aligning with it brings prosperity while opposing it leads to decline. Therefore, they cherish it constantly without being troubled.

Though those lacking virtue may ordinarily disregard the Dao, when calamity strikes, they too will seek to rely on it for preservation. Noble words earn respect, and lofty conduct influences others. Just as sages use the beautiful words of dharma and the serene, elevated actions of stillness to transform the unvirtuous, inspiring them to turn toward goodness. Hence the scripture states: Why should we abandon those lacking virtue?

Therefore, the Son of Heaven is established and the Three Ducal Ministers (the highest offices of Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian) are appointed to jointly educate those lacking virtue. Even presenting jade discs so large they require both arms to embrace, or chariots drawn by four horses, cannot compare to the transformative power of sitting quietly to contemplate this path of Wuwei (non-action).

Why did the ancients value this Dao so profoundly? Because the Dao cannot be attained through daily deliberate striving—it requires awakening. Once awakened to the Dao, one is naturally freed from transgressions without needing to wait for wrongdoing before seeking pardon. Thus, the Dao is regarded as the most precious treasure under heaven.

In the chapter on Wuwei (non-action), it is said: Act through non-action, handle affairs through non-interference, and savor through flavorlessness. Whether matters are great or small, many or few, resolve resentment through De (virtue). If one does not overstep their proper bounds, they will not incur others' resentment. But if desires are indulged and innate nature violated, then whether affairs are large or small, resentment will surely arise.

This passage expounds the wisdom of Daoist self-cultivation and worldly conduct, centered on the principles of "preventing small beginnings" and "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." When a person maintains their inherent peaceful nature, resolving grievances through Virtue (De) proves most effective. Addressing difficulties should begin with what's manageable, and great undertakings must start from small beginnings. Those who indulge their desires find everything difficult and perceive all challenges as insurmountable.

To tackle complex problems and accomplish significant matters, one must act while the mind remains undistracted and fundamental nature intact—when affairs are still in their easily manageable stage. All difficulties under heaven originate from simple beginnings; all great achievements accumulate from small steps. The reason sages can accomplish extraordinary deeds lies precisely in their avoidance of forced grandiosity, thereby naturally attaining their goals.

Those who make promises lightly often lack credibility, while those who view matters as overly simple ultimately encounter hardships. Sages always consider matters with due seriousness, and consequently face no true difficulties in the end.

Maintaining order is easiest during times of stability; formulating strategies proves simplest before signs of trouble emerge. When the human mind preserves its original clarity, maintaining this undistracted state—even severing thoughts before they fully form—becomes relatively effortless. Just as fragile objects break easily and tiny things scatter readily, desires are most easily extinguished in their initial faint stirrings; calamities are most easily prevented when they first appear as minor signs.

One should prepare before events occur and address disorder before it takes shape. The massive tree requiring three people to embrace grew from a tender sprout; the nine-tiered tower was built basket by basket of earth; the thousand-mile journey begins with a single step beneath one's feet. These three metaphors all illustrate how failure to plan early leads to future troubles.

Those who force action often meet with failure; those who cling stubbornly ultimately experience loss. Ordinary people, unable to follow nature's course, insist on forcing outcomes and inevitably fail; unable to transcend attachment, they form fixations—the harder they grasp, the more they lose.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) never fails because they practice non-action (Wuwei), and never err because they refrain from stubborn attachments. Ordinary people often fail when their endeavors are near completion, and even when beginning virtuous acts, they tend to self-sabotage when nearing success. If one maintains the same caution at the end as at the beginning, there will be no failures. By preserving the original pure intention behind virtuous actions, one can surely avoid calamity.

Sages pursue what others neglect and do not value hard-to-obtain treasures. Since such treasures exceed the needs of human nature, sages refrain from seeking what lies beyond their inherent allotment, thus preserving their natural disposition. Sages do not study frivolous and useless knowledge, but rather correct people's excessive pursuits, following the innate nature of all things without presumptuous interference. This is how they avoid becoming entangled in worldly knowledge and excessive desires.

In ancient times, those skilled in practicing the Dao (ideal rulers) did not use it to make people clever and cunning, but guided them to return to simplicity, achieving a state of pure simplicity akin to innocence. People become difficult to govern precisely because of their excessive cleverness. If a ruler governs through cunning, the people will respond in kind, leading to widespread deceit. Therefore, governing through cleverness brings disaster to a nation, while governing without it brings blessing.

Understanding the difference between these two approaches to governance means grasping the principle of statecraft. Consistently adhering to this principle constitutes the possession of "profound virtue" (Xuande). This virtue is deep and far-reaching, running counter to worldly pursuits, yet ultimately leads to supreme harmony.

Laozi here expounds the profound characteristics of the Dao: True virtue (Xuande, "mysterious virtue") is vast and far-reaching, capable of guiding all things to return to their source, enabling all beings to follow their natural dispositions.

In the chapter "Rivers and Seas Are Lords of All Valleys," it explains: The reason rivers and seas can become the sovereigns to which all streams flow is because they excel at occupying the lowest positions. If sages wish to stand above the people, they must use humble words; to lead the people, they must place themselves behind others. Thus, even when occupying high positions, people will not feel oppressed; even when walking ahead, people will not feel harmed. Precisely because of this non-contending attitude, no one in the world can contend with them.

In the chapter "All Under Heaven Say," Laozi states: All under heaven say my Dao is vast, yet it seems unlike any concrete thing. Precisely because of its vastness, it resembles nothing particular. If it were like concrete things, it would long have appeared insignificant. I hold three treasures that I always cherish: The first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is daring not to be ahead of the world.

Compassion makes one courageous (for with a merciful heart comes the bravery to save others), frugality makes resources abundant (for economizing creates more to share), and daring not to take the lead enables one to become the people's guide (for yielding earns their support). These are concrete manifestations of the Dao in human conduct.

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, in his commentary on the Dao De Jing, emphasized that those who embody the three virtues of compassion, frugality, and humility shine like a light upon others. By willingly yielding benefits to others, such a person will never be rejected by the people and is thus worthy of being the master of all things.

To abandon compassion and pursue mere ferocity is to harm others with such reckless courage. To discard frugality for extravagance inevitably leads to the wasteful depletion of resources. To forsake humility and insist on being first only invites resentment. To both deplete wealth and harm others while accumulating collective resentment is certainly the path to self-destruction.

With compassion, one can triumph in battle and remain unshaken in defense. This is because warfare guided by compassion seeks to preserve all, and defense rooted in compassion aims to bring peace to the people. When everyone is secure, victory and stability naturally follow. When Heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them with compassion—thus, warfare and defense based on compassion not only win human hearts but also manifest the aid of the Dao. Victory is Heaven’s deliverance, and steadfastness is Heaven’s protection—all because of compassion.

A truly skilled ruler does not rely on force (the term shi refers to those who govern affairs); governing through De (Virtue) is the highest principle. A skilled warrior is not swayed by anger—when compelled to face an enemy, maintaining compassion is paramount. One who excels in overcoming opponents does not engage in contention, for an army’s victory depends on unity, and unity ensures complete triumph. A wise leader remains humble in employing others—to make subordinates serve wholeheartedly, one must first treat them with respect.

This is the virtue of non-contention (bu zheng), the wisdom of employing people, and the ancient highest principle in accord with the Dao. The virtue of non-contention brings true victory; a humble attitude allows talent to flourish. Those who achieve this are in harmony with the Dao and may be called true rulers—this is the supreme art of governance since antiquity.

Regarding the way of warfare, Laozi lamented how people of his time recklessly resorted to arms and inflicted harm. Thus, he borrowed the words of the ancients to issue a warning: I dare not take the initiative in war but prefer to respond passively; I dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot. To initiate aggression invites trouble, while responding with passivity allows one to defend with compassion. Defense leads to complete victory, while aggression ultimately brings ruin. Advancing even slightly risks provoking conflict, while retreating, though seemingly more, preserves humility—hence, better to retreat a foot than advance an inch. This is the action that appears as non-action (wuwei)—the highest strategy where no visible movement is taken.

This passage expounds Laozi's profound insights on warfare, cognition, and wisdom. Regarding warfare, the truly wise never act in anger (the ancient gesture of "baring arms" signified rage), maintaining equanimity even toward enemies as if having no arms to raise. When employing military force, they refrain from attachment to slaughter, treating others with compassion as if unarmed. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating adversaries, for such arrogance nearly causes one to lose the precious virtue of "compassion" (Ci). In battle, the army imbued with merciful resolve often prevails.

Laozi states his Dao is actually simple to comprehend and practice ("accordance with principle" [Qili] means aligning with the Dao, while "simplifying affairs" [Jianshi] means reducing complexity). Yet people cling to superficial words and drown in trivial matters, thus failing genuine understanding. Authentic speech takes "wordless discourse" as its foundation (Zong), and true action takes "effortless action" (Wuwei) as its sovereign. Precisely because people lack genuine awakening (Liaowu), they cannot grasp Laozi's teaching of "no-speaking and no-affairs."

Few comprehend Laozi's profound meaning of "forgetting knowledge" (Xi denotes rarity), and those who emulate this wisdom are rarer still. The sage resembles one "wearing coarse cloth yet harboring jade" (Beihe Huaiyu)—plain in appearance but treasured within.

The highest realm of cognition recognizes that "knowing not-knowing" (Zhi Buzhi) constitutes superior wisdom, while feigning knowledge manifests as a flaw (Bing). Just as understanding all phenomena's empty nature (Faxing Kong) requires releasing attachments for true wisdom, forcibly grasping at emptiness ironically becomes a spiritual obstacle. Sages remain free of such flaws precisely because they vigilantly regard "forced knowing" as a defect to avoid.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: one on self-cultivation, and the other on the wisdom of aligning with the Dao (the Way) in worldly affairs.

First, it explains that sages avoid the faults common to ordinary people precisely because they recognize people's "forced pursuit of knowledge" as a true malady. When minor warnings go unheeded, great calamities inevitably follow. The text reveals the essence of cultivation: one should not confine the Shen (spirit, referring to conscious activity), but rather clear distracting thoughts and desires to maintain inner clarity; nor should one excessively deplete vital energy (referring to the Jing-Qi-Shen triad), reducing mental strain and desires to prevent physical and mental exhaustion. Only when a person doesn't squander their vital essence will this energy remain with them.

Next, it describes the sage's approach to life: possessing self-awareness without self-display, practicing self-respect without self-importance. They recognize dangers and cherish themselves without depleting primordial Qi, refrain from showing off talents to avoid misfortune, and never inflate their worth to prevent resentment. They relinquish self-promotion and self-righteousness, choosing instead self-knowledge and self-care.

The second part discusses the wisdom behind courage: reckless boldness invites fatal consequences, while prudent restraint preserves life. Between daring and not daring to act, one brings harm, the other benefit. Heaven despises the reckless, yet who fully comprehends the reasons? Even sages find bold actions difficult to master.

Finally, it elucidates the Dao's natural operation: the Dao contends with none yet naturally prevails, speaks not yet responds accurately, calls not yet all things return to it. The Dao appears unhurried yet arranges all with perfect precision. Using the natural cycle of seasons as illustration, it shows how all things spontaneously align with the Dao's movement.

This scripture contains two main sections discussing governance principles and livelihood issues respectively.

The first part describes the operating principles of the heavenly Dao (the Way): Though profound and unfathomable, its laws are like a vast, invisible net (tianwang, "heavenly net")—seemingly loose yet leaving no good or evil unaccounted for. Those who indulge their desires and grow accustomed to recklessness, unafraid of death, should be transformed by the ruler through quiet and non-action (wuwei), not intimidated by harsh punishments. If the people all revere life and only a few cunning troublemakers remain, then punishing these individuals according to law will deter others from following their example. However, it must be remembered that the authority to punish ultimately belongs to the heavenly Dao (the "executioner"). If a ruler oversteps and abuses punishments, it is like an unskilled laborer trying to replace a master carpenter in chopping wood—not only ruining the material but also harming himself.

The second part analyzes three root causes of the people's hardships: hunger stems from rulers imposing excessive taxes; difficulty in governance arises from rulers forcing unnatural actions (youwei, "contrived action"), leading to widespread deceit; and disregard for death comes from pursuing extravagant lifestyles that undermine the natural duty to live. The wisest approach is to follow one's inherent nature and live simply—avoiding excessive pleasures. Maintaining a naturally moderate way of life is more enlightened than obsessively valuing longevity or luxury (guisheng, "overvaluing life").

Note: The term "qingjing" ("serene stillness") refers to the Daoist ideal of governing through non-interference; "youwei" denotes artificial interference that violates nature; and "guisheng" describes an excessive fixation on prolonging life or indulging in extravagance. These concepts embody the core Daoist principle of "the Dao follows nature" (dao fa ziran).

When alive, the body is soft and pliant; at death, it becomes stiff and rigid. All plants and trees are tender and supple while growing, but become dry and brittle when withered. Thus, what is hard and strong belongs to the category of death, while what is soft and weak belongs to the category of life.

The living body remains soft because it is filled with harmonious Qi (vital energy); in death, it stiffens because this harmonious Qi dissipates. This shows that maintaining softness preserves life, while relying on force invites destruction.

Thus, those who use military force aggressively cannot achieve victory, while those who demonstrate humility and compassion ultimately prevail. From this we understand that relying on strength inevitably leads to failure. Consider the great tree: though its trunk is thick and sturdy, it remains below, while its soft branches grow above. This exemplifies how the soft and weak occupy the higher position, while the rigid and forceful remain beneath.

The way of Heaven resembles drawing a bow to shoot an arrow. The Dao (the Way) of Heaven is profound and inscrutable, so we use the metaphor of adjusting a bow: if the string is too high, lower it; if too low, raise it. If the pull is too strong, ease it; if too weak, strengthen it. Only by such balanced adjustments can the arrow hit its mark. So too does the Dao of Heaven reduce excess to supplement deficiency—teaching rulers to emulate Heaven's way in caring for the people.

Yet human practices do the opposite, always taking from the insufficient to give to those who already have abundance. Only those who embody the Dao willingly give their surplus to those in need.

Thus, the sage acts without claiming merit, achieves without dwelling on accomplishments—precisely to avoid displaying their worthiness.

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet in attacking the hard and unyielding, nothing surpasses it. For nothing can replace water's nature.

When hardness opposes hardness, both sides suffer damage; using softness to overcome strength actually weakens the strong while preserving the gentle. Thus, when it comes to conquering what is hard, nothing surpasses water. Though the principle that "the soft overcomes the hard" is known throughout the world, few can truly embody it.

The sages say: Only those who can bear a nation's humiliation are worthy to be its rulers; only those who shoulder a country's misfortunes can become kings under heaven. To "bear a nation's humiliation" means to carry the burdens of the people's transgressions; to "bear a nation's inauspiciousness" means to call oneself "the solitary one," "the unworthy one," or "the lacking one" (humble titles of ancient rulers). Only those who possess such virtue (De) can sustain the altars of state, and the people will naturally turn to them. These words of truth may sound paradoxical—hence the saying, "True words seem contrary."

Chapter 79 speaks of resolving deep-seated grievances. The greatest resentments arise from human desires. When rulers attempt to harmonize the people through teachings and eliminate desires, this is called "reconciling great enmity." Yet the establishment of teachings inevitably leaves traces, and these traces in turn breed new resentments, making complete resolution impossible. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the "left tally" (referring to inner alignment), remaining pure and refraining from harsh judgment. A ruler with virtue (De) focuses on spiritual resonance, and the people transform naturally; a ruler without virtue relies on laws to enforce unity, which only creates further harm. The Dao of heaven shows no favoritism—it always aids the virtuous. Maintaining inner alignment leads to Wuwei (non-action), while forceful legislation brings only decline.

Chapter 80 depicts an ideal small state: Its population is sparse, so the people value life and do not wander far. Though they possess tools and vessels, they do not use them, content with simple living. Their food is plain yet satisfying, their clothing humble yet pleasing, their customs tranquil and joyful. Neighboring states are within sight, yet the people grow old and die without visiting one another. In such governance, no cunning schemes are needed—only a return to the purest simplicity.

This passage describes the ideal governance of a small state. The ruler should maintain a simple and natural disposition, without deliberately appointing even the most talented individuals (shibo refers to people of exceptional ability). Let the people cherish life and refrain from unnecessary migration, reducing desires and living contentedly in their homeland.

Though boats and carriages (zhou yu) exist, the people have no need to travel far; though armor and weapons (jia bing) are available, there is no need to display or use them. Let society return to the pristine simplicity of ancient knot-tying record-keeping. The people find simple food delicious, plain clothing beautiful, and humble dwellings comfortable, maintaining pure customs that bring them joy.

Neighboring states may be within sight of each other, with the sounds of crowing roosters and barking dogs audible, yet the people live out their lives without visiting one another. This is because each community is self-sufficient, with no need to seek anything from others.

Chapter 81 explains that truthful words (xinyan) are often not embellished (bu mei), as the sage's teachings emphasize substance over ornate rhetoric. Those pleasing, flowery speeches (meiyan) often lack credibility, as worldly flattery contains no genuine wisdom.

Those who truly understand the Dao (shanzhe) do not engage in clever arguments (bu bian), while those who love debate prove their lack of understanding. Those who truly know (zhi zhe) do not pursue superficial erudition, while those obsessed with broad learning fail to grasp true insight.

The sage does not cling to accumulated knowledge (bu ji), having transcended the limitations of language. Though the sage continuously imparts wisdom to others (yu ren), their own understanding not only remains undiminished but grows even more abundant (yu you yu duo). This demonstrates the inexhaustible nature of truth—when guiding ordinary people with Buddhist teachings, the sage's pure nature is not depleted but becomes even clearer through the act of teaching. "Yu you" refers to the manifestation of inner essence, while "yu duo" signifies the growth of external virtue.

This passage elucidates the essence of the Heavenly Dao (natural law) and the Way of Sages. The characteristic of the Heavenly Dao is to nourish all things without causing harm, while the Way of Sages (the behavioral principles of those who have attained the Dao) involves acting without contention.

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang explains in his commentary: The example of the Heavenly Dao benefiting and nurturing all things without harm is cited to illuminate the fundamental nature of the Sage's Way—all their actions aim to extensively benefit sentient beings. Precisely because sages consistently offer assistance to others, they naturally avoid falling into contention.

The concept of "acting without contention" (wei er bu zheng) mentioned here represents an important Daoist principle, maintaining direct continuity with the notion in the Daode Jing that "supreme goodness resembles water, which benefits all things without contention." The actions of sages operate as naturally as the movement of the Heavenly Dao—benefiting all beings without provoking conflict.