《唐玄宗御製道德真經疏(一)》Vol. 6

This passage describes the varying reactions of people at different levels when hearing about the Dao (the Way), as well as certain paradoxical phenomena encountered in the cultivation process.

Those of superior wisdom, upon hearing the great Dao, grasp its profundity deeply. Whether it concerns the Dao of expedient means (flexible application) or the Dao of ultimate truth (fundamental reality), they practice diligently without slackening. Those of middling capacity, upon hearing the Dao, waver between belief and doubt—they trust it when they understand but question it when confused, never attaining steadfast conviction. Those of inferior dullness, upon hearing the Dao, respond with loud laughter—just as the people of Yue found the ceremonial hats of the Central Plains ridiculous, or the people of Chu failed to recognize the value of the He Shi Jade.

The scripture emphasizes a crucial point: the true Dao often appears contrary to common sense. If even the foolish could comprehend it without mocking it, that would mean this principle is not yet profound or mysterious enough. Thus, being laughed at by the ignorant is, in fact, proof that one has encountered the true and wondrous Dao.

The passage then explains several paradoxical phenomena in the cultivation process: the truly enlightened path may seem dim on the surface, because cultivators must withdraw their brilliance and relinquish attachments. Progress on the path may appear as regression, because one must abandon worldly achievements, fame, and profit. These seemingly contradictory manifestations precisely reveal the profound and mysterious nature of the great Dao.

This passage presents Emperor Xuanzong of Tang's commentary on key concepts from the Daode Jing, using everyday metaphors to explain profound Daoist philosophy.

"The greatest perfection seems flawed" suggests that what appears perfect actually contains imperfections. What ordinary people perceive as defects are in fact manifestations of the Dao. "The level path seems rough" (where "rough" refers to uneven knots in silk thread) illustrates how realized beings maintain inner purity while appearing outwardly ordinary.

"The highest virtue resembles a valley" describes how truly virtuous individuals embrace all things like a vast canyon. "The purest white seems sullied" shows how immaculate virtue may appear dust-covered while remaining inwardly spotless. "Expansive virtue seems insufficient" reveals how those with great virtue appear humble, just as the Records of the Grand Historian notes that skilled merchants conceal their treasures, and noble persons hide their wisdom like fools.

"Establishing virtue seems like stealth" portrays virtuous cultivators secretly performing good deeds as if afraid of being discovered. "Genuine purity seems changeable" suggests truly authentic people appear to conform to worldly ways to maintain harmony with others.

"The greatest square has no corners" explains how truly square things paradoxically lack edges, symbolizing how realized beings integrate with society without ostentation. "The greatest vessel is completed late" compares spiritual cultivation to crafting precious artifacts requiring prolonged refinement. "The greatest sound is barely audible" indicates the Dao's voice transcends ordinary hearing, just as sage's teachings require proper conditions for comprehension. "The greatest form has no shape" reveals how supreme manifestations adapt freely without fixed appearances.

The Dao, though formless and indescribable, manifests through its function of generating all things—when this occurs, people reluctantly call it "Dao." When it conceals its creative power, it appears profoundly mysterious. The ancients sought to define the essence of the Dao with names, yet its mystical nature is inherently without form, making it impossible to describe with specific terms—hence the saying, "The Dao is hidden and nameless."

Only the Dao can selflessly nourish all beings and bring them to completion. This praises the Dao's magnificent function. The term "lend" (贷) here means "to bestow." Though the Dao has no name, form, shape, or sound, it can distribute primordial Qi (炁), transform all things, nourish every life, and bring them to maturity and perfection—hence it is said to "excel in lending and completing."

Chapter 42 explains the principle of how all things come into being (the previous chapter discussed how scholars of three grades comprehend the Dao's capacity to generate all things, while this chapter clarifies that the actual process of transformation requires the cooperation of three types of Qi). First, it describes how the harmonious Qi (冲和之气), with its gentle and yielding nature, maintains balance in all things. Then, it uses the terms "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (孤、寡、不穀) to admonish rulers to remain humble. Finally, it warns that "the violent and domineering will not die well," emphasizing the fundamental lesson of cultivating the Dao.

The Dao first gives rise to the primordial chaotic Qi ("the One"). This Qi then divides into the two energies of Yin and Yang ("the Two"). The interaction of Yin and Yang produces a harmonizing Qi ("the Three"), and these three Qi together generate all things. Here, the "Dao" is the supremely subtle and formless essence, while "the One" is the harmonizing essence of Jing (精) and Qi. "Generation" refers to the process of movement and transformation. The Dao, through movement, produces harmonizing Qi to create all things—yet this principle of responsive transformation alone is insufficient. It further generates Yang Qi, which accumulates to form "the Two." Pure Yang cannot endure indefinitely, so Yin Qi is then generated, and the union of Yin and Yang forms "the Three." When Yin and Yang Qi blend harmoniously, they give rise to all forms of life. This illustrates the Dao's ability to excel in nourishing and perfecting all things.

All things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their arms, achieving harmony through the blending of harmonizing Qi. The reason all things can be fully formed lies in the harmonious interaction of Yin and Yang Qi. Thus, one must bear Yin and nurture Yang, treasuring the harmonizing Qi to maintain a gentle and yielding nature. Guangchengzi (a legendary immortal) once told the Yellow Emperor: "I hold fast to the Dao of pure unity and embrace the harmonizing Qi, thus cultivating my body for 1,200 years without decline." This shows that the harmonizing state of primordial Qi is the foundation upon which all life depends. Laozi cites this example to explain that since humans are born endowed with harmonizing Qi, Qi is the root of life—one should remain gentle and yielding, preserving this nature through humility.

People generally despise terms like "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (used by ancient rulers as humble self-references, meaning "one of solitary virtue," "one of few virtues," or "one lacking goodness"), yet kings and nobles adopt them for themselves (this admonishes rulers to maintain humility).

This passage expounds on the Daoist philosophy of "humility and softness" as the proper way of conduct in the world. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, in his commentary on the Daode Jing, emphasized that rulers and nobility should adopt an attitude of humble yielding as the foundation for governance.

The text observes that sovereigns deliberately use seemingly inauspicious terms like "solitary" or "desolate" when referring to themselves—a manifestation of genuine humility. As leaders of the state, their words and actions influence societal customs. Arrogance leads to loss of popular support, while maintaining humility and softness paradoxically garners public allegiance and achieves great undertakings.

Laozi teaches that rulers wishing to guide the people should employ the Daoist principles of emptiness, stillness, and gentle harmony. Those who rely on brute force often meet untimely ends, as exemplified by the Qin dynasty's collapse due to tyranny versus the Han dynasty's flourishing through harmonious governance. The violently aggressive violate the Dao of nurturing life and inevitably forfeit their vitality.

The concept of "teaching's father" (教父) illustrates how Laozi establishes the way of softness as the root of all instruction, much as a father serves as the foundation for his children. The core message admonishes overcoming hardness with softness and conducting oneself with humility—the very essence of the Daoist approach to life.

This passage expounds the Daoist concepts of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" and "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Human nature is originally pure and gentle, but when indulging in desires and being seduced by sensory pleasures, it becomes rigid and unyielding. Only by seeing through the essence of all things and returning to one's fundamental truth can one unite with the Dao (the Way).

Laozi (Lord Lao) specifically admonishes rulers here: governing the world through non-action is the most excellent approach. He observes that all beings are inherently gentle and soft, yet the pursuit of fame and profit makes them rigid and forceful. If one can see through the mind and return to emptiness, they will align with the Dao. The way of governing through purity and non-action benefits people more than active indoctrination.

The true Dao does not require words—sages teach the people through silent non-action. Other schools of thought struggle to attain this state of non-action; only rulers who genuinely comprehend the great Dao can achieve it.

The latter part raises the question of which is more important—reputation or life. While the earlier section explains how gentle nature becomes rigid through pursuit, this portion illustrates how excessive striving for fame and wealth invites disaster. Knowing contentment and abiding in one's original state ensures longevity.

This passage examines through comparison which is more worthy of cherishing—reputation or life. The character "孰" means "which one." To elaborate: The pursuit of fame and the nourishment of life are fundamentally different matters—which one truly deserves our devotion as the proper path of cultivation? Unfortunately, people often become obsessed with empty reputation while neglecting life itself.

Next, it compares life and material possessions to determine which is more precious. Here, "多" refers to what is truly valuable. Life and wealth are inherently distinct—which should be valued more? This is meant to make people understand that life is the foundation and should not be overshadowed by excessive attachment to possessions. As illustrated in the outer chapters of the Zhuangzi, there is the anecdote of "discarding fine jade and destroying precious pearls."

The passage then asks: Which is more harmful—gaining or losing? This summarizes the previous two questions—what is the greater harm, acquiring fame and wealth or losing them? In truth, chasing fame and fortune depletes life, while preserving life requires letting go of such pursuits. The relationship between benefit and harm is clear, yet those lost in their obsession often fail to see it.

Thus, the scripture concludes: Excessive attachment inevitably leads to great loss, and hoarding too much ultimately invites severe ruin. Here, "费" means depletion, and "亲" refers to clinging affection. Obsessively pursuing fame distorts one's nature and exhausts the spirit (Shen)—the deeper the fixation, the greater the toll. The more wealth one accumulates, the more devastating the eventual loss. Just as carrying fine jade invites misfortune, and the treasures buried in ancient tombs only attract grave robbers, these examples illustrate the dangers of greed.

To know contentment is to avoid disgrace; to understand moderation is to avert danger—only then can one endure. Here, "辱" denotes harm, and "殆" signifies peril. Not chasing empty fame is contentment; not hoarding possessions is restraint. Contentment ensures reputation aligns with reality without undue burden, while restraint prevents excessive accumulation and the calamities of greed. Only by avoiding disgrace and danger can one achieve lasting survival.

Chapter 45 states: "What is most perfect seems incomplete." The preceding sections discuss the relative importance of life and wealth, while this chapter warns against complacency and advocates humility, ensuring that one's influence never wanes. The opening seven lines establish principles of cultivation, the middle two contrast the merits of stillness and movement, and the conclusion affirms that "clarity and stillness in Wuwei (non-action)" are the true way to govern the world—what appears most complete seems flawed, yet precisely because of this, its efficacy never fails.

The practitioner who attains the highest state possesses complete and perfect De (Virtue), yet maintains a mind as open and humble as if it were deficient. Precisely because of this, their talents and wisdom never become exhausted. The sages who have perfected their moral cultivation are likewise—their merits equal Heaven and Earth in nurturing all things, their De matches the sun and moon in illuminating the world. Though their achievements are so vast, they never presume upon them, instead behaving as if they were still lacking. It is this attitude that ensures their influence never wanes.

That which is most full appears empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. Here, "chong" (冲) refers to emptiness, while "qiong" (穷) means deficiency. Though sages occupy positions of honor and enjoy abundant blessings, they remain modest and frugal, free from arrogance and complacency—thus appearing empty. This state of "having yet seeming without, being substantial yet appearing void" ensures their impact never diminishes.

The most upright seem yielding and pliant. "Zhi" (直) is uprightness, while "qu" (屈) is bending. The first four lines discuss the relationship between essence and function, while the following three describe only the essence without mentioning function—a form of literary ellipsis. Those who are strict with themselves yet harsh toward others, who flaunt their righteousness while rejecting dissent, possess only minor uprightness. In contrast, those who do not cling to distinctions of right and wrong, nor deliberately correct others, embody great uprightness. This attitude of yielding to external circumstances is why they "seem to bend."

The most skillful appear clumsy. Those who display their carving techniques or flaunt their compasses and rulers possess only petty cleverness. Those who adapt to materials and circumstances, accomplishing things in accordance with nature without losing their innate qualities, embody true wisdom. This state seems unrefined and plain, like Zhuangzi's description of the Creator shaping all things without appearing skillful.

The most eloquent seem inarticulate. Those who pile up ornate phrases and play with rhetoric possess only minor eloquence. True mastery of speech lies in teaching without words and penetrating the essence of all things. The profoundest discourse often transcends language, free from deliberate praise or blame, as simple as a stammer.

Restlessness overcomes cold, while stillness conquers heat. This metaphor illustrates a principle: clinging to achievement leads to failure, and complacency invites downfall. Thus, though the sages' merits benefit all under Heaven, they claim no credit for themselves—appearing deficient, they never decline. Though occupying honored positions, they regard them as nothing—appearing empty, they never exhaust. Fearing people might not grasp this truth, the text employs the metaphor of Yin-Yang transformation: restlessness represents Yang Qi. In spring and summer, when Yang Qi ascends, all things flourish. But when Yang becomes excessive, it turns to cold.

All things decay and perish because agitation is the root of death, and excessive vigor is the very source of decline. Just as those who achieve success but fail to restrain themselves are bound to collapse, and those who remain full yet lack humility are destined to fall. The strong and restless are fated to move toward death, while stillness can temper agitation—just as in autumn and winter, when Yang Qi (vital energy) retreats deep beneath the earth. When stillness reaches its utmost, it generates warmth, which in turn nurtures gentle Qi, allowing all things to flourish—life, in truth, arises from silence. Thus, we see that stillness is the foundation of life and the master of agitation. Just as the most perfect state requires maintaining imperfection, and the fullest moment demands emptiness, only then can one avoid calamity and attain eternal life. Those who embody Wuwei (non-action) and tranquility grasp the fundamental law of life. This teaches us to seek stillness for longevity, not recklessness that hastens death.

Tranquility and Wuwei are the true path to governing the world. This passage summarizes the core teaching: the sage observes the waxing and waning of Yang Qi, recognizing that agitation leads to death while stillness is the origin of life. Applying this principle to human relations and nurturing all beings, mastering the root to govern the branches, and practicing the Dao of purity—this is how one becomes a model for the world.

In times of peace and prosperity, warhorses are stripped of their saddles and used to plow fields and fertilize the land. The so-called "possession of the Dao" means ruling the world through Wuwei, where the borders remain undisturbed, and the ruler does not covet expansion at the people’s expense. Thus, weapons are stored, and warhorses are retired, allowing people to focus on farming.

Yet in times of chaos and disorder, even pregnant mares are conscripted for battle, forced to give birth on the warfront. This illustrates the rule of a ruler without the Dao—where borders are unstable, conflicts are endless, and warhorses remain stranded on the battlefield, never returning home.

The greatest crime is indulging in insatiable desire. Here, the root of the calamity of "warhorses breeding in the wilds" is revealed—the ruler’s greed for land, the covetous gaze upon territory, and the unrestrained desires that, once awakened, become impossible to suppress.

Greed is the gravest transgression. The scripture states that no sin is greater than indulging desires, and no calamity exceeds insatiability—where "calamity" signifies the withdrawal of divine protection. From what do the disasters of a nation's decline arise? They stem from coveting territory, making endless demands, and failing to know when to stop, causing the deities to withdraw their blessings and bringing down misfortune. Though human faults are many, none brings greater calamity than greed.

No guilt surpasses insatiable greed. "咎" (jiù) refers to karmic retribution. The greedy find their desires endlessly expanding—even after obtaining what they sought, they remain unsatisfied and resort to improper means to seize more. Such ill-gotten gains swiftly invite disaster and retribution—is this not inevitable? "可欲" (kě yù) describes the initial stirrings of greed, when the object is still beyond reach—this is a lesser fault. "不知足" (bù zhī zú) refers to obtaining something yet still craving more—a graver offense than mere desire. "欲得" (yù dé) is the state of having acquired but remaining unfulfilled—a fault more severe than the previous two.

Thus, only those who understand contentment can truly know lasting fulfillment. This means a ruler who follows the Dao does not covet expansion, does not eye others' lands, but remains within bounds and knows sufficiency. In this way, the people naturally support him, and the nation finds stability. Such contentment arises from within—it is not measured by material possessions. By keeping to one's proper place, even modest means feel abundant; through insatiable greed, even vast wealth seems insufficient.

Chapter 47 speaks of "knowing the world without stepping outside the door." A wise ruler governs through Wuwei (non-action), where teachings need not leave the palace gates, yet simplicity spreads naturally throughout the land. This reveals his understanding of governing the world. Another interpretation: when a ruler enacts benevolent policies, the people respond with goodness—thus, he need not personally travel to understand the world's condition. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states: the words and deeds of a ruler influence all under heaven.

This passage discusses how rulers should govern in accordance with the natural Dao (the Way). Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, in his commentary on the Daode Jing, pointed out that if a ruler governs with De (Virtue/Power), they can perceive celestial phenomena without deliberate observation. As the Yijing states, a ruler's words and actions can move heaven and earth. But if a ruler violates natural laws, the farther their decrees spread, the harder it becomes to truly understand the people's condition.

A sage who embodies the Dao does not need to travel widely to comprehend worldly affairs. By remaining tranquil and practicing Wuwei (non-action), the people naturally transform. Just as one need not open a window to sense the workings of celestial patterns, subtle signs can foretell significant events. The sage sits calmly in the court, free from forced action, and the world naturally attains peace.

The passage then distinguishes between conventional learning and Daoist cultivation: the pursuit of knowledge requires daily accumulation, but cultivation demands the opposite—daily reduction of artificial attachments ("Wei xue ri yi, wei dao ri sun"). Beginners must continuously study, while cultivators gradually relinquish acquired concepts. This aligns with the earlier idea of "knowing the world without stepping outside the door"—realizing the Dao through introspection rather than external seeking.

The initial stage of Daoist cultivation involves deepening one's understanding of the Dao (the Way) through study and observation. This constitutes the foundational phase of practice. However, as cultivation progresses, practitioners must gradually relinquish their attachment to conscious striving for merit and virtue (De). Why? Because beginners comprehend the Dao through intellectual learning and correct their shortcomings through practice, while advanced practitioners transcend words to embody realization and release all grasping toward spiritual achievements.

The concept of "diminishing" refers to reducing one's deliberate pursuit of cultivation merits. "Further diminishing" means completely forgetting even the intention to seek such accomplishments. First, one forgets the external traces of practice; then, even the internal notion of cultivation is released. Only when both outer and inner attachments are abandoned can one reach the highest state—the ultimate realization of wuwei (non-action).

Through wuwei, nothing remains undone. Conscious striving creates obstructions, and where obstructions exist, limitations arise. Without such striving, there are no barriers—thus all things can be accomplished. This mirrors the Dao itself, which responds spontaneously to all phenomena. As the Daode Jing states: "The Dao is ever wuwei, yet through it all things are accomplished."

Governing the world requires constant adherence to serene non-interference. Here, "governing" implies rulership through wuwei—sovereigns who avoid creating complications. Without excessive decrees, the people remain undisturbed; when rulers practice wuwei, the populace naturally flourishes. What could such governance fail to achieve? The term "constant" emphasizes that this principle of non-interfering rule must never be abandoned.

By contrast, complex regulations and stringent laws agitate the people, multiply punishments, and destroy social harmony, scattering allegiance across the land. Under such conditions, how could proper governance prevail? Thus the text concludes: "With deliberate action, one becomes unfit to govern the world."