《宋徽宗御解道德真經》

The opening commentary on the Daode Jing by Emperor Huizong of Song explains:

The Dao (the Way) is the fundamental principle all beings must follow, while De (Virtue/Power) is the truth naturally realized within one's heart. The true Dao remains eternally unchanging, never decaying through countless ages; true De exists complete within human nature. Laozi lived during the decline of the Zhou dynasty, witnessing the concealment of the Great Dao and the degeneration of virtuous qualities. Thus he composed eighty-one chapters to illuminate the eternal truth of Dao-De. This scripture uses concise language containing profound meaning—learners should contemplate its depths with tranquil minds.

Chapter One discusses the essence of Dao: The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal Dao; names that can be assigned are not eternal names. The Dao itself cannot be fully expressed in words—once articulated, it departs from its original nature. Like the changing seasons or transforming phenomena of creation, these describable manifestations are not eternally constant. The true Dao has existed since antiquity, older than heaven and earth. Fuxi (the ancient sage-king) comprehended it to harmonize primordial Qi (vital energy), while the Queen Mother of the West (Daoist goddess) mastered it to dwell eternally on Mount Shaoguang (legendary immortal realm)—it has neither beginning nor end.

Before heaven and earth took form, the Dao was nameless; after the myriad things emerged, the Dao became the mother that nurtures all. As Zhuangzi said, "The Dao gives birth to heaven and earth"—this is its meaning. Therefore, one should observe the mysteries of Dao with desireless awareness, while recognizing its operational patterns through purposeful observation. Maintaining empty stillness allows perception of Dao's subtle essence, while concrete observation reveals its manifest traces. These two approaches appear different yet share the same source, both leading to profound truth.

Yet ordinary people often fall into partial views—some clinging to concrete phenomena, others indulging in empty theories, thus fragmenting the complete Dao. In reality, presence and absence, subtlety and manifestation are all different expressions of Dao. True wisdom embraces both aspects simultaneously.

People often fail to understand that "being" and "non-being" are merely different names for the same reality. That which is profoundly mysterious (xuan zhi you xuan) constitutes the very gateway to all wonders (zhong miao zhi men).

The Yellow Emperor's Inner Canon states that "from the profound mysteries emerge the divine workings," while the Book of Changes declares that "the divine is what gives birth to all things." When we examine this divine operation on a smaller scale, we call it "xuan" (mystery) — the color of heaven. While the colors we perceive are manifest, the source that generates these colors remains forever hidden. "Profound upon profound" refers precisely to this origin of all creation. This mysterious principle permeates all existence — the heavens revolve, the earth supports, humans possess wisdom, and all things flourish precisely because of this divine operation (miao), all stemming from the fundamental "origin." Thus we call it "the gateway to all wonders." Confucius only addressed this "divine operation" in the Explanation of the Trigrams section of the Book of Changes, whereas Laozi discusses it in the opening lines of the Dao De Jing, demonstrating how the words of sages ultimately converge.

(Chapter 2) When all people under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness arises. When they recognize good as good, evil appears. The Dao itself makes no such distinctions — where could beauty or ugliness exist? Original nature remains undivided — how could good or evil emerge? The concept of beauty automatically creates its opposite in ugliness; the standard of good inevitably produces its counterpart in evil. What people consider miraculous may decay, while what appears rotten may transform into wonder — how then can we truly distinguish beauty from ugliness? What was deemed correct in the past may be rejected today, while what we discard now may be valued in the future — how then can we definitively judge good from evil? The sage comprehends the true substance (ti zhen wu) while constantly manifesting in phenomena (chang you), employs divine operation (miao yong) while abiding in emptiness (chang wu). Regarding beauty and ugliness, good and evil, the sage makes no distinctions whatsoever — how then could such dualistic concepts ever trouble them?

Thus being and non-being generate each other, difficult and easy complete each other, long and short measure each other, high and low incline toward each other, notes and tones harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Before the differentiation of heaven and earth (tai yi wei pan), all things existed in undifferentiated unity. After the separation of yin and yang (liang yi ji sheng), opposites came into being. These six pairs of opposites constitute the root of all worldly transformations, all human anxieties, and all disputes — ordinary people often become hopelessly entangled in them. Being emerges from non-being, and being returns to non-being — hence we say "being and non-being generate each other." Only after experiencing hardship and danger do we recognize the ease of the open road — hence we say "difficult and easy complete each other."

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," using natural phenomena as metaphors for the operation of the Dao (the Way).

Concepts like length and brevity, height and lowness, or musical tones exist as naturally as measurements with rulers or the contrast between mountains and marshes. When sound is produced, echoes follow; when form moves, shadows accompany it. The interplay of Yin-Yang, the cycle of seasons, and the birth and decay of all things are processes of instantaneous transformation. Deliberate action makes governing difficult, whereas following innate nature through non-action makes it effortless. What is naturally long need not be cut short; what is naturally short need not be extended—just as the heavens are naturally high, the earth naturally low, striking a gong note produces a gong tone, and summer arrives naturally after spring.

Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) handles affairs with an attitude of non-action and teaches through wordless example. As Zhuangzi said, "Governing the world through non-action," or the Yijing states, "Through the wondrous Dao, teachings transform, and the world submits." Deliberate action invites success or failure; speech invites right or wrong—all become burdens. The sage stands transcendent above the myriad things, nurturing them without being entangled by them.

All things grow naturally without refusal; they are nourished without being possessed, acted upon without reliance, and accomplished without claim. Precisely because there is no claim, achievements do not fade. Like a mirror reflecting objects or a valley returning echoes, they manifest naturally. The four seasons proceed, accomplishing their work and withdrawing—this is the Dao's principle. The sage emulates this: even if his merit covers the world, it is as if it has nothing to do with him. To boast of achievement is to lose it.

Chapter Three states: Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not compete; do not prize rare goods, and the people will not steal. This advocates dissolving artificial distinctions, allowing society to return to a state of natural harmony.

This scripture explains how excessive admiration for talent and material goods leads to social disorder.

If people excessively revere the capable (shangxian), they will compete to display their intelligence, giving rise to various schools of thought (such as Confucianism and Mohism) contending with one another. If they place too much value on wealth (guihuo), it will fuel greed, to the point where people might steal or break into houses even in broad daylight. Without the glorification of talent, the common people will remain content with their lot and refrain from rivalry and strife. Without the obsession with material goods, they will stay true to their nature and harbor no improper desires. Zhuangzi said that only by eliminating the conduct of virtuous figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu and silencing the teachings of scholars like Yang Zhu and Mo Di can the world return to natural harmony. The "Lü Ao" chapter also states: "If rare treasures are not valued, the people will naturally be prosperous."

If people are not exposed to things that arouse desire, their minds will not be disturbed. Once desire takes hold, they will disregard life itself in their pursuit of gain, leading to all manner of deceit and plunder. Bo Yi starved to death on Shouyang Mountain because he prized reputation, while the robber Zhi wreaked havoc in Dongling out of greed for profit—their hearts were as agitated as if scorched by fire or frozen by ice. In contrast, the sage does not chase profit or avoid harm, does not rejoice in longevity or grieve at a short life, does not take pride in prominence or feel shame in poverty. What, then, could stir desire in them? When the mind is free from thoughts of desire, it naturally becomes clear and tranquil, responding appropriately to the external world, moving and resting with ease. Who could disturb such a state? Confucius, by the age of forty, was no longer misled by external things, and Mencius also said that by forty, his heart no longer wavered.

Thus, when the sage governs the world, they ensure that the people’s minds are empty and tranquil, their bellies full, their competitive will weakened, and their bodies strong in sinew and bone. This keeps the people simple and free from excessive desires. Just as a valley echoes because it is hollow, a mirror reflects because it is clear, an instrument produces sound because it is empty, ears hear because they are receptive, eyes see because they are unobstructed, and the nose smells because it is open—if these are clogged, their functions are impaired. The sage governs all people impartially, following the natural order without personal bias. The examples of Yao appointing both Shun and Gun illustrate this: with an empty and tranquil mind, one can judge fairly, free from favoritism; with a full belly, one is content, without covetous thoughts. What need is there, then, to exalt talent or prize wealth? The sage values inner fulfillment (weifu, "filling the belly") over external pursuits (weimu, "serving the eyes"), for the belly does not discriminate in what it consumes. Only by forgetting the external can one preserve mental clarity; only by strengthening the bones can the body be supported. If the will is too strong, one either exhausts themselves for fame or exhausts themselves chasing wealth.

This passage expounds on the attitude of humility and softness that Dao cultivators should maintain, as well as the principles by which sages govern the world.

It first points out that those who boast of their achievements and flaunt their talents actually drift further from the Dao (the Way). True Dao practitioners resemble flowing water—soft in bone yet capable of movement—which interacts with all things without becoming entangled. The sage always appears humble, yet people exalt them; always yields, yet people elevate them. To understand strength yet abide in softness, to know glory yet willingly dwell in lowliness—this is the true meaning of "weakness" (referring to the resilient, non-contentious way of being).

Guangchengzi (a legendary immortal) lived twelve hundred years without aging—this is true "strength" (referring to inner vitality). Zhuangzi said: Only by preserving the original state of no-knowledge and no-desire can one avoid straying from natural De (Virtue/Power). When sages govern the world, they guide the people back to this simple, authentic nature. If rulers use cleverness to disrupt natural dispositions and desires to disturb innate temperaments, they may claim to govern, but in reality, they create greater chaos.

Thus, the sage keeps the people in a state of no-knowledge and no-desire, ensuring that the clever dare not scheme, the eloquent dare not argue, the bold dare not bully, the talented dare not flaunt, and the shrewd dare not manipulate. The sage prohibits such harmful behaviors just as ancient virtuous ministers fulfilled their duties—not to display cleverness, but to convey the ruler's benevolence to the people.

"Governing through Wuwei (non-action)" does not mean abandoning human affairs, but aligning with natural laws. The sage grasps the great Dao, standing above all things to oversee the whole. As the myriad things grow and transform naturally, the sage need only guide them in accordance with their tendencies, allowing each to find its proper place. Thus, above, the sun, moon, and stars move in order; below, birds, beasts, plants, and trees flourish naturally.

Finally, it explains the "emptiness of the Dao": though the Dao truly exists (with feeling and reliability) and can function, it remains formless and unfilled (not overflowing). Like all things containing the two Qi (vital energies) of Yin-Yang, the Dao is the "harmonizing Qi" (neutralizing energy) that balances them.

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao and its mode of operation.

Regarding the balance of Yin-Yang, the text states: An excess of Yang Qi leads to excessive rigidity, while an excess of Yin Qi results in excessive softness. Only the harmonious blending of Yin and Yang, maintaining perfect equilibrium, constitutes "chong qi" (neutralizing energy). This principle of harmony operates like adjusting heights and lows, balancing surplus and deficiency—wherever applied, it achieves perfect appropriateness. It resembles a vessel that can never be filled—the more one gives to others, the more abundant one becomes. The substance of the Dao is like vast emptiness, containing all things yet never reaching fullness.

The text employs the metaphor of an "abyss" to illustrate the Dao's qualities: whether a deep pool inhabited by great fish, a still pond, or a flowing deep, all share the characteristics of receptive stillness and boundless containment. The Dao, being this fundamentally still and receptive substance, naturally becomes the homecoming of all things and the foundation of all movement. All beings spontaneously honor the Dao, yet the Dao itself makes no deliberate attempt to dominate them.

Concerning the way of engaging with the world, the scripture teaches the importance of sheathing one's sharpness, resolving conflicts, harmonizing brilliance, and blending with the mundane. As Zhuangzi said, "having light but not dazzling," "going with the flow without losing oneself." True sages do not flaunt wisdom or parade their purity, but maintain inner peace while harmoniously coexisting with all things—only thus can they remain at ease in any circumstance.

Finally, the text describes the Dao's mode of existence: seemingly void yet truly present, like extinguished ashes or withered branches, where supreme stillness naturally reveals illumination. Vague and indistinct yet undeniably real, formless yet containing divine mystery. The Dao existed before the manifestation of all things, even preceding what humans recognize as the highest deities (the "Divine Sovereign").

This scripture elucidates how the Dao transcends physical form and precedes all things, while also revealing the natural, effortless operation of heaven and earth through Wuwei (non-action).

Regarding the "Xiangdi" (the anthropomorphic image of a supreme deity), the text clarifies: while it may appear as if a celestial emperor created all things, the Dao actually exists prior to such manifestations. As Zhuangzi described, the Dao gives birth to spirits, heaven and earth, yet remains invisible, inaudible, and intangible. No one knows from where it manifests—hence Laozi's statement: "I know not whose child it is, only that it existed before the Celestial Sovereign."

Chapter Five discusses the "non-benevolence" of heaven, earth, and sages: Heaven and earth treat all beings like straw dogs (sacrificial objects)—displayed when needed, discarded when spent—without partiality. Similarly, sages govern people by following natural laws rather than imposing artificial kindness, for deliberate compassion inevitably breeds corresponding harms. The cosmos operates like a great bellows (tuoyue)—only through inner emptiness can it generate ceaseless movement. The sage maintains this receptive stillness when engaging with worldly affairs, speaking sparingly since excessive words lead to predicaments, preferring instead to preserve inner equilibrium.

Chapter Six explains why the "Valley Spirit" (the Dao's mysterious function) never dies: While concrete things flourish and perish, the Dao remains like an echoing valley—hollow yet responsive, and like a numinous presence—subtle yet unfathomable. Unbound by form or natural laws, it moves perpetually like the sun, moon and stars, hence being called deathless. This mysterious generative power that births all things is named the "Mysterious Feminine" (xuanpin)—the profound maternal creative force.

All things receive life from the formless "Non-Being" and take shape within the manifest "Being." Just as a valley's function is formless and shapeless, and the essence of divine spirits has no fixed form, this is the source from which all beings receive life. "Mysterious" (xuan) represents the color of heaven (a profound azure depth), while "feminine" (pin) symbolizes earth's characteristic (the maternal capacity to nurture all things) - these form the fundamental basis of all creation. The term "Valley Spirit" serves as a metaphor for the eternal state of the supreme Dao, while "Mysterious Feminine" illustrates the wonder of the Creator.

Zhuangzi said: All things have their origin of emergence, yet people cannot see this origin; all have their gate of manifestation, yet people cannot find this gate. Only sages can comprehend this, hence the explicit identification here of the "Gate of the Mysterious Feminine" as the root of heaven and earth. Heaven and earth constitute the spatial dimensions above and below for all things - in reality, all beings share simultaneous existence with heaven and earth without temporal precedence. Yet observing the sequential operation of the Great Dao, heaven and earth precede the myriad things. And the very source from which heaven and earth emerge is this "Mysterious Feminine." As for what existed prior to heaven and earth - who can truly perceive it?

This state of existence continues unbroken, seemingly present yet subtly absent; though constantly employed, it never becomes exhausted. It is its own origin, eternally present from ancient times until now without termination. This is the meaning of "continuous, as if ever-present." Heaven and earth form spontaneously, allowing primordial qi (vital energy) to circulate of its own accord; the earth transforms naturally, permitting all things to propagate themselves. The Qian (Heaven) manifests wisdom through simplicity, the Kun (Earth) demonstrates capacity through ease - neither requires deliberate striving, so how could there be any toil?

Chapter Seven discusses heaven's longevity and earth's endurance: The reason heaven and earth can endure so long is precisely because they don't deliberately pursue their own survival, thus achieving eternal existence. Heaven hangs aloft above, using sun and moon as warp threads and stars as weft threads to canopy all things; earth spreads vast below, congealing into mountains and dissolving into rivers to bear all creatures. Heaven and earth have no intention to interfere with the myriad things, thus heaven's revolutions never cease and earth's stability never falters - hence their enduring existence. If heaven and earth deliberately governed the growth of things, heaven would soon be completely measured (showing the limits of its covering capacity) and earth quickly fully probed (revealing the boundaries of its bearing strength). In such case, heaven and earth would become dependent - how then could they endure eternally?

Therefore the sage withdraws yet finds himself ahead, remains outside yet preserves himself completely. Heaven moves above, earth rests below, and the sage dwells between them. From the perspective of interconnectedness, the Three Powers (heaven, earth and humanity) interpenetrate; viewed separately, each of the Three Ultimates maintains independent substance; in their blended aspect, the Three Spirits permeate everywhere without exception.

Heaven, Earth, and sages all follow the patterns of the Dao (the Way), and the methods by which sages cultivate themselves are likewise modeled after Heaven and Earth. This chapter first explains how Heaven and Earth nurture all things without acting for themselves, then describes how sages remain unattached to their own being. While ordinary people rush to compete, the sage willingly stays behind, bearing the world's disrepute—this embodies the principle of "remaining behind" (hou qi shen). By not contending with others, no one in the world can contend with them. Thus, the scripture states: "By remaining behind, one is put ahead"—just as one does not compete for smooth or rugged paths when traveling, nor dispute the harmony of Yin-Yang in winter and summer, transcending life and death, fortune and misfortune, yet the spirit never becomes exhausted. This is the state of "disregarding the self, yet the self is preserved."

If even sages cultivate themselves in this manner, how much more so should they treat external things? They neither resist circumstances when encountering them nor cling to experiences afterward, maintaining their innate nature and nurturing their spirit (Shen), moving freely through the mundane world. The body naturally becomes upright, and self and things merge into one. Existing before Heaven and Earth yet not claiming permanence, born in ancient times yet not appearing aged—this is the proof of cultivating the Dao.

Is it not precisely because of their selflessness that they can fulfill themselves? Thus, it is said: "Is it not because they are selfless that they can fulfill themselves?" The greatest virtue (De) of Heaven and Earth is giving life to all things; the most precious quality of sages is maintaining their fundamental position. The Dao is impartial and selfless. Heaven and Earth emulate the Dao, hence they are selfless—only through selflessness can they endure. Sages emulate the Dao, hence they are selfless—only through selflessness can they abide eternally. Those who scheme only for personal gain, in contrast, cannot truly fulfill themselves.

Chapter Eight discusses the principle that "the highest good is like water": The Yijing (Book of Changes) states that the alternation of Yin and Yang constitutes the Dao, and what inherits the Dao is good. The Zhuangzi holds that deliberately pursuing a reputation for goodness actually damages the integrity of the Dao. Yet water, born of "Heaven's Oneness," comes closest to the essence of the Dao—profoundly still, clear and luminous, truly the most wondrous existence under Heaven. Thus, the highest good is said to resemble water.

Water excels at nourishing all things without claiming merit, willingly occupying low places that people despise—thus it comes nearest to the Dao. It transforms into rain and dew to moisten all beings, condenses into frost and snow to ensure abundant harvests; it flows as rivers, gathers as lakes, or lies hidden underground, inexhaustible in supply. All things depend on it for growth, yet it never runs dry—could anything be more good? Water benefits all without taking credit, eternally maintaining a soft and non-contentious posture, embracing impurity and enduring disgrace.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "the highest virtue is like water" and the philosophy of non-contention and faultlessness. Its core message is:

Pursuing personal desires burdens the mind, so those who approach the Dao understand moderation. "Dwelling in good places" resembles water flowing downward, maintaining constant humility; "a heart good at depth" means one's mental state should be as tranquil and profound as a deep pool, growing more unfathomable the more one explores.

"Giving with good benevolence" refers to selfless giving like water nourishing all things; "speaking with good trust" is like rivers ultimately reaching the sea, keeping promises despite obstacles; "governing with good order" resembles water cleansing filth and filling gullies, following natural laws without forcing; "acting with good capability" emphasizes adapting like water to different containers, solving problems by conforming to circumstances; "moving with good timing" means seizing opportunities like water freezing or thawing, knowing when to act and when to remain still.

Most remarkably, water never contends, thus it never incurs resentment. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) understands this principle—cultivating oneself accordingly ensures lasting existence. Zhuangzi said deliberate action often leads to mistakes, while wuwei (non-action, following nature) minimizes errors. Water nourishes all things without discrimination, never competing with them, hence nothing can surpass it—nothing in the world is softer than water, yet it overcomes the hardest substances effortlessly.

Chapter Nine further warns: carrying a brimming bowl is less wise than stopping at the right moment; excessive sharpness cannot endure. Overflow leads to depletion—this is the universal law. Those who fail to maintain humble retreat, who cannot use emptiness to govern fullness, will ultimately invite disaster. The world's transformations are infinite while human wisdom is limited—forcing premature understanding is the beginning of folly. A house filled with gold and jewels cannot be kept secure; wealth and arrogance bring only self-inflicted calamity, for such external things are not the true essence of life.

This scripture conveys two main teachings:

The first concerns attitudes toward wealth and status. Emperor Huizong of Song observed that those who excessively treasure gold and jewels become burdened by material possessions, while those addicted to material pleasures struggle to retain them. Arrogance after attaining wealth damages one's De (Virtue), and how can those with compromised Virtue avoid calamity? Therefore, sages never claim worldly benefits as personal possessions, nor flaunt their rule over the realm. True wealth means having access to a nation's resources; true nobility means holding the highest rank—yet such elevated status and prosperity never contradict the Dao.

The second teaching explains the principle of "withdrawing after success is achieved." Just as the sun declines after reaching its zenith and the moon wanes after becoming full, these are natural patterns. Sages understand that success and failure follow each other, that fullness and emptiness have their measures—thus they remain transcendent, unburdened by external things and free from arrogance. Those truly comprehending heavenly patterns know that, like seasonal transitions, one should retreat after completing great works, for this aligns with the Dao's movement. Those who only know advancement without retreat, gain without loss—how can they avoid regret? The wise minister Yi Yin of the Shang dynasty warned: "Ministers should never grow arrogant from achievements while coveting fame and profit."

The passage about "carrying the corporeal soul" (yingpo) describes methods of spiritual cultivation. The po (corporeal soul) belongs to Yin and clings to the body, while the hun (ethereal soul) belongs to Yang and moves with Qi. Sages use Shen (spirit) to govern physical form and the hun to control the po—thus their spirit can carry the po without being trapped by the hun. This occurs as naturally as carts transporting goods or seasonal transitions between cold and heat. When the mind communes with heavenly patterns, unbound by external things, the spirit won't be confined by physical form.

Finally, it discusses the cultivated state of "embracing Oneness." Heaven's One generates water corresponding to Jing (essence); Earth's Two generates fire corresponding to Shen. Both essence and spirit originate from the Dao. By preserving Jing, Qi and Shen without dissipation, unifying the three into one: using essence to concentrate the spirit-mind, the spirit-mind to govern the body, and the body to nurture the spirit. Thus essence becomes abundant, spiritual awareness clear, and physical health robust—as naturally harmonious as the sun and moon suspended in heaven or plants rooted in earth.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners of the Dao can maintain mental focus and return to a state of pristine simplicity.

It begins by explaining that when Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit)—the core elements of Daoist cultivation—are gathered and unified, one attains boundless awareness, reaching up to heaven and down to earth, nurturing all things without leaving traces. This state is called "being one with the Dao" (Tongdi). However, ordinary people are enslaved by external desires, losing their innate nature, their minds never at peace. Indulging in endless cravings, they deplete their Jing and Qi, becoming burdened by their physical forms, drifting along with the currents of life—truly a state of delusion.

Sages, in contrast, consolidate their Hun (ethereal soul) and Po (corporeal soul), embracing purity and stillness to nurture their bodies. Their spirit stands unwavering like Mount Tai, deep and unfathomable like a bottomless spring, with no one knowing their beginning or end. Thus, it is said that sages place the highest importance on preserving Jing and Qi.

The text then uses the metaphor of an infant: an infant's mind is pure and single-minded, their actions spontaneous and uncontrived, without distinctions of right and wrong, beauty or ugliness, so their Qi remains soft and unified. Mencius once said that when a person's will is scattered, their Qi becomes disordered. Sages maintain an empty mind, not allowing their will to be swayed by Qi, thus preserving the natural purity of an infant.

Next, it discusses the state of cleansing distracting thoughts and contemplating the profound ("Xuanlan" refers to deep insight into the Dao). Sages purify their hearts in this way, eliminating all attachments, deeply comprehending the true essence of the Dao, preserving their innate nature without being burdened, acting appropriately without self-satisfaction—naturally free from flaws.

Finally, it touches on governance: ruling with benevolence and wisdom may bring temporary benefits, but it still falls short of the highest ideal of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." The sage's grace extends to all things, yet it is effortless and unforced.

This scripture expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Emperor Huizong of Song explains that when a true sage who embodies the Dao governs the world, though achieving great merits, they never claim credit but maintain humility and restraint. Like the celestial gate (representing natural laws) that opens and closes in constant transformation, the sage emulates the qualities of the feminine—gentleness and receptivity—following circumstances without forcing prominence, thus naturally attracting universal following.

The phrase "being enlightened and all-knowing yet remaining simple" illustrates that even with supreme wisdom, the sage preserves childlike simplicity. Nourishing all things without possessing them, accomplishing deeds without boasting, guiding beings without dominating—this state is called "Mystic Virtue (Xuande)," the profoundest form of moral power. Since the Dao's operation is mysterious and unfathomable, the virtue displayed by sages who emulate it can only be described as "mystic" in its depth.

Three metaphors then clarify the relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu): the spokes (being) of a wheel revolve around the empty hub (non-being); a clay vessel (being) serves its purpose through its hollow center (non-being); a house (being) becomes livable through its doors and windows (non-being). These show that while tangible "being" provides concrete utility, it is the intangible "non-being" that enables function. The principles of heaven and earth manifest through concrete forms, yet their essence ultimately returns to emptiness. Those who attain the Dao understand this truth, thus achieving harmony with nature and governance through non-action.

This passage discusses the relationship between sensory desires and inner cultivation. It begins by using the natural patterns of mutual generation and restraint among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to illustrate: when wood bends, water nourishes it; when fire blazes, metal becomes harder; only balanced earth can grow crops. These are visible manifestations of "being" (you), while the invisible "non-being" (wu) behind them is the true force driving the operation of all things.

It then explains Chapter 12 of the Daode Jing: indulging in dazzling colors dulls one's vision, while excessive pursuit of beautiful music weakens hearing. Eyes can see because of the functioning of one's innate nature (xing), and truly penetrating wisdom can judge all difficult matters under heaven; ears can hear because of the functioning of one's innate nature, and genuine intelligence can comprehend the profound meanings of the world. Those who attain the Dao (dedao) can perceive with their spirit (shen) without using physical eyes and listen with their vital energy (qi) without using ears—they are never deluded by sights and sounds. Ordinary people are led by external things, their eyes drowning in colors and their ears obsessed with music—how is this any different from being deaf and mute?

The passage further explains that profound truths often sound bland when spoken, yet people crave intense flavors, which in turn dulls their sense of taste. Though the human body is small, the mind can encompass heaven and earth. Sages, when active, can govern all things, and when still, can reflect the cosmos. But ordinary people lose their original heart-mind (benxin) by indulging in hunting and amusement—a truly lamentable state.

Rare treasures can distort behavior. Wealth is meant to nourish people, yet sages do not value rare objects precisely because they fear people will lose their innate nature in pursuit of material gain. Tang of Shang did not hoard riches, and Confucius criticized Zigong for engaging in commerce—both examples show how wealth can obstruct virtue (de).

Therefore, sages seek only basic sustenance ("for the belly") and not sensory indulgence ("for the eyes"). They reject external temptations to preserve their inner foundation.

The Kun (Earth) trigram in the Bagua (Eight Trigrams) symbolizes the abdomen, representing the earth's capacity for profound containment; the Li (Fire) trigram symbolizes the eyes, representing outward observation and discernment. Like the earth's embrace, one can accept all things, while outward observation inevitably has its limits. The sage takes the world as his measure, thus emulating this inclusive mindset rather than micromanaging every detail. Therefore, one must relinquish that outward-gazing eye. Zhuangzi said: The greatest harm lies in deliberately pursuing virtue (De) and creating distinctions in the mind—thus the sage eliminates such discriminating thoughts.

On Chapter 13, "Favor and Disgrace":

Being favored or disgraced both feel like shocks; regarding great calamity as seriously as one's own body. Those who receive favor occupy a lower position, while the honored reside above. If one becomes arrogant due to favor, disgrace will follow; if high status feels burdensome, that is the greatest calamity. Those who crave wealth cannot relinquish their salaries; those who seek prominence cannot let go of fame; those obsessed with power refuse to share authority. Clinging to power brings anxiety, while losing it brings despair—this is why favor and disgrace shock people. Pain and illness alternate with comfort in the body; fear and oppression vie with joy in the mind—this is why great calamity clings like a shadow.

What is "favor and disgrace"? Favor is actually a lower position. The dragon, a creature of free transformation unbound by constraints, brings disgrace upon itself when tamed. The true sages of antiquity remained unchanged in virtue (De) despite high rank and generous stipends. When favored, they thought of danger; when blessed, they remained humble—how could disgrace touch them? Those who covet office, envy salaries, know only advancement and not retreat, gain and not loss—such people are despised by the world. Thus, being favored is actually a lower position.

Being startled upon gaining, startled upon losing—this is called "favor and disgrace are like shocks." Rank and salary are not intrinsic to life but temporary acquisitions. When they come, do not refuse; thus, those who attain the Dao (the Way) do not rejoice in gaining. When they depart, they cannot be stopped; thus, those who attain the Dao do not grieve over losing. People today are unhappy when they lose temporary things and delighted when they gain—this traps their hearts in the turmoil of gain and loss. How could they not be shocked? Liu Xiahui remained in office despite repeated dismissals; Zheng Kaofu grew more humble with each promotion—they were not like this.

What does "regarding great calamity as seriously as one's own body" mean? Seizing profit and power, monopolizing rewards and punishments, wielding authority so the world fears you like a deity—this is the meaning.

The text explores the Daoist perspective on the relationship between "nobility" and "the body." Emperor Huizong of Song explains that while ordinary people revere sages as divinely noble, true sages never allow such reverence to constrain them. This resembles the state achieved through "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang, a meditative practice of transcending physical form and ego): relinquishing bodily senses, surpassing physical limitations and intellectual cunning to commune with the Dao, thereby attaining unimpeded freedom in all circumstances.

A common human error lies in trading innate nature for external things, becoming burdened by power and status. When the physical body shackles the mind, one ultimately loses their original spirit. Laozi's statement "My greatest troubles come from having a body" reveals how human suffering stems from attachment to physical form. Those who truly comprehend the Dao understand the body is merely a temporary vessel—like Confucius' declaration "Having heard the Dao in the morning, one could die content in the evening," or Yan Hui's zuowang state where even life and death couldn't affect him, let alone worldly gains and losses.

Ancient Dao-realized individuals never harmed their bodies for profit, nor allowed physical form to imprison their spirit. Roaming with the Creator, they transcended the boundaries of life and death. While ordinary people chase glory and status, the enlightened know such external things are unreliable. Approaching possessions with a mindset of "non-possession" (wu)—like Minister Yi Yin who spurned fame or Emperor Yao who relinquished power—allows one to bear honor without feeling burdened.

The text concludes that the world is a sacred vessel only governable by those aligned with the Dao. Sages rule through the Dao, naturally attracting universal support; lesser rulers at least cherish their own being without enslaving themselves to externals. Daoism holds the Dao's essence is primarily for self-cultivation, with surplus energy applied to statecraft. How lamentable that worldly people sacrifice life itself chasing external things—is this not profoundly tragic?

This scripture describes how the Dao (the supreme truth in Daoism) transcends sensory perception. The eyes look but cannot see it—this is called "Yi" (formless and smooth); the ears listen but cannot hear it—this is called "Xi" (subtle and faint); the hands grasp but cannot touch it—this is called "Wei" (minute and imperceptible). These three characteristics cannot be fully explained through language, so they are unified as "One" (the holistic state of the Dao).

The existence of the Dao is neither bright nor dark. Above (on the metaphysical level), it does not shine; below (on the physical level), it does not appear obscure. Like an unbroken cord, it cannot be named and ultimately returns to the state of "nothingness." This is the form without form, the image without substance—called "Huanghu" (a state of elusive presence).

Just as the Great Void (the origin of the cosmos) encompasses all things yet has no visible boundary, or like the human spirit that naturally exists yet defies attempts to grasp its workings. To say it exists is not to affirm material reality; to say it does not exist is not to claim utter nothingness. It is like using a concave mirror to gather fire or a square mirror to draw water—fire and water seem to emerge from emptiness, yet there is a principle behind it. Thus, the Dao has no concrete form yet possesses an image.

Whether approached from the front or followed from behind, one cannot perceive the beginning or end of the Dao. It has no origin or conclusion, transcending the limits of time and space—this is precisely the profound mystery of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao and the spiritual attainment of ancient Daoist practitioners.

Regarding the nature of the Dao: It has neither beginning nor end, being neither absolute existence nor complete nothingness. Fixation on either the Yang (masculine) or Yin (feminine) aspect leads one astray from the true path—exclusive adherence to heaven's vigor breeds rigidity, while sole imitation of earth's docility results in stagnation. The authentic Dao of antiquity transcends superficial concepts like benevolence and righteousness. Though seemingly indistinct, it encompasses all transformations and adapts to the needs of all things. This is the eternal Dao that has existed since time immemorial.

Concerning the spiritual state of ancient Daoist adepts (shi): They embodied profound subtlety and unfathomable depth. Unlike ordinary people, these practitioners could harmonize with the Dao's most refined essence, commune with divine consciousness (Shen), and align with heaven and earth. As the Book of Documents states, "The heart of the Dao is profoundly subtle," and the Book of Changes describes it as "the divine mystery that animates all things." Their spiritual attainment resembled bottomless, inscrutable deep pools. The recluse Lie Yukou (Liezi) dwelled in obscurity for forty years unknown to the world, while Laozi observed that "a skilled merchant keeps his treasures hidden as if empty"—both illustrating this concealed yet profound state.

Since such spiritual heights defy description, we can only approximate them through metaphor: cautious as crossing a winter river, alert as fearing one's neighbors. Like describing heaven as round and earth as square, these analogies serve merely as provisional aids to understanding, never fully capturing the ultimate reality of the Dao.

This passage describes the attitude towards life and cultivated state of ancient Daoist practitioners. Those who cultivated the Dao focused on inner refinement (neiyou, inner wandering) rather than pursuing external material pleasures. They maintained constant vigilance, as cautious as crossing a winter river and as alert as guarding against neighbors - this is what the Yijing (Book of Changes) refers to as the state of "fasting and purification."

The demeanor of Daoist cultivators was dignified yet natural, neither overly solemn nor frivolous. They flowed unobstructed like ice melting into water, preserving their innate simplicity (dun xi qi ruo pu, "solid as uncarved wood") like unworked timber. Their minds were expansive as mountain valleys, capable of embracing all things (kuang xi qi ruo gu, "vast as a valley"), and their way of being was profoundly natural without deliberate novelty-seeking (hun xi qi ruo zhuo, "muddled as turbid water").

Those who truly attained the Dao could maintain stillness amidst turbulence, allowing murky waters to gradually settle and clarify; they nurtured vitality within stability, letting all things grow naturally. They neither forcibly sought quiescence nor aggressively pursued growth, instead following nature's course. The Yijing's concept of "proceeding gradually" (xuxu) precisely describes this unhurried, spontaneous state. Practitioners' minds remained undisturbed by external matters and unentangled by desires, thus they could respond to all things without suffering harm. Those who maintained this Daoist approach never sought absolute perfection, understanding the wisdom of knowing when to stop.

This passage describes the realm of Daoist cultivation: those who frantically accumulate always feel lacking, while those who store nothing find themselves in abundant sufficiency. The perfected person (Zhìrén) who has attained the Dao does not deliberately accumulate, maintaining instead a state of mental emptiness. To believe all the world's beautiful things should belong to oneself is a narrow-minded view, which is why those who embody the Dao never pursue fullness. As the scriptures say: The purest appears as if stained, and those of highest virtue (De) seem insufficient.

Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they can preserve the old without forcibly pursuing the new. The existence of the old gives rise to the new, just as achievement brings failure. The alternation of old and new resembles the cycle of seasons, while the succession of success and failure mirrors the birth and death of all things. All concrete phenomena are bound by this law—only the Dao, having no concrete form, remains empty yet never full. Thus it simultaneously encompasses old and new, success and failure, transcending the limitations of form to never truly decay. Just as lush young trees must wither and bright flames must eventually extinguish—when the new appears, the old fades. The sun declines after reaching its zenith; the moon wanes after becoming full—all because "achievement" inevitably brings "decline." Those who embody the Dao transcend this cycle.

Chapter Sixteen discusses attaining ultimate emptiness and maintaining perfect stillness. Emptiness is the most precious state, stillness the optimal condition—together they form the root of all things. Only emptiness can contain the myriad phenomena; only stillness can respond to endless changes. "Ultimate" refers to reaching the highest convergence; "steadfast" means persisting to the end. When one achieves extreme emptiness and guards perfect stillness, even amidst complex phenomena the mind remains transparent; through countless transformations, the spirit stays serene. This is the joy of union with heavenly Dao—incomprehensible to those who haven't realized the Great Way.

All things grow and transform, and through them I observe their cyclical patterns. The changes of all phenomena are but peripheral manifestations of the Dao—those who comprehend it transcend worldly phenomena. All living things have their beginnings and eventual returns. When creatures flourish and approach transformation, I perceive that what moves must eventually return to stillness; what departs must come back—thus comprehending the heart of heaven and earth. In this way, one interacts with phenomena without being assimilated by them—this is called "observing their return."

All flourishing things must eventually return to their source. "Luxuriant" describes the thriving appearance of creation: beings sprout in the east (represented by the Zhen trigram), flourish visibly in the south (Li trigram), reaching peak growth; they begin fading in the west (Dui trigram) and enter dormancy in the north (Kan trigram), ultimately abandoning splendor to return to their original abode. Life is the foundation of essence (Jing), while innate nature is the manifestation of life.

This passage elucidates the relationship between Jing (essence), Shen (spirit), Xing (nature), and Ming (life) in Daoist cultivation, as well as the state of "returning to life's origin" (fuming). The Jing-Qi (vital essence) of humans serves as the foundation for Shen (spiritual activity), with abundant spirit deriving from sufficient essence. When one fully manifests their innate nature, they attain the realm of Ming (life's primordial source).

Returning to the root is called "stillness" (jing). Through utmost stillness, one can revert to life's origin. The movement of the cosmos generates all things, and as these things form their own patterns, they acquire physical forms that carry Shen. Each entity possesses its distinctive nature, containing within its pre-formative state the tendency toward differentiation—this inherent determination is called Ming, which transcends time and exists eternally. Xing (nature), however, manifests differently according to various forms.

Those who preserve both form and life must abandon cleverness and contrivance, returning to tranquil stability. Thus they realize life's origin resides within themselves, as natural as the cycling of seasons. By maintaining their innate nature and nurturing Shen through self-contemplation, they achieve the state of "returning to life's origin." Fuming means reverting to the eternal constant, transcending change to unite with the Dao (the Way), comprehending heaven-earth principles and harmonizing primordial Qi (the mother of energy).

Understanding the eternal Dao is called "illumination" (ming). Those who grasp the Dao's unchanging nature remain unshaken by external phenomena, perceiving clearly the workings of heaven and earth. Conversely, ignorance of the constant Dao leads to reckless actions inviting misfortune. Sages, comprehending the constant Dao, act in accordance with cosmic principles and thus consistently attain auspiciousness. Fools drift with the current, arbitrarily distinguishing beauty from ugliness, right from wrong, thereby violating the great Dao and naturally failing to preserve life.

Understanding the constant Dao enables one to embrace all things without judgments of right/wrong or beauty/ugliness. Such embrace leads to impartiality, free from bias or favoritism. Impartiality allows one to become a true sovereign (the ideal ruler), for when the great Dao prevails, all under heaven belongs to all. The sovereign emulates heaven, which embodies the Dao. The sovereign who penetrates the triad of heaven-earth-humanity achieves a realm identical to heaven; one who realizes the heavenly Dao attains unity with the Dao itself.

The Dao is eternal and indestructible—all things flourish when obtaining it. It remains undiminished through a hundred generations of sages, filling heaven and earth without ceasing. Therefore, those embodying the Dao never encounter peril throughout their lives—peril borders on calamity, while security approaches auspiciousness. Only those who understand the constant Dao can avoid disasters brought by reckless actions.

The highest form of governance is when the people merely know of the ruler's existence (the "Supreme Ultimate" ruler governs through non-action). Such a sovereign rules the world through Wuwei (non-action), maintaining universal tranquility. The people neither rejoice excessively when receiving favors nor lament bitterly when suffering oppression. The ruler refrains from deliberate action, allowing all things to follow their natural course, so the people only vaguely sense their ruler's presence.

The next level of governance is when the people feel close to and praise their ruler. When the monarch's benevolence reaches the masses and virtuous governance spreads through the land, the people cherish him like parents. His reputation rises like the sun and moon, earning widespread acclaim. Yet this imperial governance, while displaying closeness and praise, already deviates from the supreme state of "Great Harmony." As Zhuangzi observed, Emperor Shun's benevolent rule pleased the people, much like how the "Lingtai" ode in the Book of Songs describes the people's devotion during King Wen of Zhou's reign.

A still lower form of governance is when the people fear and despise their ruler. Using decrees to guide and punishments to restrain makes people fearful; offering rewards for good deeds proves ineffective while punishments fail to curb wickedness. When feudal lords like King Zhuang of Chu covet royal power or ministers like Yang Hu steal state treasures—these are signs of a declining age, hence the people's contempt for their rulers.

When sincerity is insufficient, distrust naturally arises. The strongest trust needs no glue to bond it; the firmest restraint requires no ropes to bind. When Shang dynasty rulers swore oaths, the people began to rebel; when Zhou rulers held covenants, the people grew suspicious—all due to insufficient sincerity. Under supreme governance, people accept things as natural without needing special trust; under governance where people fear and despise rulers, all manner of deceitful tricks emerge, breeding inevitable distrust.

The true sage speaks with utmost caution. Only by measuring words against the Dao can the world's rulers be rectified. How can words be uttered lightly? Therefore the sage remains vigilant and dares not speak carelessly. His words become the world's standard, his actions naturally transform the people.

When achievements are completed and great tasks fulfilled, the people say: "We were always like this." To the sage, imperial accomplishments are but incidental matters. Letting people eat delicious food, wear comfortable clothes, maintain their customs, and live contentedly—these incidental matters suffice to accomplish imperial merit, while the people feel it all occurred naturally, saying: "What have the ruler's efforts to do with us?" This is the highest form of governance.

Only when the Great Dao is neglected does humanity and righteousness become emphasized. After losing the Dao comes virtue (De), after losing virtue comes humaneness, after losing humaneness comes righteousness.

Emperor Huizong of Song, in his commentary on the Daode Jing, observed that excessive emphasis on artificial standards of benevolence and righteousness actually distances people from the true Dao. Han Yu failed to grasp the sages' profound insight into De (Virtue), treating benevolence and righteousness as rigid concepts while dismissing Dao and De as empty abstractions. What Laozi criticized was precisely this narrow view of benevolence and righteousness, and Zhuangzi similarly denounced it as a practice that blinds the common people.

When people excessively pursue wisdom, hypocrisy arises; when the populace exhausts their mental energy, deceit follows. Filial piety becomes conspicuous only when families are discordant, and loyal ministers are sought only when the state is in chaos—these labels gain value precisely because of their absence. Zhuangzi said that a truly filial child does not flatter their parents, and a genuinely loyal minister does not curry favor with the ruler—this represents the highest ideal of ministerial conduct.

Chapter 19 speaks of "rejecting sageliness and discarding wisdom": by abandoning so-called sages and cleverness, the people benefit a hundredfold. Human nature is originally united with the Dao, but when people deviate from the Dao to pursue virtue, concepts like sageliness and wisdom emerge. Once sageliness and wisdom are glorified, the world becomes filled with contrived and eccentric behavior—such as using Yao and Shun to denounce Jie and Zhou. In truth, sageliness and wisdom bring more harm than good to the world. By discarding these and returning to the essence of the Dao, all things can abide in their true nature and attain genuine benefit.

Abandon artificial benevolence and righteousness, and the people will naturally restore their innate filial piety and compassion. Filial piety and compassion are inherent qualities, but deliberate emphasis on benevolence and righteousness distorts this nature. If these artificial standards are discarded, people can return to authenticity, neither favoring only their own kin nor doting solely on their own children—thus achieving true filial piety and compassion effortlessly.

Discard cunning and profit, and thieves will vanish. Those who manipulate schemes have no place to operate, and those who covet profit disregard moral principles—these are the roots of theft.

Benevolence, righteousness, cleverness, and profit—these three cannot be resolved by mere ritual codes alone. In the late Zhou dynasty, excessive focus on ritual led to form overshadowing substance, causing the world to lose its original simplicity and descend into rampant selfish desires. Living in the decline of the Zhou, Laozi sought to dismantle these distortions and return people to their roots. Thus, he advocated discarding benevolence and righteousness, abolishing ritual, and even rejecting sageliness and wisdom. He did not truly believe that benevolence, righteousness, and sageliness were incapable of governing, but rather recognized that the Way of the ancient kings required cyclical renewal—the best way to correct extravagance was to return to simplicity. Hence, he taught people to preserve their innate purity and reduce selfish desires.

This passage from Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary on the Daode Jing elucidates the essential principles of returning to one's original nature and reducing desires:

Regarding "manifesting the unadorned" (jian su), it is like leaving blank spaces in a painting—the undyed white silk remains the purest. By maintaining this pristine innate nature, one can avoid disturbances from distracting thoughts.

The principle of "embracing simplicity" (bao pu) teaches that raw timber becomes utensils when carved. If one can preserve the uncarved state of the original wood, the mind will attain stability and focus. Zhuangzi said that being free from desires constitutes simplicity; only by returning to this state can one recover humanity's natural disposition.

"Fewer selfish desires" (shao si gua yu) points out that seeking personal gain constitutes selfishness, while the best method for cultivating the mind is to reduce desires. By achieving this, one can distinguish between inner truth and outer falsehood, attain complete Virtue (De), and return to one's original nature—making even the titles of "sage" or "wise" seem superfluous.

Chapter 20's "abandon learning and be free from worry" (jue xue wu you) explains: the pursuit of learning originally seeks truth, yet scholarly inquiry inevitably brings anxiety about right and wrong or order and chaos. Those who truly comprehend the Dao gradually relinquish their attachment to learning, reaching the state of non-action (wuwei) where everything can be accomplished effortlessly. By living in accordance with one's innate nature, worries naturally dissolve.

"How much difference is there between assent and denial? What distinction exists between good and evil?" In truth, both approval and reproach are sounds, and both good and evil arise from the same innate nature. Ordinary people cling to distinctions, while the wise perceive the fundamental unity. When sages administer governance in court, they still diligently restrain evil and promote goodness. Matters that people fear, sages also handle with caution.

The Dao of Heaven nurtures all things without worry, yet sages must share the people's concerns. Those who embody the great Dao remain free from anxiety, while those handling worldly affairs must maintain reverence. Those lacking reverence rarely avoid calamity—thus the noble person cultivates themselves with reverent introspection. As the Book of Songs states, "Stand in awe of Heaven's majesty."

The transformations of worldly affairs are endless, and standards of good and evil remain indeterminate. Only those of penetrating understanding realize all things are fundamentally one. Ordinary people chase pleasures with excitement, like attending grand banquets or climbing heights in spring. All beings flourish with yang energy and withdraw with yin energy. The multitude has lost their original nature, indulging in gluttony and sensory pleasures—only to stray further from the Dao.

This passage describes the contrasting states between Daoist practitioners and worldly people. Practitioners maintain a state of purity and desirelessness like infants ("怕兮" refers to inner tranquility), resembling babies who haven't yet learned to laugh playfully, free from cunning intentions and making no distinctions between external things. They follow natural rhythms ("乘乘" means moving with the timing), appearing as if without fixed abode.

Worldly people constantly crave abundance and excess, indulging in material pleasures ("余食赘行" refers to surplus food and burdensome behaviors), while practitioners seem to have forgotten such desires. Even when achieving unparalleled accomplishments, they claim no merit, preserving a simple and guileless mentality ("纯纯兮" describes pristine purity). This apparent foolishness actually aligns subtly with the Dao.

Worldly people are shrewd and calculating ("昭昭" and "察察" both describe overt cleverness), while practitioners appear dull and slow-witted ("闷闷"). Yet their seeming dullness is as profound and serene as the ocean ("澹兮其若海"), appearing motionless while containing boundless transformation ("飂兮似无所止").

Ordinary people pursue useful things (like edible cinnamon trees or usable lacquer trees), while practitioners maintain a crude and unrefined exterior ("顽且鄙"), embodying the wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless." What sets practitioners apart is their understanding of returning to the source ("求食于母" uses "mother" as a metaphor for the Dao), following the Dao like an infant clinging to its mother or a calf following its cow. For the Dao nurtures all things, just as a mother nurtures her child.

Emperor Huizong of the Song Dynasty (a devoted Daoist practitioner) offered this commentary on the Daode Jing: People lose their innate nature because they become trapped by worldly desires. Ordinary people chase fame, profit, and social status, craving sensory pleasures—these external attachments gradually erode the pristine nature we're born with. Like a mirror obscured by dust or clear water churned to murkiness, our primordial nature becomes polluted by acquired desires.

This "loss of nature" doesn't mean complete disappearance, but rather an obscuration. Daoism teaches that every person possesses an authentic nature (zhenxing, "true nature") in harmony with the Dao, which merely becomes concealed by worldly pursuits. As an emperor annotating the Daode Jing, Huizong particularly emphasized that rulers must guard against this confusion, since power and status make people especially prone to stray from their natural essence.

The term "worldliness" (su) here refers to conventional value systems and lifestyles—the pursuit of official rank, wealth, and splendor. Daoist cultivation aims to transcend these worldly fetters and return to original authenticity.

In his commentary on this chapter of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), Emperor Huizong of the Song dynasty expounds on the "manifestations of great De (Virtue/Power)." He asserts that those possessing great De act in complete accordance with the laws of the Dao. The alternation of Yin-Yang constitutes the Dao, while all things growing through attainment of the Dao represents De. The Dao itself has no concrete form and defies description, yet its divine mystery becomes manifest through De. With concrete expressions, De allows all beings to find their proper place through the Dao, thereby revealing the Dao's essential nature. Through self-cultivation that returns to one's original nature, when one attains the highest De, one becomes unified with the primordial Dao.

Regarding the essence of the Dao, Emperor Huizong explains: Though the substance of the Dao is empty and formless, its function is profoundly real. All things contain the Dao—while appearing elusive and intangible, they nevertheless follow discernible forms and predictable patterns. This dialectical relationship between "being" and "non-being" constitutes the profound mystery of the Dao. Just as the void produces thunder, lightning, wind, and clouds, or as the earth transforms to generate water and fire, the Dao operates through these unfathomable transformations, accomplishing the creative work of spiritual forces (guishen).

Within the depths of profound darkness resides the purest Qi (vital energy, primordial qi). This essential Qi represents the most authentic substance between heaven and earth—eternal and unchanging, maintaining its fundamental character from antiquity to the present. Sages value this essential Qi, thereby comprehending the patterns governing all transformations. Though appearing to practice wuwei (non-action), they resonate with and penetrate all affairs under heaven. Such a state cannot be attained without mastering the most refined essence of the Dao.

Commenting on the passage "To yield is to be preserved whole," Emperor Huizong interprets: Adapting to external changes resembles following the current—this very compliance preserves one from harm. As Zhuangzi said, those with accommodating exteriors harmonize with the multitude. When wronged, they do not complain; when in difficulty, they do not grieve. Thus their inner being maintains perfect integrity.

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below." Just as the inchworm contracts its body to extend further, what appears as retreat is actually preparation for greater gain. Low-lying areas naturally accumulate water, and worn-out objects are precisely what become renewed.

If seeds aren't buried deep in winter, lush growth cannot emerge in spring. The true Dao is fundamentally simple—hearing and seeing much is less valuable than grasping the essential core. Those who chase after trivial details only become entangled in confusion. Thus, the sage holds fast to the root principles of the Dao (the Way), serving as a model for all under heaven. They maintain focused Shen (spirit) without scattering it, so their words and actions naturally become the standard for the world.

Not insisting on one's own views brings clearer perception; not clinging to opinions reveals truth; not boasting of merit accomplishes real achievement; not exalting oneself ensures lasting endurance. As the ancient texts say: "When you don't boast, none in the world can contend with your merit; when you don't pride yourself, none can rival your ability." Precisely because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them.

The ancients' saying that "yielding leads to preservation" is no empty phrase. The sage moves with water's softness yet responds to things with the straightness of an inked string. Knowing that low places will fill keeps them from arrogance; understanding that the old renews prevents them from flaunting achievements. They act in accordance with nature, and through timely yielding, they preserve themselves and enjoy the fullness of their years.

Regarding the principle that "few words accord with nature": the true wise person stands aloof above the myriad things, unattached to external matters. Just as fierce winds cannot last a morning, and torrential rains cannot persist a full day—these are the natural patterns of heaven and earth. Thus, one should discard cunning and artifice, instead following the natural order of the Dao.

Even Heaven and Earth cannot remain unchanging forever—how much less can humans? When Heaven and Earth create the myriad things, they use the wind to scatter them, allowing all forms to transform naturally; they use rain to nourish them, letting all beings grow of their own accord. Thus, Heaven and Earth do not deliberately foster growth, nor do they forcibly intervene. Yet within their embrace, the myriad things flourish naturally, and this is how they endure.

If violent storms disrupt the balance of Yin and Yang, forceful interference will only harm the myriad things, making such actions unsustainable. Therefore, those who seek the great Dao (the Way): those who align with the Dao naturally attain it; those who align with De (Virtue/Power) naturally acquire it; those who align with the loss of the Dao will ultimately meet with failure. The truly enlightened do not strive deliberately—they dwell in wordless stillness, uniting their innate nature with the Dao, unburdened by external things. Such a state transcends the labels of "De" and the constraints of "loss."

People, not understanding the natural transformation of all things, regard the Dao as something lofty and unattainable, as difficult as ascending to Heaven. Thus, they exhaust their spirits in bitter cultivation. Some cling to partial views, while others are trapped in narrow understanding, causing the great Dao to be fragmented. In truth, aligning with the Dao naturally leads to attainment, while aligning with its loss inevitably brings failure—forcing things only backfires.

Without genuine sincerity, one cannot earn trust. True sincerity is free from falsehood and can distinguish truth from illusion—taking the Dao as truth and worldly things as illusion. Where sincerity is lacking, one ends up like Hui Shi or Han Fei, who, though originally rooted in the Dao, ultimately strayed from it.

Those who stand on tiptoe cannot last long; those who stride too wide cannot go far. To act freely while defying one’s innate nature is exceedingly difficult. But if one takes De as the standard, anyone with feet can reach the destination.

Those who flaunt themselves lack wisdom; those who assert their own views cannot be distinguished; those who boast of merit actually have none; those swollen with pride cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food or useless burdens. Self-display reveals a lack of wisdom; self-righteousness shows a deficiency in benevolence; flaunting goodness destroys its fruits; flaunting ability nullifies its achievements. The great Dao takes depth as its foundation and simplicity as its guiding principle. Those flashy appearances and indulgent desires—how could they ever be the Dao?

Excess in eating becomes a burden, and going to extremes in action appears superfluous. Even all things despise such behavior, thus those who have attained the Dao do not act this way. Indulging one's innate nature leads to excess—this is what Heaven diminishes, Earth transforms, and people universally detest. Therefore, those who have attained the Dao refrain from such conduct.

Chapter Twenty-Five states: There exists a state of undifferentiated chaos that was born before the formation of Heaven and Earth. It encompasses the three elements of Qi (vital energy), form, and substance, yet remains an undivided unity. This state is called "Hunlun" (the primal, undifferentiated state of the cosmos). What the Book of Changes refers to as the "Taiji" (Supreme Ultimate) is precisely this. All things in Heaven and Earth rely on it to come into being, hence it is said to precede Heaven and Earth. Though it generates all things, it itself possesses the mysterious quality of neither birth nor death, and thus it is called "the thing."

It is silent and soundless, vast and formless. It neither engages in movement nor interacts with concrete things, existing purely in clarity and simplicity. It stands alone, enduring eternally without change, maintaining absolute stability without being assimilated by the myriad things. This describes the essence of the Dao. It circulates ceaselessly without pause, its function inexhaustible—this describes the operation of the Dao. It may be regarded as the mother of all things under Heaven, for all things depend on it to exist.

I do not know its name, so I reluctantly call it the "Dao," and further reluctantly describe it as "great." Only after the emergence of things do forms appear; only with forms does development occur; only with development do patterns arise. Names derive from actual existence, and the word "great" is merely a description of the Dao. The mystery of the Dao lies in its subtlety and profundity, while its essence is vast and manifest.

To call it "great" is because it operates without cease; to say it "operates without cease" is because its function is boundless; to say its "function is boundless" is because it ultimately returns to its source. Returning to the source is called stillness; stillness reaching its peak is called reversion. The essence of the Dao is square yet boundless—to call it "great" is because it encompasses and covers all. The Book of Changes states, "Speaking of the distant, there are no limits." All movement of things ultimately returns to stillness; all labor ultimately returns to rest—this is the cyclical return of the Dao. It never departs from its innate nature. The Book of Changes says, "Speaking of the near, it is tranquil and upright."

Thus, the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the ruler is also great. The Dao bears and covers Heaven and Earth; Heaven covers all without exception; Earth carries all without exception; the ruler stands between Heaven and Earth, equal to them, and thus is also great. There are four great existences in the cosmos, and the ruler is one of them. Only below the Dao are there specific directions and forms, hence the phrase "within the realm." In stillness, it embodies the divine; in movement, it embodies kingly virtue.

This passage discusses the relationship between sovereign governance and Daoist cultivation. When a ruler comprehends the Dao of the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity—the three fundamental cosmic forces), they become a truly qualified leader. The sovereign shares unity with the Great Dao (Da) and achieves equal merit with heaven and earth, hence being called "great."

The text then explains the hierarchy of cultivation: humans emulate the earth, the earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates the Dao, and the Dao follows the principle of naturalness (ziran). Here, "humans" specifically refers to rulers. Just as heaven acts without deliberate effort yet nurtures all things, and earth does nothing yet sustains all life, a ruler who governs through non-action (wuwei) naturally brings peace to the world. What they emulate is the innate nature of the Great Dao.

Chapter 26 emphasizes the importance of "steadiness." Steadiness is the root of lightness, and tranquility governs restlessness. Thus, those with virtue (De) conduct themselves daily as cautiously as if carrying heavy baggage (referring to ancient military supply wagons). Steadiness prevents wavering, and tranquility avoids reckless action. Maintaining stillness and weightiness minimizes errors—even when treading dangerous paths, no calamity will arise.

Even amidst worldly splendor, one should remain detached like swallows nesting in peace. External glory belongs to transient things, while inner serenity is the foundation. How can the ruler of ten thousand chariots (symbolizing a great kingdom) treat the realm with frivolity? Governing the world is like controlling six horses with a rotten rein—constant vigilance is required. Frivolity loses subjects; impetuosity forfeits authority.

Chapter 27 describes the highest level of cultivation: Those skilled in action leave no traces, operating like divine workings—formless and imperceptible. Those skilled in speech make no mistakes, for they follow natural principles. Those skilled in calculation need no tallies, as understanding the root resolves all changes. Those skilled at closing require no bolts yet none can open, for they guard the inner spirit (Shen). Those skilled at binding use no ropes yet cannot be undone, for this aligns with innate nature rather than forced restraint.

This scripture expounds on the way of the sage and the nature of Dao. The essential meaning is:

The truly wise excel at assisting others, therefore no person in the world is useless; they skillfully utilize all things, therefore nothing is discarded. True goodness is the continuation of Dao (the Way), and when completely merged with Dao, even the concept of "goodness" becomes unnecessary. Sages benefit the world by embodying Dao, thus enabling each person to fulfill their potential and every object to serve its purpose. They assist all things to grow and help people live in peace, not through deliberate effort but by following natural patterns.

When the world loses Dao, people forfeit their peaceful nature and fall into distress. The reason sages can remedy this situation is their mastery of "xi ming" (暗合大道) wisdom—a brilliance that remains inwardly contained without outward display. The good and the not-good are actually interdependent: the not-good reveals the value of goodness, while the good serve as models for the not-good. Yet sages transcend such distinctions, attaining unity with all things.

Chapter 28 further elaborates: Knowing the power of strength yet abiding in gentleness is like being the valley (xi) of the world. Though positioned low, valleys continuously gather flowing water, symbolizing how maintaining humility preserves complete De (Virtue) and returns one to an infant's pure state. This realm features harmonious Qi (vital energy) without agitation and an unspoiled nature without dissipation, reminiscent of Mencius' saying: "The truly great never lose their childlike heart."

Similarly, understanding the value of brightness yet dwelling in obscurity serves as the world's standard (shi). This approach ensures De never deviates, ultimately returning to Dao's origin (wuji). This embodies the Daoist wisdom of "knowing the masculine yet guarding the feminine"—though comprehending all principles, choosing the most humble and unassuming way to practice them.

White symbolizes the manifestation of De (Virtue/Power), while black represents the return to Dao (the Way). The sage (one who has attained the Dao) illuminates his virtuous radiance yet silently merges with the great Dao, remaining flawless, thus becoming a model for all under heaven. He is upright without presumption, trustworthy as the unerring cycle of the four seasons. Such a person is unfathomable and inexhaustible, for his realm knows no bounds. Hence it is said, "Eternal De never errs, ultimately returning to the boundless state." The Book of Documents speaks of the kingly way as "returning to the mean," while Laozi, discussing becoming a model for the world, says "returning to the infinite." The "ultimate" refers to the middle way—"having limits" manifests De in concrete things, taking the golden mean as supreme; "limitless" is De returning to Dao, reaching an ineffable state.

To understand glory yet willingly embrace humility, to be as receptive as a valley—this is to be the empty valley of the world. Only then can eternal De be fulfilled, ultimately returning to its original truth. Beyond one's innate nature (Xing) and life destiny (Ming), there is nothing truly essential. Ordinary people take gain as honor and loss as shame; prominence as glory and hardship as disgrace. Only the sage regards honor and disgrace equally, free from grasping or rejecting. He does not pursue extravagance but takes simplicity as his standard, maintaining emptiness and stillness. Thus he becomes the empty valley of the world—for only when a valley is empty can it contain, responding to all things without leaving traces. When De reaches this state, it is the highest and most complete, hence the saying, "Only then can eternal De be fulfilled." The "uncarved block" (Pu) is the undivided state of Dao—returning to the original truth fully embodies the Dao. Just as kings and lords refer to themselves as "solitary," "humble," or "unworthy" (ancient royal self-effacing terms), it is precisely by holding fast to simplicity that they draw the world to them.

The original Dao disperses to become concrete vessels. What is metaphysical is called Dao; what is physical is called a vessel. With form comes name; with differentiation comes function. Dao is whole—heaven and humanity united as one; vessels are divided—heaven and humanity separated into two. The sage uses Dao to cultivate himself and the principles of vessels to govern the world. With form, names can be assigned; with differentiation, functions can be established. Thus offices are created to organize the people and bring order to the world—this is the meaning of "officials and leaders." The Book of Changes states, "To know the hidden and the manifest, to understand yielding and firmness—this is to be a model for the people," which aligns with this principle.

Therefore, a perfected political system does not sever Dao from vessels. Adaptation lies in flexibility, shaping all things without revealing artifice.

Chapter 29 states: Those who seek to seize the world by force and govern it according to their own will—I see that they will not succeed.

This scripture primarily expounds on the principles of governing the world. Laozi considers the world to be like a sacred vessel (shenqi) that cannot be forcibly controlled. Those who attempt to seize the world through cunning strategies and military force will ultimately lose it. Truly enlightened rulers govern by following the natural laws of the Dao, rather than relying on cleverness or violence.

The text employs natural phenomena as metaphors: all things operate according to their own inherent patterns, just as the sun and moon alternate, the seasons rotate, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) generate and restrain each other, and plants wither and flourish. Only sages can transcend these changes, remaining unburdened by external matters while maintaining inner constancy. Therefore, sages must reject extremes, extravagance, and excessive behavior.

Later passages mention that those who assist rulers with the Dao never rely on military force to demonstrate power. Resorting to arms is always a last resort—while ancient rulers sometimes employed military means, they understood this was never the optimal approach.

The core philosophy emphasizes "governing through Wuwei (non-action)" by aligning with natural laws, opposing coercive power and military conquest. Rulers should treat the world with the same reverence as one would handle a sacred vessel—avoiding forceful interference to ensure lasting peace and stability.

This scripture elucidates the core philosophy of military strategy: Those who truly assist rulers through the Dao (the Way) fundamentally refrain from relying on brute force. Warfare easily invites retribution, as Mencius observed, "As you treat others, so shall you be treated."

Where armies encamp, desolation follows; after great battles, years of calamity inevitably ensue. This occurs because conscripting labor leaves fields untended, and violating natural cycles invites disaster. The Book of Odes states, "When states are pacified, abundant harvests follow year after year" — national stability brings communal harmony between humanity and heaven-earth. Thus, those skilled in warfare seek only to achieve necessary ends, never to flaunt might.

Forcing submission through violence courts peril, for military success depends on internal unity rather than numerical superiority. After achieving objectives, one must avoid arrogance, boasting, or pride, recognizing such actions as last resorts. Like the seasons' progression — summer's growth yielding to autumn's austerity — this reflects natural law. Violating the Dao causes premature decay, contradicting its principles.

Fine weapons portend misfortune, for even heaven-earth abhors them; thus, those embodying the Dao never employ them lightly. Auspicious events manifest their own signs, whereas arms signify inauspicious implements. Weapons should remain sheathed, drawn only when absolutely necessary. Dao-embracing individuals illuminate virtue (De) rather than parade military might.

Gentlemen normally honor the left (yang, representing life), but in warfare honor the right (yin, representing execution). Yang embodies benevolent virtue, yin symbolizes punitive measures. Since noblemen prioritize virtue while cautiously applying punishment, weapons aren't their constant companions. When compelled to wield arms, they maintain serene detachment. To relish warfare is to delight in slaughter.

Military action serves solely to quell violence, undertaken only when unavoidable. Free from competitive ambition and anchored in tranquility, such engagement never seeks to demonstrate dominance.

This scripture conveys two main themes: first, the principles of governance concerning warfare and benevolent rule; second, the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way).

The text begins by stating that those who take pleasure in killing can never truly rule the world. A truly virtuous ruler should implement benevolent governance, making the state invincible. If a ruler instead delights in things that lead to national ruin, it will provoke resentment among the people and ultimately invite calamity. Regarding military affairs, auspicious battles honor the left (symbolizing life), while ominous battles honor the right (symbolizing death)—hence the deputy commander stands on the left, and the main general on the right. Even in victory, funeral rites should be observed, for warfare inevitably brings casualties and must be approached with mourning. Using armies is like administering poison: even when successful, harm is unavoidable.

The second part explains the nature of the Dao. As the origin of all things in heaven and earth, the Dao cannot be defined by concrete names. It resembles uncarved wood ("Pu" or simplicity)—seemingly insignificant, yet nothing in the world can dominate it. If a ruler preserves this Dao, all beings will naturally submit. When the Yin and Yang energies of heaven and earth harmonize, they produce sweet dew (symbolizing the essence of cosmic harmony), which distributes itself evenly without human intervention.

Initially, the Dao had no name; names emerged later. But one must know when to stop and recognize boundaries to avoid peril. The Dao's presence in the world is as natural as streams flowing into rivers and seas. The metaphor of "uncarved wood" illustrates the Dao's primordial wholeness, within which resides what Zhuangzi called the "True Sovereign" (humanity's authentic master). Sages can establish systems of names and duties without being burdened by external things, maintaining a detached and self-sufficient mind, thus remaining free from danger.

All things under heaven originate from the same inherent nature. The Dao (the Way) operates in the world by unifying all things through this shared nature. Just as rivers and streams ultimately flow into the ocean because water shares the same essence and naturally gathers together, the sage governs the world by aligning with the inherent nature of all things.

Regarding the chapter "Knowing Others Is Wisdom" (Chapter 33):

To discern others is merely cleverness. It is like the eyes being able to see objects a hundred paces away but unable to see one's own eyelashes. Judging others as good or bad, like distinguishing black from white, is only ordinary wisdom.

True self-awareness is genuine insight. The Yijing (Book of Changes) teaches that one must turn inward to truly know oneself. This "inner vision" (introspection) is the real illumination. Obsessing over others only leads to contention, while quiet reflection and returning to one's roots reveal the true self, like a mirror reflecting all things between heaven and earth.

To conquer others is strength; to conquer oneself is true power. Those who attain the Dao (the Way) emphasize De (Virtue/Power) rather than brute force, striving to overcome selfish desires rather than suppressing others. Bullying the weak with petty cleverness or intimidating the timid with brute force is merely the power to dominate others. But those who restrain their desires and cultivate upright Qi (vital energy) are the true conquerors of themselves. Such individuals remain fearless in the world, untroubled in seclusion, and steadfast in their true nature regardless of circumstances.

To know contentment is true wealth. Genuine wealth does not lie in material possessions but in inner fulfillment. The contented focus on inner cultivation, possessing everything within themselves—a state even the riches of a nation cannot surpass.

Persistent effort is true resolve. Continuous self-improvement is the mark of one who sincerely seeks the great Dao (the Way).

Not losing one's foundation ensures longevity. Holding fast to the true path without drifting with the tide allows the Dao-mind to endure. Those who follow the crowd achieve only fleeting success.

Though the body perishes, the Shen (spirit) is undying—this is true longevity. Life has its beginning and end, but those who understand the nature of life and death know that death is not true annihilation. Sages comprehend the truth of the cycle of life and death, realizing that death is merely a transformation of form, while the spirit eternally abides with heaven and earth. This is genuine longevity.

The essence of this chapter: Begin by understanding others to investigate principles, then cultivate contentment to perfect one's nature, ultimately attaining the state of spiritual eternity. Those who grasp the true meaning of life transcend the cycle of birth and death. Only those who penetrate the mysteries of past and present and reach the state of neither death nor birth—those who have attained the Dao (the Way)—can achieve this.

Regarding the chapter "The Great Dao Is Vast" (Chapter 34):

The great Dao (the Way) operates everywhere, effortlessly flowing in all directions.

The text describes the characteristics of the Dao (the cosmic origin and principle) and how sages emulate its realm.

The Dao is as omnipresent yet imperceptible as air, allowing all things to operate freely without interference. It reaches everywhere without limitation, neither left nor right. All beings depend on the Dao for existence, yet it never claims credit. Like the seamless transition of seasons, it fulfills its purpose and withdraws unnoticed. It nourishes all things without domination, hence it may be called "small"; yet all things return to it without knowing its sovereignty, thus it may also be called "great."

The Dao manifests as "small" in the most subtle dimensions, distinguishing itself from phenomena, and as "great" in transformation, merging with all existence. Precisely because it does not dominate, it accomplishes the greatest work. As Mencius said, "To be great yet capable of dissolving [the notion of] greatness is called sagehood" — true greatness lies in releasing attachment to the pursuit of greatness.

Chapter 35 speaks of "holding fast to the Great Dao." Sages govern the world as effortlessly as celestial bodies move through their orbits. Through wordless teaching, people naturally gravitate toward them like children returning to their parents. Under such governance, yin and yang harmonize, spirits rest peacefully, all beings find their proper place, and the people dwell in contentment.

Ordinary people often become trapped by sensory pleasures — like travelers detained by delicious food. Yet the Dao's language seems bland and flavorless, indistinct to the eye and elusive to the ear, yet inexhaustible in application. Just as a connoisseur knows flavors while the source of flavor (the Dao) itself remains tasteless.

This passage elucidates the subtle principles governing transformation and the triumph of softness over hardness.

First, it describes the formless and imageless nature of the great Dao (道): the colors we perceive are mere appearances, while the source that generates them never manifests; the sounds we hear are mere phenomena, yet the origin of sound itself remains silent. This fundamental Dao gives rise to all flavors, hues, and harmonies. Though seemingly inactive (Wuwei), it accomplishes everything, its efficacy boundless.

Next, it illustrates the mutual transformation of things through natural laws: to contract, one must first expand; to weaken, one must first strengthen; to abolish, one must first promote; to take, one must first give. Just as Yin-Yang (阴阳) alternate and the four seasons cycle, the rise and fall of all things follow inherent patterns. The truly wise foresee future trends in subtle signs—for instance, King Goujian of Yue aided Wu in attacking Qi to ultimately conquer it, and Zhi Bo presented large chariots to Chouyou before destroying it, both demonstrating this principle.

Though softness appears inferior to hardness, just as water wears away stone, the accumulation of small advantages leads to great victory. Zhuangzi’s parables reveal how tiny insects overcome large beasts, and how the formless wind demolishes houses—both exemplifying the triumph of suppleness over rigidity.

Finally, the metaphor of fish and water warns rulers: just as fish cannot survive without water, the essential strategies of governance must not be carelessly revealed. If a ruler flaunts rewards and punishments, ministers will exploit these tools for personal gain. Thus, one must conceal the true art of rulership, maintaining an unfathomable depth.

This passage discusses how rulers can apply the governing principle of "ruling through non-action (Wuwei)." The core idea is that rewards and punishments are merely tools of governance—true mastery lies not in forceful suppression, but in grasping the "subtle Dao" that allows all things to operate naturally without coercion.

Just as water reflects all things without needing deliberate adjustment to naturally reveal their forms, a ruler who maintains the fundamental principles of the Dao appears to do nothing yet achieves optimal governance. When people exhibit excessive desires, they should be guided by the most primal "Uncarved Block of the Nameless" (referring to the authentic state of Dao) rather than constrained by elaborate rituals and laws. Like still water that naturally becomes the standard for measurement, a ruler who preserves inner stillness and non-action will find the world naturally returning to the proper path.

Key concepts mentioned include:

1. "Uncarved Block of the Nameless": The primordial, unadorned state of Dao without artificial embellishment.

2. "Self-transformation": The natural evolution and development of all things according to Dao's principles.

3. "Quietude through desirelessness": Returning to the tranquil original state by minimizing human interference and desires.

Emperor Huizong of Song invoked the Yi Jing's phrase "The way of Qian (Heaven) transforms and changes, giving each thing its correct nature and destiny" to illustrate how celestial Dao operates through non-action yet enables all beings to find their proper place. This highest state of governance allows every life to develop naturally according to its inherent nature.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhao Ji of Northern Song) provides this commentary in his personal annotation to the second volume of the Dao De Jing: The relationship between Dao (the cosmic origin and universal principle) and De (its manifest expression) resembles that of a tree trunk to its branches and leaves—Dao is the root, while De represents its functional manifestation. All beings in heaven and earth follow the laws of Dao, with De being the visible embodiment of these principles in concrete phenomena.

A ruler governing the state should emulate the natural non-action (Wuwei) of Dao, refraining from forceful interference in people's lives, just as heaven and earth nourish all things without claiming merit. The text particularly emphasizes the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong," illustrating how water, though gentle, can wear away stone. Similarly, a sovereign should maintain humility, influencing the people through gentle virtue (De) rather than coercive rule.

For Daoist practitioners, maintaining the pure, unspoiled nature of an infant is essential. By eliminating distracting thoughts (the cultivation method called "cleansing the mysterious mirror"), one may perceive the profundity of Dao. As an emperor deeply devoted to Daoism, Huizong integrates governance philosophy into his commentary, asserting that only through the ruler's serene non-action can the world naturally attain stability.

This passage presents Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary on Chapter 38 of the Dao De Jing, focusing on the different levels of De (Virtue/Power).

The highest form of De (Shangde, Upper Virtue) does not consciously pursue the appearance of virtue, thus truly embodying it. All things come into being through De, aligning with the Dao without claiming merit. Just as Confucius never proclaimed his own sageliness yet became a true sage.

The lower form of De (Xiade, Lower Virtue) clings to maintaining virtuous appearances, thereby losing genuine virtue. Those with Shangde practice Wuwei (non-action) naturally without deliberate effort; those with Xiade must strive through action to achieve their aims. This distinction marks the crucial difference between sages and ordinary virtuous people.

The text further differentiates expressions of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual: The highest benevolence (Shangren) benefits all without seeking return; righteousness (Shangyi) requires weighing pros and cons before acting; ritual (Shangli), when unmet with reciprocity, provokes conflict. The Spring and Autumn period witnessed frequent wars sparked by ritual improprieties.

Among these levels, sages value benevolence most, righteousness second, and ritual last. When ritual systems are mishandled, they bring calamity instead. This reflects Daoism's advocacy for natural Wuwei and its wariness toward formalized ritual systems.

This passage elucidates the hierarchical relationship between Dao (the Way), De (Virtue), humaneness, righteousness, and ritual propriety, as well as the principle of returning to the fundamental source.

First, it explains the descending sequence: When the realm of Dao is lost, De emerges; when De is lost, humaneness arises; when humaneness is lost, righteousness appears; and when righteousness is lost, ritual propriety remains. Ritual propriety is actually a manifestation of diluted loyalty and sincerity, marking the beginning of chaos. Since Dao cannot be deliberately pursued, people settle for De; when even De proves difficult to fully attain, they retreat to humaneness; humaneness can still be earnestly practiced, and achieving it brings one close to righteousness; where righteousness falls short, ritual propriety serves as ornamentation. By the stage of ritual propriety, one has drifted far from Dao.

Using examples like Yin-Yang, authority-virtue, and parent-child relationships, the text illustrates how excessive external formality weakens inner substance. When rituals become overly elaborate, sincerity diminishes, hypocrisy emerges, and conflict inevitably follows. Thus, ritual propriety signifies the thinning of loyalty and sincerity—the harbinger of disorder.

What self-proclaimed "foresight" considers wisdom is actually the superficial flourish of Dao and the beginning of folly. Attempting to comprehend Dao through clever speculation is like forcing a chisel—a futile expenditure of spirit in wild conjecture. Such "preconceived knowledge" only leads people to chase trivialities while forgetting the root; hence it is called Dao's empty flourish. Mental exhaustion brings deeper confusion, making it the origin of foolishness.

Therefore, the noble person chooses the profound root over shallow forms, embraces substantial essence over decorative appearances. Dao values depth over superficiality, substance over show. Only the truly wise understand the need to return to one's innate nature, undistracted by surface phenomena.

The Yijing states: "Returning with unwavering sincerity brings no regret"—where "sincerity" signifies ultimate depth. Humans inherently possess this profound nature; returning to it means abiding in depth. This is how the noble person fully embodies Dao and preserves De.

Finally, quoting Zhuangzi and the concept of "attaining the One (yi)": In ancient times, those who attained the "One" (Dao)—heaven attained it and became clear, earth attained it and found peace, spirits attained it and gained efficacy, valleys attained it and overflowed, all things attained it and flourished, rulers attained it and brought stability to the world. This "One" is universal; understanding it illuminates all things, holding it prevents divided minds, embracing it safeguards the root.

This scripture expounds on the paramount importance of "the One" (a fundamental Daoist concept referring to the origin and unity of the cosmos). Those who comprehend how to preserve "the One" never stray from the true path, and those who grasp its profundity understand all things. The ancient masters who attained "the One" could perceive the most subtle principles between heaven and earth, standing peerless in all existence.

Heaven remains clear by virtue of "the One" — were it to lose this, collapse would ensue. Earth maintains tranquility through "the One" — its loss would bring upheaval. The Shen (spirit) manifests its efficacy by "the One" — without it, disappearance follows. Valleys stay abundant holding "the One" — deprived of it, they wither. All beings grow through "the One" — forsaking it brings extinction. Rulers govern effectively with "the One" — losing it leads to downfall.

The scripture illustrates through metaphor: Heaven's function is to canopy all things — should it rupture, this covering fails. Earth's role is to bear all existence — if shaken, this support crumbles. The Shen requires human vessels to manifest — vanishing renders them invisible. Valleys receive flowing waters yet never store them — drying up breaks this responsiveness. Jing (essence) and Qi coalesce to form beings through attaining "the One" — their dissipation scatters the hun and po souls when "the One" is lost.

True nobility roots itself in humility; genuine elevation finds foundation in lowliness. Ordinary people see only surface appearances, while sages discern fundamental causes. Thus rulers style themselves "the Solitary," "the Virtueless," or "the Unworthy" (ancient royal epithets meaning lonely, morally deficient, or inept), demonstrating their understanding of humble foundations. Their ability to maintain exalted positions without collapse stems precisely from this principle.

The scripture concludes by warning that excessive pursuit of reputation leads to its loss, emphasizing return to the foundational "One." This embodies core Daoist teachings of "guarding the One" and "valuing softness," advocating that rulers maintain humble self-restraint, using yielding to overcome force.

When a person constantly esteems themselves too highly while looking down on others, remains rigid without understanding the soft approach, or appears flawless yet fails to conceal imperfections, such deliberate pursuit of reputation will ironically invite excessive praise. When empty fame surpasses substance, it inevitably attracts baseless slander, ultimately causing the loss of genuine honor.

Those who truly attain the Dao (the Way) neither deliberately strive to shine like jade nor intentionally appear as coarse as common stones. While the value of jade remains fixed, sages adapt to circumstances and respond to the transformations of all things, all while maintaining inner purity. As Mencius said, the greatest pitfall lies in clinging to one extreme while neglecting all others. This wisdom—neither forced display nor artificial self-deprecation—can only be mastered by sages who comprehend the changes of all things, embodying the highest De (Virtue/Power).

The movement of the Dao often manifests through complementary opposites, where softness and weakness become its very means of operation. All things under heaven arise from "being," yet "being" itself originates from "non-being." The principle governing the world's movement lies in the mutual generation of stillness and motion, the interplay of strength and weakness. Just as the seasons cycle—the stored energy of winter bursting forth in spring's vitality—water, seemingly the softest element, can overcome the hardest substances. The transformation between being and non-being operates like a revolving wheel: though east and west are opposites, neither can exist without the other. Those who rigidly cling to "Wuwei (non-action)" or dogmatically insist on "deliberate action" have yet to grasp the profound mystery of the great Dao.

Regarding enlightenment, people of different capacities respond distinctly: those of superior disposition hear the great Dao and diligently practice it, for they sincerely seek the Way with unwavering commitment; those of middling disposition waver between belief and doubt, advancing and retreating intermittently; those of inferior disposition laugh at the Dao—yet it is precisely because it provokes the laughter of fools that it proves itself to be the ultimate truth.

Those lacking wisdom often mock true principles due to wavering faith and limited understanding. The Great Dao (referring to the cosmic origin and ultimate truth) has no tangible form, color, sound, or taste to perceive, thus it far surpasses what our eyes, ears, nose, and mouth can grasp. As Zhuangzi said: Sublime music cannot enter vulgar ears; profound words cannot linger in common hearts.

Hence the ancient saying: The truly luminous Dao appears dim. Like sunlight and moonlight illuminating the earth—this is the nature of brightness—yet genuine wisdom remains deeply concealed, its radiance inwardly contained without glaring outward, thus seeming superficially dull.

The level path appears rugged. In truth, all roads lead to Rome, though each walk differs.

The way forward sometimes seems like retreat. Just as Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) advanced through yielding, and Zhuangzi's concept of "sitting in forgetfulness" (attaining enlightenment by discarding worldly knowledge) embodies this principle.

The highest virtue resembles an empty valley. Only emptiness can embrace all things and respond endlessly; only emptiness can receive everything without grasping or possessing. Thus the Daodejing states: Be the valley of the world, and eternal virtue will abound.

The purest whiteness seems stained. When all distracting thoughts are utterly cleared, the mind becomes flawlessly clear—this is "great whiteness." Yet sages willingly dwell in positions others despise, thus appearing superficially blemished.

Vast virtue seems insufficient. Embracing all yet never self-satisfied, it appears lacking. Like the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) swelling with pride at autumn floods, only to be mocked by those of broader vision.

Robust virtue seems indolent. Sages always act with caution, appearing hesitant yet invariably succeeding.

Unadorned sincerity seems changeable. Isn't it said that the hardest substance cannot be worn thin? That the whitest cannot be stained black?

The most square lacks corners. True "great squareness" has no fixed orientation—square yet unharming, thus cornerless.

The most precious vessel takes longest to complete. True "great vessel" isn't confined to specific utility; unforced in growth, its fulfillment comes late.

The loudest sound goes unheard. Vibrating in formlessness, manifesting only through resonance, it seems silent.

The grandest form has no shape. Dwelling in profound mystery, visible yet unseen, it lacks concrete appearance.

The Great Dao is subtle and nameless. Only the Dao excels in giving and perfecting all things. From "luminous Dao" to "great form"—all are manifestations of the Dao. Its profundity cannot be fathomed by intellect nor sought through images; it may be called hidden. To comprehend it fully is impossible. Sages who embody the Dao give without exhausting, respond without depleting, perfect all things without possessing—simply following nature's course. The Dao's essence lies concealed in namelessness, yet its function excels in giving and perfecting; thus appearing effortless, it accomplishes all.

This passage expounds on the cosmological generation and the principle of Yin-Yang balance. It begins by describing how the Dao (cosmic origin) first gave rise to "the One" (the undifferentiated state of chaos), which then divided into the two Qi of Yin and Yang (heaven and earth, water and fire, spirit and form). Through their interaction emerged "the Three" (the triad of heaven, earth, and humanity), which in turn generated all things. All phenomena contain both Yin and Yang aspects, achieving equilibrium through "chong qi" (the harmonizing energy of Yin-Yang interaction).

Natural metaphors illustrate this principle: when trees shed leaves to return to their roots, what appears as loss actually nourishes the foundation; the full moon inevitably wanes after reaching completeness—demonstrating how gain and loss mutually transform. Ancient rulers styled themselves with self-deprecating titles like "the Solitary One," "the Virtue-Lacking," and "the Unworthy," precisely because they understood that extremity begets decline, maintaining longevity through self-diminishment.

The text concludes by noting how worldly teachings often advocate using strength to suppress weakness, while true wisdom operates conversely—those who rely on brute force frequently meet untimely ends. Quoting Zhuangzi's perspective: extreme Yang Qi burns bright yet destructive, extreme Yin Qi turns frigid and lethal—only through their harmonious blending can all things flourish. The sages comprehend this principle, thus aligning with the natural rhythms of Yin and Yang's waxing and waning.

The softest things in the world can penetrate the hardest substances. What is rigid is easily broken, and what is sharp is easily blunted. Accumulating countless tiny advantages can lead to great victories, yet only sages can achieve this.

Formless things can enter spaces without gaps. The Zhuangzi tells a story: the one-legged creature Kui envied the snake for moving without feet; the snake envied the wind for flowing without form; the wind envied the eyes for seeing everything instantly; finally, the eyes envied the mind for being omnipresent. Like the butcher Ding's blade effortlessly gliding between the joints when carving an ox, only those who comprehend the boundless Dao and remain unbound by form can enter seamless spaces.

Thus we understand the benefits of Wuwei (non-action): softness overcomes hardness, emptiness contains substance—this is the profound wonder of the Dao. Releasing worldly burdens leaves the body unweary; transcending life and death preserves the spirit undiminished—this is true benefit.

The wordless teaching (subtle influence) and the advantages of non-action are rarely attained in this world. When sages preserve their original simplicity, the world naturally follows; practicing governance through non-action, all things spontaneously transform. Few indeed comprehend these principles.

Which is more precious—fame or life? Which matters more—life or possessions? If both arms are more valuable than the entire world, then which is closer—fame or life? Can the living be valued merely like the legendary Suihou Pearl? Which holds greater worth—life or material goods? True desire lies within oneself; fame isn't worth clinging to. True wealth resides in the heart; possessions aren't worth hoarding. Those who confuse priorities, harming their innate nature for fame and profit, resemble Bo Yi starving for reputation on Shouyang Mountain or the robber Zhi dying for wealth on Dongling Ridge—is this not folly? Those who penetrate life's truth never pursue what damages it—this distinguishes Dao-realized beings from ordinary people.

Which brings greater harm—gain or loss? Martyrs perish for reputation; misers die for profit. They gain empty fame and transient wealth but lose priceless simplicity and precious life—which loss is greater? Thus: excessive frugality leads to greater depletion; hoarding too much results in greater loss.

Not coveting external things leads to frugality without waste; not being shackled by material possessions allows one to maintain inner clarity without losing oneself. Giving and receiving balance each other, accumulation and dispersal transform into one another—this cyclical pattern is inevitable. How could anything remain unchanging forever?

Knowing contentment prevents disgrace. By staying within proper limits, how could disgrace arise? Understanding when to stop avoids danger. Aligning with the natural cycles of all things, there is no cause for concern about peril—this is how one endures.

All things gather and scatter, yet their fundamental nature remains eternal. Ordinary people trade their innate nature for external things, chasing fame and profit, only to suffer damaged reputations and endangered lives. The sage fully aligns with their nature and finds fulfillment. Though the world is vast, they do not harm their life for it, thus enduring as long as heaven and earth.

The most complete things appear flawed (dacheng ruo que), yet their function never wanes. In the cosmos, there are four great things (Dao, heaven, earth, and humanity), and Dao is one of them. Embodying the wholeness of Dao is called "great," where there is no distinction between completion and deficiency—this is true perfection. Not clinging to achievement makes it seem flawed; understanding how to adapt to change without rigid adherence to old ways ensures its function never exhausts. This is how Confucius became a sage who harmonized with the times by synthesizing all great teachings.

The most abundant appears empty (daying ruo chong), yet its function is inexhaustible. Filling heaven and earth, nourishing all things—this is great abundance. Responding to the world with a tranquil mind and a harmonious attitude ensures that giving never runs dry. Just as a shrewd merchant hides their wealth and seems empty, the virtuous appear simple and dull.

The straightest seems bent (dazhi ruo qu), adapting flexibly to circumstances without deliberate display, thus appearing curved. The most skillful seems clumsy (daqiao ruo zhuo), shaping all things without revealing technique, thus seeming awkward. The most eloquent seems inarticulate (dabian ruo ne), for true mastery of debate requires no words—debates like those of Hui Shi are mere trivial skills.

Restlessness can ward off cold, and stillness can overcome heat, but both methods lean toward the extremes of yin and yang, failing to achieve harmony. Only by transcending the need to use agitation to dispel cold or silence to cool heat, maintaining pure clarity and inward-focused spirit, does the world naturally return to the right path.

When the world follows Dao, even warhorses are retired to plow and fertilize fields. Governing with Dao, the people live peacefully without contention, tending only to their fields and enriching the soil.

When the world loses the Dao (the Way), warhorses breed in the wilderness. The strong bully the weak, the many oppress the few, and even borders cannot restore order. The greatest crime lies in indulging desires—only when people cease seeing temptations can their spirit (Shen) find peace. When driven by desire to the point of losing one’s innate nature, fighting recklessly at the cost of life itself—this is the root of all evil.

The greatest calamity is never knowing contentment. Peace is true blessing, while greed becomes misfortune. Those who understand sufficiency avoid disgrace—how could disaster befall them? The gravest fault is insatiable craving—what is gained through desire inevitably becomes a target for others’ condemnation. Thus, the contentment of knowing true sufficiency is eternal abundance.

When people see temptation, they forget sufficiency. Without sufficiency comes greed, and greed breeds conflict—from this chaos arises, until even the wilderness becomes a battlefield. But if one remains content and fulfills their role, without resorting to clever schemes, simply meeting daily needs for food and drink—where then would strife and turmoil emerge?

(Chapter 47) The truly wise know the world’s affairs without stepping beyond their door; they comprehend the Dao of heaven without peering through their window. Though vast, heaven and earth are understood by the sage’s wisdom; though distant, the Dao is illuminated by their insight. Their mind penetrates all things, discerning even the most remote, so they need not venture out. Their spirit (Shen) communes with the divine, illuminating even the darkest corners, so they need not open a window. As Zhuangzi said, sages roam beyond the four seas in the space between a glance—such is their silent operation, transforming all things through solitary refinement.

Those who travel farthest understand least. The fundamental patterns of heaven and earth lie close at hand—within oneself. To abandon the near in pursuit of the distant, clinging to surface phenomena like Yin-Yang calculations, only takes one further from the Dao, diminishing true knowledge.

Thus, the sage knows without traveling, perceives without seeing, and accomplishes without striving. To understand the world through inner wisdom is called "knowing without going." To grasp the Dao through inner nature is called "naming without seeing." Seemingly acting through Wuwei (non-action), yet achieving monumental deeds—this is the realm of "accomplishing without striving."

(Chapter 48) The pursuit of learning requires daily accumulation. Seeking the Dao through study begins as an ordinary scholar and culminates in sagehood—daily refinement builds one’s path. Confucius said of Yan Hui: "I see him ever progressing."

But cultivating the Dao demands daily reduction.

Those who pursue the Great Dao (Da Dao) relinquish attachment to sensory perceptions, free themselves from the constraints of intellect, and transcend the limitations of form and mind. Thus they forget the distractions of worldly affairs, which is called "daily diminishment." Like the virtuous Qu Boyu of the Spring and Autumn period who continued refining himself even at sixty, through constant reduction of desires and attachments, one ultimately attains the state of non-action (Wuwei). This state of non-action paradoxically enables all actions.

Study involves exhausting principles to comprehend the Dao, while cultivation leads the mind to emptiness. Through continuous diminishment, one returns to the original purity where even "nothingness" does not exist. Though this state of non-action appears silent and unmoving, it resonates with all things. Maintaining stillness makes one a sage; acting in accordance with the Dao makes one a king.

Those who govern the world often act without disturbing the people. Frequent mobilization of resources, in contrast, makes governance difficult. The world is vast—its true ruler does not treat it as an object to manipulate. Precisely by not treating the world as an object, one truly masters it. Thus, governing the world requires natural non-action. The world is sacred and cannot be forcibly altered—forced action leads to failure, and clinging to control results in loss.

Sages (those who embody the Dao) comprehend the Great Dao and govern both self and state with innate purity. The rise of emperors and the success of royal enterprises are all natural outcomes. Like King Tai of Zhou, who left Bin and naturally established his state at the foot of Mount Qi.

Chapter 49 speaks of the sage's mind: Sages have no fixed thoughts but take the people's hearts as their own. The sage's mind is like a clear mirror—empty yet reflecting all things, just as a mirror faithfully shows an object's beauty or ugliness, or a valley echoes sound. Sages observe all things to understand reality, simply following the people's will. Zhuangzi said: "Though lowly, none should be neglected—this is the people."

To the kind, I respond with kindness; to the unkind, I also respond with kindness—this is true virtue (De). To the trustworthy, I give trust; to the untrustworthy, I also give trust—this is true sincerity. Ordinary people negate each other with judgments of good and evil, mocking each other over truth and falsehood—these are worldly distinctions. Those of true virtue see all actions as good, thus treating even the unkind with kindness; they perceive all emotions as sincere, thus trusting even the untrustworthy. Transcending distinctions of truth and falsity, dissolving oppositions of right and wrong—this is the person of complete virtue. Like Shun's sincere trust toward his brother Xiang.

When sages govern the world, they do so with reverent caution, guiding all minds back to simple naturalness.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning: the sage's way of governance, and philosophical insights on life and death.

Firstly, it describes how sages govern the world by sharing both joys and hardships with the people. Though maintaining no fixed preconceptions, they remain ever vigilant. In self-cultivation, they are reverently cautious without slackening; in governing, they treat good and evil, honesty and deceit with equal impartiality, refraining from deliberate posturing while preserving a state of undifferentiated wholeness. The people attentively observe the sage's words and deeds, while the sage cherishes them like children. Heaven observes through the people's eyes and listens through their ears—thus the sage takes the people's hearts as his own. When sages appear, all things find their proper place, which is why the people focus on their conduct. Like parents to the people, sages compassionately nurture all beings as if protecting infants, spreading benevolence throughout the world.

The second part examines the question of life and death. All things emerge from the mechanism of creation (zaohua) and return to it. Birth marks the beginning of creation, while death represents the transformation of Yin-Yang. Those belonging to the category of life constitute three-tenths, as do those belonging to death. Those suspended between life and death also account for three-tenths. When people greedily cling to life and fear death, they violate heavenly principle; when they forget life's essence in pursuit of gain, what difference remains between living and dying? The root cause lies in excessive attachment to survival.

Those who pursue longevity become burdened by their physical forms, while those heading toward death forget their own existence. Those who court destruction—with shackled criminals in endless procession and the punished filling the landscape—all fail to understand that the body is life's greatest encumbrance. Life has its limits, yet they excessively pursue its preservation. Ancient Dao-realized individuals neither harmed their bodies through indulgence during wealth and honor, nor burdened their forms for profit in poverty and lowliness. They neither rejoiced in longevity nor grieved at premature death. With minds clear as still water perceiving the singular truth, they transcended temporal constraints to reach the realm beyond life and death.

It is said that those adept at nurturing life encounter no rhinoceros or tiger when traveling by land, nor require armor or weapons when entering battle formations. Rhinoceroses find no place to use their horns, tigers no place to extend their claws, weapons no place to display their sharp edges. Why? Because such practitioners never enter death's domain. Those skilled in life-nourishment maintain complete physical form and abundant spiritual energy (Shen), becoming one with nature. Their innate nature remains whole, their spirit undisturbed—they can submerge without drowning, tread fire without burning, and move freely among all things.

This scripture primarily expounds on the supreme status of the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), as well as their characteristics in transforming and nurturing all things.

It first explains the realm of "perfected persons" (those who have attained the Dao): they comprehend the patterns of day and night's transformations, penetrate the mysteries of life and death, and transcend worldly attachments, thus remaining unharmed by external phenomena.

Chapter 51 elucidates the process of the Dao's generation of all things:

The Dao appears to practice wuwei (non-action) yet accomplishes everything. All things emerge from this state of non-action. De constitutes the intrinsic quality enabling all beings to grow. When the Dao's flow temporarily slows, concrete objects take form. The formative patterns of these objects constitute their "structure," while their completed forms establish their respective "momentum" (state of existence). Therefore, all things revere the Dao and cherish De.

The Dao's nobility requires no titles or ranks—it is eternally self-so. True Dao attainees transcend worldly conventions, maintaining their authentic nature without relying on external power or influence. The Dao nurtures all things through eight phases: generation, nourishment, growth, cultivation, fruition, maturation, protection, and shelter. Though distinctions like virtue, circumstance, and form may appear on the surface, all fundamentally originate from the Dao—this most profound source of all existence.

The Dao's mysterious virtue manifests as: generating all things without possessing them, acting upon all without self-importance, guiding all without domination. This quality of non-claiming, non-flaunting, and non-coercion constitutes the deepest "mysterious virtue."

Chapter 52 begins by stating: All things under heaven have an origin, and this origin is the mother that births heaven and earth (referring to the Dao). This passage emphasizes the Dao's status as the creative source, laying groundwork for subsequent discussions about the importance of recognizing this fundamental origin.

This passage explains the origin and function of the Dao (the Way) as described in the Daode Jing. The primordial state of heaven and earth is nameless (wuming), serving as the origin of all things; when names (youming) emerge, it becomes the mother that nurtures all beings. Both the "beginning" and the "mother" are different manifestations of the Dao.

From the perspective of Qi (vital energy), the Dao is the origin of all things; viewed through its generative function, it becomes the mother of all existence. Only with this primordial beginning can the continuous generation of all things occur. Understanding the Dao as mother enables one to comprehend its offspring—all created things. Like a mother nurturing her children, the Dao gives birth to all beings. Those who penetrate the great Dao can simultaneously understand all things, thus knowing the children by recognizing the mother.

After understanding the myriad things (children), one must still hold fast to the fundamental Dao (mother), thereby remaining free from peril throughout life. Listening extensively requires grasping essentials; observing widely demands discerning the essence. Exhaustively investigating phenomena without becoming entangled by external things, penetrating the Dao's profundities without losing its subtleties—this enables effortless mastery and unimpeded movement, preserving life and fulfilling one's natural span without danger.

Closing the gates of sensory desire (blocking its openings) and shutting out external temptations (closing its doors) ensures a lifetime free from toil. The "openings" refer to pleasurable senses, while "doors" signify exits for desires. External temptations stir inner cravings, causing eyes, ears, nose, and mouth to chase outward. By vigilantly guarding the inner self and shutting out external lures—finding no pleasure in sensory contact—external things cannot seduce you, allowing natural attainment of innate joy. Why exhaust oneself pursuing externalities?

If one opens desire's floodgates (unblocks its openings) and busies with worldly affairs (attends to its matters), they become irredeemable for life. Driven by vain desires and entangled in external struggles, such a person toils endlessly without achievement.

Perceiving the subtle is called "illumination" (ming). The "small" refers to the Dao's exquisite profundity—those who apprehend its subtlety naturally comprehend all, leaving nothing unilluminated.

Maintaining softness is called "strength." "Softness" constitutes the Dao's root—those who preserve this foundation naturally overcome all, leaving nothing unconquered.

Applying wisdom's radiance (light) ultimately returns to original luminosity (illumination). "Illumination" is light's substance, while "light" is illumination's function. When sages engage the world, their essence radiates as wisdom; when withdrawing function to return to substance, wisdom crystallizes into illumination. Like the sun and moon manifesting in benevolence, wisdom resides in application—shining upon all things without diminishing its brilliance. This exemplifies the numinous operation of De (Virtue).

Leaving no calamity for oneself is called following constant Dao. Amid the myriad things' ceaseless transformations, only those returning to their original nature transcend externalities, withdrawing from worldly dust to abide in illumination without following external changes. Thus they maintain constancy without sorrow—utterly unlike those who chase glittering illusions while their forms undergo metamorphosis.

This passage presents Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary on the Daode Jing, elucidating how to correctly understand and practice the principles of the Dao.

Those who truly comprehend the great Dao most fear excessive action. The Dao demands the elimination of extravagance and extremes—extravagance corrupts De (Virtue), while extremes indulge one's innate nature, both being consequences of overdoing. Those who perceive subtle truths gain inner awakening through observing external phenomena, thereby stabilizing their foundation and drawing sufficient strength from within. Hence they particularly guard against excessive action.

The great Dao is inherently level, yet people always prefer shortcuts. Though shortcuts may seem to yield quick results, they actually lead one further from the Dao. Consider a court adorned in splendor while fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty—this prioritizes superficial governance achievements over agricultural fundamentals, which is no way to endure.

Those clad in fine robes, girded with sharp swords, indulging in lavish feasts and overflowing wealth are essentially flaunting stolen goods, fundamentally at odds with the Dao. True practitioners act with quiet humility, while those pursuing externals constantly seek to display their expenditures. The latter take pride in fine clothes, sharp swords, delicacies and riches—given to extravagance and arrogance—how could this be the Dao?

Regarding the chapter "What is well planted cannot be uprooted": those skilled at establishing remain unshaken because they establish the Middle Way connecting above and below; those skilled at embracing never lose their hold because they grasp the fundamental principle for responding to all changes. Such practice not only ensures ancestral sacrifices continue through generations, but its influence extends throughout the world and into posterity.

The effects of Dao cultivation expand progressively: cultivated in oneself, De becomes genuine; cultivated in the family, De becomes abundant; cultivated in the community, De becomes enduring; cultivated in the state, De becomes flourishing; cultivated throughout the world, De becomes universal. The broader the scope of cultivation, the greater De's influence. The key lies in starting with oneself through genuine practice—all else follows naturally.

This passage discusses how practitioners of the Dao should maintain a state of pure naturalness, remaining unaffected by external things like an infant.

The method of observation is first explained: observe oneself through oneself, observe the family through the family, and so on until observing the world. All things are contained within the "self" - by turning inward and maintaining sincerity, one attains supreme joy. Applying this method to cultivate oneself leads to self-perfection, and extending it can bring order to the world.

The infant serves as a metaphor for the state of one who has attained the Dao: those with profound De (Virtue) are as pure as newborns. Ordinary people are easily changed by external things, but Dao attainers maintain concentrated Qi (vital energy) that remains unshaken. Mencius said cultivated individuals never lose their infant-like pure heart-mind.

Such people remain unharmed even by poisonous insects or fierce beasts, as their profound De prevents the intrusion of harmful Qi or worries. Zhuangzi similarly stated that those who maintain emptiness and stillness while living in the world cannot be harmed.

Though infants have soft muscles and bones, their grip is firm; though unaware of sexual matters, their organs naturally function - manifestations of abundant Jing (essence). Those with complete De have complete form, and complete form leads to complete Shen (spirit). Zhuangzi considered sages to particularly value this pure Jing.

Infants can cry all day without hoarseness - the ultimate expression of harmonious Qi. Focused unity is called "Jing"; abundant Jing makes De complete and Shen undiminished. The harmony of Yin-Yang Qi is called "He" (harmony); abundant He makes Qi flow smoothly. At birth, humans receive Jing and He from heaven and earth - the foundation of wisdom and trustworthiness. But those who lose their infant-like purity have unstable Jing and turbulent Qi, indulging their forms and natures - truly lamentable.

Understanding harmony means comprehending the constant Dao; preserving pure Qi means mastering life. Though forms change, nature remains undiminished - realizing this constitutes true wisdom. Artificially forcing life's growth invites disaster, as it violates natural law. Using willpower to forcibly direct Qi is called "straining" and contradicts the Dao of naturalness.

This passage primarily discusses the realm of cultivation and the way of being for Daoist practitioners.

Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) do not engage in empty talk, while those who love to speak endlessly do not genuinely grasp the essence of the Dao. The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words—those who truly realize it contemplate silently without needing excessive explanation. Just as when Wang Ni responded to Nie Que's questions, he answered "I don't know" to all four inquiries, because speaking too much would only deviate from the Great Dao.

Practitioners of the Dao must close the gates of sensory desires ("block the openings, shut the doors"), preserve their inner Shen (spirit), and retreat into the profound stillness within ("withdraw into hidden secrecy"). They should temper their sharp edges, resolve conflicts, take profundity as their foundation, and simplicity as their guiding principle. They must harmonize with all things ("blending its light, merging with the dust"), following the natural transformations ("moving with things in undulating waves"). This is the realm of "mysterious unity."

"Mysterious unity" is the state of complete oneness with the Great Dao. In this realm, all things become one with the self, and distinctions of closeness or distance, benefit or harm, nobility or baseness cease to exist. Ordinary people are often trapped by love and hatred, disturbed by gains and losses, and burdened by status and rank—none of these constitute true nobility. Those who realize the Dao transcend these distinctions and attain inner fulfillment, which is the most noble state in the world.

In governing a country, one should rule with upright governance, employ military strategies with ingenuity, and attain the world through Wuwei (non-action). Upright governance is the constant way of the Dao, ingenuity is the Dao's adaptability, and Wuwei is the true essence of the Dao. A country can only be stable through upright governance, victory in battle can only be achieved through ingenious strategies, and the true essence of the Dao lies in being free from selfishness and following the natural course.

Here, the text discusses how rulers should govern the world by following the principle of natural non-action (Wuwei). Laozi believed that when those in power establish too many prohibitions and taboos, the people will only grow poorer. The common people are actually easy to gather—show them care, and they will draw close; offer them benefits, and they will follow. Conversely, they will disperse. If rulers lack compassion and only know how to forbid this and restrict that, the people will become displaced and scattered.

When everyone in a nation competes to use clever tools and sharp implements, society will descend into greater chaos. The presence of cunning tools gives rise to opportunistic behavior, and opportunistic behavior fosters a calculating mindset, thereby destroying the purity of human nature. The more people pursue extravagant skills and clever tricks, the more bizarre phenomena will emerge in society. When everyone chases after these novelties, traditional customs are disrupted.

The more numerous and stringent the laws and decrees, the more thieves and bandits will proliferate. Excessive and harsh control inevitably provokes resistance among the people. Therefore, the sage says: "I refrain from deliberate action, and the people transform themselves naturally. Just as the heavens, through non-action, remain clear, and the earth, through non-action, remains tranquil, when heaven and earth unite in non-action, the myriad things are naturally nurtured." The sage emulates heaven and earth, and the people gradually improve without knowing who brought it about.

When I remain serene, the people naturally become upright. Like a mirror reflecting objects—without deliberate design, the square and round, the curved and straight, appear naturally. Why rely on compasses and rulers to force correction? When I avoid stirring up trouble, the people naturally prosper. The world is inherently peaceful—it is the meddling of petty minds that disrupts it. Without interference, the people naturally grow wealthy. When I am free of desires, the people remain simple. By not exalting the worthy, the people will not compete; by not valuing rare goods, the people will not steal. When shared with the people, this absence of desire preserves human nature in its wholeness.

Chapter 58 states: Governance that appears dull and muddled (闷闷) is actually practicing lenient rule, where the people are aware of the ruler's presence but feel no oppression. Under such governance, the people remain simple and natural, preserving their true character with few selfish desires. Conversely, governance that appears meticulous (察察)—like counting hairs to comb them or grains to cook rice, mistaking harshness for precision—will cause the people to become cunning and deficient. Promoting the worthy leads to rivalry among the people, and employing cleverness encourages deception, making it difficult to preserve the virtue of simplicity.

Fortune and misfortune are intertwined—who can know their ultimate outcome? Light is born from darkness, and form arises from formlessness. Human virtue, wisdom, and strategy all emerge naturally from what seems like chaos.

This passage elucidates the principle of constant transformation and the interdependence of fortune and misfortune. Just as ghosts and spirits secretly observe households with illness, all phenomena in the world are in perpetual flux—nothing remains eternally unchanged.

Fortune and misfortune are like twins, always coexisting and transforming into each other. What can truly be called "correct"? If those who share my views were to judge right and wrong, since they already agree with me, how could their judgment be impartial? Conversely, if those who disagree with me were to judge, their opposing stance would likewise prevent fairness. Thus, where in the world is there an absolute standard of correctness?

The proper (zheng) can become the strange (qi, the abnormal), and the good can turn into the sinister (yao, the evil). People have been entangled in this confusion for a long time. In truth, the entire cosmos is permeated by the same Qi (vital energy). What is deemed right today may be wrong tomorrow; what is initially rejected may later be embraced. The miraculous and the decayed transform into each other, just as virtue and vice shift places—all of this follows the natural movement of Qi.

People are easily misled by appearances: minor confusion leads to mistaken directions, while major confusion alters one’s fundamental nature. When selfish tendencies prevail, people often fail to recognize the interdependence of fortune and misfortune. If governance then resorts to harsh methods, how can the common people return to their innate nature?

Therefore, the Sage (one who has attained the Dao) conducts themselves in this way: they are upright yet do not wound others (maintaining principles without harshness), like the most perfectly square object that has no sharp edges; they are incorruptible yet do not prick others (preserving integrity without severity), like the purest individual who remains humble and inclusive. They are forthright yet not unrestrained, radiant yet not glaring. Internally upright yet externally harmonious, wise yet unassuming—this is the Sage’s true state.

Ordinary people, however, often fall into extremes: some cling stubbornly to the middle path, like the scholar Zimo of the Warring States period, while others, like the hermit Chen Zhongzi, become excessively aloof. They know only how to advance, not retreat; they understand how to display themselves but not how to withdraw. Using such extremes to correct the flaws of a declining age only distances them from the Sage’s comprehensive wisdom. The method by which the Sage rectifies the world is simply to follow the Middle Way.

Emperor Huizong of Song's Interpretation of Chapter 59 of the Daode Jing (Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue):

In governing the people and serving the Dao (the Way), the most essential principle is to understand se (restraint, frugality). Human intelligence and talent are gifts of heaven, while action and thought are human endeavors. By regulating the rhythm of movement and stillness and reducing the burden of excessive thinking, one can govern the people without exhausting innate wisdom. Refraining from squandering heaven-given intelligence is the true way to serve the Dao. Se means keeping the kidney Qi (vital energy, believed in Daoism to store the primordial essence) full and abundant, like tending an inexhaustible garden—enriching the source of wisdom while restraining its outward expression. In this way, one can govern human affairs effectively while aligning with heavenly principles.

Those who understand restraint can return to their original nature early. Ordinary people only turn back after losing their nature, and by then, it is often too late. But those skilled in restraint do not indulge their nature, allowing them to return to it sooner. This early return is called "accumulating De (Virtue/Power) abundantly"—returning is the root of De, and through self-awareness, the Dao within the body grows and renews itself continuously.

When De becomes so profound that nothing is unconquerable, one can master all things, mobilize the masses, and overcome all obstacles. At this stage, one responds to all things without exhaustion—who can fathom the limits of such a person? Those who embody the inexhaustible Dao have more than enough capacity to govern the world, let alone a single state. By grasping the fundamental Dao of governance, one ensures enduring peace. The Dao is the mother of all things; safeguarding this root ensures a lifetime free from trouble. Deep roots bring stability, returning to one’s nature brings wholeness, and aligning with heaven and earth brings longevity. Sharing radiance with the sun and moon allows for enduring vision (long-lasting perception). While all things transform, the Dao alone remains—this is the essence of the Way.

Interpretation of Chapter 60:

Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish. Managing the masses becomes difficult if policies are constantly changed, just as frequently moving precious objects risks damage, and flipping a small fish too often makes it fall apart. If laws and decrees are altered too frequently, the people become confused. Therefore, the Dao of governance values stillness and Wuwei (non-action), allowing the people to settle naturally.

When the world is governed by the Dao (the Way), supernatural beings lose their power to manifest harm. The sage, as the sovereign of spirits, common people, and all things, only governs the world when absolutely necessary. The highest form of governance is wuwei (non-action), where the natural spontaneity of the Dao reigns supreme—thus all people become self-governed. Even the spirits attached to human affairs settle into tranquility, causing no disturbances. This is why it is said "supernatural beings lose their power."

This does not mean these beings lose their divine potency, but rather that their power no longer harms the people. Nor does it mean spirits refrain from harming people—it means the sage likewise refrains from harming them. When neither spirits nor people harm one another, their De (Virtue/Power) merges in mutual harmony. Those who govern through the Dao act without deliberate effort, preserving natural order. Without the calamities of war or the violence of punishments, no harm befalls the people. In this state, as spirits and people cease injuring one another, their virtues intermingle. Spirits need not manifest to inflict disasters—they only bestow blessings. People need not resort to cunning—they simply eat and drink in peace. Where, then, could harm arise?

Regarding the principle that great states should emulate rivers flowing low: though people crave elevation, those who climb high often fall. Rivers and seas become kings of all streams precisely because they excel at staying low. The way of engaging with the world resembles the feminine overcoming the masculine through stillness—tranquility resides beneath. When all under heaven confront each other with force, I alone remain soft, still, and non-contentious. Who could then overpower me? This is the method of interacting with the world. Thus when a great state humbles itself before smaller ones, it wins them over; when a small state humbles itself before a greater one, it gains inclusion. What seeks to contract must first expand; what seeks to receive must first give. Great states merely wish to absorb smaller ones; small states merely wish to join greater ones. Both achieve their aims when the greater willingly lowers itself.

The Dao of heaven bestows downward illumination, thus covering all things; the Dao of earth stays low yet ascends, thus supporting heaven. Humanity models earth, earth models heaven—therefore the greater must descend.

The Dao is the profoundest essence of all things: heaven’s mysteries dwell in the northwest, where subtle creation is stored; earth’s mysteries lie beneath the Yellow Springs, where the essence of souls resides.

The human mind contains the most subtle divine consciousness (shen). Both heaven-earth and humanity possess what we call inner mysteries (ao), and these mysteries are all governed by the Dao. This Dao is something difficult to fully grasp, impossible to completely investigate, hard to accurately fathom, and challenging to truly know—thus it becomes the fundamental mystery of all things. Since Dao is the root mystery of all existence, does that mean all phenomena are manifestations of Dao?

For virtuous people, Dao is as precious as treasure. By acting according to Dao's principles and accumulating good deeds, one cultivates excellent character and naturally receives divine protection—this is how the sage's state of mind is formed.

Even for those lacking virtue, Dao still offers protection. Going against Dao brings harm while following its patterns preserves oneself; reckless action leads one astray, whereas maintaining innate purity returns one to the right path—thus Dao safeguards both body and mind.

Graceful words win respect, and good deeds influence others. Why should those lacking virtue be rejected? Words can stir conflicts like wind and waves, while improper actions cause substantial loss—neither are advocated by Dao. Yet if one speaks pleasantly and acts honorably, it can still influence others and earn trust—how much more so for those who comprehend Dao's mysteries and embrace all without discrimination? Given this, why reject those lacking virtue?

Therefore, when establishing the Son of Heaven (emperor) and appointing the Three Dukes (Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, Grand Guardian)—even with ceremonies involving jade tablets held in both hands and carriages drawn by four horses—none compare to quietly cultivating this Dao. The noble person (junzi) upholds the principle of governing the world through self-cultivation. Though emperors and ministers use fine jade and steeds to attract worthies, neglecting Dao-cultivation means abandoning self-refinement to please others, losing the root of self-governance. Better to quietly practice this Dao, for Dao is sought within one's own heart. Where Dao resides, sages revere it, and people follow like crowds at a marketplace.

Why did the ancients value Dao so highly? Wasn't it because seeking Dao brings wisdom, and realizing Dao removes faults? Thus Dao became treasured by all under heaven. Seeking Dao means attaining it—for this seeking turns inward. The ancients' failure to find Dao through external yin-yang arts and numerology stemmed from looking in the wrong direction. When the wicked transform toward goodness and fools become wise—this demonstrates how "faults can be absolved." Dao excels at saving all beings, hence its universal value. As scriptures state: "Nothing under heaven fails to treasure Dao."

Chapter 63 discusses the state of wuwei (non-action): acting through non-action, handling affairs through non-interference, savoring through flavorlessness. Dao's essence creates without contrivance (thus wuwei), has no fixed form (thus no affairs), and lacks craving (thus flavorless). When sages respond to concrete matters, they manifest Dao's emptiness—from these three aspects we glimpse Dao's characteristics.

Regardless of matters' size or quantity (all must follow this principle).

This scripture expounds the principle of preventing problems at their inception and maintaining vigilance from beginning to end. All developments originate from minute beginnings, and the wise understand how to address issues when they first emerge.

First, consider the concepts of size and quantity: the myriad things in the world are infinite and cannot be fully enumerated. What truly matters is essence rather than quantity—large things are not necessarily important, and small things are not necessarily insignificant. If one only fixates on superficial size and quantity, it becomes difficult to discern the truth of karmic retribution. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) can perceive the essence of all things, thus achieving truly great undertakings.

Regarding "repaying grievances with De (Virtue/Power)": official ranks and emoluments are not worth pursuing, nor are punishments and humiliations worth fearing. Only De is truly worthy of reverence. To address difficulties, one must start with simplicity; to accomplish great tasks, one must begin with details. Just as a thousand-mile dike may collapse due to an ant hole, or a hundred-foot tower may catch fire from a chimney crack. In ancient times, Bai Gui (a hydraulic expert of the Warring States period) understood how to prevent floods by plugging small holes in dikes, while prudent elders would seal wall cracks to prevent fires. The world's calamities often arise from minute origins—once they develop into serious stages, they become difficult to remedy. Thus, the sage always acts early.

Therefore, the sage never boasts of greatness, yet achieves monumental deeds; by starting with small matters, they accomplish grand undertakings. Waiting until chaos has formed to address it is too late. Those who make promises lightly often break them, and those who consider tasks too easy frequently encounter difficulties. Precisely because the sage values difficulty, they ultimately face none. Disasters often lurk in subtle details, erupting when people are negligent. The sage approaches life with meticulous care, never acting rashly at the outset, thereby avoiding irresolvable calamities in the end.

The passage "what is secure is easily maintained" further illustrates: stability is easily preserved; what shows no signs is easily planned for; fragility is easily resolved; minuteness is easily dispersed. One must prepare before events occur and address disorder before it takes shape. Stability and danger are relative, as are the unmanifested and the formed, the fragile and the solid, the minute and the conspicuous. Maintaining stability prevents danger; planning for the unmanifested prevents formation. The sage detects subtle omens—resolving fragility prevents it from becoming solid ice, dispersing minuteness prevents it from becoming conspicuous. Like a cart about to overturn or a boat about to sink, the sage does not wait for disaster to strike before applying wisdom but employs it beforehand. This is the principle of "acting before things arise and governing before disorder appears."

Finally, three metaphors summarize the teaching: a giant tree that fills one's embrace grows from a tender sprout; a nine-tiered tower is built from accumulated earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. All great achievements accumulate from minute beginnings.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," whose core principle is following natural patterns without forcing or clinging.

All things in the world develop according to their inherent rhythms: great things invariably grow from small beginnings, tall structures must rise from foundations, and distant journeys commence with a single step. Matters begin simply but often end in complexity. The sage (referring to a ruler embodying the Dao) perceives the outcome by observing the inception, thus neither forcibly pursues blessings nor becomes the source of misfortune. Acting with caution, they ultimately achieve success.

Forced intervention leads to failure; tight grasping results in loss. Therefore, the sage neither fails through deliberate action nor loses through attachment. They accomplish without strain, thus avoiding failure; remain flexible without rigid views, thus preventing mistakes. Foolish people stubbornly cling to their standards, drifting ever further from the Dao—how could they not fail?

Ordinary people often falter when success seems imminent, abandoning tasks midway. They begin diligently but grow lax—this is human nature. If one maintained the same prudence from start to finish, failure would be impossible. All endeavors have beginnings, but few reach completion. Only through unwavering consistency can one renew daily. Acting thus, what could remain unaccomplished?

Hence the sage's pursuits differ from ordinary people: they desire "desirelessness," valuing not rare treasures; they study the "learning of unlearning," rectifying others' errors. Those craving profit become burdened by material things; those chasing erudition drown their minds in knowledge—neither attains the state of non-action. The sage avoids encumbering body and mind with gain, stopping desires at contentment, thus esteeming not rare objects; prevents artifice from damaging innate nature, studying to return to original clarity, thus able to correct others' faults.

The great Dao remains obscure because even the worthy exceed proper measure—how much more so ordinary people? Returning to one's true nature and correcting errors constitutes genuine learning, bringing carefree tranquility.

The sage assists all things in their natural development without presumptuous interference. Heaven, earth, and the myriad beings each possess their intrinsic qualities, formed spontaneously. Following nature fulfills inherent potential; forced intervention brings destruction—hence the sage dares not act recklessly. This is why sages rely on the Dao for teaching rather than clever stratagems.

Ancient masters skilled in practicing the Dao didn't make people clever and cunning but kept them simple and genuine. People may be guided to follow the Dao without needing to understand its profundity. These ancient practitioners simply let people live naturally, returning to their original state, whereby the Dao abides with them.

This passage expounds the Dao of governance, with its core philosophy opposing the use of cunning strategies to rule a state. The sage-kings of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou) governed without clever artifice, maintaining a state of pristine naturalness—hence described as "simple-minded" (here meaning great wisdom appearing as simplicity, not actual foolishness). Later generations abandoned this tranquil and non-interfering (Wuwei) approach to governance, instead enthusiastically establishing elaborate rituals and music systems to regulate people's behavior, using moral preachings to pacify the populace. While ostensibly civilizing the people, this in fact led to greater chaos.

The difficulty in governing the people arises precisely because rulers employ too much scheming and calculation. The root cause of the world's great disorder lies in rulers' excessive fondness for wielding clever stratagems. Governing through cunning is actually a calamity for the state—as soon as laws are promulgated, craftiness emerges; when decrees are issued, deception follows. Conversely, governing without cunning is the state's true blessing. Just as burning tallies and smashing seals can restore the people's simplicity, or destroying measuring vessels and breaking steelyards can make people cease competing.

Understanding the difference between these two approaches to governance means grasping the principle of statecraft. Truly comprehending this principle constitutes possessing "profound virtue" (Xuande). This profound virtue is unfathomably deep and immeasurably distant, completely contrary to worldly practices. What is called "profound" (mysterious and subtle) resembles the color of heaven. By constantly preserving this principle and avoiding cleverness, one becomes aligned with the Dao of heaven—a state so deep it cannot be fathomed, so distant it cannot be reached, transcending all things with nothing to match it. Hence it is said to be "contrary to ordinary things." Achieving this state enables "great harmony" (complete accord with nature).

As Zhuangzi says, "being in harmony with heaven and earth"—this unity appears simple and dull-witted, yet it is precisely profound virtue, completely attuned to the great Dao. Precisely because it seems simple and dull-witted can it truly abandon cunning.

Chapter 66 uses rivers and seas as metaphors: The reason rivers and seas can become kings of all streams is because they excel at occupying low positions. Similarly, if a ruler can remain humble and lowly, the people will follow him as water flows downward. Therefore, when sages wish to stand above others, they must speak humbly; when they wish to lead the multitude, they must place their own interests last. Thus when sages occupy high positions, the people don't feel burdened; when they stand at the forefront, the people don't feel obstructed, and all under heaven gladly support them without resentment.

As the first line of the Zhun hexagram in the Yijing states: "A noble position occupied with humility" wins great popular support. Gaining popular support means winning hearts. When those above don't feel burdensome to the people, following becomes easy; when those ahead don't obstruct, more people benefit. Achieving this means no contention arises, and thus no one in the world can contend with you.

This passage expounds the core philosophy of Daoism, which can be understood through Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary:

All under heaven speak of the Dao (the Way) as vast and boundless, yet it seems to resemble nothing. Precisely because of its boundlessness, it cannot be likened to any particular thing. If the Dao resembled any specific object, it would become limited. The truly great Dao embraces all things—if it took form as something particular, this would imply the existence of things beyond the Dao. How could this be considered true greatness?

Laozi speaks of possessing three treasures: The first is compassion (the essence of benevolence), the second is frugality (the restraint underlying ritual propriety), and the third is the refusal to presume precedence over all under heaven (for striving to lead fosters militarism and devalues virtue).

Compassion gives rise to genuine courage, as when King Wen of Zhou cared for his people—a single act of righteous anger could bring stability to the realm. Frugality alone yields true abundance, like winter's conservation nurturing spring's flourishing. By not contending for precedence, one paradoxically becomes the guide of all things (for the Dao of heaven prevails through non-contention).

Modern men discard compassion to display brute courage, abandon frugality in pursuit of extravagance, and spurn humility to grasp for precedence—these are roads to certain ruin. The world recognizes only that physical strength can overpower others, failing to understand that true courage springs from compassion.

Waging war with compassion brings victory; defending with it ensures stability. The benevolent become invincible, for the people will defend them as fiercely as they would protect their own leaders, fathers, or elder brothers. When heaven wishes to save someone, it shields them with compassion. This is why among the three treasures, compassion stands foremost.

A truly exceptional commander does not rely on brute force. Military might is the inferior approach—what cultivated individuals pursue is benevolence, righteousness, and virtue (De). As Confucius said, matters of military campaigns were not his expertise.

Those skilled in warfare are not blinded by anger. The highest military strategy achieves victory through tactics, while rage only clouds judgment. Those who truly overcome adversaries do not engage in direct confrontation, for contention violates virtue. Wars fought over territory leave battlefields strewn with corpses; battles for cities run rivers with blood, yet victory remains uncertain. Not asserting strength demonstrates true martial prowess; not expressing anger allows for its proper application; not contending can resolve conflicts—these three realms all stem from cultivation of virtue.

Those adept at employing others maintain a humble stance. The wise, though capable of seeing through worldly affairs, never presume infallibility—thus strategists offer them counsel. The capable, though preeminent in talent, never act arbitrarily—thus skilled individuals serve them. The eloquent, though gifted in speech, never boast—thus persuasive speakers advocate for them. This embodies the virtue (De) of non-contention.

Virtue surpasses empty reputation; wisdom transcends conflict. Those of comprehensive ability who don't flaunt their virtue never indulge in self-praise, always accommodating others. This represents the ultimate in leveraging others' strengths. The intelligent contribute their insights, the wise their strategies, while those in leadership appear to do nothing—yet this aligns with the Dao of Heaven, the supreme principle since antiquity. Governing through non-action (Wuwei) is the Dao of Heaven; achieving without contention and skillfully employing others aligns with this Dao. Attaining this state represents perfection, much as the ridgepole is the highest point of a roof.

There's a military principle: I dare not take the offensive but prefer a defensive stance. The initiator of conflict is the host; the responder is the guest. Engaging only when compelled is called "responsive warfare"—the tactic of passive defense. Daring not advance an inch but willing to retreat a foot, avoiding slaughter makes attack difficult yet retreat easy.

This is called acting without leaving traces (like raising an arm yet showing no arm), excelling at warfare without anger, defeating enemies without combat. Skillfully employing others' strength obviates the need to bear arms oneself. No disaster surpasses underestimating enemies—doing so nearly costs what we treasure most (life or virtue). Underestimation breeds belligerence; belligerence delights in killing, and those who revel in slaughter ultimately lose the world's support.

To discard the heart of benevolence and lose the compassion for all living beings is to forfeit the ability to govern the world.

In battles between armies, victory often favors the side that harbors pity. The sage employs military force solely to rescue people from dire suffering, merely to eradicate cruelty. Truly enlightened martial power never indiscriminately kills the innocent, for it takes benevolence as its fundamental treasure. When virtue (De) moves the world, none under heaven fail to submit; when righteousness awes the world, none fail to revere it—this is the eternal path to victory.

(Chapter 70) The truth I speak is actually simple to understand and easy to practice, yet few in the world truly comprehend and embody it. The Dao is as evident as sunlight, so explaining it in words makes it readily understandable; its essence is easily grasped, so putting it into action presents no difficulty. Mencius said: The Dao is like a broad highway—how could it be hard to comprehend? Thus, the Dao itself is not difficult; there is nothing the people of the world cannot achieve. The reason it seems hard lies in failing to turn inward and seek it within oneself.

Speech must have its core, action its foundation. Words may be exhausted, but truth remains the root; affairs may reach their limit, but the Dao is sovereign. Follow truth to explore, adhere to the Dao to act, and nothing under heaven will be difficult.

Those who do not understand naturally will not understand me. Ordinary people’s vision is confined to documents and ledgers; though they consider themselves knowledgeable, they do not grasp true principles. How could such people fathom the Dao? Precisely because those who understand me are few, my value is all the more precious. Those whose conduct transcends worldly norms are criticized by the masses; those with unique insights startle the common folk—thus, rarity makes things precious. Therefore, the sage is like one clothed in coarse garments yet holding jade within, concealing the profound Dao without flaunting it.

(Chapter 71) To know that there are things one does not know—this is the highest wisdom. The essence of the supreme Dao is profound and mysterious; its ultimate state is formless and silent. What appears as knowledge is merely external; what remains unknown is internal. What is known is superficial; what is unknown is profound. To know yet claim ignorance—this is the true mark of understanding the Dao’s ultimate nature, hence it is called the highest wisdom.

Pretending to know what one does not—this is a flaw. Failing to grasp the essence of the supreme Dao, one only understands the surface of things; ignorant of the foundation of the ultimate Dao, one chases trivialities. Such people are driven daily by petty affairs, bound by external things, sinking deeper into worry—thus it is called a flaw. Only by recognizing the flaw as a flaw can one avoid truly falling ill. Those aware of their ignorance are not truly ignorant; those conscious of their delusion are not truly deluded.

Those who fall into great delusion remain unawakened their entire lives; the utterly ignorant never gain enlightenment throughout their existence.

The reason sages are free from such flaws is precisely because they recognize flaws as flaws, thus avoiding them. Sages maintain their original simplicity of nature, ashamed to drift with the current. They establish themselves in the fundamental Dao, their wisdom penetrating to the realm of divine illumination (Shenming). Though possessing true knowledge and insight, they often appear as if knowing nothing, thereby never falling into predicaments.

When the common people cease to fear authority, greater calamities will befall them. Petty minds always consider minor evils harmless and fail to correct them, until their misdeeds accumulate beyond concealment. The Book of Changes (Yijing) says "carrying punishment instruments to cover one's ears"—this is an ominous sign.

Do not confine your dwelling place of the heart. This "dwelling" refers to the abode of one's true nature. Human nature is vast and boundless, yet those who restrict themselves cannot comprehend the great Dao (Da Dao), precisely because they've confined their hearts. If one can expand and fulfill it, it will fill heaven and earth, embracing all things. Mencius said "dwell in the broadest dwelling place under heaven"—this is its meaning.

Do not despise your life's origin. "Life" is the condensation of primordial Qi (Yuanqi). Human life connects with the Creator, yet those who despise life behave by day as if shackled. Repeatedly bound, they cannot even preserve the Qi restored at night. Those who maintain Yin-Yang harmony without premature demise do so precisely because they don't despise their lives. Only by not despising life will life not abandon you. Misfortune and fortune are both self-invited.

Therefore, sages possess self-knowledge yet don't flaunt themselves; understand self-love yet don't consider themselves superior. Thus they can discard empty splendor and preserve the fundamental. Sages know their worth yet don't deliberately display it; cherish themselves yet don't stand above others. Such people neither harm others nor are harmed by them. Content with heaven and knowing fate, free from worry—how could they fear the wrath of authority? Herein lies the sage's principle of acceptance and rejection.

Reckless displays of strength invite fatal consequences, while knowing retreat preserves life. The rigid belong to the category of death; the pliant belong to the category of life. Those who dare display courage are merely capable of valor. Being only valorous without knowing retreat doesn't constitute true talent—it instead brings self-destruction. Thus when Zilu was fond of courage, Confucius said of him "there's nothing commendable." The courage to retreat demonstrates wisdom in maintaining strategic reserve, and maintaining reserve paradoxically becomes the method for taking the lead. Liezi said: "Under heaven there is a constantly victorious way—it's called pliancy." Of these two attitudes, one brings benefit, the other harm.

This scripture expounds the wisdom of celestial patterns and human responses. Heaven and earth follow their inherent rhythms: where there is uprightness there will be deviation, where there is opposition there will be harmony. What the Dao abhors—who can truly comprehend its reasons? What humans deem beneficial may be precisely what Heaven despises—who can fully penetrate this principle? Even sages find it difficult to grasp.

To align with the Dao is to survive; to oppose it is to perish—this truth even sages dare not alter. The Dao's nature manifests thus: it contends not yet naturally prevails (as when nurturing or withering all beings without interference); it speaks not yet perfectly responds (revealing fortune through thunder, rain, wind, and lightning without the slightest error); it summons not yet all things return (though myriad forms exist, all follow the Dao's course in ceaseless motion); it appears ordinary yet harbors profound foresight (its operations seem simple yet foresee all risks).

The Dao resembles a vast, sparse net through which nothing escapes. Human good and evil find retribution according to kind—thus the Dao never errs. Humans must strive to prevail, speak to be heard, and call for others to come—these are artificial means. The Dao operates differently: prevailing without contention, responding without words, arriving unsummoned, seemingly plain yet perfectly arranged. Only sages perceive this, neither chasing gain nor fleeing harm, abiding in harmony with the Dao.

Chapter 74 addresses the people's fearlessness of death. When commoners lose their natural reverence for life, what use are threats of execution? Just as axes, saws, ropes, and chisels meant to deter instead provoke defiance, ultimately making them ungovernable. But if people cherish life and respect laws, when I (the ruler) apprehend and execute offenders, who would dare repeat their crimes? Thus all under heaven would live peacefully, never lightly transgressing.

This passage contains annotations and extended discussions on the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), primarily addressing principles of governance and the philosophy of life.

Regarding statecraft, the text advises caution in punishing deviant behavior (zhu yi xing), as Xunzi noted that crimes disrupting social order are inherently severe. The state has designated law enforcers (si sha zhe) responsible for punishment. If a ruler oversteps and usurps their role, it is like an amateur replacing a master carpenter in chopping wood (dai da jiang zhuo)—rarely does one avoid injuring their own hand. Those in authority should govern through wuwei (non-action), allowing subordinates to fulfill their proper duties. King Wen of Zhou succeeded in ruling precisely because he refrained from interfering in judicial matters (shu yu), delegating them to specialized officials.

Concerning the welfare of the people, the text observes that famine arises when rulers impose excessive taxes (shang shi shui zhi duo), and disorder stems from their excessive meddling (shang zhi you wei). People trivialize death often because they excessively pursue pleasure (sheng sheng zhi hou). Those who truly comprehend the essence of life (da sheng zhi qing zhe) do not forcibly seek what lies beyond life’s natural course. By doing so, they preserve their jing (essence) intact (jing bu kui) and harmonize with nature.

Finally, the passage employs the metaphor of plants to illustrate how gentleness overcomes rigidity: when alive, the human body is soft, but stiffens after death; living plants are tender and pliant, yet become brittle when withered. Thus, rigidity belongs to the category of death, while gentleness belongs to life. All things embrace yin and yang (fu yin er bao yang), and the harmonious blending of these two energies (chong qi yi wei he) creates equilibrium, with yang qi (active energy) governing growth.

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist principle of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" through natural phenomena and metaphors.

The text begins by contrasting the withering austerity of autumn/winter with the vibrant harmony of spring/summer, illustrating how rigid things tend toward decline while pliant things brim with vitality. Just as military aggression often fails to achieve victory, it's frequently the side fighting with righteous indignation that prevails. The tree metaphor follows: tender saplings receive universal care, yet mature trees face the axe. Thus, what is hard and strong typically occupies lower positions, while the soft and weak naturally rise above.

Chapter 77 employs the image of drawing a bow to reveal the Dao of celestial balance: what's high should be lowered, what's low should be raised; surplus should be reduced, deficiency should be supplemented. The Great Dao itself neither increases nor decreases, yet all things undergo cycles of flourishing and decay. Sages understand this principle—they act without coercion and claim no merit for accomplishments. Ordinary people often do the opposite, taking from the deprived to give to the excessive.

Chapter 78 particularly highlights water's symbolism: nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hardness. Though appearing weak, water's essential nature remains unalterable—hence Laozi declares it nearest to the Dao's qualities. Practitioners should emulate water's attributes, maintaining gentle humility in accordance with celestial principles.

These chapters collectively emphasize: true strength lies not in surface rigidity but inner resilience; natural law maintains equilibrium while human actions often disrupt it; cultivators should model water's nature—yielding without contention yet capable of wearing down all resistance.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "overcoming hardness with softness" in governance. The core teaching is that truly enlightened rulers should be as inclusive as the ocean that embraces all impurities, and as receptive as the mountain valley that remains eternally empty.

The scripture states that while everyone understands the principle that "softness conquers hardness, weakness overcomes strength," few can actually practice it. Just as an avenger doesn't blame the sword that caused injury, the truly wise recognize that excessive emphasis on benevolence may plant seeds of disaster, and fervent advocacy for peace can ironically provoke war.

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) interacts with others like holding an IOU without demanding repayment—he follows natural laws without coercion, accepts all things without harsh judgment. Those with De (Virtue) administer justice as impartially as a contract keeper, while those lacking virtue nitpick and insist on uniformity.

The Dao of heaven shows no partiality, yet consistently favors those who practice goodness. Laozi, living during the decline of the Zhou dynasty, observed how vast territories and populous states often suffered chaotic governance. Thus his text advocates the ideal of "small states with sparse populations"—where limited land and fewer people more easily preserve their original simplicity.

The concepts mentioned—"bearing a nation's disgrace" and "holding the left contract" (keeping proof of debt without collection)—all embody the Daoist political wisdom of "softness overcoming hardness." Just as rivers and seas become great by tolerating turbidity, true monarchs prove their worth by enduring humiliation with fortitude.

This passage describes an idealized state of social governance, representing what Daoism reveres as the "Age of Supreme Virtue" (zhide zhishi). Emperor Huizong of Song uses the reigns of ancient sage-kings as exemplars to portray a society that has returned to primal simplicity.

The text first mentions the era of twelve legendary rulers, from Rongchengshi to Shennongshi, when people lived with uncomplicated purity. Though they possessed various tools, they did not use them; they maintained a state of unity and simplicity without forming factions or pursuing selfish interests. The people valued life and had no desire to migrate far from home—content in life and properly buried in death. Confucius once said, "When rulers lose the Dao (Way), the people scatter," referring precisely to such forced displacement.

In this ideal society, though boats and carriages existed, no one rode them; though armor and weapons were made, none were displayed. The mountains bore no artificially carved paths, and marshes had no constructed bridges. People reverted to the simplicity of knotting ropes for record-keeping, with no need for complex documents or contracts. Their food was plain yet satisfying, their clothing simple yet beautiful. They were content with their customs and joyful in their livelihoods. People tilled the land for food, wove cloth for clothing, and when satiated, played freely—their needs fulfilled just so.

Neighbors lived within sight of one another, their roosters and dogs audible across the distance, yet the people never interacted even until old age and death. This seeming isolation was not due to hostility but to the absence of desire and greed—everything followed its natural course. This was the true state of "Supreme Virtue" (zhide).

Finally, the passage quotes Chapter 81 of the Daodejing: "Sincere words are not ornate; ornate words are not sincere. The good do not argue; those who argue are not good. Those who truly understand the Dao do not seek breadth of knowledge; those who pursue breadth often miss the essence." The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not hoard possessions, for the more they give to others, the more they themselves are fulfilled. This embodies the core Daoist principle of "acting without contention" (wei er bu zheng).

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Zhuangzi states that the sage's Dao operates ceaselessly yet never accumulates through deliberate effort. Confucius similarly describes himself as following nature's course daily ("daily progression" referring to moving with the natural flow of time).

By helping others, one becomes more abundant; by giving to others, one gains more. The adept at bestowing benefits and accomplishing all things never depletes themselves. Though all things draw upon this source, it never runs dry—this is the Way of Heaven, which benefits all things without causing harm.

Just as Heaven (represented by the Qian hexagram) initially nourishes the world with bountiful benefits yet never boasts of its merits, all things truly receive benefit yet remain unharmed. The sage's way of interacting with the world involves acting without contention, yielding without resistance, moving with the natural ease of water; responding to all things without leaving traces, remaining still yet clear as a mirror; harmonizing without forcing dominance, answering others as naturally as an echo. Though there is action, this action springs from the state of "non-action," merely emulating Heaven's Dao—how could there ever be contention?

This virtue (De) perfectly aligns with the Great Dao, which is why the "Classic of Virtue" (Dejing) concludes with this teaching. (Note: Emperor Huizong of Song divided the Dao De Jing into two sections: the "Classic of the Way" [Daojing] and the "Classic of Virtue" [Dejing].)