《道德真經傳(一)》

This passage presents Tang Dynasty scholar Lu Xisheng's commentary on the first chapter of the Daode Jing, using the relationship between substance (ti) and function (yong) to explain the nature of Dao.

Dao (the cosmic origin) as such is an ineffable substance—what can be spoken of as Dao is not the eternal Dao; names can designate things, but what can be named is not the eternal name. "The nameless" represents the state of primordial heaven and earth, while "the named" constitutes the source of all beings. Only by maintaining desireless awareness can one observe Dao's profundity; only through cognitive intention can one perceive the boundaries of phenomena. These two share the same origin with different names—both are called "mystery" (xuan), and this mystery within mystery is the gateway to all wonders.

Lu Xisheng explains: Dao is substance, while names are function. Function arises from substance, yet substance itself has no function; names are established based on Dao, yet Dao itself has no name. Because substance has no fixed function, function can manifest in countless transformations (what can be spoken as Dao), yet these particular functions merely represent patterns of phenomena, not the constant Dao (changdao). Dao is fundamentally nameless, thus it can bestow all names (ke ming), yet these designations merely point to specific things (not eternal names).

The true constant Dao and eternal names are beyond verbal expression. Only by understanding the substance-function relationship can one comprehend this profound principle. Those who realize Dao's substance resemble ancient sage-kings who followed natural patterns; those who employ names resemble later emperors who adapted to worldly changes. Those who master both become true monarchs. Those who awaken to Dao become, at best, divine beings; at middling level, sages; at minimum, wise persons; partial understanding makes one worthy, while complete ignorance leaves one ordinary.

"The nameless" refers to Dao's substance, existing prior to movement and stillness; "the named" denotes Dao's function, the source of good and evil. Substance is the root of names, thus transcending movement and stillness—tracing it back reveals heaven-earth's origin; names are established through function, thus generating good and evil—investigating them uncovers the mother of all things. Sage-kings maintain the nameless state, while emperors employ named principles. Preserving namelessness enables wuwei (non-action) that accomplishes all; using names allows action without coercion.

Sage-kings follow natural patterns, observing Dao's profundity through desireless purity—this profundity manifests as the mystical penetration of contemplative stillness; emperors adapt to worldly changes, discerning phenomena's boundaries through measured norms—these boundaries represent the regulatory limits of dynamic cognition.

This passage discusses the two manifestations of the Dao—the "beginning" (the nameless state of cosmic origin) and the "mother" (the named state of all things' generation). Though their forms differ, their essence remains the same. One who comprehends both the mystery of the nameless and the patterns of the named can grasp the fundamental principle within all movement and stillness. Upon reaching this state, a person remains unburdened by external matters, capable of both retreating to cultivate the self and sharing both joy and hardship with common people.

The Daode Jing states: When all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness arises as its counterpart; when all recognize good as good, the concept of not-good emerges. Thus being and non-being, difficult and easy, long and short, high and low, sound and echo, before and after—all exist in mutual dependence and continuous transformation. Therefore, the sage handles affairs with the attitude of wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordless example, allowing all things to grow naturally without interference.

The commentary explains: People's judgments of beauty and ugliness, good and evil all stem from personal emotions, yet emotions are subjective and ever-changing. Human nature is fundamentally identical, but differing emotions lead to chaotic evaluations of things. To correct this confusion, one must return to original nature. Sages guide people back to their nature through teaching, achieving unity. The mutual transformation of being and non-being resembles the relationship between emotion and nature—when emotions disturb nature, success becomes difficult; when nature regulates emotions, success comes easily. The contrast between beauty and ugliness, good and evil mirrors how high and low reflect each other—all exist in relativity.

All things in the world inherently exist in sequence and mutual dependence. During times of peace and prosperity, the emergence of various problems stems from six root causes that disrupt universal harmony, preventing all beings from developing according to their innate nature. To restore the original nature of all things, sages must first transform their desires and emotions.

For virtuous people, sages guide them by following their inherent goodness; for those lacking virtue, sages use goodness to transform them, making them virtuous. For honest people, sages guide them by following their integrity; for dishonest people, sages use integrity to transform them, making them trustworthy. Thus, when sages govern the world, they discard no object and abandon no person. When nothing is detestable and all people incline toward goodness, a state of universal peace inevitably follows. As the Book of Changes states: "The Dao is supremely vast—all things find their proper place therein." This expresses precisely this principle.

Therefore, sages comprehend the mystery of "non-being" (the origin of the Dao), appearing to take no action yet affairs naturally settle into order. They employ the principles of "being" (the manifestation of the Dao), speaking no words yet transformation naturally unfolds. All things develop according to their own nature, as if no deliberate arrangement existed—just as heaven and earth nurture all beings without claiming merit, craftsmen create tools without boasting, and the four seasons complete the year's cycle without possessing it. Only through this approach can the Dao endure eternally and the sage's name never fade.

The scripture states: "Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not compete. Do not prize rare goods, and the people will not steal. Do not display desirable things, and people's hearts will not be disturbed." Thus, when sages govern the world, they purify the people's minds while enriching their lives, weaken contentious ambitions while strengthening their bodies and bones. They keep the people constantly in a state of simple purity—free from cunning and desire—so that even the clever dare not act recklessly. Governing through Wuwei (non-action), there is nothing left ungoverned.

Commentary: When human desires fixate on external things, craving arises. Craving breeds pretense, and pretense gives rise to cunning. Thus, exalting the worthy plants seeds of competition, while prizing wealth incites theft. Only those who rectify desires through their innate nature remain free from covetousness. Those wholly devoted to cultivating the Dao harbor no deceit or falsehood.

Therefore, the sage's method of governing people includes: distributing surplus goods to eliminate greed and theft, cultivating wastelands to feed the hungry, refraining from glorifying contentious "worthiness" to weaken competitive ambitions, and avoiding excessive conscription to strengthen the people's physical vitality. They keep the world's people unattached to cleverness and unentangled by desires. Even if some recognize the allure of honor and glory, they dare not act rashly—just as soldiers refrain from reckless movement. Practicing "governance through non-action" means employing both the "named" methods of transformation and the "nameless" essence of the Dao itself—thus ensuring universal peace prevails.

The Dao (the Way), as the cosmic origin, appears empty yet functions limitlessly, containing the source of all things like an unfathomable abyss. It blunts sharp edges and resolves conflicts, maintaining its luminous essence while embracing worldly existence. Though profoundly mysterious, it truly exists—I know not its origin, for it seems to have preceded heaven and earth.

Heaven and earth show no partiality toward creatures, treating them like straw dogs (sacrificial offerings); likewise, sages are impartial toward people, viewing them equally. The space between heaven and earth resembles a bellows (tuoyue)—hollow yet endlessly generative, producing more the longer it works. Rather than exhausting oneself with excessive speech, it is better to hold fast to the central harmony.

All things depend on heaven and earth for life, yet heaven and earth demand nothing in return; people rely on sages for governance, yet sages do not depend on the people. Just as straw dogs exist for rituals but deities need no offerings, true greatness emerges precisely through non-utilitarian intent—heaven and earth seem heartless yet nurture all beings, sages appear unkind yet accomplish great De (Virtue). Thus people need not thank sages for benevolence, nor creatures repay heaven and earth for sustenance. Observe how the bellows, though mindless in operation, produces unceasing sound and breath; how heaven and earth, without deliberate action, generate life endlessly. The art of governance lies not in excessive speech, for verbosity breeds irreverence and failure. Better to handle affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teach through wordless example—this is the root of preserving the great Dao and the secret to sustaining vitality.

The "valley spirit" (the Dao's empty nature) is deathless, called the "mysterious female" (xuanpin, the cosmic womb). The gateway of this mystical mother is the root of heaven and earth. Subtly present yet seemingly absent, its function never exhausts. The "valley" symbolizes the Dao's substance, while "spirit" manifests its function. The substance is real, the function mysterious—adapting infinitely to all transformations, hence "the valley spirit never dies."

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist concepts of the "Mysterious Feminine" (Xuanpin, referring to the fundamental principle of cosmic generation) and the teaching that "the highest virtue resembles water."

Regarding the "Mysterious Feminine": Death reveals the limits of heaven and earth's substance and function. "Mysterious" (Xuan) represents the substance of heaven and earth, while "Feminine" (Pin, symbolizing reproductive capacity) embodies earth's function. The sage emulates this principle of mysterious substance and gentle function. The art of "Mysterious Feminine" manifests the unfathomable principle of Yin-Yang's opening and closing—the very rhythm of cosmic operation, with Yin-Yang being the foundation of Qian (Heaven) and Kun (Earth). Thus the "Gate of Mysterious Feminine" is called the root of heaven and earth, continuing endlessly without discernible beginning or end. Preserving the substance without depletion and applying it without exhaustion—this embodies the truth that "humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates Dao, and Dao emulates spontaneity (Ziran)."

Heaven and earth endure because they do not exist for themselves, thus achieving longevity. The sage who puts himself last actually takes the lead; by not considering personal gain, he achieves preservation. Precisely through selflessness does one fulfill oneself. Heaven and earth generate all things without self-generation, thus existing perpetually; the sage nurtures the people without self-nurturance, making his teachings endure like heaven and earth. Because he dares not contend for precedence, people willingly follow; because he claims no possession of self, he remains free from danger throughout life. This demonstrates how only by not cherishing the self can one truly possess the world.

Regarding "the highest virtue resembles water": Supreme virtue (Shangshan) is like water—it nourishes all things without contention, settles in places people disdain, and thus comes nearest to Dao. The person of supreme virtue dwells like water choosing its proper place, thinks like water's profound depths, treats others like water's benevolence, speaks like water's constancy, governs like water's clarity, acts like water's adaptability, and moves like water's timeliness. Precisely through non-contention does one remain blameless.

The Dao practitioner excels in all things without partiality, thus called "supreme virtue." Water always occupies low places without contending with anything, enabling all beings to receive its nourishment—this most closely approximates Dao's state. The virtuous person's character resembles water's: residing humbly like water's low position, contemplating deeply like water's stillness, giving generously like water's moisture, speaking truly like water's constancy, governing purely like water's clarity, acting flexibly like water taking shape, and changing timely like water's flow. By constantly remaining low, one cannot be overcome; by never contending, none can contend with them. As the Yijing states, "Humility is virtue's foundation"—water perfectly embodies this quality.

Holding a vessel filled to the brim is not as wise as knowing when to stop; honing a blade to excessive sharpness makes it difficult to maintain its edge. A house overflowing with gold and jewels cannot be kept forever; pride amid wealth and honor invites calamity upon oneself. To withdraw when one's achievements are complete and fame is at its peak—this is the way of Heaven (Dao).

(Commentary) Carrying an overfilled container with trembling hands—better to stop early than live in constant fear. Occupying a high position yet refusing to yield—better to retreat in time than endure endless anxiety. Chasing power and profit too fiercely means even success cannot be preserved. Hoarding gold until storerooms burst means possession cannot endure. Nobility paired with arrogance summons disaster; great wealth coupled with pride multiplies faults. Arrogance springs from within, calamity arises from oneself—how can one blame Heaven or others? Thus those who embody the Dao (the Way) claim no merit for their accomplishments, cling not to fame, voluntarily withdraw to preserve themselves, and relinquish power to avoid peril. Just as the four seasons revolve and cold alternates with heat to nurture all things—is this not the very manifestation of Heaven's way?

(Text) Can you unite spirit (Shen) and form without separation? Gather vital energy (Qi) into soft harmony, pure as an infant? Purge distracting thoughts to behold your heart—can it become flawless? Love the people and govern the state—can you practice non-action (Wuwei)? When senses engage the world, can you remain pliant and still? Though understanding all and discerning the four directions, can you stay empty and unknowing? To generate and nurture all things yet claim no possession, act without self-importance, guide without domination—this is the profoundest Virtue (De).

(Commentary) "Zai" here is a classical particle. The human form houses life; "one" signifies the essence of the Dao. Nourishing the body while upholding the Dao's nature keeps spirit and flesh undivided. Focused harmonization of inner Qi, maintaining tender serenity, renders one's nature and breath infant-pure. Cleansing the heart of distractions, abandoning obsessive thoughts, makes moral cultivation flawless. Governing people as one cherishes infants, ruling a state as one cooks small fish (Note: Laozi's analogy for governing by following nature's course)—when each finds their rightful place, non-action (Wuwei) is achieved. Responding to change in accord with Heaven's way, like a door swinging freely—thus all things transform naturally, and pliant stillness endures. The great Dao never dims; Virtue (De) shines forth. Though the people watch their ruler's every word, the sage embraces them like children—this is the wisdom of appearing foolish. The first three lines address self-cultivation; the latter three statecraft. Cultivate oneself, and Virtue becomes genuine; extend it universally, and Virtue expands. Only thus can one nurture all beings. True greatness lies herein: creating without possessing, acting without claiming.

This passage explores the relationship between the Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe) and concrete objects. Consider how thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub of a wheel—it is precisely this emptiness that allows the wheel to turn. When clay is molded into vessels, it is their hollow interiors that make them useful; when doors and windows are cut into a house, it is the empty spaces that create livable rooms. Thus while the "substantial" (you) provides utility, it is the "void" (wu) that truly enables function.

At the theoretical level, formless principles are called the Dao, while physical objects are called vessels (qi). The Dao operates through "non-being" (wu), while vessels provide utility through "being" (you). Just as the wheel symbolizes celestial patterns and the house represents terrestrial principles, their true functionality lies in their empty spaces. This mirrors the principle of the bellows (tuoyue)—though seemingly empty, it contains boundless energy. Just as pottery requires the interplay of water and fire to take form, the sage governs the world by rooting governance in De (Virtue) to implement transformation. Like pottery positioned between heaven and earth, humans embody the subtle relationship between Dao and vessels.

Excessive sensory indulgence brings harm: dazzling colors blind the eyes, cacophonous music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, reckless hunting agitates the mind, and rare treasures tempt misconduct. Therefore, the sage cultivates inner virtue rather than external pleasures, rejecting extravagance for simplicity.

True "blindness" is failing to perceive formless rituals, true "deafness" is being unable to hear the soundless music of heaven, and true "tastelessness" is missing the authentic flavor of the Dao. These three ailments all stem from sensory delusions. The sage remains free of these maladies precisely by recognizing them as diseases to avoid. No desire is more intense than obsessive hunting, which drives the mind to frenzy; no burden is heavier than hoarded treasures, which hinder action. To prevent misconduct, avoid excessive accumulation; to cure mental agitation, restrain selfish thoughts and cultivate sage virtue. By focusing on inner fulfillment, one learns contentment; by not chasing external things, greed cannot arise. Only thus can one abandon delusion and attain "profound De" (xuan de).

This passage discusses the different mental states people experience when facing honor and disgrace, gain and loss, as well as how to transcend worldly concepts of fortune and misfortune.

Regarding "being startled by favor and disgrace," it means people feel alarmed whether receiving favor or suffering humiliation. Why? Because worldly people consider favor as something base ("favor is inferior")—they fear losing it when obtained and feel regret when lost, thus constantly worrying about gains and losses. In truth, glory and disgrace are like echoes following sound, with fortune and misfortune being interdependent—when favor arrives, disgrace often follows closely behind. Ordinary people only fear disgrace but remain unguarded against favor, while Dao cultivators see through the essence and instead become more vigilant against the hidden dangers brought by favor.

Concerning "valuing great calamity as one's body," great calamity refers to major misfortunes in life, rooted in overvaluing one's physical self. When attached to this body, all kinds of worries arise. What ordinary people consider auspicious or inauspicious are merely wealth, rank, poverty, and low status—fearing loss when obtained and craving gain when lost, living in constant anxiety. In reality, the greatest calamity lies in taking these concepts of fortune and misfortune too seriously.

Sages take the people's hearts as their own, thus they also care about worldly fortune and misfortune, yet understand the root of calamity lies in excessive attachment to self. When one overvalues "me," they fall into opposition with external things, generating attachments and aversions—from which concepts of fortune and misfortune arise, bringing calamity in their wake. Those who truly attain the Dao have fulfilled inner selves, undisturbed by external honor or disgrace; whereas ordinary people with empty hearts are easily swayed by external things, placing excessive importance on favor, disgrace, gain, and loss.

When the human body aligns with the Dao (the Way), it does not cling to distinctions between self and external objects, merging as naturally as light blends with dust. Though growing and transforming, it does not forcibly control, thus able to share hardships with common people without the anxieties of sages. If one constantly calculates gains and losses, disturbing the original mind, or clings to divisions between self and objects, then honor and disgrace, gain and loss will leave one restless, while fortune and misfortune endlessly harass. How could such a person become the rightful ruler of all under heaven?

Those who truly attain the Dao cherish their bodies for the sake of all living beings, and value themselves to serve the world. This care is directed toward the world, not toward oneself. At this stage, gains and losses cannot affect one, and worries cannot disturb body and mind. Such people may appear fit for high office, yet dare not lightly accept positions of authority—how much less would they seek to possess them? This embodies the true meaning of the Dao's operation and the principle that "all under heaven belongs to the public."

The Dao (referring to the cosmic origin) cannot be seen with eyes—this is called "Yi" (formless); cannot be heard with ears—this is called "Xi" (soundless); cannot be grasped with hands—this is called "Wei" (intangible). These three characteristics cannot be fully traced, thus they blend into one. Above, it does not appear bright; below, it does not appear dark—continuous and unbroken, it defies description, ultimately returning to emptiness. This is the form without form, the image without substance, called "Huhuang" (seeming yet absent). Facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end. By holding to the Dao that has existed since antiquity, one can govern present existence. To know the origins of ancient times—this is the guiding principle of the Dao.

What can be seen are colors; what can be heard are sounds; what can be touched are forms—all things between heaven and earth possess these features. Yet the Dao exists between heaven and earth's myriad things, not as sound, color, or form, so it cannot be perceived by ears, eyes, hands, or feet. Precisely because it has no form yet gives form to all things, no sound yet produces all sounds, we reluctantly name it "Xi-Yi-Wei." These three blend into one: above, though sun and moon shine together, it is not glaring; below, though equal to tiles and pebbles in stillness, it is not dim; continuously operating without cease, yet it cannot be named. Though transforming in countless ways, all ultimately return to emptiness.

The essence of the Dao is truly subtle—not mere nothingness, yet impossible to grasp through sight, hearing, or touch. Thus it is called the form without substance, the image without form—when describing its shape, it seems empty; when describing its appearance, it seems vaguely present. Not knowing its beginning, one cannot see its start when facing it; not knowing its end, one cannot see its conclusion when following it. Only by holding to the "Wu" (the essence of Dao) that has existed since antiquity can one govern the present "You" (concrete existence). To know the origins of the primal beginning—this is the fundamental principle for understanding the Dao.

This scripture speaks of how practitioners of the Dao should return to simplicity and regain the primordial purity of heaven and earth. Those who truly comprehend the great Dao (the Way) possess words and actions so subtle and profound that ordinary people find them difficult to understand. They move cautiously, as if crossing a river in winter; they remain vigilant, as if wary of their neighbors; they carry themselves with dignity, like honored guests; they are at ease, like melting ice and snow; they embody simplicity, like uncarved wood; their minds are vast as valleys, and their inner state is turbid like murky water. Yet it is precisely such individuals who can maintain clarity amidst chaos and stir vitality even in tranquility.

The key to sustaining this state of cultivation lies in not seeking perfection. Precisely because they do not pursue fullness, they can discern novelty within the old, achieving the great Dao without deliberately chasing new things. The scripture emphasizes that practitioners must reach a state of utmost stillness and emptiness, observing the cyclical patterns of all things. Though the myriad phenomena appear complex and diverse, they ultimately return to their root. Returning to the root is stillness; stillness is returning to one's innate nature; returning to one's innate nature is aligning with the eternal Dao (the Way). To understand this eternal principle is wisdom; to remain ignorant invites reckless action and misfortune.

Those who grasp the eternal Dao become all-encompassing; being all-encompassing leads to impartiality; impartiality leads to completeness; completeness aligns with the Dao of heaven; aligning with the Dao of heaven ensures enduring harmony, free from peril throughout life. Through stillness and emptiness, practitioners attain the wondrous realm—this is the function of De (Virtue/Power). Maintaining focused serenity is the foundation of the Dao (the Way). As the myriad things grow and transform, the practitioner observes the cyclical patterns of their return.

The truly sincere and virtuous person can grasp the essence of the Dao. The Dao's application has no fixed pattern, thus all things grow naturally. The substance of the Dao is clear and tranquil, observable through the cyclical patterns of all existence: like thunder hidden within the earth (symbolizing the harmonious interaction of yin and yang), this reflects heaven and earth's cyclical movement. The sage's actions are contained within stillness—this is the sage's return to origin. Does this cyclical phenomenon not perfectly manifest the fundamental heart of heaven and earth? Indeed, heaven and earth take the sage's heart as their own.

All things in their complexity ultimately return to their root; myriad affairs in their intricacy finally revert to heavenly principle. Heavenly principle is the source of all phenomena, stillness governs action, and original nature forms the foundation of emotions. Humans are naturally endowed with this tranquil nature (heaven's gift), which becomes emotionally stirred through external influences. When emotions return to nature and action returns to stillness, one aligns with heavenly principle. The Yijing states: "By exhausting heavenly principle and penetrating human nature, one comprehends destiny." Therefore, complete understanding of heavenly principle leads to full realization of human nature; full realization of nature leads to knowing destiny. This is what's meant by "Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny."

Viewed through destiny's lens, the nature of all things becomes clear. Hence "What heaven decrees is called nature," and the ultimate state of nature-life cultivation is termed "the profoundest mystery" (zhi ze). The principles of nature and life emerge from this profundity. Following nature leads into the profound, which can penetrate heavenly principle—this penetration is the Dao. Cultivating this Dao returns one to original nature, enabling proper response to all things—this proper response is called "teaching." Therefore: "Following nature is called the Dao; cultivating the Dao is called teaching."

The transmission of teachable doctrine lies in virtuous practice; the fulfillment of the eternal Dao rests in original nature. The substance of ultimate profundity is unfathomable: the benevolent become confined by benevolence, the wise constrained by knowledge, while common people use it daily without understanding. Thus truly enlightened noble ones are exceedingly rare. Therefore it's said: "Continuing it is goodness; completing it is nature." The great Dao manifests as benevolence yet remains hidden in daily functions, operating all things without the sage's anxiety. Such magnificent virtue and great achievement is indeed supreme! This represents Confucius' profound exposition of the Dao-De's mysteries and nature-life's deep principles.

The Dao's eternality lies in its perfect accommodation of all things without being burdened by them. Only by comprehending the Dao's eternal patterns can one constantly save all things without being dragged down. Its operation is subtle, yet its principle is evident. Understanding these eternal patterns is called "inheriting illumination" (xi ming).

When people do not understand the proper way to aid all beings yet attempt to recklessly establish laws and teachings, the common people will suffer calamities. Only those who comprehend the eternal Dao (the Way) and know how to properly assist can be as impartial as heaven and earth in embracing all things. Thus, the people naturally submit and support them, aligning with the eternal principles of the Dao, and live their lives without regret.

The ideal state of governance is when the people merely know of the ruler's existence. The next best is when the people feel close to and praise the ruler. Below that is when the people fear the ruler. The worst is when the people despise the ruler. When sincerity is lacking, distrust naturally arises. When the ancient sage kings (referred to as "Taishang") achieved their accomplishments, the people felt it happened naturally.

The virtuous rulers of high antiquity (referred to as "the virtuous rulers of the great past") governed through Wuwei (non-action), leaving no trace. The people only knew of the ruler's existence but felt no intervention of power. As virtue declined, governance shifted to benevolence and righteousness, and the people drew close due to their kindness and praised their righteous deeds. When benevolence and righteousness were insufficient to guide the people's hearts, laws and punishments were employed, and the people grew fearful. When even punishments failed, rulers resorted to manipulation, and the people began to despise them. The inner truth is called "sincerity," and keeping one's word is called "trust." If the heart lacks sincerity and words go unfulfilled, yet empty talk is still valued, can this be called sincerity and trust?

When the great Dao fades, benevolence and righteousness are emphasized. When benevolence and righteousness fail, punishments appear. To still uphold these lesser methods—can this be called virtue? The sages (those who have attained the Dao) are not like this. They grasp the ancient Dao to govern the present, removing superficiality to return to simplicity. They achieve merit without claiming credit, completing tasks as if through Wuwei (non-action). They adapt their methods flexibly to the times, allowing the people to follow their innate nature and feel as though everything happens naturally. Thus, feelings of closeness, praise, fear, or contempt do not arise in the world.

When the great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness are proclaimed. When cunning intellect appears, severe hypocrisy arises. When families are disharmonious, filial piety and parental love are emphasized. When the state is in chaos, loyal ministers are highlighted.

Laozi's ("Laoshi") original intent was to govern the present by grasping the ancient Dao, elucidating the inevitable patterns of things. These teachings were proposed out of necessity. Later generations failed to understand their true meaning and claimed they were incompatible with Confucius's ("Zhongni") thought. Alas, Laozi has been misunderstood for so long! As the Book of Rites states: When the great Dao prevails, people do not only cherish their own kin or love only their own children.

People dislike seeing goods discarded on the ground, yet they need not hoard them for themselves; they dislike seeing strength left unused, yet need not employ it solely for personal gain. Thus cunning schemes will not arise, thieves and robbers will not appear, and households need not lock their doors—this is what we call the Great Harmony. In such an era, people drink from wells they dig, eat from fields they till, labor when the sun rises and rest when it sets. What influence do rulers have over us? The common folk merely know of the sovereign's existence—why would deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness (renyi) be necessary?

When the Dao (the Way) recedes, people begin favoring their own kin, raising their own children, using goods and strength for personal benefit. At this point, benevolence and righteousness are needed to govern the world—regulating the relationship between ruler and subject, strengthening the bond between father and son, harmonizing brotherly ties, and balancing the affection between husband and wife. The people grow fond of and praise such governance, and the reputation of benevolence and righteousness begins to flourish. From this perspective, the simple and unadorned Dao fragments into specific norms—is this not because the Dao has been abandoned that benevolence and righteousness emerge? Thus Confucius lamented in the Book of Rites, while Laozi expounded in the Daodejing, yet their essential meaning is the same.

The wisdom of sages penetrates all things, yet they do not deliberately display it; they benefit the world, yet do not boast of benevolence and righteousness. In that age, people did not yet know what wisdom was. Later, as the world declined and contention arose, people began using wisdom for deceitful schemes and cleverness to harm righteousness. At this point, the methods of wisdom became apparent, while deceitful conduct concealed itself even deeper. Is this not the principle that "when wisdom appears, great artifice arises"? Thus Confucius executed Shao Zhengmao, and the Spring and Autumn Annals recorded the deeds of King Chu Zi Qian—how does Confucius’ intent differ from Laozi’s?

As for the natural bond between father and son, it arises spontaneously—following this nature ensures harmony. When father and son love each other, who would deliberately emphasize parental kindness or filial piety? But when tempted by external things, innate nature turns into selfish attachment, and once selfishness arises, external influences intervene, leading some to deviate from their nature. Sages cultivate the Dao and teach to conform to the world, ensuring that fathers and sons care for one another—only then does the reputation of filial piety and parental kindness emerge. Hence the saying, "When the family is discordant, filial piety and parental kindness become apparent." Just as the stubbornness of Gusou highlighted Shun’s great filial devotion, or Zeng Xi’s severity revealed Zeng Shen’s exemplary care—this is an inevitable truth. How could Laozi possibly deny this?

Similarly, when a wise ruler is on the throne, ministers assist without obstruction. Only when the ruler becomes foolish and the people fall into chaos do the virtues of loyal ministers sacrificing themselves for the state emerge, and blunt admonitions appear. Thus it is said, "When the state is in chaos, loyal ministers become apparent." Therefore, it was under the reign of the tyrant Jie of Xia that Guan Longfeng’s loyalty stood out, and with the fall of King Zhou of Shang...

This passage examines the true meaning of three phrases from the Daode Jing: "reject sageliness and discard wisdom," "reject benevolence and discard righteousness," and "reject skill and discard profit." Some mistakenly believe Laozi was negating the value of sage wisdom, moral virtues, and practical benefits, but this interpretation misses the mark.

Laozi observed the moral decay of his era: wisdom meant to benefit people was instead weaponized to harm; benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi) intended to foster harmony became sources of resentment; ingenuity and profit designed to assist others turned into incentives for theft. Like someone hating their shadow who tries to destroy their own body, those advocating complete abandonment of wisdom, virtue, and utility fail to grasp nature's interdependent patterns—benefits and harms are inseparable as form and shadow, never existing in isolation.

By highlighting these extreme statements, Laozi exposed the failure of contemporary ritualistic teachings to govern society. Yet his intent wasn't literal rejection, but a call to return to authenticity: preserving innate simplicity ("embracing the uncarved wood") and reducing selfish desires ("having few desires"). Like turbid water that clears when still, stability naturally regenerates vitality—this is the healing principle of "renewal without forced innovation" (bi bu xin cheng).

Genuine wisdom forms the root of all creation, benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi) embody the essence of human relations, and skillful utility represents applied ingenuity. When distortions arise, the solution lies in gradual realignment with natural patterns. Those who cultivate simplicity and fewer desires naturally gravitate toward unpretentious kindness and upright virtue—the true path of returning to the Dao (the Way).

How could the thoughts of Laozi (founder of Daoism) be incompatible with Confucius (founder of Confucianism)? The core of this chapter simply teaches people to reduce selfishness and diminish desires. So where is Laozi's original intent in the so-called "abandoning benevolence and discarding righteousness"?

The scripture states that "by cutting off worldly learning one becomes free from worries," but what real difference exists between a respectful "yes" and a scornful "no"? How far apart are the boundaries between "good" and "evil"? What people fear, I too cannot help but fear. How desolate this world has become—it seems endless! The multitudes are merry as if feasting at a grand banquet or ascending a spring terrace to enjoy the view, while I alone remain placid and still, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile. Weary and absent-minded, I seem perpetually unsatisfied, like a wanderer with no home to return to. All others consider themselves abundantly fulfilled, while I alone appear to have lost something. Truly, my mind is that of a fool—muddled and indistinct. Worldly people are all clever and alert, while I alone am dull and confused; others see with piercing clarity, while I remain in a daze. My heart is as serene as the ocean, drifting aimlessly with no place to anchor. Everyone else has their accomplishments, while I alone remain stubborn and uncouth like a rustic. My uniqueness lies in treasuring the nourishing "Dao" (the Mother) that sustains all things.

The profound meaning of this passage largely echoes the previous chapter. The sage's learning seeks the Dao—when Dao prevails, the world is at peace; the common person's learning seeks profit—when profit dominates, the world falls into chaos. Some who detest how worldly learning disrupts society claim that abandoning learning brings freedom from worry, but this only makes those entrenched in their ways even less capable of comprehending the great Dao. When Laozi reveals his fundamental tenets and discusses gains and losses, he observes: In human interactions, the same words—a respectful "yes" is seen as courteous, while a scornful "no" is viewed as arrogant. Yet if arrogance is mistaken for courtesy, though the words remain unchanged, one cannot treat scorn as respect—this becomes discourteous behavior. Similarly, all worldly learners pursue knowledge: studying the Dao is deemed good, while seeking profit is seen as evil. To mistake profit for Dao is fundamentally wrong, yet one cannot treat evil as good—this creates societal disorder. How much difference is there between "yes" and "no"? How far apart are "good" and "evil"? That people can perform the most difficult tasks regarding the simplest truths, yet cannot reverse their approach, is precisely what moves Laozi to lament. Thus he enumerates the faults of the world to illuminate the state of those who have attained the Dao.

The awe-inspiring power of penal law is what people commonly fear—how could even those who have attained the Dao remain unafraid? Why is this? Because as worldly teachings decline, calamities multiply, and the abuse of punishments intensifies, even virtuous people suffer misfortune.

Worldly people pursue titles and rewards, considering these the greatest joys of life. To them, satisfying desires is like feasting on the grand sacrificial offerings of ancient times (the "Tai Lao" of ox, sheep, and pig), and achieving ambitions resembles ascending a high tower to admire spring scenery. Yet those who have attained the Dao remain as calm as still water even when obtaining such things, showing no delight, as naturally as an infant who has not yet learned to smile. They treat these accomplishments with consistent nonchalance, appearing perpetually unsatisfied like wanderers who cannot find their home.

Ordinary people always consider themselves clever and capable, often carrying an air of superiority; while Dao attainers return to a state of seeming foolishness and softness, always appearing deficient in something. This isn't because they're as insentient as wood or stone, but because their pure nature doesn't value cunning or cleverness. The worldly take pride in flaunting their intelligence, shining brilliantly; while Dao attainers willingly dwell in apparent dimness, considering the concealment of their light as virtue. People admire those who can spot the smallest details and detect deception; while Dao attainers maintain profound simplicity, taking the comprehension of eternal principles as their path of cultivation.

Those who embody the Dao are silent like unfathomable oceans when still, yet move like ceaseless winds when in action. While the multitudes strive desperately, each with their own aims; I alone practice Wuwei (non-action), appearing foolish and uncouth. Thus when all chase after branch-like trivialities (symbolizing worldly desires) like doting parents feeding children; I return to nourish the root—the great Dao—like serving one's mother. Here the "mother" represents the Dao itself, while the "child" signifies concrete phenomena. Obsessively feeding the child means nourishing the spirit through desires, while honoring the mother means returning to the Dao through clarity and stillness.

This passage elucidates the core concepts in the Daode Jing concerning the nature of the Dao (the Way) and its wisdom for navigating life.

The first section describes the characteristics of the Dao: though empty and void, it embraces all things. Vague and indistinct, it seems both present and absent—formless yet manifesting all forms. Within its profound mystery lies pure Qi (vital energy), representing the Dao's essential power, utterly genuine and trustworthy. From ancient times to the present, the name "Dao" has never vanished, for through it we perceive the origin of all things. The text emphasizes that only by understanding this eternal, unchanging Dao can one comprehend the patterns of transformation in the world.

The second section explains three key attributes of the Dao: its pure essence is called Jing (essence), its natural state is called Zhen (authenticity), and its utmost sincerity is called Xin (trustworthiness). The mysterious unity of the Dao's substance and function is what we term "the Dao follows naturalness" (Dao fa ziran). The author stresses that precisely because the Dao's name remains constant, we can observe the changes of all things. Only those who truly grasp the Dao can maintain the practice of Wuwei (non-action) amidst life's complexities.

The third section expounds Laozi's wisdom for living: bending leads to preservation, yielding leads to straightening, hollows become filled, the worn-out renews itself, taking less gains more, while greed brings confusion. Thus, the sage holds fast to the "One" (the Dao) as the standard for all under heaven. By not displaying oneself, one becomes evident; by not asserting oneself, one becomes distinguished; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not exalting oneself, one endures. Precisely because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying "the crooked shall be made straight" was no empty phrase—it truly enables one to attain wholeness.

This scripture primarily elucidates the Daoist core principle of "following natural spontaneity." The text observes that all phenomena develop according to their inherent patterns: bending leads to preservation (qu ze quan), low places naturally become filled (wa ze ying), and turbid waters clarify through sedimentation (zhuo ze qing). The sages, understanding this truth, refrain from self-display and contention, thereby allowing matters to resolve naturally and principles to manifest spontaneously.

Laozi observes that fierce winds cannot last a whole morning (piao feng bu zhong chao), nor can torrential rains persist all day (zhou yu bu zhong ri). Even Heaven and Earth cannot sustain such extreme conditions—how much less can human forcing endure? Those who follow the Dao (the Way) become one with it, just as those who embody De (Virtue) merge with its power. As Confucius remarked, "Does Heaven speak?" (tian he yan zai), yet the four seasons proceed and all things flourish—this is the natural Dao.

The author critiques the moral degeneration of his era (dao de ji yin), where elaborate rituals (qu li) and harsh penal codes (fan xing) became necessary. Yet these artificial constructs violate nature's spontaneity, proving as transient as violent storms. True wisdom lies in aligning with natural patterns through non-interference (wuwei), thereby accomplishing all things without exception (qu cheng wan wu er bu yi).

This scripture primarily expounds on the importance of following natural laws and upholding De (Virtue). Those who stubbornly cling to their own views and force unilateral actions are like storms that must eventually subside, whereas the natural cycle of the four seasons remains eternally unchanging. Those who truly understand the Dao conform to nature without violating its constant principles; those who value De can maintain their virtue even when deviating from conventional paths; while those who defy both Dao and De and abandon humaneness and righteousness will ultimately reap what they sow.

The text observes that standing on tiptoe leads to instability, taking oversized strides prevents going far, those who display themselves lack wisdom, the self-righteous struggle to shine, self-promoters achieve no merit, and the arrogant cannot endure. These are all manifestations of acting contrary to the Dao—as detestable as leftover food or useless tumors—and true Dao practitioners would never behave thus.

It then describes the characteristics of the Dao: existing before heaven and earth formed, silent and empty, operating independently without change, cycling endlessly without pause, serving as the source of all things. Though we cannot name it, we reluctantly call it "Dao," or alternatively "the Great." The Dao is boundless in its vastness, operating ceaselessly, reaching the farthest extremes only to return to its origin. Thus we say the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and humans are great—the cosmos contains these Four Greats, with humanity being one. Humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates the Dao, and the Dao follows what is naturally so.

This passage elucidates the fundamental nature and operational principles of the Dao (the Way). The core concept reveals that before the formation of heaven and earth, there existed an undifferentiated primordial origin (called Taiji [Supreme Ultimate] or the "chaotic formation"). Though soundless and formless, it gives birth to all things—transcending all phenomena while simultaneously pervading them.

This origin cannot be defined by concrete names; we reluctantly call it "Dao." Viewed through its function, it is boundless (called "the Great"), yet in essence, it surpasses all forms (called "the Receding"). Though name and substance may seem distant, they can be realized through the method of "returning to the origin"—whether in governing nations or cultivating one's being, this practice of reverting to the root is essential.

Quoting the Zhongyong (Doctrine of the Mean), the text emphasizes: The Dao has never distanced itself from humanity; it is people who have strayed from it. The true Dao cannot be separated from for even a moment—what can be abandoned is not the Dao. The earlier reference to "a chaotic formation" points to the nameless substance of the Dao, while the subsequent discussion of "receding, distant, returning" describes its manifest functions.

The sovereign, as one of the Four Greats (Dao, heaven, earth, and king), should emulate the stillness of earth as the foundation for self-cultivation, follow the movement of heaven as the method of governance, and ultimately model the Dao's Wuwei (non-action) that accomplishes all things. This leads to the supreme state of "following spontaneity"—governing as effortlessly as nature's operation, where the people remain unaware of any governance.

Concluding with a quote from the Daodejing, it observes: Profundity is the root of superficiality; tranquility masters agitation. Thus, noble persons always maintain their foundation, remaining detached even amidst worldly splendor. Here lies a subtle critique of rulers who, despite commanding vast domains, often lose sight of their fundamental roots.

All things in their complexity ultimately return to their source. Thus, what is substantial becomes the root of what is insubstantial. The movements and transformations of all things under heaven ultimately return to the One (the Dao), which is why stillness governs agitation. Like a traveler on a long journey who, though hurrying all day, never strays far from the supply cart—for that is the foundation of survival. To abandon these essentials is to court disaster on the road.

Thus, the noble person always takes the Dao as their inner foundation. Though surrounded by worldly splendor, sensual pleasures, and material delights, their heart remains detached and serene. This is the method of taking substance as the root and stillness as the master. The ruler of ten thousand chariots regards the world as his foundation. To treat oneself lightly while neglecting the world is like a traveler abandoning their supplies—peril will swiftly follow.

The people are the foundation of the state. Only when the foundation is firm can the state be at peace—this is the constant principle of governance through the ages. To treat the people well is the mark of an enlightened ruler; to oppress them is the mark of a tyrant—this is human nature. If a ruler indulges personal desires, mistreats the people, and disregards the world, the people will not only flee but rise in rebellion. Thus, Laozi lamented: In self-cultivation, frivolity loses the root, and impatience forfeits purity. In governing the world, recklessness shakes the state’s foundation, and agitation undermines authority. How can the ruler of a great state not be steadfast and composed?

The truly adept walker leaves no tracks, the adept speaker leaves no openings for blame, the adept calculator needs no tallies, the adept closer needs no bolt yet cannot be opened, the adept binder needs no cords yet cannot be untied. The sage is always skilled at saving others, so none are abandoned; always skilled at utilizing things, so nothing is wasted. This is called "inheriting the light" (carrying forward the radiance of the Dao). The good person is the teacher of the not-good, and the not-good are the mirror for the good. Not esteeming teachers nor despising mirrors may seem foolish, but this is actually profound wisdom.

The adept walker follows the Dao—vast and boundless, its virtue is expansive, leaving no fixed path to trace. The adept speaker attends to the correspondence of name and reality—when names are proper, there is no fault to censure.

The truly skilled calculator understands principles through the simplest rules, thus needing no complex tools—just as an expert astronomer can accurately determine solar terms without counting rods. One adept at closing the gates of the mind blocks the openings of desire (where "兑" refers to sensory cravings), so the heart remains unmoved; thus no bolts are needed to maintain tranquility. Those skilled in maintaining relationships bind people with sincerity, requiring no ropes to prevent separation.

Ancient texts record: Before ancestral graves, no deliberate instruction in grief is needed—the people naturally express sorrow. During sacrifices at the altars of soil and grain, no emphasis on reverence is required—the people spontaneously feel awe. The Shang dynasty used oaths to bind the populace, only to incite rebellion; the Zhou employed covenants to demand loyalty, yet bred suspicion. Without genuine sincerity and trust, even forceful constraints will ultimately fail to prevent dispersion.

These five skillful methods (referring to calculation, closing desires, binding with trust, etc.) are all essential techniques the sages used to deliver beings. Are there truly irredeemable people in this world? Thus, the establishment of the Son of Heaven and the Three Ducal Ministers (Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian) exists to transform the people. I treat the virtuous with virtue, and the non-virtuous also with virtue—thus no one is abandoned in this teaching, just as no material is wasted in its use. This is the subtle application of "knowing the eternal" (understanding unchanging principles), called "inheriting illumination" (承袭光明).

What the world most esteems is teachers; what it most treasures are resources. Yet the virtuous become teachers for the non-virtuous precisely because the latter serve as their contrast. Without the non-virtuous as reference, the virtuous could not manifest their worth. Alas! When all under heaven recognize standards of virtue, non-virtue arises; when people cease to deliberately distinguish good from bad, supreme virtue is attained. Not deliberately exalting teachers means refusing to conform to popular standards that demean others; not obsessively treasuring resources means avoiding the use of others' flaws to highlight one's own virtue. Though understanding this principle of non-deliberate teacher-disciple relations contradicts worldly views, it embodies the subtlety of skillful deliverance.

Knowing the principle of strength yet abiding in softness makes one like the valleys of the world. Constantly preserving this virtue returns one to infant-like purity. Understanding luminous states yet dwelling in obscurity makes one a model for the world. Maintaining this virtue prevents deviation, ultimately returning to the Wuji (the formless origin of Dao). Recognizing honor yet enduring disgrace makes one like the empty valleys of the world. Preserving this virtue brings completion, returning to original simplicity. This primal simplicity gives birth to all things; sages employ this principle to become stewards. Thus, the most perfect governance is naturally whole, never forcibly divided.

All things between heaven and earth manifest the characteristics of the strong male and yielding female, with the active nature of masculinity and the tranquil nature of femininity. The principles of hierarchy and sequence follow the same pattern. Laozi profoundly investigated the laws of nature and transformed them into principles for living—understanding that softness can overcome hardness, thus advocating gentleness as a guiding principle; knowing stillness can prevail over agitation, therefore taking quietude as fundamental.

Precisely because yielding precedence to others allows one to ultimately lead, and humble self-effacement exalts the cultivation of the Dao, the sage ruler occupies a position of leadership without the people feeling oppressed; though dwelling in high status, the masses do not feel burdened. Those who comprehend the difficulty of maintaining strength and instead guard themselves with softness become the valley of the world (symbolizing humility and inclusiveness). The valley's nature lies in utilizing the low position—only by maintaining humility can eternal De (Virtue) never depart. When De does not depart, one may merge with the great Dao and return to the pure, desireless state of an infant.

Upon reaching the state of luminous clarity, though the mind becomes transparently aware, it still maintains profound silence, thus becoming the standard (式: exemplary model) for the world. Only such exemplifiable virtue can ensure De remains without deviation. When De does not deviate, one merges with the great Dao, returning to the boundless state of Wuji (the ultimate state of Dao). Though this realm is profoundly unfathomable, it gradually manifests through subtle transformation. Even when knowing one's virtue shines brightly, maintaining humble identification with the mundane dust makes one the mountain valley (谷: symbolizing inner fullness with outward emptiness) of the world. Inner fullness with outward emptiness allows De to become complete, ultimately returning to the uncarved simplicity of primordial purity (无名之朴).

When the great Dao declines, only then do benevolence and righteousness become emphasized; when original purity dissipates, only then are various implements crafted. The sage excels in utilizing these implements, thus becoming the leader of all materials. Precisely because the great Dao itself is not constrained by specific forms, it can govern all implements; perfected systems do not forcibly divide, thus they can administer all things. Attempting to govern the world's implements without comprehending the Dao, or seeking to dominate all things while being controlled by external objects—I foresee this will inevitably lead to failure.

Ancient texts record: Profit and righteousness, wisdom and benevolence—all are instruments for achieving royal and hegemonic enterprises. Should not those who employ these instruments follow this principle?

The scripture states: Those who desire to seize the world by force and govern according to personal will—I foresee this cannot succeed. The world is a sacred vessel (神器: metaphor for political power), which cannot be forcibly manipulated. Forced action will surely fail; stubborn grasping will ultimately bring loss. For all things have their own nature: some advance while others follow; some are warm while others cold; some strong while others weak; some support while others destroy.

The sage (referring to an enlightened ruler) rejects extremes, extravagance, and excessive actions. The world belongs to all people under heaven, not the private property of any sage. Just as Yao couldn't simply give the empire to Shun, nor Yu forcibly pass it to Qi—it was actually the people's choice that elevated Shun and Qi, with Yao and Yu merely following the will of the populace. I've never witnessed anyone who could truly obtain the world through forceful seizure against the people's will, let alone maintain it long-term.

Why is this so? The world is like a sacred vessel bestowed by divine forces—it cannot be seized through personal cunning or military might. Without genuine allegiance from the people, forced seizure inevitably fails; without voluntary support from the masses, forcible possession will ultimately be lost. All things in creation follow their inherent patterns: where some lead, others follow; periods of warmth and harmony alternate with times of bitter cold; what flourishes and strengthens must eventually decline and weaken; what is cultivated and nurtured will face decay and collapse. Thus those who seize by force will ultimately be overthrown by force.

Therefore, the sage understands: the world cannot be obtained through scheming or violence, but must be received through Wuwei (non-action, natural accord). When one's virtue and moral cultivation reach perfection, the people will naturally gravitate toward them, gladly supporting without weariness. The sage achieves great governance through non-action—hence "rejecting extremes" means not seizing by force, "rejecting extravagance" means not forcibly possessing, and "rejecting excess" means not refusing proper humility. The Yijing states "the dragon at zenith has cause for regret," referring to those who know only advancement without retreat, existence without dissolution, gain without loss. Only the sage comprehends the principles of advance/retreat and existence/dissolution without deviating from the true path.

Those who assist rulers with the Dao should never dominate the world through military force, for violence invites retribution. Where armies camp, thorns grow; after great wars, famine follows. Thus those skilled in warfare achieve their aim and stop, never presuming on their strength. They attain objectives without arrogance, defeat enemies without boasting, achieve success without pride—resorting to arms only when absolutely necessary. When things reach extreme strength, they age—this is called being "contrary to the Dao," and what contradicts the Dao meets premature demise.

Those who assist rulers with the Dao should govern through De (virtuous power) rather than military dominance. Why is this so? Because those who presume upon their strength before others...

All under heaven despise certain things, and when even the masses detest them, the world’s military force will be turned against them. Thus, when I use force to oppress others, they will inevitably overcome me in return. Actions originating from oneself ultimately circle back—this is the principle of karmic retribution.

Where armies are stationed, farming is inevitably neglected, fields become overgrown with thorns, and looms lie idle in towns and villages. Moreover, the killing of people disrupts the harmonious Qi (和炁) between heaven and earth, inevitably leading to successive floods and droughts, with famine persisting year after year. When human affairs descend into such chaos, the will of heaven manifests accordingly. So, can military force be entirely abolished? Heaven and earth give rise to the Five Phases (五材)—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—none of which can be dispensed with. Who, then, could completely abolish force? Since force cannot be eliminated, the key lies in how it is employed.

The ancients skilled in warfare sought only to achieve their objective and then stopped, never relying on force to assert dominance. What does "achieving the objective" mean? It means not flaunting one’s abilities, not boasting of military achievements, and not nurturing arrogance. Even when compelled to use force, they ceased immediately upon achieving their goal, never daring to exploit it for power. Flaunting ability leads to belligerence, and belligerence prevents the people from living in peace. Boasting of achievements invites contention, and contention undermines unity. Arrogance breeds trouble, and trouble obstructs the accumulation of wealth. If these three principles (三果) are disregarded and the seven virtues (七德) entirely lost—if one merely competes for supremacy and relies on force to dominate—then the path to ruin is assured.

All things, upon reaching their zenith, begin to decline. Military force, when pushed to its extreme, inevitably collapses—this is the way of nature. How can one not be wary of it? Moreover, the Dao (道) operates through softness and yielding, whereas force triumphs through aggression, directly contradicting the Dao. Those who do not stray far from the Dao can return to the right path and thus avoid great error. But those who act prematurely without following the Dao will suffer great defeat. The Yijing (Book of Changes) states: "To lose one’s way yet stubbornly force a return invites calamity." To wage war in such a manner ensures ultimate defeat, bringing disaster upon the ruler and rendering the state incapable of further campaigns for ten years—all for failing to know when to stop.

Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen, detested even by objects themselves. Thus, those who embody the Dao do not use them. The noble man, in ordinary times, honors the left (贵左), but in war, he honors the right (贵右). Weapons are inauspicious tools, unfit for the noble man. They are employed only when absolutely necessary, and even then, one should maintain a detached mind. Victory in battle is not praiseworthy, for to celebrate it is to take pleasure in killing. Those who delight in killing can never fulfill their aspirations under heaven. Auspicious affairs favor the left, while ominous affairs favor the right—the lieutenant general stands to the left, the commander-in-chief to the right, treating warfare as a funeral rite. When the slain are many, we mourn them with grief. Therefore, even in victory, observe the rites of mourning.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, it condemns the misuse of military force, and second, it expounds on the universality of the Dao (the Way).

The author begins by criticizing those who glorify warfare as lacking virtue. In the natural order of heaven and earth, the left side represents Yang (symbolizing benevolence and growth), while the right represents Yin (symbolizing punishment and killing). A noble person prioritizes benevolence in daily life, hence honoring the left, and only emphasizes martial courage when compelled to fight, thus honoring the right. Weapons are inauspicious tools unfit for noble individuals—they should only be used as a last resort (such as defending against invasion) and never to initiate aggression.

Truly skilled warriors take no pride in victory but value winning without battle. Warfare inevitably brings death, and those who delight in killing violate heaven and earth's life-giving virtue (De), ultimately inviting cosmic retribution and human resentment. Ritual propriety dictates that auspicious affairs favor the left while inauspicious ones favor the right—hence generals stand on the right during war, implicitly acknowledging its ominous nature. Even in victory, one should mourn the dead as at a funeral.

The second part describes the nature of the Dao: though simple, nameless, and seemingly insignificant, it is the root of all things. If rulers uphold the great Dao, all beings will naturally submit, and heaven and earth's Yin-Yang harmony will bring down sweet dew (a symbol of auspicious blessings)—achieving equilibrium without artificial intervention. This emphasizes the Dao's spontaneity and universality, urging rulers to align with it rather than impose forceful control.

This passage discusses the relationship between the "nameless" (the primordial state without specific designation) and the "named" (concretely defined phenomena). The eternal Dao, in its essence, has no specific name—this nameless state is also called the "Uncarved Block" (the most primal and simple condition). Though subtle and difficult to perceive, it is supremely noble and vast, serving as the origin of all things in heaven and earth. Even the myriad beings of the world dare not disregard it.

If rulers can preserve this authentic, nameless state, all things will naturally submit to them. Just as high mountains attract mountain goats and deep waters draw dragons, when mountains are not high enough or waters not deep enough, even spiritual beings will not come, let alone ordinary things. When the harmonious Qi of heaven and earth intermingles, sweet dew naturally descends to nourish all beings—this occurs completely spontaneously.

When rulers emulate the harmonious Dao of heaven and earth, maintaining a state of emptiness and Wuwei (non-action), their beneficence will extend throughout the world, yet the people will not even realize where this grace comes from. This is what is meant by "if lords and kings can preserve the authentic Dao, all things will naturally submit."

The scripture continues: When beginning to name things, one must know when to stop. Knowing when to stop prevents danger. The Dao's movement through the world is as natural as small streams eventually merging into rivers and seas. The "beginning" refers to that nameless, primordial state. Precisely because there is the nameless essence can the named phenomena emerge. But once names are established, they tend to become superficial, so one must understand moderation.

Names should correspond to reality, and reality should match names. Names and reality depend on and constrain each other. Wise rulers grasp this principle to govern the state, like verifying names against a contract. Names are like the net of the world—the sage's method is to use this net, ensuring no aspect of reality escapes scrutiny.

By examining names to verify reality and investigating reality to correct names, right and wrong become as clear as black and white. Dividing things into two aspects yet unifying them as one, judgments are made based on the correspondence between names and reality, and rewards or punishments follow accordingly. By observing phenomena, probing their essence, following principles, and rectifying names, names naturally reflect reality, and affairs are properly handled. Just as Emperor Yao governed the world by rectifying names, bringing about great order.

When governing the world, if one pursues empty reputation like the tyrant Jie of Xia, relying solely on titles to rule, the world will fall into chaos. Therefore, the sage places great emphasis on the issue of "names and distinctions." Confucius said, "Rectifying names must come first!" If names and distinctions are not properly established, the ruler will be burdened with worries and toil; when the ruler is anxious and overworked, the duties of officials will become disordered. It is like trying to cover black with white—the more one applies white, the more the black stands out; the more one deliberately pursues something, the more elusive it becomes. When names and distinctions are rectified, the ruler will not be troubled; when the ruler is untroubled, they will not be driven by sensory desires, and all systems will naturally remain pure and upright. By employing things according to their inherent nature, free from external constraints, governing through Wuwei (non-action), maintaining clarity and impartiality, the spirit can penetrate all directions of heaven and earth, and consciousness can perceive the boundless. This is what is meant by "knowing when to stop avoids danger."

The reason rivers and seas can accommodate countless streams is because they occupy the lowest position; the state of "namelessness" is precisely the destination of "the named." All things under heaven ultimately return to the Dao (the Way).

Understanding others may be called intelligence, but knowing oneself is true wisdom. Conquering others may be called strength, but mastering oneself is true power. Recognizing contentment is true wealth, and persisting in following the Dao is true ambition. Not losing one's roots ensures longevity, and the spirit enduring beyond death is true immortality.

Seeking knowledge outwardly is like the radiance of the sun and fire—this is called intelligence; turning inward to reflect on one's nature is like metal and water mirroring inner reflections—this is called wisdom. Resolving others' violence through gentleness is the power of one who embodies the Dao; restraining one's own restlessness through softness is the strength of one who possesses De (Virtue/Power). Knowing contentment in the face of desires ensures one does not lose great achievements—this is called wealth; practicing the Dao of benevolence and righteousness leads to sublime virtue—this is called ambition. Action that does not deviate from the root endures, and though the body perishes, the Dao remains—this is called longevity.

The Dao flows universally, omnipresent. All things rely on it to grow, yet it never refuses; it accomplishes all without claiming merit, nurtures all without asserting dominion. Without selfish desires, it may be called subtle; though all things return to it, it does not presume mastery—this may be called greatness. Thus, the sage never considers themselves great, and thereby achieves true greatness.

The function of the Dao is as subtle as the virtue of spirits. Vast and boundless, it can exist on the left or the right; immense and limitless, it seems above yet also before and behind. As the mother of all things, all depend on it to grow; united with the virtue of heaven and earth, it accomplishes effortlessly. Because it is intimately close to all things, it requires no gratitude; because it is supremely great, it needs no praise. With compassion, it nurtures all things, fostering their growth without claiming lordship.

This passage elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) and the worldly wisdom of sages. Though the Dao governs all things, it does not deliberately control them—just as rivers and seas accommodate countless tributaries without claiming superiority. Sages (those who have attained the Dao) emulate its qualities, preserving their innate simplicity while embracing all things without arrogance, thereby achieving true greatness.

Those who "hold the Great Image" (grasp the supreme Dao) govern the world in such a way that all beings naturally submit without suffering harm, attaining peace and harmony. Like music and fine food that may briefly attract passersby, such pleasures are fleeting. In contrast, the Dao seems bland when spoken, unremarkable when observed, and unappealing when heard—yet it is inexhaustible in its utility. Sages care for the people as tenderly as one nurtures an infant, never harming them, which is why all under heaven willingly submit. This mode of governance may appear plain and unremarkable, yet it endures for millennia without decline.

The text then presents four paradoxical relationships that reveal the laws of development: to contract, one must first expand; to weaken, one must first strengthen; to abolish, one must first revitalize; to take, one must first give. This seemingly contradictory wisdom is termed "subtle illumination" (profound insight). Just as fish cannot survive without deep water, a nation's core strength should never be recklessly displayed. The sage's most refined wisdom lies in understanding strategic flexibility—remaining steadfast in principle while adapting in method. Flexibility serves to realize the fundamental, while the fundamental requires flexibility for its perfection. Ultimately, the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong—this is the profound art of governance.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of employing "expediency" (quanbian) alongside "substantive principles" (shili). Laozi (Lao shi) on one hand guides people to comprehend the constant Dao through fundamental truths, while on the other employs adaptive methods to respond to worldly changes—much like the Book of Changes states: achieving all things through indirect means without omission, encompassing heaven and earth without transgression.

To eliminate tyranny and overthrow oppressive rule, one must first follow the target's covetous desires to deploy techniques of expansion and contraction. The specific method is: when the opponent's greed reaches its peak, first indulge them to let them swell with pride. Once they become drunk with success, their true nature will be revealed, at which point orthodox principles can be applied to restrain them. The fourth line of the Mingyi hexagram in the Book of Changes illustrates this: "Entering the left abdomen, one grasps the opponent's true intentions without even stepping beyond the courtyard." Indulging them to the extreme is precisely to let them swell to their limit—this will make them increasingly unrestrained, naturally becoming subject to collective restraint. Such strategic subtlety represents the sage's hidden wisdom.

As for weakening an opponent's willpower and momentum, one must first amplify their cravings. Excessive desire leads to great depletion; when desires reach their zenith, willpower inevitably declines. This method can be applied on a small scale for self-cultivation or expanded to govern the world. Rise and fall, giving and taking, advance and retreat—these are interdependent patterns of nature, achieving harmony through counteracting forces. The Daode Jing states: "Reversion is the movement of Dao; yielding is the function of Dao." The ability to overcome the strong with the soft precisely employs this principle of counteraction.

The Book of Changes states: "The Xun hexagram (symbolizing compliance) is used to implement expediency," and further explains: "The Xun hexagram's characteristic is balanced measurement." Xun symbolizes wind—wind adapts to seasonal changes, moving all things without revealing form; expediency seizes celestial opportunities, adapting to worldly shifts without detection. The core of Xun lies in pliancy, for only through yielding can expediency be implemented, and only through expediency can affairs be controlled. Thus the soft overcoming the strong—this principle appears obvious yet its application remains profoundly subtle.

Historical example: When King Wen of Zhou already controlled two-thirds of the realm, he still submitted to King Zhou of Shang, offering the lands of Qiju while petitioning to abolish the cruel "roasting pillar" punishment. At the time, the Shang king's greed was peaking—King Wen deliberately offered territory to indulge him (this constitutes "indulging to let them swell"). When the Shang king became pleased with the lands, King Wen seized the moment to request abolishing the torture (this constitutes "restraining with orthodoxy")—demonstrating King Wen's strategic wisdom. Later, King Wu inspected troops at Mengjin but declared the Shang king's wickedness hadn't yet peaked, thus withdrawing his forces. Only two years later did he launch the decisive Battle of Muye. Withdrawing at Mengjin precisely allowed the Shang king's atrocities to swell to their extreme (indulging their expansion to the limit), awaiting full ripeness before achieving ultimate success.

This passage discusses how King Wen and King Wu of Zhou employed different approaches of "expediency" (quan) and "principle" (shi), as well as the varying attitudes of ancient sages toward these methods.

King Wu's gathering of allies at the Battle of Muye to overthrow King Zhou of Shang exemplifies his use of expediency. Earlier, King Wen had adopted a gentle approach of cultural governance. Though sympathizing with the suffering Shang people under King Zhou's tyranny, he insisted on waiting until the ruler had completely lost popular support before claiming the throne—this was King Wen's adherence to fundamental principles. King Wu, unable to bear the people's continued suffering, decisively executed King Zhou and seized power, demonstrating his application of expediency.

The virtuous brothers Bo Yi and Shu Qi supported King Wen's principled approach but opposed King Wu's expedient act of a subject overthrowing his ruler, believing this would undermine future ruler-subject relationships. They consequently chose to starve themselves on Shouyang Mountain. In contrast, Jiang Taigong (Lü Shang) assisted King Wu in implementing expedient measures, maintaining that executing the tyrant Zhou was necessary to stabilize the realm and save the contemporary populace.

When the Dukes of Zhou and Shao completed the work of Kings Wen and Wu, they secretly employed expedient methods to quell chaos while openly establishing fundamental systems of governance. They ceased warfare, destroyed weapons, sought governance advice from Jizi, relocated obstinate elements to Luoyi, instituted ritual and music systems, abandoned military campaigns in favor of cultural education—ultimately enabling the Zhou dynasty to endure eight hundred years. These exemplify how expediency can return to principle.

The Book of Changes states that opening and closing in alternation constitutes change, while unceasing movement back and forth constitutes penetration—both representing subtle and wise truths illustrating how expediency and principle must complement each other. Sages employ expediency to accord with the Dao (the Way), whereas petty men seize power for wicked purposes. Just as fish perish when leaving deep waters, expediency fails when divorced from principle. Political strategy is a sharp instrument of statecraft that must be deeply concealed and used cautiously, never lightly revealed lest it be exploited by malicious actors.

Confucius said: Those who can pursue the Dao together may not necessarily uphold principles together; those who can uphold principles together may not necessarily weigh expediency together. The Book of Changes' Qian hexagram line nine-four states "leaping in the deep," showing how gentlemen must carefully assess timing for advancement or withdrawal. The Kun hexagram line six-four advises "tying the bag's mouth," reminding worthies to guard their words in chaotic times. Thus even sages find the application of expediency difficult and exercise caution—how much more should ordinary people be exceptionally careful?

The essence of the Dao (the Way) is natural Wuwei (non-action) that accomplishes all things. If rulers adhere to this principle, all beings will naturally evolve and flourish. When desires begin to stir, they should be settled with the "nameless purity" (the original state of the Dao). This state of purity eliminates desires, allowing the world to naturally return to its proper course through tranquility.

The Dao remains eternal and unchanging because its essence is nameless and thus non-acting, while its function manifests and accomplishes all things. If rulers uphold this fundamental principle, they grasp the "beginning" and "mother" (the origin and root of all things), comprehending the patterns of all existence and allowing worldly affairs to naturally align. This is the principle of "I act without acting, and the people transform themselves." When moral cultivation reaches profound purity, the world becomes serene and peaceful. If greed arises, it must be settled and corrected with the essence of the Dao, preventing reckless impulses.

Those of superior De (Virtue/Power) follow nature without deliberate action, aligning with the Dao. Those of inferior De act deliberately with purpose, aligning only with De. Those who cling to De inevitably deviate from the Dao. Thus, those who truly embody Wuwei act naturally without contrivance. Later generations, however, often pursue superficial actions while forgetting the root, turning "non-action" into deliberate "action." The saying "the nameless purity must also be free from desire" means one must forget both inner attachments and outer traces of action, reaching a state of profound mystery.

Those who can forget both mind and action, unifying affairs and principles, enable all things in the world to abide in their nature without being burdened by external influences. The opening passage takes the eternal Dao as the essence and the eternal name as the function, ultimately returning to the profound mystery (a state beyond duality). This passage takes Wuwei as the essence and accomplishing all things as the function, unifying them in the state of "forgetting both" (transcending distinctions). Beginning and end interconnect, fully revealing the relationship between the essence and function of the Dao.

(Here, the core Daoist philosophy is explained: rulers should emulate the natural Wuwei of the Dao, avoiding excessive intervention; personal cultivation should transcend deliberate striving to reach a state where self and objects are forgotten. Through the dialectical unity of opposing concepts like "Wuwei-accomplishing all" and "named-nameless," the Daoist mode of thinking is demonstrated.)

This passage discusses the different levels of De (Virtue/Power) and their manifestations in the Daode Jing. The highest level, "superior De" (the purest virtue), does not deliberately display virtuous behavior, thus truly possessing De; whereas "inferior De" (secondary virtue) clings to not losing virtue, thereby losing genuine De.

Those with superior De follow nature through Wuwei (non-action), while those with inferior De act deliberately with ulterior motives. The benevolent act without seeking reward, while the righteous act with expectations. As for ritual propriety, when people perform rituals but receive no response, they roll up their sleeves to force compliance. Hence it is said: When Dao is lost, De is emphasized; when De is lost, benevolence is emphasized; when benevolence is lost, righteousness is emphasized; and when righteousness is lost, ritual propriety remains.

Ritual propriety is actually the product of weakened loyalty and sincerity, the beginning of chaos. Those who pride themselves on foresight have only grasped the surface of Dao—this marks the onset of foolishness. Therefore, the truly great person stands firm in simplicity, not superficiality; dwells in substance, not ornamentation.

Lu Xisheng comments in his annotation: Superior De aligns with Dao, does not flaunt virtue, and through natural Wuwei maintains constant De. Inferior De separates from Dao yet clings to the appearance of virtue; deliberate action causes the loss of constant De. The benevolent love all people—acting without claiming benevolence is the highest form. The righteous prohibit wrongdoing—properly applying righteousness to achieve benefit is also good. But obsession with the reputation of benevolence binds one to it, while abandoning righteousness as a standard leads to injustice.

As for ritual propriety, its original purpose was to clarify hierarchy and stabilize the people's hearts. Yet later it degenerated into trivialities like jade and silk exchanges. Nowadays, if one performs rituals without receiving a response, the other's minor discourtesy is met with rage and physical confrontation—this is even more discourteous. Rituals were meant to prevent disputes, but nitpicking over details provokes conflict instead. This is because worldly people fail to understand the root of ritual propriety.

Laozi highlights these severe breaches of propriety to reveal the source of contention, hoping people will return to the essence of ritual and revert to the "Great One" (the origin of Dao). The Book of Rites states: If love for others does not bring closeness, examine your own benevolence; if ritual propriety meets no response, examine your own reverence. Therefore, restrain yourself and practice propriety without blaming others. The Book of Changes also says: Use humility to moderate ritual—humility is the most important virtue.

If one can uphold the fundamental principle of humility and return to the origins of ritual propriety, then all actions will proceed smoothly, and how could there be any fault of contention or disorder? The highest De (Virtue/Power) follows nature without artificial interference, thus naturally aligning with the Dao. If one loses the state of supreme De, one can only emulate the method of governing through Wuwei (non-action), hence the saying, "After the Dao was lost, De arose."

By emulating Wuwei, De manifests; by deliberately practicing benevolence, achievements become visible; by discerning things to benefit all beings, righteousness becomes clear; by establishing norms to prevent chaos, ritual propriety is established. Thus it is said, "After De was lost, benevolence arose; after benevolence was lost, righteousness arose; after righteousness was lost, ritual arose." What is lost on one side is gained on the other—this is the constant principle of the world.

When the qualities of loyalty and sincerity in people's hearts decline and signs of calamity appear, ritual propriety must be established to guard against disorder. Therefore, ritual propriety is the primary means of governing turbulent times. The essence of the Dao is outwardly revealed, but ignorance may obscure the human heart. In such cases, wisdom must be exalted to guide the ignorant—thus wisdom is the beginning of dispelling ignorance. "Foresight" is wisdom, for wisdom can perceive principles before they take form.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom are all tools employed by sages according to the circumstances of the times, adjusted as the world waxes and wanes. Thus, to govern the present era with the ancient Dao, one must take the Dao and De as the root and ritual and wisdom as the branches. To teach modern people to return to the ancient Dao, one must begin with ritual propriety and end with the Dao and De. This is the principle of "continually reducing until Wuwei is achieved."

Raising pigs and brewing wine were never meant to create disasters, yet drunkenness can lead to calamity; benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom were never meant to create chaos, yet the flaws of governance can incite turmoil. Foolish people fail to understand that greed and desire are the roots of calamity and instead blame the wisdom of the sages, advocating their complete abandonment in the belief that this will return the world to the governance of antiquity—what a mistaken view this is!

To speak of ritual propriety in an age of simple customs is either arrogance or perversity; to forget ritual propriety in an age of declining morals is either folly or deceit. The key lies in tracing back to the source, abandoning the branches to return to the root, rectifying ritual and righteousness to restore benevolence and De, and using the "named" (specific norms) to manifest the "nameless" (the Dao). In this way, the natural Dao is not difficult to recover.

The so-called great man acts decisively without hesitation, abiding in the root of the Dao and De, unconstrained by the branches of ritual and wisdom. Why is this so? Because even in times of order, establishing laws can lead to chaos—how much more so in times of disorder? Therefore, one must discard what is superficial and shallow and embrace what is substantial and profound.

This passage elucidates the profound principle of applying ancient wisdom to contemporary governance. The embodiment in ritual can be seen in the practice of offering only a single libation (yi xian) when sacrificing to Heaven, emphasizing simplicity, and using earthenware vessels (tao pao) to highlight plainness. Though fine wine is prepared, the primal purity of plain water (xuan jiu) is honored; though ornate mats (guan dan) could be used, straw and reeds (gao jie) are spread instead—all manifestations of valuing the fundamental. How can this be overlooked?

The classic states: Since antiquity, those who attained the "One" (referring to the Dao)—Heaven attained it and became clear, Earth attained it and became tranquil, spirits attained it and became numinous, valleys attained it and became full, all beings attained it and flourished, and lords attained it to bring stability to the world. All this is because they followed the principle of the "One." Should Heaven lose its clarity, it might collapse; should Earth lose its tranquility, it might quake; should spirits lose their numinosity, they might vanish; should valleys lose their fullness, they might dry up; should beings lose their vitality, they might perish; and should lords fail to maintain proper humility while esteeming themselves as noble, they might fall. Thus, nobility must take humility as its root, and high position must take lowliness as its foundation. Hence, lords refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy"—is this not precisely taking humility as fundamental? Therefore, it is said that seeking excessive honor leads instead to losing honor: one should not shine like polished jade, but remain plain like an uncarved stone.

The commentary explains: The "One" is the source from which the Dao generates all things. By preserving this source, all things can grow according to their nature. Whether the Way of Heaven, the numinous spirits, the veins of Earth, or the mountain valleys—all attain clarity, efficacy, tranquility, and fullness through the "One." The Yijing states that the movement of all things under Heaven returns to the "One," so when lords attain it, they can stabilize the world. Yet the crucial point lies in not presuming upon this state: if one grows arrogant relying on clarity, efficacy, tranquility, or fullness, collapse, quaking, vanishing, or drying up will inevitably follow. Should beings presume upon their vitality, the principle of Heaven will extinguish them; should lords presume upon their nobility, they are certain to fall. The special emphasis on the term "nobility" here serves as a profound admonition to rulers.

Further interpretation clarifies: The reason lords can attain noble status is because they take humility as their root; the reason they can occupy high positions is because they are founded upon the common people. These lowly terms—"solitary," "desolate," "unworthy"—are precisely what lords use to refer to themselves, embodying humility as fundamental. Thoroughly examining this principle: just as scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants form the populace before there can be a state, or as the various components of a wheel (metaphorically the "chariot") come together to make a complete vehicle.

When all the components—wheels, shafts, carriage, and axle—are prepared, they can be assembled into a complete chariot. If one points to the chariot and counts its parts individually, they only see wheels, shafts, carriage, and axle as separate pieces, failing to perceive the whole chariot. Similarly, when speaking of a state, if one merely enumerates its scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants as distinct groups, they miss the complete nation.

Scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants may seem like the lowest strata of society, yet it is precisely these ordinary people who form the foundation of the state. Therefore, rulers (Hou Wang) should not flaunt their nobility like precious jade but remain humble like common stones, grounding themselves in the people.

The movement of the Dao (the Way) often manifests as complementary opposites (反者道之动, "reversal is the movement of the Dao"), and what appears weak is actually how the Dao operates (弱者道之用, "softness is the function of the Dao"). All things under heaven arise from "being" (有), yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (无). Just as seemingly contrary strategies achieve proper results, and softness, though seemingly powerless, can overcome hardness. All tangible things emerge from the intangible; all events with signs begin in imperceptible stillness. Thus, one must understand: seemingly paradoxical movements stem from gentle action, and subtle transformations sprout from silent principles. Adaptability arises from reality and ultimately returns to reality—these are the cyclical, mutually reinforcing patterns of the Dao.

Those of superior capacity hear the Great Dao and diligently practice it; those of middling capacity waver between belief and doubt; those of inferior capacity laugh upon hearing it—if the shallow-minded did not mock it, it would not be the true Dao. As the ancients said: True brightness appears dim; advancement seems like retreat; a smooth path feels rugged. The highest virtue (De) resembles a valley; the purest white seems sullied; vast virtue always seems incomplete; steadfast virtue appears hesitant; the most genuine quality seems prone to decay. The most square has no corners; the most precious vessel takes the longest to forge; the loudest sound is inaudible; the grandest form has no shape. Though the Dao is subtle and nameless, it excels in nourishing all things and aiding their growth.

The Book of Changes (Yijing) states: "What transcends form is called the Dao"—the Dao permeates beyond form; "what has concrete form is called a vessel"—a vessel is confined within form. Those of superior capacity discern the hidden and the manifest, penetrating the metaphysical Dao, so they hear the Dao and believe deeply, cultivating it diligently. Those of middling capacity hover between the subtle and the obvious, wavering between Dao and vessel, so they alternate between belief and doubt. Those of inferior capacity see only surface phenomena, confined to concrete things, so they hear the Dao and laugh loudly.

This passage discusses how the fundamental characteristics of the Dao (the cosmic principle) differ from conventional understanding. The true Dao is subtle and elusive, often mocked and rejected by those of shallow perception (inferior scholars). Yet this very quality of being ridiculed proves its authentic profundity.

Those who embody the Dao possess three distinctive qualities: First, they shine like the sun and moon without dazzling—this is called "the bright Dao appears dim" (ming dao ruo mei). Second, they move with the simplicity of celestial motion yet cannot be confined—this is called "the level Dao appears rough" (yi dao ruo lei). Third, they return to mystery like the cycle of seasons—this is called "the advancing Dao appears retreating" (jin dao ruo tui). There are more seemingly contradictory yet unified traits: the highest virtue (shang de) is humble as a valley, the purest white (da bai) appears stained, extensive virtue (guang de) seems insufficient, and established virtue (jian de) appears lazy.

The Dao's process of generating all things unfolds thus: The Dao gives birth to primordial chaos as One, One generates yin-yang as Two, Two produces harmonizing Qi as Three, and Three transforms into the myriad beings. All creatures carry yin on their backs while embracing yang in their arms, with these two energies blending into harmony. What ordinary people detest—terms like "orphaned," "widowed," and "unworthy" (gu gua bu gu)—are precisely what rulers use for self-reference, because apparent diminishment brings increase, while apparent increase leads to loss.

The softest penetrates the hardest (zhi rou chi cheng zhi jian), the formless enters the seamless (wu you ru wu jian)—this demonstrates the benefit of wuwei (non-action). Wordless teaching (bu yan zhi jiao) and actionless benefit (wu wei zhi yi) represent states few in the world can attain. The true essence of the Dao gives birth to all things; when primordial Qi takes form, all beings rely on it unknowingly for growth. Just as inferior scholars laugh upon hearing the Dao, they cannot comprehend these profound truths that appear paradoxical.

When the two energies of Yin and Yang intermingle, they generate the harmonizing Qi (Chong Qi). The movement and transformation of this harmonizing Qi gives rise to all things in the world. As living beings grow, they universally follow the pattern of withdrawing from Yin and moving toward Yang, while the harmonizing Qi circulates within, balancing the natural rhythms of life.

When sages established their teachings, they invariably traced them back to the operating principles of heaven and earth, investigating the fundamental patterns of all things. Through this, they understood that human life likewise centers around harmonizing Qi. How is this demonstrated? Humans receive this harmonizing Qi between heaven and earth at birth—this is what we call "life" (ming). Original life possesses pure spiritual essence, divided into two aspects: the Po (corporeal soul, Yin) and the Hun (ethereal soul, Yang). When these Yin and Yang energies perfectly merge, the harmonizing Qi circulates within, forming both the physical body and the spirit (Shen).

When harmonizing Qi remains intact, spirit and body exist in unified harmony—this is life. When harmonizing Qi dissipates, spirit and body separate—this is death. Death cannot be reversed, and dissipated harmonizing Qi cannot be restored. Therefore, one must cultivate this vast life energy to align with the natural Dao. As the Yi Jing states, "The greatest virtue of heaven and earth is giving life to all things"—precisely what the sages valued most.

The reason sages valued life was to practice the great Dao. The Dao is the most revered principle in the cosmos. Though vast enough to encompass heaven and earth and subtle enough to permeate the finest hair-tip, it ultimately resides within human body and mind. Thus, Dao cultivators focus on regulating the pivotal points of body and mind. The key to this regulation lies in dwelling peacefully in what others detest. For instance, rulers refer to themselves with despised terms like "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy" to diminish arrogance in body and mind, thereby enhancing moral cultivation (De).

The profound function of the "Diminishing Hexagram" (Sun) in the Yi Jing excels most in restraining anger and curbing desires. Achieving this brings increasing clarity to the heart-mind, aiding comprehension of principles. The profound function of the "Increasing Hexagram" (Yi) excels most in correcting faults and turning toward goodness. Achieving this brings increasing rectitude to oneself, thereby reducing errors. This illustrates the principle that "sometimes diminishing leads to gain, while increasing leads to loss."

The world teaches people to increase daily, whereas I teach them to decrease daily. Continue decreasing until reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action). For the Dao fundamentally operates through softness and weakness, never contending with external things—thus external things cannot harm it.

This passage expounds the Daoist principles of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" and "contentment brings constant happiness."

First, it explains that those who use violence to harm others will ultimately be harmed themselves and fail to preserve their own lives. Just as water—the softest substance—can penetrate the hardest stone, and formless Qi (vital energy) can permeate objects without gaps. This demonstrates that the teaching method of Wuwei (non-action, following natural course) is more beneficial than forceful intervention. Attempting to teach through coercive words or clinging to deliberate action causes harm, whereas wordless teaching that follows the principle of Wuwei yields true benefit.

Next, it examines the relationship between reputation and life, wealth and life. While reputation serves as a marker of one's standing, if obtained through deceitful means, even temporary fame will eventually be scorned by those who follow the Dao. Wealth provides the foundation for living—when used for good deeds it earns respect, but when amassed through greed, even vast riches will be despised by virtuous people. Excessive pursuit of reputation leads to hypocrisy, while obsessive hoarding of wealth invites disaster. Those who understand contentment avoid disgrace from greed, and those who know when to stop escape the dangers of chasing fame. Only through this approach can reputation endure and wealth be preserved permanently.

The conclusion states: Excessive attachment inevitably leads to great waste, and over-accumulation inevitably brings significant loss. Contentment prevents disgrace, and knowing when to stop avoids danger—this is the path to longevity.

The most perfect thing appears incomplete, yet its function is inexhaustible; the fullest vessel seems empty, yet its usefulness never ends. The straightest appears bent, the most skillful seems clumsy, the most eloquent sounds hesitant. Movement overcomes cold, stillness conquers heat - only through serenity and Wuwei (non-action) can the world be properly governed.

Sages use the Dao to aid all under heaven, yet still worry if even one person remains unsettled. Thus they accomplish countless deeds without decline. Though their De (Virtue) fills the four seas, they never grow complacent, thereby adapting to infinite changes without exhaustion. They practice the simplest principles without extremism, follow things' natural state without embellishment, and express fundamental truths without ornamentation. Thus all things develop spontaneously, people fulfill their capacities, and worldly affairs settle naturally without forced management. The secret lies in following nature's victory - just as movement naturally overcomes cold and stillness naturally conquers heat, not through deliberate struggle, yet heat and cold cannot intrude. Therefore sages govern through Wuwei, and people transform naturally; sages cherish serenity, and people become upright. All movements under heaven return to the purity of the Dao - hence serenity and Wuwei become the principles of governance.

In peaceful times, warhorses retire to fertilize fields; in chaotic times, they foal in wilderness. No crime exceeds greed, no calamity surpasses discontent, no error exceeds coercion. Thus the contentment of knowing sufficiency is true fulfillment.

When the Dao prevails in the world, emperors need only border defenses, lords merely guard neighboring states. Though weapons exist, none are used; though fine horses stand ready, none gallop to war. People follow teachings, returning to tillage, reclaiming wastelands to plant crops, fertilizing fields for the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) grains - thus all dwell in peace with harmonious kinship. When the Dao is lost, emperors resist barbarians abroad, lords invade neighboring states, weapons turn inward, and warhorses charge across borders. People suffer under forced labor, abandoning their livelihoods - mulberries and catalpas become firewood, fields grow thorns, masses flee homes and betray rulers. Alas! The Dao-less ruler poisons the world through three great evils: greed that demands unreasonably - the gravest crime; insatiable desire that harms others - the worst calamity; obsessive craving that inflames passion - the deepest fault.

Unless one is a sage, it is extremely difficult for ordinary people to be completely free of desires. Once desires arise, various needs emerge. If one pursues desires without knowing contentment, great calamities will follow. Observe this world—there has never been anyone who greedily sought much and actually obtained much. Therefore, those who understand moderation will naturally have fewer demands, making it easier to find satisfaction and often feel content.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) do not need to step outside their doors to understand the principles of the world, nor must they peer through windows to grasp the workings of Heaven’s Dao. Those who rush about everywhere, the farther they go, the less they truly understand. Thus, the sage knows truth without personal experience, perceives the essence without direct observation, and accomplishes great things without deliberate action.

The method by which sages govern the world always begins with cultivating themselves and then extends outward. When eating, they think of those who hunger in the world; when dressing, they remember those who suffer from cold. Loving their own parents, they extend that care to all elders; cherishing their own children, they consider all the children of the world. In this way, without even leaving home, they understand the state of the world.

In governing, sages first turn inward, aligning their body and mind with the Dao of Heaven. Valuing their own life, they comprehend Heaven’s principle of nurturing all things; achieving their own endeavors, they grasp Heaven’s rhythm in guiding the seasons; delighting in doing good, they recognize Heaven’s favor toward the virtuous. Heaven reveals its laws through the sun, moon, and stars, and sages attune themselves to the Dao through self-cultivation—why would they need to peer through a window to understand Heaven’s Dao?

Those who fail to reflect inward yet clamor to take governing the world as their duty, exhausting their spirit and laboring tirelessly in worldly affairs—I see that they cannot govern well. Why? Because worldly matters are endlessly complex. If one does not grasp the root but only deals with the branches, both body and mind will be worn out. When the spirit (Shen) is overworked, it weakens; when the body is overworked, it suffers harm. If both are exhausted, danger follows. Toiling in vain over trivialities, in the end, not even one thing is accomplished. Thus, the farther one goes, the less one truly understands.

The ancient texts say: "To govern the world, first govern the state; to govern the state, first govern the family; to govern the family, first cultivate the self; to cultivate the self, first cultivate the heart-mind; to cultivate the heart-mind, first rectify intention." Therefore, if a noble person does not first cultivate sincerity, nothing can be achieved. All of this emphasizes the principle of turning inward. Without traveling the world, one can discern human affairs; without observing celestial phenomena, one can understand Heaven’s Dao; without deliberate action, one can accomplish great things.

The highest state of governing the world is achieved by returning to one's original heart-mind. Confucius said, "Only Heaven is truly great, and only Yao could emulate Heaven," and also remarked, "The one who could govern through non-action (Wuwei) was probably Shun"—this precisely illustrates the principle.

In scholarly learning, one accumulates knowledge continuously, but in cultivating the Dao, one must continuously reduce. Reduce and reduce again until reaching the state of Wuwei. Though appearing to do nothing, one can thereby accomplish everything. Governing the world requires maintaining a state of non-interference; when edicts and regulations become excessive, true governance becomes difficult.

Scholars broaden their knowledge to comprehend principles, thus their learning daily increases; Dao cultivators grasp the root to simplify affairs, thus their burdens daily decrease. When principles are understood, matters become simple—therefore while learning appears to be accumulation, it actually requires the reduction of Dao cultivation to achieve balance. Like turbid water that must settle slowly to become clear, reduction must proceed gradually, not achieved in one step. Those accustomed to crude habits need gentle guidance to awaken their innate nature—thus through reduction to Wuwei, one can paradoxically accomplish all things.

Rulers who act deliberately establish laws based on human sentiments, resulting in complex governance that exhausts the people and ultimately provokes rebellion. Rulers practicing Wuwei assist all things according to their inherent nature, resulting in simple governance that brings ease to the people, who naturally submit. The sage's heart-mind constantly worries about all things losing their original truth; the key to rectifying contemporary ills lies in winning the people's hearts. The secret to winning hearts is making people willingly submit. Thus governing through Wuwei brings simple administration and pure customs—the people happily support it without weariness. When edicts are numerous and people toil, they become fearful and distant—this cannot win the world's hearts.

Sages have no fixed ideas but take the people's ideas as their own. To the good I am good; to the not-good I am also good—thus true goodness is attained. To the trustworthy I am trusting; to the untrustworthy I am also trusting—thus true trust is attained. When sages govern the world, they do so with reverent caution, making all hearts return to simplicity. The people attentively observe the sage's words and deeds, while the sage cherishes them like children.

Sages embody the Wuwei of the great Dao, and all things respond naturally. Though having no fixed ideas, the people's constant wish is peaceful living and realizing their nature. Sages always enable everyone to fulfill proper aspirations—is this not taking the people's hearts as one's own? When people incline toward goodness, sages follow this inclination; even when people have shortcomings, sages treat them with goodness, thereby transforming the unvirtuous into virtue. To the trustworthy they respond with trust; to the untrustworthy they also respond with trust, thereby returning the untrustworthy to trust. Governing with reverent caution, sages make all hearts return to primal simplicity. The people focus on the sage's conduct, while the sage guides all with maternal care.

This passage encapsulates the core teachings of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), focusing on the sage's way of engaging with the world and perspective on life and death.

First, it describes how a sage educates the people. The sage treats everyone with kindness, even those who harbor ill intentions, transforming them through goodwill. In this way, there are no truly unkind people in the world, and all receive the goodness they seek. Similarly, the sage responds to those who are trustworthy with trust, filling the world with sincerity. The sage remains attuned to the changes of all things, merging their inner self with the world, never acting with forced intention. This echoes Confucius’s "Four Don’ts": no arbitrary conjectures, no absolute assertions, no rigid inflexibility, and no egotistical self-importance. Thus, the sage embodies the principle of wuwei (non-action), achieving everything by not forcing anything. The people revere the sage as an infant relies on a loving mother, while the sage cherishes them with the same nurturing care.

Next, it discusses the Dao of life and death. Human existence can be divided into three states: those who live naturally make up three-tenths, those who die naturally make up another three-tenths, and the remaining three-tenths are those who, by clinging too desperately to life, hasten their own demise. Those truly skilled in nourishing life walk the land without encountering rhinos or tigers and enter battlefields without suffering wounds from weapons—because they never place themselves in danger.

The principle of life and death is explained thus: birth inevitably leads to death—this is the natural order. Those who understand this accept the ordinary course of things, while those who defy it fall into peril. Among ten people, only three grasp the way of survival without violating nature; likewise, only three comprehend the way of death without resisting it. Excessive fear of death brings the opposite result, because striving too hard to live violates the natural law. Those truly adept at nurturing life understand the normalcy of birth and death, holding to the Dao and De (Virtue) without greed for life, content with fate and unafraid of death. Neither life nor death can unsettle their resolve; neither hardship nor danger can shake their integrity. Thus, even when facing wild beasts, they remain unshaken.

On the battlefield, one faces swords without fear; in dire straits, one remains as composed as in ordinary times. How is this possible? Because if you harbor harmful intentions toward others, they will harm you in return; if you treat others with sincerity, they will respond with sincerity. Since my heart holds no malice, even rhinos and tigers will not attack me with their horns and claws; since I approach others with genuine sincerity, blades and spears will not harm me. This demonstrates that when the mind holds no fear of death, the peril of death will not appear before you. Confucius said, "The loyal and trustworthy can even traverse fire and water"—this speaks to the same truth.

The Dao (the cosmic origin) generates all things, while De (the manifestation of Dao) nurtures them. Through this, all things take form, and their environment fosters their growth. Thus, all things revere the Dao and cherish De. The honor of the Dao and the importance of De are not bestowed by any external authority—they are simply so by nature. The Dao generates, nurtures, matures, stabilizes, empowers, nourishes, and shelters all things. It creates without possessing, acts without claiming merit, guides without dominating—this is the profoundest De.

All things first come into being, then are nurtured, take shape, and finally fulfill their purpose. What enables their generation is the Dao; what nurtures them is De; what gives them form is concrete existence; and what facilitates their function is circumstance. All things revere the Dao for its generative power and cherish De for its nourishing capacity. Since Dao and De generate and nurture all things, they are naturally revered—why would they need titles to prove their nobility? The Dao is the pure and subtle essence, while De is the wondrous function that transforms all things. The essence can encompass the function, but the function cannot encompass the essence; the Dao can contain De, but De cannot contain the Dao.

To attain the essence of the Dao is called "life"; to embody the breath of De is called "nourishment"; to take form is called "growth"; to develop capability is called "cultivation"; to weigh achievement is called "stability"; to assess function is called "fulfillment"; to maintain harmony is called "nourishing"; and to repair damage is called "protection." This is the Great Dao: it generates all things without possessing them, acts upon them without claiming credit, guides them without dominating—this is the profoundest De.

The "Hun and Po" chapter of the Daodejing speaks of how humans unite with Dao and De, while this chapter explains how Dao and De connect with humanity. Thus, the language is similar, and the principles resonate.

All things in heaven and earth have a beginning, and this beginning is the mother of all things. Once you recognize the mother (the Dao), you can understand her children (all things); and once you understand the children (all things), you must still hold fast to the mother (the Dao), so that you may remain free from danger throughout life. All things under heaven have their origin, and this origin is "non-being" (the emptiness of the Dao).

All things in the world have their origin, and the fundamental source that creates all things is the Dao (the Way). Here two concepts are introduced: "the nameless" and "the named." The nameless represents the primordial state of heaven, earth, and all things, while the named is the mother of all manifested existence. The nameless and the named actually embody the essence and function of the Dao—function arises from essence, so the nameless is also the source of the named. This is akin to the principle that "the Dao gives birth to the One (Yi)." The One is the product of the Dao, while the Dao is the mother of the One. The Dao refers to the true, subtle essence, while the One refers to the wondrous function that manifests all things.

Understanding the essence allows one to grasp its function, and mastering the function enables a return to the essence. When essence and function merge into one, one can naturally respond to infinite changes, reaching the state of governing through Wuwei (non-action). In this way, one remains unharmed throughout life.

The scripture states: "Block the openings of desire (referring to sensory cravings) and close the gates of reckless action (referring to forced striving), and one will remain untroubled for life. Conversely, indulging in desires and acting recklessly will lead to a lifetime beyond remedy." To perceive subtle omens is called wisdom; to maintain a gentle and yielding stance is called strength. Utilizing the light of wisdom and ultimately returning to inner clarity—without bringing calamity upon oneself—this is following the eternal Dao.

The commentary explains: The "openings" (such as the mouth and nose) are the passages through which desires arise, while the "gates" (referring to actions) are the pathways of all striving. When one regulates emotions with their innate nature, the source of desire is blocked; when one governs actions with principle, the gate of reckless striving is closed. Only then can one achieve the state of Wuwei, where nothing is left undone, and remain untroubled for life. If the source of desire is left unblocked, greed will flourish; if the gate of action is left open, reckless striving will grow. In this way, both body and mind will be exhausted, and one will be beyond remedy for life.

To understand the method of blocking desires and closing the gates of reckless action is to perceive the subtle and know the profound. To restrain the impulses of desire and dissolve the disturbances of action is to maintain gentleness and yielding. Remaining gentle and yielding ensures one is unharmed by external things—this is true strength. To perceive the subtle and know the profound ensures one is not deluded by affairs—this is true wisdom. Inner clarity is the essence, while outer wisdom is the function. Returning to inner principle after handling external matters is to bring function back to essence. In this way, one aligns with the Dao, applying the principle of gentleness and yielding, free from greed, and thus acts in the world without being harmed by external things. If desires are not purified and one acts forcefully, the complexity of affairs will injure one's nature—this is self-inflicted calamity. Therefore, to act by perceiving the subtle and maintaining gentleness is to secretly apply the true meaning of the eternal Dao.

Laozi here expounds principles for governing a state and cultivating the self. He observes: When I gained some understanding of the Dao's true essence, my greatest fear was seeing my actions deviate from the proper path. The Dao is naturally broad and level, yet people persistently seek shortcuts. While palaces are built in splendor, fields lie fallow; granaries stand empty while officials don fine robes, gird sharp swords, feast daily, and hoard wealth—such ostentation is the boasting of thieves, utterly contrary to the true Dao!

Laozi further explains: The Dao resembles a great thoroughfare—smooth and easily traveled. Yet worldly people crave shortcuts and consequently lose their way. Therefore, the sage fears most leading people astray through misguided methods, causing them to deviate from the Dao. A nation's condition reveals its governance: the more extravagant its palaces, the more its ruler indulges in pleasure; the more barren its fields, the heavier its corvée labor disrupting farming seasons; the emptier its granaries, the more it prioritizes commerce over agriculture; the more ornate its garments, the more women are forced to produce luxuries; the greater the number of sword-bearers, the more it values militarism; the more lavish its banquets, the deeper its ruler sinks into gluttony; the more wealth accumulates, the more it exploits the people. All these constitute secretly draining the people's strength for vain display—what we call "thieves' boasting" (dao kua)—and represent governance utterly divorced from the Dao.

The subsequent passage about "good builders" conveys: What is truly well-established cannot be uprooted; what is firmly held cannot be lost. Cultivate yourself with Dao and De (Virtue), and your virtue becomes genuine; govern your household with them, and virtue abounds; guide your village with them, and virtue endures; rule your state with them, and virtue flourishes; order the world with them, and virtue becomes universal. Therefore observe others through yourself, observe other households through your own, observe other villages through your hometown, and observe other states through your own country.

Observing a nation requires viewing the world from the perspective of the world itself—how do I understand the state of the world? It is precisely through this method.

Those skilled at establishing nations use the Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) to solidify the foundation of the state, just as a great tree with deep roots cannot be shaken. Those adept at uniting the people use De (the innate goodness of natural virtue) to transform them, ensuring they remain cohesive even without external constraints. In this way, descendants can enjoy lasting blessings, and the ancestral sacrifices will never be interrupted.

Therefore:

Cultivate the self with the Dao, and virtue will be pure;

Govern the family with the Dao, and virtue will flourish;

Guide the village with the Dao, and virtue will endure;

Rule the nation with the Dao, and virtue will expand;

Pacify the world with the Dao, and virtue will become universal.

Through:

Reflecting on oneself with the Dao of self-cultivation, aligning body and mind with the Dao ensures pure virtue;

Reflecting on family with the Dao of household harmony, fostering kinship ensures abundant virtue;

Reflecting on the community with the Dao of village governance, mutual trust among friends ensures enduring virtue;

Reflecting on the nation with the Dao of state governance, ensuring the people's well-being ensures flourishing virtue;

Reflecting on the world with the Dao of universal peace, eliminating desires ensures universal virtue.

How do I understand the principles governing the world, the nation, and even the body and mind? It is precisely through this method of reflection. The Yijing states, "Observing one's own life allows one to understand the people"—this is its meaning.

Those deeply rooted in the Dao and De are like infants:

Poisonous insects do not sting them, fierce beasts do not attack them, and birds of prey do not seize them.

Though their bones and sinews are weak, their fists are tightly clenched;

Though ignorant of the affairs of men and women, their essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi) are naturally abundant;

Though they cry all day, their voices never grow hoarse—

This is the manifestation of pure essence and abundant harmony.

Understanding harmony is called "constancy" (the eternal law);

Recognizing this law is called "illumination" (wisdom).

Excessive pursuit of pleasure invites misfortune;

Forcibly driving the vital energy (Qi) is called reckless strength.

All things decline after reaching their peak;

Forcing what is contrary to the Dao leads to premature demise.

Those deeply rooted in the Dao and De possess simple natures and subdued desires, pure like infants. Infants harbor no intent to harm external things, and thus external things do not harm them—hence poisonous insects and fierce beasts do not attack them. Though their bodies are weak, their inner essence is full; though ignorant of desire, their vitality is strong; though they cry incessantly, their voices remain unbroken—all because their essence is concentrated and harmony is ever-present.

This passage describes the state of those who have attained the Dao, having reached a transcendent level completely different from ordinary people. Understanding how to emulate the pure and gentle state of an infant is the method to maintain eternal De (Virtue); comprehending that gentleness is constant virtue and applying it effortlessly is the manifestation of clear-mindedness.

Life follows the constant principles of heaven and earth, and aligning with these principles brings the greatest blessings. Excessive pursuit of pleasure and greedy accumulation of fortune instead violate natural laws and invite calamity. Thus, deliberately seeking longevity may bring misfortune. The will can influence Qi (vital energy), and Qi can also influence the will. When the mind harnesses Qi, strong Qi leads to strong mental power. But when things reach their peak, they begin to decline, and an overly rigid will turns violent. The Dao takes softness and gentleness as its foundation, so forceful and aggressive states all contradict the Dao. Understanding this principle, one should stop such tendencies promptly.

The Book of Changes states, "Returning before going too far astray prevents great mistakes"—this is precisely the meaning. True wisdom does not indulge in empty talk, and those who love to speak often lack genuine understanding. One should block the openings of desire, close the gates of external seeking, smooth out sharp edges, resolve conflicts, temper brilliance, and blend with the mundane world—this achieves the state of "mysterious unity" (the profound harmony with the Dao). In this state, one neither draws particularly close to anyone nor distances themselves; they are neither tempted by gain nor fearful of harm; they neither consider themselves superior nor allow others to belittle them. Thus, they become the most revered in the world.

Those who cultivate the Dao comprehend with their hearts rather than argue with words, while those who merely debate principles understand rhetoric but neglect inner cultivation. Therefore, a true person should abandon clever speech and choose inner awakening. Block the source of desire, close the door to reckless action, smooth worldly sharpness, and dissolve interpersonal disputes. Above, they temper their brilliance without showing off; below, they blend with the world without losing themselves—this is the subtle and all-encompassing state of unity with all things. In interacting with the Dao, they do not flatter, so they do not grow overly close to anyone; in dealing with worldly matters, they do not disdain, so they do not distance themselves either. Detached and desireless, they are not tempted by gain; humble and non-confrontational, they fear no harm. Holding high positions without arrogance, they are not artificially revered; in lowly stations without losing dignity, they are not belittled. This nobility arises naturally from virtue, not granted by others, making it the most precious state in the world.

Govern the state with upright principles, command armies with ingenious strategies, and win the world through Wuwei (non-action). How do we know this is so? Observe reality: the more prohibitions in the world, the poorer the people; the more weapons among the populace, the greater the chaos in the nation.

This passage primarily expounds Laozi's political philosophy, with its core being the concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)."

When a state excessively relies on harsh laws and punishments (sharp instruments), society instead becomes more chaotic; when the people become overly clever and crafty, all manner of heretical paths proliferate endlessly; the more numerous the laws and decrees, the more thieves and bandits multiply. Therefore, the sage says: When rulers refrain from forceful interference (Wuwei), the people naturally become cultivated; when they avoid harassing the populace (non-interference), the people naturally prosper; maintaining tranquility leads to upright customs; absence of greed fosters natural simplicity in the people.

The true way of governance lies in this: when roles and responsibilities are properly defined, disorder cannot arise—this is the foundation of statecraft. The art of warfare lies in achieving victory through unexpected maneuvers. Yet these two methods can only address temporary troubles, not the root of lasting peace. To achieve true and enduring stability, the key lies in winning the hearts of the people. And the best way to win their hearts is through "non-action"—not harassing the populace.

Why is this so? Because when rulers meddle excessively (creating affairs), they establish all manner of taboos and regulations, preventing the people from working peacefully, which leads to increasing poverty. When the people have too many desires, they create various tools and objects, making the state unstable and society more chaotic. When people use cunning to guard against deceit, the deceitful become even more deceptive; when harsh laws are used to prevent crime, criminal methods become even more cunning. These are results of not solving problems at their root, merely blocking without疏导 (dredging channels).

Laozi quotes the words of ancient sages (possibly from the legendary Sanfen texts) to prove this principle: "When I refrain from reckless action, the people develop naturally; when I avoid interference, the people prosper of themselves; when I maintain tranquility, the people preserve their true nature; when I am free from greed, the people remain simple." If rulers are meddlesome and full of desires yet expect the people to be prosperous and long-lived, this can never be achieved.

(Note: "Sanfen" refers to the legendary texts of the Three Sovereigns of antiquity; "Laozi" served as the Zhou dynasty's Archivist, overseeing state records, hence his familiarity with ancient texts)

When a ruler possessing the Dao governs a nation with tolerant and inclusive policies (described as "mengmeng" in the original), the people live in peace and prosperity, preserving their simple and honest nature. Conversely, a ruler lacking virtue who employs harsh and meticulous governance ("chacha") causes the people to lose their livelihoods and innate goodness, ultimately leading to social decline.

People often mistake lenient governance for lazy administration, yet it truly benefits the populace; they frequently regard strict policies as capable governance, while in reality, the people suffer greatly. Just as people despise misfortune without realizing blessings may be hidden within calamity, or cherish good fortune unaware that disaster lurks within prosperity. Misfortune and fortune are interdependent, their ultimate transformations impossible to predict.

The path of true governance lies in lenient policies that preserve the people's natural simplicity, just as the supreme truth teaches that blessings hide within misfortune. Yet humanity remains deeply deluded—though knowing the correct path, they refuse to follow it, instead straying into deviant ways; though hearing wise words, they refuse to believe, ultimately bringing about calamity. This is what causes the sages to lament.

Therefore, the sage embraces magnanimity as virtue without harming others, upholds integrity as principle without being harsh, maintains uprightness as fundamental nature without becoming unrestrained, and employs the light of nature without ostentation. Can this seemingly "mengmeng" way of governance—so vast and indistinct—possibly be compared to those "chacha" methods of rigid scrutiny?

In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing surpasses the principle of "restraint" (frugality and moderation). What we call "restraint" represents the ultimate simplicity and economy. Handling affairs with plainness and following the Dao with unadorned sincerity—when one serves Heaven with such genuineness, Heaven bestows blessings. This embodies the truth that "sincerity leads to manifestation." When governing the people with such simplicity, they become prosperous and long-lived, illustrating the principle that "restraint leads to abundance."

Only by steadfastly preserving one's innate simplicity can one swiftly return to the virtue of pristine purity—this is the meaning of "early return" (returning to the original state promptly). "Early return" means shedding artificial embellishments to reclaim one's true nature, transforming superficiality into profound sincerity. This is called "accumulating profound virtue." With the accumulation of profound virtue, one becomes capable in all endeavors; being capable in all endeavors leads to the state of non-action (Wuwei), which is unfathomable; being unfathomable ensures a life free from peril, and thus one can sustain a nation. "Restraint" is the foundation for governing the people and serving Heaven, hence it is called the "mother of the state" (the root of governance). By holding fast to this foundation, the Dao of governance endures, and the virtue of governance persists. Taking this as the nation's foundation is like a tree with deep roots that cannot be shaken; taking this as the nation's lifeline ensures long-lasting prosperity without premature decline, enabling continuous observation of worldly affairs without confusion.

Governing a large state is like cooking small fish. When the Dao is used to govern the world, even spirits and deities do not manifest supernatural powers. It is not that spirits and deities lack such powers, but that their manifestations do not harm people; not only do spirits and deities refrain from harming people, but the sage also refrains from harming them. When neither side causes harm, their virtues merge and harmonize.

Governing a large state is like cooking small fish—while adjusting the heat is necessary, the key lies in not stirring excessively. Stir too much, and the fish will break apart, its flesh dissolving in the pot. So too in governing the world with the Dao: though policies and teachings must be harmonized, the essential principle is not to interfere excessively. Too much interference injures the people, and injured people lead to a disordered state. Thus, the sage's method of governing the world lies precisely in not harming others. Even spirits and deities are moved by the sage's virtue and dare not harm the people.

This passage expounds on the sage's principles for governing the world and the wisdom of interactions between great and small states.

It first explains that when sages govern through the Dao (the Way), even ghosts and spirits refrain from causing harm. Here, ghosts and spirits metaphorically represent hidden malevolent forces. Sages possess the De (Virtue/Power) that does no harm to all beings, thus even supernatural entities become transformed and cease to injure. This virtue originates from the sage and ultimately creates harmony between humans and spirits where neither harms the other—this is the state called "where Virtue meets and returns together."

The text then discusses the proper relationship between great and small states. A great nation should maintain humility like the lower reaches of rivers, for all things under heaven flow downward. The feminine (represented by the female) often overcomes the masculine through quietude precisely because it maintains humble receptivity. Therefore:

• When a great state humbles itself before smaller states, it naturally gains their allegiance
• When small states approach great powers with humility, they gain acceptance

Great states seek to embrace smaller ones, while small states desire the protection of greater powers—both achieve their respective needs. However, the scripture particularly emphasizes that the mightier the nation, the more it should maintain humility. Just as all rivers flow to the sea, the ocean becomes their gathering place precisely by occupying the lowest position. The feminine overcomes the masculine precisely through its gentle, quiet, and humble qualities.

Using gender dynamics as a metaphor for international relations, the text demonstrates how humble softness often overcomes forceful aggression. When great nations employ this "feminine quietude and humble receptivity," they naturally attract smaller states' allegiance; when small states apply the same wisdom, they gain acceptance from greater powers. This mutual humility in interaction embodies the very operation of the Dao's natural law.

This passage expounds the wisdom of interactions between large and small states, as well as the all-encompassing nature of the Dao (the Way).

Regarding state relations: A large state should consciously adopt a humble posture toward smaller states, thereby winning their willing allegiance. Conversely, a small state serves a larger one with deference to ensure its own preservation. This mirrors the feminine principle (pin) of overcoming hardness with softness—when a major power demonstrates humility first, it naturally attracts the world's allegiance.

Concerning the essence of Dao: Dao represents the fundamental mystery (ao) of all things, serving both as a treasure for the virtuous and a refuge for those lacking virtue. While eloquent words may earn respect and good deeds influence others, Dao surpasses all such attainments in value—even the grand ceremonies of imperial coronations or the conferral of the Three Ducal Ministers (highest ancient offices), with their ritual offerings of jade discs and teams of four horses, pale in comparison to quietly contemplating this Dao.

The reason why transmitters of Dao are revered lies in its infinite inclusivity: The virtuous use it for self-cultivation, while those lacking virtue rely on it for self-reformation. If one were to embrace only the virtuous while rejecting the unvirtuous, what purpose would there be in establishing emperors and ministers to educate the people? Rather than hastily seeking talented individuals, it's better to quietly cultivate this Dao.

Since ancient times, people have valued Dao precisely because: It can be attained without deliberate pursuit, and even the guilty may find redemption through it. Dao actually resides close at hand, yet people persistently seek it afar. Here the text particularly emphasizes Dao's egalitarian nature—just as Laozi (Lao shi) advocated boundless compassion, believing no unvirtuous person should be abandoned, which constitutes the fundamental purpose for establishing rulers.

Seeking too far leads to emptiness, thus the pursuit of Dao need not be distant—the key lies in turning inward to observe oneself. If one can return to the origin of body and mind, the Great Dao will naturally be attained. Does this not prove that sincere seekers will surely find it? The reason people often err is precisely because they fail to understand Dao's true essence. Those who genuinely comprehend Dao's substance and master its wondrous functions can resolve conflicts, blunt sharp edges, overcome obstacles, and prevail against formidable opponents, making others incapable of contending with them and external forces unable to harm them. Does this not mean even transgressions can be avoided? Thus ancient texts say: Dao cannot be departed from for a single moment—what can be abandoned is not the true Dao. If it weren't so perfect, how could it be called the world's most precious treasure?

Those who truly attain Dao embody subtle profundity in worldly affairs. Their handling of matters appears active yet follows Wuwei (non-action); their engagement with tasks seems dynamic yet maintains a mindset of non-involvement; their appreciation of phenomena shows preference yet holds to the flavorless authenticity. Though Dao's substance is vast, its essence is supremely simple; though its functions are extensive, their essentials are remarkably concise. The key lies in preserving clarity and stillness, undisturbed by external things. Only thus can one be free from desire; without desire, there is no selfishness. Favor often breeds selfishness, while resentment commonly stems from kindness. Only sages achieve selflessness—being selfless, they bestow no personal favors; without personal favors, no personal resentments arise. Ordinary people differ—harboring selfishness, they become entangled in gratitude and grievance. Facing worldly resentment, sages transform others through De (Virtue/Power); encountering others' ill will, they respond with benevolence. Thus people coexist harmoniously, with no resentment between high and low. This is the true meaning of "repaying resentment with virtue." Ancient texts speak of magnanimous humaneness toward others—this refers to ordinary people. Confucius said: "When virtue fills the world, it attracts no resentment"—how could sages possibly bear resentment toward all things?

Approach difficulties through their easy aspects; accomplish great deeds by starting small. The world's hard tasks necessarily begin with simplicity; its grand undertakings invariably accumulate from details. Therefore sages never covet great achievements yet ultimately accomplish them. Easy promises seldom prove trustworthy; treating matters as overly simple invites greater difficulty. Hence sages always handle challenges with caution, and thus ultimately encounter no true obstacles.

The pivotal beginning is the world's easiest matter, yet when it moves heaven and earth it becomes the hardest; the awakening of utmost sincerity is the world's subtlest phenomenon, yet when fully illuminated it accomplishes the greatest work.

Those who seek to move heaven and earth must first make careful speech their foremost task; those who wish to attain the enduring Dao must take meticulous attention as their foundation. Grasp the pivotal point and hold fast to the root, and one may comprehend the principles governing all under heaven. All great undertakings begin from simple, subtle origins before culminating in difficult, monumental achievements. Thus, the sage never covets grand deeds, yet accomplishes truly great works.

Those who make promises lightly will seldom keep their word. What begins too easily often ends in hardship. Better to bear resentment for withholding promises than to be burdened by obligations rashly sworn; better to do more while speaking less than to speak much while accomplishing little. Even sages find these principles difficult to fully embody—how much more so ordinary people? Precisely because one refrains from careless promises at the outset, one ultimately avoids breaking trust—this is an inevitable principle. How could we not strive to practice it?

Situations are easiest to maintain when stable; solutions are simplest to devise before signs appear. Fragile things break easily; subtle things disperse readily. Prepare before events occur; govern before disorder takes shape. The giant tree embraced by arms grows from a tender sprout; the nine-tiered tower rises from baskets of earth; the thousand-mile journey begins beneath one's feet.

The world is easily governed in times of peace, but nearly impossible to save when crisis strikes. Evil intentions are easily eliminated before manifesting, but difficult to uproot once formed. Calamity is simple to nip in the bud, yet hard to destroy when grown into branches. Regret dissipates easily when faint, but becomes inescapable when fully apparent. Therefore, the sage prevents problems before they arise and orders chaos before it forms—thus achieving governance through wuwei (non-action). By keeping people free of excessive knowledge and desire, perceiving omens in advance, and treating subtle changes with vigilance, the populace follows the Dao unconsciously in their daily lives.

Without early prevention and timely governance, it's like uprooting a sapling while still tender—once grown to arm-span width, it becomes unchoppable. Or toppling a tower when just begun—once raised nine layers high, it proves indestructible. Or turning back at the journey's start—once traveled a thousand miles, return becomes impossible. The Yijing states: "Treading frost means solid ice will come"—this speaks precisely of such principles.

Forceful action leads instead to failure; stubborn grasping results in loss. Thus, the sage follows nature's course without reckless interference, and so does not fail; refrains from compulsive control, and so does not lose. Ordinary people often fail when success seems imminent. If one could maintain the same caution at the end as at the beginning, no endeavor would ever be ruined.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The essential meaning is:

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) understands: by not clinging, one does not lose. Ordinary people often fail when their endeavors are near completion because they cannot maintain the same caution they had at the beginning until the very end. What the sage pursues is what ordinary people do not desire (referring to tranquility and non-action), and does not value rare treasures. The sage studies what others neglect (the way of non-action), rectifies the faults of the multitude, and follows the natural course of all things without arbitrary interference.

The sage's way of governance lies in recognizing that position and power are sacred—they cannot be seized by force, for such attempts are doomed to fail. The true treasure (the Dao) cannot be forcibly possessed, or it will surely be lost. Therefore, when governing the world, the sage delights in promoting the worthy rather than monopolizing power, and thus avoids failure. When holding the highest position, the sage achieves merit and then withdraws without claiming credit, and thus does not suffer loss.

The flaw of ordinary people is their constant desire to act—the more they interfere, the more likely they are to fail. They often fall short at the brink of success precisely because they lacked sufficient caution at the outset. If one reduces selfish desires, affairs become fewer; with fewer affairs, failure becomes less likely. Maintaining consistent caution from beginning to end ensures proper initiation and completion.

The difference between sages and ordinary people is this: ordinary people covet wealth and sensual pleasures, while despising tranquility; sages, however, pursue tranquility. Ordinary people do not study the way of non-action, while sages devote themselves to it. The purpose of this is to assist the natural development of all things—hence the sage dares not act arbitrarily or force outcomes, and thus avoids failure and loss.

In ancient times, those skilled in practicing the Dao did not seek to make the people clever, but to preserve their simplicity. The people are difficult to govern precisely because of their excessive cunning. Governing through cleverness is the calamity of the state; governing without cleverness is its blessing. Understanding this distinction means grasping the principle, and constantly abiding by this principle is called "profound virtue (Xuande)." Profound virtue is deep and mysterious, running counter to worldly ways, yet ultimately leads to the greatest harmony.

This passage discusses the wisdom of governing a state. Laozi believed that the reason people are difficult to govern is precisely because they are too clever. If rulers employ various means to further develop the people's intelligence and talents, it will only make them more cunning and deceitful. Therefore, the best approach is to block their shortcuts for opportunistic behavior, close off the channels that stir desires, and keep the people in a state of simple, guileless innocence.

If rulers persistently stimulate the people's cleverness, deceitful behavior will only multiply. At this point, even if more and more laws are issued to prohibit such behavior, the result will be counterproductive—the more laws there are, the more rampant deceit becomes. In the end, even punishments will fail to intimidate them, and executions will no longer subdue their hearts, leading to great chaos in the world. Thus, excessive cleverness among the people is a calamity for the state.

Conversely, if the people can remain simple and unpretentious, not pursuing clever schemes and stratagems, deceit and hypocrisy will not arise, and turmoil will not occur. When the people live and work in peace and contentment, this is the true blessing of a nation. A ruler who understands this principle should consciously restrain their own intelligence and talents, using sincerity and simplicity to stabilize the hearts of the people. This is the timeless principle of governance since ancient times.

Just as rivers and seas become the kings of all streams because they excel at staying low, a sage who wishes to stand above others must be humble in speech. To lead the multitude, they must place themselves behind others. Precisely because they do not contend with anyone, no one in the world can contend with them.

The Book of Changes states: The Dao of Heaven diminishes the full and benefits the modest; the Dao of Earth overturns the overflowing and circulates the humble; spirits and deities harm the arrogant and bless the reverent; the Dao of Humanity dislikes the self-satisfied and favors the humble. The virtue of humility lies in maintaining a low profile. Thus, rivers and seas become the destination of all streams because they stay low, and sages are revered by all under heaven because of their humility. Did the sage deliberately seek to be superior? It is simply that the people of the world sincerely support them. Therefore, when sages occupy high positions, how could it be through contention?

Laozi said: Because you do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with you. Because you do not boast of your merits, no one in the world can dispute your achievements. This is the realm of the Dao.

People say my Dao is too vast, seeming unlike concrete things. Precisely because the Dao is so vast, it appears unlike specific objects. If it resembled concrete things, it would have long become insignificant. I hold three treasures that I always cherish: first is compassion, second is frugality, third is daring not to put myself ahead of others. Through compassion one becomes courageous, through frugality one becomes expansive, through not striving to be first one becomes the elder of all things.

Yet people today abandon compassion to pursue martial prowess, discard frugality to seek extravagance, and forsake yielding to compete for precedence—this leads only to ruin. Using compassion in warfare brings victory; using it in defense brings stability. When heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them with compassion.

The world considers Laozi's teachings on Dao and De (Virtue) too grand and abstract, unlike the words of clever men. Laozi himself believed that precisely because the Dao is supremely vast, it appears unlike concrete things. If people thought it resembled specific objects, it would long have seemed insignificant—how then could it be called vast? Like the ancient Ning Wuzi, whose wisdom others could match, but whose "folly" no one could equal—this resembles the Dao.

Though the Dao appears unlike concrete things, it offers three treasures to uphold: compassion, frugality, and daring not to take precedence. One who treats all things with compassion will naturally be brave in aiding others—this is "the benevolent are invariably courageous." One who lives frugally can generously provide for many—this is "economizing while loving the people." One who does not strive to be first may become the leader of multitudes—this is the auspicious state described in the Yi Jing (Book of Changes) as "a host of dragons without a head."

What today's world calls "clever men" do the opposite: abandoning compassion to flaunt martial prowess is like blindly wading into deep waters until submerged; discarding frugality for extravagance inevitably wastes resources and harms people; refusing to yield while competing for precedence leads ultimately to rebellion. These actions all violate the Dao and bring only self-destruction. Among the three treasures, compassion is most precious. Having compassion for all things means caring for and protecting them. Those who love others are always loved in return; those who worry for others are always worried for in return. When people worry for you, they will aid you. Thus leading an army with compassion makes its ranks orderly; when people cherish you, they will defend you unto death.

When Heaven wishes to save a person, it will surely endow them with a compassionate heart. With compassion, one's battle formations become orderly and defenses impregnable—thus compassion is the finest protection. As the Book of Changes states: "Those whom Heaven assists are fortunate in all things without exception"—this expresses the principle. Conversely, when Heaven abandons a person, it will surely make them accumulate vicious traits. With viciousness, one's formations become chaotic and defenses inevitably collapse—thus viciousness is the root of defeat. As the ancient saying goes: "Heaven causes the wicked to accumulate evil deeds until, having reached their limit, they perish"—this conveys the meaning.

The truly skilled commander does not rely on brute force, the adept warrior is not easily provoked, the master of victory does not contend with others, and the wise leader of men remains humble. This is the virtue of non-contention (Wuwei), this is the method of harnessing others' strength, this is the supreme state of accord with the Dao. Specifically: The skilled commander treats soldiers with compassion and never initiates conflict, thus never appearing tyrannical; the adept warrior responds rather than provokes, thus remaining unangered; the master of victory seeks no petty gains but triumphs through adapting to circumstances, thus never acting rashly; the wise leader maintains humility, treating subordinates as equals, thus winning their hearts. Leading troops this way brings victory through harmony—this is the "virtue of non-contention"; directing people thus makes them willingly face adversity together—this is "harnessing others' strength." These practices perfectly align with the Dao of nature, requiring no clever tricks—they may be said to unite with the highest principles of antiquity.

Regarding the Dao of warfare, the ancients said: "I dare not take the offensive but prefer to defend; dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot." This is like marching without apparent formation, raising arms as if having none, holding weapons as if unarmed, facing enemies as if they weren't there. The greatest calamity is underestimating opponents—doing so nearly costs us what we treasure most. Thus when armies clash, the side with compassion often prevails. Laozi lamented how his contemporaries treated killing as warfare's essence, thus quoting ancient military texts to clarify that arms should only be used as last resort: Taking the offensive seeks to initiate war, while defending responds to necessity. Advancing slightly may lead to slaughter, while retreating extensively preserves life—just as reckless courage invites death while courageous restraint ensures survival. Therefore, commanders must act according to circumstances: appearing formless yet concealing strategy, seemingly unarmed yet ever ready to strike.

This scripture explores the relationship between "compassion" and "warfare," as well as the way of the sage in navigating worldly affairs.

Regarding the art of warfare, the scripture states: Those truly skilled in commanding troops appear as if they have no army; generals adept at confronting enemies seem as if they face no adversaries. This is because they always hold compassion as their fundamental principle, never delighting in slaughter. When people are moved by such compassion, they willingly serve, just as one instinctively shields their head or children rush to save their father, ultimately achieving an invincible state in the world.

However, the scripture particularly emphasizes: Although victory in war may bring the reputation of invincibility, warfare inevitably causes massive casualties. Large-scale killing is the greatest calamity, and such actions nearly equate to losing the most precious quality of "compassion." Even if one attains invincibility through unavoidable warfare, it is not the original intention—it can only be said that one has "nearly lost" the essence of compassion.

The scripture further elaborates: When the outcome remains undecided, the side that cherishes its people will inevitably prevail. A ruler who loves the people mourns their sacrifices, and when the people sense this grief, they in turn empathize with their ruler's plight, uniting their efforts to secure victory. This process—beginning with love for the people and culminating in victory through shared sorrow—embodies the principle that "those who grieve shall prevail."

The second part discusses the wisdom of the sage. The scripture says: The truths I speak are actually easy to understand and simple to practice, yet people, blinded by desires, fail to act accordingly. True principles always have their foundational basis ("words have their origin, affairs have their master"). Precisely because people cannot comprehend this profound wisdom, those who truly understand me are few. The sage is like one wearing coarse garments yet carrying precious jade—outwardly plain but inwardly treasured.

Finally, it emphasizes the highest realm of understanding: To know that one does not know is supreme wisdom; to not know yet believe one knows—this is the problem. Sages are free from such cognitive flaws precisely because they regard "believing one knows" as an ailment to be vigilant against. Those who truly comprehend the nature of things appear as if they know nothing—this represents the highest level of wisdom.

When a person considers themselves clever and omniscient, this precisely reveals their cognitive flaws. Only by recognizing one's own perceptual limitations can one truly avoid being trapped by them. The reason sages are not misled by cognitive biases is precisely because they are acutely aware of and correct these deviations.

When the common people cease to revere authority, greater calamities will befall them. Do not disturb their peaceful dwellings, nor exploit their means of survival. Only by not oppressing the people will one avoid being rejected by them. Therefore, sages always maintain self-awareness without self-display, cherish life without self-importance, thus able to discard superficiality and choose what is fundamental.

The Yijing states: Ordinary people won't exert effort without benefit, nor remain vigilant without threat. Taking minor punishments as warnings is actually a blessing for common folk. Thus, wearing foot shackles that only injure toes isn't yet a major fault. But if minor faults are ignored until misdeeds accumulate beyond concealment and sins grow beyond redemption, it becomes as perilous as wearing a cangue that injures the ears. This illustrates why "when people lose reverence for authority, great misfortune follows." The common people's failure to reform despite lacking reverence stems from flaws in their hearts; calamities becoming irredeemable means their bodies will suffer. Sages differ—they recognize when their hearts need correction and, cherishing their bodies, fear disasters, thus preserving both life and form. The heart is the abode of spirit (Shen)—do not defile it with base desires, and the spirit won't be disturbed; spirit is the foundation of bodily existence—do not exhaust it with trivial affairs, and life won't be harmed. Only when humans don't reject their spirit will the spirit not reject them. "Knowing when the heart has faults and removing them" means not flaunting oneself while nurturing life; "loving one's body and fearing misfortune" means not esteeming oneself while preserving form. To advocate body-preservation methods while flaunting cultivation techniques is to teach people wrong ways of nurturing life and unreasonable means of preserving form. Therefore, discard superficial displays and haughty postures, choosing instead this attitude of self-awareness and self-love.

Reckless courage invites death, while courage in restraint preserves life. Of these two types of courage, one brings benefit, the other harm. What Heaven detests—who can fathom its reasons? Even sages find this difficult to grasp. The Dao of Heaven (natural law) is characterized thus: it contends not yet excels in prevailing; speaks not yet excels in response; summons not yet things come naturally; is unhurried yet excels in strategy. Heaven's net is vast—seemingly sparse, yet nothing slips through.

Courage in decisiveness belongs to the way of death; courage in hesitation is the way of life. Heaven and Earth don't remain forever overbearing—how much less should humans? Thus sages understand that excessive strength leads instead to failure; knowing when to stop avoids predicaments.

Here we examine two manifestations of "Dao" (the Way) that both bear the name "courage" yet function completely differently. The courage to act violently harms life, while the courage to appear weak nourishes all beings. Does not Heaven despise precisely those who rely on brute strength? The violent harm others, while the aggressive destroy themselves. Who can comprehend why the Heavenly Dao abhors forcefulness, and instead understands how to navigate the world through gentle humility?

The Book of Documents states "the truly wise conquer through yielding," revealing Heaven's fundamental preference for softness. How do we know this? Heaven never competes with the myriad things, yet they naturally submit—this is the highest form of victory. Without verbal instruction, people naturally trust—this is the wisest response. Without interfering with seasonal changes, the four seasons naturally cycle—this is the most perfect operation. Though possessing these three virtues, Heaven never imposes them upon creation. The Heavenly Dao reveals fortune and misfortune through celestial signs, foreseeing events before they occur, blessing the good and punishing evil with perfect precision—this is true foresight. Thus the net of Heaven may seem wide-meshed, yet none who transgress virtue escape its judgment. As the Book of Documents says, "Good deeds bring blessings, evil deeds bring calamity"—this expresses the principle.

When common people do not even fear death, what use are capital punishments to deter them? If people could truly be made to fear death, then executing wrongdoers would prevent further crimes—but who would dare break the law then? Punishments should be administered solely by specialized judicial bodies. When amateurs presume to act as carpenters wielding axes, they invariably injure their own hands.

Worldly people often become blinded by profit, pursuing gain even at the risk of death. What purpose do harsh laws serve when rulers attempt to frighten people with the threat of execution? Even if people could be made to fear death, would executing offenders truly prevent further crimes? Clearly, the people's fearlessness in the face of death is evident. Since severe punishments cannot awe the masses, penal authority must reside with the most appropriate institutions. Therefore, sages emulate Heaven's majesty by establishing the Five Punishments (tattooing, nose-cutting, foot-amputation, castration, and death), administered by specialized bodies according to proper procedure. The Book of Documents states, "Heaven punishes offenders through the Five Punishments, each applied fittingly." The ultimate purpose of punishment is to render punishment unnecessary—thus it must be used judiciously. When rulers bypass judicial institutions to arbitrarily execute based on personal whims...

This passage elucidates principles of governing a state and cultivating the self. It's like having an unskilled laborer replace a master carpenter in felling trees—not only will the work be poorly done, but the worker may easily injure his own fingers. Guan Zhong (a renowned statesman of the Spring and Autumn period) once said: The ruler should focus on the grand direction of governance, not overstep his role by micromanaging affairs. Just as one cannot run for a horse or fly for a bird, each should fulfill their proper function—this is the true Dao (the Way).

When people starve, it's because the upper classes impose excessive taxes; when people become difficult to govern, it's because the rulers interfere too much; when people recklessly risk their lives, it's because living pressures are too great. Truly wise individuals don't excessively pursue material comforts, yet they live better lives.

In ancient times, the "public field system" collected only one-tenth as tax—this was a reasonable standard. When today's rulers impose exorbitant levies, how can the people avoid hunger? Ancient rulers practiced Wuwei (non-action), and the people lived in peace; modern rulers harbor too many desires, and the people consequently know no peace. Human life follows its natural patterns—excessive pursuit of pleasure invites disaster. Those who don't deliberately chase after luxuries preserve their lives intact, proving themselves far wiser than pleasure-seekers.

All living things—humans included—are soft when alive but stiffen after death. Thus rigidity signals death's approach, while pliancy indicates vitality. An overwhelmingly strong army invites encirclement; an overly rigid tree trunk attracts clinging branches. The strongest parts of a tree always grow below, while the tender twigs flourish above. If even trees follow this principle, how much more should humans? How much more should nations?

The movement of the Dao follows principles akin to drawing a bow to shoot an arrow. When the bowstring is raised too high, lower it; when pulled too low, raise it. Reduce what is excessive and supplement what is lacking. The way of Heaven diminishes the surplus to compensate for the deficit, yet human laws do the opposite—depriving the insufficient to serve those who have abundance. Who can take their surplus and offer it to the world? Only those who have attained the Dao can do so. Thus, the sage acts without claiming credit, achieves without dwelling on accomplishments, for they have no desire to flaunt their worthiness.

The Yijing states: "The movement of Heaven manifests as the alternation of Yin and Yang." Yang Qi ascends, while Yin Qi descends. When Yang reaches its peak, it turns downward; when Yin reaches its nadir, it rises again. This ebb and flow mirrors the principle of adjusting a bow’s draw—high or low, as needed. Heaven balances through subtraction and addition, such as inserting intercalary months to correct discrepancies in the lunar and solar cycles. Yet human society operates contrarily, exploiting the poor to enrich the powerful. Who can emulate the Dao, using their surplus to remedy the world’s deficiencies? Only those who cultivate the Way. The Yijing’s "Hexagram of Diminishment" teaches that draining the lower to benefit the upper is true loss, while diminishing the upper to nourish the lower is genuine gain, for the foundation lies below. Thus, the sage acts without arrogance, accomplishes without dwelling on merit, precisely because they refrain from parading their wisdom. To the world, they may appear ordinary—yet this embodies the profound meaning of "reducing excess to supplement lack."

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses its power to overcome the hard. No other substance can replace this quality of water. The principle that the soft conquers the rigid, the weak overcomes the strong, is known to all under Heaven, yet few put it into practice. Therefore, the sages say: "Only those who endure a nation’s disgrace are fit to be its rulers; only those who bear its calamities deserve to be sovereigns of the world." These seemingly paradoxical words reveal profound truth.

A trickle of water can pierce stone precisely because of its softness—nothing can alter its persistence. Thus, the principle that weakness overcomes strength is clear. Though all under Heaven understand it, few emulate it. Hence, Laozi cites the sages’ teachings as admonition, echoing the ancient wisdom of the Sanfen classics. Those who endure a nation’s humiliation are worthy to govern it; those who shoulder its misfortunes may become lords of all. These words, though counterintuitive, hold ultimate truth—just as mountains and marshes tolerate impurities, a ruler must bear disgrace with fortitude. This is the Way.

This passage discusses two main themes:

The first part addresses how to handle grievances. The scripture states that even when major conflicts are reconciled, minor resentments may linger, which cannot be considered true goodness. The sage (referring to a ruler who has attained the Dao) is like holding the left half of a contract (ancient agreements were split into left and right portions, with the left representing the creditor's copy), yet never forces repayment. Virtuous rulers govern through heart contracts (spiritual agreements), preventing resentment among the people; rulers lacking De (Virtue) focus only on superficial rules, leaving unresolved grievances that breed future troubles. The Dao of Heaven shows no favoritism, yet always supports those who are virtuous.

The second part depicts the ideal governance of a small state. The country is small with few inhabitants. Though the people possess various tools, they never use them for warfare, valuing life too much to travel far or migrate. Though chariots and boats exist, none ride them; though weapons are present, none employ them. People return to the simplicity of knotting ropes to record events, content with plain food and clothing, living peacefully and enjoying unadulterated customs. Neighboring states remain visible to each other, with the sounds of chickens and dogs audible across borders, yet the people never interact until old age or death. This occurs because when governed by those embodying the Dao, the populace remains content in their native land without need for distant alliances or nearby conflicts. All exist in harmony, where even spirits and deities find no deception. With minimal desires, simple fare tastes sweet and humble garments appear beautiful; with light taxation, people dwell securely in contentment, preserving their pristine way of life.

This passage expounds the ideal societal state and way of living advocated by Laozi (Lao-shi).

It first describes a vision of an ideal society: though neighbors live close enough to hear each other's roosters crow and dogs bark, people harbor no greed or excessive demands. Each remains content with their lot, living without interference until old age and death. This state is regarded as the highest form of governance.

Next, it discusses principles for personal conduct: truthful words are often not ornate or pleasing, while beautiful words frequently lack reliability. Truly good people do not rely on clever arguments, and those skilled in debate are not necessarily virtuous. The genuinely wise do not chase broad knowledge, and those with extensive learning may not truly understand. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not hoard possessions—the more they help others, the richer they become; the more they give, the more they gain.

The explanatory section further clarifies: the Dao of Heaven (natural law) operates like the cycle of seasons—spring and summer nourish all things, while autumn and winter bring them to maturity, benefiting all without harm. The sage's way of living follows this natural law, avoiding contention with external things, which is the result of emulating the Dao of Heaven.

The "sage" mentioned here represents the Daoist ideal of one who has attained the Dao. They adhere to the principle of Wuwei (non-action), aligning with nature rather than forcing outcomes, achieving self-fulfillment through benefiting others.