《道德真經傳(二)》

This passage presents Lü Huiqing's commentary on the first chapter of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), elucidating the profound meanings of "Dao" (the Way) and "name."

The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant, unchanging name. "Non-being" is the origin of heaven and earth, while "being" is the mother of all things. Maintaining a state of desirelessness allows one to observe the mysteries of the Dao, while maintaining a state of desire enables one to observe the boundaries of the Dao. These two aspects arise from the same source but have different names—both are called "profound." The profound within the profound is the gateway to all mysteries.

Lü Huiqing explains: All principles in the world that can be spoken of belong to the "Dao," but they change with time and are unreliable, hence they are not the eternal Dao. All names that can be designated are "names," but they vanish as things perish, hence they are not constant names. The myriad things, in all their complexity, ultimately return to their origin. This return is called "stillness," and stillness means returning to one's original destiny—this original destiny is the constant. When one attains the state of constancy through cultivation, the spirit (Shen) becomes concentrated, the physical form dissolves, and both self and objects are forgotten. Only then can one truly understand the ineffability of the Dao and the unnameability of its name.

The eternal Dao cannot be spoken of, which is why it endures without perishing; the eternal name cannot be named, which is why it has never disappeared from ancient times to the present. This state of neither perishing nor disappearing is the "constant Dao." The nameless state is the Dao itself, the origin of heaven, earth, and all things. The primordial state of the cosmos is "non-being," where even the concept of "non-being" does not exist—at this stage, not even "one" can be spoken of. When the concept of "one" emerges, though there is still no concrete form, a name has already appeared. Naming "one" simultaneously gives rise to "two," and the combination of "two" and "one" produces "three"—thus the myriad things are generated.

Understanding the principle of constancy is called "illumination," and attaining "illumination" allows one to perceive all things clearly. Only in the state of constancy can one observe all aspects of the Dao: in desirelessness, one eliminates distractions and observes the mysteries of the Dao flawlessly; in desire, one perceives the boundaries of the growth and transformation of all things. All things return to the Dao without knowing what governs them—this is the vastness of the Dao. It is precisely through the "small" that one sees the mysteries, and through the "great" that one sees the boundaries. These two are identical in essence, differing only in their manifestations.

This passage elucidates the Daoist profound understanding of the essence of things. Though names may differ, their substance remains fundamentally the same. Desire and desirelessness may appear as opposites, yet both originate from the same root. This fundamental existence is called the "Mysterious" (referring to the profound and unfathomable source)—just as black and red seem different yet both belong to color; Yin and Yang appear as opposites but are both part of the Dao (the Way).

The true profundity does not lie in seeking uniformity, but in recognizing unity within diversity. When one attains the state of "the Mysterious within the Mysterious," it becomes clear that though all things differ, they each manifest the wonder of the Dao. This is precisely the "Gate of All Wonders"—the source from which all mysteries arise.

Chapter Two discusses the principle of relativity. When all under heaven recognize beauty, the concept of ugliness emerges; when all recognize goodness, the notion of its opposite appears. Thus, concepts like being and non-being, difficulty and ease, length and shortness, high and low, sound and silence, front and back are all interdependent and mutually transformative. Therefore, the sage handles affairs with the attitude of Wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordless example, allowing all things to develop naturally without interference, creating without possessing, achieving without claiming credit. Precisely because they do not claim credit, their accomplishments endure.

Further explanation: When people become fixated on distinguishing beauty from ugliness or good from evil, they have already strayed from the Dao. From the perspective of the Dao, neither beauty nor goodness, nor their opposites, exist outside the Dao. All things arise from "being," and "being" arises from "non-being"—this is the principle of "mutual generation of being and non-being." Difficult tasks begin with easy ones, and easy tasks contain elements of difficulty—this is "mutual completion of difficulty and ease." The crane's long legs and the duck's short legs become apparent only through comparison—this is "mutual formation of length and shortness." Taking the high as the standard reveals rivers flowing to the sea; taking the low as the standard shows the downward tendency of water—this is "mutual inclination of high and low."

This passage expounds the Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," using natural phenomena as metaphors for statecraft.

Just as all rivers flow to the sea, what is low complements what is high—this demonstrates the mutual dependence of height and depth. When the Yellow Bell (the ancient pitch standard) serves as the tonic note, other pitches harmonize with it; conversely, when other pitches lead, the Yellow Bell adjusts accordingly—this exemplifies musical harmony. The cycle of seasons operates similarly: viewed from autumn and winter, spring and summer come before; viewed from spring and summer, autumn and winter follow—this shows the mutual succession of before and after.

These six phenomena (height/depth, musical tones, before/after) are considered beautiful and good when timely and reasonable, but deemed ugly and bad when untimely. Yet ultimate beauty and goodness transcend such dualities—beauty and ugliness, good and bad are in constant transformation, with no absolute standards.

Thus, the sage understands this principle and handles affairs through the constant Dao (Way), achieving all while appearing inactive; implements teachings through constant names, instructing all while seeming silent. Without clinging to deliberate action, they act all day without strain; without clinging to verbal instruction, they speak continuously without effort. Thus they remain unburdened by distinctions between beauty/ugliness or good/bad.

Reaching this state, one engages with creation without notions of "who acts" or "who creates." Though appearing active, they are truly inactive; though appearing creative, they create nothing. Precisely because they claim no merit, their accomplishments endure.

Chapter 3 ("Not Exalting the Worthy") further explains: By not over-praising the worthy, people won't compete for fame; by not treasuring rare goods, people won't steal; by not displaying temptations, minds won't be confused. The sage's governance method involves: purifying people's hearts, satisfying basic needs, weakening competitive impulses, and strengthening physical health. Keeping people simple-hearted makes even the clever hesitate to act arbitrarily. Practicing governance through non-action, nothing remains ungoverned.

The sage understands the relativity of beauty/ugliness and good/bad, thus remaining unattached to such distinctions. Though possessing the world's highest rank, they simply follow nature without exalting the worthy; though gathering the world's wealth, they use it only to nurture virtue without treasuring rarities. People's conflicts often stem from comparing themselves to the worthy.

This passage expounds on how rulers should govern the people. If those in high positions do not glorify the reputation of worthiness, the people won't compete with each other; if they don't value rare treasures, the people won't resort to theft. As Laozi said: If the ruler harbors no covetous desires himself, even if he rewarded people for stealing, none would do it.

Gentlemen pursue fame while petty men crave material goods. If the ruler can make these objects of desire invisible to the people, their minds won't become disordered. "Not exalting the worthy" doesn't mean abandoning capable people among the populace, nor does "not valuing rare goods" imply leaving precious things discarded on the ground. Rather, it means maintaining inner detachment while outwardly showing no signs of pursuing these things.

The sage's method of governance is this: Purify the people's minds while filling their bellies; weaken their ambitions while strengthening their bodies. The heart houses the spirit (Shen) - when the mind is pure, the spirit flourishes. The kidneys govern willpower, and bones are their extension - by weakening excessive desires, one stabilizes vital essence (Jing) and strengthens the bones. Thus the people maintain a state of simple innocence and quiet contentment. The wise understand that neither fame nor wealth should be glorified by rulers, and therefore won't chase after them. Through this "non-action" (Wuwei) approach, the most effective governance is achieved.

Chapter four discusses the nature of the Dao (the Way): The Dao appears empty yet is inexhaustible in use, so profound it seems the origin of all things. It blunts sharp edges, untangles complications, harmonizes radiance, and merges with the dust of the world - seemingly indistinct yet undeniably present. I know not how it came to be, as if it existed before heaven and earth.

All things contain the two energies of yin and yang, and their harmonious blending creates the state of "chong" (harmonious emptiness). Yin represents emptiness while yang represents fullness. The Dao's essence is this harmonious emptiness, yet its function never wanes. Precisely because of this, we should maintain empty minds and weakened ambitions, preserving a state of no-knowledge and no-desire. The Dao resembles a deep pool that appears as the ancestor of all things, yet no concrete ancestral form can be found. To comprehend this Dao, one must: blunt sharpness, resolve complications, harmonize brilliance, and merge with worldly dust. When thoughts scatter outward, gather them back; when external disturbances arise, dissolve them.

All things in the world are complex yet undisturbed; when sharp edges are blunted, chaos naturally dissolves, allowing one to comprehend the illuminating wisdom of the eternal Dao. This radiance transcends worldly concerns (referring to a state of enlightenment beyond the mundane), yet does not deliberately manifest within the light, thus harmonizing with all things without forced distinctions. The mundane exists within this radiance—being in the world yet not lost to it, one coexists with all things without creating opposition. Only by reaching this state can one perceive the source of the Dao—profound as an unfathomable abyss, clear as undisturbed water, utterly pure.

The so-called "seeming to exist yet not existing" cannot be simplistically defined as emptiness nor affirmed as concrete reality. Regarding these relative concepts of emptiness and fullness, existence and non-existence, the Daoist practitioner holds no attachment—how then could one know their origins? We can only observe the "Celestial Deity" (cosmic primordial force) and the "Sovereign" (the ruler of creation) as they manifest when things come into being. Thus it is said, "Its origin is unknown, as if it existed before the Creator." The moment discriminating thoughts arise—"I know," "this is who"—the Great Dao withdraws into concealment. The true Dao emerges precisely from this state of non-discrimination; it precedes heaven and earth, appearing before the spirits, thereby revealing itself as the source of the world of form (the material realm).

Chapter Five speaks of heaven and earth's impartiality. They treat all things like straw dogs (ancient sacrificial items discarded after rituals, symbolizing non-attachment), and the sage likewise treats the people. Is not the space between heaven and earth like a bellows? Empty within yet never collapsing—the more it is worked, the more energy it produces. Rather than excessive speech leading to exhaustion, it is better to maintain the Middle Way (a state of balanced stillness).

The commentary explains: The Great Dao existed obscurely before the Creator, its origin unknown to any. How then could one who comprehends the Dao describe it with human concepts like "benevolence"? What we call benevolence is merely a product of the human mind. Heaven and earth embody the Dao, needing no deliberate benevolence—thus they treat all things as straw dogs. The sage emulates the Dao, likewise without forced benevolence—thus treating the people as straw dogs. The nature of straw dogs is that they require no artificial care to be sustained. All things and heaven-earth are fundamentally one; the people and the sage are fundamentally one. When heaven, earth, and sages regard even themselves as straw dogs, they naturally view all things and the people the same way. Seen thus, the processes of birth, nourishment, growth, and teaching—where is the need for deliberate benevolence? Precisely because they are free from worldly benevolence, they embody true great benevolence. Herein we understand that the space between heaven and earth is indeed like a bellows—its emptiness within allows unyielding resilience, and the more it moves, the more it generates ceaseless transformation. One who comprehends this Dao should likewise embody it.

This passage elucidates the profound Daoist principles of "non-speaking" (不言) and "non-action" (Wuwei). True speech does not stem from deliberate utterance, just as Wuwei does not mean complete inaction. When words arise spontaneously and actions accord with innate authenticity, speaking and doing become one. Without understanding this principle, speech loses its origin—like bellows (橐籥) deprived of their hollow nature, where greater effort only hastens exhaustion. Confucius remarked that singers often do not know why they sing; grasping this reveals how speech originates from non-speaking. Though all humans possess this innate nature, most fail to embody it because the mind either clings to "having" or "lacking," grasps or rejects, thus failing to merge with the Dao. Only by transcending dualities of possession and abandonment, abiding in the Middle Way (守中), can one comprehend speech's true essence. Rather than exhausting oneself through excessive words, it is better to hold fast to this centeredness. As the Book of Documents states: "The human heart is perilous, the Dao-mind subtle; maintain sincere focus and abide in the Middle Way"—this captures the meaning.

Chapter Six explores the mystery of how the "valley spirit never dies" (谷神不死). The valley (谷), though tangible, becomes full precisely through the Dao's emptiness; the spirit (Shen), though formless, becomes dynamic through the Dao's stillness. By abiding in the Middle Way, one's physical form becomes as receptive as a valley, while the formless spirit attains serene vitality. When form and spirit unite, the deathless state emerges. Ancient practitioners achieved this deathless, birthless condition by harmonizing body with heart, heart with Qi, Qi with Shen, and Shen with emptiness. This generative source of all things is called the "Mysterious Feminine" (玄牝)—where "mysterious" (玄) signifies the union of being and non-being, and "feminine" (牝) denotes nurturing. All heaven, earth, and myriad beings spring from this numinous gateway, hence its name "root of heaven and earth." Seemingly absent yet endlessly enduring, seemingly present yet elusive—this paradoxical existence embodies the Dao's profound mystery.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not strive for their own existence (不自生), thus they can last forever. The sage (one who attains the Dao) steps back instead of competing, yet ends up leading; does not cling to the self, yet preserves life. Is this not because they are selfless? Precisely through selflessness, they fulfill themselves.

Here we explain the meanings of "enduring" (长) and "lasting" (久): "Enduring" refers to spatial form, while "lasting" refers to temporal dimension. Heaven operates through time, concerned with the insufficiency of spatial form, hence described as "enduring"; Earth functions through form, concerned with the insufficiency of time, hence described as "lasting." The foundation of Heaven and Earth originates from the "Mysterious Feminine" (玄牝, the enigmatic womb from which the Dao gives birth to all things), whose essence is rooted in the eternal nature of the "Valley Spirit" (谷神, another name for the Dao). By not clinging to life, they give birth to all things. Heaven and Earth endure precisely because they do not strive for their own existence, just as the Valley Spirit embodies natural non-action (无为).

How could the sage treat the body as a burden? They follow nature, unobstructed by external things, hence the saying "stepping back, they end up leading"; abiding in emptiness, unharmed by external things, hence the saying "not clinging to the self, they preserve life." The body is inherently private, yet the sage, by stepping back without contention and transcending worldly attachments, attains selflessness. It is precisely this selflessness that fulfills them.

The highest good is like water. Water nourishes all things without contention, willingly dwelling in the low places people despise, thus coming closest to the Dao. The highest good emulates water: choosing suitable dwelling places (居善地), maintaining a mind as deep as an abyss (心善渊), treating others with benevolence (与善仁), speaking with sincerity (言善信), governing with clarity (政善治), handling affairs with competence (事善能), and acting in accordance with timing (动善时). Precisely because it does not contend, it is free from blame.

Here we explain the meaning of "good" (善): The alternation of Yin and Yang is the Dao, and what inherits this pattern is good. But the moment we speak of "inheriting," we have already strayed from the essence of the Dao. The highest good is the goodness manifested by the Dao, not the superficial goodness known to the world. Water nourishes all things without contention, willingly staying low—the highest good is the same. Though not yet fully embodying the Dao, it comes very close. Rivers and seas become kings of all streams precisely because they willingly stay below (以其下之也). Thus, the highest good chooses dwelling places like water, adept at selecting the right ground; the mind is as serene as an abyss—whether swirling (蜺桓), still (止水), or flowing (流水), water forms deep pools.

Water appears humble yet never runs dry, embodying perfect benevolence. Flowing through treacherous terrain without altering its nature, it represents pure integrity. Gathering into streams and valleys before merging with rivers and seas, it demonstrates the principles of good governance. Nothing in the world seems softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hardness—thus water manifests supreme wisdom in handling affairs. Springs flow ceaselessly day and night, filling low places before moving onward, teaching us to act at the proper moment. Water's essence lies in non-contention, yet naturally occupies the most advantageous position. Hence the saying "Only by not contending can one remain beyond contention," ensuring freedom from blame.

Chapter Nine discusses the principle of "maintaining and filling": Forcing fullness proves inferior to knowing when to stop; over-sharpening blades makes them brittle. Halls filled with gold and jade cannot be permanently guarded, while pride during wealth and honor invites misfortune. Withdrawing after achieving merit accords with the Dao of Heaven. The commentary explains: Restraint exists to prevent excess—pursuing fullness makes control harder. To avoid loss, one shouldn't seek excessive sharpness. Maintaining fullness without overflow preserves wealth long-term, whereas forced accumulation—even of piled treasures—cannot be safeguarded. Remaining vigilant in high position preserves dignity, but ostentation breeds arrogance that courts disaster. To avoid such calamities, emulate Heaven's way—withdrawing when work is complete follows natural law, appearing selfless yet achieving fulfillment.

Chapter Ten explores "uniting the hun and po souls": Can one make these souls abide together eternally? Can one gather primordial Qi (vital energy) like an infant, attaining ultimate softness? Can one purify the mind to flawless clarity? Can one govern states through Wuwei (non-action)? Can sensory engagement with the world remain gentle? Can omniscience coexist with tranquil emptiness? To nurture all things without possessing them, accomplish without claiming credit, guide without dominating—this constitutes the profoundest "Mystic Virtue" (Xuande). The commentary observes: Humans persistently cling to existence—transcending worldly fame to emulate Heaven's Dao presents the most formidable challenge.

The part formed during the initial stage of life is called "po" (corporeal soul). When po merges with the innate jing (essence, the origin of life), it remains in a state of quiescent wuwei (non-action). After life takes form, the yang aspect is called "hun" (ethereal soul). Hun interacts with shen (spirit) while po accompanies the movement of jing (essence) and qi (vital energy). If gaps appear in po's functioning, causing it to cease circulation, hun and po will separate and fail to embrace each other.

"To bear" refers to the cyclical process of circulation, while "to nourish" describes the state of continuous flow without interruption. Although one has become an adult, if one can maintain the mutual embrace of hun and po as one, preserving that primordial state of pure wuwei, separation can be avoided. Without separation, one can consolidate primordial qi without dispersion, attaining the state of ultimate softness and unobstructedness, as pure as an infant. Upon reaching this infant-like state, one can eliminate distracting thoughts and observe all things through the mysterious mirror of the mind, perceiving even the subtlest movements without error.

Internally, one clears distracting thoughts and perceives with flawless clarity; externally, one cares for the people and governs the state without forceful action. Thus, the opening and closing of celestial mechanisms (natural laws) are within one's grasp, maintaining an attitude of softness and humble yielding. Neither pursuing nor rejecting, following nature without leaving traces, one becomes connected to all directions without deliberate seeking. Attaining this state of unknowing is true knowledge—this is why sages possess human form yet embody heavenly Dao, unburdened by fame and achievement.

To give birth to all things without possessing them, to act without claiming credit, to guide without dominating—this is the character of heaven. "Profound De" (virtue) refers to nothing other than heavenly virtue.

Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel—it is precisely because of the emptiness at the center that the wheel functions. Kneading clay to make vessels—it is precisely because of their hollowness that containers serve their purpose. Cutting doors and windows to build a house—it is precisely because of its empty spaces that the dwelling becomes habitable. Thus, "presence" (substantiality) provides utility, while "absence" (emptiness) creates function. When we ride in a carriage, we observe the wheel; when we use a vessel, we examine the container; when we dwell in a house, we consider the living space—their functions all manifest through "absence." This principle is not difficult to understand. Yet regarding ourselves, we often fail to recognize what truly functions within us. Therefore we say: substantiality provides utility, while emptiness creates function.

This passage elucidates the profound dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) in the Daodejing. The true efficacy lies in the subtle function of "non-being" (wu)—if one merely pursues superficial benefits, one will conversely lose practical utility. The sage (referring to one who has attained the Dao) penetrates the essence of things without being deluded by appearances, thus harnessing the power of "non-being" (wu); when manifesting action, they remain grounded in reality, thereby realizing the benefits of "being" (you). It is akin to deeply understanding subtle principles to apply them with ease, or skillfully utilizing resources to settle body and mind, thereby elevating one's Virtue (De).

The section on the five colors and five tones points out: dazzling hues dull vision, clamorous music damages hearing, lavish delicacies corrupt taste, unrestrained hunting drives the heart to madness, and rare treasures tempt one to misconduct. Therefore, the sage values inner fulfillment over external sensory stimulation, rejecting extravagance in favor of simplicity. The eyes should observe essence rather than indulge in colors; the ears should listen to true sound rather than chase noise; the tongue should savor genuine flavor rather than crave delicacies. Only when the heart-mind is undisturbed by external things can it remain pure and tranquil. Chasing after external objects leads to mental agitation, particularly with indulgent activities like hunting. Knowing contentment prevents disgrace; understanding moderation avoids danger. Precious objects most easily incite misconduct, for the "belly" (symbolizing the inner self) originally lacks greed, while the "eyes" (symbolizing external desires) constantly seek. Thus, the sage cultivates inner emptiness and stillness, discarding outer cravings.

The passage on favor and disgrace, gain and loss states: people take honor and disgrace too seriously, panicking as if facing calamity. Why is this so? Because when favored, they fear losing it, and when losing it, they tremble in distress—this is "favor and disgrace alike perturb." The greatest calamity for humans lies in attachment to the self. If one transcends the self, what remains to worry about? Therefore, those who cherish their own person to govern the world may be entrusted with it; those who love their own person to govern the world may be given responsibility for it.

This scripture elucidates core Daoist concepts of "honor-disgrace" and "the substance of Dao" through two dimensions:

The first section examines the issue of "honor-disgrace." The text reveals that receiving favor (chong) represents an inferior approach to life, because such favor inevitably breeds fear of losing it - this very anxiety of gain and loss constitutes disgrace in itself. Similarly, holding high position (gui) represents a superior approach, yet obsession with power inevitably invites calamity. The truly wise should emulate Emperor Shun, who neither considered befriending the Son of Heaven while a commoner as special favor, nor claimed the world as personal possession when ruling it. Only such individuals transcend the vexations of honor and disgrace, becoming truly qualified to govern the world.

The second section describes the essential characteristics of Dao (the Way). Dao cannot be seen (yi), heard (xi), or touched (wei) - these three qualities form an undifferentiated unity. Neither illuminated above nor darkened below, it continues endlessly yet defies description, ultimately returning to emptiness. This form without concrete shape, this image without tangible substance, is called "the indistinct" (huanghu). Whether approached from front or back, it remains invisible. By grasping this primordial Dao that has existed since antiquity, one masters all present phenomena. Understanding this eternal origin means comprehending the guiding principle of Dao.

The text particularly emphasizes that those who look for Dao see nothing (wu you), yet though invisible, Dao manifests mysterious colors - it cannot simplistically be called colorless; those who listen for Dao hear nothing (wu you), though inaudible.... These descriptions reveal Dao's paradoxical nature - simultaneously transcending sensory perception while possessing concrete existence.

This passage elucidates the profound nature of the Dao (the Way) as the cosmic origin and universal principle. It states that while the Dao can produce all musical tones like gong and shang, it cannot be called soundless—it should rather be termed "xi" (the subtlest whisper). Though manifesting all forms and transformations, it cannot be considered formless—only describable as "wei" (the most minute existence).

The true Great Dao transcends form and appearance: it cannot be grasped by hand nor comprehended by intellect. It encompasses all dualities—Yin-Yang, hardness-softness, length-breadth, square-round—giving rise to all phenomena like life-death, heat-cold, floating-sinking, and containing all qualities from sweetness-bitterness to pungency-fragrance. This existence beyond concrete forms can only be realized by relinquishing sensory perception and conceptual thought.

When one attains this state, vision, hearing and touch merge into unity—ears become like eyes, the heart like senses. Those who lose the Dao see only superficial brightness and dust, while its perceivers understand the upper realm isn't truly bright (thus not dazzling) nor the lower realm truly dusty (thus not dim). The Great Dao continues unbroken yet defies description, appearing empty while containing all forms.

This condition is called "huhuang" (the nebulous state): neither luminous enough to seem substantial nor dark enough to seem void. Without beginning or end, it belongs neither to antiquity nor modernity yet permeates all time. Mastering this eternally present Dao enables one to govern contemporary affairs—past and present share identical essence, so understanding antiquity illuminates the present.

The true Dao cannot be seized, yet its realization allows apprehension of De (Virtue/Power), its manifestation. This apprehension is termed "ji" (cosmic order), meaning alignment with the Dao's fundamental patterns.

The ancient practitioners who truly understood the cultivation of Dao attained a state so subtle and profound that ordinary people could scarcely comprehend it. Precisely because it defies easy understanding, we can only approximate their qualities through metaphors: They moved with the caution of crossing a frozen river in winter, treated others with the reverence of a guest fearing to disturb neighbors, carried themselves with the dignity of an honored visitor, maintained minds as clear as melting ice, preserved natures as simple as uncarved wood, embraced hearts as vast as empty valleys, and contained all things like turbid waters.

Who can remain still like murky water until it gradually clarifies itself? Who can maintain tranquility until life spontaneously arises? Those who preserve this Daoist practice never seek perfection. Precisely because they avoid fullness, they retain authenticity without striving for novelty.

The Authentic Scripture of Dao and De with Commentary explains: Ancient cultivators ultimately attained sagehood and spiritual communion. Though they hadn't yet reached the divine state, they fully comprehended its principles. The four levels of "subtle, wondrous, mysterious, and penetrating" precisely describe this progression toward sagehood and spiritual attainment—from refinement to wonder, from wonder to mystery, from mystery to penetrating insight, ultimately reaching unfathomable depths.

Each behavioral characteristic of these practitioners carries profound meaning: Winter river crossing signifies acting only when necessary; neighborly reverence shows their sincere hearts remain undisturbed; guest-like dignity indicates freedom from self-importance; melting-ice clarity represents ultimate mind-body unity; uncarved-wood simplicity is returning to original nature; empty-valley vastness receives all things without hoarding; turbid-water containment transcends dualistic distinctions.

When all flaunt cleverness, who can settle like murky water to gradually clarify? This clarity illuminates everything. When all rush ahead, who can calmly await natural arising? This arising accomplishes all. To calm the mind requires harmonizing qi (vital energy); to commune with spirit requires following the heart. What appears as action actually follows nature's way. Breath regulation brings clarity; natural alignment generates vitality—this is the secret enabling cultivators to attain sagehood and spiritual communion.

The essence of Great Dao lies in balancing yin-yang and fullness-emptiness. Its practitioners don't seek perfection but embrace dynamic emptiness. The emphasis on "not full" rather than "empty" avoids attachment to nihilistic extremes.

People often find themselves perplexed by the concept of "emptiness" (xu), becoming so attached to pursuing it that they lose touch with genuine emptiness and stillness. Just as a vessel loses its value when overfilled, all things under heaven follow the cycle of birth and decay—few can escape this impermanence. Only by maintaining a state of non-fullness can one transcend this cycle of renewal and decline, attaining a realm untouched by time's erosion.

Chapter 16 of the Dao De Jing states: "Attain the utmost emptiness, hold fast to profound stillness" (致虚极，守静笃). This means reaching the pinnacle of emptiness and abiding in deep tranquility. When all things flourish and grow, I observe their cyclical patterns. Eventually, the myriad phenomena return to their source—this return is called "stillness" (静). In the depth of stillness, one returns to life's essence (复命, returning to innate nature), and only by returning to this essence can one grasp the eternal principle (常, constancy). To understand constancy is wisdom; to act blindly without this understanding invites misfortune.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao never seek fullness. If one pursues emptiness and stillness yet fails to reach their ultimate state, it is not the highest attainment. Ordinary people only perceive the cycle when things wither, but having achieved supreme emptiness and stillness, I foresee the destiny of all things even as they flourish. "Emptiness" is not forced vacuity but the absence of forced filling; "stillness" is not imposed quiet but an undisturbed mind as all things naturally return to their roots.

"Returning to the root" (归根) means reverting to stillness. "Life" (命) is our innate nature, and only through profound stillness can we return to this original essence (复命), thereby discerning the patterns of creation and dissolution. Attaining this state allows one to grasp constancy (常). Those who understand constancy (知常) perceive fortune and misfortune in subtle changes. Conversely, ignorance leads to reckless action and calamity. Those who embody constancy merge with all things, relinquishing selfishness to become impartial; impartiality aligns with the kingly way (王道), which connects to the heavenly Dao—the eternal Dao itself. Those who realize this Dao remain free from lifelong peril.

The key lies here: Maintaining emptiness and stillness is not forced effort, just as water naturally flows downward and all things return to their roots. Practitioners of the Dao simply follow this natural rhythm without interference.

This passage elucidates two core Daoist principles concerning governance and natural order:

The first section explores the relationship between Dao (the Way) and sage-kingship. When one embraces all things without partiality, merging with existence while relinquishing selfishness, one attains the state of "universal impartiality" (gong). This selfless condition constitutes the inner quality of sages, while externally manifesting as kingly virtue. Through the progression from impartiality to kingship, from kingship to heavenly principle (natural law), from heaven to spiritual illumination, one ultimately returns to Dao. The Way serves as the foundation for achieving sagehood and divine wisdom. Realizing the eternal, unchanging "constant Dao" (changdao) allows transcendence beyond life and death, securing perpetual freedom from peril.

Chapter 17 ("The Supreme Ruler") presents four hierarchical modes of governance: The highest ruler (taishang) governs so subtly that people merely sense his presence. The next level earns people's affection and praise. The third inspires fear, while the lowest provokes contempt. Distrust only emerges where trust proves insufficient—just as parental love requires no declarations, whereas host-guest or friend relationships demand formalities. Rulers should emulate Dao's "teaching without words" (buyan er jiao), practicing wuwei (non-action) governance. When accomplishments arise, people perceive them as entirely spontaneous, unaware of any orchestrating hand.

Chapter 18 reveals dialectical social phenomena: Humaneness and righteousness (renyi) emerge precisely when Dao becomes neglected; cunning intelligence breeds hypocrisy; familial discord highlights filial piety; national chaos necessitates loyal ministers. This exposes a profound truth: The moment we forcibly name "Dao," we've already strayed from its essence, and further dissection into concepts like humaneness fragments its wholeness. True harm lies in conscious moral striving—when we examine our hearts through calculating intellect, we corrupt innate nature.

Laozi here reveals the paradoxical nature of apparent social phenomena. When severe hypocrisy emerges in society, such pretense is actually the product of deviation from De (Virtue/Power, one's natural essence). Just as when people deliberately flaunt benevolence and righteousness, it instead leads to disharmony in family relationships - only then does the preciousness of filial piety and parental love become conspicuous.

When society becomes saturated with grand hypocrisy, the state falls into chaos, and only then do loyal ministers stand out prominently. This is analogous to: it was precisely because of obstinate fathers like Gusou (the blind father of Emperor Shun in legends) and arrogant brothers like Xiang (Shun's younger brother) that Shun's virtues of filial piety and fraternal duty became evident; it was precisely because of tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang that loyal ministers like Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan emerged.

The root cause of these phenomena lies in humanity's increasing distance from the fundamental Dao (the Way). The further society deviates from its natural essence, the more these seemingly positive virtues (filial piety, loyalty) become corrective products of excess - which in itself constitutes a pathological social condition.

This passage comes from Northern Song dynasty official Lü Huiqing's commentary on Chapter 19 of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), presenting the core idea of returning to natural simplicity while abandoning artificial cleverness and moral posturing.

The author argues that social disorder stems from people losing their authentic nature. To resolve this, one must completely relinquish three things: first, the glorification of sage-like wisdom ("discard sageliness and abandon knowledge"); second, the forced pursuit of benevolence and righteousness ("discard benevolence and abandon righteousness"); and third, the chase for cleverness and profit ("discard cleverness and abandon profit"). This isn't meant as simple negation, but rather as a return to the most primal state of unadorned simplicity ("the uncarved block of nameless simplicity").

When people are no longer bound by external standards of sagely wisdom, benevolence-righteousness, or clever-profit, they paradoxically gain a hundredfold practical benefit. Families naturally harmonize without forced emphasis on filial piety; states naturally stabilize without trumpeting loyal ministers. By not exalting the worthy, commoners won't compete; by not valuing rare goods, thieves naturally disappear.

The text points out that these three—sagely wisdom, benevolence-righteousness, and clever-profit—are merely superficial ornamentation ("adornment") rather than substance ("essence"). Therefore, the mind must find its true belonging: maintaining pure innate nature ("embrace simplicity and hold to the uncarved block") while reducing selfish desires ("have few desires"). Here, "simplicity" refers to undyed raw fabric, and the "uncarved block" to unworked lumber—both metaphors for humanity's most authentic nature. Preserving this state prevents distraction by external things and naturally diminishes selfish cravings.

To comprehend the supreme Dao, one must first relinquish attachments. Chapter Twenty speaks precisely of how abandoning conventional learning leads to carefree existence.

Whether responding with reverent "wei" or casual "a"—both are fundamentally just sounds, what real difference exists between them? Good and evil are equally deviations from the Dao—in essence, how do they differ? What people fear indeed warrants fear, for the Dao of heaven is vast and boundless!

The worldly crowd bustles with excitement, as if feasting at lavish banquets or enjoying spring outings. Only I remain tranquil and detached, like an infant who has not yet learned to smile, drifting without fixed abode. While others appear abundantly provided for, I alone seem perpetually lacking. This fool's heart remains utterly simple! The world shines with cleverness, while I alone appear dull; all others see with piercing clarity, while I alone stay bemused. Hazy as deepest night, silent as infinite void—where others take purposeful action, I alone remain stubbornly unchanged. My difference from the world lies in treasuring what nourishes all things (the "nourishing mother" refers to the Dao).

Commentary explains: One must abandon above all the seemingly virtuous qualities of sagely wisdom and humaneness, while below rejecting obvious evils like cunning and profit-seeking, preventing such disturbances from entering the heart—this constitutes true "transcendent learning." Through transcendent learning one attains wuwei (non-action), through wuwei one connects with the divine. The divine refers to that which moves all things without the anxiety characteristic of sages. Hence it is said: Transcendent learning brings freedom from care.

People's fear of misfortune is indeed justified, for heaven's Dao is infinitely vast. The noble person fears moral principles in small matters and emulates heavenly patterns in great affairs. The masses indulge in pleasures, unaware of closing the gates of desire ("blocking openings and shutting doors" refers to restraining sensory cravings). They resemble banquet-goers who cannot taste plain flavors, spring revelers who miss deeper vistas. Maintaining infant-like purity while shutting desire's portals, I instead discover true flavor in simplicity and perceive ultimate beauty in formlessness. Though appearing to drift without anchor, I actually follow all things without attachment.

(Note: The "openings" refer to sensory organs like mouth and tongue, "doors" to perception channels like ears and eyes—Daoist practice advocates cultivating heart-mind through sensory restraint)

This passage describes the distinction between the mental state of those who have attained the Dao (De practitioners) and ordinary people. Those who embody the Dao are like someone content after participating in a grand sacrificial ceremony (Taizhu), or as refreshed as viewing distant landscapes during spring, yet their inner state maintains the purity and desirelessness of an infant. Though appearing dull and ignorant, their hearts remain untainted by distracting thoughts.

Ordinary people all consider themselves clever and perceptive, while Dao practitioners seem dim-witted and confused; worldly people calculate meticulously, whereas Dao adepts appear muddled and indifferent. This state isn't genuine stupidity, but rather transcends the limitations of conventional understanding. When they act, they follow spontaneous freedom without fixed direction; when still, they abide in boundless emptiness without attachment. People pursue sensory pleasures and clever strategies like raising "children of the Dao" (external manifestations), while Dao practitioners directly return to the "mother of Dao" (essential origin).

Chapter 21 further describes the form of the Dao: The manifestation of supreme virtue (Kong De) completely follows the Dao's principles. The Dao appears indistinct and elusive, yet within this chaos contains true form and essence (Jing) – this essence is utterly authentic and reliable. Throughout history, the Dao's name never disappears, for through it we recognize the origin of all things. How do I know the origin of all things? Precisely through realizing this Dao.

The author explains that when one transcends external objects, forgets cleverness, and reaches this seemingly simple-minded state, they attain supreme virtue. This condition perfectly follows the Dao's operational principles. Though the Dao itself appears vague and unfathomable, within this chaos lies the most subtle truth.

This scripture explores the profound nature of the Dao (the Way) and the wisdom of living in the world. First, it describes the state of the Dao: seemingly indistinct and vague (huhuang), yet containing genuine existence; appearing empty, yet encompassing the origin of all things. This state of being both present and absent is called "the image of no-thing" (having no concrete form), also known as "the greatest form has no shape." When one delves into this deep and mysterious (yaoming) realm, they can perceive its pure essence (Jing), the truest and most authentic nature of the universe.

Practitioners of the Dao should maintain a state of neither deliberate display nor complete concealment, holding onto this hazy awareness. When one reaches the state of "having trust" (genuine and credible), they can harmonize with the Dao. To understand the origin of heaven, earth, and all things, one must begin exploration from this state of vagueness and profundity.

Chapter 22 discusses the way of living in the world: bending leads to preservation, yielding leads to straightening, being low leads to fullness, being worn leads to renewal, taking less leads to gaining more, while greed leads to confusion. Therefore, the sage upholds the fundamental principle of the Dao ("holding to the One") as a model for the world. Not showing off leads to clarity, not asserting oneself leads to distinction, not boasting leads to achievement, and not being arrogant leads to longevity. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying "yielding leads to wholeness"—could it be empty words? This is truly the truth of self-preservation.

Those who understand the origin of all things can uphold the great Dao and maintain gentleness. Like water, which can bend, detour, stay low, and contain impurities, they come closest to the nature of the Dao. Water flows east and west yet remains unharmed by external things—this is "yielding leads to wholeness." Meeting obstacles, it twists and turns yet still moves toward the east—this is "bending leads to straightening."

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "guarding the One" (shouyi, maintaining inner unity) and the philosophy of "non-contention" (buzheng).

It begins with natural metaphors: low-lying places naturally gather water, and seemingly worn-out things often find renewal. Those truly enlightened to the Dao understand the importance of preserving inner unity. They do not deliberately showcase themselves, yet perceive all things clearly; they do not cling to personal views, yet reveal truth; they do not boast of achievements, yet accomplish great deeds. This is the wisdom of "non-contention"—precisely because they do not compete with others, no one in the world can compete with them. As the ancients said, "To yield is to be preserved whole"—this encapsulates the principle.

The text then discusses "rare speech follows nature" (xiyan ziran). A fierce wind does not last all morning, nor does a downpour last all day—such is the way of heaven and earth. Those who pursue the Dao become one with the Dao; those who pursue De (Virtue) become one with De; those who are lost become one with their confusion. Like an echo, what you send out returns to you. True "rare speech" does not mean silence, but allowing words to flow naturally, just as the Dao itself is wordless yet encompasses all.

The key lies here: excess and extremity cannot endure. Only by maintaining inner unity and balance, aligning with the natural Dao, can one attain true fulfillment. Just as violent storms, though intense, are brief, while gentle, persistent rain nourishes all things.

Violent actions do not stem from the natural order. Even entities as vast as Heaven and Earth cannot sustain such states for long. When human speech contradicts the Dao (the Way), the more one speaks, the deeper one falls into difficulty. Only those who truly follow the Dao can attain the state of selflessness. In selflessness, there is no distinction between Dao, De (Virtue), and failure—for the cultivator of Dao becomes one with the Way, the cultivator of De merges with Virtue, and the flawed unite with their shortcomings. All seemingly strange phenomena share the same essence. Precisely because their differences become indistinguishable in unity, even when others appear different, they never truly depart from me. Thus it is said: those united with the Dao are embraced by it; those united with De are received by it; those united with failure are accepted by it. Only when sincerity is lacking do Dao, De, and failure become separated. Hence, insufficient sincerity breeds distrust.

Chapter 24 states that those who stand on tiptoe cannot remain steady, and those who take oversized strides cannot walk far. Those who self-display lack true wisdom; the self-righteous struggle to achieve prominence; self-promoters ultimately gain no merit; the arrogant cannot endure. To the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food or superfluous growths—even spirits detest them, so those who follow the Dao avoid such conduct. Tiptoe standing isn't natural posture, and exaggerated strides aren't natural gait—neither can last. The Dao itself is selfless, and selflessness precludes contention. Self-display, self-righteousness, and arrogance are all unnatural—to the Dao, they're merely scraps and tumors. Ordinary people obsess over these; were I to pursue them, it would be like eating leftovers. When innate nature lacks these yet we artificially amplify them, it becomes tumorous growth. Since even spirits despise such excess, Dao followers naturally shun them. The Dao often resides in the humble and soft places others scorn—there the Daoist dwells. Meanwhile, behaviors like self-display, though detested yet feverishly pursued by the masses, are precisely what Daoists avoid. Whether choosing or abstaining, both fundamentally express non-contention.

Chapter 25 describes something perfectly whole that existed before Heaven and Earth formed. Silent and soundless, formless and empty, it stands alone and unchanging.

This passage elucidates the essence of the Dao and its operational principles. The Dao operates in ceaseless cycles, functioning as the generative matrix of all things. We cannot precisely name it, but tentatively call it "Dao," or describe it as "Great." This "Greatness" signifies its omnipresence and perpetual motion (receding), "receding" indicates its boundless profundity (far-reaching), and "far-reaching" ultimately implies its return to the origin (returning).

The cosmos contains four supreme existences: the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the Sovereign (referring to one who has attained the Dao). The Sovereign's qualification to stand alongside the first three lies in the ability to return to original nature, comprehend eternal principles, and achieve a state of all-embracing impartiality. Humans model themselves on Earth's patterns, Earth follows Heaven's patterns, Heaven follows the Dao's patterns, while the Dao takes spontaneity (ziran) as its law.

The text clarifies that all phenomena consist of Qi (primordial energy), form, and substance—three inseparable yet imperceptible aspects. Though we cannot see its shape, hear its sound, or grasp its form, we may perceive the Dao through spiritual attunement. Pervading the entire cosmos yet defying complete verbal description, even the designation "Great" remains provisional. It is simultaneously boundless yet never separate from us, infinitely distant yet ultimately returning to its source.

The true Sovereign (one who has attained the Dao) can integrate human principles, harmonizing the manifest and unmanifest. Just as humans follow Earth's laws, Earth follows Heaven's laws, and Heaven follows the Dao's laws, the Dao itself has no fixed laws—it takes spontaneity as its law, existing eternally since antiquity, preceding Heaven and Earth in its timelessness.

The Transmission of the Authentic Scripture of Dao and De presents two essential principles for governing a state and cultivating the self.

The first passage explains how steadiness serves as the foundation for levity, and tranquility governs agitation. Just as a nobleman traveling abroad with light baggage still relies on supply carts for essentials, or dwells in splendid palaces while maintaining detachment, so must a ruler governing a great nation uphold this composed serenity. Rashness would forfeit ministerial support, while restlessness would undermine the sovereign's dignity.

The analogy draws from natural phenomena: light objects move first while heavy ones follow, demonstrating how substance underlies superficiality. Tranquility masters external circumstances, whereas agitation becomes their slave. Though the nobleman's daily conduct appears simple, it never abandons its roots; though enjoying worldly luxuries, he remains transcendent—proving how agitation ultimately depends on stillness. A ruler must understand the principle of "acting only when compelled," maintaining governance through Wuwei (non-action, the Daoist approach of natural spontaneity). Should a sovereign act impulsively, the distinction between ruler and minister blurs; should he grow restless, he toils like a subordinate, forfeiting the ruler's proper detachment.

The second passage expounds the wisdom of the "Chapter on Skillful Action": The most masterful action leaves no trace, just as the most perfect speech contains no flaw, the sharpest calculation needs no counting rods, the most secure fastening requires no bolt yet cannot be opened, the firmest binding uses no cord yet cannot be untied. Therefore, the sage excels at saving people, leaving none worthless; at utilizing things, leaving nothing wasted. This is called "inheriting the radiance of Dao." The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, yet the unvirtuous become mirrors for the virtuous.

This passage describes the five sublime states of those who have attained the Dao, using common life experiences as metaphors to illustrate profound truths.

First, take walking as an example: carts leave ruts and pedestrians leave footprints, but one who truly understands the "Way of movement" can "move through non-movement," achieving the state of "perfect movement leaves no tracks." Similarly, one who comprehends the essence of speech knows that "words emerge from wordlessness," thus achieving "perfect speech leaves no flaws." The same principle applies to numbers—counting from one to two to three may seem infinitely expandable, but one who understands the "Way of calculation" "grasps the One and forgets counting," thereby exhausting all computations. This is "perfect calculation needs no counting rods."

Next, the metaphor shifts to door bolts: the Celestial Gate (referring to the portal connecting the human body with heavenly Dao) inherently has no latch. Those who attain the Dao maintain inner clarity without deliberate opening or closing, hence "perfect closing needs no latch yet cannot be opened." Then comes the rope metaphor: all things under heaven follow their own patterns. Maintaining them by following nature proves more secure than binding with ropes—this is "perfect knots need no cords yet cannot be loosened."

Failing to achieve these five states would mean: walking inevitably leaves tracks, speaking inevitably has flaws, calculating requires counting rods, closing doors depends on latches, and binding needs ropes. The sage (one who attains the Dao) embodies the Great Dao and masters these five states, thus treating all beings with perfect kindness. They understand the interdependent relationship between good and not-good people—the good serve as teachers for the not-good, while the not-good serve as mirrors for the good. But those who attain the Dao transcend further: neither deliberately exalting the instructive role of the good nor deliberately disparaging the referential value of the not-good. This wisdom beyond dualistic opposition is called "hidden luminosity" (profound yet concealed wisdom).

Finally, it points out: seekers of the Great Dao must relinquish discriminating mind. While objectively the good do teach the not-good and the not-good do provide references for the good, those who attain the Dao remain unattached to such distinctions—this constitutes the highest realization.

This passage expounds the core Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below." Laozi illustrates this principle through three contrasting pairs:

The first pair discusses the "male" and "female." While knowing the benefits of strength (male), one should abide in the position of softness (female), like the valley streams of the world. These streams receive water from mountain gorges without refusal, flowing toward rivers and seas without hoarding. Such unimpeded movement manifests the undeparting "constant De" (eternal natural law). If humans can maintain quiet softness without contentious striving, they can preserve their innate purity like infants.

The second pair examines "white" and "black." While understanding the value of prominence (white), one should willingly dwell in obscurity (black), mirroring the pattern of heaven and earth. "White" symbolizes manifestation, hardness (like metal), and the number four; "black" represents contraction, pliancy (like water), and the number one. By holding fast to this "one," one gains water's adaptability to bend and extend, becoming the world's standard.

The third pair explores "glory" and disgrace. While knowing the taste of honor, one should rest content in lowly positions, like the world's mountain valleys. When vegetation flourishes, it enjoys glory; when it withers, it suffers disgrace—human experience mirrors this cycle. Maintaining this state of pristine simplicity ensures the "constant De" remains abundant.

The conclusion observes that the original state of undifferentiated simplicity disperses to form concrete objects. Sages apply this principle in governing the world—thus, perfected political systems never forcibly divide natural states.

The commentary elaborates further: The male represents movement, strength, and initiative; the female signifies stillness, softness, and receptivity. Knowing the male's advantages yet abiding in the female's state leads to ultimate tranquility and pliancy. Humans are born with complete "constant De," but external influences gradually obscure it. Only by holding fast to the "one" (Dao's primordial source) can deviations be avoided. Though infants embody purity, they haven't yet reached the degree of "limitlessness" (Dao's boundless realm).

This scripture elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and abiding in humility" (shou rou chu xia) in both personal conduct and governance.

It begins with the metaphor of a valley (gu), illustrating how those who remain open and humble—though occupying what the world considers lowly positions (what the world despises most)—can, like a valley, embrace all things without being burdened. When one's Virtue (De) is truly complete (chang de nai zu), they return to the original state of pristine simplicity (fu gui qi pu). This state of "uncarved simplicity" (pu) is innate and uncontrived, capable of adapting to all changes—expanding or contracting, bending or straightening—possessing infinite potential (nothing it cannot accomplish).

The text then emphasizes the importance of preserving qualities such as softness, obscurity, and humility (shou qi ci, shou qi hei, shou qi ru), because holding to these fundamental traits (the mother) is more vital than pursuing strength, brightness, or glory (knowing the masculine, knowing the bright, knowing honor). Once this primal simplicity scatters (pu san), it becomes fragmented into specific forms, losing its inherent flexibility. Thus, when sages govern, they merely follow the natural course (wei guan zhang), maintaining their innate simplicity (bao pu), much like a skilled butcher effortlessly carving an ox—moving with ease and precision (hui hui hu qi yu you ren).

The latter section warns that forcibly seizing the world (jiang yu qu tian xia) is futile, as the world is a sacred vessel (tian xia shen qi); those who act aggressively will fail (wei zhe bai zhi). All things follow their own natural rhythms—some advance while others follow, some exhale gently while others blow fiercely, some are strong while others weaken. Therefore, in governing, sages must avoid extremes, extravagance, and excess (qu shen qu she qu tai), attaining the people's trust through non-action (wu shi). This is the true way to "win the world."

Finally, the text points to the metaphysical principle called the "Dao" (Dao), suggesting that governance must align with the natural order. Throughout, the passage underscores the core Daoist tenets of embracing softness, practicing non-action (wuwei), and harmonizing with nature.

This scripture conveys two main teachings:

First, it explains the proper way to govern the "divine vessel" (referring to state power). Governing the world is like handling a sacred instrument—only by following the Dao (the Way) can one properly wield it. The Dao itself acts through wuwei (non-action), and any forced action will lead to its loss. Just as the sage-kings Yao, Shun, and Yu ruled without deliberate possession or control, they truly understood the art of governance. All things follow their natural patterns: where there is advancement, there must be following; where there is warmth, there must be cold; where there is strength, there must be decline. Therefore, the sage rejects extremes, extravagance, and excess, instead aligning with the natural development of all things, never daring to act recklessly.

The second part discusses the principles of assisting a ruler with the Dao. Those who assist a ruler with the Dao should not rely on military force to dominate the world, as violence invites retaliation. Where armies camp, the land becomes desolate; after great wars, years of calamity follow. Those skilled in warfare seek only to achieve necessary objectives and then stop—they do not strive for dominance through force. For when things reach their peak, they inevitably decline, and forcing what does not accord with the Dao leads to premature demise.

Commentary explains: The ruler should practice wuwei, while the assistant may act when needed. But when seizing power, if one continually resorts to force, even the assistant violates the Dao. Subduing others through the Dao naturally wins the world's allegiance, while coercion through force invites resistance. The harm armies bring to the world is evident—thus, skilled commanders stop after achieving victory, like King Tang of Shang who marched from Bo to defeat the tyrant Jie at Mingtiao. Such actions are taken only when unavoidable, never as displays of martial prowess.

Do not become arrogant because of your abilities, nor boastful because of your achievements, nor domineering because of your advantageous position.

True success is often attained when circumstances leave no other choice, which aligns with the principle of "not forcing outcomes" (Wuwei). If one grows proud due to ability, self-congratulatory due to merit, or haughty due to power, that is an artificial striving for success rather than a natural result. All things grow from small beginnings to full maturity, then decline with age—this is the way of nature. The subtlety of the Dao (the Way) lies in maintaining a gentle and yielding stance, for this seemingly weak yet resilient state is what endures without decay.

To conquer the world through brute force is to abandon softness for hardness, and hardness inevitably leads to premature decline. Such an approach makes one no different from ordinary things—how could it embody the Dao's transformation of all things? Thus, when a thing becomes excessively strong, it ages prematurely, violating the Dao, and whatever violates the Dao soon perishes.

Chapter 31 on weapons (fine arms) states: "Superior weapons are instruments of misfortune, detested by all. Thus, those who follow the Dao do not rely on them. In peacetime, the noble favor the left; in war, they favor the right. Weapons are ill-omened tools, unfit for noble use. They are employed only when unavoidable, and even then with calm detachment. Victory is not to be glorified, for to glorify it is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing cannot fulfill their purpose under heaven."

Auspicious affairs honor the left, while inauspicious affairs honor the right. In military formations, the lieutenant general stands to the left, the commander-in-chief to the right—this treats war with the rites of mourning. When many are slain, one should grieve with sorrow; even in victory, the rites of mourning should be observed.

The commentary explains: "Civil virtue (De) is displayed while martial force remains concealed—this is the movement of heaven and earth and the principle of Yin-Yang transformation. To regard weapons as fine things is a sign of their inauspicious nature, loathed by all things. Thus, those who follow the Dao do not do so. That noble men favor the left in peacetime and the right in war itself shows that weapons are ill-omened, unfit for noble use. Even when unavoidable, they must be wielded with detachment, and victory is not to be praised. Heaven employs compassion to save and protect the world, and compassion is the virtue heaven delights in practicing without weariness. How could killing ever be a cause for joy? To praise killing is to take pleasure in it, and those who delight in killing cannot bring order to the world. Therefore, auspicious affairs honor the left, inauspicious affairs the right."

This passage conveys two main themes: reflections on warfare and funeral rites, and an exposition on the essential nature of the Dao (the Way).

Regarding warfare: it describes using funeral rituals to handle the massive casualties of war, mourning and weeping for the fallen. If victors employ funeral rites after battle, this demonstrates that weapons are inauspicious tools; if they grieve and lament the dead, this shows killing brings no joy. Laozi's (Lord Lao's) understanding of ritual systems was profoundly nuanced—those who claim he completely rejected ritual fail to grasp what exactly he opposed.

The second part discusses the characteristics of the Dao: the Dao remains eternally nameless and unadorned in its simplicity. Though appearing insignificant, nothing in heaven or earth dares to dominate it. If rulers can uphold this principle, all things will naturally submit. When heaven and earth's yin and yang energies harmonize, sweet dew descends, distributing itself evenly without human intervention. When names and distinctions first emerge, one must understand where to stop—knowing when to halt prevents peril. The Dao's movement through the world flows as naturally as streams returning to rivers and seas.

The Dao itself has no name; the moment we name it, we deviate from its essence. In its nameless state, it resembles uncarved wood—simple and minute—yet all beings between heaven and earth depend on it for their existence, so none dare claim mastery over it. This is what we call the "True Sovereign" (the ruler of all things). If rulers govern by upholding this "True Sovereign" Dao, all things will naturally submit. Just as the interaction of yin and yang qi gives birth to all phenomena, the harmonious descent of heaven-earth's sweet dew represents this principle's highest manifestation. When rulers wield the Dao's guiding principles to govern, they embody this same truth.

Maintaining the nameless state of simplicity requires neither deliberation nor action (wuwei). Once human interference begins, names and concepts proliferate. Here one must understand moderation—affairs are easily managed before they arise, plans easily made before signs appear, fragility easily dissolved, and subtlety easily dispersed. Preventing problems before they emerge and ordering chaos before it forms ensures no calamitous beginnings.

This passage explains the principle of rulers upholding the Great Dao (the Way). When the Dao operates throughout the world, it resembles countless streams eventually flowing into rivers and seas—how could anything fail to return to it?

Chapter 33 discusses the principle that "knowing others is wisdom": Understanding others demonstrates intelligence, but recognizing oneself constitutes true enlightenment. Conquering others shows strength, but mastering oneself reveals true power. Knowing contentment is true wealth, and persisting in following the Dao demonstrates genuine resolve. Only by not losing one's foundation can one endure, and only when one's spirit (Shen) doesn't perish after death can it be called true longevity.

The commentary explains: Knowing oneself enables understanding others—true enlightenment originates from this self-awareness. Conquering oneself allows conquering others—true power comes from this self-transcendence. Returning to the origin is called "constancy," and understanding this constancy is called "illumination." Those who cannot know themselves cannot comprehend this eternal Dao. Therefore, only those who understand the eternal Dao can truly know themselves. With such self-knowledge, understanding others naturally follows.

Maintaining a soft and yielding posture constitutes true strength. If one's heart is filled with contention and calculation, one cannot truly embrace softness. Thus, the essence of embracing softness lies in self-mastery. Achieving this state of self-transcendence naturally leads to the heights of sagehood. With self-knowledge, one realizes all things are inherently complete, eliminating the need for external pursuits—hence "knowing contentment is wealth." With the power of self-transcendence, one need only diligently cultivate the Dao without seeking other paths—hence "persisting in the Dao demonstrates resolve."

Knowing inner fulfillment while steadfastly practicing enables one to preserve the foundation unaffected by external things—thus "those who do not lose their place endure." Preserving the foundation ensures that even when the physical body dies, the spirit does not perish—hence "those who die but do not perish achieve longevity."

Chapter 34 describes the Dao's mode of operation: The Dao spreads universally, existing everywhere. All things depend on it to grow, yet it never refuses them. It accomplishes all things without claiming credit, nourishes all beings without asserting control. Without selfish desires, it may be called "small"; though all things return to it without knowing its dominion, it may also be called "great." Therefore, sages never consider themselves great, yet thereby achieve true greatness.

The commentary explains: What can only go left or right represents things limited to one aspect—these are not the Dao. The Dao exists everywhere, thus it finds favorable conditions in all directions. All concrete things have limitations—

This passage elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and its function in the world. The Dao cannot be simply described as either "small" or "large." While it governs all things and all beings depend on it for existence, it never claims authority; it accomplishes all things yet takes no credit, nourishes all yet never presumes to dominate. Precisely because it neither claims merit nor asserts dominance, the Dao remains eternally free from selfish desires—this desireless state represents the most sublime realm.

We may call the Dao "small" because all things return to it without recognizing its governance; we may equally call it "large" because it encompasses everything. Yet if we call it "large," we cannot simultaneously call it "small," and vice versa. The Dao transcends such dualistic distinctions of size—this explains why it remains hidden in namelessness. True greatness doesn't reside in outward appearances. The sage emulates the Dao and thus achieves greatness, yet never presumes it for himself.

Those who "hold the Great Image" (grasp the supreme Dao) find all under heaven willingly returning to them without mutual harm, attaining perfect peace. Mundane pleasures and temptations may temporarily detain passersby, but the Dao—when spoken, seems flavorless; when observed, appears unremarkable; when heard, sounds unimpressive—yet its efficacy is inexhaustible. Like rivers ultimately flowing to the sea, all things return to the Dao without recognizing its governance—this is the formless "Great Image."

When people turn to something that has lost the Dao, they will ultimately separate and come to harm; when they turn to what maintains the Dao, even if they forget its profundity, they never truly separate. Genuine peace emerges when the common people use the Dao daily without conscious awareness—far surpassing those temporarily detained by fleeting temptations.

The section beginning "When one wishes to contract it" reveals the Dao's mode of operation: to contract, one must first expand; to weaken, one must first strengthen; to abolish, one must first promote; to take, one must first give. This is subtle wisdom. The soft and weak overcome the hard and strong, just as fish cannot leave deep waters, and a state's sharp weapons (referring to harsh laws) should not be lightly displayed. These all exemplify the Dao's operational principles in the world.

This passage elucidates the laws governing the transformation of all things: To contract something, one must first allow it to expand; to weaken something, one must first let it strengthen; to abolish something, one must first permit its flourishing; to take something, one must first give to it. This constitutes the subtle and profound principle whereby the soft and yielding ultimately overcomes the hard and strong.

Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, humans must not lose their essential soft nature. A fish out of water will be caught, just as a person abandoning softness courts destruction. The softest things in the world can penetrate the hardest substances. Those who truly govern nations employ these principles invisibly - thus the crucial methods of statecraft should never be lightly revealed.

Chapter 37 discusses the essence of the Dao (the Way): The Dao appears non-active (Wuwei), yet accomplishes all things. If rulers uphold this principle, the myriad things will transform naturally. When desires arise, they should be stabilized with the "nameless simplicity" (referring to the Dao's primordial, unadorned state). This simplicity returns people to desireless tranquility, bringing natural harmony to the world.

All things possess names, yet the Dao itself remains nameless. Named entities are like guests of the Dao. The phrase "the myriad things will become guests of their own accord" means they are governed by the nameless Dao. Those who truly understand non-action (Wuwei) recognize that apparent inaction accomplishes everything, allowing all beings to transform spontaneously.

When the creative workings of the Dao manifest, both myself and all things are born from the Dao. Who can truly understand why all things naturally adhere to the Dao? When beings begin to follow it spontaneously, various names and concepts emerge. Since names exist, one should know when to stop. Those who understand moderation can return to the original state of nameless purity.

When all things transform naturally, if excessive desires arise, I use the nameless simplicity of the Dao to settle them. Yet even this thought—"using nameless simplicity to settle things"—must be relinquished. Then one not only practices Wuwei (non-action) but transcends even the concept of Wuwei itself. All movement and change in the world ultimately return to the unity of the Dao.

If rulers (Houwang) can uphold this principle, they will attain a state of non-grasping and serene stillness. Wouldn’t the world then naturally correct itself? Laozi, as a realized Daoist sage, need not labor for the world’s affairs—so why does he so earnestly instruct rulers? Because when the Dao is applied to self-cultivation, it is the true Dao; when applied to governance, it is universal truth. If rulers can comprehend and uphold this Dao, wouldn’t that mean the Dao is universally applied to the world?

Not hoarding the great Dao but willingly sharing it with all is benevolence (Ren). Wanting to share it with the world yet first teaching rulers is righteousness (Yi). Some scholars, seeing Laozi’s mention of "rejecting benevolence and righteousness," criticize him for disparaging these virtues—but this view is misguided. Alas, they fail to see that what Laozi rejects is the superficial, formalized version of benevolence and righteousness, not their true essence. No wonder they misunderstand.

(Note: "Nameless simplicity" refers to the Dao’s original, undifferentiated state; "rulers" (Houwang) denotes governing authorities; "rejecting benevolence and righteousness" means discarding artificial moral conventions to return to natural virtue.)

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of different levels of De (Virtue/Power). The highest state, "superior De," does not consciously pursue the appearance of virtue yet truly embodies it, while "inferior De" clings to maintaining virtuous appearances, thereby losing its essence.

Those with superior De follow nature's flow without forced action (Wuwei), whereas those with inferior De act with deliberate effort. Benevolence (superior ren) involves action without contrivance; righteousness (superior yi) necessitates purposeful action; ritual propriety (superior li), when unmet with reciprocity, resorts to forceful enforcement through rolled sleeves.

Here we see the sequence of moral decline: after losing the Dao comes De, after losing De comes ren, after losing ren comes yi, and after losing yi comes li. Ritual propriety emerges when loyalty and trust wane, marking the beginning of disorder. Those who pride themselves on foresight merely grasp superficial aspects of the Dao, representing the onset of foolishness.

The truly noble person builds upon substantial, genuine virtue rather than shallow displays, thus rejecting the latter in favor of the former.

Lü Huiqing explains: The true Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, so those with superior De regard "non-attainment" as true attainment. Precisely because they do not consciously pursue it, they genuinely embody De. Those with inferior De obsess over maintaining virtuous appearances—while seeming virtuous, they've lost De's true meaning.

The Wuwei of superior De means following natural spontaneity, while the forced action of inferior De stems from misunderstanding this principle. Though benevolence requires action, superior ren manifests it without contrivance; righteousness demands deliberate choices; ritual propriety emphasizes reciprocal exchange, resorting to compulsion when unreciprocated. These gradations reveal morality's progressive deterioration.

This scripture primarily discusses two key aspects:

The first part examines the process and consequences of moral decline in society. When people lose their innate nature (De), they begin emphasizing benevolence; when benevolence erodes, they stress righteousness; when righteousness fades, they turn to ritual propriety. Yet excessive focus on ritual leads to mutual accusations, diluting sincerity and trust, ultimately breeding chaos and conflict—prompting people to resort to cunning strategies. Thus ritual propriety, originally meant to govern disorder, becomes its source; while cleverness appears wise, it actually initiates folly. Human nature should remain simple and genuine—this simplicity constitutes authenticity, whereas shallowness breeds hypocrisy. Abandoning one's true nature to pursue artificiality inevitably leads to disorder. True wisdom lies in understanding essence, pursuing substance over superficial ornamentation. Therefore, a true person chooses depth over shallowness, substance over appearance, transcending the superficial norms of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and cleverness to return to the root of Dao and De.

The second part explains the vital importance of "attaining the One" (union with the Dao). In ancient times, those who attained the "One" (Dao): Heaven became clear through it, Earth found stability, spirits gained efficacy, river valleys filled with water, all things flourished, and rulers became models for the world. Without this "One," Heaven would crack, Earth quake, spirits vanish, valleys dry up, life perish, and rulers fall. Thus nobility takes humility as its foundation, and high positions rely on their base. When rulers call themselves "the Solitary," "the Desolate," or "the Unworthy" (ancient royal self-deprecations), they demonstrate this fundamental humility. True nobility doesn't seek jade-like ornamentation but remains plain as ordinary stone.

Finally, the meaning of "attaining the One" is clarified: The Dao itself is the "One." Those who truly attain the Dao merge with it completely, erasing subject-object distinctions. This acquisition through non-acquisition is called "attaining the One." Through the Dao, Heaven covers all without collapsing, Earth bears all without sinking, spirits manifest efficacy without form, and valleys remain empty yet ever full.

All things exist and flourish because they follow the principle of "One" (the fundamental law of the Dao). Just as rulers maintain their governance by grasping this principle of "One," its importance cannot be overstated—the heavens rely on it to remain clear, the earth depends on it to stay tranquil, spirits manifest through it, valleys are filled by it, all beings grow by it, and sovereigns stabilize their rule with it.

Should heaven lose this "One," it would collapse; should earth forsake it, quakes would ensue; spirits deprived of it would vanish; valleys lacking it would run dry; all things without it would perish; and rulers abandoning it would see their reign crumble. Thus true nobility is rooted in humility, just as the loftiest structures rise from solid foundations. Genuine honor lies not in superficial status, nor true elevation in outward height—this is the secret by which rulers maintain stable governance.

Though people despise terms like "orphaned," "widowed," and "unworthy" (ancient rulers' humble self-references), sovereigns adopt them precisely because they understand fundamental principles. By pursuing the ultimate state of "One," one transcends distinctions between noble and base, high and low. Just as precious jade remains but stone, and common rock shares jade's essence, the true state neither strives for jade's brilliance nor resigns to rock's lowliness, surpassing all such distinctions.

Chapter 40 discusses "the Dao's movement": the Dao always operates through reversal, with softness being its true mode of action. All things under heaven originate from "being" (concrete existence), which itself arises from "non-being" (the Dao's source).

Though the Dao's operation permeates all things in constant transformation, its essential movement always returns to the origin. Like a door pivot that remains central amidst endless turning, it accommodates infinite changes. The Dao's cosmic operation appears mighty, yet acts through gentleness—as the softest water pierces hardest stone, and formless force enters seamless spaces. Thus all things originate from "being," while "being" itself arises from "non-being": "being" generates the myriad things, but "non-being" is their ultimate source.

This passage discusses the varying levels of understanding the Dao (the Way) among different individuals and methods of cultivation. The highest level belongs to the "superior person" (上士), who upon hearing of the Dao immediately believes without doubt and diligently practices it. The intermediate level is the "middling person" (中士), who harbors half-belief and practices intermittently. The lowest level is the "inferior person" (下士), who disbelieves entirely and even mocks the Dao.

The text employs paradoxical descriptions to characterize the Dao's nature: the luminous Dao appears dim, the advancing Dao seems to retreat, the smooth Dao appears rugged. The highest De (Virtue/Power) resembles a valley, the purest white seems stained, expansive De appears insufficient, vigorous De seems indolent. The most square thing has no corners, the most precious vessel takes the longest to craft, the loudest sound is nearly inaudible, the grandest form has no shape. Thus the Dao remains subtle and nameless, yet it alone excels in nourishing all things and bringing them to completion.

Confucius said, "Were one to comprehend the Dao in the morning, one could die content in the evening," illustrating how genuine understanding of the Dao transcends concern for life and death. The method of cultivation involves daily reduction of desires and attachments—when reduced to the extreme, one attains the state of Wuwei (non-action). The highest De means following nature without deliberate action, yet its influence resonates everywhere like an echo in a valley. True purity is achieved by clearing mental distractions, akin to Zhuangzi's concept of "cleansing the mysterious mirror" (涤除玄览)—purifying the mind's reflections to attain luminous clarity.

This scripture primarily elucidates the characteristics and functions of the Dao (the Way), along with the principles of cosmic generation.

It first describes the all-encompassing nature of the Dao: Those of true De (Virtue/Power) possess expansive minds, capable of embracing all things without self-display, self-importance, or boastfulness. Those skilled in establishing virtue remain unshaken, for they are grounded in "constant non-being" (chang wu you)—eternal emptiness—appearing lax yet profoundly stable. Those who preserve their innate nature and guard their Shen (spirit) move through the world with ease, undisturbed by external events, appearing to drift with the current yet embodying pristine simplicity.

The manifestations of the Dao often appear contrary to common sense: The most square thing has no corners, the most perfect achievement seems flawed, the loudest sound is inaudible, and the grandest form is invisible. These seemingly paradoxical phenomena are all expressions of the Dao. Though hidden and nameless, the more the Dao gives to others, the more abundant it becomes. It nourishes all things, fostering their growth and maturation, which is why it is said that the Dao excels in bestowing and accomplishing.

The text then explains the process of cosmic generation: The Dao gives rise to the primordial undifferentiated unity (yi, "one"), which divides into the two Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang (er, "two"). The interaction of Yin and Yang produces harmonious Qi (san, "three"), and from these three, the myriad things are born. All things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their arms, with the two Qi blending to achieve harmony. People detest terms like "orphaned" or "widowed," yet rulers adopt them as self-referential titles, for sometimes diminishment leads to increase, and increase leads to diminishment. The violent meet untimely deaths—this principle serves as the foundation of moral instruction.

Finally, the text clarifies: When the Dao is called "one," this gives rise to "one" and "the namer of the Dao," forming "two," which in turn generates "three." Once naming begins, it proliferates endlessly, ultimately giving birth to the myriad things. This reveals how the Dao generates all existence through differentiation.

This scripture elucidates the principles of Yin-Yang balance and how softness overcomes hardness. All things carry Yin (the obscure, hidden force) on their backs while embracing Yang (the bright, manifest force) - this orientation toward light while bearing darkness reflects nature's fundamental pattern. Yet between Yin and Yang there must exist "chong qi" (harmonizing energy) to maintain equilibrium, for all beings perish when this balance is lost.

People chase glory and riches while shunning poverty and solitude, yet such external honors aren't life's true essence. Ancient sages deliberately used humble terms like "orphaned" and "destitute" when addressing nobility, reminding those in high positions to remember their lowly origins and preserve Yin-Yang equilibrium. Often, reduction brings increase while accumulation invites loss - fullness begets emptiness while humility creates abundance, for such is nature's law.

The softest substances penetrate the hardest objects: water drills through stone, formless qi permeates seamless spaces. Water's softness makes it resemble the Dao's nature, yet it conquers rigid matter; qi appears insubstantial yet infiltrates all things. This demonstrates the benefits of wuwei (non-interfering action aligned with nature). The teaching beyond words and the gain through non-action remain achievements few in this world attain.

Those who rely on brute force often meet violent ends, while the way of gentle non-contention proves foundational. Those truly understanding the Dao never cling to opinions or contend with others - precisely because they don't compete, none under heaven can compete with them. To violate this principle is to walk death's path. Though noble persons teach through varied methods, their core purpose remains returning to the Dao's root, attaining selfless perfection.

This scripture conveys three key teachings:

First, it explains the profound function of Wuwei (non-action). The subtlest Qi (vital energy), though formless and intangible, can penetrate the hardest substances. Similarly, things that appear soft and shapeless often possess the greatest power. This reveals why Wuwei is beneficial - by not forcing action, one achieves the best results. Few truly comprehend this wisdom.

Next, it contrasts fame and life to illuminate life's choices. Which matters more - reputation or life? Which is more precious - existence or possessions? Is gaining fame and fortune worth losing one's true nature? Excessive pursuit of reputation actually diminishes true dignity, while obsessive accumulation of wealth harms oneself. The truly wise understand that genuine nobility lies not in external things but in self-cultivation. Knowing contentment prevents disgrace; understanding moderation avoids danger - this is the path to longevity.

Finally, it uses dialectical thinking to illustrate how "great perfection seems flawed." The most complete things appear imperfect yet their function never fails; the fullest seems empty yet its utility is boundless. The straightest seems curved, the most skillful seems clumsy, the most eloquent seems taciturn. Movement overcomes cold while stillness conquers heat. Only through serene Wuwei can one properly govern the world.

These teachings remind us: don't be deceived by appearances, as true wisdom often contradicts common sense; excessive pursuit of external fame and fortune leads to loss of one's essence; only by maintaining a mindset of serene Wuwei can one grasp the fundamental laws of existence.

This passage primarily elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and the root causes of order and chaos in the world.

Regarding the nature of the Dao: The Dao has neither beginning nor end, appearing incomplete yet never exhausted. Precisely because it seems to have gaps, it renews itself daily. Though all things draw from it, it never runs dry—this is true abundance. The Dao appears empty yet provides endlessly; the straightest seems bent yet is whole; the most skillful appears clumsy yet shapes all things; the most eloquent seems inarticulate yet communicates without words. All this because the Dao possesses fundamental essence.

Illustrative examples: Heat and cold are natural phenomena of heaven and earth. Humans can withstand cold through momentary exertion and resist heat through temporary stillness. Maintaining the clarity and stillness of wuwei (non-action) enables one to respond to all changes under heaven. Thus the Dao's achievements appear flawed yet remain unbroken; its fullness seems empty yet is inexhaustible; its straightness appears curved yet extends; its skill seems clumsy yet is exquisite; its eloquence appears mute yet conveys perfect understanding.

Concerning order and chaos in the world: When the world is at peace, warhorses till the fields; when chaos reigns, warhorses give birth in the wilderness. The greatest crime is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, the gravest fault is unbridled greed. Only those who know contentment can maintain lasting satisfaction.

Explaining the causes: In times of peace, the people's wisdom is applied to farming, and thievery and conflict disappear through lack of desire. During chaos, desires become the root of warfare, and even borders cannot bring stability. The source of evil lies in indulging desires—the insatiable remain unsatisfied even in abundance, where surplus becomes misfortune. Unbridled greed invites resentment, leading to endless conflict.

These two chapters of the "Authentic Scripture Commentary on the Dao and De" discuss the cognitive approach and spiritual states of Daoist practitioners.

Chapter Four explains that true wisdom does not rely on external exploration. One can understand worldly affairs without stepping outside the door, perceive the Dao (natural laws) without looking through the window, yet paradoxically, the farther one travels physically, the less one truly comprehends. The sage understands principles without personal experience, names things without direct observation, and accomplishes great deeds without forced action. This is because the fundamental principles of all things in the universe are contained within oneself—grasping this essence leads to comprehensive understanding. Consider our vast world: if one insists on personally visiting every place to gain knowledge, the scope remains limited. The Dao is profoundly deep—if one demands visual confirmation for understanding, perception remains confined by what the eyes can see. Therefore, the sage who comprehends the fundamental principle of the Dao transcends the limitations of specific experiences.

Chapter Forty-Eight contrasts the paths of "pursuing learning" and "cultivating the Dao." Those who seek knowledge accumulate information daily, while those who practice the Dao diminish attachments daily. Through continuous reduction of desires and delusions, one ultimately reaches the state of wuwei (non-action). This wuwei isn't passive inaction, but rather the natural state of "effortless accomplishment." Governing the world also requires this attitude—constant interference and forced actions lead to poor governance. Unenlightened individuals pursue learning to accumulate knowledge ("daily increase through study"), while enlightened practitioners cultivate by releasing attachments ("daily decrease through Dao practice"). Yet mere reduction isn't enough—one must even release the concept of "reduction" itself to achieve true wuwei. Wuwei means eliminating all artificial effort, while "effortless accomplishment" means not clinging even to the concept of wuwei—this is called "transcending learning without worries." Those who attain this state exist beyond worldly constraints, connected to all things yet unbound, governing the world with natural ease.

In addressing the way of governing for rulers, Zhuangzi reveals through profound inquiry that truly enlightened rulers refrain from deliberate action (Wuwei), while those constantly seeking to impose their will ultimately fail in governing the world.

The sage (referring to a ruler who has attained the Dao) holds no fixed subjective views, but instead takes the people's will as his own. To the virtuous I respond with virtue; to the non-virtuous I also respond with virtue—this is "De's goodness" (authentic goodness). To the trustworthy I extend trust; to the untrustworthy I also extend trust—this is "De's trustworthiness" (authentic trust). When governing the world, the sage proceeds with reverent caution, returning all people's hearts to primal simplicity. The people focus intently on the sage's words and deeds, while the sage nurtures them like children.

The human heart is truly mysterious! Grasp it and it's present; release it and it vanishes. It comes and goes without fixed timing, its destination unknown. Precisely because of this, the heart has no fixed form to measure, its transformations unbound by time or confined to particular places. The sage fully comprehends the heart's essential nature, thus able to discard personal prejudices and take the people's hearts as his own. Like a mirror that assumes no fixed shape but simply reflects what appears before it, the sage regards his own heart this way, and the people's hearts likewise—where are the absolute standards of virtue and non-virtue, trust and distrust?

What we call "De" (Virtue/Power) refers to the fundamental source from which all things grow. "Xing" (nature) denotes the distinct patterns by which form carries spirit. Through cultivation that returns to original nature, one ultimately unites with the Dao. Thus we see that De is the origin of Xing, which means fundamentally there exists nothing that is inherently non-virtuous or untrustworthy. In governing the world, the sage maintains constant vigilance, helping people purify their hearts—preventing the virtuous from becoming arrogant and the errant from abandoning themselves. The people focus on the sage's every word and gesture, while the sage treats them with parental kindness and magnanimity. Even facing the non-virtuous and untrustworthy, he responds with virtue and trust, understanding that the human heart is inherently changeable, just like his own.

Regarding the way of life and death (Chapter 50 on entering and exiting life), it is said: clinging to life leads precisely to the realm of death, while following nature preserves life.

In the journey from birth to death, the portion belonging to "life" constitutes three-tenths, while that belonging to "death" also makes up three-tenths. Another three-tenths of people who could have survived instead walk toward the realm of death—why is this so? Because they excessively pursue the pleasures of life.

It is said that those who truly understand the Dao of nurturing life encounter no rhinoceroses or tigers when traveling on land, nor require armor or weapons when entering battlefields. Rhinoceroses find no place to gore them, tigers no place to claw them, weapons no place to pierce them. Why? Because they possess no vulnerable point that could lead to death.

The continuation of life is actually the continuation of death, while death marks the beginning of new life—birth and death are fundamentally a process of mutual transformation. Those three-tenths of "life" represent people who survive naturally by following life's principles; those three-tenths of "death" represent those who perish naturally by following death's principles. The remaining three-tenths are like leopards nourishing their internal organs only to have tigers devour their exterior, or those strengthening their outer form only to have illness erode their inner being. These people don't disregard life, but rather lose it through improper methods.

Why say they excessively pursue life? Those following the natural course of birth and death need no explanation, but those deliberately seeking longevity yet meeting death—herein lies the problem. Those truly skilled in nurturing life neither cling inwardly to bodily existence nor outwardly to external threats. When neither mind nor external phenomena can be grasped, where then could there be any so-called realm of death? How then could they be harmed by wild beasts or weapons?

Chapter 51 speaks of how the Dao generates all things and De (Virtue) nourishes them. All things take form through the Dao and grow according to their environment. Thus all things honor the Dao and cherish De. The Dao's honored status and De's cherished value come not through any bestowal, but emerge naturally as such.

All beings in heaven and earth exist according to natural laws. The Dao (cosmic origin) gives birth to all things, nurtures their growth and maturation, while providing sustenance and protection. The Dao creates without possessing, accomplishes without claiming credit, guides without dominating—this is the most profound De (Virtue/Power, Xuan De).

The commentary explains: All things originate from the formless Dao, yet their gestation depends on the "One" (the primordial state of the Dao). Before forms manifest, the nameless state is the Dao, while the state of "One" is De. When concrete things take shape, they merely display external appearances, no longer revealing their essential nature of creation and gestation.

Once physical forms emerge, creatures destined to be naked will be naked, those meant to have scales or feathers will have them, and the journey from youth to prime to aging and death follows inevitability. Thus it is said: The Dao creates life, De nurtures beings, matter constitutes forms, and tendencies determine development. Yet tendencies arise from forms, forms originate from De, and De stems from the Dao. Therefore, Dao and De are the root, while forms and tendencies are the branches. The root is noble while branches are humble—hence all things honor the Dao and cherish De. This reverence isn't bestowed by anyone but occurs spontaneously.

Precisely because of this, the seemingly Wuwei (non-action) and soft Dao can overcome rigid forms and tendencies. This explains why rulers can transform all beings—their fundamental power lies in following the Dao rather than relying on authority. Although we say the Dao creates, De nurtures, matter forms, and tendencies actualize, ultimately every process—growth, nourishment, maturation, protection—is the Dao's operation. Yet the Dao remains nameless; thus it creates without possessing, acts without dependence, guides without domination. This is Xuan De.

The chapter "All Things Have Their Beginning" states: All things under heaven have an origin, which may be regarded as their mother. Knowing the mother (origin), one understands the children (all things); understanding all things, one returns to safeguard the origin—thus remaining free from harm throughout life. Blocking sensory desires and closing the gates of temptation brings lifelong freedom from worry; conversely, indulging desires and chasing worldly affairs makes one incurably lost. Perceiving subtleties is called wisdom; maintaining softness is called strength. Using the light of wisdom to illuminate inner awareness while avoiding self-inflicted calamities—this is called following the constant Dao.

The commentary explains: The "mother" referred to in "all things have their beginning" is precisely that existence described earlier as "not knowing its name, we forcibly call it Dao." The Dao existed before heaven and earth took form—it is nameless.

This passage elucidates the concept of Dao (the Way) as the origin of all things in the Daodejing. Though Dao itself is nameless, it serves as the fundamental source of heaven, earth, and the myriad beings. While knowing Dao may seem easy, truly comprehending and maintaining it proves difficult.

The author claims to have realized this fundamental principle (the Mother) and aligned it with his inner being. Understanding that all things under heaven originate from this source, if one can preserve this root without losing it, external phenomena cannot harm the essence. This explains how one can remain free from danger throughout life. The practical method involves: blocking sensory desires ("blocking its openings") and closing the gates to external temptations ("shutting its doors"), thereby keeping the mind undisturbed.

The text explains: When mental fluctuations arise and one indulges them, it's like opening desire's gate ("there are openings"). When one accepts external attractions, it's like unlocking the door to disturbances ("there are doors"). True practitioners seal these passages to maintain inner tranquility. The ancient sages who could relinquish thoughts and follow their natural forms embodied this principle.

Conversely, indulging desires ("opening its openings") while busying oneself with worldly affairs without restraint ("furthering its affairs") makes the mind a lodging place for external things, causing loss of fundamental grounding. Only those who preserve the root can maintain stillness at thought's first stirring. This stillness enables resonance with all phenomena—hence "perceiving the subtle is called clarity," and preserving the formless, supremely soft Dao makes one invincible to external forces.

The conclusion emphasizes: one must both employ wisdom to observe subtle mental movements ("use its light") and return to innate clarity ("return to its brightness"). By neither opening desire's gates nor entangling in worldly affairs, one avoids misfortune. Thus one attains profound, unfathomable harmony ("inheriting constancy")—union with the eternal Dao.

Chapter 53 teaches: If I practice the Great Dao (Dadao) with only superficial understanding, I'll constantly fear straying from the right path. The Dao itself is perfectly straightforward, yet people always prefer shortcuts. When courts become corrupt, fields lie fallow, and granaries stand empty—yet officials wear ornate robes, carry sharp swords, indulge in lavish feasts, and hoard excessive wealth—this is the behavior of robber chiefs, completely contrary to the true Dao!

Lü Huiqing (author of the "Commentary on the Dao De Jing") explains: A nobleman cultivating the Dao must purify his heart-mind completely. When purification reaches its ultimate state, even facing myriad transformations won't disturb inner tranquility—how could there be any fear of deviation? With incomplete purification and partial understanding, one perpetually worries about straying. The Great Dao is naturally plain and accessible, requiring no forced comprehension. Yet people insist on grasping it through limited understanding, like abandoning the main road for narrow bypaths.

Human life depends fundamentally on grain, which comes from cultivated fields. Well-tended fields fill granaries; full granaries ensure ample food; ample food creates abundant resources; abundant resources bring national stability. Practicing the Dao with half-understanding resembles neglecting fundamentals (fields) while focusing on superficial adornment (fine robes, sharp swords), indulging pleasures and accumulating wealth—how does this differ from banditry? Is this the true Dao?

Chapter 54 states: What's well-established cannot be uprooted; what's well-embraced cannot slip away—such transmission continues through generations without cease. Cultivating the Dao within oneself makes virtue (De) authentic; within the family, virtue overflows; within the community, virtue endures; within the nation, virtue flourishes; throughout the world, virtue becomes universal. Therefore observe others through oneself, other families through one's own, other communities through one's hometown, other nations through one's country, and all ages through the present world. How do I comprehend the world's patterns? Precisely through this method.

Lü Huiqing explains: Ordinary things established in this world will eventually be uprooted. Only the Dao practitioner's establishment of "constant non-being" (changwu) and "constant being" (changyou) constitutes what truly cannot be uprooted. Ordinary things held fast in this world will eventually slip away. Only the Dao practitioner's...

When a person maintains mental tranquility, they can truly preserve their inner spiritual nature without dissipation. Once this inner cultivation is established, its transmitted influence becomes continuous and unbroken, just as ancestral sacrifices are passed down through generations without interruption.

People often speak of cultivating De (Virtue), yet frequently focus only on external achievements like governing nations, unaware that the root of cultivating De lies within oneself. Thus it is said: Self-cultivation produces genuine De. If one cultivates only themselves without extending this to family, nation, and the world, such cultivation remains incomplete—cultivating one's family leaves De in surplus; cultivating a village makes De enduring; cultivating a nation makes De abundant; cultivating the world makes De universal. Zhuangzi's view that "the profound essence of Dao cultivates the self, its remnants govern the state, and its coarsest aspects order the world" originates from this understanding.

How then does one cultivate the self? The method lies in observing the self through the self. What does "observing the self through the self" mean? When I contemplate the origin of my physical existence, I understand the root of the body; when I then observe the source of this very act of observation, I comprehend the origin of awareness itself. Knowing both the body's source and awareness's foundation makes self-cultivation complete, requiring no external seeking. The same principle applies when observing family through family, nation through nation, and the world through the world—the reasoning is interconnected. The ancient sages' ability to contain the world within the world employed precisely this method.

Chapter 55 describes the state of "profoundly embracing De": Those deeply imbued with De resemble newborn infants—venomous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't harm them. Though their sinews seem weak, their grip remains firm; though unaware of sexual union, they exhibit natural vitality—this demonstrates abundant Jing (essence). Crying all day without hoarseness shows harmonious Yuanqi (primordial energy). Understanding harmony is called "constancy"; comprehending constant principles is called "illumination." Excessive pursuit of longevity invites misfortune, while forcing Qi (vital energy) through cunning constitutes brute force. When things become excessively strong, they age—this contradicts Dao, and what contradicts Dao soon perishes.

Human De is most pristine at birth. As we grow, senses become distracted by external objects, the mind occupied by inner desires, and increasing greed dilutes our originally profound De. Dao practitioners must reduce these excessive cravings, returning to authentic De through spiritual cultivation, ultimately achieving the pure simplicity of infancy. Thus "profoundly embracing De" resembles the state of a newborn child.

This scripture passage primarily discusses how spiritual cultivators should maintain the innocent purity of an infant, living in harmony with nature. Though infants have soft and weak muscles and bones, they can naturally clench their fists; though unaware of gender relations, they exhibit physiological responses—this is because their Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) are abundant. Even when crying all day, their throats never grow hoarse, for their hearts are serene and free from afflictions. If cultivators can attain such a state of purity, they will merge completely with the Dao (the Way) and all things in heaven and earth.

The text mentions that the highest pursuit of the Dao is returning to the original, authentic state of life (复命, "returning to destiny"), while those with profound De (Virtue/Power) can comprehend harmony (知和, "knowing harmony"). Both states represent eternal and unchanging truths (常, "constancy"). Those who understand this principle follow nature spontaneously, acting without deliberate pursuit or purpose. Their bodies become still like withered branches, their minds calm as dead ashes. In this state, there is no need to consciously control one's breath, for forced control would only invite misfortune.

Maintaining emptiness and softness aligns with the Dao, ensuring lasting existence free from danger. Pursuing fullness and hardness, however, belongs only to ordinary things—when things reach their peak of strength, they inevitably decay. This is not the law of the Dao. Thus, the scripture states that "when things reach their prime, they age" (物壮则老), which contradicts the Dao. Whatever is not in accord with the Dao will soon perish.

The later passage on "those who know do not speak" (知者不言) explains: Those who truly understand the Dao do not engage in empty talk, while those who love to speak lack genuine comprehension. Cultivation requires closing the senses (塞其兑闭其门, "blocking the openings and shutting the gates"), blunting sharp edges (挫其锐), resolving entanglements (解其纷), harmonizing radiance (和其光), and blending with the mundane (同其尘)—thus achieving profound unity with the Dao (玄同, "mysterious unity"). In this way, one transcends distinctions of closeness and distance, benefit and harm, nobility and baseness, becoming the most revered under heaven.

This scripture primarily discusses two main themes:

The first section elucidates the state of "profound unity" (xuantong). Those who truly comprehend the Dao attain the highest wisdom of "knowing the eternal" (zhichang), naturally accomplishing all things without deliberate action (wuwei). They close their sensory gates ("blocking the openings and shutting the doors"), temper their sharp edges ("blunting their sharpness"), resolve entanglements ("untying their knots"), and harmoniously coexist with all things ("blending their light and merging with the dust"). This state transcends distinctions between intimacy and estrangement, benefit and harm, nobility and baseness, remaining unswayed by external matters. True wisdom lies in internal realization rather than verbal expression, hence the saying "Those who know don't speak; those who speak don't know."

The second section addresses governance principles. To govern a state, one should employ proper methods ("governing the state with correctness"); in warfare, one may use unorthodox strategies ("employing the military with surprise"); but to win the world requires non-interference ("gaining the world through non-interference"). The author observes: the more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more weapons are stockpiled, the greater the national chaos; the more clever techniques emerge, the more bizarre occurrences arise; the more laws are enacted, the more thieves multiply. Therefore, the sage advocates governance through wuwei, allowing people to transform naturally (zihua), prosper naturally (zifu), correct themselves naturally (zizheng), and return to simplicity naturally (zipu). The text concludes by distinguishing between governance and military strategy as two separate methods, emphasizing that proper governance requires steadfast adherence to correct principles for lasting stability.

[Note: The phrases "blocking the openings and shutting the doors" refer to closing sensory channels; "blunting their sharpness and untying their knots" represent Daoist cultivation methods for tempering one's edge and resolving entanglements; "profound unity" denotes the supreme state of merging with the Dao.]

This passage expounds the fundamental principles of governing a state and employing military force. Only upright and harmonious methods can ensure lasting peace, for weapons are inauspicious instruments unfit for noble rulers. Thus, those who follow the Dao never rely on military might, yet achieve enduring stability. While unexpected crises in warfare may require unorthodox stratagems, statecraft must always adhere to proper principles.

Governing through cunning and calculation may appear advantageous, but a realm ruled solely by scheming intellect cannot be well ordered. Hence the saying: Govern with proper principles, wage war with unorthodox tactics, and win the people's hearts through Wuwei (non-action). How do we know Wuwei gains the world? Precisely because we observe how rulers who force their will inevitably lose it.

Those sovereigns who violate the natural principle of Wuwei establish countless prohibitions to prevent what they dislike, only to impoverish their people who lose their livelihoods. They manufacture excessive weapons to satisfy selfish desires, plunging the state into chaos. The poorer the people grow, the more they resort to crafty schemes; the more chaotic the realm becomes, the more bizarre phenomena emerge; the more numerous the laws, the more thieves multiply.

Laws can only restrain what they explicitly prohibit; decrees only bind those willing to obey. Impoverished people will defy commands, and chaotic states breed lawless acts—this explains why harsher edicts produce more outlaws. All these calamities stem from rulers forcing their will upon the world.

Therefore the sage declares: Through my Wuwei, the people transform themselves; through my love of stillness, they become upright; through my non-interference, they grow prosperous; through my desirelessness, they return to simplicity. This demonstrates how Wuwei wins the world. Were this truly practiced, we wouldn't see crafty people, bizarre occurrences, proliferating laws breeding thieves; nor excessive prohibitions impoverishing subjects, nor weapon stockpiles creating chaos. All such disorders arise solely from rulers imposing their willful actions.

When rulers excessively pursue profit, the people will resort to cunning techniques, and novel yet useless objects proliferate; the more intricate and severe the laws become, the more rampant banditry grows. To change this situation, the key lies in adhering to the principle of "wuwei" (non-action, refraining from forcibly interfering with natural laws).

Because it upholds wuwei, it values tranquility. Wuwei allows the people to be naturally transformed, abandoning thoughts of opportunism, so that clever tricks and extravagant crafts do not flourish; tranquility enables the people to regulate themselves, and banditry naturally disappears. In this state of governance through wuwei, society is free from strife, and people are without greed. Without strife, the people naturally prosper and do not fall into poverty due to taboos; without greed, the people remain simple and are not deluded by intricate objects. This is the virtuous cycle that forms naturally.

Chapter 58 explains: When policies are relaxed and ambiguous, the people's customs remain honest and sincere; when policies are strict and meticulous, the people become cunning and flawed. Misfortune conceals good fortune, and good fortune harbors misfortune—who can discern the subtlety within? The normal may become abnormal, and kindness may turn to evil—this has long perplexed people. Therefore, the sage is square yet does not wound, upright yet not harsh, straightforward yet not unrestrained, bright yet not glaring.

Governing the state with the correct Dao and managing the world without disturbing the people makes policies appear generous. This "muddled" (seemingly oblivious) governance does not pride itself on scrutinizing every detail, so the people's customs remain "pure" (simple and natural). Conversely, governing the state with cleverness and managing the world through excessive intervention makes policies appear "sharp" (overly shrewd), which is the opposite of "muddled," leading to "flawed" (deceptive and incomplete) customs.

Pure customs allow people to abide in their true nature, undisturbed by opposing concepts like misfortune and good fortune, normal and abnormal, good and evil. Deceptive customs, however, make people evade misfortune yet not necessarily escape it, pursue good fortune yet not necessarily attain it. What seems normal may become abnormal; what seems kind may turn evil—people fundamentally cannot distinguish the boundaries between misfortune and good fortune, normal and abnormal, only multiplying cleverness until governance becomes impossible.

This is because circumstances have beginnings and endings, and worldly affairs are ever-changing. In a state of purity, what seems contrary to reason may precisely be fitting, and what the world sees as misfortune may be the foundation of good fortune; what seems fitting may conceal danger, and what the world sees as good fortune may harbor misfortune. Who can truly grasp the patterns within? People chase different goals, and what is called "correct" may not be so. What is deemed correct today may become abnormal tomorrow; what is considered abnormal here may be correct elsewhere. The boundaries between good and evil are equally elusive.

The distinctions between fortune and misfortune, righteousness and wickedness, good and evil in this world are often difficult to define clearly. Ever since humans developed cognitive abilities, they have been trapped in persistent delusions—a condition that has endured for ages. Why then impose harsh and burdensome decrees that only weigh them down further, preventing their return to original simplicity?

Thus, the sage remains square-edged yet never cuts others, never forcing personal judgments upon the world. Upright yet not severe, they govern all things without causing harm. Straightforward yet not unrestrained, they yield when necessary to preserve the whole. Radiant yet not glaring, they illuminate inwardly to reflect their true nature. There is no secret to this beyond embracing generosity and relinquishing petty scrutiny.

In governing people and serving heaven, the supreme principle is "restraint" (frugality and moderation). By practicing restraint, one returns early to original simplicity. This early return means accumulating De (Virtue/Power) continuously; accumulating De ensures unimpeded success, which leads to unfathomable depths. Reaching such depths allows one to preserve the state; grasping the root of governance ensures longevity. This is the principle of deep roots and enduring vision.

If governance disregards human nature, it cannot truly govern. If service to heaven ignores heaven's nature, it cannot truly serve. The human Shen (spirit) permeates all directions, reaching everywhere and nurturing all things—a function identical to that of the Celestial Emperor. This is the essence shared by humans and heaven. The pure and simple Dao lies in preserving the Shen without dissipation. By maintaining unity with the divine, what person cannot be governed, what heaven cannot be served?

Thus, the supreme principle in governing people and serving heaven is restraint. Only by treasuring the Shen and avoiding its reckless expenditure can one return early to original simplicity. If the Shen is exhausted without restraint, recovery may become impossible. Humans are born with abundant De; if used sparingly and returned to early, De grows ever more substantial. Continuous accumulation of De leads to the highest state—where even water, fire, cold, heat, and wild beasts cannot harm. What then remains unconquerable?

This passage discusses the vital importance of accumulating De (Virtue/Power). Laozi teaches that through continuous accumulation of De, one becomes invincible. If obstacles still remain unconquered, it indicates insufficient depth in Dao cultivation. When one truly attains the state of omnipotence, paradoxically no one can perceive the limits of their capabilities.

Those who possess land and wealth may appear to have much, but true mastery lies in remaining unbound by material possessions. Only those who transcend worldly desires can genuinely command all things. Such individuals may govern nations yet remain unburdened by worldly concerns. Thus, only those whose limits remain invisible can properly govern a country.

The text employs a mother-child metaphor: comprehending the root (mother) allows understanding of branches (children); understanding the branches leads back to the root. Following this principle ensures lifelong protection from danger. The fundamental method of governance lies in this principle of sustainable maintenance.

The principle of "restraint" (referring to frugality and conservation) forms the foundation for longevity and enduring vision. Human Shen (spirit) constitutes the root of life - understanding how to conserve and nurture it deepens this foundation, allowing life to extend continuously. Longevity resembles a plant's vital stem: protecting it ensures enduring life.

Throughout, the passage emphasizes the essential importance of conserving Shen and nurturing De, presenting this as the fundamental Dao for both governance and life cultivation.

Governing a great nation is like cooking small fish—using the Dao (the natural principle of Wuwei/non-action) to rule the world, so that even spirits and deities do not manifest their powers to cause harm. This does not mean the spirits lose their efficacy, but rather that they refrain from harming the people. The sage likewise does not harm the people, and when neither side harms the other, their De (Virtue/Power) merges and flows together.

Lü Huiqing explains: When one grasps the fundamental Dao of governance, ruling even the largest nation is not difficult. Just as one should not stir fish excessively while cooking, small fish should remain whole and unbroken. Governing a great nation follows the same principle—excessive interference causes harm. To rule the world with the Dao means establishing perfect institutions without division or injury. When this state is achieved, even spirits and deities do not manifest, all because nothing in the world is harmed.

Why is this so? Spirits and deities are not inherently without efficacy, but if they mingle with humans, disrupt order, or display supernatural powers, they inevitably cause harm. The reason they do not manifest is that the sage governs the world with the Dao, ensuring people do not lose their innate nature or forsake their De, avoiding extremes of sorrow or joy that disrupt the harmony of Yin-Yang. The sage dwells in a state of primal simplicity, free from contention and worldly desires. Precisely because the sage does not harm others, Yin and Yang remain balanced, spirits and deities stay tranquil, all things are unharmed, and living beings attain longevity—thus, the deities naturally refrain from harming people.

When deities do not harm people, their efficacy goes unnoticed. From this, we see that spirits not manifesting does not mean they lack power, but rather that they do not harm people and thus do not display their abilities. And deities do not harm people because the sage does not harm them. If the sage fails to preserve humanity’s innate purity, causing people to lose their natural virtue, the seasons will fall into disorder, heat and cold will become erratic, and humans will frequently harm the spirits—how then could the spirits refrain from harming them? Only when deities do not harm people will they bestow De upon humanity; only when deities do not harm people will humanity in turn offer De to them. Thus, it is said: "When neither side harms the other, their De merges and flows together."

A great nation should be like the lower reaches of a river—soft yet overcoming the rigid, embracing all things.

A great state should position itself humbly like the lower reaches of a river, thereby becoming the converging center of all under heaven. Just as the female (the receptive) often overcomes the male (the active) through stillness, maintaining humility and tranquility is the way to prevail. Thus, when a great state treats smaller states with humility, it wins their allegiance; when a smaller state approaches a great state with deference, it gains acceptance. Whether the great state actively humbles itself to attract smaller states or the smaller state passively submits for survival, the essence remains the same: the great state seeks to embrace all, while the smaller state seeks protection. Both achieve their desires this way. Therefore, the more powerful a state, the more it ought to maintain humility.

This commentary explains: Those who govern a state with the Dao (the Way) naturally avoid harming the people. But if they do not understand how to interact with other states, even without direct harm, they may indirectly cause suffering. A great state positioning itself downstream as the world’s gathering point mirrors how the female overcomes the male through stillness—this is the proper method for engaging with the world and protecting the people. If a great state truly lowers itself to draw others in, it grasps the principle of the female prevailing through stillness. "The great wins over the small" means the great state, though under no obligation, voluntarily humbles itself to attract smaller states; "the small wins over the great" refers to the smaller state’s necessary deference for survival. In truth, the great state merely seeks to encompass the small, while the small state merely seeks refuge—when both act with humility, each attains its goal. Here, "winning" means gaining hearts without loss. Since both great and small states should be humble, why emphasize the greater responsibility of the great state? Because if a small state fails to defer to a great one, it not only forfeits protection but invites disaster. Thus, the small state’s humility need not be stressed, while the great state’s humility must be strongly encouraged.

Chapter 62 speaks of the Dao as the mystery of all things: The Dao is both the treasure of the good and the safeguard of the flawed. Kind words earn respect, and virtuous deeds move others. Even those who are not good—how could the Dao ever abandon them?

This passage expounds on the preciousness and universality of the Dao (the Way). All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects, achieving harmony through "chong qi" (the harmonization of Yin and Yang energies), with nothing existing beyond the laws of the Dao. Like the most profound and revered chamber in a house, all things possess their essential core—and this core is the Dao itself.

For virtuous people, the Dao is the most treasured possession, for understanding that goodness originates from the Dao grants inexhaustible wealth. Even for those lacking virtue, the Dao offers protection—by recognizing their faults and aligning with the Dao, even the gravest offenses can be resolved. Fine words may earn praise, and noble conduct may influence others, yet the Dao's function far surpasses these—it embraces all things like heaven and earth, never abandoning anyone, whether good or evil.

Though positions like the Son of Heaven (the supreme ruler) and the Three Dukes (highest officials) may be established with ceremonial offerings of precious jade discs and teams of four horses (symbolizing nobility), none compare in worth to reverently following the Dao. The ancients particularly revered the Dao precisely because through it, one could both attain desires and be absolved of wrongdoing.

Chapter 63 discusses the wisdom of Wuwei (non-action). One should act through non-action, handle affairs by taking no forced action, and savor things with a flavorless mindset. Tackle great matters by starting with small steps, approach difficult tasks from their easiest points, and repay resentment with De (Virtue/Power). All of the world's difficult situations originate from subtle beginnings, and all major events develop from minor ones.

In governing the great affairs of the world, one must begin with the small. Therefore, the sage never seeks to accomplish great things. Precisely because of this, they are able to achieve great accomplishments. Those who make promises lightly will inevitably lack credibility, and those who view matters too simply will certainly encounter greater difficulties. For this reason, the sage always approaches things from their most difficult aspect, and thus ultimately encounters no difficulties.

The Commentary explains: The actions of those who have attained the Dao are often realized through "Wuwei" (non-action). Because they adopt an attitude of non-action, affairs are naturally accomplished; when affairs are naturally accomplished, they appear unremarkable; appearing unremarkable, even upon repeated reflection they seem plain and ordinary. Why is this so? When we deliberately pursue action, we actually lose the true way of action—thus true action precisely comes from non-action. Deliberate action creates various complications, while governing through non-action leaves nothing to be done. Moreover, even when repeatedly contemplating this state, it remains simple and flavorless. Here, "contemplating" refers to repeated reflection and realization.

This Dao—you look but cannot see it, listen but cannot hear it, grasp but cannot hold it. Even when repeatedly investigating, you ultimately return to the state of "no-thing." Precisely because of this, the Dao can be both great and small, both abundant and scarce—its quantity and scale depend entirely on ourselves. Those who harbor resentment originally have no fixed position, therefore even toward unkind people I respond with kindness—this is the goodness of De (Virtue); toward untrustworthy people I respond with trustworthiness—this is the reliability of De. By responding to all things with virtue, what people find hardest to forget is resentment, but when resentment is resolved through virtue, the mind remains unburdened.

Furthermore, one must anticipate difficulty when matters are easy, and focus on the grand scheme when dealing with minutiae. The world's difficult matters invariably begin with the easy; the world's great affairs invariably start from the small. Yet I always maintain a state of non-action. If action becomes necessary, one must begin with what is easy and small—this is what is meant by the state of "knowing the subtle as if divine" (perceiving the incipient like a spirit). When this principle is comprehended within the heart and extended to governing the world and state, no difficulties will arise. Therefore the sage never seeks to accomplish great things, yet is able to achieve great accomplishments—because they focus on the grand scheme through minutiae, rather than striving for great actions.

Making promises is easy; fulfilling them is difficult. If promises are made without caution, their fulfillment becomes arduous. Planning when matters are easy makes affairs simple; waiting until they're difficult makes affairs complex. Not beginning preparations when matters are easy, but only acting when they become difficult—this naturally leads to hardship. This is why ordinary people lack credibility and frequently encounter difficulties. Therefore the sage always approaches things from their most difficult aspect, and thus ultimately encounters no difficulties—because they anticipate difficulty when matters are easy, rather than responding only when true difficulty arises.

Things are easiest to grasp when stable, problems are easiest to plan for before signs appear, fragile objects break easily, and subtle things disperse readily. Address matters before they arise, and bring order before chaos takes form. Towering trees grow from tiny sprouts; nine-tiered platforms are built basket by basket; thousand-mile journeys begin with a single step.

Forceful action leads to failure; clinging control results in loss. Thus the sage (one who has attained the Dao) neither acts recklessly nor fails, neither clings nor loses. Ordinary people often fail when success seems imminent—if they treated endings with the same care as beginnings, failure would not occur. Therefore, the sage seeks what others neglect, valuing not rare treasures; studies what others ignore, correcting common faults, assisting all things in their natural development without presumptuous interference.

Further explanation: Stability makes things easy to handle—once danger appears, resolution becomes difficult. Problems are easily planned for before emergence—once manifested, solutions grow elusive. Fragility invites breakage before strength can form; subtlety risks dispersion before prominence can emerge. This principle governs all things, especially the human mind. Understanding this makes governing nations effortless.

The state of stability and absence of signs means addressing matters before they occur; fragility and subtlety mean ordering before chaos arises. Great trees grow from sprouts—showing how vast emerges from small; high platforms rise from foundations—revealing how height begins below; long journeys start with steps—demonstrating how distance originates nearby. Addressing matters before manifestation and ordering before chaos formation follows this fundamental principle. Acting before occurrence means accomplishing through non-action (Wuwei); ordering before disorder means governing through non-governance. Attempting solutions after problems arise leads to failure despite striving for success; imposing order after chaos forms results in loss despite efforts to stabilize. Thus the sage addresses matters preemptively—naturally effortless, thus avoiding failure; orders before disorder—naturally unattached, thus avoiding loss.

Ordinary people act only after problems appear, often failing at the brink of success because they miss this fundamental truth. Understanding how greatness grows from smallness, height rises from below, and distance begins nearby—maintaining consistent caution throughout—prevents failure. Therefore, the sage pursues what others overlook (the Dao), coveting no rare treasures, thereby transcending worldly desires to attain clarity—this constitutes true wisdom. Studying what others neglect (the natural way), they rectify common errors, assisting all things' spontaneous development without presumptuous interference.

The ancient masters who truly understood the Dao (the Way) did not govern the people with cunning wisdom, but preserved their natural simplicity. The reason people become difficult to govern is precisely because of their excessive cleverness. To rule a nation with cunning artifice brings calamity, while governing without such cleverness creates blessing. Recognizing this distinction constitutes the fundamental principle of statecraft. To consistently abide by this principle is what we call "Mysterious De" (profound Virtue). This Mysterious De is unfathomably deep and infinitely vast—though it appears contrary to ordinary logic, it ultimately achieves perfect harmony.

The commentary explains: While ordinary people appear sharp-witted, I alone seem dull and confused; where common folk are calculating and shrewd, I alone remain simple and unassuming. This seemingly foolish state of mind reflects the authentic realm of ancient Dao-realized sages. If rulers maintain this disposition, they naturally guide people not through clever "enlightenment," but by returning them to primal simplicity. When people lose their innate nature—pursuing superficial glamor while abandoning essential substance—their excessive cleverness makes them ungovernable. To truly govern well, one must eliminate cunning artifice and transform people through the Dao's natural simplicity, whereby they spontaneously return to harmony. Governing through cleverness only breeds chaos.

Not understanding the principle of following nature's course while forcibly interfering constitutes disaster. Governing with cunning wisdom violates natural law, hence "using cleverness to govern makes one a thief of the state." Governing without clever artifice preserves the Dao's supreme simplicity, grasping the root of statecraft—thus "not using cleverness to govern brings the state's blessing." Comprehending these truths applies not only to governance but to self-cultivation. Just as all things endure by holding to their roots, governing without cleverness brings blessing; conversely, indulging in cunning and meddlesome action leads inevitably to ruin. Isn't this distinction between using and not using cleverness precisely the principle we should follow?

Those who truly understand this principle without violating it possess what may be called "Mysterious De." When Virtue reaches this profound state, it becomes immeasurably deep and boundlessly vast. Though it seems incomprehensible by ordinary standards, at its ultimate expression it enables complete return to fundamental truth with all things, achieving perfect harmony.

This passage expounds on the concept of "profound virtue" (Xuande) and the way of humble conduct. Laozi employs the metaphor of rivers and seas: the reason rivers and seas become kings of all streams is precisely because they excel at occupying the lowest positions. Similarly, when sages wish to stand above others, they must use humble speech; to lead others, they must place themselves behind. Thus, though occupying elevated positions, people feel no oppression; though walking ahead, none feel harmed.

The text reveals that true rulers must emulate rivers and seas in their mastery of staying low. Emperor Shun became known throughout the world precisely through this "profound virtue." When sages govern the world, though holding lofty status, they refer to themselves as "solitary, bereft, and unworthy" (humble self-references), willingly bearing the nation's disgrace and calamities. They do not actively compete for precedence but move in accordance with circumstances. Precisely because they contend with none, none in the world can contend with them.

The latter section discusses how the greatness of the Dao (the Way) lies precisely in its resemblance to no concrete thing. All under heaven say the Dao is great, yet cannot describe what it resembles. Its greatness stems precisely from this very quality of resembling nothing particular. If the Dao resembled any concrete thing, it would long have appeared insignificant. Here the emphasis lies on the Dao's transcendent nature and ineffability.

(This passage comes from Chapter 67 of Laozi's Daode Jing, primarily expounding the concept of the "Three Treasures" and their operational principles.)

People in the world only see the vast boundlessness of the Dao (the Way) and feel it seems unlike any concrete thing. Yet they fail to realize that precisely because it resembles nothing specific, this constitutes the true greatness of the Dao. The great Dao flows like overflowing rivers, present everywhere without fixed form. Because it cannot be concretely compared to anything, people say it "resembles nothing," unaware that this omnipresent yet formless nature is exactly what makes the Dao magnificent. All things arise from the Dao, and beyond it nothing exists—thus no specific object can serve as its likeness. If the Dao could be compared to any particular thing, that would imply something exists beyond it, and the Dao could no longer be called infinite.

The reason I can comprehend this vast Dao is because I've achieved "selflessness" and "non-contention." It is precisely this that allows me to uphold three treasures most people find difficult to maintain: first is compassion, second is frugality, and third is not daring to put oneself ahead of the world. These three are what ordinary people struggle to preserve. Why? Because people cannot attain selflessness and non-contention, their courage often lacks compassion, their expansiveness cannot practice restraint, and they rush ahead without understanding yielding.

To elaborate: treating all things with tolerance without harming others—this is compassion; acting with ease without waste, taking simplicity as the standard—this is frugality; not pushing ahead of others, always willingly staying behind—this is not daring to lead the world. The seemingly soft quality of compassion can conquer the hard—this is true courage; what appears as the limitation of frugality can achieve true expansiveness; yielding precedence to others allows one to become the leader of all vessels (meaning a true ruler). To abandon compassion in pursuit of courage, discard frugality for expansiveness, or forsake yielding to compete for precedence—this leads swiftly to ruin. With compassion as one's guide in battle, victory follows; using it for defense brings stability. When heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them with compassion.

Frugality may appear simple, yet its application is boundless—this is true greatness. The sage dares not place himself ahead of the world, willingly remaining behind others. It is precisely through this attitude that the sage becomes the leader of multitudes. For all who follow me may become capable. But to discard compassion in pursuit of mere courage, abandon frugality for extravagance, and forsake yielding in favor of contention—this is the way of brute force. Is such a path to death not inevitable?

Consider concrete examples: in warfare, if one emphasizes kindness to the point of losing authority, success becomes difficult—it may seem compassion fails. Yet fundamentally, true authority is established precisely through compassion. Thus it is said: "With compassion in battle, one prevails; in defense, one stands firm." Because of compassion, one becomes frugal; because of frugality, one dares not take the lead. Compassion is the root of the "Three Treasures" (referring to compassion, frugality, and daring not to be first in the world). To abandon compassion is to court death; to preserve it is to ensure life—compassion safeguards existence itself. Therefore it is said: "When heaven wishes to save someone, it guards them with compassion." Establish compassion, and all Three Treasures are complete.

The truly adept leader does not rely on brute force; the skilled warrior is not easily provoked; the master of victory does not contend with others; the wise employer of people willingly takes the lower position. This is the virtue of non-contention, the wisdom of employing others—the highest principle that accords with the Dao (the Way).

What we call the "noble scholar" is one who takes cultivating the Dao as his responsibility while guiding others. To cultivate the Dao is to win through non-contention; to lead others is to skillfully employ their strengths. If this is so, why resort to force? Thus the adept leader does not rely on brute strength. When leadership doesn't depend on force, the skilled warrior naturally remains unprovoked, the victor doesn't contend, and the wise employer stays humble—this follows naturally. Why? Those who embody the great Dao do not contend; through non-contention, none can contend with them—this is the virtue of non-contention. Those who embody the Dao can humble themselves before others, and those who can humble themselves find all people willing to serve them, without presuming superiority—this is the wisdom of employing others. Possessing both the virtue of non-contention and the wisdom of employing others, one maintains Wuwei (non-action) even in the perilous act of waging war—how much more in other matters? This state of governing through non-action is called "heavenly virtue." Achieving Wuwei means uniting with the Dao—nothing surpasses this highest principle. Thus it is said to accord with the supreme standard of the Dao.

Chapter 69 states: Those skilled in warfare often say, "I dare not take the initiative but prefer to adopt a defensive stance; I dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot." This describes forming formations without apparent arrangement, striking without raising arms, confronting without visible enemies, and engaging without clashing weapons. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating the opponent, for doing so risks losing what we hold most precious. Thus when two armies of equal strength meet, victory ultimately belongs to the compassionate side.

This passage explains: The Dao's movement often manifests through receptivity, yet achieves victory through non-contention. While this principle might seem inapplicable to warfare, the military adage "daring not to initiate but preferring response, daring not to advance but willing to retreat" demonstrates that even in war, success comes through responsive action and non-contention—how much more so in other matters? Initiative often contradicts the Dao, while receptivity aligns with it; the initiator exhausts himself while the receptive remains at ease; the aggressive grows arrogant while the yielding maintains humility; the hasty becomes agitated while the patient stays composed. Meeting opposition with compliance, confronting exertion with ease, answering pride with humility, and responding to agitation with calm—these create insurmountable advantages. Since the Dao typically manifests through wuwei (non-action), its movement always appears receptive, its victories always emerge from non-contention—such is the Way of warfare.

Those who truly understand the Dao's fundamental non-action move as if motionless, strike as if without raising arms, confront as if without enemies, and engage as if without weapons—how could they not prevail? Those who cannot practice wuwei, knowing only initiative without receptivity, only advancement without retreat, commit the error of underestimating their opponent. Underestimation risks losing what we call the Three Treasures (compassion, frugality, and daring not to precede others). Thus no disaster surpasses underestimation, for it forfeits what's precious. Only those who win through non-contention remain invincible. Therefore when equally matched armies meet, victory belongs to the compassionate.

Chapter 70 states: My words are easily understood and easily practiced, yet none in the world can comprehend or implement them. Words have their source, actions their foundation. Precisely because people lack understanding, they fail to know me. Those who understand me are rare—this makes me valuable. Thus the sage wears coarse garments yet conceals jade within.

This passage explains: The Dao's methods follow ziran (natural spontaneity), and its words are likewise few and spontaneous. Since spontaneity means wuwei, shouldn't understanding and practicing it be simple? Yet none in the world can comprehend or implement it—why? Because words have their source and actions their foundation. Only the ignorant fail to know me. That those who understand me are rare makes me valuable. Therefore the sage's outward appearance of coarse clothing conceals inner jade-like virtue.

People in the world do not understand what is fundamental and what is sovereign, and thus cannot truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) I speak of. What is fundamental? Wuwei (non-action) and following nature—this is the root of all discourse. From this root, though expressions may differ, they all branch from the same source like leaves from a tree. What could be incomprehensible?

What is sovereign? Wuwei and following nature—this is the ruler of all affairs. Grasping this sovereign principle to govern matters, though tasks may vary, they all submit to the Dao like servants. What could be unmanageable? It is precisely because people do not know the root and the sovereign that they cannot understand the Dao I speak of.

The reason the Dao is revered by the world is that it cannot be grasped through ordinary knowledge or understood through common perception. If the Dao could be comprehended through such means, what would make it precious? Thus, the fewer who understand me, the greater my value. Therefore, the sage appears outwardly simple and humble, yet within holds the brightest De (Virtue/Power). Few in the world can compare to him—this is the meaning of "wearing coarse cloth yet embracing precious jade."

The truly wise know they do not know. To mistake not-knowing for knowing—this is the flaw. Only by recognizing this flaw as a flaw can one avoid it. The sage is free from this flaw precisely because he treats it as a flaw, thus preventing it. The essence of the Dao is that which requires no deliberate knowing yet is naturally understood. To know that one does not know, and to approach knowing with this "not-knowing"—this is the highest form of knowledge.

Nanbo Ziqi (a Daoist figure) said: "I grieve for those who have lost themselves, and I grieve for those who grieve for others, and further still for those who grieve over the grief of others. Such grief strays ever farther from the genuine. One like Ziqi may be said to truly understand treating flaws as flaws."

When the people no longer fear authority, greater chaos approaches. Do not restrict where they dwell; do not exhaust their livelihoods. Only by not oppressing the people will you avoid their resentment. Thus, the sage knows himself but does not display himself, cherishes himself but does not exalt himself—he discards the latter and chooses the former.

This is because the people cannot grasp the great Dao, focusing only on superficial knowledge and perception, and thus give rise to contention and trouble.

When rulers excessively oppress the people, causing widespread hardship, the populace will begin to disregard death. Once people cease fearing death, they naturally lose fear of the ruler's authority. When the people become fearless, any act of rebellion may follow—this is precisely when Heaven's威严 (wei yan, majestic power) descends to administer punishment. Thus it is said: when the people no longer fear authority, greater calamities will befall the land.

Those who truly govern the world with the Dao understand: all beings under heaven follow the same natural law (Dao), and one should not artificially restrict life's developmental space. Spiritual energy (Shen) flows unimpeded in all directions, reaching everywhere without exception—all life possesses equal rights to existence that should not be suppressed. The people's attitude mirrors their ruler's conduct—only when rulers cease oppressing will the people refrain from rebellion. How then could matters ever reach the point where authority is defied?

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) maintains constant alignment with the Dao through inner realization, never deliberately displaying personal prowess. They cherish life yet do not cling to it fearfully. By discarding contrived cleverness and preserving simple, natural authenticity, they embody the flawless way of being.

Regarding the dialectic of courage and caution: reckless boldness often invites fatal consequences (勇於敢则杀 yong yu gan ze sha), while prudent restraint preserves life (勇於不敢则活 yong yu bu gan ze huo). The benefits and harms of these two are difficult to judge simply—even sages find them hard to grasp. For the Dao of Heaven operates uniquely: it contends not yet prevails, speaks not yet responds, summons not yet things come unbidden, appears unhurried yet arranges with perfect thoroughness. Like Heaven's vast, borderless net—seemingly loose yet letting nothing slip through.

Forcibly employing external brute strength constitutes reckless courage—this belongs to the path leading to death. Maintaining internal softness and adaptability constitutes the way of survival. People often mistake recklessness for advantage, unaware of the calamity hidden within; they view caution as disadvantageous, when it may actually harbor vitality. What Heaven despises cannot be fully comprehended by ordinary wisdom. Therefore the sage always proceeds with utmost care—as wary as crossing winter streams, as circumspect as fearing neighboring scrutiny.

This passage elucidates the operation of the Heavenly Dao (natural law) and the principles by which sages govern the world.

The Heavenly Dao is characterized by its effortless mastery: it never displays itself yet governs all things, remains silent yet orchestrates the orderly progression of seasons, and takes no deliberate action yet accomplishes everything. Like cultivating crops—nurturing what thrives while letting fall what must perish—the Dao never contends with creation, yet nothing can defy its course. Thus it is said the Dao "prevails without contention" and "responds without speech." Like an immense, formless net that appears sparse yet lets nothing slip through, the Dao's governance is both imperceptible and inescapable.

Sages, recognizing the inscrutable nature of the Heavenly Dao, adopt the stance of "courageous non-interference" (wuwei), aligning with cosmic patterns through non-forced action. The Dao observes the world through the people's eyes and ears, manifests its majesty through their experiences. When governing, sages emulate this celestial model—establishing specialized enforcers to administer justice rather than personally executing punishments. Just as those who usurp carpenters' axes rarely escape self-injury, overstepping proper roles invites harm.

Regarding the phenomenon of "people fearing not death," the scripture reveals: when citizens enjoy stability and livelihood security, they naturally cherish life; conversely, threatening the desperate with death proves futile. True governance creates conditions where people flourish in their vocations, organically cultivating reverence for life. When punishment becomes necessary, it should be administered through proper judicial channels rather than rulers personally wielding the blade.

This passage explains the Daoist understanding of heavenly punishment and governance. The celestial punishments (referring to the five fundamental penalties) established by Heaven each serve their purpose, and the authority to execute them rightfully belongs to Heaven alone. When the application of punishment becomes tainted by personal biases rather than following heavenly principle, it amounts to mortals presuming to carry out Heaven's executions. It's like having an amateur attempt a carpenter's work—rarely does the axe not wound its wielder's hand. Similarly, when ordinary people usurp Heaven's authority to kill, the consequences are dire.

Chapter 75 discusses the issue of people's hunger. The people starve because their rulers impose excessive taxes; they become difficult to govern because of excessive interference; they treat death lightly because they chase extravagant living. Paradoxically, those who don't overvalue life prove wiser than those who cling to it desperately.

Consider this analogy: A farmer's harvest should feed his family—why then does hunger persist? Is it not because officials demand too much in taxes? Weaving clothes and farming food follow nature's way—why then does governance falter? Is it not because authorities meddle excessively? If people ate well, dressed comfortably, and lived contentedly, who would court death? The very act of pursuing pleasure makes life exhausting. Thus when sages govern through wuwei (non-action), people prosper naturally; when rulers maintain purity of desire, people return to simplicity. Then there would be no starvation from heavy taxes, no unrest from overgovernance, no reckless living from pleasure-seeking. Those who chase pleasure to the point of courting death do so because they cannot cease their struggle for fame and gain. Herein lies the paradox: those who don't treat life as luxury surpass those who fear death excessively. Therefore, sages who don't flaunt themselves preserve their being; those who don't consider themselves noble enjoy Heaven's allotted years.

Chapter 76 illustrates the vitality of softness. Living bodies remain supple, turning stiff in death; growing plants stay pliant, becoming brittle when withered. Thus rigidity belongs to death's domain, while softness characterizes living things.

This passage elucidates the principle that "softness and weakness overcome hardness and strength." Using weapons and trees as metaphors: overly rigid weapons are prone to breaking, while trees that grow too tall and robust are felled. Living things remain soft and flexible, becoming stiff only after death; plants are tender when growing but turn brittle when withered. This demonstrates that hardness leads to decline, while softness ensures survival.

The same principle governs the workings of heaven and earth: the formless Qi (vital energy) above is soft, while the tangible earth below is hard; the ruler governs through Wuwei (non-action), embodying softness, while ministers act with purpose, embodying hardness. Thus, softness occupies the higher position, and hardness the lower—this is the natural order.

Chapter 77 employs the metaphor of drawing a bow: the Dao of heaven is like adjusting a bowstring—lowering what is too high, raising what is too low, reducing what is excessive, and supplementing what is lacking, ultimately achieving balance. Yet human society does the opposite, always taking from the insufficient to give to the surplus. Only those who have attained the Dao can offer their surplus to the world. The sage acts without claiming credit and achieves without flaunting—this is how one emulates the Dao of heaven.

The essence of the Dao of heaven is Wuwei (non-action), and non-action eliminates selfishness, enabling fairness. Just as adjusting a bowstring isn’t about deliberately lowering the high or raising the low but rather following nature—what is high naturally lowers, and what is low naturally rises. Complacency invites loss, while humility brings gain—this is the Dao of heaven. If humans cannot practice non-action, selfishness arises, ultimately leading to the unjust state where the weak are exploited to satisfy the strong.

Among all things under heaven, nothing is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard. This is because water's fundamental nature cannot be altered. Thus the soft overcomes the hard—a principle all people know, yet few can practice. Therefore the sages say: "Only those who can bear a nation's humiliation are worthy to be its lords; only those who can shoulder a nation's misfortunes can become kings of the world." These positive statements sound like paradoxes.

Water's essence lies in conforming to all shapes—whether curved or straight, square or round—making it the softest substance. Yet it moves massive objects, turns heavy stones, carves through mountain valleys, and carries all things between heaven and earth. In conquering the hard, nothing surpasses it. This is because no matter how its form changes, water always remains true to its essential nature—an unalterable characteristic.

Though all under heaven know the principle that softness overcomes hardness, Laozi repeatedly emphasizes it. Why? Because while the principle is universally understood, few can embody it. Are those wise and brilliant enough to govern the world lacking in ability? The real issue is their failure to reduce their excess to serve the world, their inability to maintain softness. Instead, they become burdened by reputation, cunning, affairs, and manipulation.

Thus Laozi returns to this theme at the conclusion of his discourse on Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue), citing the sages' words as proof: "Bearing humiliation makes one worthy to govern; shouldering misfortune makes one fit to rule." This shows the key to commanding the world's trust lies in these qualities—not in other attributes. The sage-kings of Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties first established glorious reputations, yet Laozi says only those who endure disgrace and calamity can become true rulers. Why? Because genuine sage-kings must first cultivate this virtue of enduring hardship.

This scripture primarily discusses two key concepts: how to handle resentment, and the way of being for sages (Shengren).

Regarding "bearing the disgrace and misfortunes of the state," it means taking upon oneself the humiliation and calamities of a nation. Those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) never use words to shift blame—just as King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou declared, "All faults under heaven rest with me alone," actively assuming responsibility for the people's transgressions. This is the correct attitude aligned with the great Dao, though it may sound paradoxical at first.

Chapter 79 explains the principle of resolving resentment. Forcibly mediating deep-seated grievances will inevitably leave residual bitterness—this is not a truly effective method. The approach of sages (those who have attained the Dao) is like holding the left half of a contract (in ancient times, agreements were split into left and right halves, with the creditor keeping the left portion) without aggressively demanding repayment. Those with Virtue (De) oversee agreements without harshly blaming others, while the virtue-less are the ones who nitpick and keep strict accounts. The Dao of Heaven shows no partiality, yet it always aids the virtuous.

The scripture uses metaphors to illustrate: those seeking vengeance would never break their own sword in anger, and even when harboring resentment, they wouldn't blame a tile dislodged by the wind. Without this peaceful approach, resentment would endlessly multiply. Sages emulate the Dao of Heaven—they act without claiming credit, always offering their surplus to the world. This resembles ancient judicial practices where specialized officers handled capital cases while the ruler remained uninvolved, embodying the principle of "holding the left contract without blaming others."

Chapter 80 introduces the concept of "small states with sparse populations," presenting an ideal social condition where people live in contentment. This aligns seamlessly with the earlier "holding the left contract" philosophy, both reflecting the Daoist advocacy for serene non-action (Wuwei) and harmony without contention. Though the Dao of Heaven favors none, it naturally supports those who follow the great Dao and maintain goodwill toward others.

Laozi depicts an ideal society of small states with sparse populations: the nation is tiny, the people few. Even if there are advanced tools and implements, they remain unused, encouraging the people to value life and avoid distant migrations. Though boats and carriages exist, none ride them; though armor and weapons exist, none display them. People return to the simple practice of knotting ropes to record events, content with plain food, fond of their clothing, at peace in their dwellings, and delighting in local customs. Neighboring states are within sight of each other, the sounds of crowing roosters and barking dogs audible between them, yet the people grow old and die without ever interacting.

This commentary explains: From the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) to the decline of the Zhou, ritual and music systems had become excessively elaborate, causing the people to lose their natural innocence. Thus, Laozi advocated simplicity as a remedy, hoping to return to the governance of antiquity. Zhuangzi similarly described the age of perfect virtue (De) in ancient times, listing twelve sage-kings like Rongchengshi and Dating Shi, when people recorded events with knotted ropes and lived in spontaneous contentment.

Why did Laozi advocate returning to ancient governance? Because the Dao (the Way) and worldly affairs had long been diverging—only by returning to the fundamental Dao could human nature be restored. To discuss the Dao without considering historical context makes it impossible to truly grasp its practical significance. But is complete restoration of antiquity feasible? The commentary suggests full revival isn't necessary, just as rituals reached their zenith by the Three Kings era and music by the Six Dynasties, yet sacrifices still used plain offerings like clear water and meat broth, and music retained the pure tones of bamboo flutes. This reminds us that the essence of ritual and music lies in balancing adaptation to the times with the spirit of returning to the root.

At that time, Confucius was seeking the governance principles left by King Wen, King Wu, and the Duke of Zhou, hoping to continue these traditions. Yet Laozi's discourse on the Dao (the Way) and its relationship with all things in the world fundamentally points to the same truth. Just as in the fourth lunar month (when the earthly branch is Si), the fire Qi begins to flourish, while the metal Qi (one of the Five Phases) is already sprouting within it—this illustrates the principle of the Five Phases generating and succeeding one another in an endless cycle.

It is said that in ancient times during eras of great peace, people possessed tools but did not use them, had boats and carts but did not ride in them, and owned armor and weapons but never displayed them. Even when major affairs required mobilizing the masses, it was only done out of necessity. In those days, people recorded events by tying knots in ropes, neighboring states were close enough to see each other, and the sounds of roosters and dogs could be heard from one village to another—yet the people lived and died without ever interfering in each other's affairs. If there was a need to establish elaborate laws, set up surveillance systems, send officials traveling across feudal borders, or have carriages and horses traversing thousands of miles, all of this was done only as a last resort. The true art of governance lies in following nature rather than deliberate intervention—only then will the world naturally achieve peace. Even if the sages pass away and no longer teach, just as the ceremonial clear water (Xuanjiu) is removed and the ancient music (Shuyue) ceases to play, who can truly understand that the essence of ritual lies in valuing simplicity, and the beauty of music lies in restraint? These are profound meanings pointing to a return to the original truth. Could the words of the sages be merely minor corrections?

Chapter 81 states: "True words are not ornate; ornate words are not true. The good do not argue; those who argue are not good. The wise are not learned in vain; those who parade their learning are not truly wise. The sage does not accumulate for himself—the more he gives to others, the more he possesses; the more he shares with others, the richer he becomes. The Dao of Heaven benefits without harming; the Dao of the sage acts without contention."

The explanation here is: This "Dao" cannot be seen when you look for it, heard when you listen for it, or grasped when you reach for it—it can only be apprehended by the mind and cannot be sought through ordinary means. True words embody this "Dao," so why seek embellishment? Goodness aligns with this "Dao," so why engage in debate? True wisdom is the understanding of this "Dao," so why flaunt erudition? From this, we see that ornate words often lack truth, that eloquent speakers may not be truly good, and that those who parade their learning may not be truly wise. Why? Because these superficial displays do not align with the essence of the "Dao." The "Dao" itself is formless and without appearance. The reason sages can unite with the "Dao" is precisely because they do not hoard for themselves. It is precisely because they do not hoard that they can merge as one with all things.

When all things and I become one, this is the most abundant state. Therefore, the more one helps others, the more one becomes enriched; the more one gives to others, the more one becomes fulfilled. If one constantly thinks about accumulating wealth, even if it is occasionally used, it will eventually be exhausted—how could it possibly increase the more one gives?

This passage from Laozi observes both the inner heart and the outer world, contemplating the celestial phenomena above and examining the earthly patterns below. There is no aspect that does not align—this is true wisdom. Yet ordinary people hear it and laugh, considering such words impractical. In truth, the simplest language often points to the most profound truths—this is genuine insight. When wisdom reaches its ultimate state, it appears as if ignorant, for this realization never strays from the original mind and does not require vast external knowledge. But some scholars pursue ornate rhetoric, eloquent techniques, and extensive learning—this only leads them further from the Dao.

Laozi's Dao teaches that clinging to accumulation is itself a form of insufficiency; even the wisdom of sages must be relinquished. It is precisely because of complete emptiness that the needs of all things can be fulfilled—this is the true meaning of "the more one gives, the more one has." But if scholars cannot thoroughly empty their minds, they cannot attain this state.

In the world, where there is benefit, there is also harm, and where there is harm, injury inevitably follows. Only the Dao of Heaven (the natural order) does not deliberately seek benefit yet benefits all things; by causing no harm, it truly benefits all beings. Ordinary people act with self-awareness, and where there is self, contention arises. The way of sages appears as action yet is actually non-action (Wuwei); because it is non-action, there is no self, and because there is no self, there is no contention—this is the realm of the Dao of Heaven.