《道德真經直解》

The first volume of "Direct Commentary on the Dao De Jing" was annotated by Shao Ruoyu (styled as Original Master) and collated by Zhang Zhixin (styled as Pure River Recluse). This passage explains the profound principles in the opening chapter of the Dao De Jing.

The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name. "Non-being" (wu) is the origin of heaven and earth, while "being" (you) is the mother of all things. Maintaining a desireless state allows one to observe the mysteries of the Dao, while maintaining a desirous state enables observation of its manifestations. These two aspects share the same source but differ in name—both are called "Xuan" (profound mystery). The profundity within profundity is indeed the gateway to all wonders.

The Great Dao itself is empty and silent, without form or name, imperceptible to the senses, incomprehensible to thought, and ineffable in language. This beginningless, endless, and unchanging Dao gives birth to the primordial Qi (the most refined energy in Daoism) from emptiness. Once traces of Qi appear, it becomes speakable—yet the Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao. Once named, the nameable name is no longer the eternal name.

Before Qi manifests, this nameless, formless state constitutes the origin of heaven and earth—the ineffable Dao. After Qi is named, it becomes the source that generates all things—the speakable Dao. Our physical bodies also originate from this "One." If humans can cultivate themselves by taking this "One" as their standard, they will comprehend the Great Dao. The Great Dao is essentially the human true mind (original heart-mind), while Qi represents the desires produced by the mind.

The true mind is originally empty and tranquil, without birth or death. When the true mind stirs, desires arise (including thoughts and intellectual knowledge). Because the mind generates desires, humans become trapped in the cycle of birth and death through these desires. After birth, people constantly chase sensory pleasures, calculate gains and losses, cling to fame and disgrace—thereby losing their original mind, obscured by deluded thoughts until they can no longer understand the principles of Qi.

If one can abandon deluded thoughts and restrain desires, they may return to their original mind. This mind, when maintained, becomes the true path; when attained, becomes spiritual essence. It is both the source of all things and the root of life and death. Because desires obscure the true mind, the cycle of birth and death persists. If humans can become desireless and reach an empty, tranquil state, they may return to the nameless origin and transcend life and death. Therefore, Laozi states that "constantly remaining desireless observes its mysteries" reveals the secret of transcending life and death, while "constantly having desires observes its manifestations" shows the patterns of Qi's transformations.

This scripture elucidates the core principles of Daoist heart cultivation. It begins by explaining the relationship between "having desires" (youyu) and "being desireless" (wuyu): one should neither deliberately use thoughts to pursue desirelessness (as this would paradoxically create desire), nor intentionally employ thoughts to eliminate desires (as this would still constitute attachment). Having and not-having are ultimately unified—they are merely different expressions of the same reality. This unified state is called the "Mysterious" (xuan, the profound realm), which Buddhism terms the "Non-Dual Dharma Gate" or the "Middle Way."

However, Laozi cautions practitioners against becoming trapped by the very concept of the "Middle Way," much like fish confined in a bamboo trap. Thus, he advocates transcending the notion of the "Mysterious" itself. True cultivation involves neither attachment to having and not-having nor lingering in the realm of the "Mysterious." Instead, the mind maintains a state of natural emptiness and stillness. In this state:

• Absence of deliberate action is called "non-action" (wuwei)
• Absence of forced cultivation is called "naturalness" (ziran)
• Mental clarity and openness is called "emptiness-stillness" (xujing)
• Unfettered freedom is called "carefree wandering" (xiaoyao)
• Maintaining an ordinary mind is called "serene indifference" (tiandan)

Attaining the desireless state enables one to transcend all dualities: without self-attachment, one avoids contention with others; beyond concepts of good and evil, one is no longer bound by karma; free from attachment to things, one rises above life and death. This desireless mental state is the true gateway to all profound realms.

The latter section expounds the well-known principle of "unity of opposites": when everyone in the world recognizes beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when people know goodness, its opposite emerges. Having and not-having, difficulty and ease, long and short, high and low, sound and silence, front and back—all are interdependent opposites. Therefore, the sage handles affairs with the attitude of "non-action" and teaches through "wordless instruction," allowing all things to develop naturally without interference, accomplishing without claiming credit. Precisely because they claim no merit, their achievements endure.

The essential method for governing the world is: do not exalt the worthy (so the people won't compete), do not treasure rare goods (so the people won't steal), and do not display objects that arouse desire (so minds remain undisturbed). The sage's approach to governance involves purifying the people's hearts, satisfying their basic needs, and weakening their contentious ambitions.

This passage elucidates the sage's wisdom in governing the world. The core principle is to let people maintain their simple and natural state without deliberately pursuing cleverness or desires, thus allowing the world to remain peaceful by itself.

When everyone in the world knows what is considered beautiful, it leads to imitation and competition, causing the very notion of "beauty" to become corrupted. Similarly, when everyone knows what is deemed good, the deliberate pursuit of goodness causes the loss of true goodness. This occurs because all things in the world exist in relativity: being (you) and non-being (wu) depend on each other, difficulty and ease complement one another, long and short are compared, high and low contrast, sound and echo respond to each other, and front and back follow one another.

People, fixated on standards of beauty and goodness, lose their original nature and chase external things, generating endless afflictions. Therefore, the sage handles affairs with an attitude of "no-mind" (wuxin), practicing non-action (wuwei), which allows them to view all things equally and govern the world effectively. When all things operate naturally, the sage refrains from using words to distinguish good from bad, fearing that people will develop preferences and distinctions.

The true way of governance is: not to exalt the worthy (to prevent competition for fame and profit), not to treasure rare goods (to prevent theft), and not to expose people to excessive temptations (to avoid disturbing their minds). In this way, people's hearts remain naturally tranquil, and society remains orderly. The sage achieves merit but does not claim it; precisely because they do not claim merit, their virtue (De) endures.

Notes:

1. "Wuwei" refers to governance through natural spontaneity and non-forced action.

2. "Eighty-four thousand afflictions" is a Buddhist term borrowed here to represent various troubles.

3. "Not exalting the worthy" means avoiding deliberate promotion of certain standards of worthiness to prevent competition.

All things must strengthen their foundation (filling the belly), not covet material goods (not valuing possessions), so that the people will be free from desires. Without desires, the mind naturally becomes gentle and non-contentious (weakening its will). A gentle mind will not be led astray by external circumstances (not following changing conditions), thus solidifying the root (strengthening the bones). (As Confucius lamented about Shen Cheng's lack of firmness) Keep the people simple and unpretentious (without cunning), so the mind remains empty and tranquil; without desires, one transcends external circumstances. When both mind and environment are released, without clinging to anything, all disturbances naturally cease.

Even those with cleverness dare not act recklessly. The sage governs through non-purposeful action (action without intention), and there is nothing under heaven that cannot be well-ordered.

The Dao appears empty (chong), yet its function is inexhaustible (its use is never depleted). It is unfathomably deep (profound!), as if the source of all things. Blunt its sharp edges (dulling the sharp), untangle its knots (resolving complications), temper its radiance (harmonizing the light), and merge with the dust (becoming one with the mundane). It is clear and formless (serene!), seeming to exist yet not. I do not know from whence it comes—it seems to have existed before heaven and earth.

From the formless Dao emerges primordial Qi (one Qi), which divides into yin and yang. When yin and yang generate the myriad things, they all take Qi as their foundation. Thus we know Qi resides between yin and yang (harmonizing Qi). The Dao operates precisely through this harmonizing Qi. For example, the sky covers, the earth supports, the sun shines, the moon moves, winter brings cold and summer heat, spring gives birth and autumn harvests—all are functions of harmonizing Qi. This harmonizing Qi seems to exist yet has no form, seems empty yet contains subtlety. Between heaven and earth, it neither overflows nor diminishes, unfathomably deep like the root of all things.

Those who cultivate the Dao and wish to comprehend harmonizing Qi should first blunt the sharp edges within (dulling the sharp). When sharpness is pacified, the will naturally becomes tranquil, able to resolve worldly complications (resolving complications). With a pure and desireless will, one can temper one's own radiance (harmonizing the light); by contending with nothing, one merges with the mundane (becoming one with the dust). Unpolluted within and without, only the original mind remains clear. Though its traces cannot be seen, it seems to exist. Buddhists compare it to the lamp of wisdom and the bright moon; alchemists regard it as the great medicine and golden elixir; Mencius called it the vast, flowing Qi—supremely great and strong, nourished by integrity without harm, filling the space between heaven and earth. This Qi matches with the Dao's righteousness. What Laozi calls "serene! seeming to exist" is the primordial Qi generated by the Dao. When he says "I know not whose child it is," this Qi is like the ruler of all things, existing before yin and yang.

Heaven and earth are not partial (not benevolent), treating all things as straw dogs (grass dogs); the sage is likewise not partial, viewing the people as straw dogs with equal detachment.

The operations of Heaven and Earth follow natural laws, which constitute the highest form of benevolent virtue (De). To oppose this natural Dao by artificially creating distinctions of intimacy and estrangement would be like claiming spring's growth is deliberate kindness or autumn's withering intentional cruelty—these are simply rhythms of the natural cycle. All things resemble the straw dogs used in ancient rituals (ceremonial straw effigies carefully preserved before rites but discarded afterward), to be employed when needed and relinquished when their purpose is served.

The sage cultivates virtue (De) through selfless awareness, thereby aligning with the people's will. Rewarding good deeds isn't calculated benevolence, nor is punishing wrongdoings intentional harshness—these are simply timely responses to governance needs. As Zhuangzi observed: supreme benevolence shows no partiality, and true virtuous power (De) appears dispassionate. This uncontrived benevolence constitutes the greatest kindness.

The space between Heaven and Earth resembles a giant bellows (tuóyuè, ancient air-blowing device)—hollow yet never collapsing, producing greater wind the more it's pumped. This mirrors how cosmic opening and closing generates all things. Laozi reminds us: excessive speech exhausts meaning, while maintaining empty stillness in centered equilibrium proves more effective. "Centeredness" refers to this void state—when the mind abides here, its functioning becomes inexhaustible.

The "Valley Spirit" (gǔshén, metaphor for Dao's empty marvel) never perishes; it's called the "Mysterious Feminine" (xuánpìn). This gateway of all creation constitutes the root of Heaven and Earth, existing faintly yet enduringly, its efficacy never waning. Using valleys to symbolize Dao's empty nature, "spirit" (shen) denotes the primordial qi (vital energy) Dao generates. Though formless, this numinous void neither originates nor ceases. Emptiness is life's source (hence "mysterious"), while numinosity is creation's origin (hence "feminine"). All beings emerge from this mystical portal—the very foundation generating yin-yang and the cosmos. Observing the Valley Spirit's mysteries...

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "non-action" (Wuwei) and "non-contention," using metaphors of heaven and earth, sages, and water to illustrate its principles.

Heaven and earth endure precisely because they do not strive for their own existence. The sage emulates this cosmic principle—by placing himself behind others, he paradoxically takes the lead; by disregarding personal safety, he preserves his life. Isn't this because they embody selflessness? Such "selflessness" ultimately fulfills their being. As Liezi observed, all tangible things perish, yet heaven and earth endure because they follow the Dao's cyclical rhythm—the seamless alternation of seasons and the ceaseless process of generation and transformation.

The highest virtue resembles water. Water nourishes all things without contention, always flowing to low places people disdain, thus embodying the Dao's essence. Water manifests these virtues: dwelling in proper places (residing in good ground), maintaining profound stillness (mind like deep pools), showing benevolent generosity (giving with kindness), speaking with integrity (words of trust), governing with clarity (administration in order), acting with competence (handling affairs skillfully), and moving with timeliness (action in harmony with seasons). Precisely because it contends with nothing, water remains blameless.

Ordinary people crave contention, yet Laozi teaches that non-contention constitutes supreme virtue. Water, devoid of selfishness, naturally benefits all without struggle, willingly occupying the lowly places others avoid. These qualities make water nearest to the Dao. All conflicts stem from selfishness—without it, contention naturally ceases. Approaching life with this unattached mindset paradoxically brings universal benefit. Thus, maintaining this state allows one to: dwell in proper positions, cultivate profound stillness, interact with benevolence, speak with trustworthiness, govern with clarity, act with capability, and move in accordance with the timeliness of heaven.

Holding objects with both hands full, it's better to know when to stop. Just as a blade honed too sharp will break easily, excessive display of power cannot be sustained for long. A house filled with gold and jade will ultimately have no one to guard it; arrogance amid wealth and honor invites calamity upon oneself. Achieving merit and fame yet knowing when to withdraw at the height of success—this is the way that aligns with the Dao (the Way).

(Here, "uncontrived mind" refers to a state free from forced striving.) By not deliberately competing, one can seize the perfect moment. Precisely because there is no contentious intent, no resentment or fault is incurred.

When occupying high positions and enjoying both fame and fortune, it's like holding a vessel brimming with water—constantly fearing it might spill. Rather than living in such anxiety, it's better to exercise restraint, thereby avoiding major missteps. Maintaining moderation makes longevity easier to sustain. Excessive pursuit of power and status resembles an over-sharpened blade—such a state cannot endure. A house overflowing with treasures ultimately cannot be kept, precisely because wealth breeds pride, and pride leads to error. This is no heavenly calamity but a self-inflicted disaster.

So how can one avoid such misfortune? The sages observe the patterns of the four seasons: spring brings the growth of all things, and success resembles summer's flourishing, yet afterward one must withdraw like autumn's retreat. This wisdom of withdrawing after achieving merit mirrors the very movement of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the essential principles for cultivating one's inner nature. It begins with the phrase "Can you keep the spirit (ying) and body (po) united without separation?" which means one must integrate consciousness and physical form into undivided wholeness. Like attaining a state of gentle harmony through focused breath regulation, one should embody the natural wuwei (non-action) of an infant. When clearing distracting thoughts to contemplate the mysterious vision (xuanlan), one must achieve flawless purity.

In governing a nation, one should follow natural rhythms without forced intervention. The opening and closing of sensory gates (tianmen) should emulate the receptivity of the feminine principle. Though possessing penetrating wisdom, one maintains a state of desireless simplicity. To nurture all beings without claiming possession, to act without asserting merit, to guide without dominating—this constitutes the profoundest De (Virtue,玄德).

The mind has no fixed name, acquiring different designations according to its states: When active and yang, it's called "shen" (spirit) or "xin" (heart-mind); when quiescent and yin, it's termed "jing" (essence) or "xing" (inherent nature). Outwardly active, it generates sight and hearing as "hun" (ethereal soul) or "qing" (emotion); inwardly collected, it becomes "po" (corporeal soul) or "yi" (intent). Collectively called "xin," it governs the entire body.

The crux of cultivation lies in stabilizing the yin aspect (po). In stillness, jing (essence) and qi (vital energy) solidify, allowing shen (spirit), hun, and po to fuse into unity—this is "embracing the One" (baoyi). Though this method harmonizes yin-yang energies (erqi), unites jing-qi-shen (sanxing), and integrates the Five Phases with four symbolic manifestations—constituting longevity techniques—it remains incomplete. The very notion of clinging to "Oneness" creates attachment.

Laozi's profound question arises: Can one achieve complete non-attachment? Only by transcending distinctions of being and non-being, attaining luminous mental clarity, does one realize genuine wuwei. This constitutes the true heart-mind and the great Dao. Techniques like "focusing qi to achieve softness" still involve mental effort—where there's intention, true pliancy remains unattained. One must become like an infant, utterly free of deliberate mind. Eliminating all external distractions while concentrating awareness on the mysterious vision requires jade-like flawlessness.

Regarding state governance, visible traces of action breed anxiety. The authentic sage manifests benevolence while concealing traces of doing—this represents the supreme attainment.

This scripture expounds the profound principles of "Wuwei" (non-action) and the mutual generation of being and non-being.

First, it explains that the original human mind is inherently pure, luminous, and unobstructed, yet becomes clouded by acquired knowledge and desires, creating attachments and obstructions. The true Dao of "Wuwei" requires transcending even the pursuit of oneness (the Dao), letting go of all traces of "clinging to the One" to align with the most profound De (Virtue/Power). This profound De is like the great Dao, which gives birth to all things yet claims no merit, nourishes all yet asserts no dominion. As Zhuangzi said, "To comprehend the One is to complete all things"—this is the ultimate state.

Next, three vivid metaphors illustrate the relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu): Thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel, yet it is the emptiness at the center that allows the wheel to turn. Clay is molded into vessels, yet it is the hollow space within that makes them useful. Doors and windows are cut into walls, yet it is the empty interior that makes a house livable. Thus, while tangible objects (being) provide form, it is their emptiness (non-being) that grants them function.

Finally, the text reveals that sages understand this principle—they treat the physical body as a tool (being) but employ it with a mind free from attachment (non-being). Just as ancient people dug caves, carved openings, and built palaces, the solid structure (being) offers shelter, but the empty space (non-being) is what makes dwelling possible. This inspires practitioners to cultivate the body as an instrument while refining the unattached mind.

In the Daode Jing, Laozi reveals the dangers of excessive pursuit of sensory pleasures. He states: Dazzling colors blind the eyes, clamorous music deafens the ears, and rich flavors dull the palate (the term "shuǎng" here means losing one's original purity). Indulging in hunting agitates the mind, while rare treasures lead to erratic behavior. Therefore, the sage seeks only basic sustenance, not the allure of sensual pleasures, rejecting external temptations to preserve inner authenticity.

Laozi explains the phrase "favor and disgrace seem alarming" by noting that people overvalue honor and shame because they are overly attached to themselves. What are favor and disgrace? When receiving favor, one trembles with fear; when losing it, one panics—this is "favor and disgrace seem alarming." Why do we regard great misfortunes as equal to life itself? Because we cherish this physical form too much. If we no longer cling to the body, what misfortunes remain? Thus, those who value themselves above all else bring calamity to the world, while those who selflessly devote themselves to the world are worthy of its trust.

Laozi describes the nature of the Dao (the Way) as follows: Look for it, and it cannot be seen—this is called "yí" (formless); listen for it, and it cannot be heard—this is called "xī" (soundless); grasp for it, and it cannot be touched—this is called "wēi" (intangible). These three qualities cannot be fully expressed in words, so they are collectively called "the One" (the unity of the Dao). This "One" is neither bright nor dark, continuous yet indescribable, ultimately returning to emptiness. This is the form without form, the image without substance—what we call "vague and indistinct." Meeting it, you cannot see its head; following it, you cannot see its tail. By holding fast to the Dao that has existed since antiquity, one can master present affairs. To recognize the origin of the cosmos—this is called the principle of the Dao.

The Dao (the Way), as the cosmic origin, is neither brightly visible nor dimly obscure. It operates continuously and cannot be described in words. Ultimately, it returns to a state of emptiness—this is the formless form, the imageless image, which we call "huanghu" (the ineffable).

When you try to face it and look, you cannot see its beginning; when you follow it to seek, you cannot find its end. To grasp this ancient and eternal Dao is to master all that exists in the present. To understand the primordial state of the cosmos is to comprehend the fundamental principle of the Dao.

The Dao is formless and colorless, so the eyes cannot perceive it; it is vast and profound, hence called "yi" (smooth and boundless). The Dao is soundless, so the ears cannot hear it; it is subtle and sparse, hence called "xi" (rare). The Dao is shapeless, so the hands cannot touch it; it is minute and imperceptible, hence called "wei" (subtle). Since these three—colorlessness, soundlessness, and formlessness—cannot be concretely examined, they are collectively referred to as the undivided "One."

This "One" operates above, moving the sun, moon, wind, and rain without revealing itself; it supports all things below without dimming. "Shengsheng" describes the continuous and unbroken flow of this "One's" Qi (vital energy), connecting above and below. It can be Yin or Yang, round or square, green or yellow—its wondrous functions are unfathomable, making it difficult to name. Ultimately, it returns to existence within emptiness, which is actually the original mind of humanity—this is the undifferentiated primordial Qi.

The so-called "formless form, imageless image" describes this state of seeming presence and absence. "Huanghu" refers to this ambiguous, indeterminate condition. Precisely because of this, when you face it, you cannot see its beginning; when you follow it, you cannot find its end. To grasp this eternal Dao is to master all present existence. To hold this "One" is to know the origin of the cosmos—this is the fundamental law of the great Dao.

The ancient sages who attained the Dao were profound, subtle, and far-reaching, beyond ordinary comprehension. Precisely because they were difficult to understand, they could only be described with effort: they were cautious as if crossing a river in winter, vigilant as if wary of neighbors, solemn as if receiving guests, gentle as melting ice, and simple as uncarved wood.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao possess a state of being as open and receptive as a mountain valley, yet as turbid and undifferentiated as muddy water. Who can remain tranquil amidst this turbidity, allowing the waters to gradually clarify? Who can maintain vitality within stillness, enabling life to grow naturally? Those who preserve this Dao never seek fullness or completion. Precisely because they do not pursue fullness, they retain their original simplicity, never straining after novel achievements.

Laozi describes ancient Dao adepts whose wisdom was profoundly subtle and unfathomably deep. Because such wisdom defies verbal description, we must resort to metaphorical approximations: Their caution in handling affairs resembles crossing a winter river barefoot—this illustrates their prudence when compelled to engage with worldly matters. Their restrained nature appears like someone wary of disturbing neighbors—this shows how they never casually reveal their true disposition. Their dignified solemnity resembles receiving honored guests—this demonstrates how they use proper decorum to enlighten others. Their expansive mind resembles melting ice—this reveals a heart as pure and translucent as frozen water.

Their fundamental nature remains as simple and unadorned as uncarved wood, their mind as open as an empty valley, while outwardly blending with worldly turbidity. Who can maintain stillness amidst this murkiness, allowing the spirit to gradually clarify? Like someone cautious not to disturb neighbors. Who can preserve vitality within stability, letting life force slowly emerge? Like carefully crossing a winter river. Those who maintain this subtle and profound Dao never become complacent or arrogant. Precisely because they avoid fullness, they retain emptiness; preserving emptiness allows concealment without deliberate pursuit—thus they achieve the great Dao without chasing novelty.

To reach the ultimate state of emptiness, one must guard perfect stillness. While all things flourish and transform, I observe their return to the source. The myriad phenomena, however complex, ultimately return to their root. Returning to the root means returning to stillness; returning to stillness means returning to life's essence; returning to essence means eternal Dao. Understanding this eternal Dao constitutes true wisdom—ignorance leads to reckless action and misfortune. Comprehending this principle enables universal acceptance; acceptance brings impartiality; impartiality allows mastery of all things; mastery aligns with heavenly Dao; alignment ensures enduring stability, free from lifelong peril.

Practitioners must attain supreme emptiness. All beings grow and transform—from emptiness emerges the Shen (spirit); from Shen arises the two Qi of Yin-Yang; from these two Qi forms take shape; and forms ultimately return to emptiness. Recognizing emptiness as fundamental, Laozi states "I observe the return of all things." Everything progresses from infancy to vigor to decline, eventually returning to its origin. To understand this return, the essential method lies in cultivating the heart-mind.

The foundation of Daoist cultivation lies in attaining a state of profound stillness and emptiness. What we call "stillness" refers to complete tranquility of both body and mind, internally and externally. The scripture states "stillness means returning to the original mandate," yet this doesn't imply perceiving anything within stillness. Rather, one must eliminate even the desire to seek "stillness" to truly enter the realm of emptiness. This ultimate state of void-like stillness represents our original nature and life bestowed by the primordial Dao (this "mandate" transcends the categories of Yin-Yang, manifesting the emptiness of the great Dao). What ordinary people refer to as the life-and-death mandate concerns the physical existence constrained by Yin-Yang forces, whereas the "mandate" discussed here transcends life and death, existing eternally.

Understanding this eternal truth constitutes "illumination," while ignorance and reckless action invite misfortune. Those who comprehend this principle maintain inner stillness that embraces all things - this embrace represents impartiality, and impartiality embodies the virtue of sage-kings. Sage-kings govern through stillness and emptiness, appearing to practice Wuwei (non-action) while actually aligning with celestial patterns. The Dao of Heaven, being empty and still, mirrors the great Dao. Cultivators who reach this state achieve enduring vision and immortality beyond extinction.

The finest rulers of antiquity governed through Wuwei (non-action), with people receiving their transformation without noticing any traces. By the eras of Yao and Shun, as pristine simplicity declined, the doctrines of humaneness and righteousness became necessary to restore the way of non-action. Consequently, people grew attached to and praised these superficial displays, losing their natural spontaneity. As Zhuangzi observed: "When the great Dao was abandoned, humaneness and righteousness appeared. When wisdom emerged, great hypocrisy arose. When family harmony broke down, filial piety became emphasized. When states fell into chaos, loyal ministers were praised." Therefore, we should discard artificial constructs like sagely wisdom, humaneness-righteousness, and clever profit, returning to simple authenticity while reducing selfish desires.

The text describes the gradual decline of social morality. In the most ideal era of high antiquity (the Age of the Great Ultimate), people were naturally simple and honest. Rulers practiced non-action (Wuwei), and the common folk felt everything was as it should be. Later, Emperor Shun promoted benevolence and righteousness, which instead disrupted the natural Dao (the Way). By the time of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), Virtue (De) had further deteriorated, requiring punishments to intimidate the people. During the Spring and Autumn period's era of the Five Hegemons, hypocrisy became rampant—rulers used cunning to manipulate the masses, and the people in turn deceived their superiors.

The author cites perspectives from Zhuangzi and Mencius: the Five Hegemons merely borrowed the name of benevolence and righteousness, whereas true benevolence and righteousness must be rooted in sincerity. When society lacks sincerity, superficial norms like benevolence and righteousness become emphasized. The emergence of intellectual cleverness ironically breeds more hypocrisy, as wisdom gives rise to delusions and discriminatory thinking.

In an ideal society, loyalty and filial piety would be natural norms, requiring no special commendation. It was only when "the six family relations fell into discord" that filial piety became valorized, and only when states fell into chaos that loyal ministers needed recognition. These phenomena arise because people flaunt their cleverness, losing their innate nature. Laozi's proposed solution is to discard artificial adornments like sagely wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, and clever profit-seeking, returning instead to simple, unadorned nature.

Concretely speaking: when rulers abandon clever governance, the people benefit a hundredfold; when benevolence and righteousness aren't artificially promoted, filial piety naturally reemerges; when cunning and greed are eliminated, thieves and bandits vanish. These external norms are like ornate decorations—their very presence indicates deficiencies in social harmony. Laozi advocates returning to humanity's original, authentic nature (called "the Uncarved Block" or "the One Qi of the Dao"), maintaining purity of heart-mind.

Finally, the text explains the hierarchy of moral cultivation: holding to few desires is called Virtue (De); Virtue nurturing all things is called benevolence; benevolence rescuing the distressed is called righteousness; righteousness making distinctions is called propriety; propriety adapting to circumstances is called wisdom; wisdom containing sincerity is called trustworthiness. Simply by following the Great Dao, virtues like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness will naturally manifest.

(Note: The "Uncarved Block" refers to the unprocessed state of raw wood, metaphorically representing humanity's pure original nature; the "Five Constants" are the fundamental virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness.)

When people's hearts are filled with too many desires and affected postures, how profound was Laozi's wisdom! He taught the world to return to the root and let all things develop naturally - this is the true way to transform the world.

Abandon forced learning and there will be no worries. What essential difference exists between respectful replies and arrogant responses? When both good and evil arise from human nature, how far apart can they truly be? The reckless indulgence of wandering thoughts that people fear - this indeed must be guarded against. Laozi lamented how the human heart remains forever wild and untamed!

Observe ordinary people reveling in joy, as if feasting at grand sacrificial ceremonies or ascending heights in springtime delight. Yet Laozi expressed the meaning of "abandon learning and be without sorrow" thus: Only I maintain inner stillness, like the state before events occur - pure as an infant who has not yet learned to smile. I follow what is natural, seeming to have no fixed abode. While others' minds churn incessantly, always feeling they lack enough, Laozi says my heart seems to have forgotten everything.

Laozi further explained: This is the heart of a fool! Without cleverness or calculation of gain and loss, simply pure and unadulterated. Common people all consider themselves wise, yet Laozi says my heart seems dull and dim; the world prides itself on sharp discernment, while Laozi says my heart remains chaotic and undefined. My heart is vast as the ocean, unbound as the ceaseless wind. All people have their pursuits - only I remain simple and uncultured. I differ from the multitude, treasuring only what I draw from the Great Mother (Dao).

Laozi pointed out: All suffering and affliction stem from wandering thoughts. He taught people to cut off these deluded thoughts, thus avoiding sorrow. But note: abandoning wandering thoughts to return to one's original nature versus abandoning one's nature to chase after thoughts - like respectful replies and arrogant responses - both arise from the same heart. How different can they truly be? When both good and evil come from the same nature, how far apart are they really? The reckless indulgence of wandering thoughts that people fear - this indeed must be guarded against.

Laozi here describes a transcendent state of emptiness beyond worldly concerns. He explains that the mind of one who has attained the Dao is as deep and calm as the ocean, yet as free-flowing as wind in the high heavens, unbound by external attachments. Ordinary people remain troubled by concrete matters, while Laozi reveals his uniqueness lies in harmonizing his spirit with emptiness, returning to the nurturing source (Mother) of all things.

The manifestation of "Kong De" (the formless virtue of emptiness) perfectly follows the patterns of the Dao. The Dao appears both existent and non-existent, vague and indistinct. Within this seeming ambiguity, however, certain forms emerge; within this dim and fluctuating state, there lies genuine reality. Profound and mysterious, it contains the purest Jing-Qi (the foundational energy of life), which is utterly authentic and has maintained its essence from ancient times to the present.

Laozi further elaborates that this virtue of emptiness is actually the manifestation of "One Qi" (the primordial energy of the cosmos). The so-called "huanghu" state—a condition of uncertainty—is both like light and darkness, both presence and absence. Form and substance are ultimately one, illustrating the principle that "being arises from non-being, and non-being is contained within being." This state of uncertainty is the "Hunyuan Yi Qi" (the undifferentiated primordial energy), which is also the original state of the human mind.

When the mind becomes attached to external things, this perception of uncertainty arises; when the spirit fully releases all attachments, it enters the "yaoming" (profound and obscure) realm. The "Jing" here does not refer to physical matter but to that unfathomable, genuine essence. Ordinary people often mistake turbid material substances for Jing-Qi—that is the language of occult practitioners. True Jing-Qi is pure and free from falsehood.

This scripture explains that all bodily fluids (such as sweat, tears, nasal mucus, saliva, and semen) arise from transformations induced by mental activity, rather than being the true primordial Jing (essence). The "constancy" mentioned here refers to the eternal laws that have existed since ancient times, through which one can observe the original state of all things.

Laozi says that the reason he understands the laws governing the origin of all things is through this profound and mysterious principle. The scripture then elaborates a series of dialectical laws:

To yield is to be preserved whole; to bend is to become straight; the hollow is filled; the worn-out is renewed; with little comes gain; with much comes confusion. Therefore, the sage holds to the fundamental principle of the Dao (the Way) as the standard for the world. By not displaying oneself, one becomes illuminated; by not asserting oneself, one becomes distinguished; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not exalting oneself, one endures. Precisely because one does not contend, no one in the world can contend with them.

Is the principle that "to yield is to be preserved whole" mere empty words? It is truly the method for preserving oneself and perfecting one’s De (Virtue/Power).

Next, the text discusses "sparse words follow nature": A gale does not last all morning, nor does a downpour last all day. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and earth. Even the actions of heaven and earth cannot endure—how much less can those of humans?

The characteristic of the Dao is sparse words and natural spontaneity. What is not natural is artificial contrivance. Just as whirlwinds do not last the whole morning and storms do not last all day, these are the workings of heaven and earth. If even the actions of heaven and earth cannot persist, how much less can the actions of humans?

Those who stand on tiptoe cannot keep their balance; those who stride too wide cannot walk far. Those who display themselves fail to see clearly; those who assert themselves cannot manifest true Virtue (De); those who boast cannot establish real merit; those who are self-satisfied cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food or superfluous fat—even ordinary things detest them, so those who embody the Dao would never act this way.

(Explanation of "those who stand on tiptoe" etc.) One cannot stand long on tiptoe, nor walk far with overstretched strides. Similarly, attitudes of self-display, self-assertion, self-boasting, and self-satisfaction cannot be sustained in ordinary affairs—how much less in the pursuit of the Great Dao! Those who truly perceive the Dao must transcend such attachments, just as one puts down chopsticks after eating. Even mundane things reject such excess—how much more should seekers of the Dao!

(Explanation of the "something formless" passage) There was something formless yet complete, born before heaven and earth. Silent and void, it stands alone and unchanging, revolving endlessly without cease—it may be considered the mother of all things under heaven. I know not its name, so I style it "Dao," and if forced to describe it, I call it "Great." Great means ever-flowing, ever-flowing means far-reaching, far-reaching means returning to the source. Thus the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is great. Within the cosmos there are these Four Greats, and the king is one of them.

(Additional context) This passage uses everyday phenomena to illustrate four mental states to avoid in cultivating the Dao: self-display, self-assertion, self-boasting, and self-satisfaction. Practitioners should maintain a mind of emptiness and stillness, mirroring the Dao's characteristics: it precedes all things, formless yet generating all, endlessly cycling without cease. The king is counted among the "Four Greats" alongside Dao, heaven, and earth precisely because he emulates the Dao's qualities.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concept of "the Dao follows naturalness (ziran)." Laozi posits the cosmic order of emulation: humans model themselves after earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven follows the Dao, and the Dao itself conforms to the spontaneous state of naturalness. The Great Dao is fundamentally empty (xu), yet from this emptiness naturally arises the "One Qi" (primordial cosmic energy), from which all things in heaven and earth emerge through harmonious fusion.

Before the formation of yin and yang, the Dao already existed—silent and soundless, formless and vast, standing alone unchanging above all things, circulating through the six directions (heaven-earth and four cardinal points) without exhaustion. All phenomena originate from this singular source called "the One," which can be considered the mother of the myriad beings. Though appearing to manifest concrete forms, its essence remains the ineffable emptiness. Laozi states that not knowing its true name, we provisionally call it "Dao," and due to its boundless nature, designate it as "Great."

Because all things arise from the One, the Dao is vast; because phenomena take form through yin-yang transformations, heaven and earth are equally expansive. The text mentions "the sovereign is also great," indicating that when rulers root themselves in emptiness and govern by upholding the Dao, they join the Dao, heaven, and earth as the "Four Greats." Humans cultivate themselves through the Five Constants (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness) and various virtues, modeling earth's humility and stability; earth in turn follows heaven's cyclical patterns; heaven adheres to the principles of the One Qi, which ultimately conforms to the spontaneous nature of emptiness.

The latter section employs the metaphor "heaviness is the root of lightness, stillness governs agitation" to illustrate foundational priorities. Like a nobleman traveling with laden carriages yet maintaining detachment amidst splendor, it criticizes rulers who treat their dominion lightly despite commanding ten thousand chariots—such frivolity loses subjects, such restlessness forfeits the throne. Emphasizing steadfastness and tranquility as the fundamental principles for both governance and self-cultivation.

The truly adept in action leave no traces, the truly skilled in speech make no mistakes, the truly wise in strategy need no calculations. Those who excel at closing their hearts need no lock yet none can open them; those who master maintaining the Dao need no cords yet cannot be untied. Thus the sage is always adept at saving others, therefore nothing is wasted; skilled at utilizing all things, therefore nothing is discarded. This is the manifestation of inner wisdom.

Those who have attained the Dao serve as teachers for those who haven't, while the unattained serve as mirrors for the attained. Yet one should neither excessively venerate teachers nor stubbornly cling to mirrors. Overvaluing these may appear wise but actually leads to greater confusion. The true mystery lies in transcending cleverness and gain-and-loss.

Understanding the principle of strength yet abiding in softness, one willingly becomes the valley of the world. Maintaining this humble, non-contending state allows virtue to endure, ultimately returning to the pure heart of an infant. Knowing the way of brightness yet abiding in obscurity, one becomes the model for the world. Preserving this balanced virtue leads back to cosmic origins. Comprehending glory yet abiding in humility, one becomes the receptive valley of the world. Maintaining this inclusive virtue enables return to primal authenticity.

For practitioners not yet fully comprehending Wuwei (non-action), though knowing strength can prevail, they should maintain a soft approach to life. Laozi uses the "world's valley" metaphor to teach abiding in lowliness without contention. Preserving this humble posture ensures virtue remains intact, and over time one returns to the innocent state of an infant.

He who understands brightness yet dwells in obscurity can become the model for all under heaven. This speaks of the realm where one conceals radiance and does not display virtue. Those who can serve as models for the world constantly maintain their virtue without deviation. Over time, their virtue returns to the boundless and inexhaustible.

Knowing glory yet not becoming complacent, bearing disgrace without sorrow—such a person is like the empty valley of the world, embracing all with profound humility. Those who can become the empty valley of the world constantly preserve their virtue in perfect wholeness, and over time return to the original state of pristine simplicity.

This original simplicity (referring to "Pu" or the Uncarved Block) disperses to form concrete phenomena. The sage employs this principle to establish governance systems, hence the most perfect governance causes no harm. "Pu" is the primordial Qi (vital energy) transformed from the Dao—when dispersed, it manifests as the concrete expressions of Yin-Yang, such as the seasonal transitions from spring to autumn.

Observing the patterns of all things' growth, the sage establishes social order: ancestral temples distinguish generations through the Zhaomu system, courts establish positions through hierarchy, villages arrange by seniority. Those with profound virtue are honored as leaders, hence establishing the sequence of ruler before subject, husband before wife. This governance aligned with the Dao brings human relationships into harmonious order without causing harm.

Those who seek to forcibly govern the world—I foresee they will never succeed. The world is a sacred existence that cannot be controlled by force. Compulsory action inevitably fails, obstinate grasping inevitably leads to loss. All things under heaven may advance or follow, be warm or cold, strong or weak, succeed or fail. Therefore, the sage ruler eliminates extremes, extravagance and excess.

In ancient times, when the world was governed through Wuwei (non-action), nothing remained ungoverned. By the eras of Yao and Shun, when virtue began to decline, it became necessary to promote benevolence and righteousness to rescue the decaying world. Laozi observes that those attempting to forcibly govern—I foresee they cannot succeed. The world is a marvel of transformation that cannot be controlled by force. Compulsory action brings failure, obstinate grasping brings loss. Therefore, the sage ruler eliminates extremes, extravagance and excess.

This passage discusses the principles of military strategy according to Laozi's philosophy. The text suggests that the world should avoid extremes, extravagance, and excess precisely because true wisdom lies in non-action (Wuwei) rather than forceful intervention.

Those who assist rulers through the Dao do not rely on military might to dominate the world, as warfare inevitably invites retaliation. Where armies have camped, the land becomes desolate; after great battles, years of famine inevitably follow. Therefore, those skilled in military affairs achieve their objectives and then stop, never daring to assert dominance through force. After achieving their aim, they remain free from arrogance, boasting, or aggression, understanding that such actions are taken only as a last resort. When things reach their peak, they begin to decline—this contradicts the Dao, and what contradicts the Dao will soon perish.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments that even Heaven, Earth, and all creatures despise; thus, those who follow the Dao do not employ them lightly. While noble persons normally honor the left side in daily life, they honor the right when engaged in warfare. Weapons are not tools for noble persons to use regularly—they are employed only when absolutely necessary, and even then with detachment. To glorify war is to delight in killing, and those who delight in killing can never realize their aspirations for the world. Auspicious events favor the left, while ominous affairs favor the right. Thus, lieutenant generals stand on the left and senior generals on the right, treating warfare with the solemnity of funeral rites. When many lives are lost, one must face this with grief.

War is like poison—it should only be used to resolve crises and never employed frequently. Weapons are inauspicious instruments, and the pursuit of victory damages one's De (Virtue/Power). All things in nature despise warfare, which is why those who have truly attained the Dao do not glorify military might. In daily life, noble individuals honor the left side (traditionally associated with Yang and life), but in warfare, they prioritize the right (associated with Yin and death). Thus, weapons are not tools for the virtuous—they should only be used as a last resort to suppress violence and chaos.

The foundation of governing a state lies in Wuwei (non-action) and tranquility, so warfare should never be glorified. To praise war is to delight in killing, and those who take pleasure in slaughter will never gain the people's trust, let alone rule the world. Auspicious affairs honor the left, while inauspicious ones honor the right. This is why deputy generals stand on the left (symbolizing life) while chief commanders stand on the right (symbolizing death). Those who lead armies should observe the rites of mourning when waging war—what does this mean? It means facing heavy casualties with grief, and even in victory, conducting funeral rites to mark the occasion.

The Dao eternally abides in its nameless simplicity. Though appearing subtle and insignificant, nothing in the world can subdue it. If rulers can preserve this pristine nature, all things will naturally submit and follow. When the Qi of heaven and earth, Yin and Yang, intermingle harmoniously, sweet dew descends to nourish all beings, distributing itself evenly without human intervention.

The Dao first generates primordial Qi (the most fundamental energy) from emptiness. Though this Qi already exists, it remains formless—this we call "Pu" (the Uncarved Block). Though seemingly more modest than the Dao itself, this state of simplicity is the root from which all things emerge, and thus nothing under heaven can dominate it. When rulers govern by preserving this essential simplicity, it resembles how heaven and earth naturally harmonize to send down nourishing rain—achieving perfect balance without commands.

Through "Pu," the Dao begins establishing order and giving rise to names. But once names appear, one must know when to stop. Without restraint, we lose our original simplicity. Only by knowing when to cease can danger be avoided and longevity maintained.

The Dao's movement through the world is like countless streams eventually flowing into rivers and seas. To understand others may be called wisdom, but to know oneself is true clarity; to conquer others may be called strength, but to master oneself is true power. Those who know contentment are truly rich, and those who steadfastly practice the Dao possess true resolve. Only those who never stray from the root endure, and those whose spirit transcends physical death attain true longevity.

Just as all streams return to the ocean, all things ultimately return to the Dao. By observing a person's motivations, methods, and habitual inclinations, we may understand them. Yet using cleverness to comprehend others cannot compare to turning inward to illuminate one's true nature. Overcoming others relies on strategy and power, but subduing one's own mind, remaining unmoved by external circumstances—this is genuine strength. The world considers material abundance as wealth, yet true riches lie in realizing one's inherent completeness. All worldly pursuits are but small aspirations—only unwavering dedication to the Dao constitutes true resolve (as Confucius aspired to the Dao). When every action aligns with the Dao's principles, this is abiding at the root.

Those who can maintain their original true nature endure eternally—though the physical form may perish, the intrinsic nature never fades. Those who lose their true nature fall into the cycle of birth and death, while those who preserve it abide in the realm of neither arising nor ceasing, enduring through countless kalpas in perpetual existence—this is true longevity.

The Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) flows everywhere and manifests in all things. All beings rely on it to grow, yet it never refuses; it accomplishes all yet claims no merit, nourishes all yet does not dominate. Because it is eternally free from selfish desires, it may be called "small"; yet all things return to it without knowing its mastery, so it may also be called "great." The sage achieves greatness precisely because they do not inflate themselves—thus they attain true greatness. Governing the world by holding to this fundamental principle, the people naturally submit without harm, and peace prevails under heaven.

The pleasures and delicacies of the mundane world are fleeting like passing guests, yet the manifestation of the Dao is plain and flavorless. Look for it—it cannot be seen; listen for it—it cannot be heard. Yet when applied to governing the state, harmonizing the family, cultivating the self, or even handling affairs before birth and after death, its efficacy is inexhaustible.

To gather something in, one must first let it expand; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first let it flourish; to take something, one must first give it. This is the subtle and luminous wisdom—the soft overcomes the hard, the weak conquers the strong. Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, the vital methods of governance must not be casually revealed to others.

(Note: "Subtle and luminous" refers to the profound yet evident principle; "vital instrument" metaphorically signifies the essential strategies or statecraft of governance.)

This scripture reveals the laws governing the development and transformation of things, as well as principles for governing states and self-cultivation, containing three main layers of meaning:

First, it explains the law of transformation. If you wish to contract something, you must first allow it to expand; if you wish to weaken something, you must first let it strengthen; if you wish to abolish something, you must first let it flourish; if you wish to take something, you must first give it. This is the inevitable principle of Yin-Yang mutual generation—only those who perceive these subtle transformations truly understand the nature of things. Just as fish cannot leave water, the crucial instruments (sharp tools) of governance should not be casually displayed. For instance, tally symbols and seals represent trust, while measuring tools maintain fairness—these are all essential instruments of statecraft. Without understanding these subtle principles, attempts to solve problems may instead create more complications.

Next, it discusses the governing principle of Wuwei (non-action). The great Dao (Dao) eternally follows nature's course yet accomplishes everything. If rulers (sovereigns) can uphold the principle of Wuwei, all things will transform naturally. When desires begin to stir, one should use the simple, unadorned nature (nameless simplicity) to settle them. Maintaining this state of simplicity leads to tranquility and Wuwei, allowing the world to naturally return to the right path. The great Dao of governing the world lies in handling affairs with an attitude of non-action, which paradoxically accomplishes everything.

Finally, it distinguishes between levels of De (Virtue/Power). The highest De (superior De) does not deliberately display virtue, thus it possesses true virtue; the lesser De (inferior De) clings to not losing virtue, thereby losing genuine virtue. Those with superior De practice Wuwei without seeking gain, while those with inferior De act deliberately with ulterior motives. From Dao to De, then to benevolence, righteousness, and ritual, the levels descend progressively. Ritual already represents the thinning of loyalty and trust, marking the beginning of disorder. Truly wise individuals (great men) choose solid simplicity over shallow ostentation. In ancient times, people naturally possessed virtue without proclaiming it; later, Fuxi established systems like writing and marriage—though not devoid of virtue, these already fell into the inferior category of deliberate action.

The truly virtuous person governs through Wuwei (non-action), accomplishing things without deliberate effort. Those of lesser virtue employ purposeful methods of instruction, requiring conscious exertion to achieve results. By the eras of Yao and Shun, rulers governed the world through benevolent De (Virtue), advocating humaneness while still maintaining natural spontaneity.

In the three dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, distinctions between right and wrong emerged, with various regulations established—this became conscious striving. During the Spring and Autumn period's Five Hegemons, rulers superficially relied on ritual propriety to govern, but these rituals bred hypocrisy, and the people no longer followed them sincerely. When rulers instituted laws to compel obedience through fear of punishment under the guise of righteousness, it was like rolling up one's sleeves to force compliance.

Thus the pattern of societal development reveals: when Dao is lost, De is emphasized; when De is lost, humaneness is emphasized; when humaneness is lost, righteousness is emphasized; when righteousness is lost, ritual propriety remains. Ritual systems, meant to restore order with sincerity as their foundation, become instead the beginning of chaos when trustworthiness wanes. Ancient rulers who flaunted clever governance grasped only the superficial form of Dao—this very pursuit of outward appearances initiated the deception of the people.

Therefore, the noble person stands firmly where trustworthiness is deep, not where it is shallow; grasps the substance of Dao rather than indulging in its forms. One should discard the flashy and superficial, choosing instead the simple and substantial root.

Those ancients who attained the "One" (the root of Dao): Heaven attained the One and became clear, Earth attained the One and became tranquil, the spirits attained the One and became efficacious, valleys attained the One and became full, the myriad things attained the One and flourished, lords and kings attained the One and brought peace to the world. This principle is universal: if Heaven cannot maintain clarity, it may collapse; if Earth cannot maintain tranquility, it may quake; if spirits lose efficacy, they may vanish; if valleys cannot remain full, they may dry up; if the myriad things cannot grow, they may perish; if lords and kings cannot maintain noble positions, they may fall. Thus nobility takes humility as its root, and height takes lowness as its foundation. Hence lords and kings call themselves "orphaned," "solitary," and "unworthy"—is this not taking humility as fundamental? Therefore, seeking excessive praise brings no praise at all. Better not to be a polished gem, but to be an unyielding stone.

This "One" is the source from which all things transform and arise—all things are born from the One. Attaining the One brings prosperity; losing it brings decline. As Laozi said of those ancients who attained the One: Heaven attained the One and became clear in its covering, Earth attained the One and became tranquil in its supporting.

The numinous powers (referring to the mystical forces between heaven and earth) attain their efficacy by obtaining the "One" (the origin of Dao). Among the three powers of heaven, earth, and humanity, the four directions and all dimensions resemble mountain valleys—they become full when obtaining the "One." All things grow by obtaining the "One," and rulers governing the world must also take the "One" as their standard to bring the world back to the right path. All this is because they have attained the "One."

If heaven loses the "One," it cannot maintain clarity and may collapse; if earth loses the "One," it cannot remain peaceful and may become unstable (referring to disasters like floods, fires, and storms); if the numinous powers lose the "One," they will lose their efficacy and may dissipate; if valleys lose the "One," they will dry up, and the cosmos may reach exhaustion; if all things lose the "One," they cannot grow and reproduce, and life itself may perish; if a ruler loses the "One" and fails to govern with the right path, relying only on his high status and losing humility, he may lose his authority.

Therefore, those of noble status must take humility as their foundation, and those in high positions must base themselves on modesty. This is why rulers refer to themselves as "orphaned" (meaning fatherless), "widowed" (meaning bereft of support), and "unworthy" (meaning lacking virtue)—these terms express humility. Is this not taking humility as the root? If one constantly flaunts their nobility, it will lead to excessive praise. Praise is often the beginning of slander—it is better to have no praise at all. Thus, one should not be like a precious jade that attracts admiration and praise, nor like a worthless stone that invites scorn.

Cycling and returning are the movement of Dao; gentleness and softness are its way of functioning. All things under heaven arise from "being" (concrete existence), yet "being" itself arises from "non-being" (the origin of Dao). Those whose minds chase outward would do better to turn inward. Thus, "returning" is the movement of Dao—moving and returning to a state of no-mind is "softness," and softness is precisely how Dao functions. Ordinary people only know that all things arise from "being," unaware that "being" itself originates from "non-being." Therefore, understanding "non-being" reveals the true function of Dao.

When superior individuals hear the great Dao, they diligently practice it; when average individuals hear the Dao, they waver between belief and doubt; when inferior individuals hear the Dao, they laugh loudly. If the inferior did not laugh, it would not be the true Dao. Superior individuals, upon hearing the Dao, develop genuine faith and thus cultivate it diligently; average individuals, hearing the Dao, lack firm conviction and thus remain half-believing, half-doubting; inferior individuals, hearing the Dao, are so deeply entrenched in worldly habits that when they encounter the supreme teachings of Dao, their minds cannot focus—they find it absurd that one can embody virtue (De) without deliberate action, and thus they burst into laughter.

The one who truly comprehends the Dao (the Way) may appear foolish and ignorant to the world. The smooth path of Dao seems rugged, and progress in cultivation sometimes resembles retreat. The highest De (Virtue/Power) remains as empty as a valley, while the purest character paradoxically seems tarnished. Great virtue always appears insufficient, and meritorious deeds seem furtive. The most genuine essence appears changeable, the greatest squareness has no corners. The most precious vessel takes the longest to complete, the most exquisite sound is nearly inaudible, and the grandest form has no definite shape. Thus the Dao remains hidden and nameless.

(This passage explains seemingly paradoxical phenomena in spiritual cultivation: genuine enlightenment may manifest as ordinary or even dull appearance; the path appears simple yet proves difficult; noble virtue expresses itself through humility and inclusiveness; true accomplishments aren't ostentatiously displayed. These all reflect the inherent characteristics of the Dao.)

The Dao excels at nurturing all things to their completion. First, the Dao generates undifferentiated primordial Qi (vital energy, One), which then divides into Yin-Yang energies (Two). The interaction of these complementary forces produces harmonious Qi (Three), from which all phenomena emerge. All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects, maintaining harmony through the balancing force of this mediating energy.

(This section expounds the Daoist cosmogony: the generative sequence of Dao→primordial Qi→Yin-Yang→harmonious Qi→myriad beings. The "mediating Qi" refers to the harmonizing energy produced through the dynamic interplay of Yin and Yang, serving as the crucial force for both creation and equilibrium. All existence inherently contains this unity of opposites, sustained by balancing energies.)

The world despises terms like "solitary," "widowed," and "unworthy" (referring to loneliness, lack of virtue, and inadequacy), yet rulers and nobles use them to refer to themselves. This is because all things in the world often appear to lose but actually gain, or seem to gain but ultimately lose. The ancients taught us humility, and I too use the way of humility to instruct the world. Those who are domineering and tyrannical often meet untimely ends—thus, I take humility as the fundamental principle for guiding people.

Why do rulers adopt these self-deprecating titles? Because the principle of governing the world is rooted in humility. Therefore, what seems like loss may bring benefit, and what appears as gain may lead to harm. From this, we know that humility brings advantage—this is the wisdom passed down by the ancients. Laozi says: I also take humility as my standard in teaching others. Why? Because those who rely on force and aggression rarely meet a good end. Thus, I make the way of humility the foundation for instructing the world.

The softest thing in the world (referring to the Wuwei [non-action] nature of the Dao) can overcome the hardest. The formless can penetrate what has no crevices (illustrating the Dao's omnipresence). From this, we recognize the benefits of Wuwei. The teaching beyond words, the advantages of non-action—few in the world can attain this state.

What is called the softest thing in the world is the original mind, free from thought and worry—the mysterious Dao. If one masters this supreme softness, one can govern the most indestructible things in the world (as the ancient saying goes: "Unseen yet eternally present"). By approaching all things with Wuwei, one enters the realm of neither birth nor death, enduring through all ages without interruption. Thus, we know the benefits of non-action. This state is beyond words, and Laozi laments: The advantages of Wuwei are understood by few in the world.

Which is more precious—reputation or life? Which is more important—life or wealth? Which is more harmful—gain or loss? Therefore, excessive pursuit of fame inevitably brings great loss, and hoarding wealth leads to significant harm. Knowing contentment avoids disgrace; understanding limits prevents danger—only then can one endure long.

What is most perfect seems incomplete, yet its function never fails. What is most full seems empty, yet its usefulness is inexhaustible.

What is most straight appears crooked; what is most skillful appears clumsy; what is most eloquent appears inarticulate. Movement overcomes cold; stillness overcomes heat. Clarity and stillness through Wuwei (non-action) constitute the proper way to govern the world.

What is truly perfect appears flawed, thus its function never wanes; what is truly full appears empty, thus its function is inexhaustible. The straightest does not show its edge, appearing instead bent; the most skillful conceals its wisdom, appearing instead awkward; the most eloquent speaks sparingly, appearing instead tongue-tied. Therefore, what seems flawed surpasses perfection; what seems empty surpasses fullness; what seems bent surpasses straightness; what seems clumsy surpasses skill; what seems inarticulate surpasses eloquence. Just as movement dispels cold (when Yang Qi moves it generates agitation), stillness calms heat (when Yin Qi rests it brings coolness). These principles operate like applying the right remedy—only by maintaining clarity and stillness through Wuwei can one transcend all dualities and attain the proper way to govern the world.

When the world is at peace, warhorses retire to fertilize fields; when the world is in chaos, even pregnant mares are sent to battle. No crime exceeds indulging desires, no disaster surpasses insatiability, no fault is greater than unbridled greed. Thus those who know contentment are forever satisfied.

In ancient times, soldiers were farmers and farmers were soldiers—called to arms during war, returning to plows during peace. When the world is tranquil, people live contentedly and warhorses plow fields; when the world is disordered, even suburban pastures breed warhorses. The root of chaos lies in desire: the gravest crime is indulgence, the worst calamity is insatiable greed, the deepest fault is obsessive acquisition. Truly, crimes and disasters all stem from desire. Without covetousness in one's heart, contentment arises naturally; the contented mind finds sufficiency in all circumstances, calamities dissolve of themselves—how could faults remain?

Without stepping outdoors, one knows the world's affairs; without peering through windows, one comprehends Heaven's Dao. The farther one travels, the less one truly knows. Therefore sages understand without journeying, perceive without seeing, and succeed without striving.

The great Dao permeates all things, yet its realization begins within oneself. Those seeking to know the Dao need not venture out—turning inward reveals all. Since mind and cosmos share one essence, one thereby knows all under heaven. Progress further by relinquishing deliberate observation—

This passage elucidates the mental state and way of being for Daoist practitioners.

A cultivator who maintains inner freedom from worldly attachments can naturally comprehend the Dao (the Way) without deliberately seeking external observations. Those who obsessively pursue truth through divination, Yin-Yang techniques, or human affairs will only drift further from the Dao. Thus, the sage understands the nature of all things without direct experience and grasps the transformations of the Dao without relying on sight alone.

The pursuit of knowledge is a process of accumulation, while cultivation is one of gradual relinquishment. One must shed attachments layer by layer until reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action). Here, Wuwei does not mean doing nothing but rather acting without forced intention, in harmony with natural flow. Mundane tasks like carrying water and chopping wood may appear as labor, yet the mind remains unburdened. Governing the world follows the same principle—acting with a mind free from contrivance, for deliberate interference renders one unfit to rule.

Two common deviations arise in cultivation: one is excessive immersion in studying texts and analyzing doctrines, representing attachment to "existence"; the other is forcefully suppressing thoughts to pursue emptiness, representing attachment to "non-existence." True cultivation transcends both extremes, arriving at a state of effortless action. "Effortlessness" does not imply absence of awareness but a natural mindset free from artificial striving.

The sage has no fixed personal desires, instead taking the people's hearts as their own. Whether others are kind or trustworthy, the sage responds with equal benevolence and sincerity. When governing, the sage remains vigilant, guiding the people back to simplicity. While the people watch the sage's every word and deed, the sage nurtures them like children. This is the state of desireless Wuwei—yielding to the people's will without rigid insistence.

This passage elucidates the sage's way of engaging with the world and the wisdom of nurturing life.

When handling affairs, the sage maintains inner purity and stillness, responding naturally when situations arise (as the Yijing states: "In stillness they do not act rashly; when stimulated they penetrate all affairs under heaven"). Whether encountering virtuous or unvirtuous people, the sage treats all with equal kindness, transforming the people through De (Virtue/Power). The same applies to dealing with trustworthy or untrustworthy individuals—making no distinctions, yet ultimately all become trustworthy. Thus in the world, the sage neither doubts the myriad things nor makes them appear false; shows no partiality yet all things become just; esteems no treasures yet people cease being greedy; indulges in no luxuries yet the world becomes frugal; focuses on substantial matters and the world ceases falsifying; honors humility and the world ceases contention. Maintaining an attitude of pristine simplicity, the people all focus on the sage's De, while the sage treats all things with childlike purity.

Regarding the way of life and death: Those who live naturally constitute three-tenths; those moving toward death, three-tenths; and another three-tenths are those who could live but instead perish because excessive pursuit of longevity ironically leads them to death's domain. Why? Because they overreach in seeking eternal life. Truly skilled nurturers of life encounter no rhinos or tigers when traveling by land, need no armor when entering battlefields—rhinos find no place to gore, tigers no place to claw, weapons no place to strike. Why? Because they possess no fatal vulnerabilities.

People generally fall into two errors regarding life cultivation: One is seeking methods externally, imitating heaven-earth and Yin-Yang through visualization techniques, mouth rinsing, breathing exercises, and energy circulation. The other is seeking stillness internally, becoming immersed in empty, deathlike states. Laozi uses decimal proportions to illustrate: Three types of people (those attached to "existence," those attached to "emptiness," and those attached to external realms) each constitute three parts, totaling nine—all unacceptable. Because their minds cling to attachments, all remain trapped in the cycle of life and death.

This scripture primarily expounds on the realms of Dao cultivation and the generative characteristics of the Dao (the Way) in nurturing all things.

Those who truly comprehend the path of embracing non-birth transcend the disturbances of external realms, neither clinging to existence nor to non-existence, attaining a state of complete non-attachment. The mind does not fixate on anything, perceiving all phenomena as if unseen, coming and going freely. Body and spirit are wholly unified, so that when walking, one does not encounter rhinos or tigers, and when entering battle, one remains unharmed by weapons. Rhinos find no place to use their horns, tigers no place to extend their claws, and weapons no place to manifest their sharpness. How is such a state achieved? Because the mind is entirely free from attachment, and in every action—walking, standing, sitting, or lying down—one maintains a state of emptiness and stillness. "Emptiness" means formless and without appearance; "stillness" means unborn and undying. Having reached the realm of non-birth, one does not fall into the domain of death.

The Dao gives birth to all things, while De (Virtue/Power) nurtures them. Matter forms their bodies, and circumstances facilitate their development. Thus, all things revere the Dao and cherish De. The honor of the Dao and the importance of De are not bestowed by any external authority but are their intrinsic nature. The Dao generates, nurtures, matures, cultivates, ripens, nourishes, and shelters all things—yet it does not claim possession, acts without self-importance, and guides without domination. This is the profoundest "Mystic De."

All things under heaven have an origin, and this origin is the mother of all things. Understanding this root allows one to know all things; knowing all things, one must still hold fast to this root, so that one may remain free from danger throughout life. As the Liezi states: All tangible things arise from the formless Dao. Thus, the origin of all under heaven is "non-being," with emptiness as the mother of all things. Once one recognizes emptiness as the root, one realizes that all things are its offspring. Knowing that all things are offspring, one should return to the root. If a person can align the mind with emptiness, like a child returning to its mother’s embrace, one will remain free from danger for life.

Block the openings of desire and close the gates of the senses, and one will never toil in life. But if one opens the passages of desire and busies oneself with worldly affairs, one will never find peace.

This passage elucidates how to approach the state of Dao (the Way) through restraining desires and maintaining inner purity.

It begins by noting that humans possess six sensory faculties (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) which easily generate desires and distracting thoughts, becoming sources of misfortune. Laozi teaches that one should close these channels of sensory craving, pacify greed and obsession, thereby avoiding lifelong suffering. The key lies in eradicating desires at their root within the heart-mind—when this is achieved, external temptations naturally dissipate. This embodies Laozi's teaching: "To perceive the subtle is called clarity" (discernment of minute details constitutes wisdom) and "To hold fast to gentleness is called strength" (maintaining softness represents true power).

An illustrative metaphor follows: When engaging with the external world, one should be as adaptable as using lamplight for illumination, while internally preserving emptiness and stillness to return to the innate radiance of one's nature. A warning is given—violating these principles brings calamity upon oneself, while adhering to them aligns one with the "Constant Dao" (Chang Dao).

The latter section observes that the Great Dao is inherently level and straightforward, yet people persistently seek shortcuts. Just as courts pursue clever stratagems leading to abandoned farmlands and empty granaries, individuals chase ornate clothing, carry sharp swords, crave lavish feasts, and hoard wealth—all manifestations of straying from the Dao. Zhuangzi states that the true Dao cannot be described with words, perceived through senses, or comprehended by intellect. Those who presume to grasp the Dao through cleverness, speech, or action commit a grave error.

The conclusion emphasizes that the Great Dao is actually simple and effortless (Wuwei, non-action; without artificial striving), yet people habitually favor opportunism, pursuing cleverness and deliberate action. The societal conditions of the time—courts exalting political manipulation resulting in public hardship, and people chasing external adornments, indulging gluttony, and amassing riches—all represent fundamental deviations from the Dao.

Those who indulge in grandiose talk and make overly perfect statements do not truly align with the Dao. Observing the current state of the world reveals how deeply troubling such rhetoric has become.

The one who excels in establishing De (Virtue/Power) will find their foundation unshakable; the one who excels in preserving De will never lose their integrity. It is like the unbroken lineage of ancestral sacrifices passed down through generations. When a person cultivates themselves, their De becomes pure and genuine. Extending this cultivation to the whole family, De overflows in abundance. Spreading it throughout the village, De endures without decline. Implementing it across the nation, De becomes rich and plentiful. Universalizing it under heaven, De permeates all existence.

Thus, we observe individuals through their self-cultivation, families through their household discipline, villages through their communal ethos, nations through their governance, and the world through its overall condition. How do I comprehend the patterns governing all under heaven? Precisely through this method.

Those skilled in establishing De find it inexhaustible; those skilled in preserving De never lose it. Like an unbroken lineage of ancestral sacrifices passed down eternally. Cultivating De within oneself makes it authentic and unwavering. Cultivating it throughout the household makes it abundant and overflowing. Cultivating it across the village makes it enduring and unceasing. Cultivating it nationwide makes it rich and expansive. Cultivating it universally makes it omnipresent.

Therefore, we examine individuals through their cultivated De, families through their harmonious De, villages through their communal De, nations through their governing De, and the world through its universal De. This transmission of De remains unbroken, just as ancestral sacrifices continue through generations. The Laozi says: The reason I understand the principles governing all under heaven is precisely through this method of self-cultivation and virtue-establishment.

This scripture elucidates how practitioners should maintain the purity and naturalness of an infant's state, while also attaining the wisdom realm of "those who know do not speak."

Regarding the infant state: Those with profound De (Virtue) behave with the pristine purity of a newborn. Infants harbor no distracting thoughts within, and external things cannot harm them—venomous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't claw them, and birds of prey won't attack them. Though their bones and sinews are soft, their grip is remarkably strong; though unaware of sexual matters, they exhibit natural vitality, demonstrating abundant Jing (essence). They can cry all day without hoarseness, showing the harmonious flow of primordial Qi. Understanding this harmonious state means grasping the "constant Dao," and comprehending the constant Dao constitutes true wisdom.

The scripture warns: Deliberately pursuing longevity may instead invite misfortune, while forcibly circulating Qi to strengthen the body yields only temporary results. Just as all things decline after reaching their peak, such methods that defy nature's ways are not the true Dao and should be promptly abandoned.

Concerning the wisdom of "those who know do not speak": True sages avoid excessive speech, while those who talk frequently often lack genuine understanding. Practitioners should close their sensory gates (where "Dui" represents the mouth and "gates" signify the senses), withdraw their sharp edges, dissolve conflicts, harmonize their radiance, and blend with worldly dust to achieve the supreme state of "mysterious unity." In this realm, one transcends distinctions between intimacy and estrangement, benefit and harm, nobility and baseness—thus becoming the most revered under heaven.

(Note: "Red Child" refers to a newborn infant; "female and male" denotes Yin-Yang or genders; "mysterious unity" indicates the supreme state of oneness with the Dao.)

The truly awakened who comprehend the Great Dao (Dào) do not cling to words, while those obsessed with rhetoric remain ignorant of truth. To realize the ineffable supreme Dao, one must close the gates of sensory desire ("Dui" representing mouth/nose and other senses, "gates" referring to eyes/ears), smooth the sharp edges of the mind, and dissolve worldly entanglements. In handling affairs, maintain inward reserve (harmonizing radiance means not revealing sharp edges); in worldly interactions, blend with common dust (joining the dust means harmonizing with mundane society). Preserving this state where movement and stillness unite, one attains the mysterious unity (xuántóng) with Dao—a wondrous realm where neither hatred nor favoritism exists, where distinctions of intimacy/distance, benefit/harm, nobility/humility naturally dissolve. Here, all things can neither be approached nor distanced, neither benefited nor harmed, neither honored nor debased. All karmic attachments cease, emotional delusions are severed, the mind becomes empty and free, transcending all phenomenal constraints—this is the world's most precious state.

Govern the state with upright methods, command armies with extraordinary strategies, and win the world through non-action (wúwéi). How do I know this? Because when prohibitions multiply, the people grow poorer; when ingenious tools proliferate, the state descends into chaos; when clever techniques abound, strange occurrences increase; when laws become harsher, thieves multiply. Thus the sage says: "Through my non-action, the people transform themselves; through my tranquility, they correct themselves; through my non-interference, they prosper naturally; through my desirelessness, they return to simplicity." Benevolent governance cultivates honest folk; oppressive rule breeds cunning subjects. Fortune and misfortune alternate—who knows their ultimate end? Uprightness may turn strange, goodness may become monstrous—the people's confusion has long endured. Therefore the sage remains square-cornered without wounding, incorruptible without harshness, straightforward without presumption, luminous without dazzling.

"Uprightness" means pure undividedness. If rulers can maintain this undivided Dao, they become the world's standard—hence "governing the state with uprightness." Auspicious and inauspicious outcomes stem from reckless action; only undivided Dao can prevail—thus "using extraordinary strategies in warfare" ("extraordinary" referring to the singular number—Sun Tzu's Art of War similarly roots strategy in Dao). Therefore govern the world through non-action. Laozi says: How do I know this? During the Zhou dynasty, excessive prohibitions left people afraid to report hardships, worsening poverty; pursuit of convenient tools and admiration of cleverness brought greater chaos; fascination with extraordinary crafts spawned bizarre phenomena; as laws grew more complex and severe...

Laozi here expounds the governing principle of Wuwei (non-action). He states that when rulers use Dao and De (Virtue/Power) to educate the people yet fail to cultivate their sense of shame, thieves and bandits will multiply in society. Therefore, the sage says: When I refrain from deliberate action, the people naturally transform themselves; when I maintain stillness, the people naturally correct themselves; when I avoid troubling the people with affairs, they naturally prosper; when I remain free from desires, they naturally return to simplicity. This is the way of governing the world through Wuwei.

Though this method of governance may appear plain and unremarkable, the people naturally retain their purity. If one governs through deliberate action, even with strict decrees, the people will instead become fragmented and incomplete. Attempting to save the world through action is like treating scabies with hot water—it may bring temporary relief but ultimately worsens the condition. Misfortune often lurks within blessings, while blessings conceal potential calamities. Who can discern the ultimate principle within this paradox?

There exists no fixed, unchanging "right way" to govern a state. What people now call the right way may transform into its opposite, and virtuous deeds may turn into ominous signs. People have been deluded by these appearances for too long. Therefore, the sage maintains a broad mind that doesn't divide the myriad things, remains incorruptible without harming others, upholds integrity without imposing demands, and preserves inner radiance without ostentation—all these manifest the practice of Wuwei.

In governing the people and serving heaven, the supreme method lies in "restraint" (conserving and gathering). Through restraint, one can return early to the Dao. This return constitutes the true accumulation of De (Virtue/Power). When De becomes profound, no obstacle remains insurmountable, allowing one to reach unfathomable depths. Only by attaining this state can one properly sustain a nation, for grasping the root of governance ensures lasting stability. This embodies the principle of deep roots and firm foundations, leading to enduring vision and longevity.

Attempting to govern people and the world through cleverness and cunning means losing the Dao. Far better to maintain restraint. Restraint enables early return to the Dao—this is how supreme De accumulates. When De becomes profound, one meets no resistance; such success isn't accidental but results from reaching unfathomable depths. Attaining this state allows proper preservation of the nation, for the Dao constitutes the fundamental root of statecraft. Grasping this root ensures lasting stability—this is the principle of deep roots and firm foundations, leading to enduring vision and longevity.

Laozi employs two vivid metaphors here to illustrate the art of statecraft. First, he uses the analogy of "frying small fish": governing a large state is like cooking tiny fish—one shouldn't flip them too often (meaning excessive interference should be avoided), or they'll fall apart. When the world is governed through Wuwei (non-action, the natural way), the people remain unharmed. Even ghosts and spirits won't cause mischief or bring calamities—not because they lose their power, but because the sage ruler doesn't harm the people, so the spirits refrain from harming them too. When humans and spirits cease harming each other, their De (virtue/power) naturally merges in harmony.

Next comes the metaphor of "female and male interacting": a great state should emulate rivers and seas that stay low (the lower position), and all under heaven will naturally gravitate toward it. The female (yin) often overcomes the male (yang) through tranquility, so when a great state humbles itself before smaller states, it gains their allegiance; when a small state humbles itself before a great one, it gains the latter's acceptance. The great state seeks only to embrace and nurture others, while the small state seeks only to serve and rely—both sides fulfill their needs. But Laozi emphasizes this crucial point: the greater the power, the more it should maintain humility.

In conclusion, governance should emulate the Dao (Way) of heaven—the natural order—just as water flows downward, embodying humility and inclusiveness. Interactions between states resemble the dynamic between female and male, where softness and stillness often prevail over strength and force. When a great state approaches smaller ones with humility, they naturally submit; when a small state approaches a great one with deference, it gains acceptance. Regardless of size, all states must grasp this principle: "The stronger one should be the more humble."

This passage discusses two Daoist attitudes toward life: "joyfully accepting Heaven's decree" and "revering the Dao of Heaven." Laozi said that those who joyfully accept their fate can peacefully enjoy the world, while those who revere the Dao of Heaven can preserve their state—each finds their proper place. Therefore, those in high positions must not abuse their power but should remain humble and lowly.

The Dao is the fundamental mystery of all things. To the virtuous, it is a treasure; to the unvirtuous, it is still a protective foundation. Kind words can earn respect, and good deeds can transform others. Even the unvirtuous—how can they be abandoned? Thus, in ancient times, when appointing the Son of Heaven or establishing the Three Dukes (Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian), even the most precious jade discs and four-horse chariots (the luxurious carriages of ancient nobility) offered as ceremonial gifts could not compare to the value of sitting quietly and cultivating the Dao. The ancients revered the Dao precisely because its cultivation eliminates greed, diminishes attachment to wealth and status, and thus prevents the sins born of desire.

The true sage appears to practice Wuwei (non-action) in all endeavors, handling affairs as though they were nothing. This serene virtue is like flavorless flavor—whether facing great or small matters, many or few, they respond with a mind free of attachment. Even when encountering resentment or opposition, they repay enmity with De (Virtue).

To resolve difficulties, begin with what is easy; to accomplish great deeds, start with the subtle. All under heaven's difficult tasks originate in simplicity, and all great undertakings arise from the minute. Thus, the sage never grasps at grandeur, yet achieves truly great work.

To tackle difficult matters, one must begin with what is easy; to accomplish great deeds, one must start with small steps. All challenging endeavors in the world originate from simplicity, and all grand undertakings emerge from the subtle. Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) never strives to do great things deliberately, yet achieves truly monumental work.

Those who make promises lightly often lack sincerity, and those who regard tasks as too easy often encounter greater difficulties. Therefore, the sage always approaches challenges with caution, and in the end, faces no true obstacles.

Stability makes it easy to maintain order; before signs of trouble appear, planning is straightforward. Just as thin ice is prone to shatter and delicate things easily disperse, one must prepare before events unfold and address disorder before it takes root. A towering tree grows from a tender sprout; a nine-story terrace is built one basket of earth at a time; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step.

Forcing outcomes often leads to failure, and clinging too tightly invites loss. Thus, the sage, by not acting recklessly (Wuwei), avoids failure, and by not grasping, avoids loss. Ordinary people often fail when their efforts are near completion because they lack the caution they had at the beginning. Therefore, the sage seeks what others neglect (tranquility and Wuwei), valuing not rare treasures but simplicity. They learn what others overlook (returning to the natural state) to correct the faults of the multitude, assisting all things in their natural development without presumptuous interference.

In times of stability, one must remain mindful of potential crises; before events arise, one must plan ahead. Like fragile ice or vanishing subtleties, all matters should be prepared for before they manifest, and order should be restored before chaos takes hold. A massive tree grows from a tiny shoot; a towering terrace rises from accumulated earth; a long journey starts beneath one’s feet—everything evolves from the minute to the magnificent, demanding utmost care. Whatever is forced will likely fail; whatever is clung to will likely be lost. Hence, the sage acts through Wuwei (non-action, aligning with nature) and thus does not fail; by not grasping, nothing is lost. Ordinary people, acting with deliberate effort (youwei), often stumble when success seems within reach.

The term "ji" refers to the subtle moment when the mind first stirs—before movement, there is only emptiness, which is not "ji"; after movement manifests, it is no longer "ji." "Ji" is precisely that critical threshold where thought emerges from nothingness into existence.

The subtle beginnings are where desires sprout and events originate. If one can approach every matter with caution, maintaining the same prudence from start to finish as at the initial moment, nothing will be mishandled. Thus, the sage pursues the state of "no-desire" (wu yu)—exercising vigilance at the very inception of thought; not valuing rare goods—exercising proper control at the earliest stage of events. From this, we see that the sage's learning does not lie in employing cleverness or intellect, but in returning to the root where ordinary people are prone to err, following the natural order of all things without arbitrary interference.

The ancients who excelled in practicing the Dao (the Way) did not use cleverness to make the people shrewd but kept them simple and genuine. The people are difficult to govern precisely because of their excessive cleverness. Governing with cunning is a calamity for the state, while governing without it is the state's blessing. Understanding the distinction between these two is to grasp the principle; constantly embodying this principle is called "mysterious virtue" (xuan de, profound De). Mysterious virtue is deep and unfathomable, seemingly contrary to common sense, yet ultimately it leads to the greatest harmony.

The reason rivers and seas can become the gathering place of all streams is that they excel at staying low. Thus, if the sage wishes to stand above others, they must be humble in speech; if they wish to lead the multitude, they must place their own interests last. Therefore, when the sage occupies a high position, the people do not feel burdened; when they stand at the forefront, the people do not feel obstructed. All under heaven gladly support them without resentment—precisely because they do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them.

(Note: "Mysterious virtue" (xuan de) refers to the highest level of De (Virtue/Power) in Daoism, transcending worldly understanding; "principle" (kai shi) denotes the standard or norm; "king of all valleys" metaphorically describes the sea's capacity to embrace all rivers.)

All under heaven say the Dao is vast, yet it appears unlike any concrete thing. Precisely because the Dao is boundless and limitless, it cannot be confined to fixed forms like ordinary objects. If the Dao resembled any particular thing, it would long have become insignificant.

Laozi explains: People say the Dao is vast because it transcends limitations of form, name, and rigid rules. Though it may vaguely resemble certain things, ultimately it is not any of them. Only the undifferentiated primordial Qi (cosmic source energy) can truly be called vast. Those who cling to concrete forms and regulations will never genuinely comprehend the Dao. Practitioners must take special note: so long as even a trace of worldly distraction remains in the heart, one remains trapped within the framework of forms and names, unable to escape the cycle of birth and death. This is why the ancient sages gave us such admonitions.

I hold three precious treasures that I constantly safeguard: first is compassion, second is frugality, third is daring not to strive ahead of others. Through compassion one achieves true courage; through frugality one attains true abundance; through willingly staying behind one becomes the leader of all. Nowadays people abandon compassion to show false bravery, discard frugality to pursue extravagance, and refuse yielding while craving precedence—this only leads to self-destruction. When compassion guides warfare, justice prevails; when used for defense, stability is secured. Whomever heaven wishes to save, it protects through compassion.

The truly wise never flaunt military might; the skilled warrior never acts in anger; the perpetual victor never contends with others; those adept at employing people willingly take the lower position. This is the virtue of non-contention, the method of skillfully using others' strength, and the supreme state of aligning with heavenly Dao. Ancient military adages say: "I dare not take the offensive but prefer defense; dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot." This is called marching without formation, raising arms without action, facing enemies as if none existed, holding weapons as if empty-handed. No disaster surpasses underestimating opponents—doing so nearly costs me my treasures. Thus when armies clash, victory ultimately goes to the side holding compassion in its heart.

Laozi says: I cherish three virtues above all, upholding them to cultivate self and govern states. First is compassion—treating all beings with benevolent heart; second is frugality—restraining desires; third is daring not to strive first—maintaining humility and non-contention. Compassion brings wisdom and acuity, enabling courage to save others; frugality brings contentment, creating true abundance; not striving first allows one to become the leader of all.

This passage expounds Laozi's wisdom on the art of warfare. The core principle is that truly superior military strategy doesn't rely on brute force or aggression, but is fundamentally rooted in compassion, humility, and non-contention.

The text first identifies three misguided approaches: abandoning benevolence for mere bravery, which harms others; discarding frugality for extravagance, which corrupts virtue; and refusing to yield while insisting on precedence, which invites resentment. These paths all lead to self-destruction.

The warfare that aligns with the Dao operates differently: combat guided by compassion is the true path, and defense built on kindness becomes unshakable. Just as heaven protects whom it would save with loving care, the ancient masters of warfare followed these principles. The skilled commander doesn't rush to arms, the expert warrior rescues people through compassion rather than anger, the true victor avoids contention, and the wise leader remains humble. This embodies the "De (Virtue) of non-contention" and "employing others' strength" - their perfect union represents the highest virtue.

Ancient military strategists taught: "I dare not initiate hostilities but only respond, not advance an inch but rather retreat a foot." This appears as engagement with enemies while maintaining a non-contentious heart. Restraint resembles having no arms to wield, necessary defense becomes like facing no enemy, and compassion as strategy is like wielding no weapons. Hence Laozi warns: "The greatest disaster is underestimating opponents - such arrogance nearly makes me lose my precious compassion." When nations clash, victory ultimately belongs to the side holding compassion.

Laozi laments: "My words are easily understood and simple to practice, yet the world fails to truly comprehend and implement them." The teachings have their fundamental purpose, the principles their essential core. Because people miss this foundation, they misunderstand. Those who comprehend are few, making such understanding precious. Thus the sage wears coarse garb but harbors jade-like wisdom within.

The conclusion emphasizes: "My plain words are easily grasped, my advocacy of Wuwei (non-action) easily followed. Yet people measure them by worldly standards, always wanting to see, hear, act and acquire - thus failing to truly understand or practice. This teaching has its fundamental purpose, its discourse an essential core."

Laozi said that those who truly understand me are few, and those who comprehend the Dao (the Way) I speak of are even fewer. Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) appears outwardly in coarse clothing, no different from ordinary people, yet within their heart they hold the supreme Dao, like precious jade hidden within plain stone. Outsiders see only the ordinary exterior, rarely discerning the inner treasure.

To recognize one's own ignorance is the highest wisdom, while pretending to know what one does not is a flaw. Sages are free from such flaws precisely because they remain vigilant against this pretense of knowledge. The Scripture of Clarity and Stillness states: "To turn inward and observe one's own mind is true wisdom; to abide without attachment to any thought is the highest state." Practitioners of the Dao should maintain inner purity, free from distracting thoughts and desires, not even clinging to the notion of where their mind resides. To constantly believe one knows something is itself a kind of sickness. Only by treating this "self-assumed knowledge" as a flaw can one avoid being obstructed by knowledge.

When people cease to fear external threats, true danger arises. Do not confine the breadth of your mind, nor resent the circumstances of your life. It is precisely by not resenting that one remains free from resentment. Therefore, the sage knows themselves but does not flaunt it, cherishes themselves but does not hold themselves superior—discarding the latter while embracing the former. If the human mind can maintain emptiness and stillness, all situations will naturally become clear, and thus there is no need to fear external threats. A warning to all: do not cling to shallow insights and actions, do not confine yourself within narrow boundaries of existence, do not despise the toils of worldly life. Only by not resenting this physical form can one use it as a vessel to cultivate truth and realize formless reality. The ancients said: "In life, one does not even understand the illusory nature of the five aggregates (form, sensation, perception, mental formations, and consciousness); in death, when the hundred bones scatter, there is nowhere to seek." Thus, the sage knows themselves but does not boast, loves themselves but does not exalt themselves.

Reckless boldness invites fatal disaster, while cautious humility preserves life. These two attitudes—one beneficial, the other harmful—are such that even the Dao's aversion is unfathomable. Thus, even sages find it difficult to judge. The nature of the Dao is this: it does not contend yet prevails, does not speak yet responds, does not summon yet arrives, appears unhurried yet excels in strategy. The Dao is like a vast, boundless net—seemingly sparse, yet nothing slips through.

This scripture expounds several fundamental truths about human existence:

First, it discusses the wisdom behind courage. Reckless actions often invite fatal consequences, while prudent discernment of circumstances preserves life. Both approaches have their merits and drawbacks, much like the inscrutable workings of the Dao (the Way) that even sages find difficult to fully comprehend. The Dao appears non-contentious yet naturally prevails; seemingly silent yet elicits spontaneous response; requiring no summons yet retribution arrives of its own accord. Like a vast net, the Dao seems loosely woven but metes out karmic justice with perfect precision.

Second, it examines the deterrent effect of punishment. When people no longer fear death, what purpose does the threat of execution serve? If people genuinely fear death, then capital punishment for wrongdoers may indeed serve as an effective warning. However, the authority to execute belongs to Heaven alone - when humans presume to act as Heaven's executioners, they resemble an amateur attempting a carpenter's work, likely to injure themselves. Excessive reliance on harsh punishments in governance often leads one astray from the true path.

Third, it addresses livelihood concerns. People starve when rulers impose excessive taxes; they become ungovernable when subjected to excessive interference; they lose fear of death when obsessed with extravagant pleasures. Truly wise individuals don't cling to life-nourishing pleasures, yet surpass those who deliberately chase longevity.

Through contrasting the Dao with human governance, this scripture admonishes rulers to follow natural principles and reduce interference, while reminding individuals to practice moderation and avoid extremes.

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist principle of "the soft overcoming the hard" through observations of natural phenomena and state governance:

When alive, the human body remains supple; after death, it turns rigid. Similarly, plants are tender while growing but become brittle when withered. This reveals that hardness and strength often belong to the category of death, while softness and pliancy embody vitality. Just as military aggression rarely achieves victory, and towering trees inevitably face the axe—what appears strong ultimately occupies the lower position, while what seems soft naturally ascends to prominence.

The Dao of Heaven (natural law) operates like drawing a bow: it lowers what is too high and raises what is too low; it reduces excess and supplements deficiency. Yet human society does the opposite—depriving the disadvantaged to enrich those who already have abundance. Who can take from surplus to compensate insufficiency? Only sages who follow the Great Dao (the Way) can accomplish this. Emulating Heaven's way, they act without claiming credit and achieve without dwelling on accomplishments, for they have no desire to display their worthiness.

Nothing under heaven is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in attacking the hard—this unique capacity of water to conquer rigidity through yielding cannot be replaced. Though all know this principle of softness overcoming hardness, few truly practice it. Therefore, the sages say: Only those who can endure a nation's humiliation are fit to be lords of the altars of soil and grain (the state); only those who bear a country's calamities deserve to be kings of the world. These seemingly paradoxical statements contain profound truth.

(Note: "Altars of soil and grain" refers to state sovereignty; "Dao of Heaven" denotes natural laws of operation; "sages" indicate rulers who have attained the Dao)

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard. Water can reshape solid objects precisely because nothing can alter water's fundamental nature. Though everyone knows the principle that the soft conquers the hard and the weak overcomes the strong, few can embody it.

People often fail to maintain softness and weakness, instead competing to be strong. Therefore sages like King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou declared: "When all under heaven err, the fault lies with me alone." Only those who can bear a nation's humiliation may become its true rulers; only sovereigns who call themselves "the solitary one," "the unworthy one," or "the grainless one"—those who shoulder their country's misfortunes—can become true kings of the world. These seemingly paradoxical statements actually accord with the Dao's deepest truths.

Forcing reconciliation of great grievances inevitably leaves residual resentment—how can this be considered true goodness? Thus when sages handle affairs, they hold the left half of a contract (traditionally kept by creditors) without demanding payment. Those with De (Virtue) preserve the left half, awaiting natural fulfillment; those without De control the right half, coercing compliance. The Dao shows no favoritism—it eternally supports those who follow nature and act with benevolence.

Consider how King Tang exiled the tyrant Jie of Xia and King Wu overthrew Zhou of Shang: though they resolved great grievances, traces of military resentment remained. How could this be called perfect goodness?

The ideal society resembles a small state with few people: though possessing tools, the people don't use them; valuing life, they don't travel far; having boats and carriages, they don't ride them; owning armor and weapons, they don't display them. People return to the simplicity of knotting ropes for records, content with plain food, pleased with their clothing, comfortable with local customs, and happy in their occupations. Neighboring states are within sight, their roosters and dogs audible, yet the people grow old and die without interacting.

The human heart-mind (Shen) is originally pure and unattached—it's desire that creates external attachments. Laozi wished to return all people's hearts to desireless simplicity, like inhabitants of small states: though possessing communal tools for ten or a hundred people ("shi" meaning ten, "bo" meaning hundred) and having wisdom and ability, they maintain their unadorned nature.

When rulers refrain from abusing authority, the people remain content and harmonious. If the populace can be free from excessive desires, their minds will naturally settle into tranquility. People live peacefully in their vocations, forgetting external concerns like fame and wealth, valuing life itself without restlessly seeking change.

Without desires, there is no greed—even if chariots and boats exist, none would compete to ride them. Without desires, there is no contention—even with weapons and armor, they would find no use. Thus, society returns to a state of pristine simplicity, where even written contracts become unnecessary, reminiscent of the knotted ropes used for record-keeping in the era of the Three Sovereigns.

When people are free from covetousness, they do not crave rare delicacies but find simple meals satisfying; they do not pursue lavish garments but feel comfortable in coarse cloth. Customs remain genuine, with each person content in their occupation, free from rivalry. Though neighboring states may be within sight and the sounds of their roosters and dogs audible, the absence of desire ensures that people live out their lives without interaction. Those in authority govern with effortless ease, while the common people remain naturally simple, free from contrived action—what need is there then for elaborate contrivances?

Truthful words are often unadorned, while pleasing words often lack truth. The truly virtuous do not rely on clever arguments, and those skilled in debate are seldom truly virtuous. As the Analects say: "The noble person is slow to speak but quick to act." The genuinely wise do not chase after extensive knowledge; those who pursue breadth often lose sight of the root. Confucius once said, "Zigong, do you think I am one who learns widely and retains much?" Zigong replied, "Yes, is it not so?" Confucius said, "No, I bind all things together with a single thread."

The sage accumulates nothing for personal gain—the more they assist others, the richer they become; the more they give, the more they receive. Confucius said, "Do my disciples think I conceal anything from them? I conceal nothing." The sage keeps nothing hidden, teaching all beings and upholding the true Dharma. In benefiting others, they naturally receive in return—thus, benefiting others is ultimately benefiting oneself.

The Dao of heaven benefits all things without causing harm; the way of the sage is to act without contention. These words form the concluding message of the Daodejing, encapsulating its essence: the law of heaven nourishes without injuring, and the sage's principle is to give without striving.

When Yuanqing went to visit Benlaizi (Daoist name), Deng Guang of Mount Wangwu requested to have this book printed. Benlaizi said: This text was originally written as a personal memorandum. Nowadays, when people hear of books like the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), most shrink back in apprehension, finding them too difficult to practice.

Deng Guang explained: When a person's Jing (essence), physical form, and Shen (spirit) unite as one, mastering the transformations of Yin-Yang, they can endure as long as heaven and earth—this is the state of a "Zhenren" (True Person). One who grasps this fundamental principle to comprehend all phenomena may wander freely between heaven and earth, perceiving realms beyond the eight directions—this is the "Zhiren" (Ultimate Person) of perfect De (Virtue). The next level follows Yin-Yang as guiding principles, harmonizing with natural rhythms while maintaining physical and mental equilibrium, moderately fulfilling worldly desires to live a hundred years—these we call "Shengren" (Sages). Below them are "Xianren" (Worthy Persons) who emulate celestial movements, observe sun, moon and stars to establish calendars distinguishing the four seasons.

Those who adhere to conventional virtues like benevolence, righteousness and propriety are called "Junzi" (Gentlemen); those who violate them are "Xiaoren" (Petty Persons). From Zhenren to Junzi, all depend on the workings of Yin-Yang Qi—these states may collectively be termed "De." But speaking of the Wuwei (non-action) Great Dao to ordinary people would arouse skepticism even among sages and worthies, let alone petty persons. When basic ethical virtues prove challenging, how much more daunting the Great Dao appears—hence their instinctive retreat.

Benlaizi mentioned: A visitor once recounted how Wang Anshi's son Wang Pang died young after annotating the Dao De Jing, and during a soul-summoning ritual, his father saw him wearing iron shackles as punishment for reckless scripture commentary. Deng Guang countered: Though Wang Pang's annotations were imperfect, they generally aligned with Dao-De. Like Liu Yong's romantic poetry that indulged sensual pleasures yet didn't prevent him from fulfilling official duties, scriptures themselves bear no fault—the key lies in the reader's comprehension. Superior practitioners may use them to illuminate their true nature, middling ones for self-cultivation, while lesser readers treat them as mere diversion. Just as a sword can protect or harm depending on its wielder.

Some people nowadays fabricate miraculous tales to dazzle the public in pursuit of novelty. Stories abound about immortals like Heshang Gong ascending in broad daylight, Liezi riding the wind, turning stones into gold, or maintaining ruddy complexions and jet-black hair while fasting for years. These bizarre tales of supernatural powers aim to inspire blind worship through marvel.

Yet my own life is utterly ordinary: dwelling in humble alleys with graying hair, making a living selling herbs, married with children—no different from common folk. Writing such mundane truths might ironically invite criticism. Consider the ancient tale of Emperor Shun plowing Mount Li, where elephants tilled his fields and birds weeded—claimed as evidence of his sagely virtue. But Lu Guimeng rightly pointed out: this was clearly magic arts, not sagehood. Confucius praised Shun's wisdom in the Book of Documents without mentioning such oddities. Mencius also stated Yao and Shun were human like anyone else—it's enthusiasts who exaggerate the miraculous.

When Emperor Wen of Han met Heshang Gong floating a hundred feet above ground on clouds—this was undeniably magic arts. Liezi's so-called "wind-riding" actually describes a meditative state where self and object merge, like a leaf drifting on breeze, indistinguishable whether wind carries him or he rides wind—not literal flight. Such "wind-riding" belongs to body-lightening techniques, stone-transmuting to transformation arts, prolonged fasting to grain-abstention methods, and eternal youth to longevity practices—none relate to genuine cultivation of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue).

True Dao cultivators resemble Liezi: when dwelling in Zheng, he farmed like any peasant, refused official grain offerings despite his wife lamenting their poverty, and remained unrecognized by nobility for forty years. Those embodying Dao-De appear outwardly mundane—the distinction lies solely in inner realization. Ordinary people judge by surfaces, like the robber Zhi judging Confucius through worldly lenses in Zhuangzi's tales, inevitably leading to misunderstanding and slander.

The Huazhen Jing states that to discuss the Dao without following its proper sequence is not the true Dao; to speak of the Dao while deviating from its essence is mere empty talk. The ancient sages established the ladder of Dao and De (Virtue/Power) precisely to clarify the stages of cultivation. Only those who elucidate the Dao without relying on external techniques (referring to outward cultivation methods) are worthy of emulation.

This scripture appears simple yet contains profound depths, revealing the true essence of cultivation in an unprecedented manner. Someone once asked: "If one cultivates only for oneself, how can the patriarchs benefit others?" Seeking the essential meaning, the adept known as Benlaizi (Original Child) sat in deep meditation before replying: "The core of the Daode Jing's five thousand characters lies in the two words 'wu yu' (no desire). For practitioners, having no desire in the heart is the supreme Dao. Yet these two words contain immense depth—thus Laozi first speaks of 'no desire,' then worries students might cling to 'no'; next he mentions 'having desire,' fearing attachment to 'having'; then proposes 'the sameness of having and no is called xuan (mystery),' still concerned about fixation on 'xuan'; finally uses 'the mystery within mystery' to erase all traces. These four approaches all serve as gateways to the Dao."

Today's Daoist students commonly fall into four errors: The first type, hearing of "no desire," forcibly suppresses thoughts, unaware that deliberate suppression is itself desire. The second seeks methods externally, imagining the Dao exists beyond the mind, not realizing mind is method and method is mind—the very seeking constitutes desire. The third freezes the heart like wood or stone, clinging to the "xuan" state. The fourth deliberately erases traces of mystery while maintaining subject-object distinctions. All these are forms of mental fixation that become obstacles to cultivation.

True desirelessness requires transcending these four errors. Contemporary commentators on scriptures, still trapped by words themselves, mistakenly take "xuan" as the Dao and "mystery within mystery" as the gate of all wonders—a grave error. Writing should clarify true reality; only by surpassing these four attachments can one perceive the Dao. The Dao itself is the true gate of wonders, while words are merely fishing nets—how can one cling to them and generate intellectual understanding?

Practitioners need only maintain hearts utterly unburdened, like the sun in clear skies—dustless, unstained, illuminating all—then respond to circumstances naturally as floating clouds, coming and going without leaving traces. This is genuine desirelessness.

This passage discusses the state of "no-mind" (wuxin) in Daoist cultivation. When practice reaches its highest level, the mind no longer clings to anything—this is called De (Virtue/Power). At this stage, one neither deliberately pursues anything nor intentionally rejects anything. There is no distinction between the mundane and the sacred, no specific cultivation method, and no need for forced effort. Thus, maintaining an ordinary mind is itself the great Dao.

Some practitioners at this stage may develop doubts, fearing they might fall into empty nothingness—like retreating from a cliff's edge. But this is not true emptiness; rather, it is the attainment of the "mind of no-mind" state. Only those who fully comprehend this "no-mind" realization can be called "Daoren" (Dao-possessed persons). The "Daoren" stands above the "Zhenren" (Perfected Person), because the latter still retains subjective consciousness for learning and cultivation, placing them at a lower level.

The colophon notes this was recorded by Chen Yuanqing of Yingchuan (modern Xuchang, Henan) on the seventh day of the first lunar month (Renri, Human Day) in the Gengchen year of Shaoxing era (1160 CE), appended to the scripture.