《道德真經註(二)》

In his commentary on the Dao De Jing, Wang Bi explains: The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name. Those aspects of the Dao that can be described and names that can be defined all refer to specific things and forms, not to the constant, unchanging truth.

The original state of heaven and earth was nameless - this nameless state is the origin of all things. When things acquire concrete forms and names, they become the mother that nurtures all beings. All existing things begin from "non-being" (wu); before they have concrete form or name, they exist in the primal state of all things. Once they acquire form and name, they begin to grow, develop, and mature - this is the mother of all things.

To comprehend the profundity of the Dao, one must maintain a state of mental clarity and desirelessness. The mystery of all things originates from the most subtle beginnings, gradually emerging from "non-being." Thus, only by preserving this desireless state of empty clarity can one observe the subtle initial state of all things, while understanding the destination of all things requires conscious observation. The reason "being" (you) can produce effects depends precisely on the foundation of "non-being."

Both "non-being" and "being" originate from the same source (xuan, the mysterious), differing only in name. At the beginning it's called the "origin," while at the outcome it's called the "mother." "Xuan" signifies something profoundly unfathomable, the common source of both "origin" and "mother" that cannot be precisely described in words. If one insists on naming it "xuan," this already deviates from its true meaning - hence the phrase "mystery upon mystery," which represents the gateway to all wonders.

When everyone in the world recognizes beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when everyone recognizes good as good, the concept of not-good emerges. Thus being and non-being give rise to each other, difficulty and ease complement each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low position themselves against each other, tones and sounds harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Beauty is what people's hearts delight in, ugliness is what people's hearts dislike. Beauty and ugliness are like joy and anger, good and evil like right and wrong - all ultimately spring from the same root.

This passage elucidates the Daoist concept of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)," emphasizing an approach to life that follows natural patterns without forced interference.

The text first explains how six types of human intervention (mentioned earlier) violate the natural Dao. Thus, the sage handles affairs without deliberate action, because nature itself is already complete. Forced efforts lead to failure, making it better to teach through wordless example, allowing all things to grow naturally without interference. To create without possessing, to act without claiming credit—this constitutes true wisdom. Deliberate action breeds artificiality, and even after achieving merit, one should not dwell on it, because accomplishments naturally arise from aligning with the way of things.

Next, it discusses governance principles: by not over-praising the worthy, people won't compete for fame; by not valuing rare objects, people won't steal; by not displaying tempting things, minds remain undisturbed. Here, "worthy" refers to talent, "praise" means glorifying reputation, and "value" indicates inflated worth. Excessive admiration for the worthy or precious goods only stirs contention and greed. Therefore, in governing, the sage empties people's minds (reducing cunning schemes), fills their bellies (meeting basic needs), weakens competitive ambitions, and strengthens their bodies. Keeping people simple and genuine ensures even the clever dare not act recklessly. The "knowledge" mentioned here refers to contrived cleverness—when free from such artifice, the world naturally achieves order.

The passage then illustrates Dao's characteristics: though seemingly empty, it's inexhaustible; profoundly unfathomable, it appears as the source of all things. It blunts sharp edges, untangles knots, softens glare, and merges with the dust—vaguely present yet undeniably real. Dao existed before heaven and earth. Just as focusing solely on one's household fails to preserve it, or governing a state with narrow vision brings chaos, or straining to lift heavy objects saps strength. Though all things follow their own patterns, without aligning with Yin-Yang principles (the Two Modes), harmony is impossible. Though earth has form, without emulating heaven it finds no peace; though heaven is subtle, without following Dao it cannot maintain its refinement. Dao appears empty yet functions boundlessly—it contains all yet never overflows. This limitless quality represents the ultimate perfection. No magnitude can burden it; no multitude of affairs can exhaust it.

When all things abandon the Dao (the Way) to seek other rulers, where then can their true ruler be found? The Dao is profound and unfathomable—does it not resemble the very source of all things? It blunts sharp edges yet does not harm their essence, resolves conflicts without exertion, dims its radiance yet remains untainted, mingles with the mundane yet never alters its true nature. Is this not the very definition of that deep, liminal existence—seemingly present, yet absent?

The earth bears the forms of all things, yet its De (Virtue/Power) never exhausts itself, no matter how much it carries. The heavens embrace all phenomena, yet their De never runs dry, no matter how vast their reach. Even heaven and earth cannot attain the Dao's perfection—does this not prove the Dao existed before the Celestial Lord (the highest deity)?

Heaven and earth hold no partiality; they treat all beings as straw dogs (sacrificial objects, symbolizing impartiality). They let all things follow their natural course, neither creating nor interfering, allowing existence to unfold spontaneously—hence their apparent "non-benevolence." Those who claim benevolence inevitably impose rules and teachings, yet such artificial intervention strips things of their authenticity. Just as the earth does not grow grass specifically for beasts, yet beasts find nourishment; it does not produce dogs for humans, yet humans domesticate them naturally. Without interference, all things find their proper place. When wisdom stems from human contrivance, it fails to function truly.

The sage aligns with the virtue of heaven and earth, likewise treating the people as straw dogs—with equal detachment. Is not the space between heaven and earth like a bellows (tuóyuè)? Hollow yet never collapsing, the more it moves, the more it generates ceaselessly. Bellows and flute pipes (yuè) remain inexhaustible precisely because their emptiness holds no will of its own. So too does heaven and earth operate naturally—forced intervention only backfires. Just as excessive speech hastens exhaustion, holding to the center proves wiser; the more one forces action, the more one loses.

The "Valley Spirit" (symbolizing the Dao's empty nature) never dies—it is called the "Mysterious Feminine" (xuánpìn). The gateway of this wondrous mother is the very root of heaven and earth. Subtle and continuous, seeming absent yet present, its function never wanes. The Valley Spirit dwells in the void's center, formless and traceless, abiding humbly yet unshaken, eternally serene and undiminished. All things take shape through it yet never perceive its form—this is the highest existence. Though it occupies the lowliest place, none can demean it; though it appears empty, it never exhausts itself.

This passage elucidates several core concepts from the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue). First, it discusses the "root of heaven and earth" (the cosmic origin), which exists like an unbroken thread—formless yet inexhaustible in nourishing all things. Like the mysterious feminine generative gate (xuanpin), it serves as the source from which all beings emerge, connected to the ultimate cosmic reality.

The enduring existence of heaven and earth stems from their lack of self-serving intent. Those who focus solely on self-preservation enter into competition with all things, while non-contention naturally draws all things to them. Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) positions themselves behind others yet finds themselves ahead; by not clinging to personal gain, they preserve their life. It is precisely this selflessness that fulfills their true being.

The highest good resembles water—nourishing all things without claiming merit, willingly dwelling in low places others disdain, thus embodying the Dao (cosmic principle) most closely. Water possesses seven virtues: it excels in choosing its dwelling place, maintains profound depth within, shows benevolence in interactions, keeps faith in speech, governs effectively in administration, demonstrates capability in tasks, and moves with perfect timing. Through non-contention, it remains free from fault.

The text then addresses the principle of restraint: carrying an overfilled vessel risks spillage, while sharp edges cannot long be preserved. No one can safeguard rooms overflowing with gold and jade; wealth coupled with arrogance invites misfortune. Withdrawing after accomplishing one's work aligns with nature's pattern, like the seamless transition of seasons.

Finally, it presents methods for cultivating mind and nature: the spirit should dwell peacefully within the body as its residence, maintaining undivided purity. One should breathe with the single-minded focus of an infant to attain perfect softness, and cleanse the mind's mirror of distractions until it becomes flawless. These practices harmonize with natural Qi (vital energy), achieving the dual fulfillment of self and cosmos while perfecting one's inherent nature.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and how "non-being" facilitates the function of "being."

The text begins by explaining that when one eliminates mental distractions and external pretenses to achieve ultimate clarity of perception, they become undisturbed by external matters. In this state, the spirit (Shen) remains flawless, ultimately merging with the profound Dao. In governing a state, one should neither employ clever tactics nor rely on political stratagems to pursue success—this constitutes true wisdom. The highest perception is flawless, as if severing sagely wisdom; governing without cleverness resembles abandoning cunning schemes. When this occurs, people naturally avoid deviant paths, and the state achieves harmony effortlessly.

The "Celestial Gate" (Tianmen, representing the cosmic portal through which all things emerge and return) opens and closes in constant transformation—can one maintain soft receptivity throughout? The opening and closing of the Celestial Gate symbolize the cyclical alternation between order and chaos. Whether open or closed, one remains connected to all under heaven. By emulating the feminine principle of yielding without contention, all things naturally return to their proper places, each fulfilling its nature. When the mind achieves luminous clarity, can one refrain from using cleverness? Thus, all things transform spontaneously. The Dao eternally embodies non-action—if rulers uphold this principle, all beings flourish naturally. Without obstructing their source, things grow of themselves; without constraining their nature, they achieve completion. Nourishing without possessing, acting without claiming, guiding without dominating—this constitutes the profoundest "Mysterious Virtue" (Xuande, the hidden and wondrous De). To possess virtue without presuming mastery—this is true profundity.

Three metaphors then illustrate the function of "non-being": Thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub—precisely because of its emptiness that the wheel turns; kneading clay to form vessels—their utility lies in the central void; carving doors and windows to build dwellings—their inhabitable quality depends on empty space. Thus, "being" provides convenience while "non-being" creates function. The usefulness of materials like wood, clay, and walls fundamentally relies on the role of "non-being."

Finally, the text warns against excessive sensory indulgence: Dazzling colors blind the eyes, chaotic music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, and reckless hunting deranges the mind. All these stem from violating the natural dispositions of our faculties.

This scripture conveys two main teachings:

The first layer discusses maintaining one's natural essence and avoiding delusion by external things. The text states that actions contradicting natural essence are as confused as those of the blind and deaf. Rare treasures can distort behavior and obstruct the true path (Dao). Therefore, the sage cultivates inner nourishment ("filling the belly") rather than chasing sensory pleasures ("not indulging the eyes"). The former uses external things to sustain oneself, while the latter enslaves people to material desires.

The second layer examines the relationship between "favor and disgrace" and "great calamity." Both receiving honor and suffering humiliation disturb the spirit (Shen), and glory invariably conceals misfortune within. When people obsess over praise and status—valuing external validation more than life itself—this becomes the greatest calamity. The scripture reveals that such suffering arises from excessive self-concern. By transcending the ego and returning to natural essence, these troubles dissolve. True worth lies in valuing the world above oneself—only such individuals can be entrusted with governing the world.

The concluding section describes the ineffable nature of the Dao: looking, one cannot see it (called "夷"); listening, one cannot hear it ("希"); grasping, one cannot touch it ("微"). These three characteristics defy concrete description, thus collectively termed "the One." Without fixed form or image, it cannot be said to exist (for all things emerge from it), nor can it be said not to exist (as no tangible shape appears). This state of elusive presence is called "indistinct and shadowy" ("惚恍"), having neither discernible beginning nor end.

This passage elucidates the core concepts of "governing the present through ancient wisdom" and "emptiness-quietness" from the Daodejing. The fundamental Dao grasped by ancient sages remains applicable to contemporary affairs—though times change, the laws governing all things remain constant. Though the Dao methods of antiquity are ancient, their essence persists in the present moment, allowing us to discern primordial origins through current phenomena.

The cultivation of genuine Dao practitioners (士 shì) is unfathomably profound, defying verbal description. The text employs seven metaphors to depict this state: cautious as crossing a winter river, alert as fearing siege from all sides, dignified as an honored guest seated formally, natural as melting ice, simple as uncarved timber, expansive as a valley, and turbid as muddy water. These similes collectively illustrate how the realized practitioner's state transcends concrete definition.

When turbid water settles undisturbed, it gradually clarifies; within stillness, new vitality gestates. This transformation from obscurity to clarity, from murkiness to transparency, from stillness to movement—this is the manifestation of nature's Dao. Those who maintain this Dao never seek fullness, for overflow follows excess. Only by not pursuing perfection can one maintain constancy without forced renewal.

Only by attaining ultimate emptiness and steadfastly preserving profound stillness can one observe the fundamental patterns of all things' operations. Though myriad beings flourish in complexity, all ultimately return to the source of emptiness-quietness. Just as plants inevitably return to their roots, this return is called "stillness"—the return to life's original authenticity (复命 fùmìng, returning to life's mandate). This return to authenticity is the eternal law; understanding this law constitutes wisdom (明 míng), while violating it invites calamity.

(Note: Here "returning to life's mandate" signifies reverting to life's primordial source, "constancy" (常 cháng) denotes the unchanging cosmic law, and "illumination" refers to penetrating understanding of the Dao. These concepts form the core of Daoist cultivation, emphasizing the return to original authenticity through emptiness-quietness while harmonizing with natural laws.)

This passage from the Daode Zhenjing (True Scripture of the Dao and De) elucidates the operational principles of the Dao and its application in governance.

The text first explains the state of "knowing the constant" (zhi chang): free from attachment and ostentation, without clear distinctions between light and dark, like a state of naturally harmonized temperature. Those who truly comprehend this constant Dao develop minds capable of embracing all things. Losing this awareness leads to attachment, separation from the myriad things, and reckless actions that invite misfortune. Understanding the constant Dao enables complete acceptance; acceptance brings impartiality; impartiality leads to comprehensive care; comprehensive care aligns one with heaven; and this alignment attains the supreme state of formless Dao. Reaching this realm, even fire, water, metals or stones cannot harm one, nor can wild beasts or weapons inflict injury.

Next, it presents four levels of governance: The highest is the "Supreme Ruler" (Taishang) who follows nature without forceful intervention—the people merely sense their presence. The second level rules through benevolent policies that win popular affection. The third governs through authority that inspires fear. The lowest employs clever tactics that provoke contempt and rebellion. When rulers lack sincerity, the people naturally distrust them—this is an inevitable principle.

Finally, it emphasizes the essence of "governing through non-action" (wuwei): True rulers remain unhurried and sparing with words. When affairs are accomplished, the people perceive them as occurring naturally. This state of "spontaneity" (ziran) bears no trace of artificiality yet elicits perfect response to all words. This represents the highest realization of "teaching without speaking" (xing bu yan zhi jiao).

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." When rulers refrain from imposing doctrines through words or forcibly interfering with the natural growth of all things, their achievements manifest spontaneously, and the people remain unaware of how such harmony was achieved.

It is only when the natural Dao is abandoned that people begin extolling humaneness and righteousness. Only after the principle of Wuwei is violated do various acts of forced benevolence emerge. As the great Dao declines, people resort to cunning wisdom, which in turn breeds greater artifice. Using political scheming to monitor wickedness only intensifies hypocrisy. When people learn to scrutinize expressions and chase profit while avoiding harm, we see how the emergence of so-called wisdom gives birth to grand deceptions.

Filial piety and maternal kindness become emphasized only when family harmony breaks down; loyal ministers stand out only when the state falls into chaos. These virtuous labels actually stem from great evils. Just as fish in rivers and lakes need not moisten each other with saliva—such forced kindness only becomes necessary during drought.

The true approach should be: Discard sagely wisdom and cunning artifice, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Abandon doctrines of humaneness and righteousness, and filial piety will naturally return. Eliminate clever techniques and profit-seeking, and thieves will disappear. These three—sagely wisdom, humaneness-righteousness, and clever utility—are insufficient as governing principles. People must return to their original simplicity and reduce selfish desires. Sagely wisdom represents the goodness of ability, humaneness-righteousness the goodness of human nature, clever utility the goodness of practicality—but mere negation isn't enough; people must be guided back to plainness and desirelessness.

Only by ceasing the pursuit of conventional learning can one become free from worries. How much difference truly exists between compliance and defiance? Between good and evil? What people fear, I cannot but fear. Those pursuing conventional learning daily increase their knowledge, while Dao cultivators daily decrease their desires. Study aims to enhance capability and wisdom, but if one is originally without desires, why seek increase? Not knowing can align with the Middle Way—why pursue progress?

Like phoenixes naturally finding mates or turtledoves naturally pairing, like northerners naturally wearing furs—these represent states of natural fulfillment where forced additions only bring anxiety. Lengthening a wild duck's legs or shortening a crane's are equally absurd. Seeking advancement for fame and fearing punishment are fundamentally no different. Thus, what people fear, I must also fear.

How vast it is—this immeasurable distance from worldly ways! The multitude rejoices as if at a grand feast, as if ascending spring terraces. This occurs because people are intoxicated by fine reputations, confused by glory and profit, with inflated desires and contentious hearts—hence their exuberant displays.

This passage vividly contrasts the Daoist practitioner with ordinary worldly people. The cultivator maintains a state of infant-like purity and desirelessness, while worldly individuals chase external glamour.

The Daoist practitioner stands aloof like one gazing into the distance from a high vantage point in spring, their heart tranquil and undisturbed (怕, meaning "detached"). Like an infant not yet grown into a child, the cultivator is formless and traceless (兆, signifying "omens or traces"). They appear absent-minded (儽儽), as if with nowhere to go and nowhere to dwell, preserving a state of primordial chaos (沌沌).

Worldly people all feel themselves to be abundantly fulfilled (有餘), their minds filled with ambitions and desires. The Daoist practitioner, however, seems to have lost everything, their inner world empty and free from striving. They appear dull-witted (愚人之心), but this is because they have transcended worldly distinctions (别析), harboring no particular preferences or desires—a realm difficult for ordinary people to comprehend (情不可覩).

Worldly people shine brightly (昭昭), sharp and calculating (察察); the Daoist practitioner, by contrast, seems dim and muddled (若昏), simple and unrefined (悶悶). Their mind is as vast and profound as the sea (澹兮其若海) and as unrestrained as a swirling wind (飂兮).

While everyone else seeks usefulness (有以) and strives to display their talents, the Daoist practitioner appears stubborn and uncouth (頑似鄙), as if knowing nothing at all. The root of this difference lies in the fact that the cultivator treasures the source of life (食母, referring to the Dao), while worldly people abandon the root in pursuit of superficial adornments (末飾之華).

This passage presents Wang Bi's commentary on the Daode Jing, primarily explicating the core concepts of the chapters "The Appearance of Supreme Virtue" and "To Yield is to be Whole."

Regarding the chapter "The Appearance of Supreme Virtue": The highest manifestation of De (Kongde, Supreme Virtue) appears as a state of emptiness, completely following the patterns of the Dao. This Dao appears indistinct and hazy, seemingly existent yet not. Within this vague and indeterminate state, it nevertheless contains forms; within this seeming nothingness, it harbors substance. All things emerge and take shape from this formless, imageless state, yet people cannot comprehend its mysteries. Within the profound darkness lies Jing (essence), this essence being supremely authentic and verifiable. From ancient times to the present, the name of Dao never disappears—though it cannot be named, this "namelessness" is precisely its name. All things come into being through this "nameless" state.

Concerning the chapter "To Yield is to be Whole": To understand yielding leads to preservation; not displaying oneself leads to manifestation; to endure bending leads to straightening; not considering oneself correct leads to discernment; low-lying places become filled; not boasting leads to achievement; the worn-out becomes renewed; not exalting oneself leads to enduring virtue. Taking less ultimately gains more, while greed for more brings confusion. This is like trees—the more branches and leaves, the farther from the roots; the fewer branches, the closer to the fundamental. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the "One" (referring to the root of Dao) as the model for the world. Not displaying oneself brings clarity; not considering oneself correct brings distinction; not boasting brings achievement; not exalting oneself brings endurance. Precisely because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them. When the ancients spoke of "yielding leads to preservation," were these empty words? Truly, this can be completely realized!

Here, Wang Bi employs the Xuanxue (Neo-Daoist) concept of "taking non-being as fundamental" to interpret the Daode Jing, emphasizing the empty nature of Dao and the dialectical principle that "the soft overcomes the hard." Through non-contention, humility, and maintaining softness, one can ultimately reach higher states of being.

Laozi here elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao and the behavioral principles for its cultivators. He first explains "rare words are natural" (xiyan ziran): The true words of the Great Dao are naturally silent—appearing plain and flavorless, invisible to the eye and inaudible to the ear. Yet precisely this wordless speech represents the highest realm of natural truth.

Using natural phenomena as metaphors: A fierce wind cannot last all morning, nor can a torrential rain persist all day. These are the workings of Heaven and Earth. If even Heaven and Earth cannot make violent things endure, how much less can humans? Therefore, those cultivating the Dao should emulate the Dao's characteristics. Though formless and acting through wuwei (non-action), the Dao accomplishes all things. Practitioners must take wuwei as their foundation, using wordless teaching like gentle drizzle that moistens all things silently, enabling everything to return to its original nature and merge with the Dao.

Next, three cultivation states are described: Those who embody the Dao are gladly received by the Dao; those in harmony with De (Virtue/Power, the Dao's manifestation) are gladly received by De; those who lose their true nature become entangled in confusion. These outcomes naturally follow corresponding actions. When sincerity is insufficient, one cannot gain trust.

Four erroneous behaviors are then identified: Standing on tiptoe leads to instability; overstriding prevents going far. Those who self-display lack wisdom; the self-righteous find no recognition; self-promoters achieve no merit; the arrogant cannot endure. From the Dao's perspective, such behaviors resemble leftover food or bodily tumors—though initially appealing, excess turns them into burdens that even ordinary people detest. Thus, those possessing the Dao refrain from such conduct.

Finally, the ontological state of the Dao is portrayed: There exists an undifferentiated unity (the Dao) that predates Heaven and Earth. Silent and empty, it stands alone unchanging, circulating endlessly—it may be called the source of all things under heaven. The Dao has no concrete form; nothing can match it. Throughout the birth and death of all phenomena, it maintains its constant, unchanging nature.

This passage presents Wang Bi's commentary on the Daode Jing, primarily elucidating the characteristics of the Dao and the concept of the "Four Greats."

The Dao permeates all under heaven without exception, preserving the forms of all things, thus being called "the mother of the myriad creatures." We cannot precisely name it because it exists as an undifferentiated whole without fixed form. The designation "Dao" is derived from this formless and substance-less state, representing the most encompassing term for this primordial unity. We reluctantly call it "Great" because its movement never ceases ("passing away"), extends everywhere ("far-reaching"), and ultimately returns to its source ("returning").

In the cosmos there are Four Greats: the Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the King (ruler). Though all things have names, the ultimate reality transcends naming. The Dao, Heaven, Earth, and King all exist within this realm ("domain") beyond names. The King's greatness stems from being the sovereign among humans.

Humans model themselves on Earth (conforming to geographical principles), Earth models itself on Heaven (conforming to celestial cycles), Heaven models itself on the Dao (conforming to universal patterns), and the Dao models itself on spontaneity (conforming to intrinsic nature). To model means to follow the principle: when in square circumstances one follows square properties, in round circumstances round properties, never violating natural laws. The term "spontaneity" describes that ultimate truth which cannot be captured in words. Employing cleverness proves inferior to maintaining simplicity; clinging to form proves inferior to grasping spiritual essence.

Note: This commentary reflects Wang Bi's philosophy of "valuing non-being," emphasizing the Dao's formless and nameless nature along with its spontaneous non-action (Wuwei). By including the human ruler among the cosmic "Four Greats," it also shows the influence of Han dynasty correlative cosmology linking heaven and humanity.

This scripture primarily discusses the natural compliance of the Dao (the Way) and how sages emulate the natural Dao to govern the world. The core idea revolves around the dialectical relationship between heaviness and lightness, stillness and restlessness, emphasizing heaviness as the foundation and stillness as the guiding principle.

First, it explains that all things follow the laws of mutual generation and restraint: subtle forms cannot compare to the formless Dao, and tangible rituals cannot match the intangible principles. The Dao itself follows nature, heaven emulates the Dao, earth emulates heaven, and humans emulate earth—all ultimately returning to the root of oneness (the Dao). Just as heavy objects serve as the foundation for lighter ones, stillness governs restlessness. Sages understand this principle, so they always prioritize heaviness as the foundation, remaining transcendent even amidst worldly splendor. If a ruler acts rashly and restlessly, they lose both their foundation and authority.

Next, five metaphors using "skillful" illustrate the importance of complying with nature: those skillful in walking leave no traces (acting without deliberate effort), those skillful in speech make no mistakes (refraining from arbitrary judgment), those skillful in calculation need no tools (following the nature of things), those skillful in closing need no bolts yet cannot be opened (avoiding forceful constraints), and those skillful in binding need no ropes yet cannot be untied (acting without deliberate intervention). These examples demonstrate that true wisdom lies in non-artificiality and non-coercion, complying with the inherent nature of things.

Thus, sages skillfully rescue others and all things, abandoning no one or nothing. Their methods include: not flaunting talent (to prevent contention among the people), not treasuring rare objects (to prevent theft), and not displaying desires (to maintain the people's peace of mind). By keeping the people free from desires and cravings, no one is abandoned. This is the wisdom of inheriting the clarity of the great Dao.

Finally, it points out the relationship between the virtuous and the non-virtuous: the virtuous serve as teachers for the non-virtuous (demonstrating good conduct), while the non-virtuous serve as lessons for the virtuous (providing cautionary examples). The virtuous influence the non-virtuous through their good deeds while also learning from the non-virtuous’s mistakes. This interdependent relationship embodies the natural compliance of the Dao.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below," emphasizing the principle of following nature and avoiding forceful action.

One may value their teacher without coveting his wealth; though intelligent, they appear simple as if foolish. Even with wisdom, if one acts solely by their own cleverness without conforming to the inherent patterns of things, they are bound to fail. Hence the saying, "Though wise, they seem greatly confused"—this is the subtle essence of the Dao (the Way).

Knowing what is strong (the masculine), yet abiding in softness (the feminine), like the valleys of the world. The valley does not actively demand, yet all things naturally return to it; the infant employs no cleverness, yet aligns with the Dao of nature. This is why the sage, by willingly staying behind, ultimately takes the lead.

Knowing what is bright (the white), yet abiding in obscurity (the black), serves as the model for the world. In this way, eternal De (Virtue/Power) does not deviate and ultimately returns to the formless origin (the Dao). Knowing what is glorious, yet abiding in humility, embraces all like the world’s vast gorges. Only then can De be complete, returning to the simplicity of the uncarved block (pu).

These three principles all illustrate how adopting a contrary approach in life ultimately leads to the perfection of De. As the next chapter states, "Reversal is the movement of the Dao"—true efficacy does not come from forceful striving but from holding to the root. When the uncarved block (pu) scatters, it becomes specific tools; the sage applies this principle to establish offices and governance. When purity (zhen) disperses, actions and distinctions arise, and the sage appoints leaders to guide them.

Take the virtuous as teachers and the unvirtuous as mirrors; through transforming customs, the world returns to unity. Thus, the perfect system of governance (great order) does not fragment things but aligns with the will of all under heaven.

Those who seek to govern the world by force, I see them unlikely to succeed. The world is a sacred vessel (shenqi), formless yet nurturing all things—it cannot be forcibly controlled. Forceful action inevitably fails; stubborn grasping inevitably loses. All things have their natural tendencies—they can be guided but not coerced. Things advance and retreat, strengthen and weaken; thus, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess. All these changes demonstrate that things follow cycles of reversal—they cannot be forcibly manipulated. The sage, having reached the ultimate in natural understanding, discerns the nature of all beings. Hence, they follow without forcing, removing the roots of confusion.

Those who assist rulers with the Dao never rely on military might to dominate the world. If even advisors shouldn't use force to assert supremacy, how much more should the ruler himself follow the Dao?

The use of arms easily invites retribution. Those obsessed with achievements constantly seek to stir up conflict, while those who attain the Dao pursue a return to simplicity and harmony with nature. Where armies have camped, thorns grow thick; after great battles, years of famine follow—this shows military force is an ominous thing. Far from truly solving problems, it harms the people and leaves fields barren, hence the wilderness overgrown with brambles.

Those skilled in warfare stop when their objective is achieved, never presuming on strength to bully the weak. "Fruit" here means resolving the matter. True masters of arms employ them only to avert crisis, never to dominate through violence. Having achieved the goal, one must not grow arrogant, boastful, or proud. The use of force is nothing to celebrate—it's a last resort, so what is there to take pride in?

Even when successfully using arms to resolve crises, understand this is done reluctantly. When military might reaches its zenith, decline follows—such forceful domination contradicts the Dao and soon perishes. Just as fierce winds don't last all morning nor torrential rains all day, violent domination can never endure.

Fine weapons are inauspicious tools that people detest, so those possessing the Dao never employ them lightly. Gentlemen normally honor the left, but in warfare honor the right. Arms aren't proper instruments for noble persons; when absolutely necessary, they must maintain detachment. Victory deserves no praise—to celebrate it is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing can never win the world's allegiance.

Auspicious affairs honor the left; ominous affairs honor the right. The lieutenant general stands on the left, the commander on the right—this treats war with funeral rites. Facing numerous casualties, one mourns with grief; after victory, funeral ceremonies are appropriate.

The Dao remains eternally nameless—no creature in heaven or earth can command it. If lords and kings could hold fast to it, all things would submit spontaneously. The Dao has no fixed form, bound by no conventions, definable by no name—thus we say the constant Dao is nameless. The "Uncarved Block" (referring to the Dao's primordial state) takes wuwei (non-action) as its foundation.

This passage elucidates the principles of cultivating the Dao (道) and navigating worldly affairs. The fundamental truth lies in preserving one's innate simplicity (守朴), for while the wise can be directed, the courageous can be employed, the skillful can be assigned tasks, and the strong can bear responsibilities, only those who embody primal simplicity remain unswayed by external influences. By maintaining this unadorned nature—preventing external matters from disturbing one's authentic self and keeping desires from harming the spirit (神)—all things naturally align, and the Great Dao (大道) is spontaneously attained.

When Heaven and Earth harmonize their Yin-Yang (阴阳) energies, sweet dew falls without coercion. Similarly, when rulers preserve their genuine nature and govern through Wuwei (无为, non-action), the people achieve balance without being commanded. As societies establish systems and hierarchies, one must recognize when to stop—this awareness prevents peril. Just as official positions require clear distinctions of rank, excessive pursuit of empty reputation risks losing the root of governance.

The Great Dao operates throughout the world like streams flowing naturally into rivers and seas—not because the waters summon them. Those who embody the Dao need no forceful commands, for all beings submit spontaneously; no deliberate striving is required to attain the Dao's profound truth.

To understand others is wisdom, but to know oneself is true enlightenment. To conquer others demonstrates strength, yet mastering oneself reveals genuine power. Applying wisdom to self-cultivation outweighs using it upon others; directing strength inward holds greater value than exerting it outwardly. The truly wealthy are those who know contentment, while steadfast perseverance actualizes one's aspirations. Recognizing one's capacities and acting within them ensures enduring stability. Though the physical body perishes, those whose spirit remains undiminished achieve true longevity—for the Dao of their life never fades away.

Those who preserve their life essence will have their Dao endure long after death—how much more should those cultivating the Dao in life never abandon it halfway?

The Great Dao flows like an overflowing river, omnipresent and free to move in all directions. When we say the Dao is everywhere, it means it circulates above and below, reaching every corner without exception. All things depend on it for growth, yet it never declines responsibility; it accomplishes all without claiming merit, nourishes all without asserting dominion. When the Dao is without desire, it may be called "small"—for though all things arise from it, none know its origin. When the world is free from desire, all things find their proper place, and the Dao exerts no influence upon them—hence it is called "small." When all things return to the Dao, it may be called "great"—for though all beings rely on it for existence, none perceive its power, and this all-encompassing nature is called "great." Precisely because it never considers itself great, it achieves true greatness. Great undertakings begin with the subtle; difficult problems are solved starting from what is easy.

Hold fast to the "Great Image" (the original form of Dao), and all under heaven will return to it. This source is neither cold nor hot, neither cool nor warm—thus it embraces all things without harm. If rulers abide by this Dao, the people will naturally return. Such return brings no injury, only peace and prosperity. The Dao has no fixed form—it neither displays nor proclaims itself—so all things may return to it without obstruction. Music and fine food may make travelers pause, yet the Dao's expression seems bland and flavorless: looked at, it cannot be seen; listened to, it cannot be heard; employed, it appears ineffective. Precisely because of its profundity, when people hear the Dao's teachings, they find them less immediately gratifying than music or delicacies. Though the Dao's words seem insipid, unpleasing to eye and ear, and lacking in charm, this seemingly useless Dao proves inexhaustible in application.

To contract it, one must first expand it; to weaken it, first strengthen it; to abolish it, first promote it; to take it, first give it. This is subtle wisdom. To eliminate violence and chaos, employ these four methods—follow the nature of things and let them perish of themselves, without resorting to harsh punishments. Thus we call this the subtle wisdom. Let it fully expand—when it reaches its extreme and still seeks further growth, the multitude will...

This passage explains the principles of governance and self-cultivation from the Daode Jing. The core idea is that rather than forcefully expanding influence and exhausting one's reserves, it is better to maintain moderation. Just as fish cannot survive without deep water, the essential tools ("sharp instruments") of statecraft should not be recklessly displayed. Here, "sharp instruments" does not refer to weapons but to the art of governing in harmony with the innate nature of all things.

The most skillful method of governance follows natural laws without imposing artificial interference (wuwei), allowing all things to develop according to their own principles. Just as a good tool does not need to be flaunted, when a state is well-governed, the people naturally find their proper place. If a ruler abuses punishments (renxing) to assert authority, it is as doomed as a fish leaving the water.

The essence of the Dao (the Way) is natural and non-interfering (wuwei), yet through this very non-action, all things are accomplished. If a ruler adheres to this principle, all beings will naturally transform (zihua). When excessive desires arise in the course of development, they must be tempered by returning to the most simple and genuine state—the "uncarved block" (wuming zhi pu). This primal state means not imposing control or chasing desires. When the ruler is free of selfish cravings, the world naturally settles into peace.

The "uncarved block" (wuming zhi pu) refers to the most original and authentic condition, like unworked wood, embodying the essence of the Dao. The entire passage emphasizes governing in accordance with nature, minimizing artificial intervention, and preserving a simple, genuine heart-mind.

This passage presents Wang Bi's commentary on the concepts of "superior virtue" (Shang De) and "inferior virtue" (Xia De) in the Dao De Jing, elucidating the fundamental distinctions between different levels of virtuous manifestation.

Genuine superior virtue doesn't consciously flaunt itself, and thus embodies true De (Virtue/Power). Inferior virtue, however, clings to outward displays of virtuous behavior, thereby losing the essence of De. Those with superior virtue follow natural spontaneity (Wuwei, non-action) without deliberate effort, while those with inferior virtue act intentionally with ulterior motives.

The commentary then describes the descending hierarchy from benevolence to righteousness to ritual propriety: When advocating benevolence fails to elicit response, people emphasize righteousness; when righteousness proves ineffective, they turn to ritual norms. Thus society's decline begins with losing the Dao, followed by the loss of De, then benevolence, then righteousness, until only superficial ritual remains. Ritual propriety emerges precisely when sincerity and trust have weakened, marking the beginning of disorder.

The truly wise (great person) chooses to preserve fundamental simplicity rather than indulge in superficiality, pursuing substance over empty ornamentation. Authentic De represents eternal attainment without loss or harm. To obtain De, one must follow the Dao, and perfect De takes Wuwei (non-action) as its foundation. Though heaven and earth are vast, they take non-action as their core; though sage-kings are great, they maintain emptiness and stillness as their guiding principle.

Those with superior virtue completely follow the Dao without advertising their virtue, neither clinging nor acting deliberately, thus truly possessing De without seeking reward. Those with inferior virtue strive to obtain it through effort, establishing standards of goodness to govern affairs, which instead creates conceptual labels of virtue. But all pursuits of attainment inevitably involve loss; all deliberate actions inevitably meet with failure.

Wang Bi particularly emphasizes that any failure to practice Wuwei while acting deliberately—including specific norms like benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety—belongs to inferior virtue. He uses inferior virtue as a contrast to illustrate the realm of superior virtue, pointing out that Wuwei represents the highest state of De, while inferior virtue merely manifests at lower levels of virtuous expression.

This passage discusses the hierarchical descent from the Dao to ritual propriety. The highest realm is the Dao (cosmic origin), which acts through Wuwei (non-action) yet accomplishes all things. Next comes De (virtue/power), the manifestation of Dao, which though magnificent already carries limitations. Further down are the artificial constructs of humaneness, righteousness, and ritual.

The highest form of humaneness bestows itself impartially upon all things, acting so naturally that its actions seem like non-action. When humaneness cannot be universally applied, righteousness is employed to rectify situations, at which point deliberate action emerges. When uprightness cannot be maintained, ritual is used to regulate behavior, leading to coercion and resentment.

All beings in heaven and earth rely on "non-being" (the essence of Dao) to function. Abandoning this fundamental principle results in the loss of true greatness. Only when the Dao is lost does one speak of De; only when De is lost does one speak of humaneness; only when humaneness is lost does one speak of righteousness; only when righteousness is lost does one speak of ritual. Ritual is in fact the product of waning sincerity and trustworthiness, marking the beginning of disorder.

Those praised for their "foresight" exhaust their intelligence in managing worldly affairs—while appearing virtuous, they are actually full of cunning. Even humaneness and righteousness, which originate from within, can become hypocritical; how much more so ritual, which focuses solely on external ornamentation? Thus it is said that ritual signifies the deficiency of sincerity and trust, heralding the onset of chaos.

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," emphasizing the importance of following natural laws rather than forcing outcomes through human interference.

Excessive pursuit of fame leads to losing one's fundamental essence; the more effort one exerts in governance, the greater the resulting chaos. Even employing the wisdom of sages ultimately brings greater harm to the people. By relinquishing ego and aligning with nature, one achieves peace through non-action. Maintaining one's simple, authentic nature renders rigid adherence to formal institutions unnecessary.

When one grasps the root of the Dao (the "mother of all achievements"), all things grow naturally without intervention, and all affairs proceed effortlessly without strain. Genuine benevolence (De), righteous conduct, and reverent courtesy manifest spontaneously rather than through forced effort. When the Great Dao carries all beings and nameless simplicity stabilizes the world, creatures cease competing and human hearts no longer crave.

Abandoning the Dao's foundation to chase superficial forms leads to: apparent benevolence that sparks contention, seeming courtesy that becomes hypocrisy. True benevolence isn't achieved through forced kindness, genuine righteousness isn't accomplished through deliberate moralizing, and authentic reverence isn't realized through ritual posturing.

By preserving the root ("mother"), one safeguards the branches ("offspring"); by valuing the source, one flourishes in the particulars. Thus both form and name find their proper place without giving rise to perverse thoughts. Great Virtue (De) that matches Heaven's patterns never descends into ostentation. Therefore, one must never stray from the root or lose the source. Benevolence and righteousness emerge from the Dao as their foundation—they must never be mistaken for the foundation itself. Just as vessels are made by craftsmen, one cannot mistake the vessels for the craftsman.

In ancient times, those who attained the "One" (the Dao): Heaven attained clarity through it, Earth attained stability, spirits attained efficacy, valleys attained abundance, all creatures attained growth, and rulers attained proper governance. All existence depends on this "One"—lose this foundation, and disintegration follows.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concepts of "maintaining unity with the Dao" (shouyi) and "the interdependence of nobility and humility."

If rulers can hold fast to the fundamental Dao, the world will remain stable. All things between heaven and earth have their roots. Clarity and stillness are the intrinsic nature of the cosmos, yet if heaven cannot maintain its purity, it risks collapse. The "application of unity" mentioned here refers to preserving clarity by holding to the root, not by deliberately pursuing clarity itself. By maintaining the foundation, one does not lose clarity, whereas forced pursuit may lead to disintegration. Thus the root serves as the basis for all achievement and must never be abandoned.

Should earth fail to remain tranquil, it may quake; should spirits lose their numinous power, they may perish; should valleys cease to overflow, they may run dry; should all things stop growing, they may become extinct; should lords fail to maintain their dignity, they may fall. Therefore nobility takes humility as its foundation, and high positions rely on their base. This explains why rulers refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy"—is this not precisely taking humility as their foundation?

Those who seek excessive praise ultimately receive no true acclaim. One should neither shine conspicuously like precious jade nor stand out rigidly like ordinary stone. Clarity cannot be attained by pursuing clarity itself, nor fullness by pursuing fullness—both maintain their forms through their fundamental roots. Thus clarity in itself is not valuable, nor is fullness in itself abundant; what matters is their foundation. The root itself knows no distinction between noble and base—the lofty depends on the lowly, the elevated rests upon the foundation. Hence seeking excessive praise results in no praise at all. Jade and stone that excessively display their external forms are ultimately not worth pursuing.

The movement of Dao follows the principle of reversal: the high depends on the low, the noble relies on the humble, being originates in non-being. Understanding this principle leads to mastery of all things. Softness and weakness manifest Dao's function—their penetrative power is inexhaustible. All things under heaven emerge from "being," yet "being" itself arises from "non-being." To preserve "being," one must return to "non-being."

Those of superior capacity who hear the Dao practice it diligently; those of middling capacity regard it with doubt; those of inferior capacity laugh at it—were it not laughed at, it would not be the Dao. Thus the ancient saying goes: Those who understand the Dao appear foolish; their radiance does not dazzle. Those who practice the Dao seem to withdraw; by standing apart they preserve themselves. The straightest path appears winding; the highest virtue resembles an empty valley; the purest white willingly dwells in sullied places.

This scripture elucidates the Daoist core concept of "Great Virtue (De) appears deficient" and the process through which the Dao generates all things. Here is the modern interpretation:

The highest virtue seems insufficient precisely because it does not deliberately display itself, thus embracing all things. Perfect virtue aligns naturally (what "stealthy matching" refers to) by following the innate nature of all beings without imposing interference. Genuine purity appears changeable (yu), for only by not striving to maintain it does it reveal its authenticity. The most square lacks sharp corners, because true squareness does not wound others. The most precious vessel requires prolonged crafting, for it must encompass the whole rather than parts. The grandest sound is faint and scarcely audible (xi sheng), because specific sounds inevitably have limitations and cannot encompass all. The grandest form has no fixed shape (the formless image), because concrete forms are inherently limited.

Though the Great Dao is subtle and nameless, it excels at nourishing all things. Unlike craftsmen who deliberately carve, it effortlessly accomplishes everything. All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects, achieving harmony in the empty Qi (chong qi, the harmonizing energy). People dislike terms like "orphaned" or "widowed," yet rulers use them as self-titles, illustrating how what seems diminishing may actually benefit, while what appears augmenting may harm.

The process of creation unfolds as follows: The Dao generates the undifferentiated One, which divides into the two energies of Yin and Yang. Their interaction produces the Three (the harmonizing chong qi), from which all things emerge. Though myriad beings take diverse forms, they ultimately return to the One. This "One" originates from "non-being," and the transition from nothingness to being gives rise to numerical sequence. But surpassing the boundary of Three leads one astray from the Dao's origin.

Though people harbor diverse thoughts and nations have varied customs, those who grasp this "One" may become sovereigns. This fundamental "One" must not be abandoned—the more one pursues, the further one strays from the Dao. Only by reducing desires can one approach the truth, and only through complete relinquishment can one return to the source.

(Note: "Chong qi" refers to the harmonizing energy formed by the interaction of Yin and Yang; "stealthy matching" denotes natural alignment without deliberate effort; "xi sheng" signifies the cosmic primordial sound that transcends specific audible phenomena.)

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong," along with the wisdom of following the natural way (Dao) in human conduct.

Regarding the relationship between "One" and "Three," it illustrates the fundamental truth of all creation. The Dao (cosmic origin) appears simple yet gives rise to infinite complexity. Cultivating the Dao requires understanding the principle that "diminishing leads to increase" - what seems like reduction actually brings greater gain. My teaching doesn't compel obedience but follows natural patterns. Violating these fundamental principles inevitably invites disaster, just as we teach people not to rely on brute force. Those who act with arrogance and violence often meet tragic ends, serving as instructive examples for others.

The softest things in the world penetrate the hardest substances, like water and qi (vital energy) permeating everywhere. Thus we understand that what appears as wuwei (non-action) actually brings the greatest benefit. The state of emptiness and softness connects with all things, yet few attain this wordless teaching and the benefits of non-interference.

Which is more important - reputation or life? Excessive pursuit of fame harms one's vitality. Which is more precious - wealth or life? Insatiable greed inevitably depletes one's essence. Which is more harmful - gain or loss? Acquiring material benefits at the cost of one's life constitutes true misfortune. Therefore, excessive frugality leads to greater waste, and over-accumulation invites severe loss. Those content with enough avoid disgrace; those who know when to stop endure.

The most perfect things appear flawed yet their function never fails; the fullest seems empty yet its usefulness is inexhaustible; the straightest appears crooked, the most skillful seems clumsy, the most eloquent seems inarticulate. All this arises from following nature without artificial display. Restless movement overcomes cold (but quiet perseverance lasts longer).

This passage expounds the principles of clarity, stillness, and wuwei (non-action), along with the wisdom of knowing contentment and limits in life.

Clarity and stillness can restrain agitation and heat, while wuwei overcomes disturbances. Only through clarity, stillness, and wuwei can one truly govern the world. Maintaining clarity and stillness preserves the intrinsic nature of all things, whereas restlessness harms their innate qualities. Thus, only through these principles can one reach the highest state.

When the world follows the Dao in times of peace, warhorses are used for plowing fields. People understand contentment and limits, neither coveting external things nor neglecting inner cultivation. But when the world abandons the Dao in chaotic times, warhorses roam wild in the wilderness because people become insatiable, neglecting inner virtue (De) while constantly seeking external gains. No misfortune is greater than discontentment; no fault is worse than greed. Only those who are truly content are perpetually fulfilled.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao can understand the world's affairs without stepping outside their doors and grasp heavenly principles without looking through windows. All things have their roots; though paths may differ, they ultimately converge. Though thoughts may vary, they share the same essence. The Great Dao follows constant patterns—by mastering the ancient ways, one can navigate present matters. Thus, there's no need to travel far to comprehend truths; in fact, the farther one goes, the less one truly knows. The Dao cannot be seen, heard, or touched. Those who truly understand it need not search everywhere; those who don't will only grow more confused the farther they wander. Therefore, sages know without experiencing and discern without seeing. By following the nature of all things without forcing outcomes, they naturally accomplish great deeds.

Those pursuing conventional learning accumulate more knowledge daily, but those seeking the Great Dao reduce desires day by day. Through continual reduction, one eventually attains wuwei. Paradoxically, through non-action, nothing is left undone, whereas forced action often leads to shortcomings. Governing the world requires following nature's course, not artificial contrivances. Sages hold no fixed prejudices but align their hearts with the people's will. They treat the virtuous with virtue and the unvirtuous likewise, recognizing that all things have their purpose—good and bad are relative.

This passage expounds the wisdom of sages in governing the world, with the core principle being "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Those with virtue (De) never abandon anyone—they trust both the trustworthy and the untrustworthy alike, embodying the highest form of sincerity. Sages move through the world with restraint and humility, guiding people's hearts back to simplicity.

Ordinary people delight in observing with their eyes and ears, scheming with cleverness, yet the sage treats all as infants, maintaining harmony and freedom from contention, returning them to childlike purity. Just as heaven and earth operate naturally, the sage merely aligns with these patterns to exert influence. Human affairs are left to human planning; spiritual matters to the spirits. Each person contributes their strengths—opportunities are given to the capable, resources to those in need. What should be great becomes great; what should be honored is honored. All things find their place; all affairs have their proper governance.

Thus, even if one's eyes are obscured by the dangling beads of an emperor's crown, there is no fear of deception; even if one's ears are stopped with yellow silk plugs, there is no worry of being misled. Why exhaust oneself scrutinizing the private affairs of the people? If one approaches things with hyper-vigilance, things respond with cunning; if met with suspicion, they answer with deceit. Though the hearts of the world's people differ, if they dare not express their true thoughts, none will offer genuine devotion. The greatest calamity lies in the excessive use of cleverness.

Relying on intellect invites disputes; depending on force provokes conflict. To argue when wisdom falls short leads to peril; to resist when strength is insufficient courts danger. No one can prevent others from displaying their intellect or power before them. In this way, it becomes one person against ten thousand. Establishing intricate laws, adding harsh punishments, blocking all avenues, and suppressing hidden thoughts disrupt the natural state of all things, leaving the people as helpless as if they'd lost their limbs—like birds flailing in the sky or fish thrashing in water.

Therefore, when sages govern the world, they remain restrained and humble, free from preconceptions in their hearts. They return the people's minds to primal simplicity, their intentions unbiased. Without deliberate scrutiny, why would the people hide? Without excessive demands, why would they contrive? Without hiding or contriving, authenticity flows naturally. People don't abandon what they excel at for what they don't; they don't discard strengths for weaknesses. Thus, those who can speak share what they know; those who can act contribute their skills. The people employ their eyes, ears, and cleverness, while the sage embraces them all like children.

Regarding "emerging into life and entering death": the paths of life comprise three-tenths, the paths of death three-tenths (meaning life and death each follow their own natural laws).

This passage discusses the Dao (the Way) of life and death and methods for preserving life. The original text states that three out of ten people in the world fall into the realm of death precisely because they excessively pursue life-nourishing practices. Those who are truly skilled at nurturing life walk on land without encountering rhinos or tigers, and enter battlefields without being harmed by weapons. Why? Because they do not place themselves in dangerous situations.

The "three out of ten" proportion illustrates that those who pursue the Dao of longevity to the extreme make up three-tenths, while those who die precisely because of excessive life-nourishing practices also account for three-tenths. Those who overly pursue life-nourishment have actually strayed from the true nature of life. The genuinely adept at nurturing life do not deliberately seek longevity, and thus do not fall into the realm of death.

The text provides several examples: among weapons, the most formidable are spears and halberds; among beasts, the most ferocious are rhinos and tigers. Yet those skilled at nourishing life remain unharmed by weapons and untouched by wild beasts. The venomous snake (蚖蛇) finds deep pools too shallow and digs its own burrow; the hawk and eagle find high mountains too low and build nests atop cliffs. Though they seem to avoid danger, they perish because of their greed for bait—is this not precisely a case of excessive pursuit of survival leading to death?

If all beings do not stray from their innate nature due to desire, nor alter their true essence because of greed, then even entering battlefields would leave them unharmed, and walking the world would bring no harm. Like an infant's pure and natural state—this is what is most precious.

The passage then discusses the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power): the Dao generates all things, while De nurtures them; matter forms their physical bodies, and environment facilitates their development. All beings first receive life, then obtain nourishment, take form, and finally reach maturity. All this originates from the Dao, relies on De, takes shape through matter, and achieves completion through environmental conditions. Precisely because they follow natural laws, all things can take form; precisely because they harness environmental forces, all things can achieve fulfillment. The reason all beings can live and accomplishments can be realized lies in their root—and this root is the Dao. Thus it is said that all things honor the Dao and value De. The Dao is the source from which all things arise; De is the nourishment all things receive. Only by following the Dao can one obtain De—hence the saying "neither gain nor loss."

The nobility of the Dao and the preciousness of De (Virtue) are not attained through human decree, but arise from their natural essence. Worldly honors like "titles" and "ranks" differ entirely from the nobility of the Dao. The Dao gives birth to all things, while De nourishes them, enabling their growth, development, maturation, fruition, and propagation. All beings find their proper place without harm. The Dao nurtures creation without claiming possession, accomplishes without boasting merit, and guides all things without dominating them—this constitutes the most profound "Mysterious De" (Xuan De). True virtue needs no deliberate display; it shines like light emerging from profound darkness, hence its name Mysterious De.

All things under heaven have their origin, which is the Mother of Heaven and Earth. Those who skillfully utilize this origin can excellently nurture all beings. By knowing the origin (Mother), one understands its manifestations (offspring); by understanding the manifestations, one can return to safeguard the origin—thus avoiding peril. The origin is the root, while manifestations are branches. Grasping the root allows comprehension of the branches; one must not abandon the root for the branches. Blocking the apertures of desire (sensory organs) and closing the gates of craving (mental attachments) brings lifelong freedom from toil. Conversely, opening these apertures to chase endless desires makes one incurable for life. Perceiving subtle signs is called wisdom; maintaining softness is called strength. True governance lies not in grand actions but in recognizing the subtle—this is genuine wisdom. Outward toughness isn't true strength; sustaining gentleness is. Using the Dao's radiance to dispel confusion, returning to inner clarity without external seeking—this invites no misfortune and aligns with the "Constant Dao" (eternal principle).

Were I possessed of slight wisdom while walking the Great Path, my greatest fear would be artificial striving. The Great Path is naturally broad and level, yet people prefer shortcuts. When court palaces become extravagantly adorned ("court exceedingly polished" signifies ornate splendor), fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty. Excessive pursuit of architectural magnificence leads to public destitution. Dressing in lavish robes, bearing sharp swords, gorging on delicacies, and hoarding wealth—such opulence resembles bandit chiefs flaunting plunder, utterly divorced from the true Path! Whatever is attained without following the proper Way constitutes deviant practice.

This passage conveys two main teachings: first, a warning against "thieving boasts" (improper acquisition), and second, an exposition on the state of "profound virtue cultivation" (深厚道德修养).

The text first observes that all attempts to gain fame and status through improper means are essentially theft and empty boasting. Just as a house requires solid foundations, those skilled at establishing achievements never compromise their fundamental principles. Those adept at preservation never grasp for more than they can handle—by acting within their means, they never experience loss. When descendants uphold these correct principles, ancestral sacrifices continue unbroken.

It then explains the expansion process of virtue cultivation: beginning with self-cultivation, one's De (Virtue/Power) becomes genuine; extending to family life, De becomes abundant; spreading to the community, De grows; applying it to governance, De becomes rich; when universalized, De becomes vast. The method for observing others, families, communities, and nations is first to examine oneself. Understanding the world follows the same principle—by observing oneself, one comprehends all under heaven. This is the meaning behind "knowing the world without leaving one's door."

Using an infant as metaphor, it describes the state of those with profound virtue: innocent and desireless like a baby, unharmed by poisonous insects or fierce beasts. Though physically tender, their grasp is firm; though unaware of sexual matters, they grow naturally—this comes from nothing external damaging their wholeness. Crying all day without becoming hoarse demonstrates the supreme harmony of abundant Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy).

Understanding harmony means grasping the eternal Dao (常道); comprehending the eternal Dao constitutes true wisdom. Life requires no artificial enhancement—forced acceleration only invites disaster. Maintaining a soft, non-contending state prevents breakage. This is the realm of profound virtue cultivation.

This scripture elucidates two fundamental principles:

The first concerns the wisdom of self-cultivation. Excessive pursuit of gain inevitably invites loss, and forcibly controlling one's Qi (vital energy) through willpower during practice only produces counterproductive results. When things reach their zenith, they inevitably decline—this violates the natural rhythm of the Dao (the Way), and whatever opposes the Dao quickly perishes. Those truly enlightened to the Dao never preach deliberately, while those who indulge in empty rhetoric prove their ignorance of it. One should close the gates of sensory desires, sheath one's sharp edges, and preserve the original simplicity of one's nature; dissolve the roots of contention, harmonize one's radiance without ostentation, blend with worldly dust without particular disdain—this constitutes "mysterious unity" (Xuántóng, the supreme state of oneness with the Dao). Achieving this state frees one from being swayed by artificial distinctions of closeness or distance, profit or loss, nobility or baseness, thereby becoming the most revered existence in the world.

The second pertains to methods of governance. A country should be governed with upright principles, warfare may employ unexpected strategies (Qí), yet ruling the world requires Wuwei (non-action). Governing through the Dao resolves issues at their root, while ruling by law only addresses symptoms without curing the disease. Nowadays, the more prohibitions imposed, the poorer the people become; the more weapons among the populace, the greater the chaos in the state; the more cunning techniques people master, the more deviant paths emerge; the stricter the laws, the more thieves proliferate. All this stems from neglecting fundamentals while chasing trivialities. Thus the sage declares: Through my Wuwei, the people transform naturally; through my love of tranquility, they rectify themselves; through my avoidance of meddling, they prosper of their own accord; through my lack of desires, they return to simplicity. Whatever those in authority do, the people will inevitably emulate.

(Note: "Sharp tools" (Lìqì) refers to various instruments for seeking profit; "mysterious unity" (Xuántóng) denotes the state of merging with the Dao; "unexpected" (Qí) indicates unconventional strategies.)

This passage explains the principle of governing a country through "non-action (Wuwei)." Laozi believed that if rulers could maintain stillness and non-interference, the people would naturally return to their simple, honest nature. Four approaches to governance are proposed here: not acting with deliberate intent, not pursuing fame, not establishing excessive regulations, and not flaunting righteousness—all of which address problems at their root.

When governance is lenient, the people remain sincere and virtuous; when governance is harsh, it instead provokes cunning and contention among them. Misfortune and fortune are interdependent—who can truly discern their boundaries? The highest form of governance does not impose labels or force rigid norms but allows the world to naturally achieve harmony.

Even governing with upright principles can sometimes devolve into manipulation, and promoting virtuous deeds can at times invite misfortune. People have been lost for so long that they cannot be expected to immediately conform to strict standards. Therefore, the sage is principled without being hurtful, incorruptible without being severe, upright without being overbearing, and luminous without being glaring. These approaches work from the root, allowing things to naturally return to their authentic state rather than forcing change.

(Note: The phrase "honoring the root and letting go of the branches" (崇本息末) is a key Daoist concept, emphasizing fundamental principles over superficial details. "Muddled" (闷闷) describes a governance style of tolerant non-interference, while "scrutinizing" (察察) refers to rigid, overly meticulous rule.)

This passage presents Wang Bi's commentary on the Daode Jing, primarily discussing principles for governing a state and cultivating the self.

In governing people and aligning with the Dao (the Way), the best approach is to practice "restraint" (frugality and careful preservation) like a farmer tending his fields. A farmer removes weeds to allow crops to grow orderly, following natural rhythms without rushing for quick results. The same applies to statecraft: aligning with heavenly mandate and pacifying the people—nothing surpasses this method. To achieve "restraint" is to early adhere to the constant Dao, which manifests as the continuous accumulation of De (Virtue/Power). Only by avoiding haste and gradually accumulating De can one truly master the constant Dao. Profound De enables unimpeded success—a power without limits. Governing a state with this boundless Dao ensures enduring stability. The foundation of a stable nation lies in deep-rooted De, just as a tree must first nurture strong roots before flourishing—this embodies the principle of "long life and enduring vision."

Governing a large state is like cooking small fish: excessive stirring ruins them. Impatience invites disaster, while stillness preserves authenticity. The larger the state, the more its ruler must embody tranquility to win the people's support. When the Dao governs the world, even spirits and deities cause no disturbances. This isn't because they lack power, but because they refrain from harming humans. All things follow natural laws, leaving spirits no room to interfere. Similarly, sages never harm people. When the Dao prevails, people remain unaware of both spirits and sages. Ruling through authority is governance at its lowest; making the sacred presence imperceptible represents the Dao's highest expression. When neither spirits nor sages inflict harm, their De merges harmoniously—this is perfection realized.

A great nation should position itself like the lower reaches of rivers—humble and low-lying. Just as rivers and seas become the gathering place of all streams by staying low, a great nation that maintains humility will naturally attract the allegiance of all under heaven. Thus, a great nation must emulate the lower course of rivers in its modesty.

All things in the world naturally converge and blend. The feminine (Yin) invariably overcomes the masculine (Yang) through stillness and gentleness, precisely because tranquility allows it to remain below. Without contention, the feminine attracts all things effortlessly. If a great nation treats smaller states with humility, it will win their allegiance; if a small state approaches a great nation with deference, it will gain acceptance. When both sides maintain humility, each obtains what it needs.

A great nation seeks only to lead, while a small state seeks only to be included. The key to fulfilling both desires lies in the great nation taking the initiative to remain humble. For while a small state's humility preserves itself, a great nation's humility wins the hearts of all under heaven.

The Dao is the sanctuary of all things—a treasure to the virtuous and a refuge for the unvirtuous. Noble words earn respect, and lofty deeds inspire others. Nothing in the world compares to the Dao's worth; even priceless jade discs and teams of fine horses pale beside it. Rather than offering material treasures, one should devote oneself to the Dao.

The establishment of the Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes (highest ministers of antiquity) exists to honor and propagate the great Dao. Even if one were to present jade discs so large they require both arms to carry and teams of four noble steeds, it would not equal the value of quietly cultivating this great Dao. For nothing in existence surpasses the Dao in worth.

Why did the ancients hold the Dao in such high esteem? Because by following the Dao, one gains daily nourishment, and even faults find forgiveness. Precisely because the Dao universally embraces all things under heaven, it is revered by all. Seek it and you shall obtain; ask for pardon and you shall receive.

The highest form of governance is this: govern through wuwei (non-action), administer through "non-interference," and live with "flavorless" simplicity. Take non-action as your foundation, teach through wordless example, and make serenity your guiding principle. In handling grievances—whether great or small, many or few—respond always with De (Virtue). Petty disputes aren't worth contention; greater conflicts find resolution through cosmic justice. What aligns with the hearts of all people is precisely this Virtue.

Approach difficulties at their easiest points; begin great undertakings at their smallest beginnings. All under heaven's hardships start simple; all monumental tasks emerge from subtle origins. Thus the sage never covets grand achievements, yet accomplishes great things. Easy promises invite broken faith; treating matters lightly invites multiplied difficulties. Therefore the sage always anticipates greater challenges—if even with sagely capability one treats simplicity seriously, how much more should ordinary people?

What's stable is easily maintained; what shows no signs is easily planned. By remembering danger in times of safety, remembering potential loss while in possession, and considering failure when making plans—only thus can stability endure. Fragile things break easily; subtle matters disperse readily. Though they seem lost, their very fragility prevents major consequences, making them manageable. These four principles all emphasize the importance of maintaining caution from beginning to end.

Don't neglect what seems nonexistent; don't ignore what appears insignificant. Overlooking the nonexistent allows it to emerge; tolerating the insignificant invites catastrophe. If you treat the worries of completion as the disasters of commencement, you'll never fail. Prepare before events arise—this is "securing what shows no signs." Govern before chaos forms—this is "ordering the subtle and fragile."

A tree thick enough to embrace grows from a tender sprout; a nine-tiered tower rises from piled earth; a thousand-mile journey begins beneath one's feet. Forcing action leads to failure; clinging to possession brings loss. Eliminate disasters through careful conclusions; prevent chaos through attention to minutiae. Governing through force and proliferating regulations only breeds complications, cunning, and ultimate failure. Therefore the sage follows nature's course and thus never fails; clings to nothing and thus loses nothing. Ordinary people often fail near success because they lack consistent caution. Maintain this caution from first to last, and no failure will occur.

This passage from the Dao De Jing expounds the wisdom of governing a state and cultivating oneself. The core teaching is that when people constantly pursue rare and valuable things, even minor desires can spark contention. Rare objects, no matter how small, inevitably arouse greed and theft. What we should truly learn is not the conventional ways of worldly pursuit, but to return to the natural simplicity that most people overlook—the genuine "learning without learning" means attaining things effortlessly without deliberate study.

Ancient masters who truly understood the Dao didn't teach people to become clever and cunning, but encouraged them to maintain simplicity. Here, "cleverness" (ming) refers to the artificial cunning that obscures one's true nature, while "simplicity" (yu) means preserving innocence and following nature's course. People become difficult to govern precisely because they have too many schemes and tricks. Governing through cunning actually harms the state—when rulers employ clever tactics to manipulate people, they stir up wicked thoughts, then devise even more elaborate schemes to control them. When people learn these control methods, they devise even cleverer ways to evade them, resulting in an endless cycle of increasing deceit and hypocrisy. Thus, governing through cunning brings disaster, while governing without it brings blessings.

Understanding the difference between these two approaches means grasping the fundamental principle (jishi), known as "Mystic Virtue" (xuande). This profound virtue is so deep that it appears contrary to common sense, yet precisely this quality enables a return to authenticity and achieves ultimate harmony.

Rivers and seas become kings of all streams because they excel at staying low. Similarly, sages who wish to lead must speak humbly; to guide the people, they must place themselves behind. Thus, when sages occupy high positions, people don't feel burdened; when they lead, people don't feel obstructed. The world gladly supports them without resentment. Precisely because they don't contend, no one in the world can contend with them.

People say my Dao is so vast that it seems unlike anything. Precisely because it's so vast, it resembles nothing concrete—if it resembled specific things, it would have long become insignificant. I hold three treasures: first is "compassion" (ci), second is "frugality" (jian), and the third—though unstated here—is known from other chapters of the Dao De Jing as "daring not to be ahead of the world" (avoiding aggressive competition).

Here Laozi expounds the profound principles of the "Three Treasures" (compassion, frugality, and humility). First, he explains that true courage arises from compassion—when one wages war with compassion, victory is assured; when one defends with compassion, the position becomes unshakable. Frugality ensures abundant resources, for by conserving expenditures one avoids scarcity. By not presuming to take the lead, one paradoxically becomes the master of all things. Only by placing oneself last can one be upheld by all beings and become a true leader who benefits the world.

To abandon compassion for brute force, discard frugality for extravagance, and reject humility in favor of aggressive advancement is to court death. When combat is waged with compassion, victory follows because mutual care prevents shirking from hardship; when defense is mounted with compassion, stability is achieved, and heaven itself protects such a person with its benevolence.

A skilled commander doesn't rely on brute strength (here "士" refers to military leaders), a true warrior isn't easily provoked, one adept at defeating enemies avoids direct confrontation, and those skilled in employing others maintain a humble attitude. This embodies the virtue of non-contention and the secret to utilizing people's talents. If one fails to remain humble when employing others, they won't serve with genuine devotion. Such virtue aligns with the supreme natural law of antiquity.

There's a military saying: "I dare not take the offensive but prefer defense; dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot." This resembles deploying troops without apparent formation, pursuing without raising arms, facing enemies as if unarmed. Because one harbors a compassionate and humble heart, never initiating conflict, others find it impossible to oppose them. The greatest calamity is underestimating opponents—doing so nearly causes the loss of the "Three Treasures." My advocacy for compassionate humility wasn't meant for world domination; if circumstances force one to become invincible, that in itself portends great misfortune. Thus when armies clash, the side holding compassion ultimately prevails because they cherish each other and won't seek personal gain while avoiding danger.

My teachings are actually easy to understand and simple to practice, yet people struggle to comprehend and follow them. Restless desires prevent understanding, while obsession with fame and profit hinders practice. Remember: words have their essence, actions have their guiding principle (here "宗" refers to fundamental truth, "君" to the ruling concept).

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei) and the way of the sage.

All things have their fundamental origin (宗 refers to the source, 君 to the sovereign). Those who truly understand the Dao (道) do not deliberately display their wisdom, for true wisdom lies in comprehending the principle that "words have their source, affairs have their sovereign." The more profound the truth, the fewer can understand it, which is why those who truly grasp the Dao are rare and precious. The sage appears outwardly plain (被褐 means wearing coarse clothing) yet holds jade-like true knowledge within. They seem no different from ordinary people yet never lose their essential nature, making them difficult for common folk to comprehend.

Regarding states of knowing: Recognizing what one does not know represents the highest wisdom, while pretending to know what one doesn't is the real problem. The sage has no such faults precisely because they remain vigilant against this tendency to "pretend knowledge where there is none."

When the people cease to fear authority, greater chaos will ensue. Do not disturb the people's living conditions (无狎其所居), nor oppress their means of livelihood (无厌其所生). If rulers abandon the principles of clarity and non-action (Wuwei), indulging desires and abusing authority, social turmoil will result. The Way of Heaven (天道) will punish such rulers.

The sage understands themselves without ostentation (自知不自见), cherishes life without self-importance (自爱不自贵). For self-importance leads to looking down on others and exploiting the people—therefore one must reject the latter and choose the former.

On the wisdom of courage: Reckless bravado (勇于敢) invites fatal consequences, while the "courage to refrain" (勇于不敢) that understands timing and circumstances can preserve life. These two types of courage yield completely different outcomes. What the Way of Heaven dislikes is hard to define—even sages find it difficult to judge (犹难之). The law of Heaven contends not yet excels at prevailing, speaks not yet excels at responding, summons not yet all things come of themselves—appearing relaxed yet arranging matters with perfect thoroughness.

No one under heaven can contend with him, for he responds naturally without words. Following the Dao of heaven brings good fortune, while opposing it invites calamity. Without being summoned, all things naturally return to him; dwelling in humility, all things naturally turn to him. The Dao of heaven appears relaxed yet excels in strategy, revealing auspicious and ominous signs through celestial phenomena, setting warnings before events occur. At rest, it does not forget danger; without being summoned, it plans ahead. Thus it is said the Dao of heaven seems relaxed but excels in strategy. Heaven's net is vast and boundless, appearing sparse yet letting nothing escape—neither good nor evil.

When people no longer fear death, what use is threatening them with it? If people truly feared death, I could seize and execute those who cause disorder—then who would dare rebel? Such disruptive aberrations are called "perverse." There already exists the natural executioner of heaven (the Minister of Execution), just as a master carpenter cuts wood. Those who presume to cut wood in the carpenter's place will rarely avoid injuring their own hands. Those who defy heavenly principle invite resentment; the unvirtuous are despised by all. Thus it is said the Dao of heaven has its own mechanisms of retribution.

People starve because their rulers overtax them; they become ungovernable because their rulers act recklessly; they risk death lightly because they pursue pleasure excessively. Only those who do not squander life in hedonism surpass those who overvalue it. The people's deviant behavior and the state's disorder stem from the upper echelons not following the Dao, while the masses imitate their superiors' actions.

In life, the body is soft; in death, it stiffens. Grass and trees are tender when growing, but become brittle when withered. Thus hardness belongs to the category of death, softness to the category of life. Hence an army that flaunts strength cannot prevail, for a violent force incurs the hatred of all things. Stiff wood breaks easily; mighty things often dwell below (like roots), while the pliant remain above (like branches).

The movement of heaven's Dao resembles drawing a bow: it lowers what is high and raises what is low; it reduces excess and supplements deficiency. The Dao of heaven takes from surplus to give to scarcity. Yet human ways oppose this—only by aligning with heaven and earth's virtue (De) can one embrace all things. Judging by human standards alone leads to fragmentation without balance. Only by forgetting self, being selfless and desireless, flowing with spontaneity (ziran), can one unite with heaven and earth's virtue. Yet mankind often takes from the needy to serve the affluent—who can offer their surplus to the world?

The truly enlightened sage (shengren) accomplishes deeds without claiming credit, achieves great works without occupying high positions. They do not deliberately display their abilities, knowing to remain humble at the peak of perfection, using what they possess to make up for the world's deficiencies.

Like water—nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard. This unique quality of water cannot be replaced, precisely because it understands the Dao of softness and weakness. Though people know the principle that the soft overcomes the hard, few can truly embody it. Thus, the sage says: Only those who can endure the humiliation of a nation are worthy to be its rulers; only those who bear the calamities of a country can become kings of the world. These seemingly paradoxical words contain profound truth.

Forcing reconciliation in deep-seated grudges inevitably leaves lingering resentment. If conflicts are not properly resolved at their inception, but instead kindness is used to mediate after grievances have festered, the harm cannot be fully repaired. Therefore, the sage always holds the left tally (the ancient contract's left half, symbolizing proactive fulfillment), preventing resentment at its root rather than blaming others. Those with De (Virtue) honor their contractual obligations, ensuring resentment never arises; those without De focus on finding fault in others. The Dao of heaven shows no favoritism, yet it always aids the good.

In a small state with few people, simplicity can still be preserved—how much more so for a great nation? Even if there are tools and implements, they remain unused, so the people value their lives and have no desire to migrate far. People do not covet material possessions but focus on self-cultivation, thus living in peace and contentment. Though they have carts and boats, they do not ride them; though they have weapons, they do not display them, returning to the simplicity of knotting ropes to record events. They eat with relish, dress comfortably, dwell securely, and take joy in their local customs. Neighboring states are within sight, their roosters and dogs heard clearly, yet the people grow old and die without ever interacting—because they have no desires or needs.

True words are not ornate; ornate words are not true. The kind do not argue skillfully; those who argue skillfully are not kind. Those with true knowledge do not seek breadth; those with breadth may lack true knowledge. The sage does not hoard personal possessions—they are selfless, giving only goodness and following the natural course of all things.

This passage is a colophon written by Song dynasty scholar Chao Yuezhi for Wang Bi's annotated edition of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), discussing the distinctive features and value of Wang's commentary. Here's the modern interpretation:

Wang Bi's two-volume commentary on Laozi's Dao De Jing truly captures the essence of Laozi's thought, belonging to the same intellectual lineage as Yan Junping's Laozi Zhi Gui (Laozi's Directive Return). He argues that benevolence, righteousness, and ritual cannot function independently but must be applied through the Dao (the Way). Heaven, earth, and the myriad things all originate from the unifying power of the Dao—this not only develops Laozi's philosophy but represents a truth all scholars should understand. From this we see Wang Bi's profound grasp of Laozi, though his understanding of the Yi Jing (Book of Changes) was comparatively weaker.

When annotating the Yi Jing, Wang Bi frequently borrowed Laozi's concepts, yet Laozi's teachings don't rely on the Yi Jing—their relative merits are evident. How difficult true mastery of learning is! Though Wang Bi understood principles like "weapons are instruments of ill omen" and that victories should be treated with funeral rites, he failed to comprehend Laozi's deeper meaning in passages like "constantly good at saving people, therefore abandoning none; constantly good at saving things, therefore wasting nothing." These appear only in the Heshang Gong version, absent in ancient editions, later verified by Fu Yi.

Wang Bi titled this work Dao De Jing without separating discussions of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), maintaining a format closer to ancient editions. However, the text contains numerous errors and corruptions, with some passages nearly unreadable—a true pity. In my view, Wang Bi's Laozi commentary, Zhang Zhan's Liezi, Guo Xiang's Zhuangzi, Du Yu's Zuo Zhuan, Fan Ning's Guliang Zhuan, Mao Chang's Book of Songs, and Guo Pu's Erya each established distinctive scholarly traditions that later generations could hardly surpass. I record these thoughts while transcribing Wang Bi's edition.

Recorded by Chao Yuezhi at Fuzhi on the dingchou day of the tenth month in the fifth year of Emperor Huizong's Zhenghe era (1115 CE), Mount Song.

The postscript mentions an imperial edict from Emperor Zhenzong's Xianping era stating: The Dao De Jing is essential for governance. While Emperor Xuanzong of Tang's commentary displays literary elegance, Wang Bi's concise annotations truly capture Laozi's essence of clarity, stillness, and wuwei (non-action). Thus I diligently sought Wang Bi's edition, though rarely circulated in recent times, finally obtaining it after many years. When I previously served in Jianning...

The educational official once published an edition of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), and later obtained a version inscribed by Master Chao Yidao. This edition did not divide the text into separate sections for the Dao Jing (Classic of the Way) and De Jing (Classic of Virtue), nor did it include chapter headings. I (Xiong Ke) greatly admired its closeness to the ancient original and thus transcribed it for preservation. In the Gengyin year of the Qiandao era (1170 CE, the sixth year of Qiandao in the Southern Song dynasty), while serving as an instructor in Jingkou (present-day Zhenjiang, Jiangsu), I had it carved anew for printing to ensure its transmission to later generations. As for possible textual errors, previous scholars had been unable to verify them conclusively—how could I presume to make arbitrary changes? I could only preserve the original form for the time being, leaving it to discerning scholars of the future to clarify. Recorded with reverence on the twenty-fourth day of the third month by Xiong Ke, Left Administrative Officer and Professor of the Zhenjiang Prefectural School.

(This passage is Xiong Ke’s colophon for his edition of the Daode Jing, documenting the source, characteristics, and printing process of the version. It reflects the rigorous attitude of ancient scholars toward classical texts.)