《道德真經註(三)》

Su Zhe, in his commentary on the Daode Jing, proposes: The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao. All things in the world follow the patterns of the Dao, yet the aspects that can be articulated in language cannot remain constant. For instance, concepts like benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), propriety (li), and wisdom (zhi)—though all manifestations of the Dao—are limited in scope: benevolence cannot replace righteousness, nor can propriety equate to wisdom. Only the ineffable Dao preserves its eternal essence across all things—manifesting as benevolence in benevolence and as righteousness in righteousness.

Similarly, names that can be assigned are not eternal names. The Dao itself is beyond speech, let alone naming. Once any name is established, it becomes constrained, like specific shapes such as square, round, curved, or straight, and thus cannot endure unchanging.

At the dawn of heaven and earth, the Dao was nameless. Only after their formation did names begin to emerge. As the myriad things multiplied, names became innumerable. Therefore, the nameless represents the substance of the Dao, while the named signifies its function. The sage comprehends the substance of the Dao to govern the world: they penetrate the concrete ("being") while maintaining an empty mind ("non-being"), thereby observing the Dao’s profundity; they grasp absolute nothingness while attending to phenomena, thereby discerning the Dao’s boundaries. Those who focus solely on phenomena without understanding the fundamental mystery remain superficial; those who cling to the metaphysical essence while neglecting practical application become detached from reality.

"Being" and "non-being" may seem opposed, yet they share a single origin. Just as in the Dao’s movement, the formless transforms into form, and form returns to formlessness—their essence remains one. Recognizing this unity is the state of "mystery" (xuan). Originally meaning the profound darkness of the distant unknown, Laozi uses xuan to symbolize the ultimate condition of the Dao. Reaching the pinnacle of "mystery upon mystery" leads to the source of all wonders.

In Chapter Two, it is said that when all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises (here Su Zhe follows Laozi’s dialectical thinking on relative concepts but does not elaborate further in his commentary).

This scripture primarily elucidates the Daoist understanding of relativity and the sage's way of engaging with the world:

When all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when all know goodness as goodness, the standard of non-goodness appears. Thus being (you) and non-being (wu) generate each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast each other, high and low depend on each other, sounds harmonize with each other, and front and back follow each other.

People define beauty and ugliness, good and evil through concrete forms, yet what is called "beauty" and "goodness" may not be truly virtuous. They fail to understand that these opposites—being and non-being, difficulty and ease, long and short, high and low, sound and silence, front and back—are mutually dependent and transformative. What one considers long appears short when compared to something longer; what seems to be in front becomes behind when preceded by something else. Clinging to one's own standards of beauty only leads one further from the Dao.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through wuwei (non-action) and teaches through "not speaking." When acting, they maintain a wuwei mindset; when instructing, they preserve the realm of wordless meaning. Thus they transcend the limitations of long and short, free themselves from the constraints of front and back—being neither beautiful nor ugly, neither good nor non-good. How then could ordinary people judge them by conventional standards?

The myriad things operate spontaneously without refusal, nurture all without possession, act without self-reliance, and accomplish without claiming merit. Though all things function through me, I do not refuse; though I nurture and act, I neither possess nor rely; though successful, I claim no merit. This is the reward of wuwei and wordless teaching—how could ugliness follow such beauty?

Precisely because they do not claim merit, their accomplishments never fade. Sages dwell content in poverty without its sorrow, reside in wealth without its burdens—this is the state of "non-dwelling." If I never claim merit, how could merit be lost? This represents the highest wisdom in engaging with the world.

Chapter Three discusses not exalting the worthy: By not glorifying the worthy, people won't compete for fame; by not valuing rare objects, people won't steal; by not displaying desirable things, people's minds won't be disturbed. Therefore, when sages govern the world, they empty people's minds while filling their bellies, weaken competitive ambitions while strengthening physical vitality.

Exalting the worthy makes people ashamed of inferiority and contentious; valuing rare objects makes people steal what they cannot obtain; displaying desirable things makes people chaotic in their unfulfilled cravings. Though all under heaven know these three practices cause problems...

Laozi here expounds the wisdom of governance and Daoist cultivation. When rulers deliberately exalt the virtuous and capable, the people will compete to emulate them; when they overvalue rare treasures, thieves will multiply; when they flaunt objects of desire, the people's minds will become disordered. The sage (the ruler who has attained the Dao) acts differently: they employ the worthy without deliberate promotion, possess treasures without special glorification, and recognize desires without actively displaying them. Thus the people do not contend, and society naturally stabilizes.

This resembles the human body: a tranquil mind does not interfere with nourished organs, and gentle willpower does not obstruct strong bones. The reverse approach—either filling the mind with desires or completely suppressing the will—leads to imbalance. The optimal state is keeping the people simple and guileless, so even the clever find no opportunity for cunning. This is the true meaning of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)"—following natural patterns without forcing outcomes.

Chapter Four describes the nature of the Dao: though seemingly empty, it is inexhaustible; profound as an abyss, yet the source of all things. Formless and imageless, it permeates everywhere, containing even heaven, earth, mountains, and rivers. Precisely because it has no concrete form, it never overflows. Though we know it as the root of all existence, we cannot precisely define it, only saying it "seems like the ancestor of the myriad things."

The Dao cultivator must dull sharp edges, resolve conflicts, harmonize radiance, and blend with worldly dust. All people possess Dao-nature, but only sages fully preserve it. Withdrawing sharpness prevents extremity; dissolving disputes avoids opposition with external things. Eliminating these distractions allows inner light to emerge naturally. Yet this light must be tempered, for the purest radiance and coarsest dust equally belong to the Dao—neither can be abandoned. Attaining this state, the Dao-nature remains eternally clear, though ordinary people seldom perceive it, hence the description "seeming to exist yet not exist."

This Dao—we know not whose offspring it is—appears to have existed before heaven and earth. Here "Xiangdi" (resembling the emperor) refers to the Celestial Emperor (Tian Di), indicating the Dao predates even the most ancient deities.

The Dao exists eternally, yet ultimately cannot be defined by language—though this doesn't mean it doesn't exist. So, could the Dao have predated the Heavenly Emperor? Indeed, it preceded the Heavenly Emperor, existing even earlier, thus nothing precedes the Dao.

Heaven and Earth treat all beings with the same indifference as straw dogs, and sages similarly regard the common people with equanimity. Heaven and Earth are impartial, allowing all things to follow their natural course—thus beings live and die of their own accord. Death doesn't mean Heaven and Earth mistreat them, nor does life imply their benevolence. Just as straw dogs are carefully adorned and venerated during rituals—not out of genuine affection—and discarded afterward, trampled by passersby—not out of hatred—it's simply the natural way. Sages treat the people likewise: as long as they do no harm, the people preserve their innate nature, and life, death, gain, or loss have nothing to do with the sage. Though it may seem like no special favor is given, this non-interference is itself the greatest kindness.

The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows (tuoyue)—hollow yet never collapsing; the more it's worked, the more wind it produces. People see the bellows in motion, its currents swirling, and assume there must be some intricate mechanism inside. Yet the bellows does nothing; precisely because it is empty within, it endlessly produces wind. The endless cycles of birth and death, the myriad transformations of all things in Heaven and Earth, follow this same principle.

Speaking too much only leads to trouble; it's better to maintain inner stillness. Seeing the bellows produce wind, one might think it acts—but this is merely the natural result of emptiness. Thus comes the reminder: excessive words bring exhaustion, while holding to stillness avoids reaching an impasse.

The "Valley Spirit" (referring to the Dao's mysterious, empty nature) never dies—it may be called the "Mysterious Feminine" (xuanpin). A valley, though empty, still has form, but the Valley Spirit is formless emptiness. What is formless and empty has never been born—how, then, could it die? Calling it the Valley Spirit describes its essence; naming it the Mysterious Feminine speaks to its function. Though it gives birth to all things, it is called "Mysterious" because while we see it nurturing, we cannot perceive how it conceives.

The gateway of the Mysterious Feminine is the root of Heaven and Earth. It is called the gateway because all things emerge from it; it is called the root because Heaven and Earth arise from it.

Continuous, barely perceptible yet ever-present, its efficacy is inexhaustible though never strained. "Continuous" describes its subtle, unbroken flow; "barely perceptible" means it exists unseen. Yet in use, it is never depleted.

Though heaven and earth are vast, they still operate within the realm of form and measure, and thus their endurance has limits. What Laozi refers to as "enduring" is measured against the observable lifespan of heaven and earth. To speak of true eternity, only the primordial chaos before heaven and earth took form qualifies.

The reason heaven and earth can endure so long is precisely because they do not exist for themselves while nurturing all things—this is the source of their permanence. Similarly, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) places himself behind others yet ends up leading; disregards his own life yet preserves it. Is this not because they are selfless? It is precisely through selflessness that they fulfill themselves.

Heaven and earth transform and nourish all things without self-generation, transcending all creation—thus they endure. The sage withdraws yet advances, forgets himself yet benefits others, standing above the multitude—thus he attains priority and longevity. If heaven and earth competed with creatures for survival, if sages contended with people for gain, then heaven would be merely another object and sages ordinary men—how could they surpass common limitations? Though their selflessness isn't aimed at personal gain, such gain naturally follows—this is the Dao's principle.

The highest good resembles water. Water excels at nourishing all things without contention, willingly occupying low places people despise—thus it comes closest to the Dao. The Yijing states that the alternation of yin and yang constitutes the Dao, that inheriting the Dao is goodness, and fulfilling the Dao is one's nature. It also says heaven generates water through the "One," just as the Dao's movement produces goodness, like qi's movement produces water. Therefore we say supreme goodness resembles water—both begin formless before taking shape, sharing the Dao's principle. The Dao permeates all things and benefits all; so does water. Yet water ultimately assumes form, creating distance from the pure Dao—hence we say it "approaches" the Dao. Among all nameable goods, none comes closer than water, thus called "supreme goodness."

Water embodies seven virtues: dwelling in low places (good earth), profound stillness (good depths), benevolent giving (good benevolence), trustworthy speech and action (good faith), orderly governance (good order), capable execution (good ability), and timely movement (good timing). Avoiding heights to flow downward, never rebelling (good earth); empty, silent, unfathomable (good depths); moistening all without seeking return (good benevolence); rounding corners, bending at squares, stopping when blocked, flowing when released (keeping faith); cleansing filth, leveling unevenness (good order); taking any shape, accomplishing all tasks (good ability); freezing in winter, melting in summer, moving with the seasons (good timing). Precisely because it does not contend, water remains blameless.

This scripture expounds two core principles: the wisdom of non-contention like water, and the essential method of cultivating body and spirit through the union of hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul).

First, the wisdom of water. Water possesses seven virtues: cleansing impurities (purifying all things), balancing high and low (embodying fairness), taking the shape of its container (adaptability), freezing in winter and melting in spring (following natural laws). Water achieves perfection precisely because it never contends with others. Just as a full vessel easily overflows and sharp edges are prone to breaking, the sage knows to maintain moderation, never clinging to fullness or sharpness. Heaven and earth operate by their own rhythms—the sun declines after reaching its zenith, the moon wanes after becoming full, the seasons cycle continuously. If even heaven and earth follow this principle, how much more should humans? Therefore, when achieving fame and success, one should know when to withdraw—this is wisdom aligned with the Dao (the Way).

Next, the cultivation method of hun-po unity. Po (the material aspect of spirit) differs from hun (the numinous aspect), just as the Yijing (Book of Changes) states: "Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) form the physical body, while wandering hun creates transformation." The Dao practitioner's task is to let hun (divine nature) guide po (physical form), rather than being driven by desires. Ordinary people often become deluded by external things—eyes chasing beauty, noses craving fragrance—this is when po leads hun astray. True cultivation requires "embracing the One" (baoyi)—maintaining the purity of divine nature so that hun carries po, keeping the two inseparable. Ancient perfected ones (zhenren) achieved a state where their divine nature remained tranquil and unmoved by external stimuli—this is the crux of self-cultivation.

The text particularly emphasizes that the Dao is omnipresent, manifesting in humans as original nature. Preserving the purity of one's original nature is called "the One" (yi), while maintaining undispersed spiritual concentration is called "the Uncarved Block" (pu)—these are different expressions for returning to the great Dao.

This scripture primarily expounds on the path of self-cultivation and governance, with its core principle being the maintenance of inner emptiness and stillness through Wuwei (non-action).

The practice of "concentrating Qi to attain softness" means preserving the pure, innocent nature of an infant. When one's Shen (spirit) cannot maintain self-control, Qi becomes disordered—the strong become combative while the weak remain fearful without self-awareness. By achieving mental tranquility, Qi ceases its erratic movements, allowing emotions like joy and anger to manifest appropriately. The ultimate emptiness is softness, while complete fullness is strength; fully returning to one's original nature while forgetting about Qi is what's called "attaining softness." Infants, devoid of preferences, preserve their heavenly nature, maintaining subtle Qi and pliant bodies.

"Cleansing the mysterious mirror" describes how sages remain unaffected by external temptations and unswayed by internal Qi movements, thereby eliminating all worldly distractions. Their spiritual vision expands to perceive the essence of all things, recognizing everything as manifestations of original nature, viewing purity and impurity with equal detachment.

Regarding governance, sages first cultivate themselves before extending this cultivation to others. Even when caring for the people and governing the state, they maintain an attitude of Wuwei (non-action). Deliberate interference would instead harm the people and disrupt the nation.

"The opening and closing of the heavenly gate" speaks of the wisdom in timing. Sages understand the patterns of order and chaos, prosperity and decline. When changes occur, unlike ordinary people who fret over gains and losses, they follow heavenly principles and await the appropriate moment to act. As the Yijing states, they neither rush ahead of heaven's will nor lag behind its timing, but move in perfect harmony with celestial decree.

"The illumination that penetrates all directions" describes the sage's state of integrated internal and external cultivation. They can perfect themselves while governing effectively, possessing solutions for every contingency. This comprehensive wisdom originates from their original mind—though omniscient, they never consciously display their knowledge. For the very thought of "knowing" creates dualistic distinctions, which marks the beginning of ignorance.

When a mirror reflects objects, it does so passively without any cognitive ability. Those who believe they can actively perceive external things are in fact empty in their fundamental nature, merely imposing subjective consciousness—this is the root from which delusional thoughts arise.

The Dao gives birth to and nurtures all things without possessing them, accomplishes all things without claiming credit, and guides all things without dominating them. This is the most profound De (Virtue/Power). Though this great Dao can give birth to and nurture all things, it neither possesses, claims credit, nor dominates. Despite embodying great De, it remains unnoticed by all things, hence it is called "Xuan De" (mysterious and unfathomable Virtue).

Chapter 11 uses the metaphor of a wheel: the thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub, and it is precisely this emptiness that allows the wheel to turn. Clay is kneaded to form vessels, and it is their hollow interiors that make them useful for holding things. Doors and windows are carved out to build houses, and it is the empty space within that makes them habitable. Thus, while the solid parts provide convenience, it is the empty spaces that truly serve their function. When crafting objects, wisdom and materials are exhausted, yet the utility of the objects lies precisely in their emptiness—without the solid, the function cannot manifest; without the void, convenience cannot be realized. Therefore, the sage maintains an empty mind to observe the mysteries of the Dao, while also grasping its manifestations through concrete phenomena. Understanding that "being" and "non-being" are fundamentally inseparable and one leads to the highest state.

Chapter 12 discusses sensory desires: dazzling colors blind the eyes, cacophonous sounds deafen the ears, and rich flavors dull the palate. Seeing colors, hearing sounds, and tasting flavors are all natural tendencies of human nature. When one remains unaffected by external things, they are at their purest. But when the eyes chase after colors, the ears chase after sounds, and the mouth chases after flavors, being led by these external stimuli while forgetting one's intrinsic nature is akin to seeing yet being blind, hearing yet being deaf, and tasting yet losing the true flavor. Indulging in hunting can drive the spirit to madness, and rare treasures can lead to erratic behavior. Thus, the sage seeks only to satisfy basic needs (for the belly) and not sensory pleasures (for the eyes), rejecting the latter in favor of the former. Though the sage sees, hears, and tastes like ordinary people, and may also hunt or use treasures, ordinary people suffer harm while the sage remains unharmed. This is because ordinary people, like the eyes, are insatiable yet limited, while the sage, like the belly, is content and at ease. External things invade from without, while intrinsic nature consolidates from within.

Chapter 13 speaks of honor and disgrace, gain and loss: both favor and disgrace bring alarm, and calamity is regarded as seriously as the self. The enlightened people of ancient times treated honor as cautiously as disgrace, for they understood that honor is the beginning of disgrace.

This scripture explores two core concepts: how to perceive "favor and disgrace" and the notion of "valuing the body." The author suggests that people feel either honored or humiliated precisely because they overvalue themselves. When one receives favor, they rejoice; when it's lost, they panic—this is the state described as "startled by favor and disgrace." In truth, favor and disgrace are fundamentally the same, as disgrace often stems from excessive favor, yet ordinary people fail to see this truth.

Regarding the issue of valuing the body, the scripture points out that great misfortunes arise precisely because people cling too tightly to their physical form. If one could attain the state of "no-self" (non-attachment to the body), what would there be to worry about? Ordinary people fear calamities yet fail to recognize that the real difficulty lies in understanding that the body itself is the root of misfortune. Once this truth is realized, great misfortunes naturally vanish.

Human nature (one's innate essence) neither increases nor diminishes with life and death. It is vast enough to fill heaven and earth, yet subtle enough to penetrate water, fire, metal, and stone—no external force can harm it. Yet people often lose sight of their true nature, fixating only on the physical body. Ironically, excessive attachment to the body makes them vulnerable to harm. Whether internal afflictions like life, death, and illness, or external concerns like favor, disgrace, gain, and loss—each can become a source of misfortune. Only the enlightened understand that true nature cannot be destroyed and that the body is not ultimately real. In the sudden realization of forgetting the body, all misfortunes in the world dissolve, allowing one to live freely without worldly burdens.

The scripture concludes: Only those who regard governing the world as more important than themselves are fit to be entrusted with it; only those who cherish the world as they cherish their own lives are worthy of its stewardship. For when a person values the world's responsibility above themselves, they reach a state of complete selflessness. Such a person could bear the weight of the entire world without it ever becoming a burden.

In the passage on "looking but not seeing," three characteristics of the Dao are described: what cannot be seen is called "formless" (yi), what cannot be heard is called "soundless" (xi), and what cannot be grasped is called "intangible" (wei). These three qualities are ultimately one, all pointing to the profound and unfathomable nature of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of the relationship between the essence of Dao (the Way) and its manifestations:

Perceptible phenomena can be categorized into three types: visible forms (color), audible sounds, and tangible textures. Yet the source (nature/xing) that generates these perceptions cannot be directly perceived. While these three can be known, their origin remains unfathomable and must return to the unified "One"—our fundamental nature. Humans originally possess pure innate nature, which differentiates into various sensory functions upon contact with external things. If one becomes engrossed in sensory experiences while forgetting to return to the origin, one drifts further away from Dao. This mirrors the Buddhist scripture Shurangama's teaching: "Returning to the source makes the six senses pure."

Dao exists neither above nor below, unconstrained by the laws of Yin-Yang. Though it operates ceaselessly (appearing continuous like an unbroken thread), it ultimately returns to emptiness. This state is called "formless form, imageless image"—seemingly indistinct yet truly present. Because Dao permeates everywhere, neither its beginning nor end can be found.

By mastering the ancient Dao (Daoji, the thread of the Way), one can skillfully navigate present phenomena. Antiquity is the source of all things, and what manifests now originates from the formless Dao of ancient times. Grasping this source enables effortless adaptation to all transformations.

Ancient masters who truly attained Dao (exemplary scholars/shi) embodied profound subtlety and far-reaching insight, transcending ordinary comprehension. Their achieved state transforms crude cognition into refined realization, elevates refinement into mystery, and at the ultimate level of mystery attains omniscience. Being indescribable, we can only approximate their demeanor as cautiously deliberate "like crossing a winter stream."

This passage elucidates the essential principles of Daoist mind cultivation and nature refinement. The term "Yu" (豫) signifies the prudence one should maintain before taking action—like carefully considering whether to cross a winter river, hesitating multiple times before proceeding. "You" (犹) refers to the hesitation one should feel toward undesirable actions, as if fearing the neighbor's watchful eyes. Maintain dignified reverence outwardly, while inwardly achieving the clarity of melting ice and snow, understanding all phenomena as illusory and impermanent.

Practitioners must return to their original genuineness, becoming as simple as uncarved wood (pu 朴). The mind should be as spacious as a valley, capable of embracing all things. In engaging with the world, one should blend harmoniously like turbid water, avoiding any ostentatious uniqueness. Who can calm turbid water to let it gradually clarify? Who can stir stillness to gradually revive its vitality? Ordinary people become muddled when external things disturb their true nature, while forced ascetics suppress their nature and become lifeless. Only those who understand how to clarify their nature through stillness and revive vitality through measured activity walk the true path (Dao).

Maintaining this Daoist practice requires avoiding fullness, for fullness leads to extremes. Precisely by not seeking fullness can one avoid premature decline. Only by reaching ultimate emptiness and preserving perfect stillness can one observe the cyclical patterns of all things. If one removes attachments as large as mountains yet retains residual thoughts fine as dust particles, this cannot be considered true emptiness and stillness. In genuine cultivation, even the notion of "pursuing emptiness" must be relinquished—otherwise one remains trapped in a state of purposeful striving. Only by achieving ultimate emptiness and stillness can one remain unperturbed by the transformations of all phenomena, seeing clearly how all movement ultimately returns to its source.

All things in the world, no matter how numerous and diverse, ultimately return to their source. Just as plants grow from their roots and eventually shed leaves to return to them, or as waves arise from water only to merge back into it—this state of returning to the origin is called "stillness" (referring to the inherently pure and tranquil state).

If a person fails to return to their original nature, even if they forcibly suppress restless thoughts in pursuit of quietude, it is not true stillness. Only by returning to the source can one attain genuine stillness. This state of stillness is called "returning to destiny" (restoring one's heavenly endowed nature). "Destiny" is the profound manifestation of "nature." While "nature" can still be described in words, "destiny" is beyond verbal expression. The Book of Changes states: "Exhausting principles and fully manifesting one's nature ultimately leads to fulfilling destiny." The sages in their cultivation of the Dao necessarily begin by investigating principles, then fully reveal their nature, and finally return to destiny.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are methods the sages used to respond to external phenomena, but employing these methods requires understanding their underlying principles. Those who blindly follow them without grasping their meaning are ordinary people; those who comprehend the principles before practicing them are noble individuals—this is called "exhausting principles." However, one must devote great effort to inquiry before understanding can be achieved. Without active seeking, nothing is gained. Facing the myriad complexities of daily affairs, one must actively investigate to respond appropriately—this is laborious yet yields little result. The sages are not obscured by external phenomena; their nature is clear and luminous. Without deliberate effort, they act perfectly; without conscious thought, they comprehend. When phenomena arise, they naturally respond—this is called "fully manifesting nature."

Yet if one says, "This is my nature," there still remains a distinction between self and others, which borders on delusion. The commands of a ruler are called "destiny," and the arrangements of heaven are also called "destiny." Responding to phenomena with one's nature while not clinging to the self—this is "returning to destiny." Returning to heavenly destiny is called "constancy" (the unchanging eternal). When all things arise, even vast entities like heaven, earth, mountains, and rivers will eventually transform and decay. Only by returning to one's nature can one endure eternally.

Understanding this principle of constancy is called true wisdom. If one does not regard returning to one's nature as wisdom, it is merely worldly cleverness—thinking one understands when in fact one does not. Acting recklessly without understanding constancy invites misfortune. Failing to return to one's nature leaves one swayed by external phenomena, with every action harboring hidden dangers. Even if temporary gains are made, ultimately more will be lost.

Understanding constancy enables one to embrace all things. When people are deluded by restless thoughts, they become self-righteous and dismissive of others, treating all external phenomena as adversaries—how could they possibly embrace anything? If one realizes these are all illusions, even enemies will evoke compassion—what then could remain unembraceable?

"The capacity to embrace all makes one truly impartial" means that when a person can encompass everything, the barriers between self and others dissolve—how could selfishness remain?

"Impartiality makes one fit to rule" signifies that when one achieves complete fairness and selflessness, people will naturally gather around them.

"To rule is to mirror heaven" suggests that a sovereign who embraces all without exception possesses a breadth of heart even heaven cannot surpass.

"Heaven mirrors the Dao" clarifies that though heaven is vast, the Dao is the ultimate. Yet even in pursuing the Dao, one cannot transcend this state.

"The Dao endures, free from peril throughout life" teaches us that by following the Dao, one attains lasting stability and remains unharmed for a lifetime.

Chapter 17, "The Highest Virtue," states: The most sublime ruler governs so subtly that the people merely know of his existence. Because he rules through the Dao, acting without deliberate effort (Wuwei), the people remain unaware of his specific actions—they only sense his presence.

The next level of ruler is one whom the people cherish and praise. Because he governs through benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi), his virtue (De) inspires gratitude, and his achievements are visible. Thus, the people feel close to him and sing his praises. Though his reputation is fine, his governance has already descended to a lower level.

The lesser ruler is one whom the people fear yet disdain. He restrains them with laws and decrees—they do not lack fear, but when enforcement weakens, they grow contemptuous.

"Where trust is lacking, distrust arises" means that if a ruler himself lacks integrity, the people will naturally distrust him. A truly self-assured ruler governs through the Dao alone. It is precisely due to insecurity that rulers resort to added benevolence, righteousness, and harsher punishments—thereby breeding distrust among the people.

"Rare in speech, yet when deeds are accomplished, the people say: 'We did this naturally'"—the sage (Shengren), brimming with confidence, speaks sparingly and with care. But the people already trust him. By the time his work is done, they have unknowingly turned toward goodness and away from harm.

(Note: Here, the "Dao" refers to the origin and governing principle of the cosmos; "benevolence and righteousness" (Ren-Yi) denote Confucian moral virtues; "the highest virtue" (Taishang) describes the most elevated form of rulership; and the "sage" (Shengren) signifies one of supreme moral cultivation.)

This passage explains how society only emphasizes benevolence and righteousness when it has strayed from the fundamental Dao (natural law). In an ideal state, these virtues naturally exist within the Dao without people even being consciously aware of them. It's like fish in a dried-up pond moistening each other with spit—while touching to observe, this cannot compare to their natural freedom when swimming unacquainted in rivers and lakes.

The truly wise are not deceived by superficial appearances. Ordinary people always think petty cleverness can solve problems, yet this only brings suffering to the masses. If we relinquish hollow titles of sagehood and contrived calculations, the people would benefit a hundredfold. Similarly, when people stop ostentatiously displaying benevolence and righteousness, familial piety and affection will naturally return to households; when society ceases chasing clever techniques and profit, thieves will vanish of their own accord.

These three matters (renouncing false sagacity and cunning, abandoning forced benevolence and righteousness, discarding artificial cleverness and profit) cannot be resolved through regulations alone—the key lies in returning people to their authentic state: preserving simple, unadorned nature and reducing selfish desires. Just as in the eras of Yao and Shun, there was no need to specially commend filial sons because everyone practiced filial piety naturally; in times of great peace, loyal ministers required no special recognition because all were devoted. Genuine virtue needs no titles to manifest itself.

This passage discusses the contrasting approaches to governing the world between Laozi and Confucius, as well as the relationship between "Dao" (the Way) and "qi" (concrete methods). Laozi advocated abandoning cunning schemes and utilitarian pursuits to return to simple, authentic nature. He believed that when rulers govern through Wuwei (non-action) and maintain tranquility without desire, the people will naturally become honest and peaceful. This represents the highest wisdom, the ultimate benevolence, and the greatest skillful benefit.

Confucius governed the world through benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music, while Laozi advocated discarding these. This is because "Dao" is the metaphysical fundamental principle, while "qi" refers to physical, concrete methods. Confucius, considering future generations, primarily taught specific methods (qi) that ordinary people could follow; Laozi directly elucidated the fundamental principle (Dao), believing that excessive attachment to concrete methods would obscure the Great Way.

Both approaches have their merits and drawbacks: rigid adherence to Laozi's teachings may lead to chaos, yet can help people comprehend the Dao; following Confucius may prevent major mistakes, but those seeking deeper understanding of the Dao often find no path forward. Both sages adopted different emphases out of necessity—complete integration of both approaches is impossible.

Regarding "abandon learning and there will be no sorrow": ordinary people pursue learning by accumulating knowledge, but cultivating the Dao requires constantly reducing attachments. Without understanding life's essence, mere accumulation of knowledge becomes like drawing squares with compasses or arcs with straightedges—a contradictory entanglement that fills the heart with anxiety. Hence Laozi's statement "abandon learning and there will be no sorrow." However, sages do not refrain from learning; they unify knowledge under the Dao. Learning little leaves no deficiency; learning much brings no confusion. Naturally free from worry, they need not deliberately "abandon learning."

(Note: Here "metaphysical" refers to fundamental principles transcending concrete forms, while "physical" denotes visible things and methods; "abandon learning and there will be no sorrow" is the core concept of Chapter 20 in the Daode Jing, advocating transcendence beyond the level of knowledge accumulation.)

This passage explores how to perceive seemingly opposing phenomena in the world. How far apart are reverence and arrogance truly? What real difference exists between good and evil? Ordinary people often cling stubbornly to opinions they've heard, unable to see through to the essential nature. In reality, reverence can easily turn into flattery, and arrogance into contempt—let alone completely opposite concepts like good and evil.

The sage understands that all things originate from the same fundamental nature (referring to the source of Dao) and are merely illusory manifestations. Like painted horses and oxen or carved tigers and pigs, none possess true reality. One who truly sees through this won't obsess over distinguishing right from wrong, naturally realizing these opposites are scarcely different. Comprehending this principle allows one to understand how all things grow together without interfering, with various truths coexisting without contradiction.

Regarding what worldly people fear, the sage remains equally cautious. Though seeing through worldly distinctions, the sage doesn't thereby disregard social norms. What people fear, the sage also fears; the rituals people follow, the sage follows too. Even while existing within relationships like ruler-subject or father-child, observing norms of rites, music, laws and governance, ordinary people wouldn't find the sage particularly remarkable. The key to transcending external constraints lies in the difference of mental state.

Worldly people remain confined within their own perceptions, like being trapped between field ridges with no way out. The sage, however, simultaneously penetrates both "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu)—core Daoist concepts referring to existence and emptiness—remaining effortlessly free in any circumstance, thus appearing profoundly unfathomable.

The masses indulge in pleasures like attending grand banquets or springtime mountain excursions, clamoring and chasing after things without self-awareness. Only the sage sees through these illusions, maintaining serenity like an infant who hasn't yet learned to smile. Following the patterns of all things without selfish attachment, the sage appears completely unconstrained.

While everyone believes themselves knowledgeable, the sage embraces all things without partiality, appearing transcendent as if having forgotten everything. The sage's mind seems dull, yet this represents the great wisdom of returning to original simplicity. Where worldly people appear sharp and discerning, the sage seems muddled and confused; where ordinary folks nitpick, the sage remains generous and tolerant. For the sage understands these worldly distinctions aren't worth the effort to discern.

This passage describes the spiritual state of one who has attained the Dao. Outwardly they may appear dull and muddled, yet inwardly they remain perfectly serene; seemingly vague and indistinct, yet profoundly unfathomable in reality. It's like being unable to discern the riverbank in dim light, or finding no mooring place in absolute stillness.

Ordinary people each possess their own particular skills, thus the world finds them useful. But the sage (one who has attained the Dao), being complete in ability and perfect in virtue (De), appears to have no special talents and is easily mistaken for a fool. What distinguishes me from ordinary people is that I cherish the fundamental nourishment of all things—the Dao (the cosmic origin). While worldly people chase external things and forget the great Dao, the sage transcends all things and takes the Dao as foundation. Like an infant who eats no mixed foods but only takes mother's milk.

Chapter Twenty-One discusses the manifestation of great virtue (De). The embodiment of great virtue follows entirely the patterns of the Dao. The Dao itself has no form; when it operates it manifests as virtue (De), thus taking on appearance. Therefore we say virtue is the visible aspect of the Dao. From this we deduce that all forms in creation are manifestations of the Dao within particular things.

This thing called the Dao is elusive and hard to grasp. Within its vagueness there are images; within its obscurity there are substances. The Dao transcends concepts of being and non-being, hence we describe it as "indistinct." Yet when it operates to form images and manifests as physical things, all emerge from this indistinct state.

Within the profound and mysterious lies essential essence (Jing). When "being" and "non-being" remain undifferentiated in this vague, indistinguishable state—though no form is visible—the essential essence already exists within. This essence is utterly authentic, containing trustworthy principles.

From ancient times to the present, the essence of Dao has never disappeared, thus we can observe the transformations of all things. "Fu" means excellence—even the most excellent things cannot avoid change. The reason I can understand the patterns of universal transformation is because I've realized the eternal, unchanging Dao.

Chapter Twenty-Two explains the principle of yielding to achieve completeness. Only by bending can one be preserved whole; only by being low can one be filled. The sage maintains this principle, thus becoming the model for all under heaven. By not displaying oneself, one becomes conspicuous; by not asserting oneself, one becomes discerning; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not exalting oneself, one endures. Precisely because they contend with no one, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying "the bent shall be made whole" is indeed perfect truth!

The sage's actions invariably follow heavenly principle (天理). The manifestations of heavenly principle may appear either direct or circuitous—the key lies in attaining profound understanding. With such understanding, one can harmonize with all things without conflict, thereby preserving perfect integrity.

What appears bent may in fact be supremely straight. If something seems straight yet violates heavenly principle, it is not true straightness. Following heavenly principle, even when the path appears winding, constitutes the most upright course in the world.

Low places naturally become filled. All people gravitate toward those who remain humble—such individuals cannot help but become fulfilled.

When something becomes utterly worn, renewal follows. Excessive cleverness and calculation are contrary to the Dao (道), while what seems muddled and obscure actually contains the vitality of daily renewal.

Taking less ultimately yields more. The Dao is singular—grasping this fundamental principle allows one to attain everything. Greed for more only brings confusion. Studying extensively without a unifying principle to integrate knowledge leads to bewilderment.

Therefore, the sage upholds the great Dao as the standard for all under heaven. "Embracing the One" (抱一) means returning to original nature. The earlier statements—"bending leads to wholeness," "crookedness becomes straightness," "hollowness brings fullness," "worn-out things renew," and "less yields more"—all exemplify upholding the Dao, hence summarized as "embracing the One."

Not displaying oneself allows clear perception. Eyes not fixed on oneself can see external objects clearly; a mirror not reflecting itself can illuminate other things. Those constantly self-displaying and self-focused exhaust their attention on themselves—how could they have energy left for external matters?

Not self-asserting allows true manifestation; not self-praising enables real achievement; not being self-satisfied permits lasting endurance. Precisely because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them. "Not self-displaying," "not self-asserting," "not self-praising," and "not being self-satisfied" all represent non-contention, hence summarized as "not contending."

The ancient saying "bending leads to wholeness"—could this be empty words? It truly enables people to preserve perfect integrity and return to original truth. Ordinary people consider straightness right and crookedness wrong, yet when acting according to heavenly principle, one sometimes must adopt circuitous methods. Therefore, we emphasize again: Could this be empty words? It truly enables complete return to authenticity. "Wholeness" means not only self-preservation but internally preserving original nature and externally perfecting all things—achieving completeness for both self and things while returning to original nature—this constitutes the greatest uprightness.

Chapter 23: Sparse Words Follow Nature

Speaking sparingly accords with nature (自然). Words flowing naturally become concise and apt, whereas forced speech grows cumbersome and unconvincing. Thus it is said: "The Dao spoken becomes bland and flavorless; looked at, it cannot be seen; listened to, it cannot be heard; yet used, it proves inexhaustible"—this is the meaning of "sparse words" (希言).

A gale does not last all morning; a downpour does not last all day. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and Earth. Even the natural laws of Heaven and Earth cannot sustain extreme conditions—how much less can human beings?

When Yin and Yang (the two fundamental opposing forces of the cosmos) harmonize without conflict, wind and rain arrive in their proper season, neither too urgent nor too sluggish, ceasing only when their natural momentum is exhausted. If Yang Qi becomes excessively dominant above while Yin Qi stagnates below with no outlet, violent storms arise—fierce in appearance, yet unable to last even a single day. The ancient sages spoke sparingly ("Xi Yan") and acted with serene composure ("Yi Xing"), aligning with the Dao of nature, thus achieving enduring stability. Ordinary people, however, disdain such plainness, preferring clever rhetoric for its charm and eccentric behavior for its spectacle, unaware that these cannot endure.

Therefore, those who pursue the Dao: those who follow the Dao become one with it; those who follow De (Virtue/Power) become one with it; those who lose their way become one with that loss. To those united with the Dao, the Dao welcomes them; to those united with De, De embraces them; to those lost, confusion becomes their destination.

Confucius said: "One who sets their will upon ren (humaneness) will do no wrong." Thus, the faults of the benevolent are easily corrected. If this holds true for those devoted to ren, how much more for those devoted to the Great Dao? If one truly seeks the Dao, then actions aligned with it will attain it, and those aligned with De will attain that. Even if mistakes occur, though the actions may falter, the cultivation of Dao and De will surely bear fruit.

Those lacking sincerity naturally gain no trust. Those who do not understand the Dao have unsteady faith in it; doubting the Dao because of their own failures, they grow even more distrustful. Only through genuine understanding of the Dao can one remain unwavering despite gains or losses.

Those who tiptoe cannot stand firm ("Qi Zhe Bu Li"); those who stride too wide cannot walk far ("Kua Zhe Bu Xing"). Those who self-display fail to shine; those who self-assert fail to distinguish themselves; those who self-boast achieve no merit; those who grow arrogant cannot endure.

No one is incapable of standing or walking, yet those who deem normal standing insufficient and rise on tiptoes, or normal strides insufficient and overextend their steps, inevitably lose balance. The same applies to those who self-display, self-assert, self-boast, or grow arrogant.

From the perspective of the Dao, such behavior is like: overstuffing oneself when already full, or growing superfluous flesh when already healthy. All things despise such excess—thus, those who embody the Dao refrain from it.

(Chapter 25 discusses the "primordial混沌" cosmic origin, omitted here.)

There existed a presence born before the formation of heaven and earth. This Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low, neither coming nor going, neither good nor evil—it forms its essence as an undifferentiated whole. For humans, this is our original nature. Thus we speak of a spontaneously perfect existence whose origin none can fathom, eternally abiding as the source from which all things in heaven and earth emerge.

Silent and soundless, vast and formless, it stands alone unchanging, cycling endlessly without cease—it may be called the mother of all under heaven. Though silent and formless, uniquely unchanging; though operating within all things, never resting; it nurtures creation below, thus serving as the mother of all.

I know not its name, but reluctantly call it Dao, and hesitantly name it "Great." Originally nameless, sages observed all things following it and thus termed it Dao; seeing nothing surpassing it, they provisionally called it Great. Yet in truth it transcends complete verbal description.

Pursuing it through "Greatness," it seems to recede and vanish; tracing its "vanishing," it appears infinitely distant. Though seemingly fading away, complete understanding comes through turning inward.

Thus we say: Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the sovereign is great. The cosmos contains four greatnesses, with rulers as one. Humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates Dao, and Dao emulates spontaneity (ziran). From Dao's perspective, none of the three are truly great. Yet people only recognize these three greatnesses while doubting Dao's greatness, hence this truth is revealed: humans cannot match earth, earth cannot match heaven, heaven cannot match Dao, and Dao cannot match spontaneity. Should humans recover their original nature, all three become fully comprehensible.

Chapter Twenty-Six teaches that "steadiness is the root of lightness, tranquility the master of agitation." Among all things, the light cannot bear the heavy, nor the small restrain the large. The unmoving controls the moving—thus lightness takes steadiness as its foundation, agitation takes tranquility as its governor.

Therefore the noble person travels all day without leaving the weighted carriage; though possessing splendid palaces, remains transcendently composed. Movement seeks swiftness yet cannot abandon ballast; palaces offer comfort yet demand detachment. Such is the importance of steadiness and tranquility.

Why should the ruler of ten thousand chariots treat the realm with frivolous lightness?

This passage elucidates principles of state governance and personal cultivation.

A ruler who neglects self-cultivation cannot shoulder the responsibility of governing the world. Rashness leads to losing the trust of ministers, while impatience causes the ruler to forfeit their authority. When a ruler behaves frivolously, ministers recognize their unreliability; when ministers act hastily, the ruler perceives their self-interest.

Those skilled in action leave no trace because they follow the natural order of heaven. Those skilled in speech make no mistakes because they understand the proper timing for words. Those skilled in calculation need no counting rods, for they grasp the principles of all things intuitively. Those skilled at closing require no bolts that cannot be opened, and those skilled at binding use no cords that cannot be untied—this is because they influence others through De (Virtue), as naturally as a mother cares for her child.

The sage excels at rescuing others, so no person remains useless; they skillfully utilize all things, so nothing is wasted. Ordinary people rely on counting rods, bolts, and ropes—their capabilities are limited. But the sage not only embraces others but also rescues them, and thus people naturally gravitate toward them. This is what is called "inheriting the light"—not merely aiding in crisis but helping people transcend ignorance, like passing a torch to perpetuate illumination.

Therefore, virtuous people serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous provide lessons for the virtuous. Yet the sage does not deliberately teach, nor does they favor any particular object of learning. They not only transcend personally but also make the world forget their presence. The profundity of this state is difficult even for the wise to fully comprehend.

Knowing the principle of strength yet abiding in gentleness, they willingly become the valley of the world. In this way, they preserve eternal De (Virtue) and return to the purity of an infant. Knowing the principle of brightness yet remaining in obscurity, they become the model for all under heaven.

This scripture primarily elucidates how Dao cultivators should maintain their fundamental authenticity and accord with nature's flow.

"The constant patterns of heaven and earth never deviate from De (Virtue/Power)" speaks of the eternal, unchanging laws governing cosmic movement. Those who truly possess De never stray from these principles, ultimately returning to the boundless state of "Wuji" (the Limitless). Knowing what constitutes glory yet contentedly dwelling in humility—this resembles the valley of the world that embraces all things with empty receptivity. Maintaining this state allows one's De to become complete, returning to the most primordial simplicity.

The text observes that people constantly pursue advancement, brightness, and nobility while shunning backwardness, darkness, and lowliness—this is human nature. But the ancient sages taught that rather than chasing these external things, one should return to original nature. The more one understands their true nature, the more they can maintain humility; the more humble one becomes, the deeper their De grows; and the deeper their De, the higher their state of returning to fundamental authenticity.

Those who know what constitutes strength yet contentedly dwell in gentleness are people who understand their true nature. Understanding one's nature enables cessation of contention, causing even the world's most competitive individuals to submit naturally, like streams flowing inevitably downward. Yet this resembles an infant's state—accepting all things without deliberate manipulation.

Those who know what constitutes brightness yet contentedly dwell in obscurity are people who perceive their true nature. Dwelling in darkness paradoxically allows clearer perception of light, making such individuals models for others to emulate. Though responding to all things' transformations, their guiding principle remains constant, never erring.

Those who know what constitutes glory yet contentedly dwell in humility are people who have returned to their true nature. All illusions have been dissolved—even in lowly circumstances, no resentment arises. Their minds become as vast as empty valleys where all things come and go naturally, their De reaching a state of pure, unadulterated perfection—this is returning to primordial simplicity.

When this state of simplicity disperses, it gives form to all concrete phenomena. Sages employ this simplicity to govern all things, just as rulers establish officials to administer states—both follow nature's momentum, establishing order without forceful division.

The final passage states: "Those who seek to seize the world through forceful action—I perceive they cannot succeed." The sage's possession of the world comes not through forceful taking, but through all things' natural submission; governing the world isn't through deliberate action, but through accord with all things' spontaneous patterns.

This scripture expounds the principle of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." All things in the world follow their own natural patterns of operation, and forced interference will only bring calamity.

The world is like a sacred vessel (referring to state power) that cannot be forcibly controlled. Those who attempt to dominate it will ultimately fail; those who try to grasp it tightly will inevitably lose it. Just as when a group of people gathers, imposing arbitrary interference without following natural laws will inevitably lead to conflict and strife—how much more so when governing the entire world? Small objects or a few individuals might be seized by force or possessed through cunning, but the world is vast and governed by divine principles (Shen). If one does not wait for the people’s hearts to naturally align but instead forces compliance, rebellion will arise. If the people are not allowed to govern themselves, chaos will ensue.

All things in the world have their own inherent characteristics: some advance actively, others follow passively; some are warm and harmonious, others cold and severe; some are strong, others weak; some sustain all things, others destroy them. Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) avoids extremes, extravagance, and excess. The interaction of Yin and Yang energies, the mutual dependence of high and low, the balance between large and small—these are all inevitable natural laws. Yet foolish people, driven by selfish greed, seek to resist these laws, only to meet with ruin or setback. Only the sage understands that one must not oppose nature, and so they act in accordance with its rhythms, eliminating extremes, extravagance, and excess, ensuring that things do not develop excessively and suffer harm. In this way, the world remains free from calamity.

When Emperor Yao and Emperor Tang faced floods and droughts, though they could not entirely avoid them, their kingdoms did not collapse—precisely because they understood this principle. The Book of Changes (Yijing) states in the Hexagram of Peace (Tai): The ruler should establish policies according to the laws of Heaven and Earth, assisting the natural order in governing the people. When Yang energy is within and Yin energy without (signifying harmony between Yin and Yang), all things reach their most peaceful state. The sage, fearing that excessive development will bring harm, regulates and supports the process—this is the meaning of "eliminating extremes, extravagance, and excess."

Chapter 30 teaches that those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not rely on military force to dominate the world, for force invites retribution. When sages employ arms, it is always out of necessity. Those who seek to conquer the world through force without being compelled, even if temporarily victorious, will inevitably face disaster in return. Figures like King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han either met their demise or brought misfortune upon their descendants. Such actions, detested by both mortals and spirits, spare no one from retribution.

Where armies have camped, thorns and brambles grow; after great battles, years of famine follow. When war erupts, people cannot live normally, fields lie fallow untended, and the killing energy (Qi) of war damages the harvest. All conflicts produce such consequences—how much more so for those who rely on military force to dominate the world?

Those truly skilled in using arms stop when their objective is achieved, never presuming to flaunt their strength. "Resolution" here means decisive action taken only when virtue (De) cannot transform and governance cannot resolve—a last resort. Having achieved the goal, one must not boast, show off, or grow arrogant, recognizing this as a forced choice. These four principles—no boasting, no showing off, no arrogance, and knowing it's necessity—constitute the practice of not using arms to assert dominance.

When things reach their zenith, they decline—this violates the natural pattern of the Dao (the Way). What contradicts the Dao perishes prematurely. All things wither after flourishing; only those who embody the Dao remain incomplete at their peak and empty when full, thus never reaching extremity and avoiding decay. Those who dominate the world through force reach this extreme "strength"—how could they not decline?

Chapter 31 states: Fine weapons are inauspicious tools, detested even by objects, so those who follow the Dao (the Way) never use them lightly. They employ them only to resolve crises, never as routine—this is the meaning of "not dwelling" on them. Gentlemen normally honor the left, but in warfare honor the right, for arms are inauspicious instruments, not the gentleman's usual tools. Used only when unavoidable, they're best approached with detachment. Victory merits no praise; to glorify war is to delight in killing. Those who relish slaughter can never fulfill their aspirations under heaven. Auspicious events favor the left, inauspicious ones the right. The lieutenant general stands left, the commander right—treating war with funeral rites. When many are slain, mourn with grief; after victory, handle it with mourning ceremonies.

Chapter 32 explains: The Dao (the Way) is eternally nameless and unadorned. Though seemingly insignificant, none in the world can subdue it. If lords and kings uphold it, all things naturally submit. "Uncarved wood" represents original nature. The Dao remains forever nameless, so this nature cannot be labeled. Unfolding, it permeates everywhere; withdrawing, it's finer than a hair's tip—thus seemingly tiny yet unconquerable. Even the humblest person upholding it can transform decay into wonder, while noble rulers failing to uphold it find no submission from creation.

When heaven and earth's yin-yang energies harmonize, sweet dew falls, distributed evenly without human direction.

This passage elucidates the relationship between the Dao (the cosmic origin) and all phenomena, along with the wisdom of sages in navigating existence. The term "chong qi" refers to the harmonious blending of Yin-Yang energies—when these two vital forces achieve perfect equilibrium, they descend as sweet dew to nourish all beings. The sage comprehends the supreme Dao to respond to myriad phenomena, much like how the impartial dew moistens all things without exception, thus embodying universal inclusivity.

Regarding the discourse on "names": When phenomena begin to take form, they acquire designations, yet one must know when to stop—understanding boundaries prevents peril. The sage disperses the pristine Dao into concrete vessels, establishing names according to their forms, yet never loses the essence in pursuit of labels, nor chases trivialities at the expense of fundamentals. They master the return to original nature, thereby adapting to all transformations without falling into jeopardy.

The analogy of rivers and oceans illustrates this principle: The ocean is where all waters converge, while rivers are where waters diverge; the Dao is the source of all things, and phenomena are its manifestations. Just as all rivers ultimately return to the sea, all beings ultimately revert to the Dao's origin.

Chapter thirty-three expounds practical wisdom: Understanding others demonstrates intelligence, but knowing oneself constitutes true wisdom. When discriminating mind remains, one merely perceives others; when obstructions dissolve, self-awareness arises and extends to others. Conquering others shows strength, but mastering oneself reveals true power. The contented person abides in perpetual abundance; those who vigorously practice the Dao maintain unwavering resolve. Those who never lose their roots endure; when physical form perishes while spirit remains indestructible—this is authentic longevity.

Chapter thirty-four describes the Dao's attributes: The great Dao flows boundlessly, omnipresent yet formless. All beings rely on it for growth, yet it never declines responsibility; it accomplishes all without claiming merit. Like oceans receiving countless streams without dominating them, it eternally maintains humble lowliness. Precisely because it never aggrandizes itself, it achieves true greatness. The character "fan" depicts the Dao's water-like ubiquity—flowing freely, circulating everywhere without exclusion.

Some people in the world deliberately avoid external things, believing they shouldn't possess anything, ultimately rejecting life itself. Yet only the Dao (the cosmic primordial principle) can achieve accomplishment without claiming possession. The Dao nourishes all things without dominating them, eternally maintaining a state of desirelessness—this we may call its subtlety. Though all things return to it, they remain unconstrained—this we may call its greatness. Therefore, sages never consider themselves great, yet thereby achieve true greatness. The moment one thinks "I shall be great," one instead becomes small.

Chapter 35 speaks of upholding the great Dao: Grasp this formless Dao, and all under heaven will naturally return to it. Because the Dao transcends distinctions between being and non-being, it's called the "Great Image" (supreme form). If it were to manifest concrete features, preferences and aversions would arise—those who like it would follow, those who dislike it would withdraw, making it impossible to unite all under heaven. Returning to the Dao brings no harm, for it leads to peace, harmony, and unimpeded flow. Preferences and aversions create profit and loss; eliminating such distinctions means no harm comes to anything, and those who reach the highest state naturally find peace everywhere.

Music and fine food may detain passersby, but melodies end and delicacies are consumed. Yet the Dao, when spoken of, seems bland and flavorless; looked for, it can't be seen; listened for, it can't be heard—yet its application is inexhaustible. When the great Dao governs all under heaven, people neither particularly like nor dislike it. Though lacking enticing colors, aromas or flavors to please, its efficacy never runs dry.

Chapter 36 explains the principle of reversal at the extreme: To contract, one must first expand; to weaken, one must first strengthen; to abolish, one must first exalt; to take, one must first give. This is called "subtle illumination" (hidden wisdom). To seize without first giving means the force is inadequate and the principle insufficient. Yet this approaches cunning stratagems—how would it differ from the methods of Guan Zhong or Sun Wu? While sages and ordinary people may act similarly on the surface, their essence differs completely: Sages accord with heavenly principles like physicians prescribing for symptoms, while worldly people employ cleverness like merchants pursuing profit. The soft overcomes the hard because sages understand the unreliability of strength, thus consciously maintaining gentleness.

Those who contend with force and strive for dominance in the world engage in mutual struggle and conflict, while I maintain a gentle and yielding stance in response. When these aggressive individuals eventually exhaust each other, I can prevail without contention, simply awaiting their self-destruction—this is true victory. Yet, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not deliberately employ such methods to overcome others. Rather, they understand the natural course of things and simply follow it.

Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, the core secrets of a state should not be carelessly revealed. Fish lack sharp claws or teeth to gain advantage, yet when they remain hidden in deep pools, even the strongest cannot catch them. Once they leave the water, however, they become helpless prey. The sage abides in the way of gentleness and yielding, not only rendering the strong unable to harm them but also subtly restraining them in turn. Is this not the most formidable "weapon"? Fish are caught only when they leave the water, while the sage, by remaining content in gentleness without self-satisfaction, ultimately prevails over all. Such wisdom is beyond the grasp of ordinary people.

Chapter 37 of the Daodejing states: The Dao (the cosmic source) appears to do nothing, yet accomplishes everything. It brings all things to fruition without deliberate action. If rulers can uphold this principle, all things will naturally flourish. When desires arise in the course of development, they are settled by the "nameless simplicity" (the most authentic state).

The sage transforms all things through wuwei (non-action). Initially, all things grow naturally without interference, but gradually, artificiality emerges. Just as an infant’s innate sincerity diminishes as they grow, the decline of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties reflects the increasing artificiality of human hearts. When desires begin to stir, if rulers follow the current, society will deteriorate beyond remedy. But if they stabilize desires with the original state of simplicity when they first appear, this trend may still be checked.

True "nameless simplicity" does not even entertain the thought of pursuing simplicity. The sage’s mind holds no deliberate intention to preserve simplicity, nor does their outward behavior display any forced simplicity. Only then can they fully embody simplicity’s essence and wield its great power. If one still harbors the thought, "I must maintain simplicity," they are already far from true simplicity.

This passage presents Su Zhe's commentary on Chapter 38 of the Dao De Jing, focusing on the hierarchical nature of De (Virtue/Power):

The highest De (superior De) does not consciously pursue the manifestation of De, yet truly possesses it; whereas inferior De clings rigidly to the form of De, thereby losing its essence. Just as sages follow their natural inclinations without transgressing boundaries—not deliberately seeking De, yet naturally replete with it—ordinary people, recognizing De's value, force themselves to pursue it, achieving only superficial adherence that cannot be considered true De.

Genuine Wuwei (non-action) in superior De is natural non-interference; the forced Wuwei of inferior De is actually deliberate action. Only the state of complete non-deliberation qualifies as authentic Wuwei. Those at lower levels cannot accomplish anything without affectation—their actions all carry traces of contrivance.

Both ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness) inevitably involve deliberate action, but differ in that: superior ren acts without ulterior motives, while superior yi acts with clear purpose. De has superior and inferior levels, whereas ren and yi only have superior forms—because inferior De already occupies the space between ren and yi, and actions below this level aren't worth discussing.

When it comes to li (ritual propriety), if implementing rituals meets no response, one rolls up sleeves to enforce compliance. This descent from De to li represents the sage's last resort for governing the people. When coercion proves ineffective, punishments and military force are employed—this marks complete descent into lawless compulsion.

Thus social degeneration proceeds: losing Dao, we speak of De; losing De, of ren; losing ren, of yi; losing yi, of li. Li actually signals the waning of loyalty and trustworthiness—the beginning of chaos. When loyalty and trust are insufficient, li maintains order; yet once established, the beauty of loyalty and trust becomes mere external display. Relationships between ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife, friends—all appear polished but are hollow within. Conformity brings stability; defiance brings disorder—a razor's edge separates order from chaos.

So-called "foresight" (qianshi) is merely the superficial flourish of Dao, the commencement of folly. Sages perceive all things clearly—right and wrong, gain and loss appear as distinctly as reflections in a mirror—where is there any sequence of "before and after"? Later generations' understanding remains confined to the immediately visible.

When the eyes merely stop at seeing, the ears merely stop at hearing, and the mind merely stops at thinking, one acts blindly among the myriad things, using cleverness to pursue knowledge. Occasionally gaining some insight, one considers oneself wise, yet fails to realize this is precisely the beginning of folly.

Thus, the truly wise choose substance over superficiality, seeking the essential rather than the ornamental. Ordinary people in the world often become content with minor achievements and forget the root, favoring embellishment while discarding the essence. Only those with genuine great wisdom can relinquish the ornamental and choose the fundamental.

Chapter 39 speaks of the state of "attaining the Dao (the Way)": When heaven attains the Dao, it is clear and bright; when earth attains the Dao, it is tranquil and stable; when spirits attain the Dao, they are efficacious; when valleys attain the Dao, they are full and abundant; when the myriad things attain the Dao, they grow and flourish; when rulers attain the Dao, the world is at peace. The reason all things can exist is due to the function of the Dao, yet people only see the surface and forget the fundamental Dao.

If the Dao is lost: Heaven without clarity will crack apart; earth without tranquility will quake; spirits without efficacy will dissipate; valleys without abundance will dry up; the myriad things without growth will perish; rulers without adherence to the Dao will fall. Though these consequences may not occur immediately, they will inevitably come to pass in the end.

Nobility must take humility as its root; elevation must take the lowly as its foundation. The vastness of heaven and earth, the dignity of rulers—all arise from attaining the Dao. The Dao itself cannot be seen or grasped; it is the subtlest existence under heaven. Thus, it is said to be "humble and lowly." Ancient rulers referred to themselves as "the solitary one," "the undeserving one," or "the unworthy one," precisely because they took humility as their foundation. Excessive pursuit of ornamentation leads to the loss of authenticity—it is better to maintain the unadorned nature of a simple stone.

(Note: "One" in Daoism refers to the original substance of the Dao; "the solitary one, the undeserving one, the unworthy one" were self-deprecating terms used by ancient rulers, meaning "one lacking in virtue"; "polished like jade" describes excessive refinement, while "rough like stone" symbolizes preserving one's natural essence.)

The spokes, canopy, axle, crossbar, yoke, and hub—all these components combine to form a carriage. Each individual part can be counted and measured, yet the concept of "carriage" as a whole cannot be quantified. From this, we understand that it is precisely this "nothingness" (the intangible wholeness) that enables the carriage to function. Similarly, is it not because of this formless "One" (the Dao) that Heaven and Earth exist as Heaven and Earth, and rulers reign as rulers? Yet few truly grasp this principle. Thus, the genuine Dao occupies the highest position without claiming nobility and dwells in the humblest state without considering itself lowly. Unlike jade, which cannot be humble because of its preciousness, or stone, which cannot be noble because of its commonness.

Chapter 40 speaks of "the movement of the Dao": The Dao always operates through reversal. Returning to one's original nature leads to stillness, yet this stillness is not lifeless—it is the fundamental force that resonates with and penetrates all things under Heaven. What appears weak and yielding is precisely where the Dao's function lies. Though formless and soundless, nothing in the world is softer than the Dao, yet nothing surpasses its strength. This is why the Dao governs all things. All beings in the world arise from "being" (you), yet "being" itself originates from "nothingness" (wu). People often fail to recognize that stillness is the root of movement, and weakness is the source of strength. Thus, Laozi uses the metaphor of mother and child: People know to use the mother (the root) to guide the child (the manifestation), but none have seen the child controlling the mother.

Chapter 41 discusses "different levels of understanding the Dao": Those of superior capacity hear the Dao and diligently practice it; those of middling capacity hear it but waver between belief and doubt; those of inferior capacity hear it and laugh heartily—if they did not laugh, it would not be the true Dao. For the Dao has no form to be seen, no sound to be heard. Without first dissolving attachments to the illusory nature of things and attaining clarity of mind and true insight, doubt is inevitable. Thus, those of inferior disposition find the Dao absurd and mock it, those of middling disposition hesitate uncertainly, while only those who truly perceive its truth practice it tirelessly. Confucius said, "Was it not Yan Hui who never slackened upon hearing the Dao?"—referring precisely to those of superior capacity.

The ancient sages expressed it thus (as Laozi quotes the old saying): The truly luminous Dao appears dim (for it does not strive to shine); the advancing Dao seems to retreat (for it does not contend with others).

This scripture primarily elucidates the manifestation and operational principles of the Dao (the Way), employing a series of seemingly paradoxical yet profound metaphors to illustrate its nature.

The swiftest movement appears motionless. The smoothest path seems rugged, yet whether smooth or rough, all ultimately return to evenness. The most virtuous De (Virtue/Power) resembles a valley—hollow and receptive, for true virtue never consciously displays itself.

The purest white appears sullied, as genuine sages don't deliberately maintain spotlessness by rejecting worldly engagement. The greatest virtue seems insufficient, having reached its limit where nothing more can be added. Establishing virtue appears lazy, yet this is actually following nature without forcing. Simple, unadorned essence seems changeable while remaining fundamentally constant.

The most square objects paradoxically lack corners. The grandest vessels take the longest to complete. The loudest sounds approach inaudibility, and the greatest forms transcend concrete shapes. The Dao remains hidden and nameless, yet excels in giving and perfecting all things. These twelve phenomena demonstrate the Dao's manifestation in concrete reality.

Chapter Forty-Two describes the Dao's generative process: The Dao gives birth to One, One produces Two, Two generates Three, and Three creates all things. All beings carry Yin on their backs while embracing Yang, with these two Qi (vital energy) forces blending into harmony. The Dao is neither One nor Two—when contrasted with all things, we may call it "One," yet it transcends numerical quantification. From One to Two to Three, then to myriad things—though all phenomena differ, each follows the principle of Yin-Yang harmony.

People despise terms like "orphaned," "widowed," and "destitute," yet rulers adopt them as self-titles. The world fails to comprehend the principle of universal generation, always disparaging the few while valuing the many. The ancients who attained understanding had already grasped this truth.

What seems like loss may bring gain, and what appears as gain may turn out to be loss. The principles people teach, I too use to instruct others. Those who act with brute force often meet untimely ends—this truth I take as the foundation of my teaching.

The world often mistakes gentleness for weakness and aggression for advantage, but this is fundamentally wrong. I would have all teachers impart this lesson: Have you not seen how the violent perish prematurely? Brute force is the extreme manifestation of arrogance. When people understand that aggression leads inevitably to death, they will realize that arrogance is unsustainable. Only when they grasp this can they begin to speak of the Dao (the Way). Therefore, I take this as the root of instruction.

The softest things in the world can master the hardest. "Nothingness" can penetrate where there are no gaps. From this, I understand the benefits of Wuwei (non-action). When hardness meets hardness, one must break or shatter; but when softness meets hardness, neither is harmed. Water is a perfect example. When "being" enters "being," they resist each other; but when "nothingness" enters "being," there is no effort, and "being" remains undisturbed. Spirits and ghosts operate this way. Thus, it is precisely because the sage practices Wuwei that he can command mighty forces and move freely through all existence. The teaching without words, the benefit of non-action—few in the world attain this.

Which is more precious: fame or life? Which is more important: life or wealth? To put life before fame and value life over wealth is not yet true self-forgetfulness. One who truly forgets the self does not cling even to the self—how much less to fame and wealth? Yet only one who has reached true self-forgetfulness can govern the world with such reverence for life. Therefore, the world must first understand that fame is not worth pursuing and wealth is not worth hoarding before they can learn to cherish life. Only when they cherish life can they truly forget the self. This is Laozi’s original intent.

Which brings greater suffering: gain or loss? Before gaining, loss seems painful, but after gaining, the fear of losing is even worse. Only when one regards possession and loss as equal can suffering cease.

Excessive frugality leads to great waste; excessive hoarding invites heavy loss. When love becomes too deep, one will stop at nothing to obtain—how can this not be wasteful? When too much is stored, many will come to seize—how can this not bring loss? Knowing contentment prevents disgrace; knowing when to stop avoids danger. Only then can one endure.

The most perfect thing may appear flawed, yet its function never diminishes; the fullest vessel may seem empty, yet its use is inexhaustible. Ordinary people believe flawlessness constitutes perfection, yet their pursuit of it brings harm; they consider fullness as true abundance, yet their striving for it creates limitations. The sage seeks genuine perfection without obsessing over superficial flaws, embraces true abundance while accepting apparent emptiness—thus attaining perfection that never wanes and fullness that never runs dry.

The straightest path may appear winding, the most skillful action may seem clumsy, the most eloquent speech may sound halting. Unyielding rigidity without flexibility leads to breaking; following the natural course, what seems crooked is truly straight. Flaunting cleverness without embracing simplicity brings exhaustion; acting in accordance with nature, what seems awkward is truly skillful. Insisting on argument without silence results in losing one's point; speaking in alignment with truth, what seems hesitant is truly profound.

Restlessness can ward off cold but not dispel heat; stillness can overcome heat but not banish cold—both are extremes. Only by maintaining serene detachment, transcending the opposites of perfection and flaw, fullness and emptiness, straightness and bending, skill and clumsiness, eloquence and reticence, can one move unimpeded and become the standard for all under heaven.

When the world is at peace, warhorses retire to plow the fields—because all abide in their proper roles, and governance arises naturally without contention. When the world is in chaos, even pregnant mares are sent to battle. The greatest crime is inciting others' desires; the greatest calamity is insatiability; the gravest fault is endless greed. Ordinary people invite misfortune by indulging in any one of these; rulers who do so bring about war. Thus, those who understand contentment are forever satisfied.

Without stepping outside, one can know the world; without peering through the window, one can perceive the Dao (the Way). The farther one travels, the less one truly understands—because human nature pervades the cosmos, without distinction of distance or time.

The true sage knows all under heaven without stepping out the door because they fully preserve their original nature. Ordinary people, however, have their perception obscured by external things and their innate nature fragmented—disturbed internally by mental clutter and blocked externally by sensory distractions. Their understanding cannot transcend what they see, nor can their hearing exceed what they hear. Even something as small as a door or window can obstruct their awareness. People fail to realize that the sage attains sufficiency by returning to their original nature, and instead seek outwardly, only to find that the farther they go, the less they gain.

Thus, the sage knows without traveling, understands without seeing, and accomplishes without deliberate action. The power of original nature not only enables the recognition and naming of things but also aligns effortlessly with the natural patterns of all things, achieving goals without strain.

Regarding the path of learning: The pursuit of knowledge may seem to increase daily, but without grasping the fundamental principle, it merely accumulates information without true integration—this does not qualify as genuine scholarship. Confucius said, "Hear much and select what is good to follow; see much and remember—this is a secondary form of knowledge."

The path of cultivation is the opposite: Once one awakens to the Dao, they realize the illusory nature of all things, discard false thoughts, and return to original nature, which in truth requires no addition. Confucius asked Zigong, "Do you think I am one who learns much and remembers it all?" Zigong replied, "Yes, is it not so?" Confucius said, "No, I thread all things together with a single principle."

Continually reduce false thoughts until reaching the state of wuwei (non-action), where nothing is done yet all is accomplished. Eliminating delusions to return to original nature may be called "reduction," but if one still clings to the notion of "eliminating delusions," it is not yet complete. Only when even this thought is forgotten, and one fully returns to pure original nature, can they act without acting, remaining always in wuwei.

To govern the world, follow its natural course. Deliberate action makes one unworthy of holding it. People often harbor ambitions to seize the world, creating artificial affairs to pursue it. Such intentions, when exposed, provoke aversion in all things and ultimately lead to failure. The sage practices wuwei and thus has no affairs; their mind flows naturally, and all things settle peacefully. Without striving, the world naturally aligns with them.

The sage has no fixed mind but takes the minds of the people as their own. To the good, I am good; to the not-good, I am also good—this is true goodness. To the trustworthy, I am trustworthy; to the untrustworthy, I am also trustworthy—this is true trustworthiness.

Emptiness has no fixed form—it adapts to the shapes of all things, appearing square within square objects and round within round ones. If emptiness itself possessed a fixed form, how could it accommodate the myriad variations of existence?

Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) harbors no selfish mind, instead taking the hearts of the common people as his own. He treats all equally without distinguishing between the virtuous and non-virtuous, and extends equal trust to both the trustworthy and untrustworthy. Whether others are virtuous is their own affair—the sage's unwavering attitude of kindness never changes, embodying true "De-shan" (supreme virtuous goodness). Whether others are trustworthy is their own concern—the sage's constant attitude of trust never wavers, manifesting genuine "De-xin" (ultimate sincere trust). To only cherish the virtuous while discarding the non-virtuous, or to trust solely the trustworthy while rejecting others—how could this be considered the state of "eternally excelling at saving people, therefore abandoning none"?

When governing the world, the sage acts with reverent caution, returning all people's minds to simplicity. The common people focus intently on observing the sage's words and deeds, while the sage nurtures everyone as if tending to infants. The world's standards of good/evil and true/false vary endlessly, with people negating and attacking one another, unable to find stability. Troubled by this, the sage carefully guides all hearts back to a state of primordial chaos—making no distinctions between good and evil, truth and falsehood, treating all with equal regard. When people fixate on how the sage rewards or punishes, he consistently responds with the pure attitude of caring for an infant: neither overjoyed by good deeds nor excessively angered by wickedness. Thus, the virtuous grow no prouder, the wicked bear no resentment, and all are naturally transformed—only then can the world find peace.

Regarding "emerging into life and entering death": Original nature knows neither birth nor death—what manifests is called life, what withdraws is called death. Those belonging to life's domain constitute three-tenths; those in death's domain another three-tenths; while three-tenths more perish prematurely through human activity. Those who properly use external things to nourish Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) to prolong life belong to the living category; those who indulge in sensory pleasures and self-harm belong to the dying category. These two groups already illustrate the Dao of life and death. Yet most people only know labor without rest, speech without silence, thought without forgetting—thereby hastening their own dissolution. This is what's meant by "walking oneself toward the land of death." Using tenths to represent life-death principles: life, death, and self-destruction each claim three parts, leaving one-tenth as the deathless, birthless eternal state—akin to the Yijing's description of "absolute stillness." Laozi only discusses the nine parts of phenomena, leaving that one part of truth for personal realization, thereby conveying the profound mystery of wuwei (non-action) and thoughtless stillness.

Why does excessive pursuit of health cultivation lead to death instead? Because where there is life, death inevitably follows. Those overly obsessed with preserving life will, in eight or nine cases out of ten, hasten their demise. Those who truly understand the Dao of nurturing life walk on land without encountering rhinos or tigers, and enter battlefields without being harmed by weapons. Rhinos find no place to gore them, tigers no spot to claw, and weapons no way to wound them. Why is this so? Because they never place themselves in dangerous situations in the first place.

Those who have attained the Dao (zhiren, the perfected ones) transcend concepts of life and death. Without even the slightest attachment to "life," how could they ever fall into the "realm of death"?

Chapter 51 describes the process by which the Dao gives rise to all things: The Dao generates them, De (Virtue/Power) nurtures them, matter forms their bodies, and circumstances shape their development. The Dao is the source of all things, while De silently nourishes them like a shepherd tending his flock. Yet the Dao and De themselves have no concrete form—they manifest only through the myriad beings. Similarly, nothing can exist in isolation; all things rely on distant and near interactions, the balance of hard and soft, and the interplay of forces that govern rise and fall, order and chaos.

Thus, all things honor the Dao and cherish De. Though their forms are shaped by matter and their development influenced by circumstances, without the Dao they would never come into being, and without De they could not endure. This reverence is akin to how one respects fathers, elder brothers, or rulers—yet the Dao holds no titles, while De has tangible expression. True nobility requires no titles or coronations; it arises naturally.

The Dao generates all things, nourishes them, helps them grow, brings them to maturity, and shelters them. It creates without claiming possession, acts without taking credit, guides without asserting control—this is the profoundest expression of De.

Chapter 52 states that all things between heaven and earth have a single origin, and this origin is the Dao. When the Dao remains nameless, it is the beginning of all things; when it manifests as the named, it becomes the mother that nurtures them. The sage comprehends the myriad things by embodying the Dao, just as one understands children by knowing their mother. Though the sage's wisdom penetrates all things, they never lose themselves in particulars and forget the root. Thus, they remain free from peril throughout their lives.

This scripture primarily explains how to maintain inner clarity and strength by controlling sensory desires.

If a person blocks the apertures of desire (referring to the senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch) and closes the gates of craving, they will remain free from suffering throughout their life. But if they open these channels of desire and indulge in external things, they will struggle to find salvation all their days. Everyone in the world understands this principle, yet they often forget the great Dao (the Way) and chase after material things—eyes craving beauty, ears craving sweet sounds. Indulging these greedy desires ultimately traps them in inescapable depths. The reason sages remain free from suffering their entire lives is because they know how to shut the gates of desire and never indulge themselves.

Being able to detect subtle desires is true wisdom. The harm of greed begins small but gradually expands. Foreseeing how small desires can lead to great calamities and stopping them in time—this is what real wisdom means.

Remaining soft and yielding is true strength. Those who chase desires without regard for consequences may think themselves strong, but they are not. Only those who recognize temptation and know fear can be called truly strong.

Using the inner light (referring to human awareness) to return to the clarity of one’s original nature, leaving no room for misfortune—this is following the constant Dao. Ordinary people indulge their desires, using their bodies to pursue external things, never turning back. Sages close the gates of desire not to cut themselves off from the world, but to engage with all things through the spirit (Shen), using only awareness without letting the body become enslaved. The ears can hear, the eyes can see, the nose can smell, the mouth can taste, the body can touch, and the mind can think—these are what we call "light." Awareness interacts with all things; things come and go, but awareness itself remains unharmed. Thus, one can respond to infinite changes without exhaustion, and misfortune will never reach them. In this way, one’s nature remains clear and is passed down unbroken through generations.

Chapter 53 states: If I were to possess even slight knowledge and walk the great Dao, my greatest fear would be deliberate action. Those who truly embody the Dao are without knowledge or awareness, acting without acting (Wuwei) while all things transform naturally. But if one walks the Dao with even a little knowledge, deliberate action becomes a violation of nature—and that is truly terrifying.

The great Dao is inherently smooth and even, yet people always prefer shortcuts. The Dao is simple and free of obstacles, but those who do not understand it consider it slow and circuitous, always seeking quicker paths. Therefore, those who abandon the natural Dao in favor of deliberate action are merely impatient for results.

The court is corrupt, the fields lie barren, the granaries stand empty—yet they wear fine robes, carry sharp swords, feast daily, and hoard more wealth than they could ever spend. This is the behavior of a robber chief, not the true Dao! The people of the world all seem sharp-witted, while I alone appear dull; the people of the world are all calculating, while I alone seem muddled.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners should cultivate their bodies and nurture their nature, as well as the accumulation and expansion of De (Virtue). Laozi employs vivid metaphors to convey profound truths.

Those truly skilled at establishing cannot have their establishments uprooted; those adept at embracing cannot have their holdings slip away. Like the De of sages—though appearing to establish nothing deliberately—it reaches an unshakable state; seeming to grasp at nothing, yet achieving what cannot be lost. Thus their descendants maintain uninterrupted ancestral worship across generations.

Cultivating De must begin with oneself, then gradually extend to family, community, nation, and ultimately the world. The De cultivated in self-cultivation is most authentic; in family cultivation, it becomes abundant; in community cultivation, it endures; in national cultivation, it grows richer; in universal cultivation, it becomes all-pervasive. By observing oneself, one understands others; by observing one's family, one comprehends other families; by observing one's community, one knows other communities; by observing one's nation, one discerns other nations. This is the sage's method for understanding the world.

Laozi often uses infants as metaphors for the highest state of moral cultivation. Infants embody purity without desire, free from cunning intentions—thus venomous insects don't sting them, fierce beasts don't seize them, and birds of prey don't strike them. This is because infants completely follow nature's flow, harboring no opposing thoughts toward the external world. The Dao itself has no form, therefore it cannot be harmed. Human suffering arises from discriminating minds that create opposition, thereby inviting harm.

This passage emphasizes that Dao cultivation requires returning to primal simplicity—eliminating cunning intellect and maintaining an infant's pure, natural state. Through this inward-to-outward, near-to-far approach to cultivation, one ultimately attains the state where De permeates the entire world.

This describes the highest state of being—like an infant, completely guileless. An infant achieves this precisely because it is utterly without calculation. Though its bones are weak and muscles soft, it can clench its fists tightly; though unaware of sexual union, it can naturally become aroused—both manifestations of abundant vital essence (Jing). Without conscious effort it can grasp firmly, without desire it responds naturally, demonstrating this is the work of abundant essence rather than scheming.

An infant may cry all day without becoming hoarse—this reveals perfect harmony. When the heart-mind stirs, it injures Qi (vital energy), and injured Qi causes hoarseness. Crying all day without hoarseness shows the heart-mind remains unmoved while Qi flows peacefully. To understand harmony is to grasp the eternal principle. Harmony means not allowing external things to damage the inner being; returning to one's original nature is constancy; encountering things yet returning to the source. Recognizing harmony as constancy allows one to grasp the root in dealing with all phenomena—it's ultimately the same principle, hence called "the Constant."

Forced cultivation of life ironically brings misfortune. Life cannot be willfully extended—attempting to forcibly increase it deviates from the Dao. What appears auspicious ("xiang") may actually be ominous. Using willpower to forcibly drive Qi is called "straining." Qi most abhors chaotic movement, and imposing willful control makes it violently unruly. When things reach their peak, they decline—this is contrary to the Dao, and being contrary leads to premature demise. Forced life cultivation and willful Qi manipulation, being unnatural, gradually lead to rigidity, followed by decline, losing the infant's pure original nature.

Those who truly understand the Dao don't indulge in empty talk, while those who talk much often don't truly understand. Block the sensory openings, shut desire's gates, blunt sharp edges, untangle knots, soften glare, and merge with the dust—this is called "Mysterious Unity" (Xuantong). The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, yet isn't separate from them. Those who truly comprehend may not speak; speakers may not truly comprehend. Only by blocking senses, closing desire's gates to sever external disturbances; blunting edges, resolving conflicts, harmonizing radiance, merging with dust—cultivating inner being—can one silently unite with the Dao.

Thus one can neither become overly intimate with such a person nor keep them at distance; neither benefit nor harm them; neither honor nor demean them. Therefore they are revered by all under heaven. If one can be intimate, they can be distant; if they can gain benefit, they can suffer harm; if they can be elevated, they can be debased. Those embodying the Dao regard all things equally—what room for intimacy or distance? Viewing fortune and misfortune alike—what distinction between benefit and harm? Unaware of honor or disgrace—what meaning has status? These transcend ordinary understanding.

What is valued under heaven is governing the state with uprightness. In Chapter 57 it is said: "Govern the state with uprightness, wage war with surprise tactics, but win the world through wuwei (non-action)." The ancient sages maintained gentleness toward both distant and nearby states, avoiding military force unless absolutely necessary. Thus governance requires uprightness while warfare demands surprise tactics. Yet even these are insufficient to truly attain the world. The world is sacred - it cannot be seized by force, for forceful attempts lead to failure, and grasping leads to loss. Only those who truly comprehend the Dao, with expansive minds free from contrived action, though making no deliberate effort to win the world, will find the world naturally turning to them.

Why is this so? When there are too many prohibitions under heaven, the people grow increasingly impoverished. When rulers establish excessive restrictions, truthful conditions cannot reach above, leaving people poor with nowhere to voice grievances. When the populace masters too many cunning methods, the state falls into chaos. A wise ruler should keep the people simple and guileless. If people all employ clever stratagems, the ruler becomes confused and foolish. When people pursue exotic skills and sensual pleasures, all manner of strange things proliferate. When people neglect their proper work to chase unorthodox paths, they produce many useless objects. The more numerous and detailed the laws become, the more thieves and bandits multiply. Fearing deception, rulers create more laws to prevent it, until the people become paralyzed and ultimately turn to banditry.

The sage says: "Through my wuwei (non-action), the people transform themselves; through my love of stillness, they become upright; through my avoidance of disturbances, they prosper naturally; through my freedom from desires, they remain simple."

Chapter 58 states: "When governance is lenient, the people are simple; when governance is harsh, the people become cunning." Misfortune conceals blessings, while blessings harbor misfortune - who can comprehend their ultimate principles? In truth there are no absolute standards of uprightness or wickedness - the upright may become strange, the good may turn evil, and the people's confusion about this has lasted long indeed. Though heaven and earth are vast, worldly views often remain bewildered and uncomprehending. Blessings lean against misfortune, while misfortune lurks within blessings, like the alternation of day and night or the cycle of cold and heat. Uprightness becoming strange and good turning evil resemble the succession of old and young or the wheel of life and death - there has never been a fixed, unchanging proper way, only confused people who fail to understand. Only sages can transcend superficial appearances to see things from beginning to end, grasping the whole while overlooking details. Though governance may appear muddled, the people retain their simple nature. Ordinary people fail to comprehend the wholeness of the Dao.

People often take what their eyes see and ears hear as the complete truth, believing they have attained blessings, unaware that calamity lurks behind. They think they've done good deeds, not realizing they've already sown seeds of misfortune. Clinging to trivial observations to display cleverness, their excessive scrutiny ends up harming the very things they examine, yet they never recognize their error—is this not lamentable?

Therefore, the sage is square-edged yet does not wound, upright yet not harsh, straightforward yet not reckless, bright yet not glaring. They understand that petty cleverness cannot exhaust the totality of things. Thus, though possessing the capacities for squareness, uprightness, straightforwardness, and brightness, they never abuse these abilities, fearing to fall into obstinacy with no way back. This is the realm that appears muddled to the worldly yet is truly profound.

In governing the people and serving heaven, there is no better method than "restraint" (frugality and moderation). Only through restraint can one return early to the Dao (the Way). Returning early to the Dao is called accumulating abundant De (Virtue/Power). Abundant De leads to invincibility, and invincibility means no one can fathom one's limits. Reaching this state enables one to govern a nation. Mastering the root of governance ensures lasting peace.

Ordinary things become harmful when too square, harsh when too upright, reckless when too straightforward, and glaring when too bright. Only the sage can be square without wounding, upright without harshness, straightforward without recklessness, and bright without glaring. This is the true meaning of restraint. Restraint means having ability yet not abusing it. The world often suffers from inability to inspire trust, but if one truly has capability coupled with restraint, even without contending for victory, others will recognize one's competence, and trust will naturally come early. Once trust is gained, one deeply conceals one's abilities, never lightly revealing them throughout life, thus continuously accumulating De. When De accumulates profoundly, even the strongest things in the world can be overcome, and others cannot fathom one's depths. Only after reaching this state can one govern a nation. Petty people in the world, grasping a little power, use it rashly. When they fail to command respect, the world sees through them and vies to challenge them, making it impossible to preserve the state. Thus, I understand restraint as the way to govern. Being able to govern means grasping the root of the nation.

This is the eternal Dao (the Way) of deep roots and firm foundations, of long life and enduring vision. Mencius said, "Fully develop one's heart-mind and nurture one's nature to serve heaven." Using restraint to govern the people preserves the state; using restraint to serve heaven establishes deep roots. This is how the ancient sages maintained the Dao of life and nature.

This scripture expounds two fundamental principles: the essential laws of self-cultivation and the wisdom of governing a state.

Regarding self-cultivation, the text emphasizes the key principle of "not depleting the internal with the external"—never allowing external matters to consume one's inner Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). Just as a deeply rooted tree cannot be uprooted, or a firmly attached fruit stem won't let its fruit fall, adhering to this principle enables one to achieve "long-lasting survival and observation" (eternal life and profound insight). Whether nurturing oneself (governing people) or aligning with the Dao of heaven (serving nature), though the domains differ, the fundamental law remains "restraint" (frugality and moderation).

In state governance, the text employs the metaphor of "cooking small fish": one shouldn't stir them constantly, just as governing a large state shouldn't involve excessive interference. Frequent stirring breaks the fish, just as burdensome decrees exhaust the people. The sage (an enlightened ruler) practices Wuwei (non-action) governance, allowing people to live naturally—free from external demands and inner fears, making them impervious even to supernatural disturbances.

The text clarifies: it's not that spirits lose their power (become "un-divine"), but that they cease to harm people; not only do spirits refrain from harming, but the sage never harms the people either. This state of mutual non-harm between humans and spirits stems from the sage's virtuous influence (De), causing all merits to ultimately converge upon them.

Chapter 61 illustrates how great nations should emulate the humility of river valleys lying low. All things under heaven naturally gravitate toward great nations, just as countless streams flow downward to lower ground. When all beings interact, the feminine (the receptive) often overcomes the masculine (the active) through stillness, for tranquility embodies humble yielding. All moving things tend toward stillness, just as water inevitably flows from high places to low.

Thus when a great nation humbles itself before smaller states, it gains their allegiance; when smaller states adopt humility before greater powers, they secure protection. The great nation wins hearts through humility, while smaller states find shelter through deference. The great nation seeks only to guide others, while smaller states merely wish to rely on strength—both achieve their aims. Hence the great nation should maintain this humble stance all the more.

Chapter 62 reveals the Dao as the profoundest essence of all existence. The Dao is the treasure of the virtuous and the refuge of the unvirtuous. Noble words earn worldly respect, while good deeds influence others. How then can we abandon even the unvirtuous?

All visible phenomena resemble a house's front courtyard, while the Dao is its innermost chamber. The Dao permeates all things, though people cannot see it. Only sages truly possess it—thus it is called the virtuous person's treasure. Though fools cannot fully grasp it, without the Dao they find no peace—hence it remains the unvirtuous person's safeguard. The Dao never abandons humanity; humans abandon the Dao. Those who speak noble words gain honor in the world; those who act nobly inspire others. Even if one committed wrong at dawn, by nightfall hearing the Great Dao could purify delusions and restore original nature—leaving no trace of misconduct to condemn. How then could we cast such a person aside?

Therefore when establishing emperors and appointing the Three Dukes (highest ancient ministers), the original intent was to use the Dao to save the world. Presenting precious jade disks and teams of fine horses cannot compare to offering this Dao. Did the ancients value it not because through it one could both obtain needs and be absolved of faults? Thus the Dao is revered by all under heaven as the most precious treasure.

The foundation of the Dao lies within ourselves—the problem is that people fail to actively seek it. With sincere seeking, one can comprehend the great Dao. The Dao itself holds no merit or fault; human error stems from failing to understand this truth. Once truly understood, no transgression can taint the pure innate nature.

Chapter 63 on Wuwei (Non-Action) states: Act through non-action, handle affairs through non-interference, and savor through flavorlessness. Whether matters are great or small, many or few, resolve resentment through De (Virtue). The sage appears to do nothing yet accomplishes everything; seems unattached to affairs yet handles them perfectly; appears indifferent yet perceives the true essence of all things. Approach all matters, big or small, through the principles of the Dao. What worldly people find hardest to relinquish is resentment, but when one transcends the duality of love and hatred, even repaying grievances becomes as natural as repaying kindness.

Approach difficulties from their easiest points; accomplish great tasks by starting with the subtle. All under heaven’s difficult matters begin with simplicity; great undertakings accumulate from details. Thus, the sage never seeks grandeur, yet achieves great things. Rash promises often lead to broken trust; treating matters as too easy invites greater difficulty. The sage always treats challenges with gravity, and thus ultimately encounters nothing truly insurmountable.

Worldly people often fear great tasks while belittling small ones, dread difficulties while coveting ease. Only when matters grow difficult do they seek solutions; only when situations escalate do they act—often too late for success. The sage regards all tasks equally, attending to each detail with care, and thus nothing remains unachievable.

Chapter 64, Stability is Easily Maintained, observes: A stable situation is easily preserved; signs unseen are easily planned for; fragile things are easily resolved; subtle issues are easily dispersed. Prepare before problems arise; govern before chaos emerges.

When issues are yet unformed, slight prevention and planning suffice; when they are about to manifest, timely resolution is needed. Though not as ideal as preemptive prevention, this is still better than waiting until full-blown crisis. Thus, the highest wisdom lies in preventing problems before they appear; the next best is addressing chaos at its inception.

A giant tree grows from a tender sprout; a nine-tiered tower rises basket by basket of earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. Forcing leads to failure; clinging brings loss. Therefore, the sage follows nature without coercion, and thus does not fail; remains unattached to fixed views, and thus does not lose.

All order and chaos, fortune and misfortune in the world follow this pattern—small accumulations becoming great. The sage maintains through non-action and guards through non-attachment, allowing blessings to flourish naturally and misfortunes to fade of their own accord. Like farming: till deeply and tend carefully, and autumn brings harvest. Like encountering thieves: remain calm, and they will retreat. Worldly people fail to grasp the natural unfolding of all things, believing that without deliberate effort, nothing can be achieved.

This scripture primarily discusses how sages govern and conduct themselves by following the natural Dao (the Way), contrasting with ordinary people who cling to gains, losses, and cleverness.

Disasters become irreparable, and blessings fail to manifest precisely because people insist on forcing and contending. Ordinary individuals often fail when their endeavors are nearly accomplished; had they treated the conclusion with the same caution as the beginning, nothing would be lost. The sage understands the harm of human interference and refrains from forcibly altering natural laws with human effort, always aligning with the inherent nature of things—thus, nothing they undertake fails. Ordinary people obsess over gains and losses: indifferent at the initial stages, yet fearful of loss when nearing success—such an approach inevitably leads to failure.

What the sage seeks is what others neglect (the great Dao), valuing no rare treasures; what they learn is what others ignore (returning to simplicity), rectifying the faults of the multitude, thereby assisting all things in their natural development without reckless action. Ordinary people indulge desires, harming all beings, and cling to personal views, defying heavenly principles. The sage is not without desires but transcends them; not without learning but surpasses the limitations of knowledge. Only thus can the mind become lucid, attaining the state of Wuwei (non-action), and aiding all things in their natural growth.

The ancients skilled in practicing the Dao did not teach the people to become clever but kept them simple and genuine. The wisdom spoken of by the ancients was the great wisdom of comprehending the Dao and discerning the origins and ends of all things. Ordinary people lack this wisdom, lost in petty cleverness, mistaking scrutiny for insight—such "cunning" brings many harms. Thus, the sage governs the people with the Dao, not making them clever but preserving their simplicity, keeping them free of knowledge and desire, obedient to the guidance of those above. Even if faults arise, they remain minor.

The people are difficult to govern because they possess too much cunning. Governing with cunning is a nation's calamity—if I use cunning to control others, they respond with cunning in turn, and ruler and subject scheme against each other, inflicting mutual harm. Governing without cunning is a nation's blessing. Understanding the distinction between these two approaches means grasping the principle; mastering this principle is called "profound De (Virtue/Power)." Profound De is deep and far-reaching, contrary to worldly pursuits, yet ultimately achieves the greatest harmony.

What I treasure is De (Virtue/Power), while the world values cunning. De and cunning are fundamentally opposed: cunning brings minor benefits, but De ultimately achieves great harmony (union with the Dao).

The reason rivers and seas can become the gathering place of all streams is because they excel at staying in low positions. Similarly, if a sage wishes to stand above the people, they must be humble in speech; if they wish to lead the people, they must place themselves behind them.

Sages do not deliberately seek superiority or rush ahead. Precisely because they understand humility and yielding, they naturally attain elevated status. Thus when they occupy high positions, people don't feel burdened; when they stand at the forefront, people don't resent them. The world gladly esteems them without growing weary, and because they don't contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them.

All under heaven say the Dao is so vast that it seems unlike anything. Precisely because of its vastness, it appears unlike any particular thing. If it resembled something specific, it would long since have seemed insignificant.

The Dao (cosmic origin) is boundless without fixed form, chaotic and nameless yet fills all things. Not resembling any particular object is precisely why it is great. If it resembled something specific, it would just be an ordinary thing—how could it be called great?

I hold three treasures that I always cherish: first is compassion, second is frugality, and third is daring not to put myself ahead of others.

The Dao is great precisely because it resembles nothing. Thus the De (virtue/power) it manifests in operation appears dull and clumsy—taking bluntness as sharpness, retreat as advance, contrary to worldly views. Nowadays the world values boldness and strength, pursues extravagance and luxury, boasts of aggressive advancement, while what I treasure is kind forbearance, frugal simplicity, and humble yielding—three qualities the world considers "unseemly."

Precisely through compassion, one attains true courage. The world thinks decisive determination shows worthiness, believing kind forbearance can't accomplish anything. Yet they don't realize decisiveness is easily thwarted, while compassionate endurance ultimately has no match, eventually revealing true bravery.

Precisely through frugality, one attains true abundance. The world thinks lavishness can embrace all things, considering frugality meager. Yet they don't realize extravagance is easily exhausted, while frugality brings contentment, eventually gaining true fulfillment.

Precisely by daring not to put oneself ahead, one becomes the leader of all things. The world thinks aggressive advancement shows capability, considering reluctance to lead shameful. Yet they don't realize aggression invites resentment, while not contending for precedence earns universal esteem, eventually becoming true leadership. The original simple Dao disperses into concrete vessels; sages employing these vessels become administrators. Since the simple Dao formed concrete vessels, relationships of belonging and leadership came into being.

People today discard benevolence yet pursue ferocity, abandon frugality yet crave extravagance, disregard yielding yet rush to be first—such ways only lead to destruction. Ferocity, extravagance, and contentiousness are three behaviors universally despised; those whom the multitudes despise often stand close to death.

With a heart of benevolence, one prevails in battle and stands firm in defense. When Heaven wishes to save a person, it shields them with benevolence. Treat all things with kindness, and they will love you as they do their parents, even willing to sacrifice their lives without hesitation. Thus, benevolence serves both in offense and defense. When Heaven seeks to preserve such a person, it opens their mind, filling them with compassion for all beings. When one is benevolent toward all, all things will in turn protect them.

The skilled warrior does not rely on brute force. Though martial prowess is fundamental, it must be wielded with caution. Those who recklessly flaunt their strength invite ruin. The adept in battle does not act in anger. The sage engages in combat only when compelled, for to fight out of rage is to kill for selfish desire—and those who kill for selfish desire inevitably draw Heaven’s wrath. The master of victory does not contend. Precisely because I do not contend, I prevail over those who do. If both sides strive for dominance, victory is uncertain. Those skilled in employing others remain humble. People naturally vie for supremacy, making cooperation difficult. But with humility, all under Heaven may be enlisted. This is the virtue of non-contention, the wisdom of leadership, the highest accord with the Dao.

A military maxim states: "I dare not take the initiative but prefer to hold my ground." To advance first is to provoke; to respond is to meet the enemy. I dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot. To step forward is to seek conflict; to withdraw is to show no such intent. This is called "acting as though not acting." Without the intent to fight, even wielding force is like wielding nothing. Without a contentious mind, one may stand in an army yet feel no arms to raise, no enemy to oppose, no weapon to grasp—how then could there be any fault in warfare?

No calamity is greater than underestimating the foe. To underestimate invites rashness; rashness leads to careless killing, and thus the loss of benevolence. Therefore, when two armies face each other, victory belongs to the side that holds compassion in its heart.

When two opposing forces contend, if we are compelled to participate in the conflict while maintaining a heart of compassion within, this compassionate mind will manifest outwardly and receive the assistance of the Dao (the Way). Even if we wish not to prevail, it would be impossible.

Laozi said his teachings were easy to understand and practice, yet few in the world truly comprehend or follow them. The foundation of the great Dao lies in returning to one's original nature, and the profundity of this nature is revealed in the ordinary activities of daily life—eating, drinking, and resting. When sages point out this principle to instruct the world, is it not easy to understand? If people could embody this principle in dealing with affairs, would it not be easy to practice? Yet most remain oblivious in their daily lives, failing even to grasp it intellectually, let alone put it into action.

Words have their essence; actions have their root. Speech is merely a tool to capture the Dao, while actions are its traces. If the Dao could be fully expressed through words, listening to others would suffice. If it could be completely manifested through concrete affairs, examining events would be enough. Precisely because words cannot fully convey it and affairs cannot entirely reveal it, we cannot abandon words to seek the essence nor discard actions to find the root. The ancient sages, though thoughtless and actionless, embodied a state of spontaneous unity—a realm beyond the reach of ordinary thought. Thus, in the end, no one truly understands me.

The fewer who understand me, the more precious those who emulate me become. What the masses can comprehend is inherently unworthy of esteem. Therefore, sages appear ordinary in outward form but remain extraordinary in their inner being.

Regarding "knowing and not knowing": Recognizing what one does not know is the highest wisdom; pretending to know what one does not is a flaw. The great Dao cannot be fully grasped through intellectual reasoning, so complete knowledge is impossible. Yet before attaining understanding, one must begin through cognition. Once understanding is reached, clinging to this knowledge becomes an obstruction. Only those who regard such cognitive attachment as a fault will, over time, naturally eliminate it. Sages are free from this fault precisely because they treat cognitive attachment as a defect to be avoided.

Concerning "the people not fearing authority": Human nature inherently possesses dignity—a supreme radiance and majestic awe that nothing in creation can surpass. Yet people often drown in delusions, fearing life and death, gain and loss. Consequently, the imposing forces of myriad phenomena assail them, leaving them in perpetual fear and unrest throughout their lives.

This passage elucidates two realms of Daoist cultivation: the wisdom of transcending attachments, and the principle of harmonizing with the celestial Dao (the Way).

Regarding transcending attachments, it observes that most people remain unaware of their latent potential. Those who attain true awakening perceive the fundamental nature of life, death, gain and loss, thereby manifesting their inherent De (Virtue/Power). One should neither confine the dwelling of their Shen (spirit), nor despise their physical existence. Ordinary people often mistake their physical form for their complete being, limiting their awareness to what the eyes and ears perceive—an exceedingly narrow perspective. The awakened understand the vastness of their true nature, which can ironically foster disdain for the physical body. Yet the sage neither restricts nor rejects, dwelling among ordinary people while abiding in the Dao, transcending distinctions of purity and impurity, ultimately realizing there's nothing in life worthy of aversion.

Concerning harmonious living, it emphasizes that sages possess wisdom yet refrain from flaunting it, value themselves without arrogance—thus avoiding others' envy. Only when one completely relinquishes fear does genuine De manifest. In action, reckless displays of strength often invite misfortune, while cautious restraint preserves life—this being the natural order. Yet worldly people, blinded by wishful thinking, frequently disregard this principle. The celestial Dao's profundity defies comprehension; even sages uphold constancy as the proper path, maintaining prudence toward acts of daring. As Liezi (a Daoist master) said: "Rather than conjecture about heaven's will and calculate gains and losses, simply follow what is natural." The Dao's characteristic is to achieve victory without contention, to inspire response without words.

(Note: The "nine orifices" refer to the eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth and other bodily openings. Liezi was a prominent figure in Daoist tradition.)

Does Heaven need to speak? The four seasons revolve naturally, all things grow of themselves - never has it failed to respond though none make supplication. The mystery of divine manifestation cannot be fathomed, so why should we doubt it? Who truly has the power to summon the spirits? The Dao of Heaven appears unhurried, yet contains profound designs beyond mortal comprehension.

People often observe Heaven's way through limited perspectives, seeing fragments but missing the whole. Witnessing cases where virtue meets misfortune and wickedness finds reward, they suspect Heaven's oversight. Only those who survey the complete cycle and comprehend transformation understand that while Heaven's way is vast and generous, appearing sparse, it leaves nothing unattended.

Regarding why people don't fear death: When governance becomes oppressive with excessive decrees and harsh punishments that leave people no way out, they naturally cease fearing death - at which point threatening them with death becomes useless. But if people can live peacefully and cherish life, then apprehending and executing those who break laws and disrupt order will command universal compliance.

We must remember that true authority over life and death belongs to Heaven's way. In times of orderly governance, those evildoers who recklessly disturb society have already been abandoned by Heaven's mandate. When we execute them, we merely enforce Heaven's judgment. To overstep and kill on Heaven's behalf is like substituting for a carpenter in chopping wood - rarely does one avoid injuring one's own hand. Those not marked for punishment by Heaven's way, if executed by human will, ultimately bring calamity upon the executioners.

People starve because their rulers overtax them; people become ungovernable because their rulers act with forceful interference. When rulers lead people through forceful action (youwei), the people respond in kind, making governance increasingly difficult. The reason people lightly court death is their excessive pursuit of pleasure. When rulers chase profit, the people naturally compete for richer living - even risking death in their insatiable pursuit of gain.

Laozi here expounds several profound layers of wisdom concerning life's philosophy:

Regarding attitudes toward life, he observes that those who don't deliberately pursue longevity often demonstrate greater wisdom than those excessively preoccupied with preserving life. This is because obsessive attachment to health cultivation can lead to neglecting death's essential nature. Only by not forcing longevity can life be naturally preserved.

Using the growth states of humans and plants as metaphors: all living things remain soft and pliant while alive, becoming rigid only after death. Thus hardness belongs to death's domain, while tenderness characterizes living vitality. Just as when vital Qi (chongqi) flows freely within the body, it remains supple; when actions align with the Dao's principles, one avoids being burdened by inflexibility.

Several illustrative examples follow: An army relying solely on brute strength cannot achieve victory, as a righteous force needs no display of might; trees growing excessively tall inevitably face the axe. This reflects nature's law—the subtle and tender often occupy superior positions, while the coarse and strong remain below.

The Dao of Heaven operates like drawing a bow—lowering what's too high, raising what's too low, reducing excess and supplementing deficiency. Yet human society does the opposite, consistently taking from the insufficient to serve the excessive. Only those who have attained the Dao can offer their surplus to the world—the more they give, the more they themselves prosper. Thus sages accomplish deeds without claiming merit, never flaunting their worthiness.

Particular emphasis falls on water's nature: Nothing under heaven is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard. Though everyone understands this principle, few can practice it. Therefore the sage declares: "Only those who can bear a nation's humiliation are fit to be its lords; only those who shoulder a kingdom's misfortunes deserve to be its kings." These truths sound paradoxical because worldly people invariably consider humiliation shameful and view bearing calamities as misfortune.

This passage contains chapters 79 and 80 of the Dao De Jing, addressing the resolution of grievances and the vision of an ideal society.

Regarding the resolution of grievances: Forcing reconciliation for deep-seated enmity may achieve superficial peace, but resentment remains—this cannot be considered true goodness. Resentment arises from delusional thoughts, which in turn stem from a lost original nature. Those who understand their true nature do not fall into delusion and thus harbor no resentment. Today, people fail to address the root cause, focusing only on superficial conflict resolution—hence outward reconciliation masks inner grudges.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) is like holding the left half of a debt contract without demanding repayment. Those with De (Virtue) simply safeguard the agreement, while those without De insist on rigid enforcement. Contracts are split into left and right halves to establish trust and resolve disputes. Sages and ordinary people share the same original nature, but ordinary people mistake delusion for normality, competing in the pursuit of fame and wealth, unaware that their true nature was never lost. The sage demonstrates their own nature to help others eliminate delusion and return to their original state. When delusion is dispelled and nature restored, it is like the two halves of a contract naturally matching—no coercion is needed to convince. Even the greatest enmity will then melt away like ice, revealing resentment as fundamentally illusory. Why force reconciliation? Those without De exhaust themselves trying to persuade everyone individually.

The Dao of heaven treats all equally but favors the virtuous. Heaven shows no partiality—like a contract that belongs to neither side, only harmony brings fulfillment.

Chapter 80 depicts an ideal society: a small state with few people. Laozi lived during the decline of the Zhou dynasty, amidst hollow rituals and extravagance, and proposed governing through Wuwei (non-action) as remedy. Though aware of its impracticality, he concluded his text with this vision as an aspiration.

In such a society: People possess tools but do not use them, content with their roles. Even those with modest talents do not seek prominence ("instruments for ten or a hundred" refers to leadership abilities). Though chariots and boats exist, none ride them; though weapons exist, none display them. People return to the simplicity of knot-tying for record-keeping—affairs are straightforward, customs pure, and knotted cords suffice.

They find their food sweet, their clothes beautiful, their homes peaceful, and their customs joyful. Inner contentment eliminates envy; satisfaction ends greed. Neighboring states are within sight, their roosters and dogs heard clearly, yet the people live and die without visiting one another.

This passage elucidates the core philosophy of Chapter 81 in Laozi's Daode Jing. Truthful words are often not ornate, while flowery rhetoric frequently lacks sincerity. Genuine things emphasize substance over embellishment, whereas beautiful words prioritize appearance over truth.

The virtuous are not skilled in debate, and those fond of argument may lack virtue. Truly wise individuals don't pursue extensive knowledge—grasping the fundamental principle (the "one thread" that runs through all) renders excessive accumulation unnecessary. Those who feverishly chase erudition may instead deviate from the great Dao (the Way).

Sages (those who have attained the Dao) do not hoard personal possessions. The more they assist others, the more abundant they become; the more they give, the richer they grow. This is because sages hold fast only to the fundamental Dao, accumulating nothing else. They employ their abilities to help people and give all they possess. Human resources may deplete, but the Dao is inexhaustible—this reveals the Dao's true value.

Heaven's Dao (natural law) benefits all things without harming them; the sage's Dao acts without contention. Those capable of benefiting others could also harm them; those with power to act could also contend. Yet Heaven and sages can benefit without harming, act without contending—this precisely demonstrates their transcendence of ordinary human nature and their status as the root of all things. These principles constitute the essential message of Laozi's text, summarized again in this final chapter.

The subsequent passage presents the author's personal account: At forty-two, I was exiled to Junzhou. Though a small place, it contained many ancient temples gathering wandering monks from all regions. There was a monk named Daoquan, grandson of Master Nan, whose spiritual cultivation was profound and who enjoyed my company. When we discussed Buddhist and Daoist teachings, I remarked that these principles also existed in Confucian classics. Daoquan expressed surprise, believing Confucianism and Buddhism incompatible. I responded that Zisi, Confucius' grandson, wrote in the Doctrine of the Mean: "Joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure..."

This passage presents Su Zhe's (courtesy name Ziyou) commentary on the Dao De Jing, which synthesizes concepts from Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism. It records his dialogue with the monk Quan, exploring the notions of "centrality" (中) and "harmony" (和).

"The centrality of what is yet unmanifest" refers to the tranquil state before emotions arise, while "manifesting while all hitting the proper measure" describes the harmonious state where emotional expressions are perfectly balanced. This "centrality" constitutes the root of all under heaven, and "harmony" serves as the universal principle that permeates existence. When centrality and harmony are achieved, heaven and earth find their proper positions, and the myriad things grow spontaneously.

Initially, Monk Quan believed this aligned perfectly with Buddhist teachings, citing the Sixth Patriarch Huineng's instruction to "neither think of good nor think of evil," which he equated with the "central way" of "joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure not yet manifest." He interpreted "centrality" as another name for Buddha-nature and "harmony" as the summation of the six perfections (paramitas) and all virtuous practices in Buddhism.

However, Su Zhe pointed out that although the fundamental truth of all under heaven is one, its application must adapt to circumstances. In secular society, rituals and laws are necessary to maintain order—yet those who only understand rituals without grasping the great Dao (道) become mere conventional Confucians. Those who retreat to mountains and forests to cultivate their minds may pursue the ultimate Dao and become teachers for humans and celestials, but applying their methods to govern a country would lead to chaos. A true sage inwardly practices the great Dao while outwardly upholding worldly norms without disruption.

The passage concludes by noting that during his five-year stay in Junzhou, Su Zhe annotated the Laozi, showing each completed chapter to Monk Quan, who invariably exclaimed, "This is all what the Buddha taught!" Revisiting these commentaries two decades later, Su Zhe found none that did not accord with Buddhist teachings. On the tenth day of the twelfth month in the second year of the Daguan era (1108), he appended this recollection to the end of his Commentary on the Laozi.