《道德真經新註》

The first volume of the "New Commentary on the True Scripture of Dao and De" (Daode Zhenjing Xinzhu), annotated by Li Yue, begins by elucidating the essence of the Dao (the Way). The Dao embodies the nature of spontaneity—through its stillness and wuwei (non-action), it gives birth to all things in heaven and earth. Yet, as all things persist over time, they gradually decline. Cultivation, therefore, involves returning to this natural state, which is the true meaning of the Dao.

The ultimate Dao cannot be fully expressed in words (what is "speakable" is not the absolute Dao). It exists in a vague, elusive state. Similarly, its true name cannot be fixed (what is "nameable" is merely the surface of things); we can only reluctantly describe it with terms like "vast" or "far-reaching." Before heaven and earth emerged and before humanity existed, the Dao was already present—who could have forcibly named it then? Only after the formation of all things (the "Three Powers" referring to heaven, earth, and humanity) did the concept of "the mother nurturing all things" arise, and from this, the sages began to teach the world.

Cultivation requires grasping two key principles: maintaining a state of desirelessness allows one to observe the subtle wonders of the Dao (the "mystery"), while engaging with desire enables one to perceive its boundaries (the "manifestations"). These two states share the same origin (both arise from the Dao) but differ in expression—just as all colors placed in darkness appear black (the "profound"). This state of profundity within profundity ("the mystery beyond mystery") is the gateway to all wonders.

People often like to distinguish beauty from ugliness, good from evil. But if the beauty you champion is the same as the masses' (lacking uniqueness), or the goodness you uphold deviates from common sense (divorced from reason), it will instead lead to the opposite outcome. Opposing concepts—such as being and non-being, difficulty and ease, long and short—only arise through mutual dependence (without "difficulty," there would be no "ease"). Thus, the sage does not cling to worldly standards but maintains clarity, stillness, and wuwei (non-action), teaching through personal example rather than words. By allowing all things to operate naturally without interference ("not contending"), the natural order remains unbroken.

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). Laozi posits that truly wise sages never deliberately flaunt their virtue, for when worthiness is excessively praised, people will compete for empty fame. Just as not valuing rare objects prevents theft among the people.

The sage's method of governing follows these principles: maintaining inner emptiness (emptying the mind) to avoid external distractions; nourishing vital Qi (filling the abdomen); restraining personal ambitions (weakening the will); and preserving physical vigor (strengthening the bones). Thus people return to their original simplicity, and the cunning dare not act recklessly.

The Dao itself is empty (Dao chong), yet inexhaustible. Profound beyond measure (deep indeed), it resembles the origin of all things. The sage emulates Dao's characteristics: blunting sharp edges (dulling sharpness), resolving conflicts (untying knots), harmonizing brilliance (softening glare), and blending with worldly dust (mixing with the common). The Dao seems to exist yet remains elusive (indistinct, it appears to exist), predating even the Creator (older than the Supreme Deity).

Heaven and Earth show no partiality (the universe is unkind), treating all beings like straw dogs (taking all things as sacrificial straw dogs). Sages emulate this cosmic impartiality (the sage is unkind), allowing people to develop naturally. Here "straw dogs" refer to ritual effigies discarded after ceremonies, symbolizing nature's equal treatment of all existence.

The entire passage emphasizes a natural, non-interfering approach: claiming no merit, seeking no recognition, imposing no will—letting all things follow their inherent patterns.

This scripture expounds the Daoist concept of "emptiness, stillness, and wuwei (non-action)," using vivid metaphors to illustrate the operation of the Dao (the Way).

It begins with the analogy of "straw dogs" (ritual grass effigies used in ancient sacrifices) and common people. Rulers should treat the people like straw dogs—without personal attachment—so the people won't feel the oppression of power. Heaven and earth resemble a giant bellows (tuoyue): only by remaining hollow can they continuously pump air. They're also like musical instruments that produce sound precisely because of their emptiness. By maintaining this void, they never exhaust themselves. Similarly, people who talk too much quickly run out of words, whereas maintaining inner emptiness and stillness proves more fruitful.

The phrase "the valley spirit never dies" describes how valleys generate echoes through their emptiness. If humans can preserve this open, valley-like mindset, they can perceive all things with spiritual sensitivity like the shen (spirit). This principle mirrors the mysterious feminine gate (xuanpin)—deep and silent yet capable of giving birth. Human breathing (inhaling and exhaling primordial qi) follows the same pattern, forming the foundation of yin-yang transformation. Mastering this gateway means discovering the very root of heaven and earth.

Though the Dao appears faint, as if barely existing (mianmian ruocun), its function never diminishes (yong zhi buqin). Those who comprehend this principle can preserve their innate nature, maintain vigorous shen (spirit), and attain longevity. This passage subtly references breath cultivation practices.

Heaven and earth endure because they don't strive for growth. Sages emulate this by putting themselves last yet ending up ahead (hou qi shen er shen xian), and by not clinging to self-preservation yet achieving it (wai qi shen er shen cun). This isn't because they lack self-interest, but because they've transformed personal desire into public-minded service. Consequently, while others' wishes may go unfulfilled, the sages' own aspirations are realized.

The highest good is like water. The perfectly virtuous emulate the qualities of water, which nourishes all things without contention, naturally flowing to the lowest places. Water peacefully dwells in the lowly places that people despise (referring to willingly occupying humble positions), where all the filth of the world gathers and people avoid—yet water remains undisturbed. Thus, the nature of water is closest to the Dao ("Dao" referring to the natural law and the source of the universe).

The characteristics of water manifest in seven aspects: choosing suitable places to dwell (skilled at selecting its abode), maintaining a deep and serene heart like an abyss (skilled at preserving clarity of mind), giving with benevolence (skilled at treating others with kindness), speaking with unwavering sincerity (skilled at keeping promises), governing with tranquility and non-action (skilled at administration), acting according to one's strengths (skilled at utilizing abilities), and moving in harmony with the right timing (skilled at following the natural course). Precisely because it does not contend with others, it remains free from blame. The perfectly virtuous, emulating the nature of water, thus also abide in a state without fault.

Insistently pursuing fullness is not as good as knowing when to stop. It is like carrying a vessel filled to the brim—rarely can one maintain balance without spilling. It is better to stop at the right time. Repeatedly sharpening a blade to excessive keenness makes it difficult to maintain its edge for long (a metaphor for how excessive pursuit of brilliance invites ruin). Filling halls with gold and jewels ultimately cannot be preserved (meaning excessive accumulation of wealth invites misfortune). To be wealthy and noble yet arrogant is to invite calamity upon oneself (the higher one's status, the more one must guard against the dangers of pride). Withdrawing at the height of achievement aligns with the natural law (the Dao follows the principle that fullness leads to decline; stepping back after success is true wisdom).

Human life is composed of hun and po ("hun" refers to the yang spirit governing life, "po" refers to the yin ghost governing death). Laozi teaches the practice of the "nourishing and guarding method" (a health-preserving technique), through maintaining undivided focus ("holding to the One" refers to mental concentration) to prevent the dispersal of hun and po. One should gather qi (vital energy) and maintain softness like an infant (achieving harmony through breath regulation), and cleanse the mind of distractions as if polishing a bright mirror ("mystic vision" refers to the mind, which must be purified of desires and defilements). Governing a state should follow the principles of self-cultivation (when one's own cultivation is perfected, the state will naturally be well-governed), and governing through non-action (wuwei, acting in accordance with nature without force) is the highest ideal.

[Additional Notes]

1. The "nourishing and guarding method" is an ancient health-preserving art that regulates breath and mental focus to preserve jing (essence), qi (vital energy), and shen (spirit).

2. "Holding to the One" is a key Daoist cultivation principle, emphasizing mental concentration and the unity of body and spirit.

3. "Mystic vision" metaphorically represents the mind. Daoists believe that a dust-covered "mirror of the heart" cannot reflect truth, so one must cleanse it of distractions.

The foundation of governing a nation lies with the people, while its essence resides in Wuwei (non-action, following natural spontaneity without forced interference). Those who master the principles of Wuwei in governance are truly benevolent rulers who cherish their people and govern wisely. When the "Celestial Gate" (referring to the Baihui acupoint at the crown of the head, a Daoist cultivation term) opens and closes, can one maintain softness and stillness? Heaven blesses virtuous rulers—those who love their people understand the importance of embracing gentleness and preserving tranquility, ensuring their actions never stray from the Dao. Thus, their Celestial Gate remains open, receiving blessings. Conversely, those who act otherwise find it closed.

The truly enlightened appear simple-minded—is this not the case? Those with supreme De (Virtue/Power) are like the sun shining upon all things, yet their presence goes unnoticed by those beneath them. They create without claiming ownership, for claiming would make them known; they act without boasting of merit, for boasting would render them unworthy of sagehood; they nurture without dominating, so the myriad beings remain unaware of whom to thank. This is the profoundest Xuande (mysterious Virtue), the silent operation of the Dao in the unseen.

Thirty spokes converge at a single hub—it is the emptiness at the center that allows the wheel to turn. Had the first cartwrights used solid wood for wheels without thirty spokes, they would never have rolled. The usefulness of a carriage depends on the hollow space within its frame. Clay is kneaded to form vessels—their utility lies in their emptiness. The ancients shaped clay into bowls and jars, their function derived from the void within. It is by harnessing the nature of "non-being" that one moderates desires for food and drink.

Doors and windows are cut to build houses—their usefulness lies in the empty space inside. When early humans dug caves for shelter, they carved entrances into hillsides and added windows for light, making dwellings possible by utilizing "non-being." All tangible things rely on emptiness to function—the formless Dao manifests its efficacy through concrete objects.

Obsession with dazzling colors dulls vision—prolonged gazing blurs sight as if blind. Excessive music deafens the ears—constant listening numbs them as if mute. Gluttony ruins taste—endless indulgence deadens discernment as if flavorless. Reckless hunting agitates the heart—chasing foxes and hares to exhaustion is like madness. Coveting rare treasures harms De (Virtue)—risking life for treasures leaves no room for moral cultivation.

Thus, the sage restrains these five excesses through personal example. Ordinary people chase them relentlessly, never knowing when to stop. Therefore, the sage teaches people to prioritize inner nourishment ("for the belly" signifies cultivating inner virtue) and relinquish greed for external things.

This passage elucidates two core principles: the wisdom concerning desire and contentment, and the essential description of the Dao.

First, regarding desire. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) seeks only to fill the belly, not to indulge the pleasures seen by the eyes. The eyes constantly crave more and are never satisfied, while the belly knows contentment when full. Therefore, one must abandon external pursuits ("that" referring to the desires of the eyes) and choose internal fulfillment ("this" referring the belly's actual needs).

Concerning favor and disgrace, gain and loss, those who have attained the Dao remain detached. Whether receiving honor or humiliation, they maintain equanimity as if startled, understanding that glory and disgrace share the same origin. Overvaluing physical pleasures invites misfortune, while releasing attachment to the physical body prevents calamity. As the ancient worthy minister Ji An said, "The latecomer may surpass"—when favored, one must be wary of potential disgrace to follow; when disgraced, one must remain vigilant in self-reflection.

What is truly precious is regarding the body as an instrument for serving the world—only such a person can be entrusted with governing the realm. If a ruler indulges in personal pleasures and exploits the people's resources, resentment will arise; conversely, those who cherish themselves to better govern the world will naturally gain the people's allegiance.

Secondly, it describes the characteristics of the Dao: looking at it, one cannot see—this is called "Yi" (smooth and traceless); listening for it, one cannot hear—this is called "Xi" (rare and elusive); grasping for it, one cannot hold—this is called "Wei" (subtle and imperceptible). These three qualities cannot be separately investigated but must be perceived as one integral whole. The Dao is neither bright nor dark, neither high nor low—it transcends all dualistic distinctions. Ordinary things have brightness above and darkness below, but the Dao has neither upper nor lower divisions, nor distinctions between light and dark.

This passage elucidates the profound and mysterious nature of the Dao (the Way) and the behavioral manifestations of those who have attained it.

The text first describes the essence of the Dao: like an unbroken cord, it stretches endlessly into the depths, defying precise definition through names, ultimately returning to a state of emptiness. This "formless form" appears without concrete shape yet gives birth to all things. Unlike ordinary objects with distinct appearances, it exists in a state of "huhuang" (indistinctness) — neither fully existent nor non-existent. One cannot perceive its origin nor trace its destination.

The ancients used this eternal Dao to govern all present phenomena. Though it cannot be directly perceived through the senses, it has existed since antiquity. To grasp the Dao, the key lies in maintaining inner emptiness and stillness. When the mind achieves true clarity and openness, the Dao naturally reveals itself, and one may then employ it to govern all things.

Those ancients skilled in cultivating the Dao possessed subtle and unfathomable understanding of it. Precisely because it defies comprehension, we can only approximate their state: cautious as someone crossing a winter river; vigilant as one wary of prying neighbors; dignified as an honored guest; free and unconstrained as melting ice; simple and unadorned as uncarved wood; profoundly receptive like a valley; seemingly turbid yet capable of encompassing all.

True adepts can gradually clarify turbidity through stillness and stability, while generating vitality through sustained movement within tranquility. These descriptions portray those who have attained the Dao as maintaining their fundamental nature while harmoniously following the course of nature.

This passage elucidates how spiritual cultivators should adhere to the principle of "emptiness and stillness." Only those who remain unsatisfied with their current state will seek higher realms, yet excessive pursuit may lead to loss. Maintaining a state of moderate fullness prevents premature decline. To condense the Dao within oneself, one must first achieve ultimate emptiness—then the Dao will naturally descend.

The author employs nature's seasonal cycles to illustrate this truth: all things flourish luxuriantly (芸芸), yet by autumn and winter they return to their roots, for the roots represent stillness. This return to stillness is called "returning to destiny" (复命), akin to plants resting in winter before the yang energy reawakens after the winter solstice, completing nature's cycle. Understanding this eternal principle is called "illumination" (明), while ignorance leads to reckless action and misfortune.

Those who comprehend this principle possess expansive minds (容). The capacity to embrace all leads to impartiality (公), impartiality enables one to become a true sovereign (王), and the sovereign emulates the way of heaven (天)—which is the ultimate Dao. Those who truly attain the Dao may forget their own achievements, yet their influence endures like the sweet pear tree (甘棠) that becomes cherished for generations. Though their physical forms perish, their spirit remains eternal.

(Note: The "sweet pear tree" allusion originates from the Book of Songs, symbolizing how virtuous governance is remembered; "returning to destiny" refers to all things reverting to their original state; "yang energy's rebirth" denotes the initial resurgence of yang at winter solstice, a crucial concept in Daoist seasonal observance.)

In ancient times, the finest rulers were those whose presence was barely noticed by the people (in the highest antiquity, the people merely knew they had rulers). The people felt no constraint from government decrees because these rulers never issued commands lightly. The next level of rulers were those whom the people cherished and praised—cherished because they benefited from his virtue (De), and praised because they bathed in his benevolent governance. The third level were rulers whom the people feared, while the worst were those whom the people despised—the upright feared tyrannical rule, while the cunning despised foolish governance.

When a ruler lacks sincerity, the people naturally distrust him. Initially employing deceit to manipulate the people is the mark of insufficient sincerity; later, even when genuine intentions are shown, trust cannot be regained. Overemphasizing verbal admonitions while neglecting true integrity leads society to such ruin. If one persists in preaching, the simple and harmonious way of life can never be restored. The highest form of governance is when, after achievements are made, the people say, "We accomplished this naturally ourselves," for no forced indoctrination was needed to establish good customs.

When the Dao (the Way) is abandoned, only then do people emphasize benevolence (Ren) and righteousness (Yi). It is not that the Dao deliberately avoids these virtues, but when people begin to flaunt them, the Dao is inevitably discarded—this is the result of neglecting the root for the branches. When cleverness is exalted, great hypocrisy arises—cleverness itself does not intend to foster deceit, but excessive pursuit of superficial wisdom inevitably leads to widespread hypocrisy. Filial piety and parental love become conspicuous only when families are discordant; if all households were naturally harmonious, there would be no need for exemplars like Zeng Shen (the renowned filial son). Loyal ministers stand out only when the state is in chaos; if rulers were wise and ministers virtuous, there would be no tragedies like that of Bi Gan (the loyal minister who was martyred).

Reject so-called sagehood and cunning wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Without harsh laws, the people need not fear transgressions and can live freely. Compared to the scheming existence of the people in Warring States-era Han, their gains would far exceed a hundredfold. Abandon contrived benevolence and righteousness, and people will naturally return to their innate filial piety and kindness. When artificial virtues are no longer glorified, the world will cease chasing unattainable standards and revert to their true nature. Discard craftiness and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will vanish. When no one employs extraordinary means to seek gain, resources will be distributed fairly, and with universal prosperity, who would turn to theft?

These three principles—rejecting sagehood and cunning, rejecting benevolence and righteousness, rejecting craftiness and profit—are still incomplete for governance. They must be supplemented further: maintain simplicity and purity (embrace plainness and hold to simplicity), reduce selfish desires (lessen selfishness and diminish desires). Only by abandoning worldly learning can one be free from worry, for human knowledge inevitably breeds anxiety. How much difference is there, after all, between approval and reproach? They are but sounds from the same mouth.

The fluctuations of human joy and anger, the distinction between good and evil—these differences are actually quite subtle. Both good and evil originate from the heart-mind, just as the lands of Hu (the northern barbarians) and Yue (the southern regions) may seem distant yet ultimately exist within the same heaven and earth. What people commonly fear is indeed worthy of reverence; without such reverence, calamity will swiftly arrive. The way most people pursue learning is causing our innate nature to wither day by day, a trend with no end in sight.

The masses clamor in pursuit of desires, indulging as if at a lavish banquet or reveling like springtime excursions to high vistas. Yet I alone remain tranquil, innocent as an infant who has not yet learned to smile. Laozi says: I long ago severed worldly learning—even now, observing the affairs of humanity, I remain like a naive infant who doesn't understand human intentions. I abide wherever I find myself, as though having no fixed home—the sage holds no attachments, meeting each circumstance with natural accord, never distinguishing between "here" and "there."

All others appear thoroughly adept in worldly knowledge, while I alone seem deficient. This foolish mind of mine actually preserves the genuine simplicity of original nature. Where people are sharp and calculating, I remain simple and unhewn; where they display cleverness, I stay dull and hidden—like the stillness of vast oceans or an empty boat drifting, never fixed in place. Everyone else engages in purposeful action and thus knows no rest, while I alone remain uncultivated as a rustic villager, unversed in worldly cunning.

What sets me apart is that while my body moves among people, my spirit transcends worldly concerns, treasuring the nourishment drawn from the "Mother" (the Dao). My uniqueness stems precisely from seeking the sustenance of the Great Dao. The Dao, in turn, nourishes me with its subtle primordial Qi precisely because I transcend conventional learning.

The heart of one with great De (Virtue) follows the Dao completely. "Kong De" (the highest virtue) refers to this magnificent power—its inner clarity remains empty and receptive, receiving only the supreme Dao and acting accordingly. As for the Dao's existence—it is so faint and indistinct, elusive beyond grasp...

This scripture elucidates the essential principles of Daoist cultivation of mind and nature. At its core lies the paramount importance of "desirelessness" (wuyu) and "emptying the heart" (xuxin).

The opening describes the mental state during cultivation: within the liminal realm of "huanghu" (a twilight state between presence and absence), the true manifestation of the Dao (the Way) is concealed. If the mind shifts from emptiness (hu) to desire-filled agitation (huang), the Dao transforms into illusory false appearances. Conversely, when one transitions from desire to desirelessness, the Dao crystallizes into sublime truth, abiding serenely within the heart.

Next, it speaks of how the profound darkness of "yaoming" (the deep and obscure) harbors the essence (jing) of the Dao. This refined qi (vital energy) permeates all things yet remains imperceptible—only those with an emptied heart can perceive it. Those who attain this pure essence become zhenren (Perfected Ones, realized beings). From ancient times to the present, this spiritual resonance has never changed; all who attained the Dao throughout history did so through desirelessness.

The latter section expounds on worldly wisdom: yielding leads to preservation, low places eventually become full, and only through breaking the old can renewal emerge. The sages (those who embody the Dao) uphold the "One" (the Dao) as their guiding principle in life. By not self-displaying, one becomes illuminated; by not self-asserting, one becomes distinguished; by not self-boasting, one endures. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying "the crooked shall be made straight" is no empty phrase—when practiced, its efficacy manifests.

All these principles demonstrate that maintaining a mind of stillness and desirelessness, while following the natural course of the Dao, paradoxically yields the most profound results.

Speaking less accords with the natural order. Those who are cautious with words not only avoid mistakes but also align with the Dao of nature. A fierce gale cannot last all morning, nor can a torrential downpour persist all day—such violent phenomena cause too much harm to all beings, thus they cannot endure. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and Earth. Even Heaven and Earth cannot sustain violent storms for long—how much less can insignificant humans disrupt natural Qi with excessive speech?

Thus Dao cultivators often speak sparingly. Those who cultivate the Dao become one with the Dao; those who cultivate De (Virtue) become one with De; those who are lost remain with loss—all things return to their kind. Those united with the Dao receive the Dao's nourishment; those united with De receive De's nourishment; those who keep company with loss will ultimately be lost. Like attracts like—this is nature's way. When sincerity is insufficient, distrust arises. Those who violate the principle of "rare speech harmonizing with the Dao" and incur faults through excessive words—even if later repentant and sincerely seeking the Dao—will find it hard to gain trust from true cultivators.

Standing on tiptoe brings no stability; taking oversized strides covers no distance. Those who display themselves remain obscure; those who assert themselves gain no prominence; those who boast achieve no true merit; those who are arrogant cannot endure. These behaviors—like tiptoeing and overstriding—all violate natural spontaneity. Indulging in even one such tendency makes one an outcast from human relations, let alone harboring several. To Dao practitioners, these are as detestable as spoiled food or excess fat—things even ordinary people disdain, much less those who have attained the Dao.

There exists something perfectly whole (referring to the Dao) that predates Heaven and Earth. It is the primordial state where original Qi coalesced—utterly silent and profoundly empty. It stands alone, unchanging through eternity, neither keeping company with other things nor altering with external circumstances. Pervading all creation yet never exhausted, it may be called the mother of all things under heaven. I know not its name—for lack of better terms I designate it "Dao" (the Way) for its merit in generating Heaven and Earth; I also call it "Great" for its all-encompassing nature.

This commentary on the Daode Zhenjing (True Scripture of the Dao and De) primarily discusses the vastness of the Dao and how rulers should emulate the principles of heaven and earth.

Laozi states that the Dao is immensely vast—it ceaselessly moves ("passing away"), extends infinitely ("far-reaching"), and ultimately returns to its source ("returning"). Within the cosmos, there are four great entities: the Dao, heaven, earth, and the king. Though the king does not compare to the first three, he still ranks as the fourth great. The Dao gives birth to and nurtures heaven, earth, and the king, while the king must model himself on the laws of heaven and earth.

Specifically, emulating the earth ("modeling the earth") means being as tranquil, stable, and nurturing as the earth, which bears all things without complaint. Emulating heaven ("modeling heaven") means being as vast, inclusive, and impartial as the sky, which shelters all without discrimination. Emulating the Dao ("modeling the Dao") means embodying naturalness and Wuwei (non-action), free from selfish desires and utilitarian concerns. Only a ruler who can simultaneously embody these three can unite with the Dao and become a true sovereign of the people.

The text then discusses the importance of "heaviness" and "stillness." Heaviness is the root of lightness, just as all things have their foundation; stillness governs agitation, just as the people need a ruler to guide them. Thus, when a nobleman travels, he always carries necessary supplies (symbolizing preparedness and stability). Even in luxurious surroundings ("splendid towers" or "comfortable dwellings"), he remains detached from material concerns. How, then, can the ruler of a great state neglect self-cultivation and act recklessly? Frivolity leads to the loss of the people's support, while impatience erodes the ruler's authority.

Finally, the text describes several refined ways of conduct:

• One who is skilled in walking leaves no tracks (acting without leaving traces).
• One who is skilled in speaking leaves no openings (speaking flawlessly).
• One who is skilled in calculation needs no tallies (being so inwardly clear that no scheming is required).
• One who is skilled in closing needs no bolts (achieving harmony naturally, without force).

These are the attainments of those who have cultivated the Dao.

This scripture elucidates how practitioners of the Dao achieve unity with the Way through inner cultivation, along with the worldly wisdom of sages.

The Dao cultivator must close the seven apertures (sensory gates of eyes, ears, nose, and mouth) as if shutting doors, preventing external disturbances from entering. Maintaining inner tranquility, the five viscera's (heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys) Shen (spirit) remains unswayed by material temptations. Thus, the sage excels in saving all beings and things, never abandoning any person or creature. This virtuous action flows as naturally as dew nourishing plants—how much more so for fellow humans? This constitutes the state of "inherited illumination"—inner practice that doesn't manifest outwardly.

Regarding master-disciple relationships: The virtuous person serves as teacher for the unvirtuous, transmitting goodness; while the unvirtuous become mirrors for the virtuous. Those who truly attain the Dao neither deliberately venerate teachers nor cling to cautionary examples, ultimately reaching mutual forgetfulness. Ordinary people consider this foolish, but cultivators recognize it as profound subtlety.

Three metaphors then illustrate worldly conduct: Knowing strength yet abiding in softness, embracing all like the world's valleys; understanding brilliance yet dwelling in obscurity, becoming the world's standard; recognizing glory yet resting in humility, maintaining emptiness like mountain valleys. Thus one returns to infant-like purity, ultimately reverting to original simplicity.

When "Pu" (the primordial state of Dao) disperses, it forms all vessels. Sages govern the myriad things through the Great Dao—not by force, but by Wuwei (non-action) leadership. To win the world's hearts, one cannot compel but must follow nature's course. Seeking through deliberate action ultimately proves futile.

This scripture primarily discusses principles of governance and military strategy, emphasizing the importance of following nature's course and maintaining clarity through non-action (Wuwei).

The term "divine vessel" refers both to the spiritual beings residing within the human body and metaphorically represents the common people. Human nature dislikes interference—forced action only disrupts the people's hearts. Those who attempt to seize the world often fail because coercive measures scatter popular support. The obstinate ultimately lose everything, and rulers who break promises or cling stubbornly to views inevitably forfeit their imperial foundation.

All things in the world possess distinct natures: some lead while others follow; some are gentle as exhaled breath (symbolizing benevolent virtue), others harsh as forceful blowing (representing strict punishment); some flourish while others decline. A nation thrives when its people are nurtured and weakens when oppressed. Therefore, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Those who assist rulers through the Dao (the Way) never rely on military might to dominate. Ancient ministers skilled in governance strengthened their states through the Dao rather than force. Warfare easily invites retaliation—armies leave barren fields in their wake, and great battles inevitably bring years of famine, for the killing Qi (vital energy) disrupts cosmic harmony, causing crop failures.

True masters of military strategy seek only to achieve necessary ends, never flaunting strength. When conflict becomes unavoidable, they select capable commanders who act decisively without obsessive desire for victory. After achieving objectives, they avoid boasting, ostentation, or pride—recognizing these actions stem from necessity rather than choice. Military might that violates the Dao resembles things that grow excessively strong only to decay prematurely—both contravene the Dao's natural order.

Weapons are instruments of ill omen, universally despised. Even in peace-loving nations, all beings abhor war—how much more so in warlike states? Thus, those who follow the Dao never lightly resort to arms.

How could a true cultivator of the Dao ever covet positions of power? Virtuous gentlemen traditionally honor the left side (in ancient rituals, the left represented the yang position symbolizing growth), for their hearts embrace benevolent virtue, just as spring nurtures all living things. Yet in military affairs, they honor the right (the yin position symbolizing solemnity), because warfare is inherently ominous by nature.

Weapons are inauspicious instruments, not tools befitting noble men. A gentleman's true weapons should be the civilizing influence of rites and music, not swords and spears. Resorting to arms should only happen when absolutely necessary—like being forced to use improper implements. The art of warfare values detachment and restraint, employed solely to stop violence, never to revel in it. Even victory in battle brings no joy, for true triumph lies in peace. To celebrate military victory is to delight in killing. Those who lust for bloodshed can never win the allegiance of all under heaven—for who doesn't fear death?

According to ritual propriety, auspicious events honor the left while inauspicious ones honor the right, following the natural principles of yin-yang. The lieutenant general (second-in-command) stands on the left, participating in military affairs without decision-making authority; the commanding general stands on the right, specializing in campaigns and slaughter. Warfare should be approached with the solemnity of conducting funeral rites, as dignified as positioning a coffin. When casualties are numerous, one must grieve deeply—a virtuous commander would reproach himself: "My virtue is insufficient, what crimes have the people committed to suffer such casualties?" Thus after victory, funeral rites are observed—not literally wearing mourning garb, but to dissolve the aura of violence and remind warriors to restrain their bloodlust.

The Dao is fundamentally nameless—what we now call "Dao" is merely a forced designation. This original "uncarved block" (the primal state of Dao), though subtle and hard to discern, commands the reverence of all things under heaven. Those who master the great Dao are fit to be teachers of kings—how much more so for those who presume to manipulate it? If feudal lords and kings could uphold the Dao, all under heaven would naturally submit. So long as they don't deviate from the Dao, even distant lands would pledge allegiance. Just as heaven and earth's yin-yang union brings down sweet dew (symbolizing auspicious signs), this is heaven's commendation for rulers who preserve the Dao.

The most ideal governance requires no commands to achieve natural balance, like sweet dew needing no direction to fall evenly. When the Dao manifests clearly, all things find their proper place: sacred mountains and rivers receive sacrifices (referring to nature deities), while reclusive sages receive summons (referring to talent recruitment). Once names are established for concrete things, we must recognize their inherent limits—knowing when to stop avoids danger. The Dao pervades heaven and earth like river valleys receiving countless streams, eventually forming great rivers and seas (symbolizing how a ruler's open-mindedness gathers all under heaven).

This scripture expounds Daoist wisdom concerning "knowing when to stop," "the natural Dao (the Way)," and "the De (Virtue/Power) of sages."

It begins by illustrating that even grand ceremonies like the Fengshan sacrifices (ancient imperial rituals worshiping heaven and earth) should observe proper limits. Just as mountain springs naturally flow into rivers and seas, a ruler embodying the Dao governs the world like the ocean receiving countless tributaries—harmony prevails between ruler and subjects, with blessings circulating effortlessly.

Several essential cultivation principles follow: Understanding others demonstrates wisdom, but true discernment sees beyond appearances; self-knowledge constitutes genuine clarity, allowing one to perceive subtle signs before events manifest; conquering others requires strength, but mastering oneself reveals true power; the contented person is truly rich, for inner fulfillment surpasses material wealth; those steadfast in righteousness possess real ambition; only by preserving one's original nature can endurance be achieved; even when the physical form perishes, enduring spiritual presence constitutes authentic longevity.

Finally, the text elucidates the characteristics of the "Great Dao": The Dao permeates all things, effortlessly adaptable. It gives birth to myriad beings without claiming ownership, nourishes all existence without domination. Precisely because the Dao never deliberately displays greatness, it achieves true magnificence. Sages emulate this quality—maintaining humility without pursuing grandeur, they nonetheless accomplish great deeds. Like the Dao appearing insignificant as a desireless "chizi" (newborn infant), yet naturally attracting all things to return—this embodies genuine "greatness."

(Note: "Fengshan" refers to the highest imperial sacrifice ceremony worshiping heaven and earth; "chizi" signifies a newborn, symbolizing a state of pure desirelessness)

This scripture discusses the fundamental characteristics and functions of the "Great Dao" (the cosmic principle). Those who embody the Dao find all beings in the world naturally drawn to them, for all things are formed in accordance with the Dao. When governing the world with such principles, the people will submit without exception. Once they submit, they should be allowed to live in peace and contentment, thriving in an era of harmony.

Worldly pleasures like music and fine food may cause passersby to linger, as they gratify the senses of sight, hearing, and taste. Yet when spoken of, the Dao seems bland and flavorless—how could it attract anyone? In truth, human nature inherently dislikes complexity and yearns for Wuwei (non-action, or effortless action), and the Dao’s essence is precisely Wuwei. Though invisible to the eye and inaudible to the ear, its application is inexhaustible.

The text then explains the patterns of natural development: to gather something, one must first expand it; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first let it flourish; to take something, one must first give. This is called "subtle illumination" (the profound wisdom of discernment). One must halt calamity at its first stirrings, for the soft and yielding can overcome the hard and rigid. Just as fish cannot survive without water, the crucial methods of governance must never be revealed to petty minds—otherwise, like fish escaping into the depths, they become impossible to control.

The Dao eternally abides in Wuwei (non-action), yet accomplishes all things. If rulers hold fast to Wuwei, all beings will naturally transform and flourish. When selfish desires and delusions arise, they must be settled by returning to the "nameless simplicity" (the state of primal authenticity). For Wuwei is the root—leaving no trace of artificial interference, all things find stability of their own accord.

This passage discusses how the "nameless ruler" (one who does not deliberately seek fame or position) governs the world. If such a ruler can uphold the Dao (the Way) to stabilize people's hearts, who would dare act recklessly?

That "nameless simplicity" (the most primordial and unadorned Dao) requires even the thought of pursuing it to be relinquished. One must completely forget the deliberate intention to preserve the Dao, for only then does it align with the natural state of authenticity. Without striving for stillness, the world will naturally return to the right path. Those who deliberately seek stillness will never attain true stillness.

Now, entrust everything to natural spontaneity, leaving the mind empty and free from attachment. In this way, rulers and subjects, high and low, can each abide in their proper place, developing according to their inherent nature. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states, "each rectifies their nature and life (xingming)," returning everyone to the truest state of being.

This passage discusses the distinction between "higher virtue" (Shang De) and "lower virtue" (Xia De), along with the gradual decline of Dao and De. The highest form of virtue (Shang De) appears without deliberate traces of virtuous behavior, existing as naturally as the Dao itself, making it imperceptible to ordinary people. This genuine virtue preserves the original simplicity (Pu) of all things. In contrast, the lesser virtue (Xia De) consciously pursues the reputation of virtue by imitating the ways of ancient sage-kings, thereby losing its authentic nature.

The text outlines four stages of moral decline: First, when the highest virtue is lost, only deliberate virtue remains. Next, when even this conscious virtue fades, society relies on benevolence to sustain itself. As benevolence deteriorates, righteousness becomes the restraining force. Finally, when righteousness collapses, only superficial ritual propriety (Li) remains. Ritual propriety actually signifies the weakening of loyalty and trustworthiness, marking the beginning of social disorder.

The author compares true virtue to the substantial fruit of a tree, while ritual propriety is merely its decorative blossom—pleasing to the eye but lacking substance. Thus, truly wise individuals (great men) seek the solid root of virtue rather than its ornamental forms. They choose the profound essence of De over shallow ceremonial displays, dwelling in authentic virtue rather than superficial appearances.

(Note: "Pu" refers to the primal, unadorned state of things; "rolling up sleeves" symbolizes forced maintenance; "jade and silk" represent the ceremonial objects used in ancient rituals, denoting elaborate formalities.)

This passage conveys two core teachings of Daoist philosophy:

The first emphasizes the importance of "attaining the One." Here, "the One" refers to the primordial source of the Dao. When heaven attains the One, it becomes clear; when earth attains the One, it becomes stable; valleys attain the One and become abundant; spirits attain the One and gain their potency; all things attain the One and flourish; rulers attain the One and bring proper governance to the world. Without this One, heaven and earth would crumble, valleys would dry up, spirits would dissipate, all things would perish, and rulers would lose their mandate. This illustrates how the Dao sustains all existence.

The second teaching reveals that "nobility is rooted in humility." Just as a towering mountain requires a solid foundation, a ruler's exalted position depends on the common people. Thus, rulers traditionally refer to themselves as "the orphaned," "the unworthy," or "the inadequate" — terms denoting humility and lowliness that acknowledge their fundamental connection to the people. Like crafting a carriage that requires various materials working in harmony, governing a state requires the cooperation of officials and citizens alike. True rulers don't seek to shine like precious jade, but prefer to remain plain like ordinary stone, for while jade is valuable, it originates from stone, and while rulers are noble, they emerge from the people.

The passage concludes by revealing the Dao's movement through reversal: the Dao often operates through cyclical transformations toward opposites. This counter-movement balances strong tendencies, requiring flexible responses that guide things back to their origins. This embodies the Daoist dialectical principle that "the soft and yielding overcomes the hard and strong."

This passage elucidates the essence and function of the Dao. In its quiescent state, the Dao appears soft and weak, yet this very softness represents its natural condition. All things arise from "being" (concrete existence), which in turn originates from "non-being" (the source of the Dao). Heaven, earth, and the myriad things all emerge from the formless Dao, which itself exists in the state of "wu" (non-being).

People's comprehension of the Dao manifests in three levels: Those of superior capacity immediately grasp and diligently practice the Dao upon hearing it; those of average capacity remain half-doubtful yet can still be guided; while those of inferior capacity laugh upon hearing it, completely failing to understand. If the Dao weren't mocked by fools, it wouldn't truly embody supreme wisdom.

A series of paradoxes illustrate the Dao's characteristics: What appears obscure is actually luminous (the bright Dao seems dim), what seems like retreat is genuine progress (advancing the Dao appears as regression), what looks uneven is fundamentally level (the smooth Dao appears rough). The highest virtue (De) resembles a valley in its emptiness (superior virtue seems like a hollow), the purest whiteness appears sullied (great purity seems soiled), the most expansive virtue seems insufficient (abundant virtue appears lacking). Genuine virtue doesn't proclaim itself (established virtue seems furtive), while the truest essence appears changeable (genuine substance seems mutable). The greatest square has no corners (the great square is cornerless), the most precious vessel takes longest to complete (the great vessel is late in completion), the grandest sound is nearly inaudible (the great sound is faint), and the greatest form has no shape (the great form is formless). These all demonstrate how the great Dao remains concealed in namelessness.

Finally, the creative process of the Dao unfolds: The Dao first generates primordial Qi (One), which divides into yin and yang energies (Two). The interaction of yin and yang produces harmonious Qi (Three), whose coalescence gives birth to the myriad things. All beings contain both yin and yang energies, achieving harmony through Qi's mediation. The Dao nourishes all things equally, regardless of human understanding. Practitioners can return to the Dao's harmony, while doubters and mockers remain lost in the primordial Qi.

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." The external physical shell (bearing Yin) is composed of Yin qi, while the internal marrow (embracing Yang) consists of Yang qi, with the Dao's qi flowing softly between them to harmonize Yin-Yang.

Though ordinary people detest inauspicious titles like "orphaned," "widowed," and "destitute," kings and nobles use them for themselves. This is because rulers understand that while gentle primordial qi (harmonious qi) appears soft and weak, it constitutes the foundation of all things. Thus, using inauspicious terms for self-deprecation paradoxically enables one to become the sovereign of all under heaven. Things often seem to lose but actually gain—this self-diminishing nomenclature embodies that principle of gaining through apparent loss.

Conversely, those who pride themselves on nobility (the honor-reliant) appear to gain but actually lose, for they forfeit the people's hearts. When teaching others, one should use the gentle Way as instruction. Those who receive this teaching can return to their fundamental nature and life (xingming), while the tyrannical and overbearing (the strong-beam type) meet untimely ends. A tyrannical ruler loses the people's support and quickly falls; an overbearing individual faces collective opposition and soon fails. Therefore, I take the Way of softness and weakness as the fundamental teaching (jiaofu) for all.

The softest thing in the world (ultimate softness) can master the hardest (ultimate hardness). Harmonious qi, being the world's softest substance, when properly employed, transforms into the firmest power. To restore this state of harmonious qi's ultimate softness, one must eliminate contentious ambitions (no galloping aspirations), allowing the harmonious qi to naturally permeate even seamless spaces (the heart without gaps), returning to its state of perfect softness.

Thus I understand the benefits of wuwei (non-action). Laozi says that maintaining wuwei allows harmonious qi to dwell constantly within, attaining longevity through softness. This wordless teaching and the benefits of non-action are rarely matched in the world. Which is more precious—fame or life? One may abandon fame but not life. Which matters more—wealth or life? Lost wealth can be regained, but lost life is irrecoverable. Excessive craving inevitably brings great loss; over-accumulation ultimately invites significant damage. Only knowing contentment can prevent calamity.

The mind that can endure humiliation will ultimately preserve lasting glory; knowing when to stop prevents one from falling into danger. By remaining content with one's lot, one maintains constant peace—such a life will endure and not be cut short prematurely.

The most perfect things appear to have flaws, while those of true virtue (De) seem incomplete. Yet this very state allows them to function eternally, responding effortlessly to all things. The fullest things appear empty, for their inner abundance manifests as outward humility—only in this way can they be inexhaustible. When aiding others, such virtue never runs dry.

The most upright seem to yield, able to endure impurity without contention; the most skillful appear clumsy, never flaunting their talents; the most eloquent seem hesitant in speech. Restlessness overcomes cold (just as extreme winter cold eventually turns to warmth), which is why the yin energy begins to stir at the summer solstice. Stillness overcomes heat (just as intense summer heat naturally gives way to coolness), which is why the yang energy begins to revive at the winter solstice. Tranquil non-action (Wuwei) is the true path to governing the world. What is called "proper" lies in balancing restlessness and stillness, much like the temperate climate of the second and eighth lunar months.

When the world is at peace, warhorses return to the fields to fertilize the soil. A wise ruler succeeding a foolish one must correct disorder, abandoning force in favor of civil governance. Thus, the warhorses conscripted by previous regimes are no longer needed and are sent home to plow the fields. But when the world is in chaos, even pregnant mares are sent to battle. A foolish ruler inheriting a peaceful age, relying on abundant resources, delights in waging war, keeping soldiers long stationed at the borders.

No crime is greater than indulging desires, insatiable in pursuit of material gain; no calamity is worse than discontent, coveting everything the eyes behold; no mistake is graver than greed, seizing both the seen and unseen, as if all things under heaven should belong to oneself. These are the deeds of a foolish ruler.

True contentment lies in knowing sufficiency, in restraining oneself at the proper limit—even dwelling in a humble earthen hut with a thatched roof will not feel lacking. This is genuine fulfillment. Not overstepping one's bounds, valuing the people's peace—this is the mark of a wise ruler.

Without stepping outside the door, one can understand the world by reflecting inwardly; without peering through the window, one can grasp the patterns of heaven by emulating nature. The farther one travels, the less one truly knows. Those who fail to recognize that the people's peace comes from non-action (Wuwei) instead impose endless decrees to "stabilize" them—yet the more decrees there are, the more restless the people become. Thus, the sage (shengren) does not travel yet understands, does not look yet perceives clearly.

The key to ensuring people's peaceful livelihood lies in governing through Wuwei (non-action). Without unnecessary interference, people naturally settle into stability—there's no need to deliberately traverse the world promoting governance. When a true Dao-realized person holds high position, the world naturally achieves peace, just as one can understand affairs without peering through windows—the highest art of governance precisely resides in non-forced action. Compulsive intervention, conversely, fails to reach this realm.

For those pursuing conventional learning, knowledge accumulates daily; but for cultivators of the Great Dao, deliberate action diminishes progressively. This "diminishing" requires layered deepening: the first reduction remains superficial, the second touches the root, ultimately arriving at complete Wuwei. When reduction reaches its limit, one enters Dao's core state. Seemingly doing nothing, yet accomplishing everything; achievements manifest spontaneously without claim—this is Wuwei's profound mystery; the myriad things transform naturally without coercion—this is the manifestation of "non-forced accomplishment."

Governing the world requires maintaining Wuwei as a constant attitude. "Having no affairs" means not acting according to personal preferences, but breathing as one with the people. Acting solely for self-interest exhausts both ruler and subjects, causing alienation—how could this properly govern the world?

The Dao-realized mind resembles an empty boat drifting with currents, taking the people's hearts as its own. What people cherish, help them realize; treat the virtuous with virtue (harmonizing with their nature), treat the non-virtuous also with virtue (transforming through De). The sage maintains virtuous conduct, whereby the wicked naturally reform, yet never forces compliance. Treat the trustworthy with trust, the untrustworthy also with trust. The sage transforms the world through sincerity, inspiring goodness spontaneously rather than through coercion.

When governing, the sage constantly maintains compassionate concern (anxious lest anything lack peace), aligning consciousness with the people's simple aspirations. While people attentively observe the sage's conduct, the sage nurtures them like infants—how could bear disturbing them with cumbersome decrees?

Concerning life-death principles: when perverse thoughts emerge from the heart it's called "exiting," when entering the heart it's called "entering"—exiting manifests as life, entering as death. Within the body reside the five viscera, without the eight orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands/feet, and three excretory passages)—these thirteen internal-external components function as life's companions.

This scripture primarily expounds on the principles of nurturing life and the importance of serenity through wuwei (non-action). It begins by stating that when the five viscera (heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys) become excessively distracted outward while simultaneously disturbed by external matters, it leads to a person's demise. Conversely, maintaining purity and wuwei, allowing each organ to fulfill its proper function, preserves one's vitality.

The text introduces the concept of "thirteen," referring to the five viscera, five bodily forms (four limbs plus the head), and the three dantian (energy centers): the upper dantian in the brain, middle dantian between the heart and spleen, and lower dantian in the kidney's qi sea. The scripture observes that people often pursue material pleasures excessively, thereby turning these thirteen components into accomplices that harm themselves.

Those truly skilled in nurturing life restrain these thirteen aspects in a state of purity, allowing their bodies to reach a formless transcendence. Such individuals walk without encountering rhinoceroses or tigers (symbolizing external dangers) and enter battle without armor or weapons (symbolizing defensive measures). Since their minds harbor no intention to harm others, external threats cannot injure them.

The text further explains that rhinoceroses, tigers, and weapons metaphorically represent the greed and harmful thoughts within human hearts. By maintaining a mindset of purity and wuwei, misfortunes and illnesses find no opportunity to invade. Losing this pure mind, even slightly, allows the "five thieves" (desires arising from eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body) and "three corpses" (Daoist concept of three malevolent spirits residing in the body) to exploit this weakness, wounding people like the horns and claws of beasts or the blades of weapons.

Finally, it describes the roles of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue): Dao endows all things with their primordial qi (vital energy), while De nourishes them to maturity. Though all beings may appear dull, they instinctively honor Dao and cherish De. This illustrates the fundamental importance of following natural principles and preserving one's original pure heart.

This passage expounds on the noble status and natural characteristics of the Dao (the Way), as well as how to cultivate oneself and govern the state by following it.

The text first explains that the Dao's nobility doesn't derive from imperial titles or honors, but from its natural capacity to generate and nourish all things. The Dao gives birth to and nurtures all beings without claiming possession, accomplishes all things without taking credit—this profound hidden virtue is called "Mysterious De" (profound and subtle Virtue). Just as all things under heaven have an origin (the beginning), this origin is the Dao, which nourishes all beings like a mother. Understanding that all things are "children" and the Dao is their "mother" allows one to preserve all things by guarding their root, thereby remaining free from danger throughout life.

The text then details specific cultivation methods: one must "block the openings" (close sensory desires) and "shut the gates" (avoid excessive speech), thus maintaining effortless ease throughout life, with a tranquil body and vibrant spirit (Shen). Conversely, indulging desires is like opening floodgates to inevitable disaster—what begins as a trickle becomes an unstoppable deluge. The ability to perceive subtle signs is called "clarity," while maintaining gentleness is called "strength." By using the light of wisdom to return to original clarity and observing the method of "guarding the mother to preserve the children," one can restrain the senses, maintain the Middle Way, and avoid inviting misfortune—this constitutes the "inheritance of the constant" (perpetuating the eternal Dao), the method for enduring life.

Finally, the passage critiques contemporary social ills: the true Great Dao is naturally level like a royal highway for ruler and minister alike, yet people prefer crooked bypaths. While courts are extravagantly adorned (with splendid palaces), fields lie barren (overgrown with weeds), and granaries stand empty, rulers wear embroidered robes and gird sharp swords—all manifestations of deviation from the Dao. The author laments: were I, this solitary scholar, to implement proper governance, my greatest fear would be that walking the straight path alone would invite attacks from the multitude of deviant ways.

Those who delight in flaunting ornate armor, those who crave extravagant delicacies, those who amass excessive wealth—these are all behaviors of improper acquisition. Such conduct is like robbers boasting openly; possessions gained through unrighteous means are nothing but theft. Not only do they feel no shame, but they even boast extravagantly—this truly contradicts the Dao! The phrase "也哉" expresses lamentation—robbery itself violates moral principles, let alone flaunting it. Such people are truly pitiable.

Those truly skilled at establishing merit cannot be easily shaken ("不拔" means cannot be overthrown). Governing a state and cultivating oneself must rely on De (Virtue). When the foundation is built upon De, individuals avoid peril and nations avert collapse. "Those skilled at embracing don't lose their hold" means those adept at maintaining won't lose what they cherish—governing requires holding the people's hearts, self-cultivation requires preserving one's Shen (spirit). As long as De remains the foundation, nothing will be lost. When descendants continue the ancestral sacrifices generation after generation, this shows that those who govern and pacify the people through De will have flourishing progeny and unbroken lineage.

Cultivating oneself with De makes one's character pure; governing a family with De brings blessings to descendants; transforming a village with De makes its influence grow ever deeper; ruling a state with De makes its fortunes abundant and prosperous; governing the world with De spreads enlightenment everywhere ("比屋可封" means every household embodies virtue, and even remote regions will come to pay tribute). Therefore, by observing a person's cultivation you understand the individual; by observing a family you understand the household; by observing a village you understand the community; by observing a state you understand the country; by observing the world you comprehend the greater pattern. Through such comparative observation, the principles of rise and decline become clear. The reason I can understand these truths is precisely through observing these phenomena.

Those with profound De are like newborn infants ("赤子" refers to newborns, so named for their reddish complexion). Poisonous insects (like wasps and scorpions) won't sting them, fierce beasts (like tigers and leopards) won't pounce on them, birds of prey (like eagles and hawks) won't strike them. Because those with profound De have abandoned all distracting thoughts and preserved their original pure nature, such harms naturally avoid them. Another interpretation suggests the "three things" refer to human greed, evil thoughts, and malice—meaning that maintaining infant-like pure De prevents these negative forces from harming body and mind. Though their sinews may seem weak, they can clench their fists tightly (illustrating outward softness concealing inner strength).

This passage describes several realms of attainment for those who cultivate the Dao. First, it speaks of those who remain steadfast without understanding joy or anger—this comes from focusing on their innate nature. Those who maintain abundant Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) without knowing carnal desires do so by preserving their primordial vitality. Like infants who cry all day without losing their voices, they achieve a state of perfect harmony.

Those who truly comprehend the principle of "harmony" understand the eternal Dao. Practitioners who attain the Dao possess three capabilities: maintaining harmony, embodying De (virtue), and comprehending the constant Dao. Knowing the eternal Dao is called "illumination," and only those who grasp this principle are truly enlightened. Following nature brings auspiciousness, while forcibly altering subtle aspects may turn misfortune into fortune.

Using will to control Qi is called "forcing." The softest Qi can become strong because it is driven by intention. When things reach their peak, they begin to decline—strength itself marks the beginning of aging, which contradicts the great Dao. Those who cannot return to youthfulness have not mastered complete harmony. It is better to cease unnecessary striving in time.

True masters of the Dao do not indulge in empty talk—forgetting words is the highest form of knowing. Those who speak excessively do not truly understand, as genuine knowledge transcends language. One should close the gates of sensory desires, blunt sharp edges, resolve conflicts, and maintain a mind of serene emptiness. Being bright when brightness is needed and obscure when obscurity is called for—this is the realm of "mysterious unity," where one becomes indistinguishable from all things. Those who reach this state neither favor nor distance themselves from others; they are unmoved by profit or harm, neither despised nor exalted, and thus become the most revered under heaven.

Governing through decrees and waging war with stratagems are mere techniques of power. Only Wuwei (non-action) in governance can truly win the hearts of the people and make one a genuine sovereign. How can rulers who rely on laws and schemes compare to those who embody the Dao? How do I know this principle? Observe reality: the more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more weapons among civilians, the greater the chaos in the land.

People fear death, so they carry bows and arrows for self-protection. Precisely because of this, the nation becomes increasingly chaotic. People pursue all sorts of clever tricks and novel gadgets, with strange objects constantly emerging. This criticizes rulers who admire ingenious techniques—those obsessed with warfare, indulging in deceitful strategies while promoting various offensive and defensive weapons, forcing commoners to exhaust their minds creating bizarre contraptions.

The more numerous and stringent the laws become, the more thieves arise. So-called "legal artifacts" are meticulously crafted objects. These items defy common sense and flaunt exorbitant prices, so many steal their designs or pilfer the goods themselves. All this stems from the excessive pursuit of such "legal artifacts."

Therefore, the sage says: I govern through Wuwei (non-action), and the people naturally transform; I remain silent, and the people are naturally influenced. I maintain stillness, and the people naturally become upright; I abide in tranquility, and the people refrain from evil deeds. I do not disturb the people's livelihood, and they naturally prosper; I do not harass the people, and they can live in peace. I am free from greed, and the people remain simple; I do not covet, and the people preserve their true nature.

Large and small states each have their needs: the large state merely seeks to annex the small, making it a vassal to expand its territory; the small state only wishes to attach itself to the large, seeking protection so other states dare not invade. Both can fulfill their desires, so the large state should be especially humble. This specifically admonishes large states not to bully others with their power but to maintain modesty.

The Dao is the most profound source of all things, providing the fundamental basis for everything. The virtuous cherish the Dao as a treasure, for cultivating body and nature leads to longevity. The unvirtuous (those of shallow insight) do not ordinarily seek the Dao, but when disaster strikes, they too implore its protection. Elegant words can bring profit in trade; noble conduct can influence others. No person is entirely unvirtuous—only insufficiently taught. Thus, the establishment of the Son of Heaven (the supreme ruler) and the Three Dukes (high ministers) aims to teach the unvirtuous through the Dao. Rather than presenting jade discs and teams of horses (ancient precious gifts), it is better to offer this Dao.

This passage expounds the essential principles of governing a state and cultivating one's character. The ancients believed that rather than presenting rulers with precious gifts like fine jade and noble steeds, it was far more valuable to offer profound wisdom on statecraft, for only through such counsel could true peace be achieved under heaven. Why did the ancients hold this principle in such high esteem? Because it reveals the profound subtlety of the Dao (the Way).

Attaining the Dao is not an accomplishment of a single day—it requires the gradual accumulation of De (Virtue/Power) and sustained practice. Those who truly embody the Dao may occasionally incur a ruler's displeasure yet remain free from punishment. The phrase "免耶" (how remarkable!) expresses admiration for this truth, which has been cherished across all ages.

"Governing through Wuwei (non-action)" means acting in accordance with nature's flow, as forced action only disturbs the mind. "Being free from affairs" refers to handling governance in harmony with heavenly principles, as excessive striving clouds judgment. "Tastelessness" warns against indulging sensory pleasures that corrupt one's discernment. These three represent supreme virtues.

By practicing these virtues, one maintains mental clarity and can detect and dissolve resentment at its inception. Resentment arises from trivial matters—nipping it in the bud prevents major conflicts. It begins in small quantities—timely resolution stops accumulation. Thus resolving grievances prevents great discord.

Approach difficulties through their simplest aspects; undertake great endeavors starting from minute beginnings. This is an inevitable principle. The adept planner acts when matters first take form. Therefore, sages remain ever cautious with small matters, thereby achieving great accomplishments.

Those who make promises lightly often lack credibility, while the sincere weigh commitments carefully. Underestimating difficulties invites greater obstacles. Sages always anticipate challenges, proceeding with caution at the outset, and thus ultimately encounter no true difficulties.

Stability is easily maintained when secure; plans succeed when made before signs appear. Prevent problems before they arise. Fragile things break easily when weak; minute matters disperse when small. Address issues at their emergence; govern before chaos forms. This is the method of profound foresight.

Mighty trees grow from tender shoots; nine-tiered towers rise basket by basket; thousand-mile journeys begin with a single step. These all illustrate how great undertakings originate from the smallest beginnings.

This passage elucidates the principles of governing through Wuwei (non-action) and returning to primordial simplicity. Laozi observes that deliberate striving often leads to failure, just as forcefully grasping something causes it to slip away. The sage understands this truth—by refraining from forced action, one avoids failure; by relinquishing attachment, one prevents loss. Ordinary people frequently fail at the brink of success precisely because they cannot maintain consistent dedication from beginning to end.

The sage pursues what others neglect, such as valuing spiritual riches over gold and jewels. They study what others ignore, thereby assisting all beings in returning to their natural state. Ancient masters skilled in the Dao did not use doctrines to instruct the people, but subtly guided them back to simplicity. When people become difficult to govern, it stems from excessive cunning—thus employing cleverness to rule brings calamity, while governing with pristine simplicity becomes the nation's blessing.

Understanding the distinction between these two governing approaches is essential. Recognizing this principle constitutes "profound De (Virtue/Power)." This virtue is immeasurably deep, moving in harmony with all things toward their natural origins, ultimately achieving perfect alignment with the Dao's celestial patterns. The key lies in Wuwei—allowing all beings to unfold spontaneously, thereby establishing universal peace.

The reason the great sea can become the gathering place of all rivers is because it excels at maintaining a low position. The sage emulates the principle of rivers and oceans—to stand above others, one must use humble words; to lead the multitude, one must place oneself behind. Thus, even when occupying a high position, people do not feel oppressed but instead gladly support; even when walking ahead, people do not feel harmed but willingly follow.

All under heaven say my Dao is vast, yet it appears unlike the actions of a worthy. Precisely because it is vast, it seems unremarkable. True great wisdom resembles foolishness—if it appeared like a worthy's, it would instead be petty cleverness. I possess three treasures: the first is compassion (benevolence), the second is frugality, and the third is daring not to take the lead. Compassion gives rise to true courage (because one dares to help others), frugality ensures abundant resources, and not contending for precedence allows one to become a true leader. This is like how Emperor Yao became the sovereign of the nine provinces.

If one discards compassion to display strength, they will harm others; if one abandons frugality for extravagance, they will inevitably face scarcity; if one rejects yielding to compete for precedence, they will surely invite resentment. These three treasures are indispensable—how much worse if all are discarded? With compassion, one can triumph in battle; with it, one can defend securely. Because treating soldiers with a compassionate heart ensures their unwavering loyalty.

This passage discusses the wisdom of warfare and conduct in life, with "compassion" (ci) as its central power. Laozi believed that those truly capable of firm defense are protected by heaven's compassion. Because the virtue (De) of compassion moves heaven, the best way to save others is to treat soldiers with a compassionate heart.

Skillful commanders do not rely on force to win but follow righteousness (Dao); skilled warriors are not driven by anger but by strategy; those adept at defeating enemies do not engage in conflict but overcome through virtue (De); and those good at employing others maintain humility rather than enforce authority through coercion. This is the virtue of non-contention, the wisdom of employing people, and the highest state that aligns with the heavenly Dao (Tiandao). In ancient times, those who mastered these four principles never failed to succeed.

The Dao of warfare lies in: never initiating conflict ("not daring to take the lead"), maintaining restraint like a guest ("being the guest"); refusing to advance recklessly even an inch, preferring to retreat a foot to preserve oneself; appearing formless yet leaving no opening for the enemy ("advancing without formation"); and lacking the intent to kill yet halting aggression ("raising no arms"). The greatest disaster lies in underestimating the enemy, for underestimation leads to the loss of what is most precious—life. When armies clash, those moved by compassion often prevail.

Finally, it emphasizes the wisdom of "non-action" (Wuwei): My principles are actually easy to understand and simple to practice. Yet people often prefer "deliberate action" (youwei), which runs counter to "non-action" (Wuwei). Speech should have the Dao as its foundation, and action should be guided by virtue (De). Precisely because people fail to grasp this, they do not understand me. Few comprehend my teachings, but these rare individuals are precious—just as sages appear plain ("clad in coarse cloth") yet hold jade within ("harbor jade").

Notes:

1. "Clad in coarse cloth yet harboring jade" (bei he huai yu) is a famous metaphor describing sages who appear outwardly simple but conceal inner nobility.

2. "Non-action" (Wuwei) is a core Daoist concept, meaning non-interference and alignment with natural laws.

3. "Taking the lead or being the guest" uses the host-guest relationship to symbolize offensive and defensive postures.

This scripture elucidates the distinction between genuine wisdom and delusory knowledge, as well as the path to sagehood through self-cultivation.

True wisdom (the supreme treasure) often appears unremarkable in outward form, making it difficult for ordinary people to recognize. The most enlightened sages, though comprehending all phenomena, always claim "what do I know?"—this constitutes genuine knowledge. Conversely, those who proclaim omniscience while actually being ignorant are like someone boasting of panoramic vision while facing a wall—a pathological condition indeed. The reason sages remain free from such afflictions lies precisely in their vigilance against delusory knowledge, which they regard as a disease to be guarded against.

Regarding awe and mortality: When humans lack reverence for heavenly Dao (威 wei), they invite the gravest calamities (death). People often consider minor transgressions inconsequential, yet their accumulation leads to catastrophic consequences. To maintain expansive spiritual awareness (居神者 the dwelling place of Shen), one must refrain from insatiable craving; to sustain life (生人者神 the Shen that vivifies humans), one must preserve undispersed vitality. Only through serene emptiness can humans and spiritual forces harmoniously coexist.

The transcendence of sages manifests through their ability to: maintain self-awareness (preserving humility to retain Shen), refrain from self-righteousness (which constitutes disregard for heavenly威 wei), and avoid self-aggrandizement (which constricts spiritual awareness). One must abandon self-righteousness and inflated self-importance, choosing instead self-knowledge and authentic self-regard.

On the paradox of courage: Reckless bravado (勇于敢 courage in daring) invites fatal consequences, while courageous restraint (勇于不敢 courage in not daring) preserves life. Heavenly Dao abhors aggressive competitiveness, hence sages exercise particular caution against it. The operational principles of heavenly Dao reveal: victory without contention, response without speech, spontaneous alignment without summons, and what appears lax yet proves meticulously designed. The sun and moon's courses, day and night's alternation—never has heavenly Dao erred in its workings.

This passage primarily discusses the art of governance and the laws of nature. The general meaning is:

The celestial net (referring to the laws of the Dao) may appear wide-meshed, but none who commit evil can ultimately escape its retribution. When people no longer fear death, threatening them with capital punishment becomes ineffective. Governing a state should be done with generous benevolence, making the people cherish life—only then can the few wrongdoers be easily dealt with. When rulers presume to wield the power of life and death in place of heaven, it's like a clumsy man trying to do a master carpenter's work: not only will he ruin the material, but he'll likely injure his own hand in the process.

People starve because their rulers overtax them; society becomes difficult to govern because rulers interfere excessively. Those who recklessly risk their lives often do so in pursuit of better living conditions. When rulers are insatiably greedy, households become emptied, ultimately leading to the regime's collapse. Those unattached to luxurious living prove wiser than pleasure-seekers.

Using natural phenomena as metaphors: living things remain soft (like tender plants brimming with vitality), while dead things turn rigid (like brittle, withered branches). Thus rigidity signals death's approach, while pliancy indicates the state of life. An army that flaunts its strength rarely triumphs, for weapons are inherently ominous instruments. Even a great tree has supple branches atop its sturdy trunk, demonstrating that natural order places softness in the superior position.

Key terms:

• Celestial net: the operating principles of the Dao
• Executioner: the Dao's authority over life and death
• Master craftsman: metaphor for the Creator who understands nature's ways
• Tender/brittle: describing living vitality versus deathly rigidity

The core philosophy advocates governing through natural compliance, tranquility, and Wuwei (non-action), opposing harsh punishments and excessive interference. Using nature's principle of "the soft overcoming the hard," it illustrates how rulers should practice humility and moderation.

This scripture primarily discusses the distinction between the Dao of Heaven and human ways, as well as the principle that softness overcomes hardness.

The Dao of Heaven operates like drawing a bow to shoot an arrow, emphasizing balance and harmony: it lowers what is too high, raises what is too low, reduces what is excessive, and supplements what is lacking. Just as the sun begins its descent after reaching its zenith (this is reduction), and the moon renews itself after waning (this is replenishment). Human practices, however, run contrary to this: they often take from the poor to enrich the wealthy—this is the way of foolish rulers and vulgar people. Only those who have attained the Dao use their surplus to nourish the world.

Truly wise individuals accomplish things without claiming credit, and they do not boast of their successes. They conceal their talents and virtues because they have no desire for others to recognize their excellence.

Nothing in the world is softer than water. It adapts to any container and appears to be the least contentious, yet it overcomes all that is hard when it attacks. This demonstrates how softness triumphs over hardness. Though everyone in the world knows this principle, few can truly embody it. Therefore, the sages say: Only those who can endure the humiliation of a nation are fit to be its true rulers; only those who can bear the misfortunes of a nation are worthy to be kings of the world. These seemingly paradoxical statements are in fact profound truths, but because people revere strength, they find them abnormal.

When resolving deep-seated enmity, if one merely attempts to mediate through specific matters, it may instead fuel resentment. The sage approaches problems like holding a debt contract without pressing for repayment—those with De (Virtue) do not haggle over trifles, while those without De argue over the smallest details. The Dao of Heaven treats all people with impartiality, showing no favoritism to anyone.

This scripture elucidates the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and the ideal of "returning to primordial simplicity."

Regarding the metaphor of "holding the contract": A virtuous ruler (the sage) is like one who holds the contract's left portion (the creditor's copy in ancient agreements) yet never harshly demands repayment from the people. The sage governs by seeking only resonance with the people's hearts, thus naturally avoiding resentment. A ruler with De (Virtue/Power) resembles a skilled mediator who focuses on establishing mutual understanding, whereas a ruler without De obsessively handles disputes, thereby exacerbating conflicts. The Dao of Heaven shows no partiality, yet always favors the virtuous.

Concerning the ideal society of "small states with sparse populations": A nation's small scale and sparse population make governance as simple as handling minor affairs. The ruler practices Wuwei governance, where the people possess tools but need not use them, own boats and carriages but never ride them, and maintain weapons but have nowhere to deploy them. People return to the simple lifestyle of knotting ropes for record-keeping, content with plain food, clothing, and dwellings, enjoying unadulterated customs. Neighboring states remain within sight of each other, with the sounds of chickens and dogs audible across borders, yet the people live out their lives without interaction—each self-sufficient and without unfulfilled desires.

On the paradoxical nature of language: Truthful words lack ornamentation ("sincere speech is not eloquent"), for the Dao itself is flavorless and unadorned; eloquent words prove untrustworthy ("fine words are not sincere"), being designed to seduce. Truly good people don't argue ("the good do not debate"), while those fond of contention lack goodness. The genuinely wise don't pursue breadth of knowledge ("the knowing are not erudite"), and those chasing erudition lack true wisdom. The sage accumulates no possessions but understands giving—the more one bestows upon others, the richer one becomes, like a mirror that reveals people's strengths and flaws, inspiring the unvirtuous to reform.

This passage speaks of the wisdom of "giving." Those who delight in doing good find that the more they encourage others toward virtue, their own De (Virtue/Power) remains undiminished, like a mirror that never loses its reflection. When wealth is shared with the poor, the needy receive relief, yet the sage’s riches do not decrease—just as a well may be drawn from endlessly: those who take water benefit, yet the well never runs dry.

The Dao of heaven (Tian Dao) is yang in nature, favoring life and abhorring destruction. Because it delights in nurturing, we say it brings benefit; because it despises killing, we say it does no harm. The way of the sage is to act yet never contend. All that sages do aligns with the innate nature of things, and thus nothing fails to honor and follow them.

Here, "sage’s wealth" serves as a metaphor for moral cultivation, illustrating how true riches multiply when shared. The "well’s water" symbolizes virtuous action, showing that aiding others does not deplete one’s own blessings. The Dao of heaven is depicted as an inexhaustible yang force, emphasizing that the essence of natural law is creation, not destruction.