《道德真經疏義(一)》

The first volume of commentary on the classic Daode Jing (Scripture of the Way and Virtue) was composed by Jiang Cheng, a scholar of the Imperial Academy. Emperor Huizong of Song noted in his annotations: "Dao (the Way)" represents the fundamental principle all must follow, while "De (Virtue)" signifies the natural realization attained through inner awakening. The Dao persists through all ages without decline, while De nourishes our innate nature to achieve eternal existence. Laozi lived during the decline of the Zhou dynasty, when the great Dao was obscured and Virtue had waned. Thus, he composed eighty-one chapters to illuminate the eternal truth of Dao and De. This work is called a "Jing (classic scripture)"—its words are concise yet profound in meaning, and students should contemplate it with tranquil minds and deep study.

Jiang Cheng explains: The principle that all things follow is called "Dao." The Dao is omnipresent, permeating everything. Though vast, heaven and earth still operate within the Dao; though minute, the tip of an autumn hair takes form by the Dao. If all things exist within the scope of the Dao, how much more so for humans? Mencius said, "The Dao is like a great road." The ancients used the character for "path" (道) to name this concept precisely because all human activity depends on it. Thus, the Dao is the universal principle humanity follows.

As for "De," it refers to the personal realization of the Dao. Every person is born with complete Virtue, though their innate endowments differ. Before the myriad things took form, De already existed—it requires no external cultivation, nor does it depend on others' instruction. One need only seek it within. Yang Xiong stated, "De means attainment." The ancients formed the character for "De" (德) with "upright heart" (直心) to signify that Virtue is not about acquiring external things but an inner awakening. The Dao is eternal and boundless, while De can be cultivated. Precisely because the Dao is eternal, it transcends the constraints of past and present, renewing itself endlessly without termination. The Daode Jing states, "The Dao can endure long," referring to this quality of never decaying through the ages. De can be cultivated, thus expanding the four virtuous sprouts (as Mencius proposed: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom). It undergoes countless transformations yet remains unchanged, nurtured and expanded without ever being lost. The Book of Rites says, "De is the root of nature," meaning that Virtue fulfills our innate nature to achieve enduring existence.

The Dao has periods of flourishing and decline; De has times of prosperity and decay. In well-governed eras, the Dao is evident and De thrives; in chaotic times, the Dao is obscured and De deteriorates. By the late Zhou dynasty, the great Dao was hidden, and Virtue declined further, splintering into the divergent theories of the Hundred Schools of Thought. Obscured by various philosophies, it became incomplete, impure, and fragmented—thus the art of the Dao was divided. Therefore, Laozi, moved by profound concern for the mysterious Dao...

This scripture elucidates the unique value and profound significance of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) as a canonical text. With compassionate concern for all beings, Laozi composed its eighty-one chapters (representing the ultimate yang number nine multiplied by itself), taking serenity and wuwei (non-action) as fundamental principles. Following natural laws, it expounds eternal truths of the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). Unlike works by other philosophers of the Hundred Schools, this classic resembles fixed stars in the heavens or the unchanging warp threads in weaving—the truths revealed in the Daode Jing are similarly eternal and immutable.

Though comprising just over five thousand characters, this scripture encompasses all phenomena. Its language appears simple, yet its profound meanings are so deep that a lifetime may prove insufficient for complete comprehension. Genuine students must not remain at literal interpretations but penetrate beyond the words to grasp deeper significances, ultimately reaching the state of "attaining the meaning while forgetting the words." As Confucius advised "silently comprehending" and Mencius emphasized "deep study leading to personal realization," the true essence of Dao and De cannot be fully expressed through language nor measured by shallow understanding—it requires spiritual awakening and divine illumination.

The opening line—"The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao"—reveals this core teaching. Emperor Huizong of Song noted in his commentary: The Dao itself is ineffable; whatever can be articulated is not the true Dao. Just as seasonal cycles and the transformations of myriad things represent observable phenomena rather than eternal reality, the true "constant Dao" has neither beginning nor end. Through it, Fuxi (the ancient sage-king) harmonized yin-yang, and the Queen Mother of the West (Daoist goddess) maintains her immortal abode on Mount Shaoguang. Zhuangzi similarly recorded the words of "Beginningless": The Dao cannot be spoken—what is spoken is not the Dao. This resembles Confucius' experience when meeting Wenbo Xuezhi—"the Dao was perceived the moment their eyes met"—demonstrating that supreme truth can only be apprehended through spiritual communion.

In the primordial chaos of the cosmos, there existed two states: "non-being" (wu) and "being" (you). "Non-being" refers to the formless, nameless original state, while "being" denotes the manifested state after all things took form. Only when phenomena took shape and patterns were established could they be perceived and known.

The true Dao (the Way) transcends all concrete phenomena and cannot be confined by rules or numbers. It has no form or appearance that can be directly observed. As Zhuangzi said, the Great Dao cannot be fully expressed in words. The Dao has neither beginning nor end, so no name can adequately define it.

All things in the world embody the principle of unity in opposition: what seems feasible may conceal hidden dangers, while what appears impossible may nurture new life. Just as the four seasons alternate in endless cycles—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—prosperity and decline transform into each other. Nothing remains in a fixed state forever; today's correctness may become tomorrow's error, and past contradictions may evolve into future harmony.

To stubbornly define the Dao with concrete concepts is like trying to comprehend eternity through the changing seasons—it only captures temporary appearances, not the essence. Though all phenomena have names and forms, the more we describe them, the further we stray from the Dao's truth. Though the Dao cannot be spoken of, there exists an eternal truth beyond words; though it cannot be named, there exists a natural state beyond names.

This unchanging truth is the "constant Dao" (chang dao), and this natural state is the "constant name" (chang ming). The constant Dao, as described in the Daode Jing, "stands alone and does not change," while the constant name "has endured from ancient times to the present without fading." All things have their origins, but the constant Dao and constant name are the origin itself; all things depend on heaven and earth for existence, yet the constant Dao and constant name precede them. They are unaffected by the gathering and dispersing of Qi (vital energy) and remain unchanged by the birth and death of forms.

Those who comprehend this principle can become sages. Fuxi, for example, grasped this truth and was able to return to the source of primordial Qi. The "Great Beginning" (taichu) refers to the initial state of primordial Qi—those who can return to this state attain longevity. Like the Queen Mother of the West dwelling on Mount Shaoguang, none know her beginning or end. The essence of the Dao is without beginning or end, and those who realize this truth become one with the Dao.

This passage explores the relationship between the Dao and all phenomena in heaven and earth. The Dao is the most fundamental existence in the cosmos—mysterious and unfathomable, it cannot be comprehended through intellect nor grasped through form. We reluctantly call it "Dao," though this is merely a provisional designation. Before heaven and earth took form, the Dao existed in a nameless, formless state, what the Yijing (Book of Changes) refers to as the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate).

While heaven and earth represent the grandest of all formed things, they too emerged from the formless Dao. As Zhuangzi said, the Dao gives birth to heaven and earth. Before their formation, the Dao could not be named—it was simply called "the beginning of heaven and earth." Only after their emergence did the ten thousand things begin to manifest, at which point the Dao revealed itself as "the mother of all things."

Though heaven and earth act as parents to all creation, they themselves rely on the Dao for their operation. The initial vitality of all things stems from the Qian (Heavenly) principle (yang energy), while their physical forms take shape through the Kun (Earthly) principle (yin energy). Yet ultimately, the fundamental force sustaining the cosmos remains the Dao. From its origin, the Dao is the nameless "beginning"; viewed through its generative function, it manifests as the named "mother." Though the terms differ, both refer to the same essential Dao.

True sages can perceive the state before heaven and earth's formation through realization of the Dao. This explains why sages can understand the origins of heaven and earth even after their manifestation. The passage reveals the dual nature of the Dao in Daoist thought—simultaneously the formless origin and the generative source of form.

This passage discusses the two perspectives of "constant non-being" (常无) and "constant being" (常有) for observing the world. Zhuangzi teaches that establishing the "constant non-being" viewpoint frees one from attachment to concrete things, while adopting the "constant being" perspective prevents the denial of any existence.

"Constant non-being" operates at the level of Dao principles—like the most refined existence, though invisible and intangible (not glaringly obvious), it allows observation of the subtlest essence of all things. "Constant being" examines concrete phenomena, encompassing all transformations (not obscure), enabling one to perceive the manifold manifestations of the phenomenal world. Both realms contain the wisdom of "the subtle" (miao) and "the manifest" (jiao).

True wisdom observes both "being" and "non-being" simultaneously. Lesser intellects often cling to extremes: either fixating on concrete forms while neglecting essence (obscured by partiality), or pursuing emptiness while abandoning foundations (rejecting being for void). This fragmentation is precisely what causes the disintegration of Daoist practice.

"Non-being" gives birth to "being," and "being" ultimately returns to "non-being." They are interdependent—there is no "being" divorced from "non-being," nor "non-being" that negates "being." Laozi's "constant non-being" is not absolute nothingness, nor is his "constant being" rigid substantiality. This state, neither absolute nor fixed, endlessly transforms while its fundamental principle remains unchanged—hence called "constant."

Zhuangzi begins his "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" (齐物论) with this teaching, demonstrating his genuine comprehension of the profound mystery between "being" and "non-being." When all attachments are cleared away, even sagely wisdom and humaneness must be relinquished—this is "constant non-being." When establishing various principles, phenomena and names must be preserved—this is "constant being."

Confucius says in the Yijing (易经): "When about to take action or initiate movement"—without possessing the most refined wisdom, how could one achieve perfect timing? This describes the natural transition from "non-being" to "being."

This passage discusses the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). The Dao (the cosmic origin) itself has no concrete form, encompassing both "being" and "non-being"—these two emerge from the same source though called by different names. The most refined and wondrous transformations all originate from the inscrutable Dao; though their names differ, their essence is the same.

"Being" and "non-being" depend on and transform into each other: when "being" manifests, "non-being" is concealed within it; when "non-being" manifests, "being" is contained within it. In the realm of the indistinct (huanghu), forms can be glimpsed; within the primordial chaos (hundun), things take shape. Those with true wisdom perceive that "being" and "non-being" are fundamentally one, understanding that "being" is not ultimate reality, nor is "non-being" absolute nothingness.

Ordinary people often fall into two extremes: some cling to "non-being," denying the existence of "being" and sinking into nihilistic emptiness; others cling to "being," chasing appearances while forgetting the root, mistaking the illusory for the real. Various schools of thought each adhere to their own views, which is precisely what fragments the great Dao.

Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary notes that the Dao is inherently formless and beyond distinctions of refinement. All things share the same origin with me; right and wrong are originally one, hence both are called "mysterious" (xuan, profound and unfathomable). The deluded always seek to abandon the false in pursuit of the true, yet this only takes them further from truth. In reality, "being" and "non-being" are merely different names for the same reality.

Further explanation clarifies: the true origin (zhenyi, the genuine One) is an undifferentiated whole containing infinite potential. At the level of the Dao, there is no distinction between "being" and "non-being"; but when the Dao manifests as the myriad things, differences arise. The ignorant cling to distinctions between self and objects, generating concepts of right and wrong, opposition. In truth, all things lack inherent nature, and the self is likewise illusory. All things share the same root; right and wrong spring from the same source, ultimately returning to the same foundation—how can there be any division between "being" and "non-being"? Thus, both are called "mysterious." The deluded regard "non-being" as real and "being" as false, but these are both one-sided understandings.

People always seek to discard the false in pursuit of the true, unaware that this very effort distances them further from reality. In truth, "non-being" (wu) is the most subtle form of "being" (you), and "being" itself constitutes reality. Though "non-being" and "being" appear contradictory, they are in fact complementary. This profound and mysterious principle serves as the gateway to all wondrous realms.

Emperor Huizong of Song, in his commentary, cites the Suwen stating that "the Mysterious" (xuan) gives birth to "Spirit" (shen), while the Book of Changes (Yijing) describes "Spirit" as the source that manifests the subtle essence of all things. When this subtlety is examined on a smaller scale, it becomes "the Mysterious." "The Mysterious" is the color of heaven—though it can display all hues, the origin from which these colors arise never reveals itself. The phrase "mysterious and even more mysterious" (xuan zhi you xuan) refers precisely to this source that generates colors. This profound principle permeates all existence: the heavens revolve, the earth supports, humans possess spiritual awareness, and all things flourish—all due to the operation of "the Mysterious." Thus it is called "the gateway to all wonders" (zhong miao zhi men).

Just as the Book of Changes only discusses "the wondrous" (miao) in its final passages, the Daodejing introduces this concept at its very beginning, demonstrating how the sages' teachings echo one another from start to finish. To elaborate: wind generates wood, wood generates the liver (in Chinese medical theory), which manifests as "the Mysterious" in heaven and as "the Dao" in humans. The Dao produces "the One" (Taiyi, the Supreme Ultimate), and "the One" generates wisdom. "The One" then gives rise to "the Two" (Yin-Yang), while "the Mysterious" ascends to produce "Spirit." The function of "Spirit" is omnipresent yet formless—its light and pure aspects form heaven, its heavy and turbid aspects form earth, and its harmonized qi endows humans with spiritual awareness. All things depend on it to thrive. Thus, what manifests the wondrous in all phenomena is none other than this supreme "Spirit," whose ultimate source remains "the Mysterious."

Outwardly manifested, "the Mysterious" appears vast and tinged with red; inwardly contracted, it becomes minute and profoundly deep. Its inward contraction creates subtlety—for instance, "Mysterious Virtue" (xuande) refers to virtue that is inwardly restrained, while "Mysterious Darkness" (xuanming) denotes entry into profound states. Though minute, "the Mysterious" still belongs to the realm of form. The Book of Changes speaks of "heaven being mysterious and earth being yellow," and the Zhuangzi mentions the "Mysterious Heaven"—both indicating that "the Mysterious" is heaven's color. This color combines red and black: red belongs to Yang, black to Yin. While all things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their fronts, "the Mysterious" uniquely embodies both qualities. All phenomena constrained by Yin-Yang depend on "the Mysterious"—how much more so does the source that generates "the Mysterious"? This origin is what "mysterious and even more mysterious" refers to, which the Liezi calls "the source that produces colors." All things have their origins, yet the gateway remains unseen—the entire mystery lies herein.

Confucius only began discussing profound mysteries in the "Explaining the Trigrams" chapter of the Book of Changes (Yijing), while Laozi's Daodejing opens directly with the esoteric meaning of the Dao (the Way). The Yijing approaches understanding the Mandate of Heaven through investigating principles and exhausting the nature of things, emphasizing gradual comprehension of the Great Dao. In contrast, Laozi advocates directly returning to the root of life (returning to the origin and restoring one's innate nature), stressing sudden awakening in cultivation. The Yijing uses hexagram images and numerical patterns to reveal heavenly transformations (xiangshu), while Laozi unveils mysteries through the relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). Though their modes of expression differ, they complement each other; their teaching methods vary, yet their fundamental principles converge.

On the dialectical relationship between "beauty and ugliness, good and evil": When everyone in the world agrees on certain standards as beautiful, the concept of ugliness arises; when all people praise certain conduct as good, the notion of evil emerges. Emperor Huizong of Song noted in his commentary: The Great Dao itself makes no distinction between beauty and ugliness, and original nature transcends good and evil. Precisely because beauty is defined, ugliness emerges by contrast; when standards of goodness are established, the existence of evil becomes apparent. What people revere as marvelous will eventually decay, while what they despise as foul may transform—the boundary between beauty and ugliness is ultimately indeterminable. What was considered right in the past may be rejected today, and what is discarded now may be valued in the future—how can standards of good and evil ever be absolute?

The deeper meaning lies in this: The cosmic truth (Dao) is unitary. Fundamentally, concepts like beauty/ugliness and good/evil are all human distinctions. Just as "above" requires "below" and "left" implies "right," wanting only beauty without ugliness or only good without evil is as impossible as desiring yang without yin. People often view things one-sidedly: considering the marvelous as beautiful and the foul as evil, clinging stubbornly to their views while condemning others. They fail to understand that creation is ever-changing—beauty may turn to ugliness, good may transform into evil, and foulness and wonder perpetually alternate. In truth, there are no eternal standards of beauty and ugliness, nor fixed criteria for good and evil.

This passage explores the core Daoist concept of the unity of opposites. All things in the world appear to be in opposition, yet in reality they are interdependent and mutually transformative.

In the primordial state of Taiyi (the undifferentiated cosmic condition), all things existed as an undivided whole. Only after the differentiation of Yin and Yang did phenomena begin to manifest as opposites. These oppositions are expressed in six aspects: being and non-being, difficulty and ease, length and brevity, height and lowness, sound and echo, front and back. Ordinary people often cling to these dualities, becoming trapped in confusion without transcendence.

Being emerges from non-being, ultimately returning to non-being; only by recognizing the difficulty of the journey does one appreciate the value of level ground; measurement reveals relative length; high mountains and deep valleys define each other; sound gives rise to echo; shadow follows form. The revolutions of Yin-Yang, the succession of seasons, and the birth and decay of all things are accomplished in the blink of an eye. What appears difficult becomes easy when following nature's course; what seems easy becomes difficult through forced effort.

Those who attain the Dao understand these opposites are fundamentally unified. They perceive the essence of things while holding to the root, observe transformations while grasping the patterns. Seemingly practicing wuwei (non-action), they nevertheless accomplish all actions; comprehending emptiness, they constantly dwell in fullness. They transcend distinctions of preference, allowing beauty and ugliness, good and evil to exist naturally. They treat the virtuous with virtue, and the non-virtuous also with virtue, harmonizing all differences into a unified whole.

Just as striking a gong produces its characteristic tone, and plucking a zither string yields its particular note; as spring naturally gives way to summer, and elders precede the young in birth order - though these opposing phenomena all manifest the Dao, becoming attached to the oppositions themselves leads one further from the Way. In the primal chaos of Taichu, not even primordial Qi had yet appeared - that was the state of perfect wholeness and profound mystery.

This passage elucidates the Daoist worldview of "unity of opposites" and the philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." It explains that before the division of heaven and earth, all things existed as one undifferentiated whole. The Supreme Ultimate (Taiji), the primordial source of the cosmos, differentiated into the two modes of Yin and Yang, whereby all things exist through their opposites. The eternal Dao disperses into myriad transformations, while the unified truth manifests through diverse thoughts—all ultimately returning to the same origin though appearing through different paths.

The text presents six pairs of complementary opposites: being and non-being, difficulty and ease, long and short, high and low, sound and echo, form and shadow. These opposites mutually depend on and transform into each other: being emerges from non-being and returns to it; difficulty and ease reveal themselves through comparison; length and height are relative concepts; sound produces echoes as form casts shadows.

The alternation of seasons and the generation of all things follow this principle of unity in opposition. What appears to emerge suddenly actually arises from "non-being," while what seems to disappear never truly ceases. People often consider "deliberate action" difficult, yet by turning inward, they discover that "non-action"—following the natural course—is not difficult at all.

What stands high is not artificially elevated but naturally so; what lies low is not forcibly lowered but follows its inherent nature. Just as the five musical notes (gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu of ancient Chinese scale) follow their proper sequence, so too do the seasons alternate according to their inherent patterns. Though these opposing phenomena all reveal the presence of the Dao, becoming attached to the opposites themselves distances one from the Dao's essence.

Therefore, the sage who comprehends the Dao approaches affairs with an attitude of "non-action," teaches through "wordless instruction," and follows natural patterns without forcing outcomes.

Emperor Huizong of Song, in his commentary on the Dao De Jing, explains: The phrase "to act through non-action (Wuwei)" resembles Zhuangzi's saying "governing the world by doing nothing." To practice "teaching without words" is like the Book of Changes stating "to establish teachings through the divine Dao (Shen Dao)"—where the world naturally submits. Deliberate action inevitably brings success or failure, and speech unavoidably carries right or wrong—these become burdens. Only the sage transcends worldly attachments, teaching all things without being bound by them.

Further elaboration in the commentary clarifies: Some matters may seem obscure yet must be addressed, but "affairs of non-action" refer to actions arising from a state of natural spontaneity. Like Emperor Shun, who governed without issuing commands, yet all things flourished naturally—this is the realm of acting through non-action. Though governing the world involves concrete affairs, its foundation lies in non-action, leaving no trace of forced effort.

"To cultivate the Dao is called teaching"—"teaching without words" means influencing others through one's own conduct. Like Wang Tai (a Daoist figure), who neither lectured while standing nor debated while seated, yet people naturally followed. Though establishing teachings requires engaging with worldly matters, their origin lies in the natural Dao, making verbal instruction unnecessary.

Deliberate action easily falls into artifice; forced effort rarely achieves perfection. The wise do not indulge in empty talk, and those who do lack true understanding. The sage penetrates the essence of the Dao, aligning with the patterns of all things—handling affairs effortlessly yet successfully, teaching without words yet inspiring heartfelt reverence. Even amid worldly complexities, no resentment lingers in the heart—how could judgments of right and wrong burden such a one?

All things grow naturally without being rejected; they are nurtured yet not possessed, accomplished yet unclaimed. Precisely because merit is not claimed, achievements never fade. Like a mirror impartially reflecting beauty and ugliness, or a valley echoing sounds naturally, the sage treats all things likewise—letting each follow its inherent nature. Storms are not deemed cruel, nor eternal nourishment called kindness; shaping heaven and earth is not considered cunning. This is the state of "acting without claiming."

This passage elucidates the profound wisdom of "not claiming merit." The heavens and earth operate through the changing seasons without ever proclaiming their achievements, and the sage (one who has attained the Dao) emulates this heavenly principle. Even when accomplishing monumental deeds, they remain as though detached from them. To forcibly claim credit for one's achievements is, in fact, a form of delusion. Thus, true accomplishment requires no possession—the moment one clings to merit, it is lost. This principle holds true across time: by not claiming merit, external things cannot unsettle you. What comes naturally will arrive in its own time; what departs should be allowed to follow its course. Why impose artificial additions or subtractions? This is the truth behind "not claiming merit, yet enduring eternally."

Using a single body to respond to infinite transformations, and a single mind to handle countless affairs, is like a mirror reflecting objects without retaining traces, or a vast valley that embraces all without rejecting beauty or ugliness. Only then can one calmly navigate all circumstances. If one detests complexity in pursuit of silence, or fears responsibility while seeking comfort, who then will manage affairs? Who will sustain the world? All things grow and transform naturally, requiring no one to direct them; myriad forms manifest spontaneously, needing no one to control them. What has form reveals its capabilities through its own structure; what possesses spirit finds its place through its inherent nature. To forcibly claim these as one's own is delusion. This is the realm of "nurturing all things without possessing them."

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) engages with the world without deliberate intent. Their embrace of all things is not contrived—like autumn winds sweeping away fallen leaves, so naturally do things pass without resentment. Their blessings extend to future generations not as calculated benevolence, but like spring breezes and gentle rain, warming all yet never boasting of kindness. The heavens cover all, and I follow the Dao to receive this covering; the earth bears all things, and I follow the Dao to continue this bearing. Even the tiniest grass root is aided in its growth, and the smallest flying insect is granted shelter. This is not deliberate crafting but the natural nurturing of the Dao's spontaneous unfolding—something no cleverness or brute force could ever achieve.

To embrace all things, bless future generations, bear heaven and earth, and shape myriad forms—these may appear as "deliberate action," yet in essence, they involve no coercion, no proclamation of benevolence, and no display of cunning. They flow naturally from "non-action" (wuwei), and thus endure without relying on results.

This scripture expounds two core principles: achieving merit without claiming credit (功成不居) and not exalting the worthy or valuing rare goods (不尚贤贵货).

The first section employs natural metaphors: Just as the four seasons alternate in ceaseless motion, when Yang Qi (Wu) emerges, Yin Qi (Ding) retreats; when Wood Qi (Jia) flourishes, Water Qi (Gui) recedes—all things exist in mutual waxing and waning. The Dao's movement never stagnates. The sage emulates this celestial pattern, accomplishing great deeds yet never dwelling on achievements. Like an unbroken flame where each flicker appears identical yet is distinct, or a bronze mirror reflecting forms that are never the same—what exists in this instant becomes the past the next. The truly awakened mind clings to nothing: neither anticipating the future nor clinging to the past. Thus, their accomplishments endure.

The second section elucidates the wisdom of "not exalting the worthy" and "not valuing rare goods": Celebrating exceptional talent breeds intellectual competition among people, while treasuring rare objects ignites covetousness. Historical lessons show how venerating virtue sparked conflicts between Confucian and Mohist schools, and pursuing treasures drove men to steal in broad daylight. Zhuangzi taught that only by eliminating reverence for sages and sealing the mouths of debate can the world return to natural harmony. The Book of Documents (Shangshu·Lü Ao) similarly states that when rare treasures go unvalued, people remain content. When worthiness isn't artificially elevated, individuals abide in their original nature; when goods aren't excessively prized, covetous thoughts never arise.

This scripture primarily discusses how desires affect people and the way to maintain inner purity.

A thief who digs through walls in broad daylight does so because they covet rare and valuable possessions. If people do not honor the virtuous, they become stubborn without realizing it; if they do not value integrity, they grow self-righteous without awareness. When all people abide by their true nature, who would boast of empty fame? Those who act improperly are like someone standing on tiptoe, trying to appear taller than they are. If everyone remained content in their place, there would be no conflict in the world.

Zhuangzi said that only by eliminating the conduct of sages like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu could the virtue of the world be unified. If people did not prize material wealth, they would peacefully draw water from wells, plow fields for food, and live in contentment with their lot. Who would then see another’s possessions and feel greed? If this thieving impulse were eradicated, no one would steal. This is the meaning behind Zhuangzi’s saying: "Discard the jade, destroy the pearls, and thieves will vanish."

Do not let people see things that stir desire, and their minds will remain undisturbed. Emperor Huizong of Song commented: To satisfy their cravings, people defy their true nature, fighting and deceiving, even resorting to robbery. Bo Yi starved on Shouyang Mountain because he prized reputation, while Robber Zhi rampaged on Dongling Hill for profit. Their hearts were as scorched by fire and as frozen by ice—torn by turmoil, beyond restraint.

Sages are different: They neither chase profit nor flee from harm; they neither delight in longevity nor grieve early death; they neither take pride in fame nor feel shame in poverty. What, then, could stir their desires? When thoughts of desire do not arise, the mind remains pure. Even when moved, they respond with moderation, never clinging. Confucius, by forty, was no longer misled by external things, and Mencius said, "After forty, my heart did not waver."

Ordinary people see only material things, not the Dao (the Way), so everything they perceive provokes desire. Sages do the opposite—they see the Dao, not objects, and thus nothing tempts them. This is because they transcend external sights through inner awakening. When the mind is clear, external disturbances fade naturally. But those fixated on desire are blinded by what they see, chasing material things and losing their true nature.

The eyes delight in beauty, the ears in pleasing sounds, the mouth in fine flavors, the nose in fragrant scents—these are all human desires. Yet the ignorant fail to realize: dazzling colors confuse vision, enchanting music disrupts hearing, rich flavors corrupt the palate, and overpowering scents befuddle the nose—all of which harm one’s innate nature.

People are often ensnared by fame and profit, resorting to all means of contention, plunder, deception, and arrogance. Those who covet great wealth perish for riches, while those who pursue empty fame die for reputation. Just as Boyi (a virtuous scholar of late Shang Dynasty) starved to death for his moral integrity, and Robber Zhi (a notorious thief of the Spring and Autumn period) met his end for material gain—both were blinded by the desires for fame and profit.

When these people obtain what they seek, they rejoice as if scorched by fire; when they lose it, they tremble as if plunged into an icy abyss. Their hearts are enslaved by desires, ultimately descending into chaos and frenzy beyond redemption. This is like using the legendary Suihou Pearl as a pellet to shoot at sparrows high in the sky—utter folly.

The sage, however, is entirely different: neither chasing profit nor fleeing misfortune, understanding that gain and loss share the same essence; neither glorifying success nor shaming hardship, viewing favorable and adverse circumstances as one. No greed arises in the heart, and external things cannot disturb it. With a mind clear as still water, it reflects all things yet remains tranquil, responds to all without attachment. Neither clinging to stillness nor indulging in change, even when myriad scenes unfold before the eyes, none can penetrate the realm of their spirit (Shen). This is the state Confucius called "free from delusion" and Mencius described as "unshaken heart-mind."

Thus, the sage's method of governing the world is this: keeping the people's hearts empty (desireless) while ensuring their bellies are full; weakening competitive impulses while strengthening their bones and sinews. This preserves the people's simplicity, free from cunning minds and covetous thoughts.

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Valleys echo because they are hollow, mirrors reflect because they are clear, and musical pipes produce sound because they are empty. Ears hear when unobstructed, eyes see when unclouded, and noses smell when unimpeded. If these organs are clogged, their functions fail. When sages govern, they treat near and far, kin and stranger equally, acting in accordance with the Dao (the Way) without personal bias. Like Emperor Yao, who employed both the virtuous Shun and the flawed Gun (father of Yu the Great)—this exemplifies the empty heart.

An empty heart perceives things impartially, without preferences; a full belly brings contentment, free from greed. Why then exalt the worthy or treasure goods? Sages value substantial nourishment ("filling the belly") over superficial dazzle ("pleasing the eyes"), for the stomach does not discriminate—it embraces all.

Will is the guide of the heart, bones the pillars of the body. Excessive will leads to dying for fame, insatiable greed, or arrogant pride, drifting ever farther from the Dao; bodily weakness causes one to drift with the current, harming and being harmed by external things until sinking beyond return. The sage's will always remains humble and lowly, while the multitude does precisely the opposite.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling in emptiness." Laozi teaches that truly wise individuals always place themselves behind others, yet naturally find themselves moving forward. They understand what constitutes strength, yet peacefully abide in softness; they comprehend what brings glory, yet willingly remain humble—this is the practice of "weakening self-will."

Nothing in the world can alter this state of mind, and no amount of change can shake this steadfastness. Like Guangchengzi (a legendary immortal) who lived 1,200 years without aging, it was precisely because he understood the principle of "strengthening the inner foundation." Zhuangzi also said: Only by maintaining a state of no-knowledge and no-desire can one return to the original, authentic nature. When sages govern the world, their aim is to preserve this natural state among the people. If excessive cleverness is used to categorize life or excessive desires disrupt innate nature, what appears as governance is actually creating chaos.

The explanation uses metaphors: If a house lacks space, conflicts arise between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law; if the mind lacks freedom, the six senses (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) clash with one another. The ancients valued the state of "emptiness"—just as valleys echo sounds, mirrors reflect images, and bamboo pipes produce music. Similarly, ears hear, eyes see, and noses smell precisely because of their inner hollowness. Solid things create obstructions, while emptiness allows unimpeded flow.

When sages govern the world, they maintain selfless inclusiveness, treating near and far, kin and stranger equally. Like Emperor Yao, who knew of Shun's virtue yet waited for public recommendation before appointing him; or who recognized Gun (Yu the Great's father) as stubborn yet tentatively employed him due to popular support. Sages do not cling to personal views but take the people's hearts as their own—thus Shun had to be recommended, and Gun had to be employed.

"Emptiness" does not mean sheer nothingness, only the absence of rigid opinions. The mind should naturally encompass all—seeming to exist yet not solid, seeming void yet not truly vacant. In the ultimate state of emptiness and stillness, there is no partiality toward the good nor aversion to the wicked, completely transcending distinctions of preference. Those who truly cultivate inner observation do not deliberately venerate the worthy but maintain pure, luminous emptiness within.

This passage discusses how Daoist practitioners should approach desires and external pursuits. Laozi suggests that constantly seeking material satisfaction from external sources leads to endless anxiety, while those who find contentment within themselves remain free from covetous thoughts. The reason sages don't value wealth or rare treasures lies in their emphasis on inner cultivation ("filling the belly" refers to spiritual nourishment). When one's inner being is fulfilled, the senses naturally withdraw, the spirit (Shen) remains internally anchored, and a state of peaceful satisfaction emerges - eliminating any grasping impulses.

The phrase "for the belly, not for the eyes" emphasizes prioritizing inner cultivation over sensory indulgence. The will should remain soft ("weakening the will"), yet the bones must stay strong ("strengthening the bones") - a metaphor suggesting humble determination coupled with unshakable foundations. When ambition grows too strong, one chases fame and wealth, boasting without real achievement, thereby distancing from the Dao. When foundations weaken, one drifts without conviction.

The sage's approach to life involves: gaining respect through humility, leading by following, knowing strength yet abiding in softness, understanding glory yet dwelling in simplicity. Thus nothing can unsettle them. Like Guangchengzi (the legendary immortal) who maintained youthful appearance after twelve centuries of self-cultivation - this exemplifies "strengthening the bones."

The text concludes that excessive knowledge becomes harmful - people should retain simplicity. Reducing desires constitutes the best heart-nourishing practice. Achieving knowledge-free desirelessness allows one to maintain childlike virtue (De) and return to original purity. When sages govern, they preserve people's natural state rather than disturbing life with excessive knowledge or damaging innate nature with desires. Even clever individuals wouldn't dare act recklessly under such governance.

(Note: Terms like "filling the belly," "weakening the will," and "strengthening the bones" are specific Daoist cultivation concepts; Guangchengzi appears in the Zhuangzi as an immortal who attained the Dao)

Emperor Huizong of Song, in his commentary on the Daode Jing, observed: Those skilled in debate dare not indulge in reckless speech, the courageous dare not abuse military force, the capable dare not flaunt their talents, and the wise dare not show off their cleverness. All acts of self-serving cleverness, manipulative stratagems, and the imposition of oppressive laws to suppress the people are prohibited by the sages. This is what Laozi meant by "making the clever dare not act recklessly."

The Shuyi further explains: Restraining debaters from excessive speech is because words are unnecessary; preventing warriors from using force is because violence is unnecessary; discouraging the capable from displaying their abilities is because reliance on individual talent is unnecessary; and stopping the wise from employing clever tricks is because petty cunning is unnecessary. By abandoning crafty intellect and simplifying penal systems, all behaviors involving petty cleverness, manipulative schemes, and harsh laws to oppress the people are to be prohibited. In this way, even if there are clever individuals, who would dare act recklessly?

Take the era of Emperor Shun as an example: Ministers like Gao Yao, Kui, Houji, and Xie each fulfilled their duties, officials learned from one another, and outstanding talents contributed their best. Would they have busied themselves with trivial matters, flaunted petty cleverness, or used their wisdom for personal gain? They simply followed the ruler’s commands and conveyed them to the people for implementation.

Regarding "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," Emperor Huizong commented: The sage’s governance does not mean abandoning human affairs, isolating all things, or indifferently standing aloof. Rather, it is through "non-action" that "action" is achieved. The transformations of all things belong to the realm of form, while the sage grasps the Dao (the Way), standing above all things and governing by mastering the fundamental principles. When things arise, the sage observes their natural course; when they grow, the sage supports their completion. How could governance fail under such circumstances? Thus, in the higher realm, the sun, moon, and stars move in order; in the lower realm, birds, beasts, and plants flourish as they should.

The Shuyi adds: If governing the world only emphasizes "non-action" without understanding "action," it would be like piling up clods of earth and dust—seemingly non-active but actually contrary to reason. If it only emphasizes "action" without understanding "non-action," it would be like drifting with the current or spreading like wildfire—seemingly active but losing its essence. Only when "action" does not depart from the root of "non-action," and "non-action" does not negate the function of "action," can governance be achieved effortlessly through "non-action." How could this be interpreted as abandoning human affairs and isolating all things in cold indifference?

This passage explains the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and all things. The highest level is called the Dao, and its manifestations never transcend concrete phenomena. All transformations of things occur within the realm of visible forms. Only by understanding that the governing principle (Dao) itself is not a concrete thing can one become truly united with it without barriers. The Dao governs all diverse phenomena, making them follow the same universal law.

The Dao stands above all things, using a unified principle to govern them. Therefore, when all things arise, one should observe how they return to their source—this is what the Daode Jing means by "All things arise together, and I observe their return." When things grow, one should follow their natural development to completion, just as Yang Xiong said: "The ruler assists Heaven and Earth in perfecting their transformative work."

Looking up to the heavens, we see the moon's waxing and waning follow fixed patterns, and the stars appear in their proper seasons; looking down to earth, birds and beasts, flowers and trees all find their proper places. If one can thus accord with nature, then without deliberate governance, the world will naturally become orderly. This emphasizes the concept of Wuwei (non-action), advocating alignment with natural laws rather than forceful interference.