《道德真經集解(一)》

This passage explores the profound meaning behind the opening lines of the Daodejing: "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao." The true Dao cannot be fully expressed in words—whatever can be articulated is not the unchanging, eternal Dao. Concepts like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are manifestations of the Dao, yet benevolence is not identical to righteousness, nor is propriety the same as wisdom. These specific expressions are subject to change and cannot endure eternally.

The same applies to names—whatever can be named is not an eternal, unchanging name. In the primordial state of heaven and earth, there was only nameless chaos (referring to the undifferentiated state before the cosmos took form). Only after the emergence of the myriad things did names come into being. The nameless represents the essence of the Dao, while the named represents its function. The sage comprehends the nature of the Dao, capable of both immersing in concrete phenomena with a mind of emptiness to observe their mysteries (referring to the deeper patterns beyond appearances) and grasping the boundaries of manifestation from absolute nothingness.

If one focuses solely on phenomena without understanding their essence, they remain superficial. Conversely, if one speaks only of abstract principles without practical application, they fall into empty theorizing. As Zhuangzi said, Laozi established the concepts of "constant nothingness" (chang wu) and "constant being" (chang you), but not to cling to either extreme. Wang Bi (a Wei-Jin period Neo-Daoist scholar) suggested observing the boundaries of things through desire—a view open to debate, as desire can lead to attachment to material things, obscuring true perception.

The core message here is that the Dao is both transcendent and immanent, formless yet manifest in all things. The sage must grasp both the essence and function of the Dao—neither fixating on concrete phenomena nor losing themselves in abstract nothingness. This is the complete way of understanding.

This passage expounds the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). All things follow the principle of existence (being) and dissolution (non-being) — these seemingly opposite states actually originate from the same source. The supreme truth (Dao) encompasses both "constant being" (eternal existence) and "constant non-being" (eternal emptiness). Just as when observing phenomena, one must perceive both their subtle essence (observing their mystery) and their changing manifestations (observing their boundaries).

The term "xuan" (profound) here refers to the abstruse, unfathomable ultimate truth. Like the dark azure hue of the distant sky at its extremity, "the profound upon profound" indicates a truth transcending all dualities. Neither Buddhism's "absolute emptiness" nor its "marvelous existence" can fully describe the Dao, hence the need for the concept of "chongxuan" (doubly profound absolute truth beyond opposition). The movement of heaven and earth, human spirituality, and the flourishing of all creatures all stem from this mysterious source, thus called "the gate of all wonders."

Chapter two discusses the principle of relativity: when all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when all recognize good as good, the notion of not-good emerges. Concepts like being/non-being, difficult/easy, long/short, high/low, sound/echo, and before/after all depend on and transform into each other. While people use names to distinguish beauty from ugliness or good from evil, these very standards of judgment inevitably create opposition.

This scripture explores the nature of relative concepts and the way of the sage in navigating the world. It points out that people often cling to notions like "beauty" and "goodness," unaware that these concepts are inherently relative. For instance, someone who considers themselves tall will appear short when encountering someone taller; those who believe they are ahead will be surpassed by faster individuals. These paired opposites (being and non-being, difficulty and ease, length and brevity, height and lowness, sound and silence, front and back) form the root of all differentiation in the world and the source of human confusion.

The way of the sage (one who has attained the Dao) differs markedly from ordinary approaches: their actions appear as wuwei (non-action, without forced striving), and their teaching transcends words. They allow all things to develop naturally without interference, create without claiming possession, act without self-importance, and accomplish without dwelling on achievements. Precisely because they do not cling to ownership, they never experience loss. Whether in poverty or wealth, the sage maintains a transcendent state of mind.

The text cites several commentators' insights: Zhao observes that the mutual generation of being and non-being resembles the relativity of height and lowness, neither escaping the realm of "being"; Guang notes that only those who transcend duality can unify these contradictions; Zhenghe maintains that at the level of the Dao (cosmic origin), there exists no inherent distinction between beauty and ugliness or good and evil—these opposing concepts are all human constructs.

The burdens brought by wealth and honor are what we call "non-attachment" (bu ju). If I remain unattached to these things, how can they affect me? This is the highest form of worldly wisdom. Zhenghe (Note: the Daoist name of Emperor Huizong of Song) explains: All things grow naturally, transforming in response to circumstances without refusal. They take form by themselves, change by themselves, grow by themselves, and manifest by themselves—where is the need for human intervention?

Zhao (Note: likely commentator Zhao Zhijian) says: The concept of "non-action" (wuwei) exists in contrast to its opposite; there is true non-action. The concept of "wordlessness" exists in contrast to its opposite; there is true wordlessness. "Action" and "non-action," "speech" and "wordlessness"—these are all relative concepts, no different from "being and non-being" or "high and low." True non-action and true wordlessness transcend all dualistic concepts.

Chapter Three discusses not exalting the worthy. When worthiness isn't glorified, the people won't compete for fame. When rare goods aren't prized, the people won't steal. When desirable things aren't displayed, minds won't be disturbed. Therefore, when sages govern the world, they empty people's minds but fill their bellies, weaken their competitive ambitions while strengthening their physical foundations.

If worthiness is exalted, people will feel ashamed at not measuring up and consequently contend. If rare goods are prized, people will suffer from not obtaining them and consequently steal. If desirable things are displayed, people will grow anxious from lacking them, leading to social chaos. Yet to completely abolish worthiness, treasures, and desires because of this would be wrong. The sage's method is: employing the worthy without glorifying them, keeping treasures without valuing them, permitting desires without flaunting them. Thus the worthy are employed without public contention, and precious objects remain visible without inspiring theft or disorder. This is how minds are emptied without affecting material sufficiency, and competitive wills are weakened without harming physical strength.

If instead worthiness is exalted, treasures flaunted, and desires stimulated, the people's minds and material cravings will both become excessive. If these things are completely abolished, the people's willpower will decline and their bodies weaken. The former leads to endless contention; the latter leads to the neglect of all affairs. Zhao explains: Empty minds and full bellies result precisely from rulers neither glorifying, nor flaunting, nor stimulating—thereby preserving the people's simplicity. Some say "emptying the mind to nurture the Dao" is a fine sentiment, but it's not this chapter's main point.

The key to the sage's governance is letting people abide in their original nature. Too much knowledge disrupts this nature, so people must be kept simple, preventing the clever from daring to act recklessly.

This passage discusses the principles of governance and the nature of the Dao. When rulers excessively interfere in people's lives and damage human nature through various desires, what appears to be governance actually creates greater chaos. Therefore, the people should maintain their natural simplicity, free from excessive desires and cunning minds. When people cease to admire superficial glamour and cultivate inner tranquility, even the clever cannot employ their craftiness. The eloquent dare not flaunt their rhetoric, the brave dare not display brute force, the talented dare not boast of their abilities, and the wise dare not show off their cleverness—this is the state of "making the clever dare not act."

True governance is "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," where nothing remains ungoverned. When sages govern the world, they do not abandon human affairs but rather follow the natural patterns of things. They observe the cyclical movement as all beings arise, and nurture their natural maturation as they grow—how could anything then remain ungoverned?

Chapter Four describes the characteristics of the Dao: Though the Dao appears empty, its function is inexhaustible and unfathomable, like the origin of all things. Though formless and shapeless, it embraces all existence between heaven and earth. It blunts sharp edges, untangles complications, tempers brightness, and mingles with the dust—existing in a state that seems both present and absent.

Every person embodies the Dao to some degree, but only sages can fully preserve it. Blunting sharp edges prevents falling into falsehood; dissolving anger prevents conflict with all beings. Without falsehood or conflict, when external calamities are eliminated, inner radiance naturally manifests. Yet this radiance must be tempered, for excessive brilliance creates separation from all things. While brightness represents ultimate purity and dust represents ultimate impurity, the sage rejects neither, fearing to abandon anything. Only by achieving this can one fully preserve the Dao—seemingly faint yet profoundly elusive. As the Kaiyuan Zhenren said: The Dao is omnipresent, existing in both radiance and dust, yet its essence is neither radiance nor dust. Wang Bi explains: The Dao seems to exist yet cannot be possessed; it seems to disappear yet never ceases to be—this state of apparent presence and absence defies measurement.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first part explains the principle of "blunting sharpness and untangling complications, harmonizing radiance and merging with the dust." As Zhuangzi described, true illumination never dazzles the eyes (guang er bu yao), and harmonizing with all things resembles following the current (yu wu wei yi er tong qi bo). When one reaches a state of profound inner stillness (taiding), natural wisdom manifests—appearing muddled yet profoundly real. The Dao existed before the Celestial Emperor; though eternal, it defies description yet cannot be said to be nonexistent. Master Zhao notes that this chapter begins and ends with discourse on the Dao, emphasizing that cultivators must soften their edges, resolve conflicts, temper their brilliance, and blend with worldly dust—yet this doesn't mean mindless conformity.

The second part discusses how "Heaven and Earth are not benevolent." They treat all things like straw dogs (chugou) used in sacrifices—showing no preference, letting them follow their natural course of life and decay. Similarly, sages treat common people without imposing deliberate kindness or harm, allowing them to preserve their innate nature. Master Zhenghe observes: Benevolence breeds harm, and harm in turn fosters benevolence. Heaven, Earth, and sages merely assist the natural development of all things without partiality. Like ritual straw dogs—used when needed, discarded afterward—all things grow naturally and people govern themselves. Why impose artificial interference?

The passage concludes with the bellows (tuoyue) metaphor: The space between Heaven and Earth resembles an empty bellows—seemingly void yet never exhausted; the more it's worked, the more wind it produces. Some consider this a clever mechanism, but the bellows itself does nothing. Precisely because of its emptiness can it generate endless motive force.

Between heaven and earth, the power that generates all things and shapes myriad forms operates much like the workings of bellows (tuóyuè). The bellows must remain hollow inside to contain air—only through this capacity can it produce an unceasing dynamic force. If the bellows were stuffed with solid matter, it would become obstructed at every turn. This is akin to how excessive speech quickly exhausts one's reasoning, making it better to maintain a state of tranquil emptiness and centered stillness.

People observe the bellows continuously expelling air when pumped, yet fail to realize this is precisely because its interior remains void. Thus, Laozi reminds us: excessive speech eventually reaches its limit, while abiding in the Dao of central emptiness endures. Just as the myriad things rely on heaven and earth to grow, yet heaven and earth demand nothing in return; the people depend on sages for governance, yet sages require no power from the people. Like straw dogs (chúgǒu) used in rituals that derive meaning from the divine, yet the deities have no need for these offerings. It is precisely through non-imposition that impartiality arises; with impartiality, there is no expectation of repayment. Thus, heaven and earth appear heartless yet accomplish great benevolence; sages seem unkind yet achieve supreme kindness. The people do not consciously thank the sage's virtue, nor do the myriad things repay heaven and earth's nourishment.

Why is this so? Observe the operation of heaven and earth as you would observe mindless bellows: the bellows has no mind, thus its sound never ceases and its airflow remains inexhaustible; heaven and earth have no mind, thus their creative transformations never stop; the sage has no mind, thus governing the world involves no excessive intervention. Excessive speech without substance leads action into predicaments. Better to emulate the Dao of wuwei (non-action) and wordless teaching—this is the essential method for preserving one's fundamental truth.

Regarding the profound meaning of "The valley spirit never dies" (Chapter 6): The valley spirit (the Dao's characteristic of empty mystery) exists eternally and may be called the "mysterious feminine" (xuánpìn—the wondrous creative power of the maternal). A valley is supremely empty yet still has form, whereas the valley spirit is so empty it transcends all form and appearance. Without physical existence, how could there be life or death? Calling it "valley spirit" describes its virtue (De), while naming it "mysterious feminine" reveals its function. Though the maternal gives birth to all things, we call it "mysterious" because we only see manifested life, not life's primordial source.

Sun Simiao said the valley spirit is an existence both empty and luminous. The Zhenghé Master observed: Where there is form, there is flourishing and decay; where there is fixed measure, there is completion and destruction. Once form and measure exist, life and death follow—this is the pattern of all things. Yet the valley responds to all sounds while maintaining stillness, miraculously nurturing all beings while remaining profoundly silent. Merged with the Dao in the realm of constant truth, it neither clings to form nor falls into fixed measure—ever-generating, thus called "never dying." The valley spirit metaphorizes the Dao's eternity, while the mysterious feminine illuminates creation's profundity.

That gateway of the mysterious feminine (the mechanism of creation) constitutes the very root of heaven and earth. Just as the maternal birth canal is life's origin, the Dao continuously generates heaven, earth and the myriad things through this mysterious portal.

This passage elucidates several core concepts about the Dao from the Daode Jing:

Regarding the "Mysterious Feminine Gate" (referring to the creative portal of the Dao) and the "Root of Heaven and Earth" (the primordial source of the Dao), the scripture states that all things originate from the Dao, and even Heaven and Earth are born from it. Though subtle and invisible, the Dao never exhausts itself—all beings rely on it yet never deplete it. Commentators like Wang Bi and the Zhao lineage emphasize the Dao's formless nature and Wuwei (non-action), eternally existing since antiquity. He Shang Gong's interpretation limiting the "Mysterious Feminine" to breathing techniques for longevity is overly narrow.

Chapter Seven explains why Heaven and Earth endure: their longevity stems from not existing for themselves ("not self-generating"), thus achieving perpetual existence. Sages emulate this by placing themselves behind others yet finding themselves ahead, by not clinging to life yet preserving it fully. Is this not because they are selfless? Precisely thus do they fulfill themselves. Were Heaven and Earth to compete with creatures for survival, or sages to contend with people for gain, they would become no different from ordinary beings. By modeling Heaven and Earth—yielding precedence yet being elevated, disregarding self yet being preserved—the sage embodies true fulfillment. Those who deliberately seek personal gain ultimately fail to realize themselves.

Chapter Eight uses water to symbolize the Dao: The highest virtue resembles water, which nourishes all things without contention, willingly dwelling in low places people disdain. Thus it comes nearest to the Dao's perfection.

The Yijing (Book of Changes) states that the alternation of Yin and Yang constitutes the movement of the Dao (the Way), and to sustain this pattern is called goodness, while to fulfill it is called nature. It also says, "Heaven first generates water," meaning the operation of the Dao produces goodness just as the movement of Qi (vital energy) gives rise to water. Thus, the highest goodness resembles water—both begin from formlessness and gradually take shape, sharing the same principle as the Dao. The Dao is omnipresent and benefits all things, just as water does. However, once form manifests, it differs from the pure Dao, which is why water is said to be merely close to the Dao. Yet among all named forms of goodness, none come closer to the Dao than water, hence it is called "supreme goodness."

Water embodies seven virtues:

1. It dwells in low places without contending for height—this is "goodness of place."

2. Its heart is empty, still, and profound—this is "goodness of depth."

3. It nourishes all things without seeking reward—this is "goodness of benevolence."

4. It turns when encountering roundness, bends when meeting squareness, stops when blocked, and flows when breached—this is "goodness of trustworthiness."

5. It cleanses filth and levels unevenness—this is "goodness of governance."

6. It takes the shape of any container without clinging to fixed form—this is "goodness of adaptability."

7. It freezes in winter, melts in spring, and its ebb and flow follow the seasons—this is "goodness of timeliness."

Because water does not contend with others, it is free from fault. Other things may possess goodness but inevitably invite criticism due to their competitive nature. Only water achieves all seven virtues without contention, thus remaining flawless.

Chapter Nine explains:

Carrying a brimming basin of water is less stable than leaving it unfilled; over-sharpening a blade makes it difficult to retain its edge. Knowing that fullness leads to spillage, it is better not to fill to the limit than to strain to maintain it. Knowing that excessive sharpness leads to breakage, it is better not to hone too keenly than to preemptively grind. The sage possesses without claiming—how could there be an issue of excess? Acting in accordance with principle—how could there be a problem of锋芒毕露 (flaunting sharpness)? Without pursuing fullness, there is no need to labor to sustain it; without displaying锋芒 (sharpness), there is no need to deliberately hone it. The Zhenghe commentary notes: Striving to prevent spillage by forcefully maintaining fullness only makes overturning more likely; seeking to avoid error by excessive sharpness only increases the risk of mistakes. Thus, the best approach is to avoid extremes.

A house filled with gold and silver cannot be kept secure; arrogance after attaining wealth and honor invites calamity. To withdraw at the height of achievement and fame aligns with the Dao of Heaven. The sun declines after reaching its zenith; the moon wanes after becoming full—the cycle of the four seasons also follows this principle of withdrawing after fulfillment.

Does not even the movement of Heaven and Earth follow natural laws, let alone humans? The Zhenghe commentary (from Emperor Huizong of Song's era) states: Those who treasure gold, silver, and precious jade become burdened by external things. How can those weighed down by material attachments avoid losing their true nature? Thus such possessions ultimately cannot be retained.

Wealth and honor lead to arrogance and indulgence, which damages De (Virtue). How can those with impaired De escape calamity? Hence these misfortunes are self-inflicted.

Chapter Ten discusses the relationship between "yingpo" (the corporeal soul governing the physical body) and "hun" (the ethereal soul). Can one truly unite spirit and form without separation?

The distinction lies in this: Po governs the physical body (yin aspect), while hun governs the spiritual consciousness (yang aspect). The Book of Changes states that refined Qi (vital energy) forms the body, and wandering hun creates transformation—thus we comprehend the nature of spirits. Po belongs to the material realm, therefore mixed and quiescent; hun belongs to the spiritual realm, therefore pure and changing. "Yingpo" emphasizes stability. The Dao permeates all things—in humans it manifests as innate nature, whose most refined expression is the spiritual consciousness (shenhun).

The state of perfect purity is called "One"; the state of undifferentiated unity is called "Uncarved Block"—both ultimately express the Dao from different perspectives. The sage's mind remains tranquil, spirit concentrated, undisturbed by external things. Though dwelling in the po (physical form), wherever the shenhun moves, the po follows—this is the spirit carrying the corporeal soul. Ordinary people, however, become enslaved by external objects, their consciousness confused and uncontrolled—here the shenhun obeys the po instead. When eyes and ears are trapped by sights and sounds, when mouth and nose chase after flavors, the po's desires dominate the shenhun's obedience—this is the corporeal soul hijacking the spirit. Therefore Laozi teaches people to let shenhun lead the po, maintaining their inseparability. This constitutes the essential method of sage self-cultivation, just as ancient Zhenren (perfected beings) achieved profound rootedness and longevity through similar practices.

Lu Xisheng (Tang dynasty scholar) explains: "Zai" functions as a grammatical particle. The Zhenghe commentary holds that po, being yin, depends on physical form with inherent limitations—hence Laozi describes it as "ying" (garrisoned); hun, being yang, relies on Qi and moves boundlessly—thus the Book of Changes describes it as "wandering." Sages use shenhun to govern form and hun to restrain po, ensuring the spirit always carries the soul rather than being controlled by it.

In cosmic generation theory, Heaven's One generates water, manifesting in humans as Jing (essence); Earth's Two generates fire, manifesting as Shen (spirit). Shenhun originates from the Dao, physical form from refined Qi. Preserving unspilled Jing to unite with shenhun achieves undifferentiated fusion of essence and spirit. Using Jing to concentrate shenhun, shenhun to direct the body, and the body to nourish the spirit—this creates abundant essence without depletion, where spirit functions unimpeded by physical burdens. Like the sun and moon suspended in heaven, like plants rooted in earth—never separated.

This passage elucidates the essential principles of Daoist self-cultivation, with its core being the return to an infant-like state of pristine purity.

First, let's examine "concentrating Qi to attain softness" (专气致柔): When one's spirit (Shen) lacks self-mastery, the Qi within becomes disordered—the strong tend toward conflict, the weak toward fear, all without self-awareness. When the spirit gains control, Qi no longer moves chaotically, and emotions like joy and anger remain balanced. This state is called "concentrating Qi." When the spirit reaches utmost emptiness and tranquility, Qi naturally becomes substantial. Extreme emptiness manifests as pliancy, while extreme substance manifests as strength. Preserving innate nature while diminishing acquired habits—this is "attaining softness."

Infants, unaware of distinctions between likes and dislikes, preserve their innate nature intact. Those with complete innate nature have gentle Qi and naturally supple bodies. The Daoist master Zhenghe further explains: an undisturbed and uncluttered mind is "concentrated," while peacefulness without harshness is "soft." Infants act without deliberate purpose, harboring no mental distinctions between right/wrong or beautiful/ugly—thus their Qi remains concentrated and soft. As Mencius said, when thoughts scatter, one's breath becomes as unsteady as a limping gait. Sages maintain mental emptiness, never letting aggressive Qi dominate, naturally achieving an infant's purity.

Next is "cleansing the mysterious mirror" (涤除玄览): Sages neither succumb to external temptations (associated with the Po, or corporeal soul) nor are driven by internal emotions (Qi), thus purifying their mental dust. With transparent spirit, they perceive (玄览) the essence of all things, understanding everything originates from Dao-nature. Viewing reality without discrimination, they remain flawless. Though experiencing worldly affairs, they maintain detachment; though comprehending principles, they embody silent realization.

Regarding "loving the people and governing the state" (爱民治国): Sages first cultivate themselves, then extend this practice to statecraft. Even when caring for people and administering governance, they maintain Wuwei (non-action). Forced efforts to "love" may harm, and deliberate "governing" may bring chaos.

Finally, the "opening and closing of the celestial gate" (天门开阖): The celestial gate symbolizes the pivot between order/chaos and prosperity/decline. When sages shoulder the world's burdens during pivotal transitions (开阖), ordinary people fret over gains/losses and rush results. But sages follow heavenly timing—as the Yijing states: neither rushing ahead of heaven's will nor lagging behind its timing, they always harmonize perfectly with the Dao's movement.

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of self-cultivation and worldly conduct, centered on grasping the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu).

Regarding the distinction between the innate and acquired: Those who follow natural laws (heavenly mandate) act with perfect timing, while those who violate these principles constantly miss their moment. The truly wise understand the value of maintaining softness and humility (shou ci), embracing all things like the valleys of the world. This wisdom extends universally without deliberate display, benefiting both personal cultivation and state governance.

The original nature of the mind is pure unity. The very thought "I want to know" creates duality (er xin), just as a mirror naturally reflects objects without consciously remembering which reflection is the mirror itself. The genuinely wise appear simple-minded, giving birth to all things without claiming possession, accomplishing deeds without taking credit—this embodies the profoundest "mysterious De" (xuan de).

Three metaphors illustrate the function of "non-being": Thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub to make the wheel turn; empty space within pottery creates its usefulness; doors and windows form the livable spaces in houses. Thus while "being" provides convenience, it's "non-being" that truly enables function. Sages contemplate the mystery of "non-being" while recognizing the boundaries of "being," understanding their fundamental unity.

Finally, it warns against sensory excess: Gorgeous colors blind the eyes, enchanting music deafens the ears, and rich flavors dull the palate. While these pleasures originate from natural inclinations, excessive pursuit of external stimuli leads to losing one's true nature. Just as hunting on horseback agitates the spirit, rare treasures tempt improper conduct. Therefore, sages focus on inner cultivation rather than chasing external pleasures.

This passage conveys two main ideas: the moderation of sensory desires, and the wisdom regarding favor/disgrace and the body.

First, concerning sensory desires. Ordinary people are deluded by external temptations of sights, sounds, and material gains—like seeing with eyes yet remaining blind, hearing with ears yet staying deaf, tasting with tongue yet losing true flavor. Hunting and chasing after things drive their minds to frenzy, while rare objects distort their behavior. Sages are different. Though they also see colors, hear sounds, hunt, and use precious items, they never become obsessed. The distinction lies in how ordinary people pursue things through their "eyes" (external desires), while sages perceive through their "belly" (inner needs). The belly can contain without greed, whereas the eyes crave endlessly without satisfaction.

Next, regarding the concept of favor and disgrace. The ancients understood that favor and disgrace are two sides of the same coin. When favored, they remained as vigilant as when disgraced, knowing that favor could invite humiliation. They valued their bodies as seriously as they would a great calamity, recognizing that the body itself is the root of all troubles. Thus, by not seeking favor, they avoided disgrace; by forgetting the body as a source of calamity, they prevented misfortune. The saying "favor and disgrace seem alarming" doesn't imply actual fear, but rather constant vigilance. Those truly enlightened (whose ordinary and sage-like sentiments are exhausted) never experience panic at all.

Concerning the body as the "great calamity," worldly people always view hardships as difficulties, yet never consider having a body to be problematic. Sages teach people to regard "possessing a body" itself as the fundamental challenge—understanding that the body is the root of all calamities—so the great calamity naturally dissolves. Human nature remains unaffected by life and death; its vastness can fill heaven and earth, while its subtlety can penetrate through fire and water.

Nothing in this world can truly harm a person, yet people often lose their original nature by excessively valuing their physical form, thereby creating distress. When one becomes overly attached to self-preservation, external things can indeed cause harm. Life, death, and illness assail from within, while glory, disgrace, gain, and loss entangle from without—there is nothing that does not become a source of suffering.

Those who are truly enlightened understand that their original nature cannot be damaged and that the body is not ultimately real. When one suddenly forgets the body, all worldly worries vanish, allowing one to live in the world without attachments. Scholar Zhao said: "The greatest suffering lies in possessing a body, so one must eliminate the body to return to emptiness"—this is merely the view of the Hinayana Buddhist school. Those who speak of cultivating the Dao take not being disturbed by glory or disgrace, abandoning the body, and extinguishing wisdom as the highest principles. How could they grasp the true intention of the sages?

Master Zhenghe (Emperor Huizong of Song) said: Those who wield power, control rewards and punishments, and bring blessings to the world are revered by people as divine and honored as gods—truly the pinnacle of nobility. Yet the sage is not bound by such nobility, and thus can maintain it eternally without distress. Just as one casts off the constraints of limbs, discards cleverness and wisdom, transcends form and mind, and merges with the Dao, one becomes free and at ease in any circumstance. Ordinary people trade their innate nature for external things, thus becoming burdened by objects and forgetting their essence. They let their physical form weigh down their spirit, losing their true heart and failing to transcend form—this is the greatest suffering.

Life and death are significant matters, yet they do not affect those who have attained the Dao—how much less so minor concerns like gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune? The ancient perfected ones did not allow profit to burden their form, nor their form to burden their spirit. They regarded all things as equal to themselves, and when faced with no choice, they realized that "my body does not truly belong to me." Roaming above with the Creator, befriending below those who transcend life and death without beginning or end—what could they possibly have to worry about? The glory pursued by the world is seen by them as disgrace; the nobility coveted by the world is seen by them as suffering. For external things are inherently unreliable—this is the principle of nature. If one can hold all things with an attitude of "non-being," then even when honored, one will not feel disgraced, and even when noble, one will not suffer distress.

Therefore, only those who value governing the world more than themselves can be entrusted with it; only those who cherish the world as they cherish themselves can be given its care. People chase power and profit, indulge in wealth and status, and take risks without regret—all in pursuit of personal benefit. But if one were to offer them the entire world as their reward, and they still prioritized fulfilling their duty over their own well-being, this selfless state would reach its ultimate expression.

Though the world is vast, if entrusted to one who comprehends the Dao (the Way), no calamity will arise. Zhenhe Zhenren (the Daoist title of Emperor Huizong of Song) remarked: The world is like a precious vessel—without the Dao, it cannot function; the world is like a sacred vessel—without the Dao, it cannot be preserved. The sage understands the Dao and thus governs through wuwei (non-action), while the people naturally support him without growing weary. Those of lesser attainment know to value themselves, refusing to degrade their being as slaves to material things—such individuals may temporarily be entrusted with the world. Those who cherish themselves without harming their essence or becoming trapped by external matters may also temporarily govern the world. Thus, the essence of the Dao is used to cultivate the self; what remains may govern the state, and the dregs may govern the world. Yet modern gentlemen harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things—is this not lamentable?

Guang Zhenren (one of the commentators) explained: External things are calamities to the body, and the body is an obstacle to cultivating the Dao. By forgetting external things, one preserves the body; by forgetting the body, one perfects the Dao. Though such a person may forget external burdens, their care for self-preservation remains—thus they may only temporarily govern the world. Only one who utterly forgets both self and externals, wholly identifying with the Dao while "hiding the world within the world" (acting in accord with nature), is a true master of the Way.

Zhao Zhenren (another commentator) added: One who treats the world's calamities as their own transcends mere self-love—only such a person may be entrusted with the world. The ancient sages, though occupying imperial thrones, regarded themselves as recluses in mountain forests, unmoved by sensual pleasures or wealth. Thus, nothing in the world could burden them.

In the commentary to Chapter 14 ("Looked at but unseen"): What is looked at but unseen is called "Yi" (formless); listened to but unheard is called "Xi" (soundless); grasped at but unfelt is called "Wei" (intangible). These three states cannot be interrogated further, for they are originally blended into one. We see forms and colors, but what enables seeing cannot itself be seen; we hear sounds, but what enables hearing cannot itself be heard; we touch objects, but what enables touching cannot itself be touched. Even the wise cannot trace these three faculties to their source—they must be blended and returned to unity to be understood. This "One" is human nature; the three faculties are its functions. Originally, humans possessed only pure nature, but contact with the world divided it into seeing, hearing, and touching—used daily yet never returning to the source, drifting ever farther from the One. Extending this principle, Buddhism's "six entrances" (senses of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) follow the same pattern. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra states, "Return to the source and merge into one, where the six faculties cease their functions"—this speaks precisely of such realization.

This passage elucidates the profound mystery of the Dao (the Way). As the cosmic origin, the Dao defies verbal description—we reluctantly name it "rare," "subtle," or "the One." Its essence is so refined that the mind cannot grasp it, words cannot express it, nor can ordinary perception through eyes or ears apprehend it.

Ordinary people typically perceive only colors and sounds, which do not constitute true understanding. To reach the state where one "sees without using the eyes and hears without using the ears," allowing the senses to function interchangeably—as Zhuangzi spoke of "listening with Qi" or Liezi described "seeing and hearing without eyes and ears"—is to achieve the unity of self and all things.

Above, the Dao does not appear glaringly bright; below, it does not seem dim or obscure. Ordinary tangible things are governed by Yin-Yang principles, so they inevitably have distinctions of light and darkness. Yet the Dao transcends such dualities and cannot be measured by concrete forms. As Lu Xisheng explained: "Above, it shares radiance with the sun and moon yet does not dazzle; below, it mingles with tiles and pebbles yet does not darken."

The Dao operates like an unbroken thread, ceaselessly flowing. People observe its continuous movement and mistake it for something tangible, yet ultimately, it returns to nothingness. This is what is called "the form of the formless, the image of the imageless," referred to as "vague and indistinct" (huhuang)—seemingly empty yet truly present, said to exist but indescribable, said to be nothing yet actively functioning. Lu Xisheng clarifies: "Though the Dao transforms endlessly, it ultimately returns to nothingness. Its essence is real, yet it cannot be directly grasped through the senses. Hence, it is called 'a form without substance, an image without shape.'"

If you try to meet it, you cannot see its beginning; if you follow it, you cannot find its end—because the Dao is omnipresent and thus has no distinction of front or back. Lu Xisheng remarks: "Since we do not know its origin, we cannot see its head when approaching; since we do not know its conclusion, we cannot see its tail when following."

By holding fast to the eternal Dao, one can master the transformations of all things in the present. To know the primordial origin of all things is to grasp the guiding principle of the Dao. "Ancient" signifies the source from which all things arise, while "existence" refers to the myriad beings of the present. By comprehending this origin, one responds effortlessly to all changes.

Lu Xi-sheng (Tang Dynasty Daoist) said: Only by grasping the ancient Dao of Wuwei (non-action) to govern the contemporary world of artificial constructs can one return to pristine simplicity and recover the primordial purity of the Great Antiquity. To comprehend this ancient essence is to master the fundamental principle of the Dao.

Lü Hui-qing (Song Dynasty Daoist) explained: What we call "ancient" does not oppose the present, but reveals the origin of things; what we term "modern" doesn't sever connection with antiquity, but clarifies the source of current conditions. Truly understanding beginnings leads to comprehending present manifestations. In truth, the origin knows neither coming nor going - this is the eternal law without beginning or end.

Chapter Fifteen on "The Ancients Who Mastered the Dao" describes the realm of realized adepts:

True practitioners of the Dao possess wisdom so subtle and profound, so penetrating yet unfathomable, that ordinary people cannot comprehend its depths. When coarse perception exhausts itself, one touches the subtle; when subtlety reaches its zenith, it becomes mysterious; when mystery culminates, it becomes all-pervading - this state is immeasurably profound.

Being ineffable, we can only approximate their manner through description: They move cautiously like crossing winter streams, weighing each step deliberately. Their "hesitation" resembles carefully testing responses when compelled to act; their "wariness" mirrors the caution of one fearing neighbors' observation.

Their demeanor remains reverent and dignified, never treating others lightly; their consciousness flows like thawing ice, recognizing all phenomena as illusory manifestations, thus remaining unattached. The Zhenghe Sage (Emperor Huizong's Daoist title) used the water-ice metaphor: water freezing into ice and melting back to water share one essence - the attached become congealed ice while Dao-realized beings return like flowing water to the source.

Their nature stays uncarved like raw timber, wholly rejecting artificiality to return to innate authenticity. The Zhenghe Sage said "genuine" means ultimate simplicity, like unworked wood before becoming vessels.

Their minds expand like empty valleys, embracing all with boundless openness. The Zhenghe Sage explained "expansive" means ultimate vastness - the heart-mind like infinite valleys receives and responds to all things.

They mingle with worldly dust yet remain untainted, like turbid water that appears mixed yet never loses its nature. Who can remain still until turbidity clarifies itself? Who can maintain serenity until new life stirs anew? Ordinary people become hopelessly muddled when external things disturb their essence, while forced ascetics suppress vitality into sterile rigidity. Only understanding clarity within turbidity and life within stillness preserves this Dao's true essence.

When the human mind becomes disordered, one should maintain stillness and stability, and clarity will naturally return in time. If aware that certain actions harm one's inherent nature (contrary to the Dao), one must consciously adjust, allowing the nature to gradually regenerate. The Yijing states: "In stillness and non-movement, when stimulated, one penetrates all affairs under heaven." The "movement" mentioned here follows the same principle.

Those who uphold the Dao do not pursue fullness. Fullness arises from extremes—when turbidity cannot be clarified, or stagnation cannot renew—this is the state of "fullness." Precisely because they do not seek fullness, they avoid the cycle of decline and regeneration. All things inevitably decline; only by not pursuing fullness can decline naturally dissipate without forming new flaws. Those who understand the Dao remain in turbidity until clarity emerges naturally, abide in stillness until renewal arises spontaneously, and never crave fullness—thus avoiding the pitfalls of endless cycles.

Chapter Sixteen speaks of attaining ultimate emptiness and stillness. If one cannot reach ultimate emptiness, remnants remain; if one cannot maintain perfect stillness, subtle stirrings persist. It is like removing a mountain but leaving behind dust—this cannot be called ultimate purity. Deliberately pursuing emptiness leads to attachment to "having," while forcibly maintaining stillness traps one in "movement"—how much more so in other matters? Without reaching ultimate purity, the benefits of emptiness and stillness are difficult to attain. True emptiness transcends dualities; reaching ultimate emptiness means severing all dependencies, so that even within "having," one remains empty. True stillness transcends the dichotomy of movement and stillness; reaching ultimate stillness eliminates opposition, so that even within "movement," one remains still. Thus, those who fail to attain the extremes of emptiness and stillness cannot truly comprehend the Dao. Emptiness accommodates all existence; stillness responds to all movement. Achieving ultimate emptiness while preserving substance, maintaining perfect stillness to attain purity—even amidst the complexity of phenomena, the mind remains transparent; even through myriad transformations, the spirit stays serene. This is "heavenly joy" (the natural bliss of union with the Dao).

When observing the growth and operation of all things, I contemplate their cyclical return in a state of utmost emptiness and profound stillness. Only by observing the transformations of all things through perfect emptiness and stillness can one avoid being disturbed by change and understand that all that arises must return. If one follows the restless movement of things, true knowledge of patterns becomes impossible. All things emerge simultaneously from emptiness—just as thunder lies hidden within the earth, manifesting heaven and earth's cyclical nature, movement is contained within stillness, revealing the sage's return to authenticity. All things in their flourishing have a beginning and an end. When they thrive vigorously,

All things in motion and transformation ultimately return to stillness; that which radiates outward must in time return to its source. By observing this cyclical principle, one may comprehend the fundamental law of heaven and earth. Though engaging with myriad phenomena, one remains untainted by them—this is the Dao of "observing the return" (guanfu).

The world's complexities ultimately revert to their origins. Just as flowers bloom from roots only to wither and return, or waves rise from water only to subside into calm, all things emerge from their intrinsic nature and ultimately return to it. Though water's surface may ripple endlessly, it inevitably restores its placid state.

True return to the origin constitutes "stillness" (jing). Forced cessation of movement or suppression of thoughts cannot achieve genuine stillness—only by returning to the root can one attain ultimate tranquility. The Dao is the source of all movement and stillness, yet this source itself transcends both motion and rest. This state beyond duality represents the highest stillness.

Returning to stillness is "recovering destiny" (fuming). "Destiny" (ming) manifests the profound mystery of "inherent nature" (xing). While "nature" may be described in words, "destiny" defies articulation. The Yijing states that only through exhaustive investigation of principles and complete penetration of nature can one finally comprehend heavenly mandate. Sages cultivate the Dao by first examining phenomena, then penetrating their nature, ultimately achieving reunion with celestial destiny.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are the sage's methods for guiding humanity, yet their fundamental principles must be understood. Ordinary people grasp only superficial forms, while true gentlemen comprehend inner workings—this constitutes "exhausting principles" (qiongli). However, deliberate pursuit of principles often obstructs genuine understanding. Sages differ—their luminous nature responds spontaneously without forced seeking, achieving "fulfilling nature" (jinxing). Progressing further, even the distinction between "self" and "external objects" dissolves as one acts in complete accordance with celestial mandate—this is "recovering destiny."

Returning to celestial mandate constitutes the "eternal" (chang). Though mountains, rivers, and the great earth may transform and decay, only by returning to intrinsic nature can one attain enduring permanence. Understanding this eternal truth constitutes true wisdom—all else remains worldly cleverness that mistakes superficial knowledge for genuine realization.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles of the Dao. Those who fail to comprehend the eternal laws act recklessly and invite misfortune. Without understanding how to return to one's original nature, one becomes enslaved by external things - every action brings danger, and even temporary gains ultimately lead to greater losses.

Those who truly understand the "constant Dao" possess expansive minds. When people indulge in illusions, they perceive everyone as adversaries; but once they realize these are mere illusions, they can even show compassion toward enemies. Embracing all things eliminates selfish biases. Without selfishness comes impartiality, and impartiality makes one a refuge for all - this state is as vast as heaven itself. Yet while heaven has discernible form, the Dao represents the ultimate that not even itself can transcend. Following the Dao ensures lasting peace, free from lifelong perils.

Zhenghezi (note: a Daoist thinker) states the Dao never becomes obsolete. This chapter discusses returning to the root and recovering heavenly mandate (Tianming), with emptiness and stillness as foundation. What Laozi calls "life" (ming) corresponds to what Buddhists term "original nature" (xing) - only when one's nature transcends life and death does it become eternal. Understanding this nature enables all-embracing impartiality. Ordinary people mistake nourishing physical life for heavenly mandate - precisely what Zhuangzi meant by "those with dead hearts" acting recklessly.

Chapter 17 of the Supreme Purity Scripture states: The highest ruler governs so subtly that people merely know of his existence. He administers through the Dao without conscious action, leaving people unaware of being governed. The next level ruler earns people's affection and praise through benevolience and righteousness - though renowned, this already creates distinctions. The inferior ruler inspires fear that turns to contempt when governing through laws and force.

When sincerity is lacking, people distrust. Were rulers truly self-assured, governing through the Dao alone would suffice; it's their insecurity that makes them add benevolence, laws and punishments, breeding public distrust. The sage weighs his words carefully, seldom making promises, yet people trust him completely. When accomplishments manifest, people naturally turn toward goodness and shun evil without realizing it.

When society deviates from the natural Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle), people begin to emphasize benevolence and righteousness. In an era where the Dao prevails, these virtues naturally exist within it, yet the common people remain unaware of them. Only when the Dao declines do benevolence and righteousness become deliberately proclaimed.

When people start valuing clever strategies and schemes, hypocrisy and deceit inevitably emerge. Humanity fails to understand that the Dao inherently nourishes all things, instead resorting to artificial cleverness to interfere with nature. Consequently, the common people respond with pretense.

Filial sons and loving mothers only stand out when families are disharmonious; loyal ministers are only praised when the state is in chaos. Emperor Yao was not unfilial, yet only Shun’s filial piety was specially celebrated because Shun’s father, Gusou, was unkind. Ministers like Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal, yet only Long Feng and Bi Gan’s loyalty was remembered because they served tyrants like Jie and Zhou. It is like fish in a dried-up pond, spitting moisture to moisten each other—seemingly touching, yet far less natural than living freely in rivers and lakes, unaware of one another.

Discard artificial standards of sagehood and clever calculations, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. True wisdom should follow the Dao, yet the world often mistakes its surface appearance for clever manipulation, believing it can conquer all things. The result is profound harm to the people.

Abandon the formal preaching of benevolence and righteousness, and people will return to their innate filial and compassionate nature. True benevolence and righteousness do not abandon family or neglect rulers, yet when these virtues become empty labels, children rebel and parents abuse.

Renounce cleverness and the pursuit of profit, and thieves will naturally vanish. Skills were meant to ease life, and benefits to aid all things, yet when misused, they become tools for bandits.

These three proposals (sage wisdom, benevolence-righteousness, and clever-profit) are merely superficial remedies, insufficient to address the root. To return people to the fundamental: preserve innate purity, hold fast to simple sincerity, and reduce selfish desires. The world often believes unrest stems from inadequate ritual systems, so some promote sage wisdom, others emphasize benevolence-righteousness, and still others chase clever-profit—only to plunge society into deeper chaos. Why not return to simplicity? Maintain the unadorned nature and lessen selfish cravings—this is the true solution.

This passage explores the divergent philosophical approaches of Laozi and Confucius regarding governance.

Laozi advocated that rulers should minimize selfish desires and maintain their innate simplicity, allowing the people to naturally return to their authentic state. His concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" posits that when rulers refrain from forced interference, the people become naturally cultivated; when rulers cherish tranquility, the people naturally become upright; when rulers avoid disturbing livelihoods, the people naturally prosper; when rulers lack greed, the people naturally return to purity. This represents the highest form of governing wisdom.

While Confucius emphasized governing through benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music, Laozi advocated abandoning these constructs. The author explains this divergence stems from their different starting points. Confucius, considering practical realities of later generations, presented concrete methods (the "vessels") while keeping profound principles (the Dao) implicit, enabling those of average or below-average capacity to adhere to tangible norms. Laozi took the opposite approach, urgently clarifying the Great Dao while de-emphasizing specific methods, believing excessive attachment to concrete norms would obscure the fundamental truth.

The author observes that the Dao itself is ineffable—what can be articulated are only approximations. Those with understanding can perceive truth through these approximations, while the confused become attached to the approximations and fall into falsehood. History shows some have indeed distorted Laozi's words to disrupt society, while followers of Confucius rarely make grave errors; yet many have comprehended the Dao through Laozi's teachings, whereas those limited to Confucian doctrine often find themselves unable to penetrate deeper.

Finally, the discussion turns to the concept of "transcending conventional learning brings peace"—if one doesn't understand life's true essence but merely accumulates knowledge, it only creates mental confusion. The sages weren't against learning per se, but prioritized awakening to the Dao, thus remaining unperturbed by excessive information.

(Note: Here "vessels" refers to concrete methods and norms, while "Dao" signifies fundamental principles and truth; "transcending conventional learning brings peace" means going beyond mere knowledge accumulation to attain worry-free clarity.)

Learning does not lie in quantity—no amount of study can disturb the mind. The truly enlightened have no worries, so why deliberately abandon learning? "Guang" (a commentator) notes: Those who cling to learning obsess over distinctions of good and evil, pursuing utilitarian value—this is merely petty utility. Those who transcend learning understand the essence of the Dao (the Way), seeing through life and death, gain and loss. They adapt effortlessly to all circumstances, thus free from worry—this is the great utility of non-utility.

"Zhao" (another commentator) explains: Clinging to learning is called "hearing of the Dao," while abandoning learning is called "approaching the Dao." Only by surpassing both can one attain the "true Dao." Yet beware—beyond abandoning learning lies an even higher realm. How far apart are compliance ("yes") and opposition ("no")? What real difference exists between good and evil? Scholars mired in their limited perceptions, unable to grasp the whole, mistake compliance for reverence and opposition for arrogance—these cannot even be compared, let alone the polar opposites of good and evil. Only sages recognize all things share the same illusory nature, like painted horses or carved tigers—none are real creatures. When distinctions of right and wrong dissolve, who would dwell on their differences? Understanding this reveals how all things grow without interfering, how myriad principles coexist without contradiction—this is no marvel.

What people fear, I too must fear. Sages regard self and other as equal, blending differences, their minds unbound. Yet how could they thereby neglect worldly norms or defy human relations? I follow what people do; I fear what they fear. Even while fulfilling roles of ruler and subject, parent and child, observing rituals and laws, the world finds nothing extraordinary in him. His freedom from external entanglements springs from inner transcendence. "Zhenghe" (Emperor Huizong’s Daoist name) adds: What nurtures all things yet shares no sage’s anxiety is the Dao; what bears fortune and misfortune alongside the people is worldly affairs. Those embodying the great Dao know no worry; those handling mundane affairs know fear. Without vigilance toward what others dread, few escape calamity—thus the noble person cultivates reverence and self-reflection.

Boundless indeed (is the sage’s realm)! Ordinary people cling to their limited views, like crops confined by field ridges. Yet sages roam freely between "being" and "non-being," entering any state without resistance—thus their realm knows no limits. "Zhao" (another annotator) observes: Su Shi’s Confucian interpretation holds merit, but by the Dao’s standard, people’s preference for compliance over opposition, their praise of good and condemnation of evil—these still fail to transcend dualistic distinctions.

This passage illustrates the distinction between those who have attained the Dao (the Way) and ordinary people. The Dao-realized appear simple and dull, yet their wisdom resembles foolishness—what the ancients called "great wisdom appearing foolish."

Ordinary people bustle about like attendees at a grand banquet or springtime sightseers climbing scenic heights. In contrast, the Dao-realized remain serene and detached, as innocent as an infant who has not yet learned to smile. Common folk become intoxicated by their desires, mistaking transient pleasures for true beauty and joy, blindly following illusions without recognizing their emptiness. The sage perceives through these illusions, maintaining unwavering tranquility—that pure, uncontrived state of infant-like simplicity.

Those who embody the Dao follow nature's patterns without selfish attachment, thus appearing to hold no fixed position. Where ordinary people pride themselves on worldly knowledge, the sage embraces all things without partiality, abiding beyond mundane distinctions. Even when accomplishing deeds that benefit the world, they claim no merit for themselves.

The mind of the Dao-realized seems dull, yet this reflects primal authenticity. Though heaven's mysteries (natural truths) remain hidden, they silently harmonize with the Dao. Where worldly people flaunt cleverness, the Dao-attuned appear confused; where others nitpick over trifles, they seem muddle-headed. For the sage knows vain pursuits warrant no contention—thus their outward obscurity conceals inner luminosity.

At times the Dao-realized resemble shadows in darkness, so profoundly still they seem anchorless. Ordinary people each possess specialized skills that society readily employs, while the sage's complete virtue and talent paradoxically make them appear inept—almost crude and foolish. Yet their true distinction lies in "nourishing from the mother": the Dao as source of all things. Commoners chase external objects forgetting the root, whereas sages transcend phenomena to dwell in the Dao's essence—as purely as an infant sustained solely by its mother's milk.

In Chapter 21 of the Collected Exegesis of the True Scripture of Dao and De, it discusses how "supreme De" (the highest manifestation of virtue) completely follows the patterns of the Dao. The Dao itself has no concrete form, yet when it operates and manifests as De, it becomes visibly apparent. Thus we say De is the manifestation of the Dao. Extending this principle, the forms of all things are simply the Dao manifesting differently across phenomena.

The Dao exists in a state between being and non-being—elusive and difficult to grasp. Within this liminal space of seeming presence and absence lies the image of the Dao; within these flickering appearances and disappearances resides the substance of the Dao. When in the undifferentiated state prior to the division of being and non-being, the Dao appears profoundly mysterious. Though not yet taking concrete form, it already contains the subtle essence (Jing). This essence is utterly real and beyond doubt. Once things assume concrete forms, truth and falsehood become intermixed—what was originally unified divides into two, then three, becoming increasingly complex until distinguishing authenticity becomes difficult. But at the essential stage, it remains perfectly genuine.

From ancient times to the present, the essence of the Dao has never changed, thus enabling observation of all things' beginnings and transformations. "Fu" (甫) signifies excellence—even the most excellent things cannot avoid transformation. The reason sages can comprehend the patterns of all transformations is precisely because they embody and maintain the essence of the Dao.

Chapter 22 discusses wisdom in worldly conduct: those who can yield and accommodate will ultimately preserve themselves. Sages invariably act according to principle—straight when straightness is called for, bending when bending is needed. The key lies in penetrating the underlying patterns, thus achieving harmony with all things without conflict. What appears as a winding path, if it accords with principle, becomes the straightest shortcut. Low-lying areas naturally accumulate water—this is the Dao's natural pattern. The worn-out will inevitably be replaced by the new—this is the necessary course of all phenomena.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concepts of "embracing the One" (holding fast to the fundamental Dao) and "non-contention." Things that appear dazzlingly bright actually deviate from the Great Dao, while what seems dim and obscure contains the vitality of daily renewal. The Dao is supremely simple—by grasping the fundamental "One," one can comprehend all things; excessive pursuit only leads to confusion. Thus, the sage takes "embracing the One" as the standard for the world.

"Embracing the One" is the method of returning to one's original nature. Just as what is bent will eventually become straight, what is low will be filled, what is worn out will be renewed, and what is lacking will be fulfilled, while excess leads to bewilderment—all these are outcomes of "embracing the One." The development of things follows its natural pattern: the bent need not deliberately seek straightness, for when bending reaches its limit, it naturally becomes straight; the worn-out need not deliberately seek renewal, for when decay reaches its limit, it naturally renews itself. The sage transcends these transformations, always holding fast to the fundamental Dao.

Only when the eyes do not fixate on themselves can they clearly see external things; only when a mirror does not reflect itself can it mirror other objects. By not displaying oneself, one becomes manifest; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not being arrogant, one endures. Precisely because one does not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying that "to bend is to preserve whole" is no empty phrase—those who truly understand the way of preservation not only preserve themselves but also preserve external things, attaining the state where both self and others are made whole. This is the greatest integrity.

Chapter 23 discusses "few words accord with the Dao." Speech that conforms to the natural Dao is concise and appropriate, while forced preaching becomes tedious and unconvincing. When the Great Dao is spoken, it seems bland and flavorless; looked for, it cannot be seen; listened for, it cannot be heard; yet used, it is inexhaustible. This teaches us that the true Dao lies not in ornate words but in the practice of natural Wuwei (non-action).

Laozi here speaks of the principle of "rare speech" (xiyan). The so-called "rare speech" means speaking without leaving traces of deliberate preaching—appearing to speak yet seeming not to have spoken at all, wholly in accordance with the natural Dao, as effortless as birdsong.

Observe how a gale cannot last a full morning, nor a downpour persist an entire day. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and Earth. Even the tempests wrought by Heaven and Earth cannot endure long—how much less can human words and actions?

When Yin and Yang energies are in harmony, wind and rain arrive just right—neither too hasty nor too slow, moving with the flow, ceasing when it is time. But if Yang energy becomes excessive and surges upward while Yin energy is suppressed and stagnates below, violent storms arise. Though they may seem fierce, they cannot sustain even a single day. The ancient sages spoke sparingly and precisely, acting with calm and without force, always in accord with nature. Thus, their influence endured without decline. Yet worldly people disdain this natural way, finding it less appealing than eloquent rhetoric or attention-grabbing novelty, unaware that such things cannot last.

Heaven and Earth nurture all things: they send wind to disperse vitality, allowing beings to transform naturally; they bring rain to moisten growth, letting all flourish of their own accord. Neither forcing progress nor hastening outcomes, all things grow naturally between Heaven and Earth—hence they endure. Storms and tempests, however, are signs of Yin-Yang imbalance, inevitably bringing calamity, and thus cannot persist.

Therefore, those who seek the great Dao: those who align with the Dao attain the Dao; those who align with De (Virtue) attain De; those who stray from the true path lose it. Confucius said, "Those who set their will on benevolence seldom do wrong." If this is true even for benevolence, how much more so for those devoted to the Dao? As long as one seeks the great Dao, what aligns with it will be attained, and what aligns with De will be gained. Even occasional deviations will, in the course of pursuit, surely yield some realization.

Truth returns to truth; falsehood returns to falsehood. The awakened understand that all things share the same essence—there is no gain or loss, purity or defilement, for light and darkness are ultimately one.

Those whose faith in the Dao is insufficient cannot truly believe. Those who do not understand the Dao, encountering setbacks in practice, grow doubtful and increasingly disbelieving. Only those who truly comprehend the Dao will never waver in their conviction, regardless of transient gains or losses.

This passage explores the fundamental nature of the Dao and the proper attitude for spiritual cultivation.

Regarding the essence of the Dao: The Dao emerges spontaneously from primordial chaos, existing before heaven and earth. It is soundless and formless (寂兮寥兮), standing alone without change, circulating endlessly while serving as the source of all creation. The Dao is neither pure nor turbid, neither high nor low, neither coming nor going, neither good nor evil—it is an undifferentiated whole. All beings in heaven and earth depend on the Dao for their existence.

Concerning the attitude of cultivation: Those who strain to stand on tiptoe cannot stay balanced; those who force long strides cannot walk far. Those who display themselves lack true understanding; those who assert themselves fail to shine; those who boast accomplish nothing; those who grow arrogant cannot endure. Such behaviors violate natural harmony, like falling ill from overeating or bearing the burden of an unnecessary growth. Those who have truly attained the Dao do not act this way.

The scripture observes that moral concepts like humaneness, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom only became emphasized after people lost touch with the Dao. Later generations, lacking sincerity, have eroded trust—just as violent winds and torrential rains cannot last all day, artificial virtue cannot endure. True cultivation follows natural spontaneity, free from forced effort or self-promotion.

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and its relationship with all phenomena. The Dao transcends all existence—it stands alone unchanging (independent of any conditions), eternally constant (unaffected by time), and pure in its Wuwei (non-action, non-interference). The Dao itself has no name; sages observed that all things follow the Dao's principles in their movements, thus reluctantly using the term "Dao" to designate it. Since nothing surpasses the Dao, they reluctantly described it as "great" (da).

The Dao's movement follows this pattern: vast and boundless (great) → ceaselessly moving (passing) → circulating far and wide (distant) → returning to its source (reversing). Though the Dao may seem remote, it truly resides in the awakening of returning to one's original heart-mind. In the cosmos, there are Four Greats—Dao, Heaven, Earth, and Humanity (the sovereign)—among which the Dao is most fundamental. Humans emulate Earth, Earth emulates Heaven, Heaven emulates the Dao, and the Dao emulates ziran (its own spontaneous nature). Ordinary people often consider Heaven, Earth, and Humanity as supremely vast, yet fail to recognize that the Dao alone is truly boundless. By returning to one's innate nature, one can realize that all three are encompassed within the Dao.

The later section discusses the principle that "the heavy is the root of the light," just as weight forms the foundation for lightness, and stillness governs agitation. This metaphor illustrates the Dao's fundamental nature—like roots supporting branches and leaves, profound stillness can master superficial restlessness. The text particularly notes that even speaking of the "Dao" risks limitation, for any Dao that can be described in words is no longer the eternal Dao (the profound meaning behind "the Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao"). Through multiple negations (transcending quantity, movement/stillness, etc.), this passage reveals the Dao's nature beyond dualistic concepts, ultimately pointing toward the Daoist supreme realm of "chongxuan" (twofold mystery)—transcending all opposing constructs.

This passage elucidates Daoist wisdom regarding the relationship between movement and stillness, lightness and weight, as well as the way of being for sages.

Concerning movement and stillness with lightness and weight: Those who truly master situations appear motionless yet control all movement; lightness requires stability as its foundation, while agitation must be governed by tranquility. Thus the noble person may travel all day without departing from the carriage bearing essential supplies (metaphor for foundational roots); though surrounded by splendid sights, remains transcendentally detached. One may move lightly but must never lose the root; while enjoying glory, one maintains a detached mindset. As the ruler of a great nation, if one treats oneself lightly, one cannot bear the responsibility of governing the world. Lightness forfeits the trust of ministers, while impetuousness loses the ruler's inherent dignity.

Chapter 27 illustrates the realm of Dao-realized beings through five "excellences":

Those excellent at walking leave no traces (acting in accordance with natural laws without artificial marks); those excellent at speaking make no mistakes (speaking at appropriate times); those excellent at calculating need no counting rods (understanding cosmic patterns beyond concrete computation); those excellent at closing require no bolts yet cannot be opened (governing through virtue without coercion); those excellent at binding use no cords yet cannot be untied (the natural connections forged through Dao).

The Dao-realized sage excels at rescuing people, hence none are abandoned; excels at utilizing all things, hence nothing is wasted. Ordinary people employ concrete means like calculations, locks, and ropes, whose influence remains limited. The sage not only embraces all things but excels at redeeming them, naturally inspiring universal allegiance. This realm is called "inherited illumination" (Xi Ming) – inheriting the luminous wisdom of the great Dao.

Saving people from peril is not the highest form of salvation. When beings are trapped in the cycle of life and death, obscured by external phenomena, illuminating them with one's purest wisdom—allowing the light to pass endlessly like an eternal flame to those in darkness—this is true mastery in delivering beings.

Thus, the virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous become the students of the virtuous. Yet the sage neither clings to the role of teacher nor fixates on transforming others. Without any intention to instruct, the sage remains unattached to teaching; since the world lacks conscious desire to learn, there is no need to exalt teachers. The sage not only forgets the world within themselves, but enables the world to forget them as well.

What appears as wisdom yet resembles great confusion—this is the most sublime state. The profound mystery of the sage cannot be fully comprehended even by the wise. Like medicine that exists when illness is present but is discarded after recovery, ultimately both remedy and ailment are relinquished. When person and method are both forgotten—seeming confusion that is actually supreme enlightenment—this is the most wondrous state.

Chapter 28 teaches: Knowing strength yet abiding in softness makes one like the valley streams of the world. Thus eternal De (Virtue) never departs, returning to the purity of an infant. Knowing brightness yet dwelling in obscurity makes one the model for the world. Thus eternal De never errs, returning to the boundless origin. Knowing glory yet remaining humble makes one like the mountain valleys of the world. Thus eternal De becomes complete, returning to unadorned simplicity.

The feminine and masculine represent sequence, black and white represent light and darkness, honor and disgrace represent distinction. People naturally desire precedence, brightness, and nobility. Yet the distinction of sequence is less profound than that of light and darkness, which in turn is less far-reaching than the differentiation of status. Ancient sages eliminated delusions to restore original nature—the clearer the nature, the more one dwells in humility; the more humble, the deeper the virtue; the deeper the virtue, the vaster the return to the source.

Knowing strength yet abiding in softness manifests understanding of original nature. Understanding nature stills contentious hearts, causing all who contend in the world to return like waters to the valley. Yet this resembles an infant—able to receive but not yet to apply—hence the return to infancy. Knowing brightness yet dwelling in obscurity manifests penetrating insight into original nature. Abiding in darkness yet perceiving light, nothing in the world's brightness can remain hidden.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer discusses the nature and function of the Dao (the Way). Those who understand the principles of the Dao and take them as their guiding laws, though they must respond to the transformations of all things, will find the Dao's laws never err or become exhausted. Returning to the state of Wuji (the primordial cosmic condition), understanding glory yet abiding in humility—this demonstrates a return to one's fundamental nature. When all deluded thoughts are eliminated, one can remain in humble circumstances without regret, with a mind as open and receptive as an empty valley, naturally responding when things come. Here, De (Virtue/Power) reaches its perfection, and one's nature becomes pure and unadulterated—this is returning to the state of "Pu" (the original, unadorned simplicity).

When "Pu" disperses, it forms concrete things, and sages use these concrete things to govern all phenomena. Just as a ruler establishes offices to administer a state, this follows natural tendencies—though there may be planning, there is no forced division. Zheng He (possibly a person's name) says: "The formless is called the Dao, the formed is called 'Qi' (concrete things). Where there is form, there are names and responsibilities." When the Dao is whole, heaven and humanity are united as one; when the Dao disperses, heaven and humanity separate into two. Zhao (possibly another person's name) adds: "The earlier discussion of returning to 'Pu'—'Pu' is the complete state of the Dao. If it is split, it divides into two things. Thus, the most enlightened systems never forcibly divide."

The second layer discusses the principles of governing the world. Those who wish to seize the world and act forcefully—I see this as impossible. The sage possesses the world not by seizing it, but because all things naturally submit, and he accepts it out of necessity. Governing the world is not deliberate action but following the natural patterns of all things, merely removing what is harmful. Forced seizure and action cannot succeed.

The world is a sacred entity—it cannot be forcibly manipulated. Forceful action leads to failure; forceful control leads to loss. No thing can be subjected to forceful action. Even in a small group, acting contrary to natural principles will inevitably lead to conflict—how much more so in governing the world? Though small matters might be seized by strength or obtained through cleverness, the world is vast, presided over by divine spirits. If it does not submit naturally, it will rebel; if not governed naturally, it will descend into chaos.

Thus, among all things, some advance while others follow, some bring warmth while others bring cold, some are strong while others are weak, some are stable while others are precarious. Therefore, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess. Yin and Yang interact, heights and depths depend on each other, the great and small influence one another—some walk ahead, others follow behind; some give warmth, others bring cold.

When things reach their peak of strength, they may suffer harm; when they decline, they may receive support; when they reach fullness, they may face destruction—these are the natural laws that cannot be avoided. Yet foolish people in the world, obsessed with selfish gain, attempt to resist these laws, only to meet with utter failure or severe consequences. The sage understands that one must not defy the natural order, so they follow it and wait patiently, eliminating excess, extravagance, and extremes, ensuring that things do not suffer harm from overdevelopment. In this way, calamity is averted in the world. This is the highest manifestation of Wuwei (non-action). Though the floods in Emperor Yao's time and the droughts in Emperor Tang's era were unavoidable, they ultimately did not cause great disasters precisely because of this principle.

The Book of Changes (Yijing), in the Hexagram of Tai (Peace), states: "The ruler should harmonize the patterns of heaven and earth, assist in their transformative and nurturing functions, and thereby guide the people." When Yang Qi resides within and Yin Qi without, things reach their zenith. The sage, fearing that excess may bring harm, regulates and assists, preventing overdevelopment. This is the principle of eliminating excess, extravagance, and extremes.

Those who use the Dao to assist rulers do not rely on military might to dominate the world, for warfare easily invites retribution. When sages resort to arms, it is always out of necessity. If one seeks to conquer the world by force without true necessity, even temporary victory will eventually be repaid with disaster. King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, the First Emperor of Qin, and Emperor Wu of Han—some met their deaths, while others brought calamity upon their descendants. Such actions, loathed by the people and detested by the spirits, spare no one from retribution.

Where armies are stationed, thorns grow; after great wars, years of famine follow. This is because war disrupts the people's livelihood, leaving fields untended, and afterward, the killing Qi lingers, damaging harvests. This is true of all warfare—how much more so for those who seek to dominate the world by force?

Thus, those skilled in warfare stop once their objective is achieved, never presuming to bully the weak. "Resolution" (果) here means decisiveness—resorting to arms only when virtue fails to transform and governance fails to command obedience, acting as a last resort.

After achieving the goal, one must not become complacent, boastful, or arrogant, but recognize it as a necessity. This is the principle of achieving without domination.

When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline—this is called straying from the Dao. What strays from the Dao perishes swiftly. All things, after reaching their peak, inevitably decline. Only those who embody the Dao accomplish things as if lacking, remain full as if empty, and never reach their zenith. Thus, they neither decline nor perish. The same applies to those who rely on military might—it is a path to ruin.

Mighty military force may appear awe-inspiring, but how can it be sustained forever? Those sophisticated weapons are all inauspicious objects that even ordinary people detest, so those who have attained the Dao (the Way) do not wield them lightly. Weapons should only be used as a last resort to resolve crises, never relied upon in ordinary times. Thus, the noble person honors the left in daily life (in ancient times, the left symbolized Yang and peace) but honors the right in warfare (the right symbolized Yin and violence). Weapons are not the tools of a noble person, and even when forced to use them, one must maintain a detached mindset. Victory is not something to boast of—to glorify triumph is to take pleasure in killing. Those who revel in slaughter will never win the hearts of the world.

According to ritual propriety, auspicious matters honor the left, while inauspicious matters honor the right. Thus, in the military, the lieutenant general stands on the left, while the commander-in-chief stands on the right—this treats warfare with the solemnity of a funeral. When many are slain in battle, one must mourn with grief; even in victory, the rites of mourning should be observed.

The great Dao (the Way) can never be defined in words (nameless). Like unworked wood (Pu, "the uncarved block"), it is simple and seemingly insignificant, yet none in the world dare belittle it. If feudal lords and rulers uphold the Dao, all things will naturally submit. This "uncarved block" represents original nature—since the Dao is nameless, so too is original nature beyond description. When unfolded, it permeates all things; when withdrawn, it is finer than the tip of a hair. Thus, though it appears minute, it cannot be disregarded. If ordinary people uphold it, even dust and chaff can produce sages like Yao and Shun; if rulers fail to uphold it, all things will refuse to submit.

When the Qi (vital energy) of Heaven and Earth—Yin and Yang—blends harmoniously, sweet dew descends naturally, nourishing all things equally without human intervention. The sage, comprehending the supreme Dao, responds to all things just as the dew falls impartially, thereby winning the hearts of all.

When the Dao differentiates into concrete things (Qi, "vessels"), names and forms arise. But once names are established, one must know when to stop—understanding boundaries prevents danger. Though the sage creates concrete things from the simplicity of the Dao and assigns them names, they do not become lost in names and forget the essence. Because they know to return to original nature, they remain unshaken amidst all changes.

The relationship between the Dao and the myriad things of the world is like that of streams to rivers and seas. Rivers and seas are where water returns; streams are its branches. The Dao is the source of all things; all things are its manifestations. Just as streams ultimately return to rivers and seas, all things ultimately return to the origin of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the essence and characteristics of the Dao. It begins by noting that all things return to the Dao, just as rivers ultimately flow into the seas. The author explains that the Dao was originally nameless, only later being assigned various designations like the sun, moon, stars, mountains, rivers, and vegetation. Sages used these names to establish official positions—while the names differ, their essence remains the same Dao. Just as water in the world manifests in various forms like valleys, rivers, or oceans, its fundamental nature remains unchanged. This teaches practitioners to transcend the limitations of names and return to the primordial state of namelessness.

Chapter 33 describes several realms of personal cultivation: Understanding others demonstrates wisdom, but knowing oneself reveals true clarity; conquering others shows strength, but mastering oneself constitutes real power; those who are content are always abundant; those who persevere in practice possess true resolve; those who never lose their original mind endure; and those whose physical forms perish while their spirit remains undiminished achieve genuine longevity. It particularly emphasizes that true strength lies not in overpowering others but in restraining one's desires and returning to one's intrinsic nature.

Chapter 34 portrays the attributes of the Great Dao: The Dao flows everywhere, omnipresent ("it can go left or right"). All things depend on it to grow, yet it never declines responsibility; it accomplishes all without claiming merit. The Dao cannot be measured by fixed standards nor comprehended through dualistic concepts. It transcends all binary oppositions, being neither "affirmable" nor "negatable."

There exists a power that creates all things yet never claims credit for its work. People often try to appropriate this power for themselves. Yet another kind of power withdraws from creation without seeking possession, actively declining any creative merit. Only the Dao can accomplish this—bringing forth all beings without claiming their achievements, perfecting everything without taking ownership.

The Dao clothes and shelters all things without ruling over them. Because it remains forever free of selfish desires, we might call it insignificant. Though all beings return to it, it refuses dominion, and thus we might also call it great. Therefore, the sage never considers himself great, and thereby attains true greatness. Those who presume greatness while clinging to notions of "greatness" ultimately diminish themselves.

The Dao cannot be defined by size—what we call "greatness" is merely its manifestation when acting upon the world. As Mencius said: "Only one who can transform all things deserves to be called a sage." The truly great can nurture all beings without being burdened by the empty title of "greatness," and thus achieve genuine greatness.

Chapter 35 states: "Those who hold fast to the Great Image (Da xiang) will find all under heaven turning to them." Because the Dao transcends being and non-being, it is called the "Great Image." If it appeared with obvious form, distinctions of preference would arise—those who like it would come, those who dislike it would depart, and it could never unite all under heaven. Those who return to the Dao suffer no harm; all attain peace, harmony, and well-being.

Music and fine food may detain passing guests, but when the music ends and the food is consumed, the guests will leave. Those who uphold the Great Dao in dealing with the world inspire neither particular fondness nor aversion. Though the Dao seems bland and flavorless, unremarkable to the eye and unpleasing to the ear, its function is inexhaustible.

Chapter 36 declares: "To contract something, one must first expand it; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first promote it; to take something, one must first give it." This is subtle wisdom. Without first giving, any sudden taking will fail to achieve the best outcome and violates the principle of the Dao.

When strength is insufficient and circumstances have not reached their extreme, forcibly seizing will rarely succeed; when the rationale is inadequate, all things will not submit. Yet this already approaches the methods of strategic cunning—how does it differ from the tactics of strategists like Guan Zhong or Sun Wu? The actions of sages may appear similar to those of ordinary people on the surface, but their essence differs entirely—sages act in accordance with the principles of heaven, while worldly people merely play with clever schemes.

Following heavenly principle is like a skilled physician prescribing the right remedy, while cunning is like a merchant speculating for profit. Knowing when to contract requires first understanding expansion; recognizing the need to appear weak demands first showing strength; understanding that decline precedes rise, and that giving is ultimately for gaining—who but those who grasp the subtle signs of things can achieve this? Thus, this is called "subtle wisdom."

The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong. Sages know that strength is unreliable, so they consciously maintain a posture of gentleness. When the strong of the world clash and exhaust each other, the sage observes quietly from a position of softness, emerging victorious without effort once the mighty have worn each other down. Yet this is not the sage’s deliberate scheming—it is simply understanding the patterns of nature and flowing with them.

Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, the crucial methods of governance should not be lightly revealed. Fish lack sharp teeth or claws, yet when hidden in the depths, even the strongest cannot catch them; once they leave the water, they become helpless fools for slaughter. The sage abides in the way of softness, unharmed by the strong, and even turns retreat into control—this is the true "sharp weapon." Fish are caught only when they leave the water, but the sage remains ever gentle, thus ultimately conquering all under heaven. How could such wisdom be shared with ordinary people?

The transformations of things are inexhaustible, appearing as non-action (Wuwei) yet operating naturally. Seeing expansion, one does not perceive its coming contraction; witnessing strength, one does not foresee its decline—such is the nature of rise and fall, gain and loss. These subtle signs, though small, can be discerned, revealing why softness overcomes hardness. In governing the world, the sage has his own way of operation, yet it must not be carelessly displayed—this is what is called the "sharp weapon."

(Note: As mentioned in the text, Zhao’s critique of the Kaiyuan Commentary for interpreting the sage’s wisdom as mere strategy is mistaken, as sagely wisdom transcends cunning. Scholars like Lu and Su, however, argue that this reflects the inherent patterns of things themselves.)

Here the commentator Ye suggests that if there were indeed a creator driving the operation of all things, it would precisely demonstrate how the soft and yielding overcomes the hard and strong. Are not these so-called "sharp tools" (利器) in fact those seemingly soft and yielding things?

Chapter 37 of the Dao De Jing states: "The Dao is eternally without action (Wuwei), yet nothing is left undone." The great Dao forever maintains its natural state of non-action, yet accomplishes everything. This doesn't mean the Dao deliberately acts, but rather that while it brings all things to completion, it does so without any intentional effort.

If rulers can uphold this principle, all things will transform and develop naturally. When excessive desires arise in the course of things' development, they should be settled using the "nameless simplicity" (无名之朴) - referring to the Dao's original authentic state. The sage transforms all things through non-action. Initially, the changes in all things occur spontaneously, but gradually human artifice emerges. Just as an infant grows into adulthood, hypocrisy and affectation increasingly accumulate.

During the decline of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, the changes in human hearts grew increasingly severe. When desires first begin to stir, if rulers simply follow these trends, such changes will develop beyond control. But if one remains unmoved when desires first appear, consistently using the pure simplicity of Dao to settle them, perhaps this tendency can be checked.

Yet this "nameless simplicity" itself should not become an object of attachment. When even the thought of maintaining purity disappears, the world naturally returns to tranquility. The true sage neither deliberately maintains purity in heart nor deliberately displays simplicity in appearance - only thus can the complete nature of Dao be preserved and its greatest function realized. If one still harbors thoughts like "I must maintain purity," one remains far from the true Dao.

Chapter 38 of the Dao De Jing discusses the varying manifestations of De (Virtue/Power) and their fundamental distinctions. The highest form of De (shangde, superior virtue) does not consciously flaunt its virtuousness, and thus truly embodies De. The inferior form of De (xiade) clings to not losing virtue, yet in doing so, it loses the true essence of De. The sage follows their heart's desires without transgressing natural laws—they do not deliberately pursue virtue, yet their De is naturally complete.

The supreme state of De is aligning with nature through Wuwei (non-action) without deliberate effort (wuyiwei). The inferior form of De still involves purposeful action. True Wuwei is entirely free from artificial striving, while the inferior form, though still virtuous, bears traces of human contrivance. The Zhenghe Zhenren explains: "To naturally harmonize without thought, to effortlessly attain balance without force, to achieve without action—this is shangde." Conversely, anything requiring deliberate effort belongs to xiade.

Benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi) both fall within the realm of action: the benevolent act without utilitarian motives (wuyiwei), while the righteous act with clear principles (youyiwei). De has higher and lower forms, but ren and yi only have superior expressions—their inferior forms are not even worth mentioning. As for ritual propriety (li), when people perform rites yet receive no response, they roll up their sleeves and force compliance. From De to li, these are the sage’s last resorts in governing the people. When coercion fails, punishment and force must be employed—at which point governance descends into lawless brutality.

Thus, only when the great Dao is lost does De arise; when De declines, ren is emphasized; when ren is lacking, yi is invoked; and when yi decays, li is imposed. Li is actually the product of waning loyalty and sincerity, and paradoxically becomes the beginning of chaos. True loyalty and sincerity need no ritual to manifest, yet once li is established, their beauty becomes superficial form. Between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, or friends—outwardly, they may conform to ritual, but inwardly, they are hollow. Observing li brings order, violating it brings chaos. The line between order and chaos is thin, hence li is called "the beginning of disorder."

Those who claim to foresee the future (qianshi) merely grasp the superficial ornamentation of the Dao—precisely the onset of foolishness. Just as a great man stands firm in life, they should be substantial and sincere, not frivolous and shallow, preserving their true essence rather than chasing empty appearances.

The sage perceives all things with clarity, where right and wrong, gain and loss are reflected as clearly as in a mirror, leaving nothing unaccounted for—how could there be any need to impose an order of priority? Ordinary people, however, rely solely on their eyes to see, ears to hear, and minds to deliberate, groping blindly among the myriad things, forcibly seeking knowledge through intellect. When they occasionally grasp something, they consider themselves wise, unaware that this is precisely the beginning of foolishness.

Thus, the great man (one of wisdom) chooses the profound and substantial essence, not the shallow and superficial appearance; he dwells in the solid foundation, not the flashy branches and leaves. He discards the illusory and grasps the fundamental.

Worldly people become obsessed with petty gains before their eyes and forget the great Dao (the Way) at their roots. Thus, they prefer the shallow and discard the profound, plucking flowers while abandoning the root. If not for the great man, who could distinguish truth from falsehood? As Master Lu (the commentator) explains: When the inner qualities of loyalty and sincerity decline in people, rituals must be established to prevent chaos. Hence, it is said, "Rituals mark the beginning of disorder"—not that rituals themselves cause chaos. "Premature discernment" (judgment made too early) is the flower of De (Virtue/Power). When external conduct requires regulation, rituals are upheld to guide the ignorant—this does not mean wisdom is the origin of foolishness.

Benevolence, righteousness, rituals, and wisdom are all tools for timely use. To govern the present with the ancient Dao, one must take De as the foundation and dwell in profundity. To reform the present and return to the ancient Dao, one must begin with rituals, like returning to the source from a tributary. As Master Zhao (another commentator) elaborates: Delving into the sage's original intent, using the ancient Dao to govern the present is a gradual restoration of Wuwei (non-action) governance. Thus, the sage first expounds on Dao and De, then discusses benevolence and righteousness, and finally explains rituals and music. This gradual process inevitably leads to harsh laws and severe governance—a result of gradual evolution. Yet worldly people scorn benevolence and righteousness, abandoning ritual propriety. Imagine a single day without benevolence—chaos would ensue; a single day without rituals, would people not regress into beasts? This is why, during the Jin and Song periods (referring to the Wei-Jin and Southern Dynasties era), people indulged recklessly, leading to the collapse of states and families without realizing it. How could they understand the true purpose of the sage's teachings or the original meaning of Laozi's rituals?

Chapter 39: "Those of Old Who Attained the One"

In ancient times, those who attained the Dao (the "One" is Dao):

Heaven attained it and became clear,

Earth attained it and became tranquil,

Spirits attained it and became efficacious,

Valleys attained it and became full,

The myriad things attained it and came to life,

Kings and lords attained it and the world was governed.

Dao is singular, yet all things are able to be what they are because of it. People see only the myriad things but forget Dao:

Heaven knows only clarity,

Earth knows only tranquility,

Spirits know only efficacy,

Valleys know only fullness.

(This is to see only the surface and miss the essence.)

All beings need only know they exist; rulers need only understand they serve as models for the world. Neither needs to inquire deeply why this is so, for all originates from the presence of the Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe).

Should this foundation be lost: heaven deprived of clarity would collapse, earth deprived of stability would quake, spirits deprived of efficacy would vanish, valleys deprived of fullness would wither, all beings deprived of vitality would perish, and rulers deprived of noble status would fall.

What we call "the ultimate" means reaching the extreme limit: heaven momentarily deviating from the Dao may not immediately collapse, nor earth instantly quake, but persisting to the limit inevitably brings such consequences. Thus nobility must take humility as its root, and elevation must have lowness as its foundation.

The vastness of heaven and earth, the nobility of rulers—all are accomplished through the "One" (manifestation of the Dao). What exactly is this "One"? Look and it cannot be seen, grasp and it cannot be held—it is the most subtle presence under heaven, what we call "humility and lowliness."

Hence rulers style themselves "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (ancient royal self-deprecations), precisely demonstrating humility as their foundation. Ancient use of these terms grasped the essence while overlooking appearances.

Consider crafting a chariot: wheels, spokes, canopy—these components can be counted, yet the complete chariot cannot be reduced to their sum. Only then do we understand that "non-being" (holistic integrity) is the key to forming the chariot. This is how the function of so-called "non-being" manifests. Does heaven-and-earth become so through "vastness"? Do rulers become so through "nobility"? Within both "vastness" and "nobility" resides the "One"—this is their true foundation, though people remain unaware.

Thus the "One" dwells in nobility without claiming nobility, abides in humility without claiming humility. Unlike jade that esteems itself too highly to lower, or coarse stone that resigns itself too lowly to rise. Previous interpretations taking "yu" as chariot are imprecise—I believe it should mean "the multitude." "Yu tai" (ancient terms for lowly servants) emphasizes essential unity. To say "no servant-mind" renders royal titles meaningless. As ancients said: "Remove the days and years vanish"—the same principle applies.

This passage elucidates the profound teachings about the Dao (the Way) from the Daode Jing. It begins by pointing out that whether it's precious jade or ordinary stone, they are essentially the same in nature—it is only people who impose distinctions of value. The truly wise do not cling stubbornly to their own views but remain open-minded, awaiting the judgment of future generations.

The chapter on "Reversal is the movement of the Dao" explains that the Dao operates in cyclical patterns. Returning to one's original nature leads to stillness, yet this stillness is not lifeless inertia but the fundamental force containing infinite vitality. Though the Dao appears soft and formless, it is the most powerful force in the world, capable of governing all things. All phenomena in the world arise from "being" (you), yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (wu).

The text then discusses the varying levels of understanding among people: those of superior wisdom hear the Dao and diligently practice it; those of average wisdom half-believe and half-doubt; while those of inferior wisdom mock it. The Dao is not a tangible thing, making it difficult for ordinary people to comprehend. Only those who truly grasp it can persevere in its cultivation.

Several paradoxical yet unified truths are presented: true brightness appears dim; advancement seems like retreat; the smoothest path appears rugged; the highest virtue (De) is as humble as a valley; the purest white seems stained. These illustrate the dialectical nature of the Dao, showing that true wisdom often contradicts conventional understanding.

These teachings stem from the insights of ancient sages, which Laozi quoted and expanded upon, revealing the profound essence and operational principles of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and its operational principles. The most expansive De (Virtue/Power) appears insufficient, because true vastness cannot be increased further—thus it paradoxically seems lacking. When establishing virtue, one appears relaxed yet is actually aligning with nature through Wuwei (non-action); what seems outwardly idle contains profound meaning within.

Those who preserve essential purity may appear adaptable externally, yet never lose their fundamental truth internally. As the ancients said: "What is truly hard cannot be worn thin; what is truly white cannot be stained black." The most square objects have no corners, the greatest vessels take the longest to complete, the loudest sounds become inaudible, and the grandest forms remain invisible.

The Dao itself is hidden and nameless, yet skillfully nourishes all things to maturity. These twelve phenomena manifest the Dao in concrete forms, while its totality remains concealed within namelessness. It consistently uses surplus to compensate deficiency—all things rely on the Dao for fulfillment.

Chapter 42 describes the generative process of existence: The Dao gives birth to One (Taiji, the Supreme Ultimate), One generates Two (Yin-Yang), Two produces Three (the harmonizing Qi [vital energy] from Yin-Yang interaction), and Three gives rise to the myriad things. All beings carry Yin on their backs while embracing Yang, their opposing energies vibrating into harmonious states. The Dao itself is neither One nor Two—when referenced against creation, we call it "One." Though the myriad things differ vastly, all follow the natural law of Yin-Yang harmonization.

People dislike being called "orphaned," "widowed," or "unworthy," yet rulers adopt these terms for themselves. Ancient sages understood that all things develop from modest beginnings—what appears weak contains latent vitality. Ordinary people consider diminishment harmful and increase beneficial, but this isn't necessarily true. The violently domineering often meet untimely ends—this truth serves as education's foundational principle.

The Dao teaches all under heaven thus: Those who act with tyrannical force will ultimately meet an untimely end, for excessive force represents the height of arrogance. When people understand that the forceful inevitably perish, they will recognize the folly of reckless action, and only then can they begin to discuss the Great Dao. Therefore, I take this principle as the foundation of instruction.

The softest things in the world can overcome the hardest. The formless can penetrate where there are no gaps—from this I comprehend the benefits of wuwei (non-action). The teaching without words, the benefits of non-action, these are things few in the world can attain. When hardness opposes hardness, one will break and the other will shatter; when softness meets hardness, the soft remains unharmed while the hard remains uninjured. In nature, water exemplifies this perfectly. When form opposes form, both suffer damage; when the formless enters form, the formless never wearies while the form remains unaware. In nature, this is how spirits and ghosts operate. Thus, the sage, precisely because he practices non-action, can govern the strong and move freely among all forms. The conclusion remains: The teaching without words, the benefits of non-action, these are things few in the world can attain.

Which is more precious—fame or life? Which is more important—life or wealth? To value life above fame and prize life over wealth does not yet constitute true selflessness. The truly selfless do not cling even to their own being—how much less to fame and wealth? Yet to govern the world by esteeming life, one must reach this state of selflessness. Therefore, people must first understand that fame is not worth pursuing and wealth not worth hoarding before they can learn to cherish life; only by cherishing life can they attain selflessness. This is Laozi’s essential meaning.

Which brings greater suffering—gain or loss? Before obtaining something, one suffers from its absence; after obtaining it, one fears losing it—this suffering exceeds the pain of loss itself. Only by regarding possession and lack, gain and loss as equal can one be free from such suffering. Thus it is said: Excessive miserliness leads to great waste; excessive hoarding invites severe loss. When love becomes extreme, one will stop at nothing to obtain—how can this not be wasteful? When hoarding becomes excessive, it attracts many contenders—how can this not bring loss? Knowing contentment prevents disgrace; knowing when to stop avoids danger—only thus can one endure.

What is most perfect seems flawed, yet its function never fails; what is most full seems empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. Ordinary people believe perfection means having no flaws, so their perfection inevitably decays; they believe fullness means having no emptiness...

When things reach their peak of fullness, they inevitably decline. The sage pursues the highest achievements yet does not dwell on shortcomings, aspires to perfect wholeness yet does not despise emptiness. Only in this way can success be maintained without decline, and fullness be preserved without exhaustion.

True uprightness appears bent, true skill appears clumsy, true eloquence appears mute. If one insists on being rigidly straight without bending, such uprightness is prone to break. Following the natural order, what seems bent is actually upright. If one relentlessly pursues cleverness while refusing to appear clumsy, such cleverness will eventually exhaust its wielder. Aligning with the Dao, what seems clumsy is truly skillful. If one constantly argues without ever remaining silent, such eloquence will ultimately lead to deadlock. Speaking in accordance with principle, what appears mute is in fact profoundly eloquent.

Movement can withstand cold, while stillness overcomes heat—yet serene Wuwei (non-action) is the true path to governing the world. To pursue only success while rejecting shortcomings, to seek only fullness without allowing emptiness, to demand straightness without understanding bending, to chase cleverness while disdaining clumsiness, to value eloquence while shunning silence—this is as one-sided as movement that cannot be still or stillness that cannot move. Movement may conquer cold but cannot overcome heat; stillness may subdue heat but cannot withstand cold—both represent attachment to extremes. Only by maintaining tranquil detachment, free from fixation on any polarity—success or failure, fullness or emptiness, straightness or bending, skill or clumsiness, eloquence or silence—can one become truly invincible and embody the world's proper path.

As Lord Ye observed: "Cold and heat are the natural Qi of heaven and earth." When people move vigorously, they withstand cold; when they remain still, they overcome heat. Understanding these cyclical patterns of conquest and generation, what could possibly be beyond attainment? That clarity overcomes turbidity and stillness overcomes agitation is already evident. How much more so that deficiency conquers fullness, emptiness conquers solidity, bending conquers rigidity, clumsiness conquers cleverness, and silence conquers eloquence. People simply fail to comprehend this principle, hence their constant pursuit of superficial victory. Fixation on winning and losing can never represent the true path. Only serene Wuwei constitutes the fundamental law for governing the world.

Chapter 46 of The Dao in the World states: "When the world follows the great Dao, warhorses retire to fertilize fields; when the world abandons the Dao, even the suburbs breed warhorses." When all things occupy their proper places without contention, peace arises naturally—thus warhorses may return to plowing. When governance becomes disordered, warhorses multiply in wilderness. Governing through the Dao, people dwell contentedly without strife, simply cultivating their own fields.

No crime exceeds indulging desires, no calamity surpasses insatiability, no fault exceeds greed. While tempting people with desirable objects constitutes wrongdoing, the root lies in humanity's inability to know contentment.

Those who are insatiable in their greed will invite greater calamities; those who forcefully seek to obtain everything will inevitably suffer the most severe consequences. Ordinary people who indulge in such faults will face misfortune, while rulers who act this way will inevitably provoke chaos. Lu Xisheng (a Tang Dynasty Daoist) explains that foolish and unprincipled rulers who bring suffering to the world commit three major evils: First, seizing what they desire without reason is the gravest crime. Second, boundless greed inevitably harms more people, which is the greatest disaster. Third, when desires remain unfulfilled, the inner fire of craving grows stronger—this is the most serious failing. Thus, only those who understand contentment can truly attain lasting fulfillment. Because the contented remain at peace with their circumstances, they will never feel deprived.

Chapter 47 speaks of the "wisdom of staying within doors": Those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) need not step outside to understand the affairs of the world, nor must they look out the window to grasp the patterns of Heaven’s principles. Those who rush about seeking the Dao only comprehend less the farther they travel. This is because one’s innate nature (referring to the original spiritual essence of a person) already permeates the entire cosmos, unbound by time or space. The ancient sages could know all things without leaving their homes precisely because they preserved the wholeness of their nature. Ordinary people, however, are obscured by external distractions—their nature is fragmented, internally disturbed by the seven emotions and six desires, externally blocked by mountains, rivers, and scenery. Their eyes see only what is before them, their ears hear only what is nearby; even small barriers like doors and windows completely obstruct their perception. They fail to realize that the sages, by restoring their innate nature, already possess all they need. Instead, they seek outwardly, and thus the farther they go, the less they understand. In truth, by observing oneself, one can infer others; from within, one can comprehend the external; from the small, one can grasp the great; from the near, one can deduce the distant. Therefore, the sages need not travel far to know, nor must they see directly to understand. Without deliberate action, they achieve success. Wherever the innate nature extends, one not only recognizes and names things but also aligns with the natural patterns of all things, effortlessly accomplishing everything.

Cheng Xuanying (a Tang Dynasty Daoist) says: "When closed off by desires, one becomes obstructed; when in harmony with the principles of Heaven, one attains spiritual clarity." Lu Xisheng adds: "When the sages eat, they think of those starving in the world; when they clothe themselves, they think of those suffering from cold. From cherishing their own kin, they extend compassion to all elders; from loving their own children, they extend care to all children. Thus, without stepping outside, they understand the world’s affairs. By valuing their own lives, they grasp the Dao’s way of generating all things; by achieving their own endeavors, they comprehend the Dao’s operation of the four seasons; by delighting in good deeds, they understand the Dao’s protection of the virtuous. Why must one look out the window to recognize the Dao? Without traveling far, one can discern human affairs; without direct observation, one can understand Heaven’s principles; without forced action, one can achieve perfect governance—all this comes from turning inward and reflecting on oneself."

Chapter 48 discusses "learning and cultivating the Dao": Those who pursue worldly knowledge accumulate more and more information, but those who cultivate the great Dao (the Way) reduce their desires further and further. By continuously diminishing desires, one ultimately reaches the state of wuwei (non-action). Through wuwei, one can accomplish everything. In governing the world, one must always avoid excessive interference—those who are eager to act are, in fact, unfit to rule.

The pursuit of knowledge leads to daily accumulation of information, yet if one fails to synthesize this knowledge into a coherent whole, they remain merely a bookish scholar. Confucius once said: "Listen widely to diverse perspectives, selecting the worthy to follow; observe extensively and retain what you see—this is a secondary form of understanding."

The cultivation of the Dao (the Way) operates in the opposite manner, requiring daily reduction. Once one comprehends the Dao, they realize all phenomena in the world are illusory and insubstantial. By discarding illusions to return to one's true nature, little effort is ultimately needed. Confucius asked Zigong: "Do you think I attain wisdom through extensive learning and memorization?" Zigong replied: "Indeed—isn't that so?" Confucius said: "No. I thread all knowledge with a single fundamental principle."

Continue reducing until reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action). While appearing inactive, nothing remains undone. Eliminating illusions to restore one's original nature is already reduction, yet if the thought "I must discard illusions" persists, the process remains incomplete. Only when even this thought is forgotten, when the mind becomes utterly pure and untainted, can one spontaneously accomplish all while maintaining Wuwei. This reduction must proceed gradually—first diminishing outward actions, then inner attachments, until both body and mind are completely released.

Thus governing the world requires following natural patterns. Forced intervention inevitably fails. People's ambitions to contend for the world create artificial disturbances—when such intentions manifest externally, all things recoil, ensuring ultimate failure. The sage maintains Wuwei, creating no disturbances; when their mind manifests, all things naturally settle. Though not actively pursuing the world, the world returns to them.

Chapter 49 describes the sage's mind: Sages hold no fixed opinions but take the people's hearts as their own. To the virtuous I extend virtue; to the non-virtuous I also extend virtue—this is true virtue. To the trustworthy I extend trust; to the untrustworthy I also extend trust—this is true trust.

Emptiness has no fixed form—it adapts to all shapes, becoming square with squares and round with circles. If emptiness possessed inherent form, how could it contain all things? Therefore sages hold no fixed views but take the people's hearts as their own. Whether others are virtuous or not, I meet them with virtue; whether trustworthy or not, I meet them with trust. Others' virtue is their concern—my virtuous heart never wavers; this constitutes true virtue. Others' trustworthiness is their concern—my trusting heart remains constant; this constitutes true trust. To only cherish the virtuous while rejecting others, or only trust the reliable while abandoning the rest—how could this be called "eternally saving all, therefore rejecting none"?

The sage governs the world with a cautious and reverent heart, guiding all people's minds back to simplicity. While the common folk attentively observe the sage's every action, the sage cherishes them like infants.

People often quarrel and fight due to differing standards of good and evil, truth and falsehood, not knowing how to find peace. Troubled by this, the sage carefully restores simplicity to human hearts, treating all without distinction between good and evil, truth and falsehood. The people focus on the sage's rewards and punishments, yet the sage maintains an attitude of childlike purity—neither overly pleased by good deeds nor excessively resentful of wrongdoing. Thus, the virtuous are not prideful, and the wicked are not enraged. All are naturally transformed, and the world attains peace. Ye Mengde comments that the sage exists in the world without forcefully governing it.

On Life and Death (Chapter 50):

The emergence of life is called "birth," and its disappearance is called "death." Original nature has no birth or death—it appears as life and withdraws as death.

Three-tenths nourish life, three-tenths harm it, and another three-tenths result from reckless actions that bring about death. Using external things wisely to nurture Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) belongs to the category of life; indulging in sensory pleasures that damage life belongs to the category of death. These two already distinguish the paths of life and death. But if one only labors without rest, only speaks without silence, only thinks without forgetting—such extremes lead to self-inflicted death. If divided into tenths, these three categories each account for three parts, showing that the ways of life and death occupy nine-tenths, while the Dao beyond life and death occupies only one-tenth. That state of neither birth nor death is what the Yijing calls "serene and unmoving." Laozi speaks only of the nine-tenths, leaving the one-tenth for people to realize the profound mystery of no-thought and Wuwei (non-action).

Why do people bring death upon themselves? Because they excessively pursue longevity. Where there is life, there must be death—over-attachment to preserving life instead leads easily to death. Those truly skilled in nourishing life walk on land without encountering rhinos or tigers and enter battlefields without armor or weapons—rhinos find no place to gore, tigers no place to claw, and weapons no place to strike. This is because they do not place themselves in death's path.

Why is it said that the highest adepts can evade death? Because they transcend the boundaries of life and death—where even the concept of birth does not exist, how could death?

In Chapter 51, The Dao Gives Life, it is said: The Dao (cosmic origin) generates all things, while De (the manifestation of Dao) nourishes them. Concrete forms are given by material substance, and environmental forces facilitate their development. The Dao is like the mother of all things, while De silently nurtures beings like a shepherd. Though Dao and De themselves have no tangible form, they are revealed through the existence of all things. Yet nothing can take shape on its own—it requires distant and near interactions, hard and soft complementing one another, accumulating momentum before the cycles of rise and fall, order and chaos emerge.

Thus, all things revere the Dao and treasure De. Though forms are shaped by matter and development is driven by circumstance, without the Dao, nothing would be born; without De, nothing could be nurtured. Honoring the Dao is like respecting one’s parents, while valuing De is akin to revering a ruler—for though the Dao holds no formal rank, De exerts its influence visibly. This reverence is not conferred by any authority but arises naturally. If nobility depends on external bestowal, it is not true nobility.

Therefore, the Dao generates, nourishes, cultivates, perfects, matures, protects, and embraces all things. It creates without possessing, acts without claiming merit, guides without dominating—this is the profoundest "Mystic De (玄德)." As the commentary explains: If the Dao were to deliberately dominate, it would imply something beyond the Dao, and thus it would no longer be Mystic De. Earlier, in The Chapter on Carrying the Hun and Po, the text discusses how humans align with Dao and De, while this chapter shows how Dao and De manifest in the human world.

Chapter 52, All Under Heaven Has a Beginning, states: The myriad things of heaven and earth have an origin, which can be regarded as the mother of all under heaven. When the Dao is in its "nameless" state, it serves as the foundation for the beginning of all things; when it manifests as the "named," it becomes the womb that nurtures them. Thus, it is called both the "beginning" and the "mother," while all things are its children.

Those who awaken to the Dao comprehend all things by grasping the root, just as one understands a child by knowing its mother. Though wisdom allows them to observe all phenomena, they never lose themselves in chasing external things, thus always abiding in the source of the Great Dao. If one blocks the desires of the senses (the "openings" or dui refer to sensory gates) and closes the doors of temptation, they will enjoy peace all their life. Conversely, indulging the senses and chasing external things leads to lifelong bondage. All people possess the potential for awakening, yet they often lose themselves in external distractions—eyes craving beauty, ears chasing music, the tongue indulging in flavors, the mind trapped in gain and loss. In this way, they drift ever further from the root.

When the eyes are captivated by beauty and the ears enthralled by enchanting sounds, indulging in these sensory desires ultimately traps people in inescapable bondage. The reason sages can maintain purity is that they understand how to close the gates of desire, never indulging in the pursuit of external things.

True wisdom lies in recognizing subtle omens. The harm of desire may be minuscule at first but gradually expands; to guard against it while it is still small is the mark of true wisdom. Maintaining a gentle and yielding posture leads to genuine strength. Those who chase desires while believing themselves strong are not truly powerful; only those who remain reverent in the face of temptation possess real strength.

Using sensory perception without losing one’s original mind avoids calamity—this is the way of constancy. Ordinary people indulge their desires, led astray by external things, never to return. Sages close the gates of desire not to cut themselves off entirely from the world but to engage with it through the spirit (shen). They employ their senses (the "light" refers to the faculties of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought) without becoming ensnared by them. Though these senses perceive the transformations of all things, their inner clarity remains unaffected, allowing them to respond to all changes without harm, preserving their unchanging nature. As Master Zhenghe said: Clarity is the state of the original essence, while perception is its function.

Chapter 53, "If I Were Suddenly Enlightened," states: If I were to suddenly acquire some knowledge to propagate the Dao, my greatest fear would be this kind of artificial striving. Those who truly embody the Dao need no deliberate knowledge or action—all things naturally flourish. To forcibly impose knowledge in spreading the Dao is a sign of misguided effort, worthy of caution. The monk Sengzhao said: To know something is to be ignorant of something else; the sage’s mind, free from fixed knowledge, knows all. Petty cleverness only obstructs true wisdom.

The Dao is inherently smooth and easy to follow, yet people insist on taking shortcuts. The Dao is naturally accessible, without obstacles, but those who do not understand it consider it circuitous and always seek faster paths. Thus, abandoning the natural way in favor of forced action is a symptom of impatience and greed.

(Criticizing worldly extravagance) The courts are adorned in splendor while fields lie barren, and granaries stand empty. People dress in fine robes, gird themselves with sharp swords, feast daily, and hoard wealth—these are nothing but the boasts of bandits, utterly contrary to the Dao. The worldly appear shrewd, while I seem foolish; the people calculate meticulously, while I remain simple and unadorned.

Where in this world can we find structures that are built yet never dismantled, or things embraced that never slip away? Only the sages understand the true nature of our being and see through the illusory quality of external things. They reduce their attachment to worldly matters while cultivating themselves, accumulating abundant De (Virtue). Though they appear to establish nothing deliberately, the foundations they lay remain unshakable; though they seem to grasp at nothing, what they hold fast to can never be lost. Thus, even their descendants for generations will maintain unbroken ancestral sacrifices.

By cultivating oneself, one's De becomes pure and genuine. By cultivating the family, De overflows in abundance. By cultivating the village, De endures long. By cultivating the nation, De flourishes in richness. By cultivating the world, De becomes universal. Once self-cultivation is perfected, its surplus influence extends outward—even governing the world becomes possible.

Therefore, observe the self to understand the Dao of self-cultivation; observe the family to understand the Dao of family harmony; observe the village to understand the Dao of village governance; observe the nation to understand the Dao of statecraft; observe the world to understand the Dao of universal peace. How do I come to know the workings of the world? Precisely through this method. Things beyond the heavens and earth remain unseen by ordinary people, yet their principles can be comprehended through analogy. The highest path of self-cultivation begins with oneself and extends to family, village, and nation. If we can understand self-cultivation by observing ourselves, why can’t the sages understand governing the world by observing it? Can it be that the self is observable, but the world is not? Thus, the way I understand the world is also through this method of analogy.

Commentator Lu remarks: Those skilled at establishing things use the Dao to stabilize the nation’s foundation, like deep-rooted trees that cannot be shaken. Those skilled at preserving use De to unite the people’s hearts, so that even without binding ropes, they never scatter. Thus, their descendants enjoy lasting blessings, and sacrifices remain unbroken. The passage further explains how the principles of self-cultivation extend to bringing peace to the world—one need not step beyond the door to comprehend the workings of all under heaven.

Those deeply nourished in Dao and De are like newborn infants. When Laozi speaks of Dao and De, he often uses the infant as a metaphor—not to describe its actions but its essential state. The infant is free from desire, and this essential state is the purest. Yet when the infant encounters external things, it does not know how to respond...

The Dao cannot be simply dismissed as "useless." Observe how venomous creatures do not sting it, fierce beasts do not pounce upon it, and birds of prey do not attack it. The Dao has no concrete form—how could the myriad beings perceive it, let alone harm it?

Human beings acquire form through the arising of discriminating mind. With discrimination comes form, with form comes opposition, and with opposition comes harm. Those without discriminating mind—whether people or things—have no opposites, so how could they be harmed? This is why infants remain unharmed: they lack discriminating mind.

Though an infant's sinews and bones are soft, it can naturally clench its fist; though unaware of sexual matters, it can spontaneously achieve erection—both manifestations of abundant Jing (essence). Without conscious effort it grasps firmly, without desire it responds naturally, demonstrating this is the work of vital essence rather than conscious intent.

An infant may cry all day without growing hoarse, revealing perfect internal harmony. When the Shen (spirit) becomes agitated, it injures the Qi (vital energy), and injured Qi leads to hoarseness. That crying doesn't produce hoarseness shows the spirit remains tranquil and the breath harmonious.

Understanding harmony is called "constant Dao" (the eternal Way). Harmony means not allowing external things to injure one's inner nature. Returning to the source is also called "constant Dao"—it means recognizing essence when encountering the myriad things. To know harmony is to grasp the root in dealing with all phenomena—these two are ultimately one, both called "constant Dao."

To know the constant is wisdom, but forcibly promoting growth invites calamity. Life cannot be willfully extended—such forcing violates the Dao's proper course, making what seems "auspicious" actually ominous. When will forcibly drives Qi, it becomes excessive and domineering.

Things that reach their peak must decline—this is called "not abiding in Dao." Not abiding in Dao leads to premature demise. Forced growth and willful manipulation of Qi, being unnatural, gradually lead to rigidity and decay, forfeiting the infant's pure authenticity.

Those who truly understand Dao don't speak excessively; those who speak much don't truly understand. Block sensory desires, close the gates of mind, blunt sharp edges, untangle knots, soften brilliance, and merge with the dust—this achieves "mysterious unity" (profound oneness with Dao). The Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, yet never departs from them. True knowers may not speak; eloquent speakers may not know. Only through inner cultivation reaching wordless silence can one unite with Dao. Real wisdom transcends language, for speech inevitably deviates from Dao's essence. Realizing the great Dao requires surpassing all dualistic concepts—this traceless state of unity is called "mysterious unity."

The Dao (the universal source and principle) abhors complexity and chaos, disdains ostentation and showiness, rejects impurity and baseness, and treasures simplicity and naturalness.

Thus, the Dao never alters its essence based on closeness or distance, benefit or harm, nobility or lowliness. It shows no favoritism to the intimate nor rejection of the distant; remains unchanged by profit or loss; neither elevates the honorable nor demeans the humble. This is precisely why the Dao is the most precious thing under heaven.

If something can be embraced, it can equally be rejected; if it brings benefit, it can equally cause harm; if it can be exalted, it can equally be despised. Those who truly embody the Dao treat all things equally without distinction between intimate and distant; regard fortune and misfortune alike without calculating gains and losses; remain unaware of honor and disgrace, indifferent to nobility and baseness. This state transcends worldly calculations, making it the most valuable existence in the world.

Chapter 57 discusses governance: Govern the state with upright principles, command armies with unconventional strategies, and win the world through Wuwei (non-action, effortless action). Ancient sages pacified distant regions through benevolent policies and educated nearby populations through virtuous governance, resorting to military force only when absolutely necessary. Governance should be rooted in proper principles, with military action as a last resort. Even so, these methods alone cannot truly attain the world. The world is like a sacred vessel—it cannot be forcibly controlled. Those who try will fail; those who cling will lose. Only those who embody the Dao, with their expansive minds and Wuwei governance, though not actively seeking the world, will naturally receive its allegiance.

How do I know this is so? By observing these phenomena: The more prohibitions a ruler imposes, the poorer the people become; the more cunning strategies flourish among the populace, the more chaotic the state grows; the more people obsess over extraordinary skills and decadent crafts, the more bizarre occurrences emerge; the harsher the laws become, the more thieves and bandits multiply.

Therefore, the sage says: "Through my Wuwei governance, the people naturally transform; through my tranquility, they naturally become upright; through my non-interference, they naturally prosper; through my desirelessness, they naturally return to simplicity."

Chapter 58 reveals: Benevolent governance cultivates honest people; harsh policies produce cunning citizens. Fortune and misfortune are intertwined—who can discern their patterns? What appears normal may turn strange; what seems good may become evil. This mysterious transformation has perplexed humanity for ages.

Fortune and misfortune are interdependent in an eternal, unchanging pattern. Behind good fortune may lurk disaster, while within calamity may gestate blessings—who can truly discern the ultimate mystery of this? In this world, there exists no absolute distinction between righteousness and wickedness.

People often mistake the upright for the strange and the virtuous for the demonic—such confusion has persisted for ages. Though heaven and earth are vast, worldly vision perceives only fragments, blind to the whole. Fortune leans against misfortune, while misfortune hides within fortune, much like the alternation of day and night or the cycle of cold and heat. The upright transforms into the bizarre, the virtuous into the sinister, just as elders become children and life gives way to death—this is the natural order, yet the deluded fail to grasp it.

Only sages transcend the surface of things, penetrating their origins and conclusions, holding the whole while disregarding trivialities. They appear muddled and unrefined, yet they preserve the people’s innate simplicity. Ordinary folk, ignorant of the Dao’s totality, mistake what their eyes and ears perceive for the complete truth. When they revel in what they believe is good fortune, they remain unaware of the lurking disaster; when they pride themselves on virtuous deeds, they fail to see the wickedness growing within. Obsessed with minute observations, they fancy themselves wise, not realizing such excessive scrutiny harms all things—truly pitiable.

Thus, sages abide in the world with rectitude yet do no harm, with purity yet without severity, with forthrightness yet without arrogance, with brilliance yet without glaring. They understand that fragmented scrutiny cannot exhaust truth, and so, though possessing many talents, they refrain from overuse—lest they fall into obstinacy with no return. To the mundane, such a state seems like "bewilderment." The Zhenghe commentary (referring to annotations from Emperor Huizong of Song’s era) explains: Rectitude easily turns into harshness, purity into pride, forthrightness into domineering, and radiance invites envy. To possess abilities yet refrain from excess—this is perhaps attainable only by sages.

In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing surpasses the principle of "restraint" (se). Only through restraint can one be said to prepare early. Early preparation means the continuous accumulation of De (Virtue/Power). When De becomes profound, nothing remains unconquered; when nothing remains unconquered, no one can fathom its limits. Only upon reaching this state can one govern a nation. By mastering the root of governance, lasting stability can be achieved.

In worldly affairs, excessive squareness injures others, excessive sharpness invites breaking, excessive directness leads to recklessness, and excessive brilliance dazzles the eyes. Only the sage can be square without injuring, sharp without breaking, direct without recklessness, and brilliant without dazzling—this is the true meaning of "restraint." Its essence lies in possessing without abusing. People often struggle with gaining others' trust, but if one truly practices inner restraint, even without contention, others will recognize one's capability and submit willingly. When people are convinced, they naturally restrain their sharp edges, never lightly revealing them throughout life, thus allowing continuous accumulation of De. When De becomes profoundly deep, it can overcome the strongest things under Heaven, making one's depths unfathomable. Only upon reaching this state can one govern a nation. Petty men, when gaining slight authority, wield it rashly; once failing to command respect, the world tests their limits and vies to challenge them, ultimately endangering the nation's survival. From this we understand that "restraint" is the root of governance.

This is the truth behind establishing deep roots and unshakable foundations—the way to enduring vision and longevity. Mencius said, "Fulfill the heart's nature to serve Heaven." Using "restraint" to govern people preserves the state; using "restraint" to serve Heaven establishes firm foundations. The ancient sages' constant way of nurturing life was to prevent external things from depleting inner Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), thus creating roots too deep to uproot and foundations too solid to shake—naturally achieving enduring vision and longevity. Though governing a state and serving Heaven differ as internal and external matters, their root principle of "restraint" remains the same.

Governing a great nation is like cooking small fish. Small fish cannot withstand constant turning, nor can a great nation endure excessive decrees. Excessive decrees exhaust the people, just as overhandling ruins the fish.

When the Dao governs the world, even ghosts and spirits lose their potency. The sage rules through Wuwei (non-action), allowing people to settle into their nature—seeking nothing outwardly, desiring nothing inwardly...

This passage speaks of a state where when humans attain fearlessness, external forces cannot harm them, and even spirits and deities cannot exert their powers. Lu Xisheng (a Tang dynasty Daoist) explains that when sages govern the world with the Dao (the Way), heaven and earth naturally operate in harmony—the alternation of cold and heat, the growth of all things occur spontaneously. In this state, spirits and deities have no opportunity to manifest their powers, let alone exercise them.

This doesn't mean spirits and deities lose their powers, but rather that their powers won't harm humans. Nor is it solely because spirits don't harm people—what's more crucial is that the sages themselves do no harm to others. Ye Mengde (a Song dynasty scholar) adds that precisely because sages harm no one, both humans and spirits can each find their proper place and coexist harmoniously.

Regarding the relationship between large and small states, it follows the same principle as water flowing downward. If a large state can humbly accommodate smaller ones, it will win their allegiance; if a small state can modestly approach a large one, it will gain the larger state's acceptance. A large state's humility gathers people's hearts, while a small state's humility seeks protection. The Zhenghe era commentary (from Emperor Huizong of Song's reign) points out that the Dao of heaven shines downward to illuminate all things, and the Dao of earth remains humble to sustain creation—thus large states should maintain this humble orientation.

The Dao is the most profound mystery of all things—it serves as the treasure of virtuous people and the protective shelter of the non-virtuous. Noble speech earns respect, while good deeds transform others. Since the Dao benefits all people equally, why should we abandon those who lack virtue?

All things in the world manifest only outward appearances, while the true Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe) lies hidden within. Like the deepest chamber of a house, the Dao resides in all things, though ordinary people cannot perceive it. Only the wise can comprehend and master it, which is why it is called the treasure of the virtuous. Though fools may not possess the Dao, they cannot live in peace without it—thus, the Dao is also the refuge of the unvirtuous. In truth, the Dao has never abandoned humanity; it is people who have turned away from it.

If someone sincerely praises the Dao, their words will spread far and wide. If they revere and practice it, they will rise above the ordinary. Even if one commits wrongdoing in the morning but hears the great Dao by evening, their delusions will dissolve, and their true nature will be restored. At that point, there would be no grounds to condemn them—how could they be cast aside?

Thus, when appointing an emperor or high ministers like the Three Dukes (Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian), it would be better to sit quietly and contemplate the Dao than to present jade discs with both hands or offer chariots drawn by four steeds. These exalted positions were established in ancient times precisely to teach people the Dao. No matter how precious the jade or how fine the horses, none compare to truly mastering the Dao. Did the ancients not revere the Dao because following it could absolve one of faults? That is why the Dao is treasured by all under heaven.

The Dao inherently exists within every person—the only fear is that they will not seek it. If one sincerely seeks, they will surely find it. The Dao itself makes no distinction between merit and blame—the only fear is that people will not understand it. Once truly comprehended, one will no longer be tainted by wrongdoing.

Chapter 63, Wuwei (Non-Action), states:

Act through non-action, handle affairs by taking no unnecessary action, and savor flavors without attachment. Whether matters are great or small, many or few, respond to resentment with virtue. The sage acts through non-action and thereby accomplishes all things; handles affairs by taking no unnecessary action and thereby manages all affairs; savors flavors without attachment and thereby perceives their true essence. In all matters, whether great or small, many or few, they adhere to the standard of the Dao.

What people find hardest to relinquish is resentment, but when love and hatred are both forgotten, even repaying resentment becomes like repaying kindness—thus, there is no place where virtue cannot be extended.

To resolve difficulties, start with what is easy; to achieve great things, begin with what is small. All difficult matters under heaven arise from what was once simple; all great undertakings accumulate from what was once minute. Therefore, the sage never seeks greatness, yet accomplishes great things.

Promises made too lightly are hard to keep; tasks viewed as too easy will encounter unexpected difficulties. Thus, the sage always proceeds with caution, and in the end, nothing is truly difficult.

People often fear great tasks but belittle small ones, dread difficulties but take the easy for granted. Only when hardship arrives do they seek solutions; only when matters grow large do they begin to act—and thus, they often fail.

When affairs are still in a state of tranquility, they are easiest to manage; when signs have not yet appeared, they are easiest to plan for; when things are fragile, they are easiest to resolve; when they are minute, they are easiest to disperse. One must address problems before they take shape and bring order before chaos arises.

When matters have not yet occurred, a slight effort in planning is enough to control them. But when they are on the verge of happening, it becomes difficult to dissolve them as easily as melting ice. Still, dealing with them at this stage is better than waiting until they have fully formed. Thus, the highest wisdom lies in prevention before anything arises, while the next best approach is to bring order when chaos first appears.

A towering tree grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story terrace is built basket by basket of earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. Forcing things leads to failure, and clinging tightly results in loss. Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not act with force and thus does not fail; does not cling and thus does not lose.

The rise and fall of order and chaos, fortune and misfortune in the world all follow this principle—they accumulate from small beginnings into great outcomes. The sage approaches them with wuwei (non-action) and guards them without attachment, allowing blessings to grow naturally and misfortunes to fade away on their own. It is like farming: after deep plowing and careful tending, the autumn harvest comes naturally. Or like encountering a thief: by remaining calm and observant, the thief will retreat of their own accord.

People in the world do not understand the natural progression of things. They believe that without deliberate effort, nothing can be accomplished, and without forceful clinging, nothing can be retained. Thus, they often struggle against misfortune and entangle themselves with blessings, resulting in calamities that cannot be remedied and fortunes that are hard to achieve—this is the inevitable outcome.

People often fail when they are on the verge of success. If they treated the end as carefully as the beginning, they would not meet with failure. The sage understands the harm of forced action and does not interfere with the natural order, always following the way of spontaneity. Thus, there is nothing they do not accomplish. Ordinary people, however, obsess over gains and losses, failing to notice even the subtlest changes. When success is near, they become anxious over outcomes—this is why they never avoid failure.

Therefore, the sage seeks what others do not seek and does not value rare possessions; they learn what others do not learn, correcting the faults of the multitude. They assist the natural development of all things without daring to act recklessly. People indulge their desires, harming external things, and cling to their views, defying the principles of heaven. The sage is not without desires, but though they have desires, they are not controlled by them; they are not without learning, but though they learn, they do not cling to rigid views. Thus, they can both learn and not violate the natural order.

The ancient masters who excelled in practicing the Dao did not use it to make the people clever, but to preserve their simplicity. What the ancients called wisdom was understanding the holistic patterns of the Dao and comprehending the beginning and end of all things—this was truly valuable. Ordinary people cannot grasp these truths, instead becoming obsessed with petty cleverness, mistaking shrewdness for wisdom. Thus the harm caused by such "wisdom" becomes great. Therefore, the sage governs the people with the Dao not to make them clever, but to preserve their simplicity. In this way, the people remain free from excessive knowledge and desires, following the guidance of their leaders. Even if mistakes occur, they will not be grave.

The people become difficult to govern precisely because they have too much cunning. To rule a state with clever stratagems is the calamity of a nation. If I use cunning to manipulate others, they will respond in kind, and when superiors and subordinates scheme against each other, mutual harm ensues.

To govern without cunning artifice is the true blessing of a state. Understanding this distinction means grasping the principle of governance. One who comprehends this principle may be said to possess "profound Virtue" (Xuande). Profound Virtue reaches deep, moving contrary to worldly pursuits—only thus can the greatest harmony be achieved.

What I value is Virtue (De), while the world values cleverness. Virtue and cleverness are fundamentally opposed: cleverness can only accommodate small matters, while Virtue accommodates the great. Thus governing with cleverness is a nation's calamity, while governing without it is its blessing. Although this can serve as a principle of governance, it is not the highest expression of the Dao—hence it is called Profound Virtue. When accumulated to its deepest extent, it approaches the root, moving opposite to worldly desires. In this state, all things abide in the authenticity of their nature—this is called great harmony.

The reason rivers and seas can be lords of all streams is that they excel at staying low. Therefore, when the sage wishes to stand above others, he humbles himself in speech; when he wishes to lead the people, he places himself behind them. The sage does not deliberately seek to stand above or lead others—it is precisely through his humble and yielding character that he naturally attains honored status.

Thus when the sage occupies the highest position, people feel no burden; when he stands at the forefront, they feel no harm. Therefore all under heaven gladly support him without resentment. Precisely because he contends with nothing in the world, nothing in the world can contend with him.

All under heaven say the Dao (the cosmic origin and principle) is vast beyond compare, yet it resembles no concrete thing. Precisely because it is supremely boundless, it cannot be likened to any particular object. Were it to resemble something specific, it would long ago have become insignificant.

The Dao is expansive without fixed form, undifferentiated without definite name, permeating all things yet unlike any one of them - this is the very reason for its greatness. If it resembled any particular thing, it would merely be an ordinary object - how could it be called great?

I cherish three treasures which I constantly uphold: first is compassion, second is frugality, and third is daring not to put myself ahead of others. The Dao takes greatness in not resembling concrete things, thus when it manifests as De (virtue/power), it appears dull and clumsy - taking bluntness for sharpness, yielding for advancing, completely contrary to worldly views. Nowadays, the world values courage and strength, pursues extravagance and grandeur, and boasts of aggressive competition, while what I treasure are kindness and forbearance, restraint and moderation, humility and deference - all qualities the world considers unbecoming of "great men."

In truth, only compassion can produce genuine courage. People regard decisive action as worthy while seeing compassionate forbearance as weakness, failing to understand that decisiveness is easily thwarted while compassionate endurance is invincible, ultimately achieving true bravery.

Frugality alone can accomplish real abundance. People think extravagance can encompass all things while viewing thrift as meanness, not realizing that lavishness is easily exhausted while moderation brings contentment, ultimately achieving true wealth.

Daring not to lead actually enables one to become the leader of all vessels (sovereign of all things). People consider aggressive competition as ability while seeing reluctance to take precedence as shame, not understanding that pushiness invites aversion while yielding invites support, ultimately attaining true leadership. Just as raw timber (pu) is divided to make various utensils, the sage employing these becomes the administrator - in the transformation from raw wood to finished implements, a natural ruler emerges.

Nowadays some discard compassion to contend violently, abandon frugality to pursue luxury, and spurn yielding to compete aggressively - this is truly courting death. These three - ferocity, extravagance, and aggressive competition - are precisely what people commonly detest, and being hated by all surely means death is near.

With compassion in battle one achieves victory; in defense one achieves stability. When heaven would save someone, it guards them with compassion. Treating all things with compassion, they cherish him as parents, willingly dying for him - thus he can attack and defend. When heaven would save someone, it opens his mind to harbor boundless compassion, so all things come to protect him. As the Zhao commentator said: Laozi's Dao is too vast - people pursue it with heart yet find it hard to fully comprehend.

This passage describes how those who comprehend the Dao (the Way) often remain silent, as worldly people find such profound states difficult to understand. In the Daode Jing, Laozi repeatedly emphasizes several fundamental principles: five chapters warn against rash military action, one chapter cautions against arrogance, three advocate frugality over extravagance, and fifteen expound on the virtue of gentleness and non-contention. Among these, "compassion" stands as the most fundamental—when heaven wishes to save someone, it endows them with a merciful heart; when abandoning someone, it fills them with malice.

Chapter 68 explains that true warriors do not rely on brute strength. Though possessing martial prowess, they act with caution. Those who revel in aggression and violence ultimately invite their own destruction. Skilled fighters never let rage cloud their judgment—sages only engage in battle when absolutely necessary. Warfare waged in anger amounts to deliberate killing, which inevitably draws heaven's wrath. Those adept at overcoming opponents avoid contention altogether; precisely because they do not contend, they prevail over those who do. Those skilled in leadership maintain humility, recognizing that people naturally compete for dominance—only through humility can one truly command others' service. This embodies the virtue of non-contention, the wisdom of leadership, and aligns with heaven's eternal principle.

Chapter 69 cites ancient military strategy, with Laozi lamenting how people of his era treated slaughter as warfare's primary objective. The proper way of employing arms should be: never initiating aggression but responding when compelled; never advancing rashly but willingly retreating when appropriate. Thus one may deploy troops yet appear to have done nothing. Without contentious intent, even within an army, one would have no arm to raise, no enemy to strike, no weapon to wield—naturally avoiding the errors of warfare. The ancient Grand Marshal's code declared: when launching punitive campaigns, first sound bells and drums to proclaim the enemy's crimes, demonstrate military might at the borders, then halt if they submit—without need for actual attack.

Advancing an inch often yields little, while retreating a foot frequently brings greater gains. It is like acting yet appearing to take no action, raising an arm yet seeming to have no arm. When facing an opponent, it appears as if there is nothing to confront; holding a weapon yet feeling as if unarmed.

The greatest calamity lies in underestimating one's adversary, for doing so nearly causes us to lose what we hold most precious. The sage treasures compassion above all—underestimating an enemy leads to rash warfare, rash warfare leads to reckless killing, and thus the original heart of compassion is lost. Therefore, when two armies stand opposed, the side that maintains compassion will ultimately prevail. When conflict arises and we are compelled to fight, if we do so with a heart of compassion, even heaven and earth will come to our aid—victory becomes inevitable.

The truth I speak of is actually easy to understand and simple to practice, yet few in the world truly grasp or embody it. The root of the Dao (the Way) lies in returning to our original nature, and the profundity of this nature is revealed in the ordinary rhythms of daily life—rising, resting, eating, and drinking. When the sage points this out to awaken people, is it not simple to comprehend? If one realizes this and applies it in engaging with all things, is it not easy to practice? Yet the common failing of people is that they use it daily without awareness—they cannot even recognize it, let alone put it into practice.

Words have their guiding principle; actions have their foundation. Precisely because the Dao cannot be grasped by ordinary understanding, people fail to comprehend what I say. Words are merely tools for capturing the Dao; actions are but traces it leaves behind. If the Dao could be fully expressed in words, listening to others would suffice. If it could be completely manifested through actions, examining deeds would be enough. But because words cannot exhaust it and actions cannot fully reveal it, one must look beyond words to seek their essence and transcend actions to discover their source—only then can the Dao be realized. The ancient sages acted without thought or deliberate effort, yet within them existed a state of natural, unselfconscious harmony—a realm beyond the reach of ordinary thinking. Thus, in the end, no one truly understands me.

Those who comprehend me are few; those who emulate me are rarer still. If even ordinary people could grasp this truth, it would not be so precious. Therefore, the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside but holds jade within. Outwardly, the sage appears no different from others, yet inwardly stands apart. As Master Zhao remarked, this chapter introduces the meaning of "knowing without knowing" in the following chapter. The "unknowing" spoken of here is not the insentience of wood or stone, but rather that the Dao cannot be understood through ordinary cognition—it requires dissolving dualistic thinking, transcending sensory perception, and freeing oneself from emotional calculations. The Dao itself is not some dark and obscure appearance, yet one approaches it through practices that embrace such obscurity—how could worldly people comprehend this? Though the world does not understand, those who realize the Dao alone may appear dull on the surface but preserve purity within—is this not truly precious?

Chapter 71 of the Collected Commentaries on the Dao De Zhenjing discusses the dialectical relationship between "knowing" and "not knowing." The true Dao (the cosmic origin and ultimate truth) cannot be comprehended through ordinary thinking, hence it is said to be unknowable. Yet before we realize the Dao, we must approach it through cognition; once truly realized, clinging to this cognition becomes an obstacle. Thus, the highest state is to know yet appear not to know.

The Dao belongs neither to the category of "knowing" nor "not knowing." Deliberately pursuing "knowing" is a vain attachment, while complete "not knowing" is ignorance. Those who truly awaken to the Dao, though understanding the truth, maintain a state of seeming ignorance, ensuring their cognition remains undisturbed by external conditions—this is genuine knowledge that preserves the great Dao. Forcing cognition before grasping the Dao's essence only leads to forced interpretations and distortions.

The reason sages are free from the maladies of cognition is precisely because they recognize the common tendency to cling to knowledge, thus transcending this limitation. As Nanbo Ziqi (a Daoist figure) said: "First I lamented people losing themselves, then lamented those who lament others, until even this lamentation was relinquished"—this is seeing the nature of the "malady" and ultimately surpassing it.

Chapter 72 addresses the question of "majesty." Human nature inherently possesses majesty—a radiance so vast nothing can override it. When people cease revering this natural majesty, greater calamities arise. This majesty does not refer to external authority but the dignified bearing that naturally manifests when one's inner being aligns with the Dao.

People are often troubled by delusional thoughts—fearing life and death, worrying over gains and losses. Faced with the threats of worldly phenomena, they flail about in escape, spending their entire lives in fear, utterly unaware of the mighty power of Virtue (De) that lies within. If one truly comprehends this principle—seeing through life and death, becoming indifferent to gain and loss—they will stand fearless and unshaken. Only then does the genuine power of Virtue manifest clearly.

Do not confine the dwelling of your heart-mind (i.e., do not be bound by narrow perceptions), nor despise the essence of your life. Only by not despising life can one truly abide in it. Human nature is vast and boundless, capable of encompassing heaven and earth. Those who fail to understand this mistake their limbs and nine orifices for their entirety, clinging to these superficial aspects without weariness. Thus, their vision is limited to what their eyes see and ears hear, becoming exceedingly narrow. Hence the teaching: "Do not confine the heart-mind."

Those who grasp this truth recognize that while nature is vast, life is fleeting. They may feel anguish and seek liberation, unaware that this very aversion and longing are themselves forms of external bondage. Thus comes the teaching: "Do not despise life." Only sages can achieve neither confinement nor aversion, dwelling alongside ordinary people while abiding with the great Dao (the Way), making no distinctions between vastness and narrowness, purity and defilement. Only by not despising life can one realize there is truly nothing to despise.

Lu Xiujing (a renowned Daoist of the Southern Dynasties) said: The heart-mind is the dwelling of spirit (Shen)—do not defile it with desires, and you will not feel confined. Spirit is the root of the body—do not disturb it with trivial matters, and you will not grow weary. When humans do not weary their spirit, spirit will not weary of humans, allowing one to enjoy the joy of heaven. As the Book of Songs says: "Neither cling to empty fame, nor despise this body."

Thus, the sage has self-awareness but does not flaunt it; knows self-love but does not exalt the self. Therefore, they discard the superficial and grasp the essential. Though sages understand these principles, they do not deliberately display them; though they cherish themselves, they do not appear superior—lest they stir envy or aversion in others. Where there remains envy or aversion, fear still lingers. Only by eliminating fear does genuine Virtue descend.

Wang Pang (a Song Dynasty scholar) explains: Self-awareness allows one to understand their nature without reckless action, while self-display leads to arrogance. Self-love enables one to preserve their being without wrongdoing, while self-exaltation breeds contempt for others.

Chapter 73 discusses "courage and timidity": Reckless boldness invites fatal consequences, whereas cautious gentleness preserves life. Understanding these two outcomes reveals what is beneficial and what is harmful. Who can fully fathom what heaven despises? Even sages find it difficult to grasp. Courage that manifests as aggression leads to death; courage that manifests as yielding ensures survival—this is the most fundamental principle between heaven and earth.

This passage explores the operation of the Heavenly Dao (natural law) and how rulers should emulate it in governing the people.

The Heavenly Dao is characterized by: achieving ultimate victory without contention, responding naturally to all things without words, manifesting spontaneously without summons, and appearing gradual while planning with profound foresight. Like an immense net stretching boundlessly, it seems loose yet leaves nothing unaccounted for. Ordinary people often perceive only partial phenomena—such as the virtuous suffering misfortune while the wicked prosper—and thus doubt the Dao's fairness. Yet when viewed across the full span of time, it becomes clear that the Heavenly Dao never errs.

Regarding governance, the text observes: When decrees are chaotic and punishments excessively harsh, the people grow unafraid even of death, rendering threats of execution useless. Conversely, under clear and just governance where people live in peace and cherish life, punishing those who violate laws will ensure universal compliance. The true authority to punish belongs to the Heavenly Dao (the Executioner), with rulers merely acting as its agents.

The passage quotes Liezi to illustrate the futility of speculating about Heaven's intent—even sages take adherence to constant principles as their standard. Confucius likewise remarked, "Does Heaven speak?" showing that the Heavenly Dao manifests through the movement of seasons and the growth of all things. The comings and goings of the divine (referring to the Heavenly Dao) are unfathomable, let alone subject to manipulation.

This scripture expounds two fundamental teachings:

The first teaching concerns the karmic retribution of killing. Just as one who substitutes for a carpenter chopping wood risks injuring their own hand, those who presume to execute killings on Heaven's behalf often bring harm upon themselves. The text cites several historical examples: King Ling of Chu's excessive executions ultimately brought retribution upon himself; Qin Shihuang's tyrannical rule over the empire; and the Tang dynasty's unjust executions of loyal ministers Li Junxian and Wang Jingwen due to imperial suspicion. These were all man-made killings, not ordained by Heaven. Even the Han and Tang dynasties' executions of corrupt eunuchs, because they weren't Heaven-arranged punishments, ultimately brought misfortune. The devastating conflicts between Chu and Han or the Ten Kingdoms period's "nine empty houses out of ten" desolation were actually Heaven's punishments for wickedness.

The second teaching addresses principles of governance. People starve when rulers overtax them; people become difficult to govern when rulers overmanage them; people lose fear of death when rulers indulge in excessive pleasures. The manner in which rulers guide the people determines how the people respond. When rulers practice Wuwei (non-action) through quietude, the people can preserve their lives. Like living plants that remain supple but turn stiff when dead, rigid things belong to the category of death while pliant things brim with vitality. This principle applies even to warfare - victory through righteousness doesn't constitute forcefulness, but relying solely on military might without Dao (the Way) ensures swift defeat.

(Note: "Great Craftsman" refers to Heaven; "Executioner" denotes deities governing life and death; "Chongqi" indicates the life energy of balanced Yin-Yang; "Supreme Principle" means the highest cosmic law)

When trees grow too tall and robust, they are felled. Once a tree's trunk becomes as thick as what two arms can encircle, it inevitably meets the axe. This is nature's universal principle: the strong and mighty tend to occupy lower positions, while the soft and weak rise above. Just as in plants—the tender leaves and branches, the essence (Jing) of growth, flourish atop, while the coarse trunk remains below.

The Dao's movement resembles drawing a bow to shoot an arrow. When pulling the bowstring, it rises; when releasing, the bow's tips lift. This illustrates the Dao's way—what is elevated will be lowered, and what is low will be raised. The Dao invariably reduces excess to supplement deficiency. Yet human society does the opposite, stripping the insufficient to serve the surplus. Because the Dao is selfless, it balances; because humans are selfish, they create imbalance. Only those who embody the Dao can use their abundance to nourish the world. Such beings nurture all things without refusal—the more they give, the more they gain; the more they share, the richer they become. Thus, the sage acts without claiming credit, achieves without dwelling on success, and shuns displays of worthiness. To boast of deeds or cling to achievements is to flaunt one's surplus—a way of serving oneself, not others.

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses its power to overcome the hard. This truth is irreplaceable: the soft conquers the rigid; the weak overcomes the strong. Though all under heaven know this, few practice it. Hence, the sage declares: "Only those who bear a nation's humiliation are fit to be its lords; only those who shoulder its calamities can become kings of the world." These seemingly paradoxical words align perfectly with the Dao—they simply contradict worldly views. The world sees disgrace as shame and disasters as misfortune.

To mediate deep-seated resentment inevitably leaves lingering grievances—how can this be called resolution? Resentment arises from illusion, and illusion stems from losing one's true nature. Those who understand their nature avoid illusion—how, then, could resentment arise? People today fail to eradicate resentment at its root, settling instead for superficial reconciliation. Outwardly, peace appears; inwardly, it remains unfulfilled. Thus, though the sage holds the left half of a debt contract (the creditor's proof), they never press for repayment. Those with virtue (De) keep the covenant as a token; those without haggle relentlessly ("che" signifies exhaustive pursuit). Contracts split into left and right halves were meant to establish trust and resolve disputes. Sages and ordinary people share the same nature—yet humans mistake illusion for reality, chasing only conflict.

When discussing how to eliminate delusions and restore one's original nature, Laozi points out that sages (those who have attained the Dao) demonstrate their true nature to others, teaching them to dispel false thoughts. When delusions are completely removed and original nature is restored, one suddenly becomes enlightened—just as the right half of a tally naturally matches the left half without any forced effort. In this state, even the deepest grievances melt away like ice and snow, for one realizes that resentment never truly existed in the first place. Why then resort to mediation through material interests? Those who fail to grasp this principle exhaust themselves trying to forcibly enlighten everyone. Wang Pang (a Song Dynasty scholar) explains that the left tally is held by the creditor and the right by the debtor; once the debt is repaid, the tally becomes void on its own.

The Dao of Heaven shows no favoritism, yet it always supports the virtuous. Impartial and selfless, it operates like a tally, devoid of personal bias—only those who meet its conditions receive its blessings. Ye Mengde (another Song Dynasty scholar) remarks: When someone approaches me, I respond with sincerity. Whether they reciprocate is not my concern. Only in this way can one meet the needs of all people without exhaustion—is this not akin to the Dao of Heaven, which is impartial and aids only the virtuous?

Chapter 80 describes the ideal society of "small states with sparse populations." Living in an era of Zhou Dynasty decline and hollow ritualism, Laozi sought to remedy the situation through Wuwei (non-action), and thus concludes the text by depicting his vision of an ideal society—though he knew such a state of small, isolated communities would be difficult to achieve.

Let the people possess tools but have no use for them; let them value life and refrain from distant migrations. Content with their lot, even the clever find no occasion to employ their skills. The "tools for tens and hundreds" refer to talents capable of managing groups of ten or a hundred. Because people live in peace, they cherish life; because their lives are stable, they see no need to travel far.

Though they have boats and carriages, they do not ride them; though they have weapons, they do not display them. Let the people return to the simplicity of knotting ropes to keep records. With affairs simple and customs pure, knotted cords suffice. They find their food sweet, their clothing beautiful, their homes comfortable, and their traditions joyful. Inner contentment breeds no envy of the outside world, so they cherish what they have and delight in their surroundings, desiring nothing more.

Neighboring states are within sight of each other; the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs can be heard. Yet the people grow old and die without ever visiting one another. Though goods abound, none are taken, for all have enough.

Chapter 81 states: Truthful words are not pleasing. Laozi observes that eloquent speech is often deceitful—the kind are not artful, and the artful are not kind. Those who truly understand the Dao do not flaunt their knowledge; those who flaunt their knowledge do not truly understand. Sages do not hoard wealth. The more they give to others, the richer they become; the more they share, the more they possess. Such is the Dao of Heaven: it benefits without harming. Such too is the way of sages: they assist without contending.

Genuine words are often not ornate, while flowery rhetoric is often untrustworthy. For truth values substance over form, requiring no deliberate embellishment; whereas ornate language serves only superficial beauty, and thus may lack authenticity.

Truly virtuous people do not engage in arguments, and those who relish debate may not be virtuous. Those grounded in goodness do not seek verbal victories, while those focused on contention may have strayed from goodness' essence.

The truly wise do not flaunt erudition, and those who parade knowledge may not truly understand the Dao. One who grasps the fundamental principle can comprehend all things without amassing extensive learning. Those whose knowledge grows ever broader may never apprehend the true Dao.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not hoard personal possessions. The more they assist others, the more abundant they become; the more they give to others, the richer they grow. The sage clings only to the root—the Dao—accumulating nothing else. They exhaust their abilities to help others and empty their stores to give. Only when people realize material things are ultimately exhaustible do they understand the Dao's preciousness. As the Zhenghe commentary (referring to Emperor Huizong of Song's annotation) states: "Skillful giving completes all things yet never depletes itself. All things come to draw from it yet it never runs dry."

The Dao of nature benefits all things without harming them; the sage's standard is to act without contention. Those capable of benefiting others may also harm them; those capable of action may also contend. But the Dao of heaven and the way of sages can benefit without harming, act without contending—this is precisely what elevates them above ordinary people and makes them the root of all things.

These represent the core ideas of Laozi's Daode Jing and the essence of the Dao he transmitted, hence their reiteration at the text's conclusion. The Zhao commentary (possibly referring to Song scholar Zhao Zhijian) quotes Zhuangzi: "Laozi considered accumulation as insufficiency, while not hoarding meant abundance. The sage's Dao resembles the sea—inexhaustible, growing deeper the more one draws from it. Thus the more one gives to others, the more one possesses; the more one shares, the richer one becomes." This is what Zhuangzi called the "Celestial Storehouse" and Buddhism terms the "Inexhaustible Treasury." The text concludes with the Dao of heaven, demonstrating how the sage's way resonates with heavenly principle.

(End of Volume Four of Collected Commentaries on the Daode Zhenjing)