《道德真經口義》

Lin Xiyi of the Yanzhai Studio offers profound insights in his opening commentary on Chapter One of the Daode Jing (Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue) from his Oral Expositions on the True Classic of the Dao and Its Virtue. He explains: If the true Dao (the cosmic primordial principle) could be fully articulated in words, it would not be the eternal, unchanging Dao; if true "names" (conceptual definitions) could be completely fixed, they would not be constant names.

In the primordial chaos before heaven and earth separated—when Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) remained undifferentiated—all existed without names. This resembles the human mind in perfect stillness, prior to distinctions like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. What we call "the nameless" refers precisely to this original state. Yet once the division of Yin-Yang appears, the myriad things begin their endless transformations; once concepts of benevolence and righteousness emerge, all codes of conduct follow. This is why "the named" is called the mother of the ten thousand things.

Laozi teaches us to understand the world's essence through two modes of observation: "constantly without desire" and "constantly with desire." In the state of "non-being," one perceives the mystery of how all things come into existence; in the state of "being," one discerns the traces (the "jiao"—like mountain crevices or water channels that reveal pathways) of things emerging from nothingness. Here, the two characters for "desire" do not denote craving, but rather observational perspectives.

Lin Xiyi particularly cautions Dao practitioners to realize that all seemingly substantial things ultimately originate from emptiness. Yet fixating on "non-being" risks falling into vacuous delusion, which invites misfortune. Therefore, one must comprehend the roots of "being" within "non-being," while tracing the substance of "non-being" through "being." This dual contemplation constitutes the "mystery upon mystery"—the very gateway to all wonders.

This passage elucidates the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) in the Daode Jing. Laozi posits that these seemingly opposing concepts actually share a common origin, both emerging from the profound mystery of "Xuan" (the Mysterious) - the wondrous source that creates all things. "Xuan" represents a more fundamental state of existence than either "being" or "non-being," akin to what Zhuangzi described as realms beyond "having a beginning," "not having a beginning," or even "the absence of having no beginning" - all expressions marveling at the subtlety of creation.

It's a common misconception to simplistically interpret Laozi's philosophy as advocating mere emptiness. If he were solely attached to "non-being," he wouldn't have stated that "the two arise together" and "both are called Xuan." The phrase "mystery upon mystery" serves as the gateway to all profundity, much like the Yijing speaks of the source that "wondrously generates all things." Laozi's teachings extend beyond cosmological principles to invite personal realization through spiritual cultivation.

Chapter Two illustrates the principle of mutual arising through opposites: When the world recognizes beauty as beauty, ugliness emerges as its counterpart; when goodness is acknowledged as goodness, the concept of its absence appears. Pairs like being/non-being, difficult/easy, long/short, high/low, sound/silence, and before/after all exist in interdependent opposition. Thus, the sage practices Wuwei (non-action) in affairs and teaches through "wordless instruction," allowing all things to unfold naturally without interference - nurturing without possessing, accomplishing without claiming credit. Precisely because no merit is claimed, the achievement endures.

The essential wisdom lies in "having without clinging": where beauty exists, ugliness follows; where goodness appears, its absence emerges. But transcending this dualistic mind to reach the state of "being beautiful without self-conscious beauty, being good without self-conscious goodness" prevents the arising of relative evils and deficiencies. Like heaven and earth ceaselessly transforming and nourishing myriad beings without pride in their achievements, the sage emulates this natural Dao - maintaining Wuwei consciousness within action, embodying wordless teaching through speech.

The heavens and earth nurture the growth of all things, yet never claim credit for themselves. Just as the natural cycles of spring and summer alternate, and life and death revolve, when has the Creator (referring to the Dao) ever boasted of its power? Thus it is said: "It gives birth and nourishes without possessing, accomplishes all yet never claims." This principle illustrates the wisdom of withdrawing after achieving merit, much like the Book of Changes states, "The way of Kun (Earth) brings all things to completion," or how the sage-kings Shun and Yu possessed the world yet never monopolized it.

Since ancient times, the sages have always acted this way—it is not only Laozi who taught this. However, Laozi expressed it too bluntly, making it easy to be misunderstood as heterodox. Precisely because one does not cling to merit, the merit itself never fades. Those who stubbornly seek possession ultimately cannot retain it, while those who do not grasp can truly possess. These eight words hold profound meaning—the Book of Documents states, "Boasting of one’s virtue will instead cause it to be lost," expressing this same principle. Harmonious sounds combine to form music, hence the saying, "Sounds and tones harmonize with one another."

Chapter Three speaks of not exalting the worthy. If worthiness is not glorified, the people will not contend; if rare treasures are not prized, they will not steal; if objects of desire are not displayed, the human mind will not be disturbed. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, he empties the people’s minds (removing distracting thoughts), fills their bellies, weakens their competitive ambitions, and strengthens their bones. He keeps the people in a state of simple ignorance and desirelessness, so that even the clever dare not act recklessly. Governing through non-action (Wuwei), there is nothing left ungoverned.

If worthiness is made the standard of honor, it will inevitably provoke contention among the people. Just as Yu the Great did not flaunt his abilities, and thus no one in the world could rival his achievements. If rare treasures are treated as supremely valuable, people will develop insatiable greed, ultimately leading to theft. These two lines reveal the harm of desire. Only when temptations remain unseen can the mind be at peace. The phrase "Do not display what is desirable, and the people’s hearts will not be disturbed" is especially profound. "Empties their minds" means removing greed; "fills their bellies" means ensuring the people are well-fed; "weakens their ambitions" means reducing competitiveness; "strengthens their bones" means fortifying their bodies. The ancient sages simply ensured the people had food and clothing, free from other desires—physically strong yet not contentious, so customs remained pure, simple, and free of cunning. Even if some developed clever ideas, they dared not act on them rashly. This is how the sages governed the world.

This passage discusses the art of governance. When sages rule the world, they maintain a state of no-mind and no-desire, allowing everything to follow its natural course, thus ensuring perfect governance. By preventing the people from seeing objects that might arouse desire, their hearts remain undisturbed. This is how sages teach the people—they neither encourage the veneration of the worthy nor place value on rare treasures, as these things provoke greed. In truth, there are more than just these two things that stir desire; these are merely examples used to illustrate the point. Laozi, witnessing the chaos of troubled times, longed for the ancient era of Wuwei (non-action) governance. However, his words are somewhat extreme and thus fall short of the wisdom of our Confucian sages.

Chapter Four describes the nature of the Dao (the Way): though empty and formless, its function is inexhaustible, sometimes full, sometimes not, ever-changing and unfathomable. "Abyss" is used to depict the profound and magnificent depth of the Dao, while the word "seems" conveys an uncertain tone of praise. The Dao is like the root of all things (what Zhuangzi calls the "Great Ancestral Teacher"), existing between being and non-being, incomprehensible to those who do not truly understand it. The Dao blunts sharp edges, resolves conflicts, conceals radiance, and merges with the dust of the world (much like the Buddhist teaching of "neither defiled nor pure"). It appears indistinct, as if it exists yet does not, hence the phrase "so deep, it seems to endure." Its origin is unknown; it seems to have existed even before heaven and earth took form. Words like "resembles" and "seems" are used because the Dao can be sensed but not fully grasped—only such uncertain language can capture its profound mystery.

Chapter Five states that heaven and earth show no favoritism, treating all things as straw dogs (sacrificial objects of equal worth), and sages likewise show no partiality, viewing the people as straw dogs. This means both heaven and earth and sages maintain an objective and impartial attitude, showing no special preference, allowing everything to unfold naturally.

The space between heaven and earth is like a bellows (tuóyuè) — seemingly empty yet never collapsing; the more it's pumped, the more wind it produces. Rather than exhausting oneself with endless chatter, it's better to maintain stillness and preserve one's original heart-mind.

Heaven and earth nurturing all beings is an expression of De (Virtue), yet they don't claim it as merit, coexisting with the myriad things naturally without deliberate attachment. Similarly, when sages nurture the people, it's also an expression of De, yet they don't regard it as benevolence, interacting with the populace naturally without conscious display. This state of "not deliberately flaunting virtue" constitutes true De. Like the straw dogs (chúgǒu) used in rituals — employed during ceremonies but discarded afterward, without people clinging to them — this represents the realm of natural mutual forgetting.

The Zhuangzi's "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" states that "the greatest benevolence appears as non-benevolence." The most perfect state between heaven and earth is when people love one another without being conscious of it as virtue. Laozi uses the bellows metaphor: though the bellows' tube (yuè) is hollow, when pulled it produces an endless stream of wind. Similarly, heaven and earth nurture all beings with this same natural spontaneity — just as the bellows doesn't consciously intend to produce wind, heaven and earth don't consciously intend to create. When used, it functions; when not used, it stops. This is the realm of "following natural spontaneity."

"Exhausting oneself" (shù qióng) means driving oneself to the limit. "Guarding the center" (shǒu zhōng) means keeping silent. The Dao of heaven and earth's operation cannot be fully expressed in words — excessive speech easily leads to predicament, better to follow Confucius' saying "I wish to remain silent." Has heaven ever spoken? Yet the four seasons proceed and all things grow. While the sage's words are refined and comprehensible, the Laozi deliberately uses startling expressions that are hard to understand. Some say this warns against excessive speech, but the deeper meaning is: heaven and earth's relationship to all things, and the sage's relationship to the people, are both instances of nourishing through Wuwei (non-action) — neither deliberate nor claiming merit.

This passage elucidates the essential meaning of two chapters from the Dao De Jing: "The Valley Spirit Never Dies" and "Heaven and Earth Endure."

Regarding "The Valley Spirit Never Dies," this chapter explains the fundamental principle of cultivation practice. "Valley Spirit" refers to the original spirit (Shen), the spiritual essence of humanity, existing within emptiness, while "the Mysterious Feminine" (Xuanpin) metaphorically represents the intangible nature of emptiness. All things in heaven and earth emerge from this empty source, hence it is called "the root." In Daoist practice, one must maintain a continuous, subtle state of being—present yet seemingly absent—applying this emptiness without mental strain. This embodies the principle of "empty yet inexhaustible, moving yet ever productive." Although this chapter can guide health cultivation practices, Laozi's original intention wasn't specifically about longevity techniques.

The chapter "Heaven and Earth Endure" uses the operation of nature to illustrate the sage's way of being in the world. Heaven and earth nurture all things spontaneously, without deliberate intent, thus achieving eternal existence. Similarly, the sage cultivates themselves without forced striving or attachment to external/internal distinctions, yet naturally leads and endures. The "self-interest" achieved through "selflessness" here refers to personal refinement, not selfish gain. Laozi guides people toward goodness through this approach, which differs from Buddhist teachings.

Both chapters emphasize the philosophy of natural non-action (Wuwei): the former teaches maintaining the empty source in cultivation, while the latter demonstrates living without forced effort. This wisdom applies not only to spiritual practice but serves as fundamental guidance for human conduct.

This passage from the Oral Teachings on the Dao De Jing elucidates two key principles. First, it explains the concept of "true emptiness and substantial existence": true emptiness refers to a state free from selfish desires, while substantial existence denotes the realm of self-realization. This interpretation transcends ordinary understanding to reveal a higher truth.

Chapter Eight employs the characteristics of water to illustrate supreme goodness. The highest virtue resembles water—nourishing all things without contention, willingly dwelling in low places others disdain, thus embodying the closest approximation to the Dao (the Way). This manifests concretely in seven aspects: dwelling in suitable places, maintaining deep serenity of mind, treating others with magnanimous kindness, speaking with trustworthy honesty, governing with skillful administration, handling affairs with adaptable flexibility, and acting with impeccable timing. Precisely because it contends with none, it incurs no resentment. Here, water's seven attributes metaphorically represent the qualities of one who has attained the Dao—flowing downward effortlessly, content in humble positions, never altering its intrinsic nature despite human aversion to dampness.

Chapter Nine teaches the wisdom of knowing when to stop. Just as an overfilled vessel spills easily, it's better not to fill to the brim; or like an over-sharpened blade prone to breaking, maintaining moderation proves wiser. Halls overflowing with gold and jade ultimately cannot be preserved, while arrogance amid wealth and status invites self-inflicted calamity. Recognizing the moment to withdraw when achievements peak—this aligns with heavenly principle (Tian Dao). Through everyday objects as metaphors, this section demonstrates how excess leads to loss, emphasizing that lasting harmony lies in measured equilibrium.

These two passages from the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) convey profound wisdom on human conduct and self-cultivation.

The first passage discusses the insight of timely withdrawal after achieving success:

Those in high positions who become arrogant and complacent inevitably invite disaster. To preserve one's accomplishments and reputation, one must understand when to step back—this aligns with the natural order. The phrase "功成名遂" (gōng chéng míng suì, "achieving merit and securing fame") refers to those who, regardless of the scale of their achievements, know how to safeguard themselves. If one is perpetually insatiable, when can success ever be considered complete? When can fulfillment truly be attained? These four words—"功成名遂"—require careful contemplation.

The second passage, the "载营魄章" (zǎi yíng pò zhāng, "Chapter on Carrying the Vital and Corporeal Souls"), explores the realm of self-cultivation:

"载营魄抱一" (zǎi yíng pò bào yī, "carrying the vital and corporeal souls while embracing the One") means unifying the spirit (营 yíng) and the physical body (魄 pò) without separation. "专气致柔" (zhuān qì zhì róu, "concentrating Qi to attain softness") refers to gathering one's vital energy (Qi) to achieve a state of infant-like suppleness. "涤除玄览" (dí chú xuán lǎn, "cleansing the profound mirror") means purging distracting thoughts to observe the mysterious without flaws. "爱民治国" (ài mín zhì guó, "loving the people and governing the state") should be done through Wuwei (无为, non-action). "天门开阖" (tiān mén kāi hé, "the gates of heaven open and close") signifies following the natural order without forcing outcomes. "明白四达" (míng bái sì dá, "understanding all things clearly") means perceiving everything without flaunting wisdom.

Laozi explains through metaphor: The vital soul (营 yíng) is like a chariot carrying the corporeal soul (魄 pò). Ordinary people let the body dominate the spirit, while sages let the spirit guide the body. Their unity is called "抱一" (bào yī, "embracing the One"), and their separation is called "二" (èr, "duality"). To truly "embrace the One," one must achieve the following:

1. Be as pure and single-minded as an infant.

2. Clear away distractions without obsessing over purity.

3. Govern the state without claiming credit.

4. Comprehend the transformations of Yin-Yang (阴阳) without harboring selfish desires.

Here, "天门" (tiān mén, "gates of heaven") symbolizes the laws of nature, and "玄德" (xuán dé, "profound virtue") refers to the highest form of De (德, Virtue/Power)—nurturing all things without possessing them, acting without self-importance, and guiding without domination. These are the ideal states pursued by Daoist practitioners.

This passage elucidates the core concept of "Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness" in the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), analyzing the profound meanings of several classic chapters.

Regarding cultivation practices, some have distorted Laozi's original intent, leading people astray. The true Dao is unimpeded and all-pervading—taking "non-knowing" as the highest wisdom enables one to attain the state of "embracing the One" (union with the Dao). Though heaven and earth give birth to all things, they never claim merit; though they nurture all beings, they harbor no desire to dominate. This represents the most profound Xuan De (Mysterious Virtue). The essence of this chapter lies in accomplishing through non-action and following natural spontaneity. Maintaining a mind of emptiness and stillness allows the Shen (spirit) to govern the physical form rather than being constrained by it—this is the realm of sages. The central teaching throughout Laozi is guiding people to perceive "emptiness" within "substance" and awaken to "non-being" through "being."

Chapter 11 employs metaphors of wheels, pottery, and houses: thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub to enable movement; the empty space within pottery vessels makes them useful; the void created by doors and windows constitutes a dwelling's functionality. This demonstrates that while "being" (physical forms) provides convenience, it is "non-being" (emptiness) that truly enables function.

Chapter 12 observes: dazzling colors blind the eyes, cacophonous music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, excessive hunting agitates the heart, and rare treasures corrupt behavior. Therefore, sages focus only on basic sustenance (inner needs) rather than sensory temptations (external distractions), understanding what to embrace and discard. Here "eye-blindness" signifies visual delusion, "ear-deafness" indicates auditory confusion, "palate-ruin" denotes taste distortion, "heart-frenzy" represents mental restlessness, and "conduct-harm" refers to moral damage. These five conditions all result from excessive pursuit of externals at the expense of inner cultivation.

Chapter 13 of the Daode Jing discusses how to regard favor, disgrace, and the physical body. Both receiving favor and suffering disgrace can startle the heart, while valuing the body is like anticipating great calamity. Why is this so? Because people consider disgrace degrading—they rejoice at gaining favor and panic at losing it. When the body is overvalued, it becomes a burden. Without this attachment to the physical form, what calamity could there be?

What is truly precious is regarding oneself as equally important as the world—only such a person can shoulder the world's responsibilities. One who cherishes themselves as they would cherish the world is fit to govern it. In truth, favor and disgrace are not worth alarming over—it is the human mind that creates distinctions. The body is inherently a burden, yet people exaggerate its importance. The key lies in understanding what constitutes the true "self"—that authentic existence beyond physical form. One who knows how to value and nurture this true self would not exchange it for the world. Only those who reach this state are truly worthy of being entrusted with the world.

Chapter 14 describes the mysterious nature of the Dao (the Way). Look for it—you cannot see it; this is called "Yi" (formless and even). Listen for it—you cannot hear it; this is called "Xi" (subtle and silent). Grasp for it—you cannot touch it; this is called "Wei" (minute and imperceptible). These three attributes cannot be further distinguished, so they blend into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. Continuous and unnameable, it returns to nothingness. This is the form of the formless, the image of the imageless—what we call "Huhuang" (indistinct and elusive). Meeting it, you cannot see its head; following it, you cannot see its tail. By holding fast to the ancient Dao, you can master present things. Knowing the primordial origin, you grasp the guiding principle of the Dao.

This chapter uses three words—"Yi," "Xi," and "Wei"—to describe the Dao's elusive nature from different perspectives. These terms are essentially indistinguishable, all pointing to the Dao's transcendence beyond sensory perception. The Dao has no concrete traces—it is neither bright nor dark, ceaseless yet unnameable, ultimately returning to emptiness. This formless form, imageless image, this elusive state of "Huhuang," is precisely the essential characteristic of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the profound nature of the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) and the state of those who have attained it.

Regarding the Dao: The Dao cannot be seen, heard, or touched (characterized by its subtlety, formlessness, and imperceptibility). These descriptors ultimately fail to capture its true essence, for the Dao is an undifferentiated whole. It is neither bright nor dark, and no perspective can reveal it. Though encompassing infinite manifestations, it ultimately returns to a state of "no-thing"—hence called "the formless form, the imageless image." Seeking it reveals no beginning; following it shows no end. By grasping this primordial Dao, one comprehends how all things emerge from nothingness—this constitutes the Dao's fundamental order.

Regarding those who embody the Dao: The ancient masters (士) who truly understood it were profoundly subtle, comprehensively wise, and unfathomably deep. Being beyond description, we can only approximate their qualities: They moved cautiously like crossing a winter river, remained vigilant as if wary of neighbors, carried themselves with the solemnity of guests, yet flowed with the ease of melting ice. They were simple as uncarved wood, expansive as mountain valleys, and turbid as muddy water. Who can still troubled waters until they gradually clear? Who can maintain stillness until new growth emerges naturally? Those who preserve this Dao never seek perfection. Precisely by not pursuing fullness, they retain their original integrity without chasing novelty.

The text operates on two levels: First, it demonstrates how the Dao's essence transcends verbal description, approachable only through negation (defining what it is not). Second, it portrays adepts through vivid metaphors—their prudence, humility, simplicity, and inclusiveness. The core teaching is "maintaining emptiness without seeking fullness"—only by preserving this receptive stillness can one harmonize with the Dao.

This scripture primarily discusses the realm and principles of cultivating mind and nature.

"The mind solemnly concentrated" describes a state of focused and settled consciousness, while "dissolving and expanding freely" refers to a relaxed and natural condition. It resembles ice at the verge of melting—appearing dispersed yet not completely dissolved. "Simple and substantial" indicates a state of pristine simplicity, where "unhewn" means natural and unadorned, and "broad-minded" signifies expansive openness. "Valley emptiness" portrays the mind as capacious and receptive like a mountain hollow.

The text depicts a realm that is neither perfectly clear nor turbid, neither agitated nor stagnant. By maintaining stillness within turbidity, gradual clarification occurs naturally. Through prolonged stillness, subtle movement spontaneously arises—this is the meaning of "slowly emerging." Who can attain such a state? This is the skill of perceiving clarity within turbidity and stillness within movement.

"Not desiring fullness" speaks of maintaining emptiness, while "preserving the original" means safeguarding one's inherent nature. Those who uphold this Daoist practice dwell constantly in emptiness, perceiving only the essence without chasing novelty. This is the "constant Dao" realm described in the first chapter. Maintaining this state unwaveringly for millennia constitutes the great achievement of cultivation.

The chapter on "reaching ultimate emptiness" discusses attaining extreme vacuity and steadfast stillness. Amidst the growth and transformation of all things, one can observe their patterns of returning to the source. Though myriad beings flourish in complexity, all ultimately return to their roots. Returning to the root is stillness; stillness means returning to one's nature; returning to nature is the constant Dao. Understanding this constant Dao constitutes wisdom—failure to comprehend leads to reckless actions and misfortune.

Through cultivation, one reaches ultimate emptiness; through maintaining stillness, stability is secured. With emptiness and stillness, one observes the patterns of return amidst the flourishing of all things. "Flourishing" refers to growth, while "return" marks the moment of coming back to the root and original nature. This is the realm of "constantly observing the subtlety through desirelessness, constantly observing the boundaries through desire."

Though myriad things flourish in complexity, all ultimately return to their roots. This return represents the transition from extreme movement to stillness—the natural principle. Returning to one's nature is called "recovering destiny"; achieving this state constitutes the eternal, unchanging constant Dao. Only those who comprehend this eternal Dao possess true wisdom. This is the meaning behind "the Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name." It is precisely because people fail to understand this eternal Dao that they act recklessly and invite misfortune.

These two chapters discuss the patterns of social governance and moral transformation.

Let's begin with Chapter 17, "The Highest Order." In the most ideal ancient times, the people were only vaguely aware of the ruler's existence, as they naturally lived in harmony with the Dao (the cosmic principle). As the world gradually declined, the people first grew affectionate and praised their ruler, then came to fear him, and finally descended into contempt and mockery. This was because the ruler lacked sincerity, causing the people to lose trust. Just as the people of the Shang dynasty began to rebel when oaths were sworn, and the people of the Zhou grew suspicious when alliances were made—once trust is lost, if the ruler still relies heavily on commands and decrees, it only deepens the people's doubts. In the era of the "Highest Order," achievements were already complete, and the people benefited without realizing it, saying, "This is simply how things are," as if unaware of the ruler's influence. This passage laments how the present falls short of the past.

Chapter 18, "When the Great Dao Fades," reveals a principle: only when the supreme standard of the Dao is abandoned do people emphasize the norms of benevolence and righteousness; only when cunning arises do great hypocrisies emerge; only when families are disharmonious do filial piety and parental love need to be proclaimed; and only when the state is in chaos do loyal ministers stand out. When the Dao prevails, benevolence and righteousness are naturally inherent. By the time these virtues must be specially promoted, it is a sign that the Dao has already weakened. Just as the light of the stars becomes invisible when the sun rises—when wisdom appears, great falsehood follows.

Both chapters convey the same idea: the most ideal state is one where all things operate naturally, without the need to deliberately emphasize moral rules. When society begins to vigorously promote a particular virtue, it often indicates that virtue is already lacking.

This passage presents Laozi's critique of conventional values and his advocacy for returning to primordial simplicity.

When society begins venerating titles like "sage" and "wiseman," hypocrisy and deception emerge. When familial bonds between parents and children, siblings, and spouses deteriorate, people feel compelled to emphasize "filial piety." When the state falls into chaos, "loyal ministers" suddenly become conspicuous. These phenomena all arise from deviation from the natural Dao.

Laozi proposes three solutions: First, discard the empty reputation of "sagehood and wisdom," and the people will naturally benefit a hundredfold. Second, abandon the artificial preaching of "benevolence and righteousness," and people will spontaneously return to genuine filial devotion. Third, eliminate opportunism and profit-seeking, and thieves will disappear. These three are all superficial human constructs—far better to let people maintain their innate simplicity and reduce selfish desires.

Using vivid contrasts, Laozi describes the state of one who has attained the Dao: While the world bustles like attendees at a lavish banquet, such a person remains serene with the purity of an infant. Where others scheme cleverly, they appear muddled and dull. While people chase after various pursuits, they remain imperturbable as the ocean. This seemingly foolish state actually stems from their focus on nourishing life's root (the "mother" here symbolizes the Dao).

The concluding phrase "abandon learning and be free from sorrow" suggests that only by discarding worldly knowledge can one transcend troubles. The distinctions people make between right and wrong, good and evil, are ultimately insignificant—yet what should be feared must still be feared (referring to the necessity of aligning with natural laws). This represents Laozi's critique of excessive civilization in his era, advocating instead for a return to the pristine simplicity of antiquity.

This passage elucidates the fundamental distinction between Daoist cultivation and worldly learning. In Daoist practice, one diminishes desires daily, while conventional learning accumulates knowledge day by day—these two cannot be conflated as in Confucian thought. The pursuit of knowledge paradoxically distances one from the great Dao; only by relinquishing learning and returning to emptiness can one be free from anxiety.

The words "wei" and "a" both signify responses, much like people in their studies always strive to overcome the bad with the good, as if saying "wei" is superior to "a." Yet it would be better to abandon even the concept of "good" altogether. This echoes the Daode Jing teaching: "When the world recognizes beauty as beauty, ugliness arises." The ancient Dao-realized sages, though discerning both good and evil, remained unattached to either—yet this did not mean they revered nothing. To fear nothing leads to boundless chaos, akin to the Buddhist warning against "clinging to emptiness while denying cause and effect"—when one fails to revere what ought to be revered, calamity inevitably follows.

The worldly indulge in pleasures like lavish banquets or spring outings, while I dwell in serene detachment, my mind pure and thoughtless as an infant's. The phrase "riding the riding" describes a state where thoughts seem to move yet leave no trace, utterly uncontrived. While others harbor insatiable desires for abundance, I alone appear to have cast all such things away. Do I seem foolish and confused? In truth, I take joy in contentment, free from grasping.

Worldly people scheme with cleverness, while I remain muddled and dull (indicating pristine mental clarity). My heart is placid as a boat drifting on the ocean, borne by the wind without fixed destination. Where others actively pursue, I abide in desirelessness—seemingly obtuse and crude. Yet my difference lies in savoring the true essence of the Dao. The "mother" is the Dao itself; one must draw nourishment from the great Dao like an infant relying on its mother.

In the Dao De Jing, Laozi states that the Dao (the Way) is the most revered principle. This passage speaks of the supreme status of the Dao (the origin and law of the universe) among all things. Just as rivers ultimately flow into the sea, all phenomena in the world must eventually return to this fundamental Dao.

This commentary comes from the first volume of Oral Teachings on the Dao De Zhen Jing (Daode Zhenjing Kouyi), a Song Dynasty Daoist scholar Lin Xiyi's annotation of the Dao De Jing. The term "oral teachings" (kouyi) refers to explaining the essence of the classics in vernacular language, equivalent to modern plain-language commentary. Through this annotation, Lin Xiyi sought to convey to spiritual cultivators that pursuing the Dao represents the highest attainment—just as precious things are always rare, truly understanding the Dao is likewise uncommon.

This section of the "Oral Interpretation of the Dao De Jing" elucidates two core chapters:

First, let's examine the chapter on "The Appearance of Great Virtue" (Chapter 21). Here, "Great Virtue" (Kong De) completely follows the patterns of the Dao. The Dao itself is elusive, seemingly intangible and indistinct (huang xi hu xi), yet within it truly exist concrete forms and essence (xiang and wu). In its profound obscurity (yao xi ming xi), it contains pure subtle energy (Jing) - this energy is profoundly authentic and encompasses definite principles (xin). From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never vanished; it serves as the basis for observing the origin of all things. The reason I can comprehend the principles underlying all existence is precisely through realizing this Dao.

Lin Xiyi explains that practitioners of the Dao manifest externally as having "the appearance of abundant virtue." What we call "De" (Virtue) is the state of having attained the Dao within oneself. Although the Dao itself is invisible, De can manifest, hence we use De to express the appearance of the Dao. The Dao appears empty (wei huang wei hu), yet it isn't mere nothingness - within it exist real forms, matter, and subtle energies. This illustrates the principle that "true emptiness gives rise to wondrous existence." "Within it is certainty" demonstrates that within apparent emptiness there truly exist real and unfailing principles. The name "Dao" persists through all ages, never disappearing, and all excellent things (zhong fu) originate from the Dao.

Next is the chapter on "Yield and Remain Whole" (Chapter 22). This chapter discusses wisdom for navigating life: by yielding one can remain whole, by bending one can become straight, in emptiness one finds fullness, through wearing out one is renewed, by taking less one gains more, while grasping for more leads to confusion. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the principle of "non-contention" (bu zheng) as a model for all under heaven. Not displaying oneself, yet becoming apparent; not asserting oneself, yet becoming distinguished; not boasting, yet achieving merit; not being self-important, yet enduring long. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. When the ancients said "yield and remain whole," were these empty words? By truly embodying these principles, one attains complete fulfillment.

Lin Xiyi explains that these principles demonstrate: only by yielding can one remain whole, only by bending can one become straight, only by occupying the low position can one become full. These all embody the Daoist wisdom that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong."

Things can experience fullness and decline, yet attain renewal; they can first decrease, then truly increase. All this occurs because maintaining insufficiency leads to abundance, and preserving emptiness brings substantiality. A simple mind gains more, while excessive desire breeds confusion. The phrase "less is more" contains dual meanings: the state of emptiness and non-being on one hand, and maintaining insufficiency on the other. This is the principle upheld by sages (those who have attained the Dao), making it the universal standard.

Not displaying oneself, not asserting oneself, not boasting, not being arrogant—these all manifest non-attachment to personal possessions. When the mind remains empty, tranquil and free from contention, what remains to compete for in the world? Only thus can one endure. Here we return to the earlier principle of "bending leads to wholeness" as a concluding resonance—a skillful literary device. Heaven, earth and I originally lack nothing; I need only preserve my innate nature and return to authenticity—what more is there to seek? "Sincerity" means truthfulness, indicating how things truly ought to be. The four states of "bending," "yielding," "hollowing," and "wearing out" are all metaphors illustrating subsequent principles.

Regarding the chapter "Sparse Words Are Natural" (Chapter 23): Few words accord with natural Dao. Violent winds cannot last a morning, torrential rains cannot persist a day. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and earth. If heaven and earth cannot make things last, how much less can humans? Therefore, those devoted to the Dao become one with it; those devoted to De (virtue) unite with it; those who are lost join with lostness. Those united with the Dao are gladly received by it; those united with De are gladly received by it; those united with lostness are gladly received by it. Those lacking sincerity will lose trust.

Between heaven and earth, only the phrase "naturalness" can exhaust celestial principles. "Sparse" means few—though simple, these words perfectly describe the patterns of cosmic operation. Though violent winds and rains are heaven's doing, they cannot endure—how much less can human gains, losses, poverty or success last forever? "Devoting oneself to the Dao" refers to Dao practitioners. The Dao is the path to walk; De is the fruit to gain. When action is called for, I do not oppose it; when gain comes, I do not oppose it; when loss occurs, I do not oppose it. "Union" means following without resistance. When action comes, I rejoice in action; when gain comes, I rejoice in gain; when loss comes, I rejoice in loss. Advancement, retreat, gain and loss—I follow all naturally.

He who stands on tiptoe cannot stand firm; he who strides too wide cannot walk far. Those who show off their wisdom remain in the dark; those who justify themselves remain obscure; those who boast of their deeds accomplish nothing; those who exalt themselves cannot endure. Such behaviors, in the eyes of the Dao, are like leftover food or superfluous flesh—even objects would detest them. Thus, those who embody the Dao do not engage in such ways.

The metaphors of tiptoeing and overstriding illustrate this principle: standing on tiptoe makes one unsteady, while taking excessively wide steps slows progress. Self-display, self-justification, self-praise, and self-exaltation all stem from attachment to the ego without understanding dissolution. Obscurity arises from self-concealment, lack of renown from self-isolation, and impermanence from violating natural law. As the Yijing states, "What is full cannot endure"—this expresses the same truth. Leftovers and excess flesh are superfluous; those who attain the Dao leave no trace, for traces become excess. Like Zhuangzi's "webbed toes or extra fingers," people detest what is superfluous. Thus, the Daoist sage avoids being burdened by such excess.

There is something formless yet complete, existing before heaven and earth. Silent and boundless, it stands alone and unchanging, revolving endlessly without exhaustion—it may be called the mother of all things. I know not its name, so I term it the "Dao." If forced to describe it, I call it "great"—"great" meaning ever-flowing, "flowing" meaning boundless, "boundless" meaning ever-returning. Thus, the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the sovereign is also great. Within the cosmos, these are the Four Greats, and the sovereign is one among them. Humanity follows earth, earth follows heaven, heaven follows the Dao, and the Dao follows its own nature.

This "formless yet complete" refers to the Dao—the Wuji (Limitless) that gives rise to Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). It precedes heaven and earth, from which both emerge. "Silent and boundless" describes its formless essence; "standing alone and unchanging" signifies its eternal constancy; "revolving endlessly" reveals its ceaseless motion. As the "mother of all things," it is the source of creation. "I know not its name" acknowledges the ineffable, hence the provisional label "Dao." Terms like "great," "flowing," "boundless," and "returning" attempt to capture the Dao's dynamic nature. Among the Four Greats, humanity ultimately returns to spontaneity by emulating earth, heaven, and the Dao itself.

Here we see that the concept of "Dao" (the Way) is so vast that even the word "Dao" cannot fully express it, so we reluctantly use "great" to describe it. Yet "great" still falls short, so we employ "passing" (referring to its ever-flowing, ungraspable nature); "passing" remains inadequate, so we use "far" (denoting its distant, unapproachable quality); and finally, we name it with "returning" (signifying its cyclical nature of reverting to the source). All these are attempts to vividly describe the characteristics of Dao—such expressions are even more abundant in the Zhuangzi. To interpret "returning" as merely introspection would be a mistake.

In the cosmos, there are four great things: Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the Sovereign. Humans live between Heaven and Earth, knowing only that the sovereign is most revered, unaware that above the sovereign there are three even greater entities. Humans should emulate Earth, Earth emulates Heaven, Heaven emulates Dao, and Dao emulates nature (ziran). This shows that nature is vaster than Dao, Heaven, and Earth, meaning the highest state of Dao is naturalness. This insight is truly unique.

Chapter 26 discusses the principle that "the heavy is the root of the light": Steadiness is the foundation of frivolity, and stillness governs restlessness. Thus, cultivated individuals move through their days without departing from the carriage that bears heavy loads (a metaphor for holding to the root). Even amidst splendid sights, they remain transcendent. Why would a ruler commanding ten thousand chariots regard his own person as lighter than the world? Frivolity leads to losing subjects, and haste causes one to forfeit mastery.

Only with heaviness can there be lightness; only with stillness can there be agitation. "Root" means frivolity arises from steadiness; "master" means agitation is governed by stillness. Those who attain Dao act daily without clinging to the carriage (symbolizing transcendence beyond distinctions of heavy and light). Without heaviness, there is no lightness; without stillness, there is no agitation. "To cling" means to attach—their minds already perceive the utmost beauty of the world, hence called "glorious sights." Though surrounded by such splendor, they dwell within it serenely, remaining aloof. "Serene" (yan) denotes comfort; "dwelling" (chu) is their abode, like the ancient saying: "peaceful steps in spacious dwellings."

As rulers of great states, if they do not recognize the importance of their own persons, they cannot rise above mundane affairs and will inevitably succumb to frivolity and haste. "Losing subjects" means failing to command the world's allegiance; "losing mastery" means forfeiting self-governance. "To regard one's person lightly against the world" is to overvalue the world while undervaluing oneself. Not undervaluing oneself is to understand Dao; understanding Dao is to comprehend naturalness.

Those who understand the natural Dao (the Way) maintain a mind neither forcibly seeking stillness nor clinging to solemnity, nor do they fall into states of frivolity or agitation.

The highest actions leave no deliberate traces, just as a wheel leaves no rut marks; the finest speech invites no criticism, like flawless jade; the wisest calculations need no counting rods; the most secure closure requires no bolt yet none can open it; the firmest binding uses no ropes yet none can untie it. Thus the sage excels at saving others, so there are none to be abandoned; excels at utilizing all things, so nothing goes to waste. This is the embodiment of inner wisdom (xi ming, "hidden illumination").

The virtuous may serve as teachers for the flawed, while the flawed become mirrors for the virtuous. Those who neither honor teachers nor value these mirrors, though considering themselves wise, are in fact profoundly confused. Herein lies the most profound mystery.

These five "excellences" are all metaphors conveying that following the natural Dao requires neither forced effort nor leaves artificial traces. Though sages surpass ordinary people in attainment, they blend seamlessly with the multitude, never deliberately displaying difference—thus their distinction remains invisible. The sage's Dao (the Way) saves people and benefits all things, abandoning neither human nor object, like light merging with dust to become one. This is "hidden illumination" (xi ming)—concealed radiance resembling Zhuangzi's "glistening doubt" (hua yi zhi yao), a glow between existence and non-existence.

Knowing the principle of strength yet abiding in softness, they willingly become the valleys of the world. Maintaining this state, their eternal De (Virtue) never fades, returning them to infant-like purity. Understanding brightness yet dwelling in obscurity, they become the world's model. Preserving this, their eternal De never errs, returning them to the boundless origin. Recognizing glory yet embracing humility, they become the world's empty valleys. Abiding thus, their eternal De becomes complete, returning them to primordial simplicity (pu). When simplicity disperses, it forms concrete objects; when sages employ this principle, they become true administrators. Thus the most perfect governance system remains an undivided whole, never severing nature's inherent unity.

Understanding the principle of strength yet abiding in gentleness manifests non-contention; knowing the brilliance of enlightenment yet dwelling in obscurity demonstrates non-discrimination. Recognizing honor yet willingly enduring disgrace reveals freedom from vanity; possessing the capacity for action yet choosing Wuwei (non-action) embodies true wisdom.

Like valleys that naturally gather water by remaining low, those who maintain such an attitude attract all under heaven. This way of being serves as the world's model. "Constant De (Virtue)" refers to the "Eternal Dao" mentioned in the first chapter of the Daode Jing—never separating, never interrupted, never erring, it represents perfect and complete virtue. It resembles the purity of an infant's innocence, the emptiness of Wuji (the Limitless), and the primal simplicity of Taipu (the Uncarved Block). Heaven and earth began in this state of Taipu; only when this primordial simplicity dispersed did concrete forms emerge. This illustrates the principle: "What transcends form is called Dao; what assumes form is called vessel."

Sages employ the formless Dao to utilize formed vessels, enabling all things to fulfill their functions. Integrating the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity) to govern creation, though heaven and earth bear the responsibility of nurturing all beings, they ultimately follow the sage's guidance. Thus sages serve as stewards of all things between heaven and earth. Zhuangzi's phrase "officiating heaven and earth" suggests that even these cosmic functions are merely roles within the grand transformation. "Division" here means governing all things through Dao—what we call the "Great System." This system represents the inseparable unity of Dao and its manifestations, achieving action through Wuwei (non-action) and perfect naturalness.

Chapter 29 addresses those who seek to possess the world. Those who attempt to seize it by force, I observe, will never succeed. The world is a sacred vessel that cannot be controlled through coercion. Forced action inevitably fails; stubborn grasping guarantees loss. All things follow their inherent nature: some advance while others follow; some require warmth while others need coolness; some are strong while others are weak; some thrive while others decay. Therefore, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess.

How could this sacred world be obtained through human effort? Only when one's Dao and De (Virtue) reach ultimate perfection—when the world naturally submits without refusal—can one truly possess it. Those who scheme to seize it or perform forced good deeds will never attain it. These lines metaphorically illustrate that nothing in the world can be grasped through willful striving. Deliberate action leads to failure; stubborn attachment results in loss—these are the burdens of forced seeking. Thus, those embodying Dao allow all things to follow their course: letting the advancing advance and the following follow; permitting warmth where needed and coolness where required; accepting strength in the strong and gentleness in the weak; allowing flourishing where it occurs and decay where it must.

The passage conveys two main ideas. The first part discusses the writing style of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), noting that the three characters "甚奢泰" (shèn shē tài) actually express the same concept through different phrasing. Laozi (the Sage) employs this layered, progressive technique to emphasize the inadvisability of excessive behavior. Terms like "mystery upon mystery" (玄之又玄), "great" (大), "passing" (逝), and "far-reaching" (远) all follow this same rhetorical device. Unfortunately, many readers fail to grasp its subtlety and instead force far-fetched interpretations.

The second part interprets Chapter 30 of the Daode Jing, explaining how to use the Dao to assist a ruler. Those who truly embody the Dao never rely on military force to dominate the world, as warfare creates vicious cycles ("its aftermath brings retribution"). Where armies camp, fields turn barren; after great battles, years of famine inevitably follow. Those skilled in using arms seek only to achieve their objective and then stop (果而已矣)—they never flaunt their might. Upon achieving their aim, they neither grow arrogant nor boast, understanding it was done out of necessity. Just as all things decline after reaching their peak, aggression and dominance violate the Dao (非道), and what violates the Dao perishes prematurely (早已). This passage underscores the wisdom of "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine" in navigating life—the strong cannot remain strong forever, and understanding this truth means one should cease aggressive behavior in time.

This scripture expounds Daoist philosophy through a discussion of military affairs. It states that fine weapons are inauspicious objects that people detest, so those who follow the Dao (the Way) do not employ them lightly. While gentlemen normally honor the left side in daily life, they prioritize the right when engaging in warfare—revealing that ancient sages inherently considered war an inauspicious matter, not a means favored by noble individuals, to be used only as a last resort. Even when compelled to take up arms, one must maintain a detached and tranquil mindset, never glorifying such actions. To delight in warfare is to take pleasure in killing, and such individuals can never win the allegiance of the world.

The text notes how ancient armies positioned the lieutenant general (secondary commander) on the left while placing the supreme general (primary commander) on the right—treating warfare with funeral rites (where the right side was traditionally honored in mourning ceremonies). Even in victory, one should mourn the dead with lamentations as if conducting a funeral. By hierarchy, the supreme general should rank above the lieutenant, yet this arrangement deliberately places the commander on the right, precisely to signify that warfare is an ominous affair.

The chapter's core message warns that in worldly conduct, any intention to dominate others belongs to the realm of peril rather than auspiciousness. Like military engagement, even victory must be treated as a funeral rite, for war itself is fundamentally inauspicious.

The subsequent section (Chapter 32, "The Dao is eternally nameless") explains: The Dao (the cosmic origin and natural order) is inherently nameless. Though simple and subtle, nothing in the world can command it. If rulers and nobles abide by the Dao's principles, all things will naturally align with them. When heaven and earth harmonize, sweet dew descends—distributed evenly without human intervention. After establishing names and systems through human effort, one must know when to stop; knowing this limit prevents danger. Analogously, the Dao's presence in the world resembles how rivers and seas naturally receive all tributaries.

The Dao (the Way), as the fundamental principle of the universe, was originally nameless—like unhewn wood in its pristine simplicity. Though it may appear insignificant, nothing in the world dares to disregard it. When rulers uphold this Dao, all things naturally submit and follow.

When the yin and yang energies of heaven and earth intermingle, sweet dew descends to nourish all beings. This occurs completely spontaneously, without any deliberate arrangement, yet achieves perfect equilibrium. Only when names were first given to things did the Dao acquire designations. But one must know when to stop, for understanding boundaries prevents peril. Just as all streams ultimately flow into rivers and seas, all things eventually return to the Dao.

Recognizing others demonstrates mere cleverness, while knowing oneself constitutes true wisdom (ming). Conquering others shows physical strength, but mastering oneself reveals genuine power. Those content with sufficiency are truly wealthy; those steadfast in practicing the Dao possess true resolve. Those who never lose their root endure, and those whose spirit (shen) outlasts bodily decay achieve authentic longevity.

Here, "cleverness" (zhi) refers to worldly shrewdness, while "wisdom" (ming) denotes inner awakening. "Strength" is external competition, whereas "power" represents internal transcendence. Only by conquering selfish desires does one truly overcome the self. The contented always feel abundant; those whose will can master their qi (vital energy) are genuinely strong. Those who abide in their fundamental nature remain steadfast—like Confucius' saying: "Were I to die in the evening after understanding the Dao in the morning, I would have no regrets."

This passage teaches that cultivators should transcend external victories and losses, returning to inner refinement. Like rivers and seas receiving countless tributaries, the Dao embraces all things without contention. True wisdom lies not in conquering others but in surpassing oneself; not in worldly fame and gain, but in inner tranquility.

Death is permissible, but the true longevity lies in the indestructibility of the spirit after death. The meaning of these two statements cannot be fully conveyed through words—it requires personal verification and realization.

The Great Dao is like an overflowing river that permeates everywhere, capable of guiding all things. All beings rely on it for growth, yet it never declines responsibility. The Dao accomplishes all things without claiming merit, sheltering all beings like clothing yet never acting as their master. Because it is eternally free from selfish desires, one might call it insignificant; yet when all things return to it without knowing their sovereign, one might call it magnificent. Therefore, the sage achieves true greatness precisely because they never consider themselves great—thus they accomplish genuine greatness.

"The overflowing can guide" means the Dao is omnipresent, unbound by any constraints. All things originate from the Dao, which never refuses them; having nurtured all creation, when has it ever boasted of achievement? "Clothing and covering" signifies protection—all beings receive the Dao's grace, yet when has the Dao entertained thoughts of dominion? Pure and transparent without desire, it may be called willingly insignificant. Thus we may call it "small," yet though appearing insignificant, all things take it as their sovereign while the Dao itself remains unaware—is this not magnificent? Precisely because it maintains its insignificance can it accomplish greatness. The sage's refusal to pursue greatness is what enables true greatness—this embodies the principle of "maintaining femininity (keeping to the soft) and becoming the valley of the world (humbly receptive like a stream)."

The chapter "Grasping the Great Image" explains: When one holds the supreme Great Dao, all under heaven will return to it without suffering harm, attaining peace, tranquility, and well-being. Music and delicacies can only make passersby linger temporarily. The Dao's words seem bland and flavorless—look at it but it cannot be seen, listen but it cannot be heard—yet its application is inexhaustible.

"The Great Image" refers to the supreme truth beyond form. "All under heaven returns" means traveling the world while maintaining the Dao. Who could harm you when acting through the Great Dao? With no harm in the world, peace, tranquility and prosperity naturally follow—these three terms essentially convey the same meaning. "Music" refers to bells and drums, "delicacies" to food and drink. Hosting distinguished guests with feasts and music—when the music ends and food is consumed, the guests depart, showing all gatherings must conclude. Though the Dao's flavor seems bland, invisible to the eye and inaudible to the ear—apparently unsatisfying to the senses—its application remains inexhaustible through all ages. This illustrates how material things have limits while the Dao is boundless. "The Dao's spoken words" means the Dao's manifestation through language, or we might say the verbal expression of the Dao.

Chapter 36 of the Oral Teachings on the Dao De Jing explains the natural patterns of transformation in all phenomena. To gather something in, you must first let it expand; to weaken something, you must first let it strengthen; to abolish something, you must first let it flourish; to take something away, you must first give it. This is the subtle yet evident principle of reality. The soft and yielding can overcome the hard and strong, just as fish cannot survive without water—this is the natural order. A state's instruments of power (referring to strategic methods) should not be recklessly displayed, just as Dao cultivators should not flaunt their spiritual attainments.

These eight statements all illustrate the same truth: what appears advantageous often conceals loss. Expansion inevitably leads to contraction, strength to decline, prosperity to decay, and gain to loss. People often rejoice without understanding this principle, yet though subtle, this pattern is perfectly clear. Those who maintain softness ultimately overcome hardness, embodying the Daoist wisdom of "guarding the feminine and embracing the obscure" (maintaining receptivity and humility). The deep abyss symbolizes the Great Dao (Da Dao), while the fish represents humanity—just as fish cannot leave water, humans cannot depart from the Dao. To casually reveal a state's strategic methods is as dangerous as inviting thieves. If cultivators boast of their attainments to surpass others, it is akin to exposing state secrets.

Chapter 37 explains the principle of "non-action (Wuwei) yet nothing is left undone." The Dao always appears inactive, yet accomplishes everything. If rulers can uphold this Wuwei approach, the myriad things will transform naturally. When desires arise among beings, they should be stabilized with the "nameless simplicity" (the primal state of natural authenticity). This "nameless simplicity" means the absence of desire—without desire, one maintains tranquility, and the world naturally returns to proper order.

This chapter resonates with the teaching that "the Dao is eternally nameless." Wuwei that accomplishes all is the natural law. When rulers abide by Wuwei governance, there's no need for forced education—the myriad things evolve spontaneously. When worldly beings generate various desires, simply use the primal natural state to settle them. Though phenomena change endlessly, I remain consistently serene. Note that the second "transformation" here should not be equated with the first. What exactly is "nameless simplicity"? It is desirelessness. Without desire, one attains stillness; with stillness, the world naturally stabilizes.

In the Dao De Jing, Laozi states that "when correctness is achieved, there is no desire," indicating the state of truly attaining "desirelessness." The character "不" (bu) here also carries the meaning of "勿" (wu) — a warning to eliminate desires. This principle holds particular significance in cultivation practice, forming the core essence of Daoist cultivation.

(This passage comes from Volume 2 of Oral Teachings on the True Scripture of Dao and Virtue, a commentary classic where the author, through interpreting the phrase "no desire," illuminates the crucial Daoist practice of restraining desires. Daoism views desires as the root disturbance of one's innate nature. Only by achieving desirelessness can one return to natural authenticity. "No desire" is not merely the passive absence of craving, but rather an active attitude of rejecting desires in spiritual practice.)

The truly virtuous person does not consciously display their virtue (superior De) — this is genuine Virtue. Those who constantly proclaim their virtue (inferior De) have in fact lost true Virtue.

The highest form of De follows nature spontaneously without artificial effort (Wuwei), arising completely from one's innate nature. The next level involves deliberate action with purposeful intent. Acts of benevolence that spring from genuine compassion (without ulterior motive) approach superior De, while righteous deeds performed with utilitarian purposes (with deliberate intent) belong to the inferior De category. As for ritual propriety, when enforced without natural response, people resort to rolling up their sleeves to compel compliance.

Thus unfolds the pattern of social evolution: First, the natural Dao is lost, then virtue is emphasized. When virtue declines, benevolence is stressed; when benevolence wanes, righteousness is promoted; when righteousness fades, only the empty shell of ritual remains. Ritual propriety is actually the product of diluted loyalty and trustworthiness, becoming instead the beginning of disorder. Those who pride themselves on foresight merely grasp the superficial ornamentation of Dao — this in truth marks the commencement of folly.

Therefore, the truly noble person establishes themselves in the substantial foundation of simplicity and sincerity, not pursuing shallow forms. They dwell in genuine substance rather than coveting flashy appearances. Thus one should discard superficial embellishments and hold fast to the essential.

(Note: The distinction between "superior De" and "inferior De" continues the discussion of "highest" and "secondary" from earlier passages. "Wuwei without ulterior motive" refers to complete alignment with nature, devoid of selfish intention, while "with deliberate intent" implies action with subjective purpose. Through this progressive descent, Laozi ultimately identifies ritual as the most artificial constraint — when coercive measures become necessary, society has already strayed far from the natural Dao.)

While Confucius and Mencius held different doctrines, we can understand their original intent by studying their works. If we interpret the meaning of "ritual" (li) only literally, we deviate from its essence. "Ritual" is actually superficial ornamentation that arises when loyalty and sincerity are lacking—it's an external form rather than genuine inner sincerity. Therefore, Laozi considers "ritual" a product of artificial contrivance, calling it "the beginning of chaos."

The so-called "foreknowledge" (qianshi) refers to broad learning, strong memory, and mastery of past and present. But if such knowledge is mistaken for true wisdom, it strays from the essence of the Dao. "Ornamentation" (hua) refers to the pursuit of external display—if this is taken as wisdom, it becomes the beginning of foolishness. "Thickness" (hou) and "substance" (shi) both denote inner cultivation. Laozi advocates abandoning external "ritual" to seek the inner "Dao."

In Chapter 39, the "One" is the Dao. Heaven becomes clear by attaining the Dao, Earth becomes tranquil by attaining it, the spirits become efficacious by attaining it, valleys become full by attaining it, the myriad things grow by attaining it, and rulers govern the world by attaining it. If this Dao is lost: Heaven will crack, Earth will tremble, the spirits will vanish, valleys will dry up, the myriad things will perish, and rulers will lose their thrones.

Thus, nobility must take humility as its root, and height must take the low as its foundation. This is why rulers refer to themselves as "orphaned," "solitary," or "unworthy"—they embody this principle of taking humility as their basis. Just as in crafting a carriage, one cannot focus solely on ornate appearances; true value lies in utility. Better to be an unadorned stone than a polished jade.

The essence of the Dao is emptiness and inclusiveness. Heaven manifests through emptiness, Earth bears through stillness, the spirits respond through emptiness, and valleys fill through emptiness. The growth of all things and the governance of rulers all follow this principle. "Cracking" resembles the "destruction" mentioned in the Yijing; "trembling" denotes instability; "vanishing" is extinction; "drying up" is exhaustion. Only by maintaining emptiness can one contain—otherwise, stagnation follows. "Toppling" (jue) means falling—those in high positions who lose the Dao will collapse. "Humility" (jian) and "lowness" (xia) reflect the principle from the previous chapter: "less is gained." Both refer to maintaining a humble, selfless state. Nobility and humility, height and lowness, are relative—without humility, there is no nobility; without lowness, there is no height.

This scripture conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first passage uses the metaphor of "counting carriage parts but finding no carriage" to illustrate the essence of Dao (the Way). Just as we say "carriage" is a general term that dissolves into individual components like wheels, axles, and shafts when examined closely—revealing "carriage" itself to be merely an abstract concept—so too do beautiful jade and coarse stone, though differing in quality, remain fixed physical entities. Yet the concept of "carriage" can transform endlessly. This quality of being simultaneously abstract and concrete, capable of infinite transformation, approaches the nature of Dao. Zhuangzi's saying "remove the days and there are no years" expresses the same principle—without individual days, the concept of a year becomes meaningless.

The second passage explains the meaning of "reversal is the movement of Dao." Here "reversal" signifies both return and stillness, with the root of movement lying within stillness (much like the Gen trigram in the Yi Jing symbolizes cyclical endings and beginnings). Weakness represents Dao's mode of operation—only by maintaining softness can one achieve true strength, while unyielding rigidity leads to fracture. All things between heaven and earth emerge from "being" (you), which in turn originates from the primordial state of "non-being" (wuji, the Supreme Void). The core of Laozi's teaching emphasizes the principles of emptiness-quietness, weakness, and humble yielding, here demonstrated through the generative transformations of cosmic phenomena.

Regarding human capacity for enlightenment: Those of superior disposition who hear the Great Dao will diligently practice it; those of average disposition remain half-convinced and doubtful. This contrast between different responses illustrates that comprehending the Dao requires corresponding wisdom and resolute determination.

The one who truly comprehends the Dao appears simple-minded; the smooth path of Dao seems rugged; the way forward sometimes appears as retreat. The highest virtue (De) is humble like a valley, the purest white seems stained, abundant virtue always seems insufficient, establishing virtue appears furtive, and the most genuine essence seems altered.

The most square object has no corners, the most precious vessel takes longest to complete, the grandest sound is nearly inaudible, the greatest form has no definite shape. The Dao always remains hidden and never proclaims its name, yet only the Dao excels in nourishing all things and bringing them to completion.

Diligent practitioners hearing the Dao embrace it with deep faith; those half-convinced waver between belief and doubt; the most foolish simply laugh at it. Precisely because of such laughter, the loftiness of the Dao becomes manifest. What we call "established sayings" refers to these timeless truths passed down since antiquity, such as "the enlightened Dao appears obscure" and the subsequent statements.

Those who understand the Dao seem foolish precisely because this apparent foolishness constitutes true understanding. As the previous chapter states: "Those who display themselves are not enlightened," and conversely, "those who don't display themselves are enlightened." What appears as retreat is actually advancement, like Yang Xiong's saying "retreating to advance." The "smooth path" refers to the Dao's evenness—the Dao makes no distinctions, existing in harmony with both light and dust.

The highest virtue resembles a valley, maintaining profound humility; the purest white seems sullied, never ostentatiously unconventional; abundant virtue always appears insufficient, for complacency breeds narrowness. "Establishing virtue seems furtive" means that while aspiring to cultivate virtue, one dares not flaunt it—only through this unassuming attitude can virtue truly be established. "Genuine essence seems altered" describes maintaining purity while appearing changed, representing the state of contentment without self-satisfaction.

"The great square has no corners" describes the realm of supreme emptiness—though directions exist within it, who can perceive its edges? "The great vessel is slowly perfected" resembles casting ceremonial tripods—how could such momentous work be rushed? "The grand sound is rarely heard"—what sound surpasses heaven's thunder and wind, yet how often do we hear them? "The great form has no shape" refers to heaven and earth. The Book of Changes states nothing surpasses heaven and earth in grandeur, yet who can fully perceive their complete form?

This passage explains the Daoist concept from the Daode Jing about how the Dao generates all things. The Dao first gives birth to "One" (Taiji, representing the primordial state of the universe), "One" produces "Two" (the yin-yang of heaven and earth), and "Two" generates "Three" (the triad of heaven, earth, and humanity). From "Three" emerges the myriad creatures of the world. All things contain both yin and yang Qi (vital energy), achieving harmony through the "blending Qi" (the intermingling of yin and yang energies).

Though ordinary people detest being called "orphaned," "widowed," or "unworthy" (symbolizing isolation, lack of virtue, or moral deficiency), kings and nobles use these terms humbly to refer to themselves. This reflects the attitude of Daoist adepts who cultivate humility. All things in heaven and earth arise from emptiness, sustained by the dynamic interplay of yin and yang Qi. Practitioners of the Dao must understand this principle, valuing emptiness above all.

Worldly affairs often operate through paradoxical complementarity: attempting to diminish something may actually increase it, while trying to augment it may lead to its reduction. Just as the moon waxes full only to wane, then waxes again. Contemporary teachings emphasize only accumulation and victory, failing to recognize that excessive strength invites breaking and fullness cannot last. Hence Laozi's warning that "the violent die unnatural deaths." Those who teach through the Dao must transcend such worldly views to become true guides for humanity.

Laozi here uses the characteristics of water to illustrate the principle that "the softest things in the world overcome the hardest." The softest substance in existence (like water) can penetrate the hardest objects (like rock), and formless things (like breath) can infiltrate even seamless spaces. Through these natural phenomena, we comprehend the marvelous function of Wuwei (non-action)—achieving more precisely by not striving.

The truly wise appear incomplete (great perfection seems flawed), yet their efficacy never wanes; the fullest state seems empty (great fullness appears void), yet its function is inexhaustible. The straightest manifestation may appear bent (great straightness seems crooked), the most skillful techniques look clumsy (great skill seems awkward), and the most eloquent speakers seem hesitant (great eloquence seems stammering). Just as movement dispels cold and stillness resolves heat, only through serene non-action can one properly govern the world.

On the choice between fame and life: Which is more precious—reputation or one's body? Which matters more—life or material possessions? Which brings greater distress—gain or loss? Excessive pursuit of fame inevitably consumes vital energy, while hoarding wealth ultimately leads to greater loss. Those who understand contentment avoid self-inflicted disgrace; those who know when to stop avert danger—only thus can one preserve oneself long.

These principles appear paradoxical yet profound: the greatest achievement seems flawed, the fullest state appears empty, the straightest path may seem crooked. This dialectical thinking reveals the mystery of the Dao—true wisdom often manifests in opposite forms.

The most perfect thing appears flawed, yet by maintaining this seemingly incomplete state, its function remains inexhaustible. The most full appears empty, and precisely because of this, its efficacy is limitless. As the previous chapter states, "The low-lying place becomes filled with water, and what is worn out becomes renewed" - this illustrates the same principle.

The most upright seems to bend, for knowing when to yield preserves wholeness. The most skillful appears clumsy, for he does not flaunt his abilities. The most eloquent seems inarticulate, for true wisdom needs no excessive words.

Extreme agitation inevitably turns to coldness, while ultimate stillness generates heat. Here agitation and stillness actually refer to the two Qi of Yin and Yang - when either becomes extreme, problems arise. Only the serene state of the Dao, which is neither being nor non-being, neither moving nor still, can become the standard of the world - the paradigmatic model for all under heaven.

(Chapter 46: When the Dao Prevails Under Heaven)

When the Dao prevails in the world, warhorses are used to plow fields; when disorder reigns, even the suburbs become breeding grounds for warhorses. No crime exceeds indulging desires, no disaster surpasses discontent, no fault is greater than insatiable greed. Therefore, the contentment of knowing sufficiency is true contentment.

Using swift warhorses for plowing illustrates not valuing rare treasures. When warhorses are born in the suburbs, it signifies frequent warfare. All conflicts originate from greedy hearts - once desire sprouts, it knows no satisfaction. The relentless pursuit of gain becomes crime, disaster and fault. Only those who know contentment, treating insufficiency as sufficiency, attain true fulfillment. This further elaborates the earlier principle that "knowing contentment avoids disgrace."

(Chapter 47: Without Going Out the Door)

Without going out the door, one can know the world's ways; without peering through windows, one can comprehend heaven's Dao. The further one travels, the less one knows. Therefore the sage understands without journeying, perceives without seeing, and accomplishes without striving.

Though the world is vast, the fundamental principles of human affairs are uniform. Even without leaving home, one can deduce all under heaven. Though heaven's Dao is subtle, the patterns of Yin-Yang transformation remain constant through ages - one can grasp them without looking outside. For those who insist on external seeking, their footsteps reach limited places and their eyes see constrained views - the more they rush about, the more confused their minds become. Hence the further one goes, the less one knows. This metaphor illustrates the following truth: without acting one naturally knows, without display one naturally becomes renowned, without striving one naturally succeeds - this is the realm of the sage's Dao.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: the distinction between "pursuing learning" and "pursuing the Dao," and how sages align their hearts with the hearts of the common people.

First, it discusses the difference between seeking knowledge and seeking the Dao. The pursuit of learning requires daily accumulation of knowledge, but the pursuit of the Dao requires daily reduction of attachments. Reduce and reduce further until one attains the state of "Wuwei" (non-action). This Wuwei does not mean doing nothing; rather, it means acting effortlessly in accordance with nature, thereby accomplishing all things. Governing the world follows the same principle—it should be approached with an attitude of "non-interference" (avoiding deliberate action). Excessive intentional action often leads to poor governance. Just as ancient scholars who read extensively might become more confused, one must discard cleverness, let go of bodily attachments, and abandon cunning schemes to truly reach the state where "non-action leads to all things being accomplished."

Next, it describes the mindset of sages. Sages hold no fixed, subjective biases but instead align their hearts with the hearts of the people. They treat the kind with kindness, and they also treat the unkind with kindness—thereby preserving their own virtue. They trust the trustworthy, and they also trust the untrustworthy—thereby preserving their own integrity. When governing the world, sages remain reverently cautious, guiding the people's hearts back to simplicity. The people observe the sages' every word and action, while the sages cherish them as if they were their own children.

The key here is the state of "no-mind." Sages do not deliberately regard the unkind as kind, nor do they feign trust in the untrustworthy. Instead, they maintain a natural attitude free from discrimination. As Confucius said, "Set your will upon benevolence, and you will be free from malice." Sages do not preemptively doubt others' dishonesty but consistently treat them with sincerity, ensuring that integrity remains within themselves. The sage's reverent caution in governing the world stems from deep concern for the well-being of all people.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) harbors no pride or self-satisfaction, thus maintaining a constant state of humble vigilance. The phrase "muddling his heart-mind" describes how the sage's mind resembles primordial chaos—unpolished and unassuming, making no distinctions between good and evil, belief and disbelief. When all eyes focus upon the sage, he treats everyone as infants ("making them all children"), embodying an all-embracing compassion that rejects no one.

Regarding the principle of the life-death cycle: In the journey from birth to death, three-tenths belong to vital energy (Qi) of life, three-tenths to lethal energy of death, while another three-tenths result from people's reckless actions that lead them into fatal situations. Why is this so? Because excessive pursuit of longevity paradoxically harms life. It is said that those truly skilled at nurturing life walk unharmed among rhinos and tigers, enter battlefields without armor. Rhinos find no place to gore, tigers no opening for claws, weapons no target for their edges. Why? Because such adepts never place themselves in danger's path.

"Emerging into life, entering death" forms this chapter's core. The mystery of life and death lies thus: emergence means life, immersion means death. "Emerging" signifies transcendence and liberation; "entering" denotes delusion and entanglement. Only Dao-attained beings can simultaneously engage with the world while remaining transcendent. Heaven has twelve time periods, the year twelve months, the day twelve hours—twelve representing complete cycles. Adding one to twelve makes thirteen, yet this fundamentally returns to the root "One." Not saying "One" but "thirteen" reveals the text's profound subtlety. Human life and death both originate from this "One." The "One" is the subtlest vital impulse—cultivating with it leads to Dao-attained longevity; misguided cultivation brings shared dissolution with all things. "Categories" refers to classifications. The "One" defies description; even calling it "the primal intention" proves inadequate, requiring personal realization. "The people's life" means that in worldly existence, all death-bound actions stem from failing to maintain that initial intention—the slightest reckless movement leads toward death. Here "movement" doesn't mean ordinary motion but rash action. The "realm of death" is death's domain. "For what reason?" poses the rhetorical question. These statements form the fundamental tenet of life-nurturing wisdom throughout history.

This passage conveys two main ideas: the principles of health cultivation and the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power).

Regarding health cultivation, Laozi suggests that excessive pursuit of longevity often backfires. Those truly skilled in nourishing life maintain a state of inner emptiness and tranquility. Ancient Daoist adepts could walk through deep mountains unharmed by wild beasts and enter battlefields untouched by weapons. Zhuangzi's description of "entering water without getting wet, stepping into fire without feeling heat" illustrates the same principle. The key lies in preserving a state of "no-mind" (lacking harmful intentions), making one invulnerable to external threats. The text cites an example of a monk who bathed in a pool known to harbor vicious jiao (aquatic dragons) yet emerged unscathed due to his pure, guileless heart.

The second part explains Chapter 51 of the Dao De Jing ("The Dao gives them life"). The Dao operates through natural non-action (Wuwei), with all things arising from nothingness—hence "the Dao gives them life." De represents the Dao's manifested power that nurtures all beings. When things take form, they generate interactive energies (like Yin-Yang dynamics and seasonal cycles). All things honor the Dao and cherish De spontaneously, without external compulsion. The Dao produces without possessing, accomplishes without claiming—this constitutes the profoundest "Mysterious Virtue" (Xuande).

The text mentions the si, a legendary one-horned beast, and jiao, dragon-like aquatic creatures. The "no-mind" state doesn't imply unconsciousness, but rather a pure condition free from cunning or malice. "Mysterious Virtue" refers to the Dao's supreme moral quality that transcends ordinary understanding.

This passage from the Daode Jing explains the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), as well as how to follow natural laws. The phrase "莫之命" (mò zhī mìng) suggests that all things operate spontaneously, not driven by any external force. The highest state of wisdom transcends all things yet does not deliberately interfere, much like how heaven and earth nurture all beings effortlessly.

The "creative transformative power" (造化, zàohuà) brings forth all things yet never claims credit. This attitude of non-domination embodies the profoundest "mysterious De" (玄德, xuán dé). Earlier chapters mention that De arises only after losing Dao, but here it emphasizes that Dao generates all things while De nourishes them. These two instances of "De" carry different meanings—a subtle distinction to note when reading Laozi.

Chapter 52 uses the metaphor of mother and child: "All things under heaven have an origin, and this origin is like a mother. Understanding the root (mother) allows one to recognize all things (children); recognizing all things, one must still return to the root, for only then can one remain safe throughout life." Here, the "mother" refers to the source of creation, while the "child" refers to concrete phenomena. Grasping the principle that "being" (有, yǒu) arises from "non-being" (无, wú) is crucial, much like the earlier passage stating, "Constantly without desire, observe its mysteries; constantly with desire, observe its manifestations."

"Block the openings, shut the doors" is another metaphor: the "openings" (兑, duì) represent the mouth, and the "doors" (门, mén) symbolize entry points, meaning to conceal the fundamental truth—doing so paradoxically achieves more with less effort. Conversely, flaunting knowledge (开其兑, kāi qí duì) or striving for personal gain (济其事, jì qí shì) leads to peril. True wisdom lies in restraint (见小, jiàn xiǎo), and true strength lies in embracing softness—this is the embodiment of following the "eternal Dao" (常道, cháng dào).

Using everyday analogies like mother-child and doors, this passage illustrates that Dao, though formless and intangible, is the root of all existence. Understanding this principle and embodying it in practice allows one to avoid calamity and live in harmony with natural laws.

The truly wise do not consider themselves infallible, and those who understand the application of wisdom do not grow arrogant. Illumination manifests wisdom, while wisdom forms the foundation of illumination. Those who skillfully employ wisdom and return to their original nature will avoid calamity.

To wield wisdom without understanding restraint invites misfortune. "Xi" (袭) signifies this inward restraint, while "chang" (常) represents the unchanging principle. "Xi chang" (袭常) thus means applying wisdom with inner restraint, ensuring its inexhaustibility. (Note: Some versions erroneously write "chang" [常] as "shang" [裳].)

Chapter 53 states: The obstinate believe they comprehend the Dao, yet they fear its genuine practice most. The Dao's path is naturally broad and smooth, yet people persistently seek shortcuts. Consider a kingdom where magnificent palaces tower while fields lie barren and granaries empty. When rulers clad themselves in ornate robes, gird swords, indulge in lavish feasts, and hoard wealth like mountains, they resemble brigands boasting of their prowess—this is fundamentally contrary to the true Dao!

This metaphor reveals how those ignorant of the Dao nevertheless presume understanding, flaunting cleverness like those who exclusively tread crooked paths. How could they comprehend the supreme Dao? Laozi's words here are exquisitely profound.

Chapter 54 declares: What is truly well-established cannot be uprooted; what is genuinely preserved cannot be lost. Such lineages maintain unbroken ancestral sacrifices through generations. Cultivating the self through the Dao yields authentic De (Virtue); governing families through the Dao creates abundant De; administering villages through the Dao ensures enduring De; ruling states through the Dao produces flourishing De; ordering the world through the Dao universalizes De. Therefore observe others through oneself, observe households through one's family, observe communities through one's village, observe nations through one's state, and comprehend the world through this method. My understanding of cosmic principles stems from this approach.

Superficial establishments will inevitably collapse; apparent preservations will ultimately fail. Only by establishing De and preserving simplicity can one achieve true indestructibility and permanence. Such lineages will assuredly maintain unbroken sacrificial continuity through their descendants.

This passage from the Dao De Jing explains how the Dao gives birth to all things and describes the state of those who cultivate the Dao.

"The Dao gives birth to the One, the One gives birth to the Two, the Two gives birth to the Three, and the Three gives birth to the myriad things" describes the sequence of cosmic generation: from the fundamental Dao emerges the dual energies of Yin-Yang, which then evolve into the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity), ultimately giving rise to all creation. This process is ceaseless, like descendants multiplying a family lineage. These three phrases are metaphors illustrating that although the Dao is formless and intangible, it truly endures eternally.

When practitioners apply the Dao at different levels, they achieve varying effects: in self-cultivation, it fills the heart with authenticity; in harmonizing the family, it brings lasting blessings; in governing a village, it earns the people's respect; in ruling a state, it benefits multitudes; and in pacifying the world, its grace spreads universally. From understanding oneself, one can know others; from observing one family, one can understand ten thousand families; from studying one village, one can comprehend all villages—the same principle extends to nations and the world. Viewed through the lens of the Dao, all things in the universe follow this pattern.

Chapter 55 describes the state of "profoundly embracing De (Virtue)." Those with deep Virtue resemble newborn infants: poisonous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't attack them, and birds of prey won't seize them. Though an infant's bones and sinews are soft, its grip is firm; though ignorant of sexual union, it can achieve natural erection—this demonstrates abundant Jing (essence). Crying all day without hoarseness shows the purity of harmonious Qi.

Understanding harmony is called "the Constant" (eternal principle); comprehending the Constant is called "illumination." Excessive pursuit of longevity brings disaster instead; forcing Qi through willful effort is called "straining." When things reach their peak, they decline—this contradicts the Dao, and what contradicts the Dao perishes prematurely.

"Embracing De" means internalizing Virtue without outward display. When Virtue reaches its utmost depth, one becomes like an infant, unharmed by external forces—as if entering water without getting wet or fire without burning. Though an infant's body is supremely soft, its grasp remains strong; though unaware of intercourse, its natural vitality manifests—this is the sign of flourishing Jing. Crying endlessly without voice loss stems from having no emotional extremes, as its breath remains naturally balanced. The infant's mind is purely focused, thus achieving this state—likewise, those who attain the Dao maintain unwavering awareness. "Harmony" is the preservation of pristine Qi; understanding this ultimate harmony leads to enduring constancy. Realizing this eternal truth means truly comprehending the Great Dao.

Life follows its natural rhythms, and forcibly seeking enhancement will only invite misfortune. What we call "auspicious signs" (xiang) and "ominous signs" (yao) are actually two sides of the same coin. Using willpower to forcibly drive the Qi (vital energy, a Daoist cultivation term) within one's body—such coercive methods violate the natural Dao. All things pursued through forceful action resemble objects that become too rigid and thus prone to breaking, or lush vegetation that grows excessively only to wither prematurely. These are not in accord with the Great Dao and should be discontinued promptly.

Those who truly understand the Dao do not engage in empty talk ("the knowing do not speak"), while those who talk excessively do not genuinely comprehend it. Practitioners of the Dao should close their sensory channels ("blocking the openings" refers to restraining speech, "shutting the gates" means withdrawing the gaze and turning inward), smooth away sharp edges, resolve entanglements, dim their brilliance, and blend with the ordinary world—attaining the state of "mysterious unity" (xuantong) where one merges with the Dao. This realm transcends distinctions of closeness and distance, benefit and harm, nobility and baseness, which is why it is revered by all under heaven.

To govern a state, one must employ upright methods; in warfare, one may use unexpected strategies to prevail. But to win the hearts of the people, one must govern through Wuwei (non-action). Why is this so? Observe reality and you will see: the more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more weapons are stockpiled, the greater the chaos in the state; the more prevalent cunning devices become, the more thieves multiply despite stricter laws. Therefore, the sage says: "Through my non-action, the people transform naturally; through my stillness, they correct themselves; by avoiding meddling, they prosper of their own accord; through my lack of desire, they return to simplicity."

This passage expounds on the principles of governing a nation and cultivating one's character. Laozi believed that when rulers employ excessive cunning, establish too many prohibitions, and promote intricate devices, it paradoxically leads to social disorder. Just as the stricter the laws become, the more thieves emerge. The ancient sages practiced "wuwei" (non-action, refraining from forced intervention), "preferred stillness" (maintaining tranquility), "avoided unnecessary actions" (refraining from meddling), and "had no selfish desires" (reducing personal cravings). In this way, the world naturally achieves harmony.

Regarding the transformation of fortune and misfortune, Laozi pointed out: governance that appears lenient (described as "mengmeng") actually fosters simplicity and contentment among the people, while overly harsh governance ("chacha") breeds resentment. Misfortune and fortune are always interdependent and transformative—who can fully grasp their ultimate patterns? Just as righteousness and wickedness, good and evil, also transform into one another, people often cling to distinguishing these concepts without realizing their fundamental interconnectedness.

The way sages conduct themselves in the world is unique: they are "square yet do not cut" (principled but not injurious), "upright yet not harsh" (incorruptible but not severe), "straightforward yet not unrestrained" (honest but not reckless), and "radiant yet not glaring" (illuminating but not dazzling). These exemplify the wisdom of "concealing fullness within emptiness"—maintaining subtlety even in manifestation.

In both governance and self-cultivation, the most crucial principle is "frugality" (cherishing and conserving resources). Those who understand frugality can return to the Dao (the Way) early—this is called "accumulating De (Virtue) abundantly." With profound Virtue, one can overcome all difficulties, as this power is immeasurably deep. Only with such power can one endure long-lasting stability—this is the principle of "deep roots and a firm foundation."

This passage elucidates principles for governing a nation and cultivating one's character. Laozi employs the metaphor of cooking small fish to illustrate statecraft, and nurturing vital energy (Qi) to represent self-cultivation.

Governing a large state resembles frying small fish—constant flipping will break them apart. The same principle applies to governance: rulers should maintain clarity and stillness through Wuwei (non-action), avoiding excessive interference in people's lives. When the Dao governs the world, the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity) each fulfill their roles: heaven provides shelter, earth offers support, and sages impart teachings. When these three neither interfere with each other and follow natural laws, harmony is achieved.

The concept of "restraint" signifies frugality and avoiding resource depletion. Rulers who practice moderation ensure their nation's longevity; cultivators who preserve their vital energy (the foundation of life) attain extended lifespans. The "root" metaphor represents life's fundamental essence—when one nurtures this primal Qi, spiritual clarity endures. Contemporary practitioners of breath cultivation techniques, though their methods may not fully align with Laozi's philosophy, still validate this principle.

Regarding supernatural beings, Laozi asserts that when the Dao governs the world, neither spirits nor ghosts cause disturbances. This doesn't deny their existence, but indicates that under the Dao's regulation, Yin-Yang forces (spirits as Yang, ghosts as Yin) remain peacefully in their proper positions without harming each other. When sages and supernatural beings don't interfere with each other, their virtues naturally intermingle. Laozi deliberately uses "spirits and ghosts" rather than technical terms like "Yin-Yang," leaving the deeper meaning for readers to contemplate.

The entire passage uses statecraft as a metaphor for self-cultivation, emphasizing core concepts of tranquil non-interference and everything occupying its proper place. Whether governing nations or cultivating mind-body harmony, one must understand moderation and alignment with natural laws.

This passage explains the principle of Yin-Yang interaction. "Its ghosts are not divine" means the earth (as the Yin force) governs the underworld without interfering with the Yang realm. "Not that its ghosts lack divinity" further clarifies that this principle applies beyond just the earth. The earth completely follows its own laws without disturbing heaven's operation; heaven likewise adheres to its own principles without meddling in human affairs. Hence "its deities do not harm people" – not that celestial beings cannot harm humans, but that they strictly follow heavenly Dao without interfering in human matters.

The sage (one who has attained Dao) similarly follows the way of sages, neither interfering with heaven-earth operations nor disrupting Yin-Yang order. In darkness, this manifests as Yin-Yang transformations; in brightness, it appears as the sage's governance. These two aspects never interfere with each other, each maintaining its own De (Virtue/Power). Heaven and earth follow natural Dao, as does the sage – each keeping to its proper role without mutual infringement. Thus "De intersects and returns to its place" signifies virtues remaining in their proper domains.

"Not harming each other" refers to this mutual non-interference. The sage likewise does not harm common people (note: some versions include an extra character "民" [people] here, likely a scribal error). This passage primarily elucidates the natural law of heaven, earth and humanity each maintaining their proper ways without mutual interference.

A great nation should be as humble and inclusive as the lower reaches of a river, where all things under heaven naturally converge. Just as the female animal always overcomes the male through quietness and gentleness, humility and stillness are the fundamental principles. Thus, if a large state treats smaller states with a modest and yielding attitude, it will win their allegiance. Conversely, if a small state serves a larger one with humility, it will gain the larger state's protection. Whether it is the great state leading through inclusiveness or the small state preserving itself through alignment, both can achieve their respective aspirations. But most importantly, the powerful state must take the initiative to maintain a humble posture.

This passage uses the metaphor of interstate relations to convey a Daoist truth: those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) should maintain a humble and tranquil mindset. It does not teach humility as a means to gain advantage but rather employs the common phenomenon of annexation during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods to illustrate the principle. "Lower reaches" here refers to the wisdom of willingly occupying the lowest position, much like how the female animal overcomes the male through quiet submission. If a great nation remains humble, it can gather the hearts of the world like rivers flowing into the sea.

The terms "以取" (yi qu) and "而取" (er qu) are used with precision—the former refers to the great state gaining allegiance through inclusiveness, while the latter describes the small state securing protection through alignment. In both cases, humility is essential for mutual benefit. Thus, those who truly comprehend the great Dao understand the importance of humility. The core idea is this: the strong must know how to appear weak, and those who possess must know how to let go—this is the key to grasping the Dao.

Historically, commentators often took the metaphor literally. Zhu Xi criticized Laozi's teachings as overly intricate, but Huang Maocai recognized that this chapter was entirely about using analogy to convey deeper truths. Unfortunately, he did not extend this interpretation to other chapters.

The Dao is the profound mystery hidden within all things—it is the treasure of the virtuous and the refuge of the unvirtuous. Noble words earn respect, and good deeds inspire others. Even those who are not virtuous—why should they be abandoned?

This passage expounds on the preciousness and universality of the Dao. When ancient emperors appointed the Three Dukes (highest ministers), even offering precious round jade discs and chariots drawn by four horses as ceremonial gifts could not compare to quietly contemplating this Dao. Why did the ancients value the Dao so highly? Because the Dao is not something sought externally—it inherently resides within every person's heart.

The Dao is the fundamental mystery of all things, equally present in both the wise and the foolish. Virtuous people naturally cherish the Dao, while those lacking virtue are still embraced by it, much like traditional medicine emphasizes balance and harmony. Though marketplace folk may interact for profit, they still exchange pleasant words to please one another; when a village has even one virtuous person, all will respect them. This shows that the nature of goodness has never been extinguished in the world—how then could Dao cultivators ever abandon those lacking virtue?

Consider how pharmacies hang signs proclaiming "no deception of children or elders" to attract business with good words, or how virtuous elders naturally command respect in villages. Even ordinary people recognize the Dao's value. Rather than using lavish gifts to invite worthies to serve as Three Dukes, it's better to humbly seek the Dao. The ancients treasured the Dao because seeking it leads to attainment—humaneness and virtue already exist within oneself, and turning toward goodness requires but a single thought. As even wicked people, after fasting and purification, may serve the Lord of Heaven—doesn't the Book of Odes say as much? The Dao makes no distinction between worthy and foolish; realization brings attainment, and this constitutes its supreme value.

Chapter 63 speaks of the wisdom of Wuwei (non-action): acting through non-action, handling affairs through non-interference, and perceiving true flavor through flavorlessness. Whether matters are large or small, many or few, resolve resentment through De (virtue/power). Approach difficult tasks at their easiest points, and undertake great works at their subtlest beginnings. All under heaven's difficult affairs arise from the subtle, and all great matters originate in the minute.

All great undertakings under heaven begin from the smallest details. Thus, the sage never covets grand achievements, yet ultimately accomplishes great things. Those who make promises lightly often lack credibility, and those who regard tasks as too easy frequently encounter greater difficulties. Therefore, the sage always approaches matters with caution, and in the end, faces no true hardships.

Only through genuine Wuwei (non-action, or non-forced effort) can one attain the state of accomplishing all things. Hence, it is said, "Act through non-action"—by not clinging to deliberate striving, one achieves success; by not indulging in sensory pleasures, one truly savors life. Those capable of great achievements must first master small tasks; those who can embrace abundance must first accept scarcity; those who resolve grievances must repay resentment with De (virtue). To solve difficult problems, one must begin with what is easy; to accomplish great deeds, one must start with the subtle and minute.

The passage following "savor the flavorless" employs metaphorical language. Difficult tasks must be approached through simplicity; great undertakings must begin with the smallest steps—this further elaborates on the meaning above. The sage does not exalt themselves but remains humble, and thus achieves greatness. Those who make promises lightly often overstate their words and ultimately break their word; those who approach matters carelessly often meet with failure. Here, the text shifts with the word "moreover": earlier it speaks of "ease," but fearing that people might interpret this as frivolity, it emphasizes—this "ease" does not mean recklessness. Even the sage treats matters with caution, and thus encounters no difficulties—how much more should ordinary people do so? The meaning here is that the "ease" mentioned earlier refers to the natural ease of Wuwei and effortless action, not the carelessness of recklessness.

When things are stable, they are easy to maintain; when signs are not yet apparent, they are easy to plan for; when fragile, they are easy to dissolve; when minute, they are easy to disperse. One must prepare before events arise and govern before disorder begins. A mighty tree grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. Forcing things leads to failure; clinging leads to loss. The sage follows the natural course and thus does not fail; they do not cling and thus do not lose. People often fail when success is within reach—if they remained as cautious as at the beginning, there would be no failures. Therefore, the sage seeks what others neglect and does not prize rare treasures; they learn what others ignore and correct the faults of the masses, assisting all things in their natural development without presuming to interfere.

When a situation is stable, it is easy to manage; once a crisis emerges, it becomes difficult to sustain. When matters are not yet apparent, they are easy to plan for; once signs become visible, they become difficult to address.

This scripture elucidates two core principles: first, the importance of seizing the opportune moment in action, and second, governing a state by returning to simplicity and authenticity.

First, let us examine the wisdom of timing. Just as fragile objects are easily broken before they harden but become difficult to shatter once solidified, matters are easiest to resolve at their initial emergence but grow increasingly unmanageable as they develop. Therefore, one must prepare before events unfold and plan before chaos arises. Consider how a giant tree embracing the sky grows from a tiny sprout, how a nine-tiered tower begins with the first basket of earth, and how a thousand-mile journey starts with a single step. Practitioners of the Dao must learn to observe subtle omens—this concept of "ji" (the first stirrings of phenomena) encompasses both the refined and the coarse. For instance, one-thirteenth is "ji," the primordial state of the universe is "ji," and nature's innate condition is likewise "ji." By the time one takes deliberate action or clings to outcomes, traces have already been left—hence the saying that forcing leads to failure and grasping results in loss. The sage acts through wuwei (non-action) and holds through non-attachment, thus never failing.

Now to governance. Ancient masters skilled in the Dao did not teach people to become clever but helped them preserve their natural simplicity. The difficulty in governing people arises precisely from their excessive cunning. Governing through cleverness brings disaster to a state, while governing without it brings blessings. Understanding these two principles means grasping the rule—this rule is called "profound De" (Xuan De, the deepest virtue). Profound De is abstruse and far-reaching, opposing worldly methods yet leading to ultimate harmony. Cleverness, in truth, becomes a burden in cultivating the Dao. When sages educate others, they often encourage them to restrain their intellect to avoid self-imposed obstacles. The "simplifying the people" mentioned here is not the oppressive policy of Qin Shihuang, but rather a return to original simplicity. When people become overly clever, they grow difficult to govern—as illustrated in the scripture: while the masses chase after rare treasures, the sage values what others neglect; where ordinary eyes see nothing, the sage observes repeatedly. It is precisely because the sage maintains an attitude of "daring not act recklessly" that they can assist all things in developing naturally.

Through everyday phenomena and governance concepts, this passage reveals the Daoist core teachings of "discerning the significant from the subtle" and "governing through wuwei." It emphasizes resolving matters at their embryonic stage and the vital importance of returning to primal simplicity for both personal cultivation and state governance.

This scripture primarily discusses the wisdom of governing a state and conducting oneself in the world.

Regarding the Dao (the Way) of governance, Laozi believes that ruling a state with clever tactics and schemes will instead bring disaster. When both rulers and subjects resort to cunning and calculation, chaos arises. Thus, governing with cleverness is a calamity for the state, while governing without it is a blessing. Understanding the harm of cleverness and the benefit of avoiding it allows one to grasp the principle for ruling the world. This principle is the profound and unfathomable De (Virtue/Power). "Return" here means reverting to the original state—when all things return to their beginnings, they achieve "great harmony" (natural balance).

Next, an analogy is made with rivers and seas: the reason the ocean can be the king of all rivers is that it excels at staying in the lowest position. Similarly, if a sage wishes to lead the people, they must use humble words; if they wish to walk ahead of the people, they must place themselves behind. In this way, the sage stands above the people without them feeling burdened, leads without them feeling harmed, and the whole world gladly supports them. Precisely because the sage does not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. The image of all rivers flowing into the sea illustrates this: those who are humble will be elevated, and those who willingly stay behind will be pushed forward.

Finally, the chapter "All Under Heaven Call Me Great" is discussed. Laozi says that though the world calls him great, he does not resemble any concrete thing—it is precisely because he is great that he does not resemble anything specific. If he did, he would have long appeared insignificant. Laozi declares he possesses three treasures: the first is compassion, the second is frugality. All of this emphasizes the wisdom of Wuwei (non-action), humility, and staying low in one's conduct.

Laozi here presents three treasures for navigating life: compassion, frugality, and humility. He explains that true courage stems from compassion, genuine abundance arises from frugality, and authentic leadership emerges from the willingness to yield rather than compete. Modern people, however, abandon compassion for brute force, discard frugality for extravagance, and reject humility in their rush to be first—such paths inevitably lead to ruin.

When compassion guides warfare, victory follows; when it informs defense, stability endures. When heaven wishes to aid someone, it protects them through compassion. The phrase "greatness that seems unremarkable" refers to how truly great individuals often appear ordinary—like the earlier references to "unworthy" and "solitary" that deliberately display vulnerability.

Frugality implies restraint and moderation, while abundance reflects an expansive mind. Just as vessels must first take form to become useful, humans must cultivate these virtues to become leaders. Modern people do the opposite: replacing compassion with violence, frugality with luxury, and humility with competition—completely violating the principles of self-preservation.

In battle, one engages external challenges; in defense, one safeguards the purity of heart and Qi (vital energy). Those rooted in compassion overcome external obstacles while preserving their inner nature. Heaven protects those who shield themselves with compassion—a subtle critique of contemporary failures in this regard. Those who succeed follow heaven's guidance, while those who fail are abandoned by it.

Of the three treasures mentioned earlier, mastering "compassion" alone naturally encompasses the other two. This mirrors the story from the Zuo Zhuan about the Jin nobleman who was "broad-minded yet frugal"—demonstrating precisely this principle.

A truly skilled commander does not rely on brute force, a master strategist does not wage war in anger, one adept at victory avoids direct confrontation, and a wise leader remains humble in employing others. This embodies the virtue (De) of non-contention, the method of harnessing others' strength, and the supreme wisdom that aligns with the Dao (the Way).

Officials overseeing punishments who resort to aggression resemble tyrannical bureaucrats. Those who truly understand warfare would never fight through rage. "Not opposing" means refusing to create antagonism with external forces. "The humble employment of others" echoes the principle stated earlier: "governing the state through modesty." These four excellences all manifest non-contention. Such virtue matches the Dao of heaven, gathers collective strength to govern the world, and represents the highest wisdom since ancient times.

Regarding military strategy, there is a saying: "I dare not take the offensive but prefer defense; I dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot." This is action through apparent inaction (Wuwei), raising no arm yet striking, facing no enemy yet drawing them in, wielding no weapon yet concealing lethal force. No disaster surpasses underestimating one's foe—such arrogance nearly costs what is most precious. Thus when armies clash, victory often favors the compassionate side.

(Here citing ancient military maxims) The art of war values defense over reckless offense, using retreat as advancement. Feigned inaction bewilders the enemy; withheld attacks lure them; concealed strength invites their contempt. These are tactical displays of weakness to entice opponents. "Luring" means provoking the enemy to strike first—only then can victory be secured. Arrogance inevitably brings defeat. The "treasure" refers to the precious principle of winning through non-contention. Seeking victory through underestimation forfeits this treasure. Hence in war between states, compassion often prevails. The "compassionate" are those who take no pleasure in battle—unlike those who revel in drums and bloodshed. This entire chapter uses warfare as metaphor for the Dao, as do other analogies in this text.

My teaching is simple to understand and easy to practice, yet few in the world truly grasp or follow it. Speech must have substance; action must follow principle. People's inability to comprehend this explains why they misunderstand me. Those who understand are rare—thus my teachings become precious. Therefore, the sage wears coarse cloth yet harbors jade within: plain in appearance but rich in inner treasure.

This scripture conveys two key teachings:

The first part explores the paradox of knowing and not-knowing. The truly wise (those who have attained the Dao) possess profound knowledge yet appear as if ignorant—this represents the highest attainment. Those who pretend to know what they don't are afflicted with a common spiritual malady. The sages remain free of this defect precisely because they recognize that "forcing knowledge" is itself a pathological condition. The metaphor of "wearing coarse cloth while harboring jade" illustrates how Dao adepts maintain inner richness without external display.

The second part addresses ruler-subject relations. When the people cease to fear authority, greater chaos will ensue. The text warns rulers against oppressing the populace ("do not constrain their living space" refers to restricting people's freedom, while "do not exhaust their means of survival" speaks against economic exploitation). The true sage (ideal ruler) possesses self-awareness without self-display, practices self-respect without self-aggrandizement. The phrase "the principle of enduring life and lasting vision" refers to the Daoist path of longevity and spiritual cultivation.

Both sections exemplify core Daoist values of "maintaining simplicity" and "humble retreat": genuine wisdom remains unassuming, true authority operates with softness. Rulers should emulate the sages by practicing humility and restraint, granting the people space to thrive—only then can lasting peace prevail.

Humility enables one to maintain a lowly posture. The "discarding that" mentioned here refers to abandoning the narrow-minded, insatiable mentality of ordinary people and instead seeking true fulfillment from the Dao (the Way). Thus, one should choose this path.

Chapter 73 speaks of two manifestations of courage. Reckless bravado invites fatal consequences, while cautious restraint preserves life. These two attitudes—one beneficial, the other harmful—are difficult for ordinary people to discern in terms of which the heavenly Dao (the Way) truly disdains. Even sages find this question challenging to answer.

The operation of the heavenly Dao follows this principle: it does not contend with others yet always prevails; it does not speak yet naturally elicits response; it does not summon yet all things come of their own accord; it appears simple yet conceals profound mysteries. The Dao is like a vast, boundless net—seemingly sparse, yet nothing escapes it.

Those who act with brute force ultimately bring about their own destruction, while those who exercise prudence in all matters preserve themselves. The contrast in outcomes between these two approaches is strikingly clear. The Dao disdains arrogance and favors humility, so the forceful not only incur human resentment but also divine rejection. Sadly, few in the world understand this principle, hence the scripture laments, "Who knows its reason?"

The reason even sages find this question difficult lies in the Dao's fundamental nature: it does not contend with others, yet nothing can surpass it; it does not speak, yet its principles of resonance operate spontaneously. The transformations of Yin-Yang occur without summoning, appearing simple yet containing profound meaning. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states, "The Qian (Heaven) principle knows through simplicity, the Kun (Earth) principle accomplishes through easiness"—this describes precisely such seemingly simple yet exquisitely subtle arrangements. The Dao's net, though appearing loose, never fails to mete out retribution for good and evil, fortune and misfortune.

Chapter 74 discusses the principle of punishment. If the people do not fear death, how can death be used to deter them? If the people truly feared death, then executing those who create disorder would prevent others from daring to break the law. But note: executions should only be carried out by officials specifically appointed for criminal punishment. For others to overstep their authority and execute people would be like an amateur trying to cut wood in place of a carpenter—rare is the case where they don't injure their own hand.

This chapter suggests that people's excessive attachment to distinguishing good and evil, or to strong likes and dislikes, fundamentally stems from failing to understand the Dao. Thus, it uses the example of worldly punishment to illustrate: the purpose of punishment is to deter people through fear of death, but when have the people ever truly feared death?

These two chapters of the Dao De Jing discuss principles of governance and natural law. First addressing punishment: if people truly feared death, punishing wrongdoers would deter others from crime. Yet despite continuous executions, lawbreaking increases—proving people don't actually fear death. True authority over life and death belongs to the Creator (referring to natural law), which naturally handles what deserves destruction. When rulers abuse punishments, it's like a clumsy carpenter usurping a master woodcutter's axe—they'll likely wound themselves. Two metaphors illustrate the era's excessive punishments, not advocating abolition but emphasizing alignment with nature's spontaneity (Wuwei), avoiding forced measures.

Chapter 75 exposes the roots of people's suffering: hunger stems from oppressive taxation; unruliness from rulers' meddling; fearlessness of death from unbearable hardship. Three issues emerge: excessive taxes, rulers' petty cleverness, and hedonistic excess. Like overprotecting one's health that backfires, or gluttony causing illness, true wisdom lies not in chasing longevity but in natural living—those not obsessively clinging to life often outlive those who do.

Chapter 76 reveals the wisdom of softness: living bodies remain supple while corpses stiffen; growing plants stay tender while dead ones brittle. Thus rigidity belongs to death's path, softness to life's way. Armies forcing strength struggle to win; towering trees invite the axe. What seems mighty often occupies inferior positions, while the soft and yielding rise above. This demonstrates nature's principle of softness overcoming hardness.

Laozi employs the metaphors of softness and hardness to illustrate his doctrine's emphasis on valuing gentleness. Using the life cycles of humans and plants as examples: when vegetation first sprouts it is tender, but becomes rigid with age; by the time it grows into a massive tree requiring both arms to encircle, it begins to wither. Thus those who understand the Dao (the Way) regard softness as superior and hardness as inferior. The character "拱" (embracing) here mirrors the act of encircling a tree trunk with one's arms.

Chapter 77 describes the natural law of heaven's Dao (the Way), comparing it to drawing a bow: what is high is lowered, what is low is raised; what is excessive is reduced, what is insufficient is supplemented. The Dao of heaven takes from the surplus to replenish the deficient, yet human practices do the opposite—depriving the wanting to serve the abundant. Who can offer their excess to the world? Only those who have attained the Dao. Therefore, the sage acts without claiming ownership, accomplishes without dwelling on achievements, and has no desire to display their worthiness. Heaven's Dao despises fullness but favors humility—just as a drawn bow cannot remain taut indefinitely, the lofty must descend of their own accord, the abundant must diminish, while the humble will be elevated, the bent will be straightened, and the diminished will be increased. Such is heaven's way with all things, yet why do human practices contradict this? Instead, they harm others to benefit themselves, attempting to satisfy personal excess by exploiting the world's deficiencies—this violates heaven's intent. Only those who have attained the Dao can reduce their surplus to serve the world. Thus the Yijing (Book of Changes) conveys this same principle regarding increase and decrease. Though sages govern the world, they claim no possession; though they achieve merit, they dwell not on it; though possessing supreme virtue, they conceal it—this represents the cultivated state where daily reduction continues until there is nothing left to diminish.

Chapter 78 states that nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard, for nothing can replace it. The weak conquers the strong, the gentle overcomes the rigid—all under heaven know this truth, yet none can practice it. Therefore the sage declares: "Only those who endure a nation's humiliation are fit to be its lords; only those who bear a kingdom's calamities are worthy to be its kings." These words, though seemingly paradoxical, express profound truth.

Water appears to be the softest and weakest of things, yet it can overcome the hardest substances. Nothing in the world surpasses it. Just as a mighty dam worth a thousand pieces of gold may collapse due to a tiny ant's burrow leaking water, this exemplifies how the soft and weak conquer the hard and strong. Nothing demonstrates this truth as clearly as water. Thus, nothing illustrates the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong" more vividly than water itself. Though this truth is as evident as water's nature and known to all, few truly embody this supreme principle in practice.

The sages of old often said: Only those who can bear the reproach of an entire nation are fit to be its ruler; only those who shoulder the calamities of the land can become king under heaven. This embodies the principle of "knowing glory yet dwelling in humility." What is called "inauspicious" refers to ill repute. The higher one's position, the more one must refrain from contending with the world and instead endure humiliation and burdens—only then can one stand above others. Though it may seem like accepting disgrace and misfortune, appearing contrary to conventional wisdom, this is in fact the true Dao. Hence it is said: "Straightforward words seem paradoxical."

Regarding the resolution of great grievances: Even when major resentments are settled, traces of bitterness may linger in the heart—how can this be considered true goodness? Therefore, though the sage holds the creditor's tally (the left portion of ancient contracts, with the debtor keeping the right), he does not demand repayment. Those with De (Virtue) oversee agreements without pressing claims, while those without De scrutinize every detail. "Thorough" here means settling accounts completely. The Dao of heaven shows no partiality, yet it invariably supports the virtuous.

Those who attain the highest state completely transcend both gratitude and resentment. If someone harbors great enmity toward me, even if we reconcile outwardly while I still remember this as a "grievance" in my heart, it shows the mind has not truly risen above. Though reconciliation may be achieved, lingering resentment means this cannot be called the true path of goodness. Using the contract as metaphor: The sage holds the tally but makes no claim, letting go entirely. Those with De oversee contracts without demanding payment, while those without De insist on strict accounting. Though heaven's way is impartial, it surely blesses those who possess De.

In Chapter 80 of the Daode Jing, Laozi depicts an ideal small-scale society: The state is tiny, with a sparse population. Though possessing various advanced tools (equipment for hundreds of tasks), people refrain from using them, valuing life over distant migrations. Though boats and carriages exist, none ride them; though weapons and armor are available, none display them. People return to the simplicity of knot-tying record-keeping, content with their food, fond of their clothing, comfortable in their dwellings, and joyful in their local customs. Neighboring states are within sight of each other, their roosters and dogs audible across borders, yet the people live and die without mutual interaction.

Here Laozi echoes Mencius's saying that "one who obtains a hundred li of land can become king under heaven," illustrating how a Daoist sage could bring peace and prosperity even to a tiny state. People possess useful tools but refrain from competitive use—this embodies the noble conduct of exemplary individuals (junzi). Valuing life means avoiding distant travel, as people fear wrongdoing and refrain from evil. Not using boats and carriages signifies not pursuing distant gains; not displaying weapons means not relying on violence to prevail. Returning to knot-tying symbolizes a return to primal simplicity. This vision reflects Laozi's critique of the Warring States period's strife and his longing for the uncorrupted customs of antiquity.

Chapter 81 discusses the distinction between truth and ornamentation: Genuine words are not embellished; embellished words are not genuine. The virtuous are not argumentative; the argumentative are not virtuous. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) do not seek broad knowledge, while those who pursue broad knowledge may not truly understand the Dao. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not hoard—the more they assist others, the more they themselves are enriched; the more they give, the more they possess. The Dao of heaven benefits all things without harm; the Dao of the sage acts without contention.

Zhuangzi's statement that "truth is often obscured by ornate rhetoric" conveys the same idea. The purely virtuous need not speak much, while those fond of debate are often impure. Those who truly grasp the Dao do not pride themselves on erudition; those who flaunt knowledge frequently misunderstand the Dao. The sage's state is one of emptiness and singular focus (xu yi), maintaining inner purity.

This passage elucidates the operation of the Heavenly Dao (natural law) and the Way of the Sage. The Heavenly Dao, though seemingly empty, never exhausts itself—the more it moves, the more it generates all things. The Sage emulates this principle, accomplishing much yet never claiming merit.

Specifically: the more you assist others, the more you yourself will possess; the more you give to others, the more abundant you become. Just like the Heavenly Dao that appears formless yet endlessly transforms and generates all things—the more it operates, the more its function manifests.

Though the Heavenly Dao contains infinite benevolent benefits, it never boasts of them. The moment one deliberately flaunts the label of "benefit," people begin calculating gains and losses, thereby perceiving harm instead. The Sage's approach to affairs follows this same principle—appearing to practice wuwei (non-action), yet actually accomplishing all things without ever considering himself right. Thus he contends with nothing in the world, and consequently no one in the world can contend with him.

The core philosophy throughout the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) is non-contention, and this passage precisely uses this principle as its concluding summation.