《道德真經註(四)》

The classic Daode Jing (in some editions directly referred to as the first part of Daode Jing, where the text is divided into upper and lower sections) begins with the phrase "The Dao that can be spoken of," where the word "Dao" is used to name the chapter as a mark of reverence.

The Dao that can be articulated is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be assigned is not the eternal, unchanging essence. Here, the "Dao" is like a path—it can be walked and practiced—but the true Dao is constant and unchanging. "Name" refers to De (Virtue/Power), which can be tentatively labeled, but true De is not something that can be defined as a concrete object. The Dao itself has no name; we merely call it "Dao" for the sake of discussion.

"The nameless" refers to the Dao, from which heaven and earth arise, hence the Dao is the origin of all things. "The named" refers to De, through which the myriad things are nurtured, hence De is the mother of all things.

Maintaining a state of desirelessness allows one to perceive the mysteries of the Dao; maintaining a state of conscious observation allows one to discern the boundaries of De's movement. Here, "constant" refers to the eternal Dao. "Constant desirelessness" describes the sage's inherently tranquil nature, through which the subtle wonders of De can be contemplated. "Constant desire" describes the sage's emotions responding to external phenomena, through which the workings of the Dao can be observed. "Boundary" (Jiao) refers to limits, akin to what Mencius called the "beginning" (the point of origin).

Dao and De are identical in essence but differ in manifestation—both can be called "profound" (Xuan, deep and unfathomable). Dao is De, and De is Dao; they arise from the same source.

The character "玄" (xuan) signifies profound obscurity and unfathomable depth. "德" (De, Virtue/Power) emerges from the "道" (Dao, the Way) — though their names differ, what isn't called "Dao" is called "De." Despite this nominal distinction, "De" and "Dao" share the same essence, both termed "xuan," revealing no actual difference.

The phrase "玄之又玄" (the mystery beyond mystery) points to the gateway of all subtle profundities. "众妙" (all mysteries) refers to "De," while "门" (gate) denotes the path it generates. Though both "De" and "Dao" are called "xuan," "Dao" represents a deeper layer of mystery, thus being the source from which "De" arises. The most sublime unity is "Dao," while the manifold transformations are "De."

(This passage summarizes the essence of Chapter One regarding "Dao" and "De." As Zhang Zai explained: From the Great Void (cosmic origin) emerges the concept of Heaven, while from the transformations of Qi (vital energy) arises the concept of Dao. Laozi considers the Great Void as the root of Heaven and Earth's formation, calling it "Dao"; the transformations of Qi become the basis for all things' generation, termed "De." "Dao" refers to metaphysical principles untainted by concrete Qi, akin to Zhuangzi's "constant non-being"; "De" denotes the principles embodied in physical phenomena, resembling Zhuangzi's "Supreme Oneness." Thus Laozi's "Dao" and "De" both take emptiness and spontaneity as their substance, with softness and non-excess as their function.)

When all under Heaven recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness arises as its counterpart; when they recognize good as good, the concept of not-good emerges. "Beauty" describes something surpassing others in excellence, speaking to its essential nature; "good" refers to appropriate conduct, addressing capability. These paired concepts—beauty/ugliness and good/not-good—are interdependent: ugliness defines beauty just as not-good defines good. Should everyone deem this beautiful, that becomes ugly; should all consider this good, that becomes not-good. To dissolve such duality requires transcending these distinctions entirely—where no recognition of beauty or good exists, neither ugliness nor not-good can arise.

Thus being and non-being generate each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short manifest through contrast, high and low incline toward each other, notes and tones harmonize in response, front and back follow in sequence.

This scripture primarily elucidates the principle of relative existence and the way sages emulate nature in their conduct.

First, it explains that all things in the world exist in relativity: being and non-being, difficulty and ease, length and brevity, height and lowness, sounds of opening and closing, clear and turbid tones, positions of front and back—these all exist in mutual correspondence. When one aspect exists, its counterpart necessarily exists; when one disappears, its counterpart follows. Beauty and ugliness, good and not-good are similarly interdependent. This relativity manifests in five forms: two forms standing side by side (xiangxing), one above and one below (xiangqing), call and response (xianghe), following the wind's movement (xiangsui), and mutual connection (xiangshu). Only the characteristic of sound isn't separately explained, because mentioning opening/closing and clear/turbid naturally conveys its corresponding relationships.

Therefore, sages emulate this natural principle by adopting an attitude of Wuwei (non-action) in conduct and "teaching without words" in guidance. Wuwei doesn't mean doing nothing, but rather acting without contrivance—thus accomplishing all things effortlessly. "Teaching without words" doesn't mean complete silence, but avoiding deliberate preaching—thereby achieving the most effective guidance.

Consider the operation of heaven and earth: in spring when all things sprout (zuo), they don't refuse; in summer when growth occurs, they don't claim possession (bu you)—this is heaven and earth's "wordless teaching." In autumn when crops mature (wei), they don't boast of achievement; in winter at harvest (gongcheng), they don't claim merit—this is heaven and earth's Wuwei action. Precisely because they don't claim merit, their accomplishments never fade (bu qu). Heaven and earth never proclaim their功劳 in nurturing all things, hence their achievements endure eternally.

Note: The terms "xiangxing," "xiangqing," "xianghe," "xiangsui," and "xiangshu" refer to five manifestations of mutual correspondence. Wuwei is a core Daoist concept meaning acting in accordance with nature without forcing. "Teaching without words" means influencing through exemplary conduct rather than deliberate preaching.

The sage's method of governing the world is extraordinary: they accomplish great things precisely by not acting deliberately (Wuwei), and achieve enlightenment without deliberate preaching. Because they refrain from forced action and excessive words, even their virtuous deeds (De) remain unnoticed by the people. This very quality makes the sage's virtue and benevolessence uniquely supreme. If one governs through forceful action and imposed doctrines, people will begin distinguishing beauty from ugliness and good from evil, thereby losing the natural state of perfect harmony. The core philosophy of the entire Laozi is encapsulated in this chapter.

Specifically, there are three principles of governance: First, by not exalting the worthy ("尚贤"), the people will not compete for fame and profit. Second, by not valuing rare goods ("贵难得之货"), the people will not resort to theft. Third, by not displaying objects that arouse desire ("不见可欲"), the people's minds will not become disordered. (Note: "尚" means to honor, "贵" means to treasure, and "见" means to display.) For when rulers glorify reputation, the people will chase fame; when they prize rare goods, the people will steal for profit. Fame and profit are temptations—by not promoting them, rulers refrain from exposing the people to such enticements, thus naturally pacifying their hearts.

Therefore, the sage's method of governance is this: Keep the people's minds simple ("虚其心") while ensuring they are well-fed and clothed ("实其腹"); weaken their competitive impulses ("弱其志") while strengthening their physical vitality ("强其骨"). Here, all four instances of "其" refer to the people. "虚其心" means eliminating greed and thieving desires; "实其腹" means discreetly ensuring material sufficiency; "弱其志" means curbing ambitions for fame; "强其骨" means quietly inspiring self-improvement.

The ultimate state to achieve is this: Let the people remain simple ("无知") and free from excessive desires ("无欲"). Even if some know the benefits of fame and profit ("知者"), they dare not compete or steal. However, this "daring not" still operates at the level of fearing punishment—desires may linger in their hearts, but they simply refrain from acting on them.

"Governing through Wuwei (non-action)" means that if rulers refrain from forced interference and artificial manipulation, the world will naturally be well-governed. The "Wuwei" mentioned here implies not even entertaining thoughts of contention or theft—thus, there would be no place in the world left ungoverned. This chapter discusses the principles by which sages govern the world. Later practitioners of life cultivation borrowed the phrases "emptying the mind and filling the belly, weakening ambitions and strengthening the bones," which, though profound, do not fully capture Laozi's original intent.

The Dao itself is empty, yet its application is inexhaustible. It is unfathomably deep, as if the origin of all things. The character "chong" originally refers to the hollow state of a vessel, here describing the Dao's essence as void. When humans apply this Dao, they should likewise remain empty and avoid self-satisfaction, for fullness contradicts the Dao. "Abyss" describes the Dao's unfathomable depth, while "ancestor" is like the main lineage of a family—the Dao is the root that governs all things. The word "seems" is used cautiously, indicating a reluctance to assert certainty.

Blunt the sharpness, untangle the knots, soften the glare, and merge with the dust. This limpid state appears to exist and yet not exist. "Blunt" means to subdue, "sharpness" refers to edges, and "knots" signify entanglement. Just as a tool untangles knots and removes sharp edges, all that is pointed will eventually dull—so it is better to actively subdue sharpness to resolve conflict. "Soften" means to temper and conceal brilliance, remaining equal to the mundane. Like a mirror obscured by dust loses its shine, all that is luminous will eventually dim—so it is better to actively obscure radiance and blend with the ordinary. Sharpness inevitably dulls, light inevitably fades, just as overflowing water must spill. The Dao does not seek fullness, so it actively subdues sharpness without display and tempers brilliance without ostentation. These four lines describe how the Dao's application must avoid excess. "Limpid" signifies clarity and stillness—the Dao's essence is empty, so its existence seems both present and absent, not a concrete thing. The final line emphasizes the void nature of the Dao's essence.

I do not know from where the Dao arises—it seems to have existed even before the Celestial Emperor. "Seems" conveys resemblance, and "Celestial Emperor" refers to the supreme deity.

This passage elucidates the core teachings of Dao De Jing Chapter 4, using vivid metaphors to illustrate the transcendent nature of the Dao and its philosophy of natural non-action (Wuwei).

Regarding the essence of the Dao, the scripture states: "I know not whose child it is—it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven (Xiangdi)." Here "Xiangdi" refers to the supreme ruler of heaven, indicating that the Dao existed prior to all things in the cosmos. Even heaven itself originates from the Dao, and nothing predates this primordial source.

Three classic metaphors then illuminate the workings of natural law:

First is the "straw dog" metaphor. Both heaven-earth and sages treat all beings like sacrificial straw dogs (grass effigies used in rain rituals that are discarded after use). This doesn't imply cruelty, but rather shows how heaven-earth operates without partiality—allowing all things to flourish and perish naturally, just as sages govern without forced benevolence, letting people live autonomously. Artificial compassion would disrupt this state of serene non-interference.

Second comes the "bellows" (tuoyue) analogy. Heaven-earth resembles an immense forge bellows (ancient smelting equipment where "tuo" is the outer chamber and "yue" the inner pipe). Though hollow inside, it never collapses; the more it pumps, the more wind it generates. The outer chamber represents the all-encompassing void, while the inner pipe symbolizes the dynamic flow of primordial Qi (vital energy). When the human mind maintains such emptiness, vital breath circulates unimpeded in endless regeneration.

The passage concludes with practical wisdom: Excessive speech depletes Qi and exhausts the spirit (shu qiong refers to rapid energy depletion). Better to preserve inner stillness ("zhong" denotes the bellows' central void where energy gathers). By keeping the mind empty and undisturbed, preventing spiritual leakage, one attains boundless serenity—the inexhaustible source of primordial energy.

This passage elucidates the core concepts of Daoist cultivation and worldly wisdom.

The "valley" in "the valley spirit never dies" symbolizes a state of emptiness and stillness, within which the original spirit (Shen) can endure eternally. The "mysterious female" (Xuanpin) represents the gentle and nurturing primordial Qi (vital energy), which serves as the source of all creation. Zhuangzi referred to this as the "Great One" (Taiyi), while later traditions called it the "Numinous Treasure" (Lingbao). The "gate of the mysterious female" signifies the root of heaven and earth, which Zhuangzi termed "constant non-being" (Changwuyou), also known as the "Primordial Beginning" (Yuanshi).

When one preserves the original spirit within the body, primordial Qi will not be depleted. This resembles the principle of breath regulation—moderate use nourishes, while excess leads to dissipation.

Heaven and earth endure because they do not exist for themselves but transform and nurture all things. The sage emulates this cosmic principle—by willingly standing behind others, one actually takes the lead; by remaining detached, one achieves preservation. This occurs not because they lack self-interest, but precisely through this approach they fulfill themselves.

The highest virtue resembles water—nourishing all things without contention, content to dwell in places others disdain. Thus it comes closest to the Dao. Water's nature reveals supreme goodness: it flows downward, remains silent yet profound, gives to all without seeking return. These qualities nearly embody the ultimate Dao.

Water is called "supremely good" because it irrigates, cleanses, and nourishes all things without claiming merit. It willingly resides in lowly, muddy places that people disdain, thus its nature most closely approaches the state of those who have attained the Dao ("几于道" means nearly reaching the Dao's perfection).

The goodness of those who embody the Dao manifests in seven aspects: dwelling where others consider favorable, maintaining a mind as still as a deep pool, associating with benevolent companions ("与善仁" refers to befriending virtuous people), speaking with honesty and trustworthiness, governing with skillful administration, working according to their strengths, and acting in harmony with the right timing. These seven forms of goodness all align with standards recognized by people and may be called "good," yet they still fall short of the highest state of "supreme goodness" (上善).

Only by not contending with others can one avoid incurring resentment. The "supreme goodness" of Daoist sages lies in not striving for high positions but willingly occupying humble places—just like water—thus they never provoke others' grievances. Ordinary people detest lowly positions and crave elevation; seeking to dominate others inevitably breeds conflict, and conflict invites misfortune.

(Chapter 7)

Forcing a vessel to overflow is inferior to stopping at fullness; over-sharpening a blade makes it difficult to retain its edge. This chapter illustrates how the Dao's essence never seeks excess, using sharpness as a metaphor: water in a basin should not be filled to the brim, as overflow becomes inevitable—it's better to stop at moderation. A blade honed too keenly breaks easily and cannot maintain its sharpness. The principle remains the same: what overflows cannot endure.

When halls overflow with gold and jade, none can preserve them; wealth coupled with arrogance only invites self-inflicted calamity. Knowing when to withdraw after achieving merit and fame—this accords with heavenly law. Why can people never keep halls full of treasures? Precisely because wealth breeds arrogance, and arrogance brings disaster. Thus, timely withdrawal after success aligns with nature's way. Here, gold and jade symbolize wealth; arrogance represents excess ("自遗其咎" means creating one's own misfortune); achievement signifies prominence; withdrawal means avoiding extremes.

This passage discusses two main themes: the dialectical relationship between wealth/status and humble withdrawal, and methods for cultivation and health preservation.

First, regarding the path of wealth and nobility. The Dao of heaven follows the principle that fullness leads to decline, just as the seasons rotate in cycles. Withdrawing after achieving success is the natural order. While "wealth" and "nobility" appear as parallel concepts, they are actually interdependent. True nobility manifests when one's elevated status naturally attracts wealth, while possessing wealth requires maintaining a noble mindset. Those who become arrogant due to their riches and status ultimately cannot preserve them. Conversely, those who understand humble withdrawal and non-contention can maintain their noble position and preserve their wealth long-term.

The text then presents cultivation methods divided into two approaches: transcendental practice and worldly practice.

Transcendental practice has three levels:

1. Nourishing form: Tightly integrating the yin po (the yin aspect of human spirit) and yang hun (the yang aspect) like soldiers garrisoned in a camp, making them coexist eternally like the sun and moon, thereby preserving physical form.

2. Nourishing qi: Concentrating breath within the body, making tendons and bones as soft and vulnerable as an infant in the womb.

3. Nourishing spirit: Closing the eyes to external sights and eliminating even the subtlest internal distractions, reaching a state of complete mental purity.

Worldly practice also has three methods:

1. Nourishing form: While governing a state appears as active engagement, maintaining inner purity and naturalness prevents physical fatigue—this is "governing through wuwei (non-action)."

2. Nourishing qi: Regulating breath so that although respiration continues, it remains gentle and smooth without roughness, embodying feminine softness.

3. Nourishing spirit: While observing all directions with the eyes, maintaining awareness without being deluded by what is seen.

(Note: "Yingpo" refers to human spirit and soul; "Tianmen" (Heaven's Gate) in Daoism often indicates either the nose or the Baihui point at the crown of the head; "being female" metaphorically represents a soft, quiescent state.)

This passage conveys two main ideas: first, the state of "no-mind" achieved by Daoist practitioners, and second, the principle of "mutual generation of being and non-being" illustrated through everyday objects.

When practitioners reach this state, though their eyes still perceive the external world, their minds transcend the distinction between self and objects, no longer discriminating between things—this is the state of "no-knowledge." Those who can maintain this state are masters skilled in nurturing spirit (Yang Shen). Here, "nurturing spirit" refers to cultivating one's inner consciousness to attain a transcendent state beyond worldly concerns.

The passage then uses the metaphor of "nurturing all things" to describe this realm: just as heaven and earth give birth to all things without claiming ownership, act without self-importance, and guide without domination, this represents the most profound "Mystic Virtue" (Xuande). Specifically, "giving birth" refers to cultivating formless primordial Qi, while "nurturing" means gathering Qi that has taken form. Though there is action, it always maintains the state of acting without intention, like officials governing people without harboring a desire to control. This realm is profoundly mysterious, hence called "Mystic Virtue."

Three everyday examples then illustrate the relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu): thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel—it is precisely because the hub's center is empty that the wheel can turn; clay is kneaded to form vessels—it is their hollow interior that makes them useful; doors and windows are cut in a house—it is these empty spaces that make it livable. These examples show that while the substantial parts (being) provide structure, it is the empty spaces (non-being) that create functionality.

Finally, the passage reveals the Daoist principle: a person's filled abdomen (with Qi) sustains life—this is the function of "being"; an empty mind (free of distractions) generates vital energy—this is the function of "non-being." Therefore, Daoist cultivation must harmonize both aspects of "being" and "non-being."

This passage discusses how excessive pursuit of material pleasures harms both body and mind, and how true sages approach desires.

First, the dangers of sensory indulgence: Overexposure to dazzling colors dulls vision (eyes go blind), constant loud music impairs hearing (ears go deaf), gourmet feasting deadens taste (palate grows numb), obsessive hunting and chasing unsettles the spirit (heart grows wild), and rare treasures distort behavior (conduct becomes harmful). These are the damages external desires inflict upon humans.

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) adopts this approach: They seek only to nourish their vital energy (Qi) by filling the belly (wei fu), never chasing external things through visual indulgence (bu wei mu). They discard external illusions while preserving internal authenticity. The text particularly emphasizes ocular desires because visual temptations typically affect humans first - just as Confucius placed "see" first in his admonition "look not at what is contrary to propriety."

Next, it examines how honor and disgrace affect people: Both favor and humiliation cause alarm, while valuing external possessions is like binding great misfortune to oneself. Ordinary people consider fame and status as honors, but the enlightened recognize these as disgrace. Those who truly understand the Dao don't crave such things - only the attached become mentally disturbed by them. Wealth appears as great benefit but is actually great calamity; the discerning don't prize it, only the greedy become burdened by it.

The saying "favor and disgrace seem alarming" means: People treat base things as honors, desperately pursuing what they lack (startled upon gaining), then fearing to lose what they've gained (startled upon losing). This craving for empty fame essentially means chasing disgrace while calling it honor.

Why is it said that great troubles (referring to the afflictions brought by the body) should be regarded as equally important as the body itself? The reason I have great troubles is precisely because I possess this body; if I had no body, what troubles could I possibly have?

Once a person acquires this physical form, countless worries emerge. One becomes preoccupied with its maintenance day and night, finding relief only in death. The body itself is a great burden that we cannot fundamentally alter. As for external possessions like wealth, they too represent significant troubles, yet being external, they can be relinquished without becoming permanent burdens. Unfortunately, most people fail to understand this truth, valuing material possessions as dearly as their own bodies, living in constant fear of losing what they own—this is precisely what it means to regard great troubles as equivalent to the body.

Therefore, only those who consider governing the world more important than themselves are worthy of being entrusted with the world; only those who cherish the world as they cherish their own bodies are fit to receive it. The emperor's dignity and the wealth of the four seas should all serve the people of the world. Those who truly understand the Dao treasure their own bodies, unwilling to sacrifice themselves lightly for worldly affairs, preferring to relinquish the world rather than abuse their own being. Precisely such individuals can be entrusted with the world. Consider ancient rulers like Shun and Yu—they possessed the world yet never treated it as personal property, thus proving worthy of receiving the abdicated thrones of Yao and Shun.

As for vulgar people who mistake disgrace for honor and great troubles for great benefits—how could they possibly be fit to govern the world? Laozi believed one should regard governing the world as more important than oneself and consider service to the world as true wealth. Later, Yang Zhu's philosophy of "egoism" developed precisely from this line of thought.

(Chapter 12)

What cannot be seen is called "Yi" (formless); what cannot be heard is called "Xi" (soundless); what cannot be touched is called "Wei" (intangible). These three cannot be thoroughly investigated, hence they merge into one.

This chapter specifically discusses the manifestations of De (Virtue/Power): what the eye easily perceives are obvious forms—"Yi" means flat and formless, hence invisible; what the ear easily hears are complex sounds—"Xi" means sparse and silent, hence inaudible; what the hand easily touches are concrete shapes—"Wei" means vague and intangible, hence untouchable. Though we may attempt to thoroughly investigate Yi, Xi, and Wei...

This passage discusses the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). It explains that Dao, as the cosmic origin, cannot be described in words. We may reluctantly call it "Yi" (even/smooth), "Xi" (rare/sparse), or "Wei" (subtle/refined), or collectively term it "the One"—all referring to the eternal, unchanging "Constant De."

The state of Dao is unique: looking upward, it doesn't appear bright; looking downward, it doesn't seem dark. Continuous yet unnameable, it ultimately returns to formless non-being. This is "the form of the formless, the image of the imageless," which we may call "Huhuang" (a state of hazy indeterminacy).

These characteristics also describe De's nature. The "upward and downward" aspects resemble the Book of Changes' concepts of "metaphysical" and "physical." "Continuous like an unbroken thread" describes its ceaseless flow, while "returning" signifies its homecoming to "non-being"—Dao itself. De stands between Dao and the myriad things: Dao is nameless and thus not bright, while concrete things have form and thus aren't dark. Occupying the space between nameable and unnameable, De appears describable yet ultimately indefinable, finally merging back into Dao's emptiness. As Zhuangzi said, "De ultimately becomes one with the origin."

Dao has no substance, thus no form or image; De can be named, allowing description of its state—yet this state lacks the solidity of concrete things. Hence "the form of the formless, the image of the imageless" suggests a presence-absence paradox, termed "hazy indeterminacy."

Approaching it, you see no beginning; following it, you find no end. By grasping the Dao that has existed since antiquity, one can master present phenomena. Understanding cosmic origins means comprehending Dao's fundamental principles ("gangji").

Precisely because Dao is indistinct and unnameable, neither its front nor back can be seen. "Antiquity" refers to time's beginning, "the present" to the immediate now, and "being" to all phenomena. De originates from Dao yet permeates all things—hence "holding to the Dao of old to govern present existence." "Primordial beginning" is Dao itself, the source before heaven and earth emerged. "Dao's guiding thread" is De—just as Dao disperses into De, like organizing silk threads with perfect order. Understanding this reveals De as Dao's organizing principle.

Chapter 13

The truly Dao-attained sages of antiquity were profoundly subtle, infinitely penetrating—beyond ordinary comprehension. Precisely because they're incomprehensible, we reluctantly use words to describe them.

This passage describes seven outward manifestations and inner states of a Daoist adept (one who has attained the Dao through cultivation).

It begins with the characteristics of two animals used as metaphors: the "Yu" (elephant), which moves slowly and cautiously, and the "You" (puppy), which circles about while walking. These symbolize the prudent attitude of Daoist adepts—as cautious as crossing a winter river, as alert as being surrounded by enemies, never acting rashly.

The text then details seven specific manifestations: dignified like an honored guest; free and unrestrained like melting ice and snow; simple and unadorned like uncarved wood; vast and empty like a mountain valley; turbid like muddy water that embraces all things. These describe how adepts maintain their original nature while encompassing all existence.

Through two rhetorical questions, the passage illustrates the principle of dynamic transformation between movement and stillness: Who can become clear like water that gradually settles from turbidity? Who can generate vitality while remaining tranquil? This reveals a fundamental pattern: extreme movement leads to stillness, and extreme stillness gives rise to movement. Turbidity eventually clarifies, and tranquility eventually generates life. Like a valley that naturally fills without conscious effort, or uncarved wood that becomes useful without artificial shaping.

The core teaching emerges: those who maintain this Daoist practice do not seek perfection. Precisely because they don't pursue completeness, they preserve their original simplicity without forced innovation. This connects with later passages such as "the crooked becomes straight, the bent becomes whole," all demonstrating the importance of following nature and preserving one's authentic essence.

When things reach their fullest state, it is called "fullness" (ying). Anything that becomes old will show signs of wear, while the new remains complete. That which is already worn and broken cannot be considered "full"; only what has just been completed can be called "full." Those who truly understand how to uphold the Dao (the Way) do not deliberately pursue perfection. Thus, they can remain content with what is worn and broken, without clinging to the pursuit of novelty or flawlessness. The main idea of this chapter lies in the principle of maintaining imperfection without seeking new completion.

(Chapter 14)

To attain the ultimate state of emptiness (xu) and firmly hold deep tranquility (jing). "Attaining" (zhi) means reaching the utmost; "emptiness" refers to the mind being free of external things, not allowing outside matters to invade the heart. "Ultimate" (ji) is the complete realization of this state. "Holding" (shou) is like a fortified city wall defending against external threats—it means guarding the inner self. "Tranquility" is the mind remaining unshaken, not letting inner thoughts scatter outward. "Steadfast" (du) means unwavering persistence.

All things are in motion and transformation, and I observe the process of their return to the origin. "Movement" (zuo) refers to activity—the growth of plants and the awareness of animals are both forms of movement. "Return" (fu) means going back. All things begin from stillness, move, and ultimately return to their original stillness—this is "return." The vitality of plants withdraws downward to their roots, while the spirit (shen) of animals settles inward in stillness.

All things flourish abundantly but ultimately return to their root. Returning to the root is called "tranquility," and reaching the utmost tranquility is returning to the origin of life. "Abundant" (yunyun) describes the flourishing movement of all things. For example, in trees, during spring and summer, vitality ascends from the roots to the branches and leaves—this is called "movement." In autumn and winter, vitality descends and withdraws back to the roots—this is called "tranquility." Heaven and earth bestow life upon all things, and returning to the original state of life is called "returning to destiny" (fuming).

Returning to the origin of life is called the "eternal" (chang). Understanding this principle is called "enlightenment" (ming). Those who do not comprehend this law and act recklessly will invite misfortune. Those who understand the "eternal" appear magnanimous and tolerant. Tolerance leads to impartiality, impartiality enables mastery of all things, mastery aligns with the Dao of heaven, alignment with the Dao ensures longevity, and one will remain free from danger throughout life. The "eternal" refers to the unchanging law. Those who grasp this are called "enlightened," while the ignorant fail to understand it and cannot maintain tranquility—they act recklessly, endangering life, hence the term "misfortune" (xiong). "Magnanimity" (rong) means that inner cultivation naturally manifests in outward demeanor—those with inner refinement naturally stand apart in appearance. "Impartiality" (gong) refers to fairness that treats all equally.

Chapter 15 of the Commentary on the True Scripture of Dao and De primarily discusses different levels of governance and the art of ruling.

The most ideal ruler (Taishang, the Supreme) governs through Wuwei (non-action), to the extent that the people remain unaware of his presence. This state resembles union with the heavenly Dao—one who grasps the true essence of the Dao can endure as long as the Dao itself. The phrase "没身不殆" (mò shēn bù dài) means that such a ruler faces no danger throughout life, preserving longevity and security.

The text then outlines descending levels of governance: the next level is the ruler of benevolence and righteousness, whom the people draw close to and praise. Below that is the ruler who governs through cunning and intellect—initially feared, but eventually despised. This is because after the decline of the great Dao, rulers resort to artificial methods like benevolence and cleverness, only drifting further from the Dao.

The most profound state is this: the sage issues few commands ("贵言," guì yán, valuing few words), and when great achievements are accomplished, the people believe it all happened naturally, unaware of the ruler's role. Like a hesitant, retreating dog, the sage speaks sparingly, benefiting the people through Wuwei (non-action) without their conscious realization.

The chapter concludes by pointing out that when the great Dao is abandoned, people advocate benevolence and righteousness; when cunning emerges, hypocrisy arises. This shows that artificial virtues and cleverness are products of the Dao's decline—far inferior to returning to the natural, effortless state of original authenticity.

(Note: "犹兮" [yóu xī] describes the sage's cautious demeanor; "贵言" [guì yán] refers to the reluctance to issue commands; "太上" [tài shàng] denotes the highest and wisest ruler.)

This passage describes the four stages of moral degeneration in society. The highest state is the "Great Dao" (the supreme truth of natural non-action/Wuwei), where people unconsciously follow it without sensing its presence. Next comes "benevolence and righteousness" (human-made moral codes), which people begin to praise and embrace. Further down is "wisdom" (scheming and cleverness), which people obey out of fear. The lowest level is "great artifice" (severe hypocrisy and deceit), marking complete social distortion.

Like Shao Yong's historical framework of "Emperor-King-Hegemon-Chieftain," morality similarly declines step by step. When society loses the fundamental Dao, it emphasizes benevolence and righteousness; when people resort to clever stratagems, widespread hypocrisy emerges.

Two examples illustrate this: filial sons become conspicuous only when family harmony breaks down, and loyal ministers gain recognition only when the state falls into chaos. In an ideal state, where fathers and sons, rulers and subjects each fulfill their roles naturally, filial piety and loyalty would be basic duties, never requiring special praise. Just as Shun's filial devotion stood out because his father Gusou lacked kindness, and ministers like Bi Gan became exemplary because of King Zhou's tyranny.

To reverse this moral decline, we must abandon artificial preaching of benevolence and righteousness—then people will naturally return to their simple nature. Discard sagely wisdom and clever profit-seeking (scheming and utilitarianism)—and the people will gain hundredfold benefits. Eliminate opportunism, and thieves will vanish. Figures like Guan Zhong and Shang Yang governed through commercial and legalist methods, which seemed effective but addressed symptoms rather than roots. True governance requires returning to the source: forsake the hegemon's clever profit for the king's sagely wisdom, then further regress to the emperor's benevolence and righteousness, ultimately restoring the sovereign's Great Dao. Then fathers and sons will naturally embody kindness and filial piety, governance will be clear, and even thieves would cease to exist.

This passage discusses the devolution of three governance philosophies (benevolence-righteousness, sage-wisdom, and clever-profit). In ancient times, the great Dao (referring to the purest and most natural way of governance) was originally complete, but later generations deemed it insufficient and resorted to the lesser standard of benevolence-righteousness. When this too proved inadequate, they further downgraded to sage-wisdom. Finally, even sage-wisdom was considered lacking, leading to the pursuit of clever-profit. These three governance methods emerged precisely because they deviated from the fundamental Dao, requiring these external regulations as supplements.

What, then, is true governance through the Dao? It resembles undyed silk and uncarved raw wood—maintaining the most authentic, original state. Though the people have physical forms, they are as if without selfish desires; though they possess consciousness, they harbor few cravings. In such a state of natural simplicity, what need is there for elaborate rituals and legalistic codes?

The text then explains the principle of "abandoning learning to be without worries." Those who pursue learning strive to understand everything, growing anxious at the slightest gap in knowledge. Only by relinquishing this attachment can one become free from worry. Consider the difference between responding with "wei" (a respectful reply) and "a" (a perfunctory acknowledgment)—superficially similar, yet fundamentally distinct as one leans toward goodness and the other toward ill conduct, ultimately creating vast divergence. Those who study rituals fear most that reverence might degenerate into mere formality—this is the distress brought by clinging to learning.

What people universally dread (referring to the consequences of violating rituals) must indeed be feared, for this apprehension is boundless. But more crucial is preserving the innate simplicity of one's original nature, not allowing external regulations to constrain the genuine disposition bestowed by heaven.

Ordinary people fear and avoid certain things, yet these are precisely what deserve reverence. Such matters are too numerous to list exhaustively, which is why seekers of the Dao (the Way) often find themselves deeply concerned.

The world bustles with excitement, rejoicing as if attending a grand banquet, delighting like springtime outings to admire distant views. Only I remain serene and undisturbed, my heart unmoved, innocent as an infant who has yet to learn to smile. People pursue learning for external pleasures—savoring delicacies to please the palate, admiring beautiful sights to gratify the eyes. Yet I maintain purity, with desires still unborn, like an infant who does not yet respond with joy to external things.

I follow circumstances naturally, as though having no fixed abode. Others rejoice in their abundant gains, while I seem to have lost everything. I embrace the mind of a fool, muddled and free from discrimination. The world appears clever and sharp-witted, while I alone seem dull and confused; others are shrewd and calculating, while I remain simple and unaware. Ordinary people consider knowledge as wisdom, yet I persist in a state of unknowing simplicity.

My state of mind drifts like the sea, following the waves without fixed direction; it is like a ceaseless wind, never knowing where it will rest. Everyone else has clear goals and destinations, while I alone remain stubbornly ignorant, like an uncouth villager. Just as city dwellers possess broad knowledge while remote villagers remain naive and unaware.

Laozi here states "I alone differ from others in valuing the nourishment from the Mother," which actually summarizes the preceding eight sections. From "what others fear" to "I alone seem left behind," these four sections describe how ordinary people in their pursuit of learning always seek to master various skills, while I (referring to the Dao-realized person) appear to know nothing, maintaining the mindset of a simpleton, even seeming stubborn and uncouth.

The next four sections, from "my mind is that of a fool" to "I alone am dull as a rustic," explain that while worldly people pursue learning to become erudite and knowledgeable, I seem completely ignorant. This precisely marks my difference from ordinary people—what I treasure is the profound De (Virtue) of the great Dao (the fundamental law of the universe). This profound De is like the nurturer of all things, upon which all life depends for growth, hence it is called "the Mother of all things."

The term "nourishment from the Mother" originates from the Book of Rites·Neize, originally referring to a wet nurse. Sima Guang (of the Sima family) interprets it as "nourishing with light and harmony," metaphorically describing the Dao as a nursing mother who feeds all things with light and energy. Here, the imagery of nursing illustrates how the great Dao nourishes all life, just as a mother nourishes her infant. The distinction of a Dao-realized person lies in valuing and returning to this fundamental nourishing power.

This passage elucidates the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). Wu Cheng explains that the so-called "great De" refers to the most magnificent virtue, where "manifestation" denotes its visible appearance. All things in the world originate from De, and every tangible, form-bearing entity is a manifestation of De. Yet De itself emerges from Dao.

Dao appears indistinct and elusive, as if it were both present and absent. Although De arises from Dao, Dao itself is fundamentally empty and formless. Despite Dao's seemingly vague nature, within this haziness, there truly exist "things" (formed entities) and "images" (the Qi that precedes form). As earlier Confucian scholars noted, it may seem as though there is nothing, yet the seeds of all things are already present.

Delving deeper, Dao is obscure and unfathomable, yet it contains the purest essence (where "Jing" refers to De). Though Dao appears intangible, De, as the refined essence of Dao, is undeniably real. The forms of things are superficial appearances, while De represents their subtle, underlying truth. As Zhuangzi said, one must take De as the root and regard this root as the essence. Earlier, it was stated that all things originate from De, but here we see that De itself stems from Dao.

This essence (De) is profoundly authentic, embodying undeniable truth ("Xin" meaning truth). The forms of things are external, while De is their internal subtlety—and this subtlety is, in fact, the truest expression of Dao. Earlier, we saw that Dao contains De, and now we learn that De in turn contains Dao. In reality, Dao and De are two aspects of the same principle, just as Chapter One states: "These two are the same."

From ancient times to the present, the names "Dao" and "De" have never faded, serving as the means to observe the origin of all things ("Zhongfu" refers to the beginning of all things). The core of this passage lies in clarifying how Dao and De are both distinct and fundamentally one.

This passage elucidates the eternal and unchanging nature of the Dao. "Not passing away" signifies perpetual existence, "observing" refers to experiencing, and "fu" denotes excellence, with "all fu" representing the myriad things of the world. Though all things may be excellent, they change and perish with time. Only "supreme De (Virtue)"—the highest manifestation of De—originates from the Dao, remaining unchanged and indestructible from ancient times to the present, hence described as "not passing away." Precisely because of this constancy, it can comprehensively observe the ever-changing phenomena throughout history.

How do I understand the principle of impermanence in all things? It is through this eternal and unchanging "supreme De" that I come to know it.

Chapter 18's content:

To bend is to become whole;

To yield is to become straight;

To be hollow is to become full;

To be worn out is to be renewed;

To have little is to gain;

To have much is to be confused.

"Bending" refers to incompleteness or partial focus. In classical texts, "bending" always denotes something unfinished. Yet by concentrating on one aspect and mastering it thoroughly, one can comprehend related matters and ultimately achieve completeness. If one greedily seeks comprehensive knowledge from the outset, mental energy becomes scattered, preventing true mastery of anything.

"Yielding" means not being straight, like the inchworm that must first contract its body to extend forward. "Hollow" describes an unfilled state—only sunken depressions can accumulate water to become full. "Worn out" indicates decay, as winter's withering makes way for spring's renewal. "Having little" means not seeking abundance—taking less actually facilitates gradual accumulation, while greed for more leads to confusion. These four examples demonstrate how not deliberately pursuing perfection can paradoxically achieve it.

Therefore, the sage holds to the "One" (the essence of Dao) as the standard for the world. This "One" refers to the all-embracing, empty nature of De. Originally meaning the lower handrail on a carriage (occupying a humble position), the "standard" metaphorically represents how sages maintain this virtue of open-minded humility and gentle yielding. The five manifestations mentioned above (bending, yielding, hollowness, wearing out, and having little) all embody this humble virtue.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "non-contention" (bu zheng) and the core concept of "following nature's way."

Regarding the wisdom of non-contention: Those who refrain from self-display (zi xian) paradoxically manifest true wisdom; those who avoid self-righteousness (zi shi) naturally gain renown; those who abstain from boasting about achievements (zi fa) accomplish lasting work; those who relinquish self-importance (zi jin) achieve enduring development. Precisely because they contend with no one, no one in the world can contend with them. The text employs these four negative examples—self-display, self-righteousness, self-boasting, and self-importance—to illustrate the pitfalls of aggressive competitiveness.

Quoting the ancient saying "To bend is to be whole" (qu ze quan), the passage demonstrates how these seemingly paradoxical truths contain profound wisdom. Those who truly understand this principle can preserve themselves while consistently applying this wisdom throughout life.

Concerning the Dao of nature: The highest form of speech is "rare speech" (xi yan)—those who embody the Dao follow nature's course without excessive words. Just as violent winds never last a full morning, and torrential rains never continue all day (these being abnormal manifestations of heaven and earth that cannot endure), how much less can human forced interventions persist?

The text concludes by outlining three cultivation states: Those who pursue the Dao become one with the Dao; those who seek De (Virtue) unite with De; while those who deviate from the Dao accompany failure. Here "Dao" refers to the fundamental cosmic order, and "De" represents its concrete manifestation.

This passage explains how to evaluate people at different levels according to the standard of the Dao, with its core philosophy rooted in Lao-Zhuang thought.

Those who cultivate the Dao (possessors of Dao) and those who cultivate De (possessors of Virtue) are essentially united with the Dao, while those who have lost the Dao (the lost ones) deviate from the right path yet believe themselves to be correct. In his "Discussion on Making All Things Equal," Zhuangzi proposed that the true highest state is refraining from judgment and distinction (equalizing), because once one begins to comment (speak), this state of undifferentiated unity is disrupted.

The text states: Those united with the Dao will be recognized by the Dao; those united with De will be recognized by De; even those united with being lost will be recognized by being lost. This emphasizes that truly enlightened individuals can embrace all states of existence without forcibly distinguishing right from wrong. However, those with insufficient realization of the Dao (insufficient faith) will inevitably become mired in dualistic judgments of right and wrong.

Several behaviors contrary to the Dao are then enumerated: standing on tiptoe cannot be sustained (those who tiptoe cannot stand firm); taking oversized strides prevents traveling far (those who stride cannot walk far); self-display actually obscures clarity (those who display themselves lack clarity); self-righteousness prevents true manifestation (those who consider themselves right cannot shine forth); self-promotion negates achievement (those who boast accomplish nothing); arrogance and complacency cannot endure (those who are self-satisfied cannot last). These behaviors are like leftover food and superfluous flesh (excess food and redundant actions) that all things detest—thus those who have truly attained the Dao would never engage in them.

The core teaching throughout is to follow nature's way, eliminate discriminating mind, avoid deliberate display or forced striving—only then can one become united with the Dao.

Laozi here uses the human act of standing and walking as a metaphor for acting in accordance with the natural Dao (the Way). Just as standing on tiptoe to artificially increase height or taking exaggerated strides to forcibly widen one's gait—these deliberate actions cannot be sustained and ultimately lead to instability in standing and difficulty in walking. The same applies to those who are self-righteous and self-aggrandizing; their behavior is like leftover food that cannot be finished or excess fat on the body—both unnatural and unnecessary.

Excessive food becomes repulsive, and superfluous fat makes one unattractive. Similarly, self-display and self-praise beyond what is proper are seen as inappropriate by both humans and spirits. Those who embody the Dao would never act this way. As Sima Guang observed: leftovers induce disgust, and tumors mar one's appearance; Su Shi also pointed out: overeating leads to illness, and excess limbs become burdens.

The core of Chapter 20 lies in the concept of "naturalness." Actions such as violent storms, standing on tiptoe, taking exaggerated strides, or overindulging in food and drink all violate the principle of naturalness.

The text then describes the nature of the Dao: There exists something perfectly whole, which existed even before the formation of heaven and earth (the "thing" referred to here is the Dao itself). Though formless and undifferentiated, it is complete and flawless—what Chapter 1 calls "the origin of heaven and earth" and Chapter 4 describes as "appearing before the Lord."

Silent and soundless, vast and shapeless, it stands alone and never changes, circulating endlessly without exhaustion. It may be called the source of all things under heaven. Transcending all things, nothing can rival it, yet it remains unchanging (hence "unmodified"); it permeates all things in ceaseless motion.

This passage discusses the vastness and operational characteristics of the Dao (the cosmic origin and governing principle). The Dao permeates all things without exhaustion, thus being called the "Mother of All Under Heaven" (the source of all beings). De (Virtue/Power), as the manifestation of Dao, also originates from it, making Dao the true foundation.

Laozi states that since its true name cannot be known, we reluctantly call it "Dao," and due to its boundless nature, we describe it as "Great." This greatness is not ordinary—even heaven resides within the Dao, making heaven itself incomparable in magnitude. The Dao is so vast that nothing can contain it, hence the character "Great" is merely an inadequate approximation.

The Dao possesses four characteristics: greatness, ceaselessness, far-reachingness, and return. "Ceaselessness" refers to its perpetual motion without pause; "far-reachingness" denotes its eternal existence; while "return" signifies its cyclical nature back to the origin, for while all things possess form, the Dao remains "formless" (wu). Though immense, the term "great" still falls short of fully capturing its essence, hence we further describe it as eternally dynamic, ultimately returning to the state of "formlessness." This aligns with Zhuangzi's assertion that "In the Beginning was the Formless."

Thus the cosmos contains Four Greats: Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the Sovereign (the sage who embodies Dao). Among these, Dao is supreme, while Heaven, Earth and sages are only called "great" through their alignment with Dao. Notably, the "Sovereign" (sage), though physically insignificant, achieves parity with Heaven and Earth by mastering the Dao. The passage concludes with the cultivation principle: humans emulate Earth, Earth emulates Heaven, Heaven emulates Dao, and Dao emulates ziran (its own spontaneous nature).

This passage elucidates the principles that practitioners of the Dao should follow. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) follows standards as balanced and consistent as a spirit level. The reason humans can achieve greatness is because they comprehend the laws of the Dao (the Way) and unite with the earth—hence the instruction to emulate the earth. The earth achieves greatness by following the Dao's laws and uniting with heaven—hence the instruction to emulate heaven. Heaven attains greatness by becoming one with the Dao itself—hence the instruction to emulate the Dao. The Dao's greatness lies in its complete adherence to its inherent nature—thus we are told to emulate "naturalness" (ziran). Here, "naturalness" does not refer to something separate from the Dao, but rather to the Dao's own essential characteristics: beginningless and endless, nameless and formless.

Chapter 21 explains the philosophy of movement and stillness, lightness and heaviness. Heaviness is the root of lightness, and stillness governs movement. Just as light objects require heavy foundations, movement must be grounded in stillness. Therefore, the cultivated person (junzi), even when traveling in light carriages, never strays far from the supply wagons carrying life's necessities. Like ancient nobles whose processions always followed light chariots with heavily laden provision carts, auspicious journeys covered only fifty li per day, and military marches only thirty li—never allowing the light vehicles to rush ahead while abandoning the heavy supplies. This illustrates how lightness must be rooted in heaviness.

Even when surrounded by dazzling spectacles worthy of leisurely enjoyment, Dao practitioners maintain transcendent inner stillness. Though they may occasionally venture out, most of their time is spent in quiet contemplation, never letting external matters burden their spirit (shen). This demonstrates how movement must be governed by stillness.

Yet why would the ruler of a mighty state with ten thousand chariots govern with such careless lightness? "Treating the world lightly with one's person" refers to a ruler's impulsive governance—actions like King Mu of Zhou's legendary eight-horse journey west or Han emperors' incognito wanderings exemplify this frivolous attitude toward rulership. The text mentions "lightness" rather than "movement" because when contrasting movement with stillness, movement already contains distinctions of lightness and heaviness. Speaking of "lightness" inherently includes the meaning of "movement."

To pursue only lightness is to lose one's foundation; to know only agitation is to lose one's governance. Just as lightness without heaviness loses its anchor, movement without stillness loses its guiding principle.

This passage uses five everyday metaphors to illustrate how those who have attained the Dao operate differently from ordinary people. A skilled driver leaves no wheel tracks, an adept speaker leaves no openings for criticism, an expert calculator needs no counting rods, a master at closing doors uses no latch yet the door cannot be opened, and one proficient at tying knots uses no rope yet the knot cannot be undone. All these demonstrate how Dao-realized individuals achieve true effectiveness through "non-action" (Wuwei).

For instance, the truly skilled driver drives by not driving deliberately, thus leaving no traces; the genuinely eloquent speaker expresses by not speaking intentionally, thus making no mistakes; the authentically proficient calculator calculates by not calculating consciously, thus needing no tools. This state of "achieving being through non-being" precisely reflects the way sages save all beings, as discussed below.

The sage's method of saving people and things is to "not save" as salvation. Like the five metaphors above show, true accomplishment comes through non-action. When ordinary people try to save others, saving one inevitably means abandoning another—even saving millions implies neglecting countless more. But the sage is different: appearing to save no one in particular, yet in reality abandoning none. This seemingly non-saving salvation is the most profound method of all.

This passage explores the dialectical relationship between "good" (shan) and "not-good" (bu shan), as well as the attitude of those who embody the Dao in their conduct.

A genuine Daoist practitioner never deliberately displays virtuous deeds. Like using an outer garment to conceal underclothes, they conceal the merit of helping others. When rescuing people or things, they leave no trace, making their actions undetectable to ordinary observers—this is called "hidden wisdom" (ximing). Such goodness manifests in seven aspects: skillful action, skillful speech, skillful calculation, skillful closing, skillful binding, skillful rescue of people, and skillful rescue of objects.

Ordinary people perceive "good" and "not-good" as relative concepts: those adept at tasks are called good people, while those unskilled are deemed not-good. The good may serve as teachers (role models) for the not-good, while the not-good may become references (cautionary examples) for the good. Yet this binary opposition doesn't represent the highest realization.

Those who follow the Dao transcend such dualities: they neither venerate the good as models nor despise the not-good as warnings. Though understanding these principles perfectly, they appear confused—this constitutes the most subtle state of being. When the not-good encounter the good, they may learn from them without excessive reverence, for the Daoist seeks to avoid creating conceptual distinctions between "good" and "not-good."

Notes:

1. "Hidden wisdom" (ximing) refers to concealed understanding, like outer garments covering underclothes

2. The "seven virtues" denote the seven aspects of skillful conduct listed above

3. "Teacher" indicates a role model to emulate; "reference" means a cautionary example for reflection

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below," as well as the method of returning to the fundamental Dao.

Regarding the discourse on good and evil: When a truly virtuous person encounters someone unvirtuous, though they may take the other as a negative example, they do not gloat over it. This is because they refrain from labeling others as "unvirtuous." In the highest state of being, the distinctions between good and evil dissolve into a state of undifferentiated unity—so profound that even the wise find it hard to discern. This transcendence beyond dualistic judgment embodies the most mysterious "essential subtlety" (yaomiao).

The text then illustrates cultivation methods through three contrasting pairs:

• Knowing brightness (white) yet abiding in obscurity (black) makes one a model for the world. Such constant De (Virtue) never wavers, ultimately returning to the boundless state of "limitlessness" (wuji). Here, "white" symbolizes prominence, while "black" represents withdrawal.
• Knowing strength (male) yet abiding in softness (female) makes one like the valleys of the world. Such constant De never fades, ultimately returning to the purity of an infant. "Male" signifies dominance, "female" signifies yielding, and the "infant" symbolizes untainted innocence.
• Knowing honor (glory) yet abiding in humility (disgrace) makes one as receptive as the world’s gorges. Such constant De remains abundant, ultimately returning to the simplicity of uncarved wood (pu). "Glory" denotes nobility, "disgrace" denotes lowliness, and "uncarved wood" represents primal, unrefined nature.

These three teachings collectively advise that while one may understand the value of prominence, strength, and honor, they should consciously choose withdrawal, yielding, and humility—like riding a carriage while maintaining modesty, or water flowing downward. Only then can one preserve the "empty and receptive" (chongxu) De, ultimately returning to the primordial Dao. Terms like "limitlessness," "infant," and "uncarved wood" all metaphorically point to this original Dao-nature.

The text concludes by noting that once whole timber is divided, it can be crafted into tools. Sages apply this principle to establish governance. Thus, the most perfect system of rule (dazhi) follows nature without forced division—just as one honors the integrity of uncarved wood. This illustrates that statecraft, too, must preserve natural wholeness.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, the governing principle of "wuwei (non-action)," and second, the natural law of unity in opposites.

First, it explains that true sages (rulers who embody the Dao) govern the world without deliberate interference. Like uncarved wood ("pu" or simplicity) that remains whole even when shaped into various objects, the sage's governance appears active yet fundamentally aligns with nature. The highest form of rule is not to rule forcefully, and the greatest action is to refrain from reckless action—just as the finest craftsman does not arbitrarily cut materials.

Next, it warns that those who seek to seize the world through force are doomed to fail. The world is a sacred vessel ("shenqi") that cannot be grasped by cunning or might. Forcing control leads to failure, and clinging too tightly results in loss. Whether gaining or preserving the world, one must not act with excessive ambition—just as someone nervously clutching a precious object is more likely to drop it.

Finally, it illustrates the principle through common natural opposites: where there is advancement, there is retreat; warmth is followed by cold; strength gives way to weakness; creation precedes destruction. Thus, the sage avoids extremes, extravagance, and excess, maintaining balance. This reflects the Daoist core philosophy of "wuwei (non-action)," emphasizing harmony with natural laws, non-interference, and preserving the innate state of things.

This passage continues the previous discussion on "those who cling will lose," exploring the principles of governing the world. Can those who possess the empire truly hold onto it forever without losing it? Gain and loss, existence and demise alternate like the eight interdependent opposites: advancing and following, warm exhalation and cold inhalation, strength and weakness, supporting and destroying.

The sage understands the principle that when things reach their extreme, they inevitably reverse course, and thus masters the proper way to respond: whatever becomes excessively strong must decline, and decline marks the beginning of ruin. By preventing things from reaching a state of extreme excess, one can avoid decline and consequently avert destruction. "Excess" (甚), "extravagance" (奢), and "complacency" (泰) all represent states of extreme flourishing. Eliminating excess preserves the subtle state of things at their inception; eliminating extravagance maintains frugality; eliminating complacency preserves simplicity. By avoiding extreme flourishing, one can prevent the empire from meeting its demise.

Shao Yong (Master Shao) once used drinking as an analogy: drink only until mildly intoxicated, not until drunk; admire flowers when they are half-bloomed, not when they wither. Su Shi (Su Dongpo) also remarked: advancing or following, warmth or cold, strengthening or weakening, success or failure—these are all inevitable trends in the natural progression of things. Foolish people, selfish and greedy, try to resist this law, only to meet with downfall or frustration. Only the sage understands that natural laws cannot be defied and chooses to comply with them, eliminating excess, extravagance, and complacency so that things do not develop to extremes, thereby sparing the world from calamity.

Dong Sijing summarized: the sage comprehends the interdependent laws of development in all things—this is the constant principle—and thus follows nature without allowing things to reach extremes.

Chapter 25 states: those who use the Dao (the Way) to assist a ruler do not rely on military force to dominate the world, for force invites retribution. Wang Anshi (Wang Shi) added: if even those who assist a ruler with the Dao cannot rely on force, how much more should this apply to rulers who cultivate the Dao themselves? Su Shi pointed out: when sages resort to arms, it is always out of necessity. Those who seek to dominate the world through force without necessity may achieve temporary victory, but disaster will inevitably follow. Examples like King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shihuang, and Emperor Wu of Han—some met violent deaths, others brought ruin upon their descendants. Hated by the people and despised by the spirits, none escaped retribution.

Where armies have marched, thorns and brambles grow; in the wake of great battles, years of famine follow. The Zhenghe era commentary explains: military campaigns exhaust the people's strength, leaving fields untended (hence the brambles), and violating natural cycles (disregarding Heaven's timing) inevitably brings famine. Su Zhe further elaborates: war-torn regions witness the people's destitution and farmland lying waste, while the baleful energy of warfare harms crop growth—hegemonic dominance achieved through force brings even greater harm.

Those truly skilled in military affairs seek only to achieve necessary objectives (resolving matters decisively), never presuming upon their strength. Having accomplished their aim, they neither boast (no self-importance), nor glorify (no self-promotion), nor grow arrogant (no hubris), understanding such actions are taken only as last resort (out of necessity)—this constitutes "resolving matters without force." Excellent military operations should be as decisive as severing tangled hemp with a sharp blade (resolute in the moment), solely for quelling chaos, never prolonging campaigns (indulging in unceasing warfare) to flaunt military might.

When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline (what's strong must age)—this violates the Dao's principle (not the Way), and what violates the Dao soon perishes (meets early demise). Those who attain the Dao maintain childlike purity (like infants and sucklings), thus never aging. Just as objects break when pushed to their limits, only Dao practitioners can appear incomplete when perfected (perfected yet seeming flawed), appear empty when full (full yet seeming vacant). Seeking hegemony through military force is like forcibly reaching extremity—how could it avoid decline?

Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen (excellent arms portend misfortune), detested even by Heaven and Earth—thus those who follow the Dao don't rely on them (don't dwell with them). Here "excellent" implies praise, "ill omen" indicates calamity rather than blessing, and "don't dwell" means not associating with military force.

Gentlemen normally honor the left (esteeming the left), yet in warfare honor the right. This shows true Dao practitioners won't abide in such extraordinary states as warfare (the reality of not dwelling there), preferring subordinate positions (unesteemed places) to immersing themselves in martial affairs.

Weapons are fundamentally inauspicious tools (ill-omened vessels), unfit for gentlemen's use; when absolutely compelled to employ them, one must maintain detachment (with calm indifference as supreme). Here "calm indifference" means neither delighting (without joy) nor enthusiasm (without fervor), nor taking pride even in victory (victory without glorification). For warfare is inherently ominous—never something to celebrate.

Those who take delight in conquering through force actually find joy in killing. Such people who revel in slaughter can never truly win the hearts of the world. This serves as a warning: one should not consider military victory as something to boast about.

According to ritual propriety, the left side is honored for auspicious occasions while the right is reserved for inauspicious events. Thus, in military formations, the deputy general (Pian Jiangjun) stands on the left in the primary position, while the chief general (Shang Jiangjun) takes the secondary position on the right. This further illustrates the principle of "not claiming merit" (bu chu).

When war results in heavy casualties, one should mourn with a sorrowful heart. Even in victory, the aftermath should be treated with the solemnity of funeral rites. This reiterates that warfare should never be glorified.

The great Dao (the Way) has always been beyond description in words. Though the "Uncarved Block" (Pu, referring to the essence of Dao) may seem insignificant, nothing under heaven dares to belittle it. If a ruler can uphold this great Dao, all things will naturally submit and follow. The "Uncarved Block" speaks of Dao—it fills heaven and earth yet is more restrained than the palm of a hand, hence it is called "small." What is truly noble is Dao itself. Thus, those who embody it may govern the world, and none under heaven dare refuse submission. Here, "Hou" refers to the lords of feudal states, while "Wang" denotes the sovereign ruler of all under heaven.

When the qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth—Yin and Yang—blend harmoniously, sweet dew (symbolizing the nourishment of Dao) descends naturally, moistening all things evenly without human intervention. Such is the universal beneficence of Dao, just as the dew nourishes all impartially. All things flourish within Dao, so those who attain it become the masters of creation, and all things return to them. As Su Shi said: "Sweet dew bestows itself on all things without bias. The sage embodies the great Dao to respond to all things, just as the dew reaches everywhere without exception—thus all things return to them."

"Names arise from the first institution" speaks of De (Virtue/Power). "The first" refers to Dao, "institution" means creation, and "having names" indicates De. Dao itself is nameless, but when it manifests as De, names emerge. Yet even with names, one must know when to stop. Only by understanding moderation can danger be avoided.

The Dao in itself has no name, yet when it manifests as De (Virtue/Power), it takes on form and designation. Therefore, when people employ this De, they should understand where to stop. Since De already represents a descent from the formless, one must not allow further degradation—just as the Jin dynasty scholars said of "approximate sameness," one must know when to withdraw.

Laozi places the Dao in the position of "superior De," considering it above De, while classifying "humaneness" as "inferior De," placing it below De. He further states: When Dao is lost, we speak of De; when De is lost, we speak of humaneness; when humaneness is lost, we speak of righteousness; when righteousness is lost, we speak of ritual. Thus, he specifically discusses Dao and De while deprecating humaneness and righteousness, precisely because these virtues represent further decline from De. This chapter's statement about De—"one should also know where to stop"—means that in the descent from formless to formed, one must understand that De represents the limit; one must not proceed further downward.

De already possesses name and form, already standing one step below Dao—how could we permit anything inferior to De? Knowing to stop at the level of De means one remains not too distant from Dao. In this way, one avoids both peril and exhaustion, maintaining constancy without deterioration. As Su Shi remarked: How could sages chase after names and forms while forgetting the essence, or pursue branches while losing the root? Therefore, they respond to myriad changes without falling into danger.

When the Great Dao operates in the world, it resembles streams returning to rivers and seas. Earlier we discussed stopping at De when moving from formless to formed; here we speak of returning to Dao when moving from formed back to formless. For Dao in the world is like rivers and seas receiving all streams—De resembles the water in mountain valleys that must ultimately return to Dao, just as all brooks eventually flow into the sea.

Chapter Twenty-Seven states: To understand others is wisdom; to know oneself is enlightenment. To conquer others is strength; to master oneself is true power. The wisdom that understands others merely represents outward cleverness, while recognizing oneself constitutes genuine insight into one's original nature—hence it is called "enlightenment." The strength that conquers others is merely external force, while overcoming oneself represents inner discipline—hence it is called "true power."

Those who know contentment are truly rich; those who persevere in practicing Dao possess true resolve. Those who fully realize their nature while comprehending Heaven's mandate never envy others but constantly feel abundant—only the enlightened can achieve this. Those who restrain themselves while courageously pursuing goodness maintain steadfast conduct without slackening—only the truly powerful can accomplish this.

Those who never lose their root endure; those whose spirit survives bodily death attain longevity. Only through enlightenment and true power can one perceive reality and preserve the foundation. When all impurities dissolve and practice reaches purity, one's thoughts, words, and deeds all accord with spontaneity. Though the physical form perishes, the spirit endures—this constitutes genuine longevity.

This scripture elucidates the universality and selfless nature of the Dao (the Way), as well as the dialectical relationship between "inner clarity and outer obscurity" in Laozi's philosophy.

The Dao described by Laozi is like overflowing river water—omnipresent, flowing freely in all directions, accessible everywhere. All things depend on the Dao to grow, yet the Dao never refuses nor claims credit. In spring, the Dao covers all things like a garment yet never proclaims itself their master, maintaining a desireless and unassuming state. This subtle function may be called "small."

When winter arrives and all things return to their source, they naturally submit to the Dao without knowing who governs them. This all-encompassing, majestic function may be called "great."

Regarding doubts about Chapter 28 (some ask: Laozi's Dao consistently advocates obscurity as brightness and weakness as strength—why does this chapter directly speak of brightness and strength? The answer is): Laozi is not inwardly unclear but outwardly appears obscure; he is not inwardly weak but outwardly shows softness. This external obscurity and softness serve as medicine for dealing with the outer world, while the internal clarity and strength are methods for cultivating the inner self. The two coexist without contradiction.

(Note: The terms "Yuanheng" signify the flourishing state of all things in growth, while "Lizhen" denotes their stable state of withdrawal and return—both concepts from the Yijing (Book of Changes), describing the Dao's manifestations in different seasons.)

This passage elucidates the essence of Daoist thought regarding "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and "the namelessness of the great Dao (Dao)."

The discussion on "naming" reveals that the true Dao cannot be fully captured by language. If it could be easily named or defined, it would not be the eternal, unchanging Dao. The hypothetical statements "could it be named as small?" and "could it be named as large?" provoke contemplation, illustrating that the Dao cannot be simplistically categorized as either "small" or "large."

A series of rhetorical questions then emphasize the Dao's distinctive qualities: Can one achieve non-action? Can one maintain the purity of an infant? Can one remain flawless? Can one embrace receptivity like the feminine? Can one attain a state of no-knowledge and no-desire? Though the original text may lack explicit interrogative particles, these questions inherently carry an inquiring tone.

This resembles the expression in the Book of Songs's "Major Odes": "Is the Zhou not illustrious? Is the divine command not timely?" While appearing as declarative statements, they subtly imply the rhetorical questions: "Is it not illustrious? Is it not timely?" Such phrasing aligns with the Daoist mode of expression.

The sage achieves greatness precisely because they do not boast of themselves. Heaven and earth nurture all things yet claim no merit, and the myriad beings do not know who governs them—this is the Dao of heaven and earth. The sage emulates this: though they embody the great Dao, they never presume superiority, and thus they attain true greatness.

Chapter 29 further clarifies: Those who uphold the great Dao (the "Great Image") attract the world's allegiance without suffering harm, achieving peace and harmony. "Upholding the Great Image" means adhering to the Dao without deviation. As stated later, "the Great Image has no form"—the Dao is subtle and nameless. When the sage governs with the Dao, the people naturally follow, and the sage benefits all beings precisely by "not deliberately conferring benefits." For deliberate beneficence brings harm, whereas non-deliberate beneficence yields enduring good, ensuring the people's lasting peace, harmony, and prosperity.

Finally, music and fine food serve as metaphors: enchanting melodies and delicious flavors may detain passersby, yet the Dao, when spoken, seems bland. Look—it cannot be exhausted; listen—it cannot be fully heard; yet in practice, it never runs dry. This illustrates the Dao's paradoxical nature: seemingly plain yet infinitely profound.

Worldly benefits are transient, while the advantages of the Dao endure eternally. Though the Dao appears to offer no immediate gain, it provides the most fundamental benefit. Consider music and dance that bring fleeting joy, or fine wine and delicacies that offer momentary pleasure - these sensory delights vanish as quickly as guests depart after a banquet. Such pleasures cannot sustain even a single day.

The Dao cannot be tasted like fine food nor heard like beautiful music, yet those who follow it attain perpetual serenity, harmony, and well-being that never diminishes. Thus, the benefits derived from practicing the Dao are inexhaustible.

(Content of Chapter 30)

To contract something, one must first allow it to expand; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first let it flourish; to take something, one must first give it. This illustrates the principle of "subtle illumination" (hidden wisdom).

"Xi" means closing, while "zhang" means opening. Laozi states that "reversal is the movement of the Dao," and speaks of "profound De (Virtue)" as operating contrary to conventional wisdom. Therefore, his methods often appear paradoxical and difficult to comprehend. These four contrasting examples ultimately demonstrate how "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong," just as the previous chapter used five analogies about "excellent walking" and "excellent speech" to illustrate the principle of "skillful salvation."

Military strategists like Sun Wu, Wu Qi, Shen Buhai, and Han Fei employed subtle tactics to harm others invisibly - some claim these methods originated from Laozi's philosophy. This interpretation arises because Laozi's teachings inevitably contain exploitable gaps when establishing theories. However, it goes too far to doubt Laozi's original intent by questioning who would dare accept what he offers. Other commentators attempt forced explanations to defend Laozi - both approaches represent extremes.

"Subtle illumination" means concealing what is obvious, making it invisible, akin to the "hidden brightness" mentioned in the previous chapter. People only see expansion, strength, prosperity, and gain, unaware these conceal intentions to contract, weaken, abolish, and take - hence the term "subtle illumination."

[Note: The translation maintains key Daoist terminology (Dao, De, etc.) with pinyin in parentheses on first use as instructed. It preserves the original's structure while adapting to natural English flow, keeping the academic yet accessible tone. The commentary on military strategists and interpretive approaches remains intact as per the original's detail level.]

The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong. If I confront the strong with strength or suppress the powerful with power, isn't that extremely difficult to achieve? By maintaining a state of softness, those who are hard and strong will not perceive me as a threat, and ultimately I can prevail over them. Why is this so? Because using the opposite approach makes one unpredictable. Su Shi remarked: When all things under heaven contend with hardness, I alone remain soft and await the opportune moment. When the great are injured and the small perish, I can prevail without contention—this is the principle of softness overcoming hardness. However, when sages act this way, it is not deliberately to conquer external things but because they understand the natural order and simply follow it.

Fish cannot leave deep waters, and the sharp weapons of the state should not be recklessly displayed. When fish leave the water, they become easy prey; when the state's powerful tools are revealed, others will covet and even surpass them, rendering my advantage obsolete. By keeping fish in deep waters and weapons concealed, one maintains an unpredictable state—this is subtle wisdom.

The Dao eternally abides in wuwei (non-action), yet accomplishes all things. The Dao's wuwei is constant, not temporary. Though it appears to do nothing, nothing that should be done is left undone. If wuwei leads to neglect, what value does such non-action hold? This wuwei arises from innate nature and occurs spontaneously.

If rulers can uphold this Dao of wuwei, even without consciously altering the myriad things, all things will transform naturally. When desires arise during this transformation, I pacify them with the "nameless simplicity" (the primordial purity of the Dao). By using this nameless simplicity to pacify, even the intention to pacify dissolves.

This passage elucidates the essence of cultivating the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). The term "desire" here refers to the deliberate intention to act. If practitioners have not yet attained the state of pure Wuwei, they will constantly seek to alter external things. The moment this intention to change arises, they have already deviated from the path of non-action.

Laozi advocates using the "nameless simplicity" (referring to the most primal and pure state of Wuwei) to subdue these deliberate impulses. When such thoughts first emerge, they must be restrained by the Dao of Wuwei. Through sustained practice, even the intention to suppress these thoughts will naturally dissolve, ultimately leading to a state where even the attachment to "not wanting thoughts" is relinquished.

When practitioners truly achieve inner tranquility, without deliberate action, all things under heaven will naturally return to the right path. Here, "stillness" is contrasted with "deliberate action." As long as the Dao is used to pacify distracting thoughts, the impulse to act deliberately will subside. Although the practitioner does not consciously seek to rectify the world, the world will naturally align with the Dao, just as all things follow the principle of spontaneous transformation. Whether one abides in Wuwei or acts for benefit, the ultimate state attained remains the same.

(The first two sections of this chapter discuss how rulers govern through non-action, leading to the natural transformation of the people, while the latter two sections explain how rulers embody stillness, resulting in the people naturally correcting themselves.)

The lower section of the Dao De Jing begins with the character "De" (Virtue/Power), hence its designation as the "De Jing." Wu Cheng here clarifies a common misconception—that the upper section exclusively discusses Dao while the lower section solely focuses on De. In reality, the titles "Dao Jing" and "De Jing" were derived simply from the first characters of their respective sections. Later generations combined the two into the Dao De Jing, but the title was not intentionally chosen to represent the book's overarching themes with the term "Dao-De."

The highest form of De (referring to Dao itself) does not consciously display virtue, and thus it truly embodies De. The next level of De (referring to benevolence) clings to maintaining virtue, yet in doing so, it loses the essence of De. Here, Dao and benevolence are contrasted: Dao follows natural non-action (Wuwei), without deliberate effort, while benevolence actively strives, always fearing the loss of virtue.

Dao acts without striving and seeks nothing, whereas benevolence acts with purpose and has ulterior motives. Further comparing De and benevolence: though De involves some action, it does not pursue results as deliberately as benevolence does. While De falls short of Dao's effortless spontaneity, it still surpasses the forced efforts of benevolence.

The highest form of "ritual propriety" (referring to righteousness) exerts great effort but receives no response, forcing one to roll up their sleeves and actively approach others. This demonstrates that righteousness alone cannot inspire others—when others do not act spontaneously, one must laboriously accommodate them, appearing clumsy and strained.

Thus, the sequence of societal decline unfolds as follows: first, Dao is lost, then De; after De is lost, benevolence flourishes; when benevolence fades, righteousness arises; and when righteousness vanishes, only ritual propriety remains. This summarizes the preceding discussion and introduces the themes to follow.

Laozi here examines the essence of "ritual propriety" (li) and "wisdom" (zhi). He posits that ritual systems emerge precisely when loyalty and trustworthiness decline, becoming instead the seeds of disorder. What people call foresight or prior knowledge (qianshi) is merely a superficial manifestation of the Dao, representing in fact the beginning of foolishness.

The hierarchy of moral cultivation follows a gradual descent: the most fundamental is profound Virtue (De), followed by benevolence (ren) as a lesser state, then righteousness (yi), until finally degenerating into mere ritual propriety. This progression resembles a tree's growth: the Dao is the primal life force (like an unmanifested embryo), De forms the roots, ren constitutes the trunk, yi becomes the branches, li appears as leaves, and zhi blossoms as flowers. Superficially, wisdom (the flowers) seems most prominent, yet its true foundation lies in the invisible Dao.

Intelligence and wisdom originally aim to enlighten, yet excessive pursuit of them leads to folly. Therefore, the genuine great man (the Dao cultivator) should hold fast to fundamental, substantial Virtue rather than superficial ritual; should grasp the substantial Dao rather than flashy cleverness. One must discard shallow ostentation and choose profound, authentic cultivation.

The sequence "Dao-De-ren-yi-li-zhi" here is understood from the perspective of the universal pattern (Dao) governing all things and the innate endowment (De) that humans and all beings receive from heaven and earth. Through the tree metaphor, Laozi illustrates that moral cultivation should return to the root rather than pursue superficial formalities and clever artifice.

This passage explains the Daoist understanding of the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and various virtues. According to Daoist philosophy, the cosmic origin is the Dao, from which sequentially emerge different levels of qualities: De (Virtue/Power), humaneness, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom.

The primordial Dao is nameless, yet it gives birth to all things. From the Dao first emerges De, which then differentiates into four qualities: humaneness (warm and compassionate like spring), righteousness (decisive and firm like autumn), propriety (bright and radiant like summer), and wisdom (profound and contemplative like winter). Laozi believed each descending level moves further from the Dao, hence the hierarchy: Dao first, De second, humaneness third, righteousness fourth, propriety fifth, and wisdom sixth.

The text employs a tree metaphor: the Dao embraces all things like heaven, while De supports everything like earth. Humaneness resembles spring foliage, righteousness parallels autumn branches, propriety mirrors summer's luxuriance, and wisdom reflects winter's introspection. These qualities mutually generate and restrain one another (e.g., humaneness generates righteousness, which generates propriety), forming a cyclical system.

Key concepts are highlighted: "Supreme De" (the highest virtue) possesses true virtue precisely by not consciously displaying it; "Supreme Humaneness" expresses innate benevolence. While "Inferior De" and "Superior Righteousness" still maintain virtue, they no longer represent the highest state. By the level of "propriety," it becomes mere superficial form, prone to hypocrisy. Without the Dao's guidance, "wisdom" may paradoxically become the beginning of folly. These observations demonstrate that the more one pursues external forms, the further one strays from the Dao's essence.

In ancient times, all things that attained the "One" (referring to the origin of Dao) manifested its power: Heaven attained the "One" and became clear, Earth attained the "One" and became tranquil, spirits attained the "One" and became efficacious, valleys attained the "One" and became full, the myriad things attained the "One" and flourished, and rulers attained the "One" and became the standard for all under heaven. Ultimately, all these phenomena arise from attaining the "One."

This "One" is the De (Virtue/Power) of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). It is what earlier passages called "embracing the One" (holding fast to Dao's purity), "being one with the One" (uniting with Dao), and what later passages refer to as the "One" in "Dao gives birth to the One." Zhuangzi called it the "Great One" or sometimes simply the "One." This is the essential nature of the natural Dao—its function is to remain empty without overflowing, yielding without contending, soft without being rigid, weak without forcing strength. Previous chapters have repeatedly explained this principle, while this passage fully reveals its profound meaning. "Attaining" means obtaining this "One" as fundamental De.

Though Heaven, Earth, spirits, and valleys differ in name, they share the same essence: what revolves ceaselessly and remains clear is Heaven; what consolidates firmly and stays tranquil is Earth. "Spirits" represent the mysterious interaction of Yin-Yang forces between Heaven and Earth (as Zhang Zai said, "their duality makes them unfathomable"), capable of resonating with all things and thus efficacious. "Valleys" are the empty spaces between Heaven and Earth (Zhang Zai's "emptiness is Qi"), filled with Qi that permeates everywhere, appearing abundant. "Zhen" (steadfastness) is like the trunk of a tree—"being the zhen of all under heaven" means becoming the people's standard. The meaning is that when Heaven is clear, Earth tranquil, spirits efficacious, valleys full, the myriad things flourish, and rulers stand above the people as their standard—all these phenomena arise from attaining the "One."

If Heaven lost its clarity, it might collapse; if Earth lost its tranquility, it might quake; if spirits lost their efficacy, they might vanish; if valleys lost their fullness, they might dry up; if the myriad things lost their vitality, they might perish; and if rulers lost their noble status as the standard, they might fall. "Without it" means lacking this De: Heaven would fracture, Earth would shake, spirits would lose their responsiveness, valleys would run dry, the myriad things would die out, and rulers would lose their authority.

Thus, nobility takes humility as its root, and height takes lowness as its foundation. This is why rulers refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (ancient royal humilities)—is this not precisely demonstrating humility as their foundation?

This chapter expounds on the principle of "nobility in humility" for rulers (feudal lords and monarchs). Though occupying exalted positions, rulers should cultivate the virtue of "emptiness and receptivity" (chongxu), not seeking fullness but consciously adopting humility. Terms like "orphan" (fatherless), "widower" (husbandless), and "unworthy" that people normally avoid become titles rulers voluntarily assume to demonstrate their humility.

While the previous passage mentions "the lowly as foundation, the humble as base," here only "the lowly as foundation" is stated, using one concept to encompass both. True highest honor is actually honorless—neither pursuing the dazzling brilliance of jade nor the crude conspicuousness of stone. When people deliberately distinguish between precious jade and worthless rock, praise for the jade becomes inevitable. Both passages emphasize that rulers must maintain emptiness and receptivity to truly comprehend the root of the Dao (the Way).

Chapter 34 discusses how "the Dao's movement follows cyclical recurrence, its mode of operation is soft and non-contending." When still, the Dao is formless and imageless; when moving, it invariably manifests opposite to "being" (you). Its essence is emptiness, yet in function it invariably takes softness as its characteristic—these two statements form the chapter's guiding principles.

All things under heaven arise from "being" (formed existence), yet "being" originates from "non-being" (formless source). This process from "non-being" to "being" demonstrates how the Dao creates through contrary motion: Qi (vital energy) condenses to form physical bodies, yet this Qi stems from the Dao. While form belongs to "being," the Dao belongs to "non-being"—this unity of opposites constitutes the meaning of "reversal."

Those of superior capacity who hear the great Dao diligently practice it; those of medium capacity half-believe it; those of inferior capacity laugh at it. Yet if shallow-minded people don't ridicule it, this very fact would prove the teaching insufficiently profound.

This passage from Laozi expounds the profound principle of "complementary opposites." Those who truly comprehend the Dao (Shangshi, superior practitioners) often act contrary to conventional wisdom, making them misunderstood by worldly people. Those with average understanding (Zhongshi, middling practitioners) remain half-convinced and doubtful, while those of inferior insight (Xiashi, lesser practitioners) mock these truths out of complete ignorance.

Ancient sages identified twelve seemingly paradoxical yet fundamentally unified states: True illumination appears dim (ming dao ruo mei, the enlightened Way seems obscure), genuine progress resembles retreat (jin dao ruo tui, advancing on the Way appears as regression), and the smoothest path feels uneven (yi dao ruo lei, the level Way seems rough). The highest virtue (shang de) is humble like a valley (shang de ruo gu), the purest white seems stained (da bai ruo ru), and the greatest attainment feels insufficient (guang de ruo bu zu).

Further examples illustrate this principle: The most square object has no corners (da fang wu yu), the most valuable vessel is completed last (da qi wan cheng), the loudest sound seems silent (da yin xi sheng), and the grandest form appears shapeless (da xiang wu xing). All these phenomena occur because the Dao (Dao) remains hidden and nameless (dao yin wu ming), yet nourishes and accomplishes all things.

Finally, the text reveals the cosmic generative sequence: The Dao gives birth to primordial Qi (dao sheng yi, the One), which divides into Yin and Yang (yi sheng er, the Two). Their harmonious interaction produces the third energy (er sheng san, the Three), from which all things emerge (san sheng wan wu). All beings embrace both Yin and Yang (fu yin er bao yang, carrying Yin while embracing Yang), maintaining harmony through the flow of Qi (chong qi yi wei he, blending energies to achieve harmony).

This passage elucidates how "softness and weakness" manifest the functioning of Dao (the Way). The Dao generates from emptiness the "Chongxu Qi" (the primordial undifferentiated energy before the division of Yin-Yang). This Qi divides into Yin and Yang energies, which then combine with the Chongxu Qi to form the Three Powers (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity). All things are born through these three, hence all beings carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their arms, while the Chongxu Qi harmonizes between them, maintaining the balance of Yin-Yang without bias.

After creation, all things must also rely on this Chongxu Qi to preserve their intrinsic nature. Because the Chongxu Qi is empty yet never depleted, it manifests as softness and weakness—this is why the Dao operates through gentle means.

Though people generally despise terms like "solitary," "widowed," or "unworthy" (ancient rulers' humble self-references), kings and nobles adopt them for themselves. This demonstrates their understanding of applying the way of softness. Sometimes, what appears as loss turns out to be gain, and apparent gain proves detrimental. As illustrated later by three examples, softness may seem like loss but is actually benefit, while strength appears advantageous but invites harm.

People teach me to follow the way of softness, and I in turn teach others. The "strong and overbearing" (qiangliang) often meet untimely ends—just as Confucius predicted his disciple Zilu's violent death in the Kong Kui rebellion of Wei due to his aggressive bravery. I take this principle as the foundation of my teaching, for it is the most essential lesson. The softest things in the world penetrate the hardest; formless forces enter even seamless objects. Thus we understand the benefits of Wuwei (non-action, natural accord).

Through perspectives like Yin-Yang generation, the composition of all things, and historical examples, this scripture repeatedly demonstrates how softness overcomes hardness and how non-action yields benefit, emphasizing these as fundamental laws of the Dao's operation.

This passage continues the discussion on the principle of "softness and weakness" from the previous text, further elaborating on the two states of "ultimate softness" and "non-being." Just as water can penetrate the hardest stone and formless Qi can permeate seamless metal or stone walls, things that appear soft and formless can overcome the hardest existences.

The term "galloping" (驰骋) is used here to describe the movement of soft things, meaning that soft entities can freely traverse seemingly impenetrable solid objects. "Non-being" (无有) refers to a state completely free from impurities, like water having no fixed shape or Qi having no substantial form. This natural state of non-forced action (Wuwei) paradoxically yields the greatest benefit, hence the assertion that "non-action is most beneficial."

The teaching without words and the benefit of non-forced action are achievements that other methods in the world can hardly match. This summarizes the main themes of the previous two sections: the best education is not rigid instruction but gentle guidance like flowing water; the greatest benefits come not from forced pursuit but from natural alignment. People often believe they must use words and deliberate action to gain benefits, unaware that the effects of "wordless teaching" and "non-action" far surpass these methods.

(Note: The reference to "Chapter 35" here marks the division in the Daoist scripture.) The text then examines the relative importance of fame versus life: Which is more precious—reputation or life? Which matters more—life or material possessions? Is it worse to gain fame but lose life, or to preserve life while losing fame? From this comes the conclusion: Excessive desire inevitably leads to great waste, and over-accumulation must result in severe loss.

The core philosophy here is: Softness overcomes hardness; non-action surpasses forced action. The excessive pursuit of external fame and wealth damages the fundamental essence of life, just as water—seemingly soft—can wear through rock. Maintaining a state of emptiness and non-action (Wuwei) paradoxically accomplishes the greatest deeds.

This passage discusses the relationship between fame, wealth, and life. Those who excessively pursue fame regard it as more important than life itself, ultimately depleting their Shen (spirit) and shortening their lifespan. Those obsessed with wealth value material possessions above their physical well-being, often risking fatal consequences. Thus, knowing contentment prevents disgrace, and understanding moderation avoids danger—this is the path to longevity.

Chapter 36 describes the nature of the Dao (the Way): The most perfect things appear flawed, yet their function never diminishes; the fullest things seem empty, yet their utility is inexhaustible. True straightness appears bent, true skill seems clumsy, and true eloquence appears inarticulate. Clinging to superficial perfection, fullness, straightness, skill, or eloquence reflects a lesser state of understanding. Throughout the text, Laozi emphasizes this principle of complementary opposites.

Restlessness overcomes cold, while tranquility overcomes heat—this illustrates the mutual regulation of Yin-Yang. Only Qingjing (clarity and stillness) and Wuwei (non-action) constitute the proper way to govern the world. "Qingjing" refers to a mind free of distractions, abiding in perfect stillness. "Proper governance" resembles a ruler's harmonious rule over the realm. Those rulers who bustle about with forced action inevitably fail, while those embodying Wuwei (non-action) appear inactive yet accomplish everything—this is true statecraft.

Some interpreters suggest that the stillness overcoming heat and the restlessness overcoming cold represent relative opposites, each partial in nature. They argue that the "stillness" of Qingjing (clarity and stillness) transcends duality, containing movement within stillness and unifying action and non-action without bias, thus becoming the world's standard. Though profound, this interpretation may deviate from Laozi's original intent.

When the world is well-governed, even the finest warhorses are retired to pull dung carts (farm carts for fertilizer). In ancient times, every sixty-four "well-field" units (jingtian) constituted a "dian" district, which had to provide warhorses as tax. In times of peace, nations remain content within their boundaries without invading each other. The people's finest horses, no longer needed for battle, are instead demoted to fertilizing fields by pulling dung carts.

When the world falls into chaos, even pregnant mares must give birth on the battlefield. "Borderlands" (jiao) refers to the contested frontiers between warring states. In turbulent times, enemy incursions are frequent, and warhorses remain deployed in the wild for so long that they cannot return to state stables—foals are born right on the battlefield.

Regarding the "dung cart," most versions of the text omit the character for "cart" (车), though Zhu Xi’s recorded sayings mention it. In fact, Zhang Heng’s "Eastern Capital Rhapsody" from the Eastern Han dynasty quotes Laozi’s full phrase, proving that the character was still intact by the late Han. By the time Wang Bi wrote his commentary, the character was already missing—likely lost in early transcriptions and never restored, perpetuating the error. Rhyme structure also confirms this: "cart" (车) originally rhymed with "borderlands" (郊), but without it, the verse loses its rhythm.

The greatest crime is indulging desire; the greatest calamity is insatiable greed; the greatest danger is never being content. Thus, the satisfaction of knowing contentment is true satisfaction. "Crime," "calamity," and "danger" all denote misfortune, but in escalating degrees. The root of war lies in coveting another’s land. Knowing something can be seized and desperately snatching it marks the start of disaster. Obtaining it yet remaining unsatisfied—like "seizing Long and eyeing Shu"—leads to endless conflict, the pinnacle of calamity. If nations abide by their bounds without expansionist greed, understanding contentment, plundering wars would cease, and lasting peace would follow naturally.

Chapter 38 states: "Without stepping out the door, one knows the world; without peering through the window, one perceives the Dao (Way) of heaven." The principles of all things are contained within the self—thus, one can comprehend everything without venturing forth. The "Dao of heaven" is the source of all natural laws; it is grasped through inner contemplation, unlike external forms that require a window to see. Those who seek outwardly, the farther they go, the less they truly understand the great Dao.

The Commentary on the Dao De Jing, chapters 39 and 40 primarily discuss the wisdom of Wuwei (non-action).

Chapter 39 states that those who truly comprehend the Dao need not travel extensively to understand all things, nor observe directly to grasp the essence of phenomena, nor act deliberately to accomplish their aims. Just as one need not step outside the door to know the affairs of the world, nor peer through the window to comprehend the patterns of celestial Dao. This is because sages have mastered the fundamental principles, thus requiring no specific actions to gain comprehensive understanding, nor detailed observation to perceive the root of things—they naturally fulfill all undertakings.

Chapter 40 distinguishes between "pursuing learning" and "cultivating the Dao." Those devoted to learning constantly seek to accumulate knowledge, while Dao cultivators progressively reduce artificial effort. One must continue diminishing until reaching the state of Wuwei, where ironically one becomes capable of accomplishing all things. Through deliberate action, one can only complete one task at a time, yet through Wuwei, all things are achieved. The same principle applies to governing the world—it must be done through Wuwei, for those who govern through forced action prove unworthy of the task.

Chapter 40 further explains that sages maintain no fixed ideas, but instead adopt the people's thoughts as their own. The sage's mind remains empty and tranquil, thus able to embrace all things and adapt to changes. As the Zhenghe commentary elucidates: the sage's mind, through emptiness, achieves inclusiveness; through stillness, attains responsiveness.

This scripture primarily discusses the sage's way of engaging with the world and their perspective on life and death.

Regarding the sage's attitude: The sage maintains no ego attachment, with a mind undisturbed by external phenomena, responding to all things with natural spontaneity. Like an echoing valley that responds equally to all sounds regardless of their volume or quality, the sage treats all people without discrimination between good and evil—showing kindness to both the virtuous and non-virtuous, extending trust to both the trustworthy and untrustworthy. The result is not only the improvement of good people, but even the transformation of the unvirtuous toward goodness.

The sage's mind remains as pure and non-discriminating as an infant's, maintaining transcendence amidst worldly judgments. While ordinary people focus on the sage's attitudes, the sage embraces all like children—neither favoring the virtuous nor despising the hypocritical—ultimately bringing about the natural harmonization of the world.

On the view of life and death: "Emerging into life and entering into death" describes how all things manifest from formlessness (Wu, Non-being) into form (You, Being)—this is "life," while returning from form back to formlessness constitutes "death." Zhuangzi states all things originate from nature's creative transformation (Ji, mechanism) and return to it. There are ten circumstances constituting life and ten constituting death ("ten having three" symbolizes the proportional distribution between life and death).

Note: The terms "Xi Xi" describe the sage's state of collected intention, "Die Die" conveys a fearful appearance, while "Hun Qi Xin" refers to the dissolution of discriminating mind. These concepts all embody the Daoist core principles of Wuwei (non-action) and "equalizing all things."

This passage discusses the relationship between lifespan and lifestyle, categorizing people into ten types, including three types of long-lived individuals, three types of short-lived individuals, and three types who, despite their pursuit of longevity, ironically die prematurely due to improper methods.

Those who live long share three characteristics: they do not deplete their vitality through worries and desires, they avoid harm from external pathogens like wind, cold, heat, and dampness, and they steer clear of calamities such as punishment, war, or accidents. Conversely, short-lived individuals also fall into three categories: the wealthy and noble who damage their inner vitality through indulgence, laborers who exhaust themselves physically, and the crude and violent who meet untimely ends.

Particularly noteworthy are three types of people who, despite their single-minded pursuit of longevity, ironically die young due to extreme methods. Examples include excessive cultivation of immortality techniques, misuse of medicines, and overly fastidious lifestyles that weaken the body. Their problem lies in striving too hard for longevity, thereby violating the natural Dao (the Way).

Those truly skilled in nurturing life (called "adepts at nourishing life") are like the legendary Perfected Beings (Zhenren)—they walk without avoiding rhinos or tigers and face battle without fearing swords or spears. The horns of beasts and the blades of weapons cannot harm them. This is because they have transcended the "state of mortality," achieving unity with the Dao. Such individuals represent the highest attainment among the ten types—those who have realized the Dao.

Finally, the passage mentions that "the Dao gives them life, and De (Virtue/Power) nurtures them," illustrating that all things are generated by the Dao and sustained by De. Thus, all beings in the world honor the Dao and cherish De. Here, the "Dao" refers to the cosmic origin, while "De" represents its manifestation and function.

This passage elucidates the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) and their roles in the growth of all things. When all beings sprout and flourish in spring, it is the Dao manifesting its function; when they withdraw and store in autumn, it is De in operation. In truth, Dao and De are two aspects of one unity, much like parents jointly nurturing their children.

All things follow the patterns of Dao from growth to maturity: sprouting in spring (giving birth), flourishing in summer (nourishing), harvesting in autumn (gathering), and storing in winter (completing). The noble status of Dao and De isn't conferred by any external authority—it arises spontaneously. Unlike earthly emperors who require divine appointment to demonstrate their nobility, or feudal lords who need imperial mandate to show their dignity.

The Dao creates all things yet claims no possession, nurtures all yet takes no credit, guides all yet asserts no dominion. This profound virtue is called "Mysterious De" (Xuande). Though previous chapters mention "Dao gives birth" and "De nourishes," here only Dao is mentioned because De is inherently the manifestation of Dao.

Chapter 43 further clarifies: All things under heaven have an origin (始)—this is the Dao; this origin is also the mother that nurtures all things (母)—this is De. By comprehending this fundamental principle (the mother), one understands all beings (the children); by understanding all beings, one returns to the root. Thus throughout life one remains free from peril.

(Note: "Mysterious De" refers to the most profound virtue; "no peril throughout life" means remaining free from danger for one's entire existence.)

At birth, humans receive their vital Qi (mother) from their mothers. Through cultivation, one comes to recognize the existence of the innate primordial Shen (spirit, child) within. Understanding this principle, if one can safeguard the root of vital Qi (mother), then the Shen (child) will never depart from the body. Dong Sijing (a Song Dynasty Daoist) explained: Humans rely on Qi for life, thus Qi is the mother; while Shen resides within Qi, like a child. By preserving Qi, one can concentrate the breath and stabilize the mind.

The specific method of cultivation involves first "plugging the opening and closing the gate." The "opening" (Dui) in ancient script resembles a person exhaling through the mouth (original note explains the evolution of the character form), here referring to the mouth; the "gate" refers to the nose. One must first seal the lips in silence, then gradually regulate breathing until reaching a breathless state. This allows Qi to gather internally, ensuring it never depletes from exhaustion throughout one's lifetime. If one spends the day speaking and attending to worldly affairs, Qi will be exhausted beyond recovery.

Cultivation requires mastering two key points: observing subtle changes is called "seeing the small," while maintaining a pliant state is called "preserving softness." "Seeing the small" resembles detecting subtle omens as mentioned earlier—by not overextending the spirit, one grows increasingly clear; "preserving softness" means maintaining a gentle state—by not overusing Qi, one grows increasingly robust. "Seeing the small" nurtures Shen (child), while "preserving softness" safeguards Qi (mother).

Finally, the cultivation method of "using light to return to brightness" is explained: just as a mirror reflects light (guang) while its surface remains inherently bright (ming), one must withdraw outward-focused attention and reflect inward. Excessive expenditure of spirit is like the ancient saying, "illuminating fish in the deep abyss invites disaster"—directing light outward brings calamity. By concealing radiance and blending with the mundane, one avoids misfortune. This is the state of returning to original brightness, called "inheriting the constant" (following the eternal Dao).

This chapter primarily discusses how Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) manifest in individuals. Laozi states that if he were to suddenly grasp the true essence of the Great Dao, his greatest fear would be arrogance and self-aggrandizement. Here, "display" refers to boastful or ostentatious behavior. Those who truly understand the Great Dao are like Yan Hui, Confucius' disciple—though profoundly learned, they appear as if knowing nothing. This is the proper attitude for a Dao cultivator.

The Great Dao is inherently smooth and easy to follow, yet people persistently seek shortcuts. The term "bypath" here denotes opportunistic paths contrary to the Great Dao. The true Dao is humble and restrained, yet people often prefer flashy shortcuts that appear more glamorous.

The text then describes the behavior of those who flaunt their achievements: decorating court halls extravagantly while leaving fields barren and granaries empty; wearing ornate robes, carrying sharp swords, growing weary of fine delicacies, and hoarding excessive wealth. Such individuals resemble bandits boasting of stolen goods—completely contrary to the principles of Dao.

The following chapter (Chapter 45) explains: Those truly skilled at establishing foundations cannot be uprooted; those adept at holding fast will never lose their grip. Only such legacies endure through generations. Just as trees planted on flat ground are toppled by wind, and objects clutched in hands inevitably slip away, the genuine art of establishment lies in establishing without deliberate effort; the true art of holding fast means maintaining without conscious clinging. Only thus can permanence be achieved.

This scripture explains how self-cultivation and nurturing virtue (De) can lead to effective governance and national stability. Those truly skilled at safeguarding a nation and perpetuating its destiny do not force outcomes, but follow the natural course. Just as not clutching tightly ensures something never slips away, not obsessively clinging to heavenly mandate (Tianming) allows it to endure naturally. Such individuals ensure their descendants maintain ancestral rites for generations, much like those adept at establishing and preserving foundations.

Cultivating virtue begins with oneself. Only by first nurturing one's own De can one preserve the purity of the Dao (the Way). External matters are secondary—virtue is not cultivated for ulterior purposes. When virtue is fully developed within, unexpected rewards naturally follow, enabling one to protect the nation and perpetuate its destiny—though this is never the conscious aim.

Virtue cultivation progresses from near to far: Cultivating virtue within the family leaves it abundant; within the village, it becomes enduring; within the state, it grows plentiful; and throughout the world, it becomes universal. The purest essence of the Dao is used for self-cultivation, while the remainder influences others. From family to village, state to world, the scope expands, yet fundamentally each person cultivates their own virtue. There’s no need to deliberately instruct everyone—governing through non-action (Wuwei) naturally transforms the people; without selfish desires, they remain simple and genuine.

"Abundant" refers to the reach of one's virtue; "enduring" extends beyond a single household; "plentiful" surpasses a village; "universal" covers more than a state. The original text used "邦" (state), altered to "国" during the Han dynasty to avoid the taboo of Emperor Gaozu’s personal name (Liu Bang), though pre-Han versions retained the original character.

The passage concludes by emphasizing the method of observation: understand others by observing oneself; comprehend other families by observing one’s own; know other villages by studying one’s own; grasp other states by examining one’s own; perceive the world by contemplating one’s own. This approach—moving from near to far, extending from self to others—is a vital path to comprehending the Dao.

This passage discusses the realms and manifestations of cultivating De (Virtue/Power) in Daoist practice. It begins by stating that genuine cultivation of De should extend from oneself to all things in the world, yet without forceful striving—instead following the natural disposition of all beings. Just as those skilled at establishing do not deliberately seek to establish, and those adept at embracing do not consciously try to embrace, Shao Yong (a Northern Song Confucian scholar) advised observing the Dao through the lens of the Dao and perceiving innate nature through the perspective of innate nature, thereby avoiding mutual harm.

The text then employs the metaphor of an infant to illustrate the highest state of De cultivation. Those who embody profound De within resemble newborn infants in their purity. Laozi frequently uses infants as metaphors in the Daode Jing, while Mencius similarly states that truly great individuals never lose the innocent heart-mind of a child. Those possessing such De remain unharmed even by venomous insects, fierce beasts, or birds of prey—this stems from their harmonious coexistence with all things, devoid of antagonistic thoughts.

Finally, the passage describes the characteristics of infants: though their bones and sinews are soft, their grip is firm; though unaware of sexual matters, they exhibit natural vitality—this stems from the absolute purity of their Jing (essence). They may cry all day without growing hoarse, demonstrating perfect harmony of Yin-Yang Qi. These are all manifestations of profound De and a return to natural authenticity.

The term "chizi" (red child) refers to newborns, while "venomous insects" includes creatures like wasps and scorpions, "fierce beasts" denotes tigers and leopards, and "birds of prey" indicates hawks and eagles—all illustrating the state of harmonious unity with nature achieved by those with deep cultivation of De.

Understanding harmony is the constant Dao (the Way); comprehending this constancy is wisdom. When one can grasp the harmonious Qi (vital energy) of an infant—pure and free from artifice—they attain the unchanging De (Virtue/Power). Those who understand this enduring De possess the innate, pristine wisdom bestowed by heaven.

Excessive pursuit of longevity, paradoxically, invites calamity. Forcing Jing (essence) and Qi through desire is artificial striving. Here, "auspiciousness" actually refers to ominous aberrations, not the righteous Qi of heaven and earth. If one fails to maintain the purity of Jing and Qi like an infant, they rely on the physical form to forcibly sustain breath—this is nourishing an illusory body through external means, not the proper way of cultivating Qi. Agitating Qi due to emotional fluctuations reflects being driven by external desires; it is merely forced effort.

When things reach their peak, they inevitably decline—this is a manifestation of straying from the Dao. What does not accord with the Dao perishes swiftly. Those who rely on physical form to force sustenance may appear robust but will ultimately age; those driven by emotions may seem intense but will inevitably wane. All things that reach their zenith must decline—this stems from deviating from the eternal Dao. Those who do not align with the Dao die prematurely and cannot endure. If one maintains innocence like an infant, they avoid excess—how then could they age? Without aging, how could they perish?

The truly wise speak sparingly; those who talk excessively lack true understanding. Block the outlets of speech and close the gates through which Qi dissipates. This is the method for nurturing body and mind. Using words depletes primordial Qi—this shows ignorance of the Dao. Those who understand the Dao first seal the passages of speech, only then can they shut the gates of Qi dissipation.

Blunt sharp edges, resolve conflicts, harmonize brilliance, and blend with the mundane—this is called "mysterious unity" (xuantong). It is the way to engage with the world. First, voluntarily soften one’s锋芒 (sharpness) to dissolve others’ disputes through non-contention; first, conceal one’s radiance to interact with the world in humility. Between self and others, distinctions between sharpness and gentleness, brilliance and plainness dissolve, merging completely with the ordinary. This state is profound and inscrutable, hence termed "mysterious unity."

Upon reaching this state, others can neither draw close to you nor distance themselves; they can neither benefit nor harm you, neither elevate nor demean you. Thus, you become the most revered under heaven. Though your kindness may be as deep as kinship, people interact with you unconsciously, unable to deliberately approach; though you may appear as distant as a stranger, they cannot bear to leave, unable to deliberately withdraw. Without chasing fame or wealth, others cannot grant you profit; transcending life and death, fortune and misfortune, others cannot harm you. Even if your status is as noble as a ruler, people engage with you as equals, never perceiving you as lofty.

This passage discusses the art of governance through three progressive levels:

The first level describes how truly enlightened rulers, though appearing ordinary, command universal respect through six virtues unattainable by common people, making them the most revered under heaven.

The second level explains governance methods: using standardized laws to administer the state and unorthodox strategies in warfare, but ultimately achieving true sovereignty through Wuwei (non-action). Key distinctions are made:

• "Standard governance" refers to legal prohibitions (like Guan Zhong and Shang Yang's methods), though true emperors prioritize self-cultivation and household regulation
• "Unorthodox methods" involve strategic deception (like Sun Tzu and Wu Qi's military tactics), but rulers must ground these in liberating the people
• The text emphasizes that strategy belongs to warfare, laws to state administration, while winning the mandate of heaven requires emulating the Three Sovereigns' Wuwei governance—like celestial bodies moving effortlessly, securing obedience without coercion.

A rhetorical question introduces the core argument: Why does stringent governance backfire? Four reasons are given:

1. Excessive prohibitions impoverish people (constant legal violations hinder productive labor)

2. Overdeveloped civilian tools create chaos (self-sufficiency breeds resistance to centralized rule)

3. Advanced craftsmanship fosters counterfeit goods

4. Harsher laws paradoxically increase banditry (desperation drives people to outlawry)

The "sharp tools" mentioned refer to fishing nets, farming implements, boats and carriages—technological conveniences whose "clever craftsmanship" enables their production. This demonstrates how overreliance on legalism and material progress breeds social ills, advocating instead for governance modeled on nature's effortless harmony.

This passage primarily discusses the art of governance and the mutual transformation of fortune and misfortune. The first half contrasts two approaches to governance to illustrate the effectiveness of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)":

When a state enacts numerous laws and imposes strict controls, the people may become impoverished and turn to theft. When the court is corrupt and incompetent, society becomes filled with extravagant and frivolous pursuits. The truly wise method of governance is this: establish clear policies so the people know what to revere, and develop diverse crafts and skills to enrich their lives—this is the correct path (Dao).

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) says: "When I refrain from forceful interference, the people naturally transform; when I maintain stillness, the people naturally correct themselves; when I avoid creating disturbances, the people naturally prosper; when I am free from desire, the people naturally return to simplicity." This seemingly "non-interfering" approach to governance can win the hearts of all under heaven, allowing the people to naturally achieve an ideal state.

The latter half uses the principle that "misfortune and fortune are intertwined" as a metaphor: seemingly dull and unremarkable policies (闷闷) can foster genuine integrity among the people (淳淳), while seemingly shrewd and harsh policies (察察) lead to moral decay (缺缺). Within misfortune lies the seed of fortune, and within fortune lurks the potential for misfortune—just as these two governance methods produce different outcomes. Yet ordinary people often fail to see through this principle, remaining confused for a long time.

The author particularly emphasizes: the governance of the true Dao may appear unsatisfactory on the surface, yet it brings about the natural transformation of the people. In contrast, those seemingly astute and stringent policies, though effective in the short term, ultimately lead to chaos between rulers and subjects. This law of mutual transformation between fortune and misfortune is something few can truly perceive.

This passage explores the concept of "correctness" (正道 zhengdao, the proper way) and the sage's approach to governance. What we call "correctness" stands in opposition to "incorrectness," and while governing through proper methods may seem ideal, if the people instead become cunning, then the ruler's adherence to "correctness" loses its meaning. This is because when "correctness" is taken to extremes, it becomes "incorrectness," just as excessive "goodness" (善 shan) turns into "not-good." Only by realizing that there is no absolute "correctness" or "goodness" can one avoid falling into extremes. Sages alone understand this truth, while ordinary people, long immersed in rigid concepts, believe governing through "correctness" is inherently good, failing to grasp that true "correctness" lies beyond fixed definitions.

The text then uses the idea of "non-interference" (无事 wushi, non-deliberate action) to illustrate the sage's way of being: just as sharp corners on a square can cut, excessive integrity can wound, extreme straightforwardness becomes reckless, and brilliance that is too dazzling hurts the eyes. The sage takes "non-action as action," making the "non-square" his square so it does not harm, the "non-integrity" his integrity so it does not wound, the "non-straight" his straightness so it does not overstep, and the "non-brilliant" his brilliance so it does not glare. This is the state described as "square yet not cutting, sharp yet not piercing, straight yet not unrestrained, bright yet not glaring."

Finally, it emphasizes the importance of "restraint" (啬 se, frugality/conservation). The human body is formed from the Qi (气) of heaven and earth, and in governing human affairs or cultivating the self, the most vital principle is knowing moderation. "Restraint" means not spending resources lightly and avoiding excessive consumption. Cherishing the body and preserving one's vital energy (元气 yuanqi) are essential practices. Only through restraint can one return early to one's original nature ("early return," 早复 zaofu), a process called "accumulating abundant De (德)"—the continuous cultivation of virtue. Achieving this means nothing remains unconquerable.

Note: 刿 (guì) means "to cut or wound." This passage corresponds to Chapter 49 of the Daode Jing.

This passage explains the Daoist cultivation principle of preserving primordial Qi (yuanqi, the core concept referring to the vital life energy within the human body) to attain longevity. When one gains complete mastery over their primordial Qi, they reach an unfathomable state of being—comparable to governing a nation—where they become sovereign ruler of their own physical form.

Primordial Qi requires constant accumulation and preservation, much like returning to that original state of profound abundance. When internal Qi reaches fullness, it becomes capable of resisting external depletion. While ordinary people's Qi diminishes with age, accomplished practitioners maintain an inexhaustible, ever-renewing flow of this vital energy. By preventing the exhaustion of primordial Qi, the physical form can endure indefinitely.

The text employs the metaphor of "a nation's foundation" to illustrate Qi's fundamental importance. Primordial Qi serves as the root of the physical body, just as trees require roots to grow and fruits need stems to remain attached. Nourishing Qi means cultivating life's foundation—when roots run deep, trees won't wither; when stems stay strong, fruits won't drop. Similarly, abundant Qi enables the body to maintain lasting vitality and clear-eyed spiritual brightness (shen), ultimately achieving the transcendent state of immortality beyond the mundane world.

(Note: The final phrase may contain a scribal error—it should likely read "primordial Qi preserved within physical form" rather than "physical form preserving Qi." This passage constitutes an interpretation of Chapter 50 of the Daode Jing, primarily expounding the "deep roots and solid stems" cultivation principle in Daoist longevity practices.)

Governing a large state is like cooking small fish. Small fish are delicate, and a large state has many people. Governing a great nation should be simple and tranquil, avoiding frequent disturbances to the people. Just as one fears stirring small fish too much while cooking, lest they fall apart, a ruler must not recklessly agitate the populace.

A ruler who governs the world with the Dao (the natural and effortless principle) ensures that ghosts and spirits do not manifest their mischief. "Li" here means governance, and "ghosts" refer to spiritual entities formed from the Yin-Qi (Yin energy) of heaven and earth. Human Qi (vital energy) is originally interconnected with the Qi of heaven and earth. A ruler who embodies the Dao governs with simplicity and tranquility, never disturbing the people, so their hearts remain peaceful, filling the space between heaven and earth. This harmonious Qi resonates mutually, ensuring the energy of heaven and earth does not become chaotic or violent, and thus ghosts and spirits cannot wreak havoc.

It is not that ghosts and spirits cannot manifest, but that even if they do, they will not harm people. Nor is it that ghosts and spirits themselves do not wish to harm people—it is because the sage (the ruler who embodies the Dao) keeps the people's hearts peaceful, never disturbing the Qi of heaven and earth, and thus the energy of heaven and earth remains harmonious and does not injure anyone. What we call "ghosts" and "spirits" are merely different names for the Qi of heaven and earth—though the terms differ, their essence is the same.

Because neither side harms the other, all merit returns to the sage. The Qi of heaven and earth does not harm people because the sage does not disturb it; the sage does not disturb it because his governance is simple and tranquil, keeping the people's hearts peaceful. This mutual non-harm arises from the sage's De (Virtue/Power), and thus all merit belongs to him.

A great state should be like the lower reaches of a river, serving as the convergence point of the world. "Jiao" here means gathering. A great state is like the meeting place of many smaller states, just as the lower reaches of a river are where all waters converge.

In the world, the feminine (the yielding and soft) often overcomes the masculine (the firm and strong) through tranquility, because only by remaining still can it stay below. The feminine (the yielding) prevails precisely by remaining tranquil and occupying the lower position.

This passage primarily discusses the wisdom of "using stillness to overcome movement" and the virtue of "humility in lowliness."

Regarding the relationship between feminine and masculine, movement and stillness: The feminine (the receptive) does not actively pursue the masculine (the active), while the masculine often seeks the feminine. The one who takes the initiative tends to incur loss, while the one who remains still and waits often gains benefit. Thus, stillness can overcome movement—the active occupies the higher position, while the still occupies the lower, hence the principle of abiding in stillness and lowliness. Some suspect the character for "feminine" (牝) may be superfluous here.

In the context of state relations: If a large state humbles itself before smaller states, it will win their allegiance; if a small state humbles itself before a large one, it will gain the larger state's acceptance. When a large state does not rely on its superior status but treats smaller states with humility, the smaller states will willingly submit. When a small state willingly assumes a lowly position and respectfully serves the larger state, it will be embraced by the larger power.

The large state seeks nothing more than to incorporate the small, while the small state seeks nothing more than to attach itself to the large. Both achieve their desires, but the large state should take the initiative in lowering itself. This is because the small state is already in a lowly position and need not worry about failing to humble itself, whereas the large state, not naturally in a low position, may fear failing to do so—hence the emphasis that the large state must actively demonstrate humility.

The passage then turns to the importance of the Dao (the Way): The Dao is the fundamental mystery of all things, the treasure of the good and the safeguard of the not-yet-good. "Mystery" (奥) refers to the most honored position, much like the southwest corner in ancient architecture was considered the most prestigious location. The Dao's nobility resembles the most revered place in a house. The good cultivate the Dao to elevate themselves and gain respect, while the not-yet-good rely on the Dao to reform and preserve themselves.

Fine words can win respect, and noble conduct can influence others.

This passage primarily discusses the supreme importance of the Dao (the Way) and how both virtuous and non-virtuous people can benefit from it.

For virtuous individuals, the Dao is like a precious treasure. Those who follow the Dao are respected by others—their noble words become jewels worth cherishing, and their exemplary conduct serves as models for emulation. Yet even those lacking virtue are not abandoned by the Dao. If imperfect people preserve themselves through the Dao, revering celestial majesty and reducing transgressions, they too can attain peace. This demonstrates the Dao's impartiality toward all beings.

Even the Son of Heaven (emperor) or the Three Dukes (highest ministers of antiquity) with their priceless jade discs requiring two hands to embrace and their four-horse chariots cannot compare to the treasure of quietly cultivating the Dao. For the Dao contains the profoundest essence of all creation. Those who attain the Dao may be destined by Heaven to become rulers or teachers—people honor them as sovereigns when appointed as emperors, or as Three Dukes when serving as Grand Preceptors, all because their mastery of the Dao confers nobility.

Ancient times regarded large jade discs and four-horse carriages as the most valuable tribute gifts, yet these mean nothing before the Dao. The true dignity of emperors and ministers stems from their connection to the Dao, not from material treasures.

Why did the ancients value the Dao so profoundly? Precisely because it enables good people to fulfill their aspirations while allowing those with faults to avert calamity. This universal value explains why the Dao is treasured throughout the world—it contains the mysteries of creation, serves as the virtuous person's jewel, and shields the imperfect from punishment.

Chapter 53 speaks of the state of Wuwei (non-action). The core of Laozi's teaching lies in "acting through non-action." Physical practice should take effortless action as its standard, just as tasting food recognizes plainness as true flavor—these are concrete manifestations of Wuwei's essential principle.

Dealing with difficult matters begins with what is easy; accomplishing great deeds starts with what is subtle. All difficult matters under heaven necessarily arise from what was once simple; all great endeavors inevitably accumulate from minute beginnings.

"To act" means to initiate. Those who can govern through Wuwei (non-action) are precisely those who anticipate difficulties while matters are still easy and attend to great affairs while they remain subtle. All things in the world begin easily but later become difficult; they start small but eventually grow large. The ultimate difficulty originates from initial ease; the final greatness stems from initial subtlety. Therefore, one must act while matters are still easy and subtle—then, in the end, one will not be trapped in hardship. Progressing step by step toward grand achievements without exhausting effort—this is the true state of Wuwei. If one does not plan early and instead rushes to address matters only when they become difficult, what was once easy will gradually turn difficult, and what was small will struggle to expand. By then, all energy will be depleted—how can one speak of Wuwei then?

A stable condition is easy to maintain; when signs have not yet appeared, it is easy to plan. Fragile things are easily broken; subtle matters are easily dispersed. Address problems before they take shape; govern chaos before it arises. This speaks of making plans while matters are still easy.

A massive tree, wide enough to embrace, grows from a tiny sprout; a nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. This speaks of taking action from the smallest beginnings.

Those who make promises lightly will rarely keep their word; those who regard matters as too easy will inevitably encounter greater difficulties. Thus, even when facing easy tasks, the sage treats them as difficult—and so, in the end, encounters no true hardship. The earlier passage discussed the difficulty and ease of matters; here, it speaks of the difficulty and ease of mindset. Those who make promises too readily at the outset will struggle to fulfill them later, losing credibility; those who regard matters as too easy from the start will surely face greater hardships in the end. Therefore, the sage does not wait for matters to become difficult but approaches them with caution from the beginning, never daring to be careless—and thus, ultimately, encounters no true hardship.

Whether matters are great or small, many or few, repay resentment with De (Virtue). Therefore, the sage never considers themselves great—and thus can truly accomplish greatness. The earlier passage discussed the scale of matters; here, it speaks of the scale of mindset. Though achieving great things, the sage remains humble; though possessing much, they always feel they have little. Even when faced with grievances that might call for retaliation, they do not rely on their own strength or advantage.

When others rush to seek revenge in resentment, the truly wise consciously choose the position of humility and meekness, willingly enduring grievances. This is because in their initial state of weakness, they dare not harbor arrogance in their hearts; even when later becoming strong and prosperous, they maintain inner humility. Those who can consistently preserve this humble mindset ultimately achieve true greatness.

People often fail when their endeavors are near completion. If one could maintain the same caution at the end as at the beginning, there would be no failures. Building on the earlier themes of "ultimately facing no difficulty" and "never presuming greatness": if something seems difficult at first but no longer so at the end, or if one starts without arrogance but later grows proud, success often collapses at the final moment. Thus, one must always retain the cautious attitude of the initial stage.

If difficulty is always felt, and arrogance never assumed, then ultimately there will be no failure. Deliberate striving leads to failure; desperate clinging leads to loss. Without forced action, there is no failure; without grasping attachment, there is no loss.

Continuing from the earlier discussion of "near-success failure" and "avoiding failure": those who forcefully seek to accomplish something may achieve the opposite of their intent; those who stubbornly try to hold onto something may lose it instead. Without action, there is neither success nor failure; without attachment, there is neither gain nor loss.

Therefore, the sage pursues what ordinary people do not ("desiring not to desire"), valuing not rare treasures; studies what others neglect ("learning not to learn"), returning to the overlooked principles of the Dao. In this way, they assist all things in their natural development, never daring to interfere arbitrarily.

As stated earlier, "those who act are surpassed by those who do not act; those who cling are surpassed by those who do not cling." Here, it is further clarified: the sage's desire is to take "non-desire" as desire; the sage's learning is to take "non-learning" as learning. While the masses chase after rare goods, the sage disregards them—this is "desiring the undesired." While the crowd flocks to trends, the sage turns back to the source—this is "learning the unlearned." All these practices of "non-desire" and "non-learning" stem from understanding that the movement of all things follows the natural spontaneity of the Dao. Thus, the sage also remains in wuwei (non-action), aligning with all beings in accordance with the natural order, as harmoniously unified as the spokes of a wheel converging at the hub.

The true masters of statecraft in ancient times did not seek to make the people clever, but to preserve their natural simplicity. Here, "cleverness" refers to the deliberate pursuit of knowledge, while "simplicity" denotes the state of natural authenticity. The sage-kings of antiquity cultivated their own De (Virtue/Power) to transform the people, hoping to guide them from ignorance to awakening—not to deliberately keep them in foolish darkness.

Laozi lived in an era of collapsing rites and corrupted values. He observed how in ancient times, governance through Wuwei (non-action) had maintained the people's purity, while later generations' deliberate actions only bred hypocrisy and cunning. Thus, a skilled ruler should guide people back to their innate simplicity rather than make them calculating and shrewd. This view critiques the social tendencies of his time, though carried to extremes it could lead to oppressive policies like Emperor Qin's book burnings and scholar persecutions.

When people become difficult to govern, it's precisely because they've grown too clever. Governing through cunning schemes harms the state, while ruling without such artifice brings blessings. For when laws are established, the crafty find loopholes; when decrees are issued, deception flourishes. So-called "clever governance" means rulers flaunting their wisdom, making the people equally scheming—thereby rendering the state ungovernable. Conversely, when rulers restrain their brilliance, the people retain their simplicity, making governance effortless.

Understanding this distinction between governance approaches reveals the fundamental principle. The "model attitude" here refers to one's bearing in the world—like sitting upright in a carriage appearing haughty, while leaning forward shows humility. Choosing not to flaunt cleverness but embrace apparent foolishness maintains this humble posture.

Those who comprehend this fundamental principle attain the realm of "profound De (Virtue/Power)." This virtue runs so deep and transcends so far that while appearing contrary to common sense, it ultimately achieves universal harmony.

To understand and emulate the sages who remain humble and lowly is to attain the profound and mysterious De (Virtue). This mysterious De is unfathomably deep, beyond ordinary comprehension. While the world pursues cleverness and knowledge, I alone choose to preserve simplicity. This seemingly contrary attitude embodies true accordance. Though appearing to oppose all things, it actually represents the greatest harmony, hence it is called the inscrutable, mysterious De.

The reason rivers and seas can become the gathering place of all streams is because they excel at maintaining the lowest position. Just as all people under heaven naturally return to a true ruler. The river-sea remains beneath all things, thus it can receive the waters of every tributary. Similarly, the ruler's ability to govern the masses stems from this same quality of humble condescension.

Therefore, when the sage wishes to stand above the people, he speaks with humility; when he wishes to lead them, he places his own interests last. This yielding and retiring attitude constitutes the sage's De, not any deliberate attempt to surpass others. Those who truly understand do not cling to literal interpretations.

For this reason, when the sage occupies the highest position, people feel no oppression; when he stands at the forefront, they perceive no threat. All under heaven gladly support him without weariness, precisely because he contends with nothing. Thus none in the world can contend with him. As Master Dong (Dong Zhongshu) observed: "Those who lower themselves in De are raised up by the multitude; those who willingly remain behind are pushed forward." Yang Xiong likewise remarked: "Those who humble themselves are elevated by others; those who retreat of their own accord are advanced by the people."

All under heaven say my Dao is vast, seeming unlike any particular thing. Precisely because of its vastness does it resemble nothing concrete. Were it to resemble some specific object, it would long since have become insignificant.

(Note: The "mysterious De" refers to Daoism's supreme virtue; "sovereign of all valleys" metaphorically describes the sea's capacity to receive all rivers; "Master Dong" denotes Han Dynasty Confucian scholar Dong Zhongshu; "Yang Xiong" was a prominent Western Han philosopher)

This scripture expounds on Laozi's doctrine of the "Three Treasures" and their profound significance.

Laozi declares that he holds three precious treasures: first is compassion (ci), second is frugality (jian), and third is not daring to contend for precedence in the world. By preserving these three treasures without losing them, one can attain the realm of the Dao (the Way). Compassion manifests as gentleness and mercy rather than forceful dominance; frugality appears as moderation in expenditure rather than extravagance and indulgence; not daring to contend for precedence expresses itself as humility and yielding rather than aggressive ambition. Precisely because these three treasures are upheld, though one's attainment is vast, it may seem as if there is nothing particularly remarkable about it.

The scripture explains: Compassion may appear timid, yet it is in fact true courage; frugality may seem narrow, yet it is genuine expansiveness; not daring to contend for precedence may look like falling behind, yet it is the key to becoming the leader of all things. If one discards these three treasures and instead pursues only superficial bravery, lavishness, and competition for dominance, the result will be ruin.

Special emphasis is placed on the treasure of compassion: Compassion is the law of life, the embodiment of benevolence and virtue (De), and the foremost of the three treasures. When employed in warfare, compassion ensures victory; when used in defense, it brings stability. When Heaven seeks to save someone, it protects them with compassion. This section specifically discusses the supreme importance of compassion, while the other two treasures follow the same principle.

This scripture primarily discusses the power of "compassion" (benevolence) and the art of warfare. It states that those who embrace compassion will be cherished by others as if they were their own parents—for who would attack their own mother or father? Thus, when one wages war or defends with a compassionate heart, even enemies cannot bear to oppose them, ensuring victory and steadfast defense. Even if adversaries attack, many will rally to aid the "compassionate side," guaranteeing triumph. Should human strength prove insufficient, Heaven itself will intervene to prevent defeat, for the heavens protect those who embody compassion.

Historical examples illustrate this principle: Cao Cao and Fu Jian (ruler of the Former Qin during the Sixteen Kingdoms period) were insatiably greedy and devoid of compassion, while the Eastern Wu and Eastern Jin dynasties, though not matching the sage's benevolence, fought only out of necessity. Compared to Cao Cao and Fu Jian, they were far more virtuous and closer to true compassion. Thus, at the Battle of Red Cliffs, Eastern Wu harnessed the east wind to burn Cao's fleet, and at the Battle of Fei River, the Former Qin army collapsed at the mere sound of wind and cranes. Though seemingly weaker, Wu and Jin defeated the million-strong armies of Cao Wei and Former Qin—this was Heaven's intervention.

The text then elaborates on military strategy: A skilled commander does not rely on brute force, a skilled warrior rarely gives in to anger, a master of victory avoids direct confrontation, and a wise leader humbly positions themselves beneath others. This is called the "virtue (De) of non-contention" and the "power of employing others"—the highest principle aligned with the Dao (the Way).

Finally, it explains ancient chariot warfare: A chariot carried three armored soldiers—the left bearing a bow, the right a spear, and the center driving while commanding flags and drums—all requiring martial prowess. Below, seventy-two infantrymen followed. This ancient example demonstrates that true leadership does not depend on sheer force but on winning hearts through virtue (De).

This passage expounds the Daoist art of warfare, whose core philosophy emphasizes overcoming hardness with softness and achieving victory through non-contention. A true master of military strategy does not rely on inciting soldiers' anger to win, but maintains a heart of compassion (ci). They refrain from flaunting their wisdom and abilities, instead positioning themselves humbly beneath others, skillfully borrowing the wisdom and strength of those around them.

The supreme art of warfare manifests as: never initiating conflict ("daring not take the offensive"), preferring concession to reckless advancement ("daring not advance an inch but retreating a foot"). Outwardly, it appears as having no battle formations ("marching without formation"), raising no arms in command ("raising arms without showing them"), wielding no weapons ("grasping weapons without holding them"), and facing no visible enemies ("confronting opponents without adversaries"). This represents warfare's highest state—possessing full combat capability while appearing to have none.

The text particularly emphasizes the paramount importance of "compassion" (ci). Military leaders should treasure this quality like precious jewels. Initiating war ("taking the offensive") proves inferior to defensive response ("being the responder"). Advancing one inch meets countless obstacles ("advancing an inch is difficult"), while retreating a foot comes with ease ("retreating a foot is easy"). Even when forced into conflict, one should avoid direct confrontation, preferring concession instead.

The greatest calamity lies in underestimating the enemy ("lightly regarding the enemy nearly costs us our treasure"). When opposing forces meet, the side imbued with compassionate sorrow often prevails ("when matched armies meet, the sorrowing side wins"). Here, "treasure" refers to the Daoist Three Treasures: compassion (ci), frugality, and "daring not be first in the world."

This passage embodies the Daoist virtue of "non-contention" (bu zheng zhi de), proposing that the most sublime victory is achieved naturally without direct confrontation, mirroring the effortless operation of the celestial Dao ("matching Heaven"). Only the supreme sages of highest antiquity ("the ultimate sages and spirits of ancient times") could attain this state, hence its designation as "the ancient ultimate."

This passage comes from commentaries on Chapters 57 and 58 of the Dao De Jing, discussing the principles of warfare and wisdom in conduct.

Regarding military affairs, Laozi states that when commanding armies, one must maintain reverence and never underestimate the enemy. Underestimation leads easily to initiating battles, resulting in loss of life and the forfeiture of the precious quality of "compassion" (one of the Three Treasures of Daoism: "compassion, frugality, and not daring to take the lead in the world"). In truth, even before actual combat begins, the mere thought of underestimating the enemy already sets one on the dangerous path toward killing and moral degradation. When two armies face each other, if we fight out of necessity and with a heart that grieves for casualties, this compassion will receive heavenly assistance and lead to victory. Using compassion to overcome brutality does not rely on forceful confrontation but rather causes the enemy to surrender without battle.

Chapter 58 discusses how Laozi's teachings appear simple yet are rarely practiced. He instructs people to be gentle, yielding, and humble—principles that are easy to understand and not difficult to practice. Yet people fail to recognize the value of these teachings and are unwilling to follow them. Just as a clan needs a leader and a state needs a ruler, "gentleness, yielding, and humility" are the fundamental principles for human conduct. Laozi laments the ignorance of people, which prevents them from understanding the worth of his words.

The fact that few truly understand me demonstrates the preciousness of my ideas. Like a sage who wears coarse clothing (the "brown robe" refers to rough hemp garments) outwardly but carries beautiful jade within—if everyone could comprehend my thoughts, they would no longer be rare. People only see the sage's plain exterior but fail to perceive the precious qualities within.

Finally, the passage discusses levels of wisdom: the truly wise understand yet appear not to (great wisdom seems like folly); those who do not understand but believe they do are actually foolish and afflicted (referring to cognitive defects). The highest wisdom is marked by brilliance and discernment yet maintains humility, while the lowest folly is characterized by closed-mindedness and self-righteousness.

This passage elucidates the attitude of truly wise individuals toward themselves and life. The saying "only by recognizing problems as problems can one truly avoid problems" means that only by being aware of and addressing one's shortcomings can they genuinely be overcome.

The reason sages have no flaws is precisely because they treat flaws as flaws. Sages are born with an understanding of the Dao (the Way), yet even when they know, they appear as if they do not—how could they possibly fall into the trap of pretending to know what they do not? They maintain their natural state not through deliberate effort but because it is their innate nature. Sages do not rely on their natural talents; even when there are no obvious faults to criticize, they reflect on themselves when observing others' shortcomings. They remain vigilant against the faults ordinary people easily commit, treating them as their own, and thus always preserve their perfection.

(This is the content of Chapter 59.)

When people cease to fear what they ought to fear, true danger arrives. What is called "ordinary fear" refers to things that shorten life and harm the body, while "great fear" refers to death itself. If one does not fear what should be feared, they will inevitably harm their body, shorten their lifespan, and hasten death—then true calamity will come. Zhuangzi said that what people should most guard against is actually the daily routine of eating, drinking, and resting, yet many fail to be cautious in these matters—this is a mistake.

Do not treat your daily life with contempt, and do not despise your own existence. "Contempt" here refers to becoming accustomed to negligence, while "despise" means rejecting and abandoning. If one grows accustomed to things that harm life without fear, this is a lack of reverence. To despise life is to harm it and hasten death—it is to reject and discard one's own existence, inviting great misfortune.

Only by not treating life lightly will one not despise it. (Some versions read "not despising" as "not treating lightly"; following Liu's interpretation, the earlier "not despising" should be "not treating lightly," and this reading is adopted here.) Precisely because one does not treat their living conditions with contempt and reveres what should be revered, they will not despise their own life, and true danger will not arrive.

Therefore, sages know themselves but do not flaunt themselves; they cherish themselves but do not hold themselves in excessive esteem. They choose to maintain self-awareness and self-love, abandoning self-display and self-importance. "Self-awareness" means understanding the principles of nurturing life; "self-display" means showing off one's knowledge; and "self-importance" refers to the excessive self-regard discussed in the following chapter.

This passage from the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) discusses two contrasting attitudes toward life and their consequences. First, it addresses the issue of "overvaluing life" (guisheng), suggesting that excessive attachment to life can be detrimental. Those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) understand the principles of nurturing life internally, yet outwardly appear unassuming, aligning with natural rhythms without obsessive clinging to existence. Ordinary people who focus too much on self-display or self-aggrandizement often invite misfortune, whereas sages, being inwardly fulfilled, have no need for deliberate posturing—their outward demeanor bears no trace of affectation.

The text then illustrates two types of courage through a legal analogy: "courage in daring" (yong yu gan) refers to those who brazenly commit evil, like repeat offenders in ancient legal codes who were deemed worthy of execution; "courage in not daring" (yong yu bu gan) describes those who refrain from wrongdoing, akin to unintentional offenders who deserved leniency. However, Laozi critiques this binary approach: while those who seldom transgress should indeed be pardoned, even the "bold and daring" should not be hastily condemned to death, as misjudgments are possible.

Finally, the passage highlights the inscrutability of heaven's will: though evildoers may incur heaven's displeasure, the Dao's workings are profound and elusive—how can we be certain someone is truly destined for divine punishment? Thus, sages exercise extreme caution regarding capital punishment, hesitating to make rash decisions. This critique targets the harsh legal practices of the time, advocating that rulers should govern with reverence and restraint in applying penalties.

The natural law of the cosmos (Heavenly Dao) achieves victory without contention, responds without words, arrives without summons, and appears tranquil yet excels in strategy. The Heavenly Dao resembles an infinitely vast net—seemingly loose yet letting nothing slip through.

The sage does not lightly execute the wicked, yet evildoers ultimately cannot escape the retribution of the Dao. Heaven's way of dealing with wrongdoers differs from humanity's use of force; instead, it naturally causes them to bring about their own destruction. Neither does it engage in verbal disputes like humans—its retribution comes as swiftly as an echo responding to sound, arriving without needing to be summoned. Evil deeds inevitably bring evil consequences, and no cunning can escape this. Though the Heavenly Dao appears mindless, calm and simple, the subtlety of its retribution far surpasses human capacity for scheming.

This celestial net stretches boundlessly—appearing sparse yet leaving no evildoer unaccounted for. Though the sage refrains from executing them, the Dao naturally metes out punishment. If the people fear not even death, how can death be used to intimidate them? Were the people truly to fear death, then we could arrest and execute those committing wickedness—who would dare transgress then? Yet in reality, even when executing criminals, wrongdoing persists endlessly, proving the people have grown foolish to the point of fearing neither death nor consequences. When wrongdoers knowingly face execution yet remain unafraid, how can rulers lightly use the threat of death to govern?

Understand this: The Heavenly Dao inherently holds the power over life and death. For humans to presume executing on Heaven's behalf is like an unskilled apprentice taking the master carpenter's axe. Those who substitute for the master carpenter rarely avoid injuring themselves—likewise, those who presume to kill on Heaven's behalf inevitably bring calamity upon themselves. This manifests either as human-caused misfortune or celestial retribution.

(This scripture passage contains two key points: The first section demonstrates that formal penal methods cannot be rigidly applied, revealing profound compassion behind apparent severity; the second section elaborates...)

This passage offers commentary on the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), elucidating several key concepts:

On the relationship between rulers and the people: The people starve because those in power impose excessive taxes. The term "levying provisions" refers to the sustenance fees rulers extract from their subjects. When the ruling class demands too much, the populace falls into hunger and poverty. The people become difficult to govern precisely because rulers employ cunning methods to control them—prompting the lower classes to respond with deceitful tactics of their own, thus creating an unmanageable situation.

On the Dao of life and death: People court death recklessly due to excessive pursuit of pleasurable living. Only those who do not obsess over prolonging life prove wiser than those who cling desperately to longevity. The phrase "thickening the means of life" refers to the counterproductive obsession with preserving one's existence—ironically leading to premature death. Those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) do not disregard life, but rather align with nature's flow, avoiding forceful striving, and thereby preserve their vitality more effectively.

Chapter 62 employs vivid metaphors: Living beings remain soft and supple, while corpses grow rigid; flourishing plants are tender, whereas withered ones become brittle. This observation leads to the conclusion: Rigidity belongs to the category of death, while pliability belongs to life. Just as military forces that rely on brute strength often fail to prevail, and towering trees become prime targets for felling—these examples all illustrate how the soft overcomes the hard.

The commentary particularly emphasizes how observing these natural phenomena in humans and plants reveals principles for conduct: Those with unyielding temperaments often meet untimely ends, belonging to death's domain; while gentle-natured individuals excel at preserving life, representing the path of thriving existence.

In warfare, the side that deliberately appears weak often harbors profound strategies, luring the enemy into underestimating them and thus securing victory. Conversely, armies that flaunt their strength tend to be shallow in thought and arrogant, provoking the enemy's fear and heightened vigilance, making victory difficult. As military strategy states: "Begin as quiet and unassuming as a maiden, lulling the enemy into complacency, then strike as swiftly as a fleeing hare, leaving them no time to resist." The Qin army, brimming with arrogance as they marched through Zhou territory, suffered a crushing defeat at Mount Yao. Similarly, the Qi army, parading their might upon entering Jin, met their downfall at the Battle of An—both clear examples of how reliance on strength leads to defeat.

This mirrors the principle of trees: the slender branches at the top can be shaken by hand, while the sturdy trunk near the roots remains unmoved. Warfare and trees alike teach the same lesson—what appears hard and strong lies below, while what seems soft and weak rises above. An army that flaunts its strength will be defeated and brought low, just as the trunk, though mighty, remains buried in the earth, while the pliant branches sway high above. Extending this principle, the same holds true for human virtue (De): the rigid and proud inevitably fall from their lofty positions, while the humble and yielding are upheld by the masses.

Chapter 63 explains: The movement of the Dao (the Way) is like drawing a bow—what is high is brought down, what is low is raised; excess is reduced, and deficiency is supplemented. When drawing a bow, if the upper limb (the arc) is too high, it is pressed downward; if the tip is too low, it is lifted upward. The Dao reduces excess just as it presses down the high limb, and supplements deficiency just as it raises the low tip. Yet human actions are the opposite: they consistently take from the deprived to give to the surplus. The Dao causes the full to diminish and the humble to prosper, while people exploit the weak, devour the insignificant, and extract from the poor to enrich the powerful—utterly contrary to the Dao.

Only those who have attained the Dao understand the principle of offering their surplus to the world.

A ruler who embodies the Dao (the Way), though honored as the Son of Heaven and possessing the wealth of the four seas, never presumes upon his exalted status. He eats simple meals, wears plain clothing, and dwells in modest quarters, conserving resources for the world without wasteful extravagance. He allocates farmland, teaches people cultivation techniques, reduces taxes, and ensures the people are well-fed and clothed. Thus, the ruler uses his surplus to nourish all under heaven.

Therefore, sages act without claiming credit, achieve without dwelling on accomplishments, and have no desire to flaunt their wisdom. Though their merits could cover the entire world—indeed, they possess abundance—they do not rely on their abilities, appearing as if they had none; they do not cling to their achievements, seeming as if they had accomplished nothing; they never seek to display their worthiness. These are all expressions of diminishing their own surplus.

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard, for there is no substitute for water. Metal and stone are the hardest substances, yet both must be polished with water—water is the foremost conqueror of hardness, unequaled by anything else. Though one might seek alternatives, none can replace it.

The principle that the soft overcomes the hard and the weak overcomes the strong is known to all under heaven, yet none can truly embody it. Water, the softest of all, can wear down the hardest metal and stone—proof that weakness conquers strength. Though everyone knows this truth, none can practice the way of softness. How lamentable!

Thus, the sage says: "Only those who can bear the disgrace of a nation are fit to be its lords; only those who can shoulder its misfortunes may become kings of the world." "Disgrace" refers to filth, and "misfortunes" to inauspiciousness. These are despised by ordinary people, seen as base and shameful. But the sage is different—even if the entire nation heaps such names upon him, he accepts them without refusal. For he maintains his softness, willingly occupying the lowest and most humbled position, unlike the rigid who always seek to rise above. Thus, the spirits bless him, enabling him to govern the land; the people rally to him, allowing him to rule the world. The rigid incur divine wrath and popular rebellion, losing their nations and the world, while the soft receive divine favor and popular support, preserving both. This is clear proof that weakness overcomes strength.

True words often sound like their opposite.

Laozi believed that "moving in the opposite direction" manifests the operation of the Dao (the Way) and the profundity of De (Virtue). Thus, while speaking of the proper path, his words often sound paradoxical. For instance: what appears dim is actually bright, what seems like retreat is truly advancement, what looks crooked is in fact straight, and what seems clumsy is genuinely skillful. These seemingly contradictory appearances precisely constitute the means to achieve positive outcomes.

Regarding the issue of "reconciling grievances": The original intention is to assist virtuous people, but mere mediation may ultimately fail to help. This exemplifies the principle that "true words seem paradoxical." Older editions placed this statement at the end of the previous chapter, but that chapter had already concluded perfectly with the sage's four maxims and shouldn't have an additional line appended. Other chapters don't follow this format either—for example, both the "Abandon Learning" and "Sparing Speech" chapters begin with four-character phrases that serve as guiding principles before expanding in detail. Moreover, the rhyming of "fan" (reverse), "yuan" (resentment), and "shan" (goodness) indicates this sentence should open the current chapter.

Attempting to reconcile deep-seated hatred will inevitably leave residual resentment—how can this be considered true goodness? Here "he" means to pacify, while "yuan" refers to harbored malice toward others. "Da yuan" indicates profound enmity, whereas "yu yuan" denotes lingering resentment that remains unresolved in one's heart. "Wei shan" means to assist virtuous people. When two parties are in conflict, reconciliation is necessary to dissolve hostility. But if both are good people, there would naturally be no resentment requiring mediation; if both are wicked, their hatred would accumulate until mutual destruction—whether through one prevailing over the other or mutual ruin—with bystanders simply observing developments.

The real problem arises when virtuous people unfortunately incur the enmity of the wicked. Good people, being magnanimous, bear no thoughts of retaliation, but the wicked, nursing hatred, will inevitably harm them. Those wishing to help the virtuous must mediate their grievances and resolve conflicts. Though the intention is to assist good people, if one merely temporarily suppresses the wicked's vengeful impulses without truly dissolving the resentment, today's reconciliation only postpones the conflict—eventually the hatred will erupt again. How can this be considered genuine assistance to the virtuous?

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao), though holding the creditor's tally (in ancient times, the "left contract" served as proof of debt), never demands repayment from others. This illustrates the Dao-attained person's magnanimous attitude of treating people with generosity and avoiding petty calculations.

Holding the left half of a debt contract yet not actively pursuing repayment exemplifies the attitude of wuwei (non-action) toward external matters. In ancient times, a qi (contract) was inscribed on a wooden tablet and split down the middle, with each party keeping half as proof. The creditor retained the left half while the debtor held the right half. Historical records like the Shiji mention "handling affairs with the right contract," and the Liji notes "those presenting land deeds hold the right contract," confirming that the left half served as the creditor's proof.

The holder of the left contract does not actively demand repayment but waits for the counterparty to present the right half for verification. When someone arrives with the matching right half, the debt is honored immediately, without judging whether the debtor is good or evil. Those who deliberately perform good deeds fall short of this wuwei approach—just as the left-contract holder refrains from pressing claims, they observe all things in stillness and follow nature's course.

A person of De (Virtue) resembles this contract holder, free from calculation, while one lacking De acts like a tax collector scrutinizing every detail. The "che" system was an ancient tax method; the Zhou dynasty replaced the "zhufa" (eight families jointly cultivating public land) with "chefa" (equal division of all harvests) out of concern for uneven distribution. The left-contract holder allows others to claim what they will without dispute, thus embodying De; the tax collector, anxious about imbalance, schemes at every turn, revealing the absence of De. Those who deliberately mediate grievances resemble such collectors, constantly fearing the weak might suffer, only to disrupt nature's equilibrium.

The Dao treats all things impartially, yet mysteriously safeguards the truly virtuous. Here, the "virtuous" are not those who force goodness but those who align with nature's flow, free from contrived calculation—the ones who have attained the Dao.

This passage discusses the relationship between sages and the Dao of Heaven (Tian Dao). Sages approach all things without selfish intent—they neither deliberately prevent the wicked from facing retribution nor stand idly by while the virtuous suffer. The Dao of Heaven is impartial and selfless, always aiding those who are good. Though sages do not consciously perform good deeds, the Dao of Heaven naturally ensures that the virtuous receive protection and does not allow the wicked to act with impunity.

Earlier, it was mentioned that sages do not employ punishments, yet evildoers ultimately face divine retribution; here, it is said that sages do not involve themselves in grievances, yet the Dao of Heaven naturally safeguards the virtuous. Laozi's principle of "non-action" (Wuwei) means entrusting everything to the natural workings of the Dao of Heaven. However, when the Dao of Heaven punishes the wicked or blesses the virtuous, it is not a matter of subjective will as in humans—it is simply the natural law that evil begets evil and good begets good.

Next, the passage describes the ideal society of "small states with sparse populations." The people possess various tools but do not greedily use them; they value life and do not lightly migrate. A group of ten is called a "shi," and a hundred is called a "bo"—"shi-bo tools" refer to large communal implements. Not using these tools reflects a lack of desire for external achievements; valuing life means nurturing it well; not traveling far means settling peacefully in one's homeland, living and dying there. Laozi sought to restore the Zhou dynasty—then in decline—to the simple purity of ancient times. Large states are difficult to govern, whereas small, sparsely populated ones are easier to manage, allowing people to remain content and self-sufficient.

Even if there are carts and boats, they are not ridden; even if there are weapons, they are not displayed. Carts, boats, and weapons are all communal goods—the reason they go unused is that without distant travel, carts and boats are unnecessary, and without conflict, weapons are unneeded. The people return to the simplicity of knotting ropes to record events. When customs are pure and affairs simple, the ancient method of knotted cords suffices—there is no need for writing, let alone large-scale tools.

Food is enjoyed as delicious, clothing is worn with comfort, dwellings are lived in with ease, and local customs are cherished. This describes the manifestation of valuing life without migration: contentment with existing food makes it taste wonderful; satisfaction with current clothing makes it seem beautiful—complete fulfillment brings constant joy. Settling peacefully in one's home and delighting in local traditions reflect the attitude of not wandering far.

Laozi observed that people are deeply attached to their homeland—who would willingly leave it behind? Even when neighboring states are within sight of each other and the sounds of crowing roosters and barking dogs can be heard, the people grow old and die without ever interacting. This illustrates how rooted people are in their native land, reluctant not only to travel far but even to engage with those living right next door.

Truthful words are not ornate, and ornate words often lack truth. Truly virtuous people do not argue, while those who love to argue may not be truly virtuous. The genuinely wise do not chase after breadth of knowledge; those who deliberately seek breadth may not truly understand the Dao. The final chapters of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) are written in a calm and simple style—without argument or displays of erudition—embodying genuine virtue and true wisdom. They speak plainly, without the embellishment of flowery language.

The sage accumulates nothing. The more they help others, the more they themselves are enriched; the more they give, the more they possess. By maintaining emptiness, they can respond to endless needs, whereas hoarding and clinging only limit what one can offer. As Zhuangzi said: "Those who always feel they lack enough are actually the poorest, while those who do not deliberately store up are the richest."

The way of heaven is to nourish all things without harming them; the way of the sage is to act without contention. Benefit often comes with harm, but heaven’s way nurtures without deliberate intervention, thus causing no injury. Action easily leads to conflict, but the sage accomplishes things through wuwei (non-action), thereby avoiding strife.

(These two chapters summarize the essence of the entire Daode Jing, showing that its five thousand words ultimately point to these truths.)