《道德真經注疏》Vol. 2

This scripture passage discusses the harms of excessive pursuit of sensory pleasures.

Regarding "the five colors blind the eyes": This doesn't mean literal blindness, but rather that obsession with the colors of blue, yellow, red, white, and black makes one unable to see what truly matters. Like the dazzling vermilion and jade chariots used by deities in their processions (ritual vehicles in Daoist tradition), their brilliance can obscure true perception. If practitioners cannot cultivate inner stillness but chase after superficial glamour, how are they different from the blind?

Regarding "the five tones deafen the ears": Overindulgence in the five musical notes (gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu) diminishes one's ability to hear the soundless music of the Dao. As Zhuangzi said, it's not just physical deafness but mental deafness. Those who only hear the clamor of bells and drums but remain deaf to the voice of the divine are no different from the hearing-impaired.

Regarding "the five flavors confuse the palate": "Confuse" here means to lose discernment. Craving sweet, bitter, spicy, sour, and salty tastes makes one lose the ability to perceive true flavor, thereby obstructing comprehension of the Dao's profundity.

Regarding "galloping in the hunt drives the mind wild": The human spirit should remain tranquil. When people rush about excitedly like hunters, their consciousness becomes scattered and frenzied, much like mourners wailing and running wildly during funerals with disturbed minds. Similarly, those constantly occupied with worldly affairs share the same restless mental state as hunters.

All these illustrate how excessive sensory stimulation damages human nature and clouds the clarity needed to comprehend the Dao. Practitioners should maintain inner serenity and avoid being deluded by external sights and sounds.

The text describes how people chase after external things and indulge in desires, behaving like hunters frantically pursuing prey, their hearts restless and agitated—a state that is truly pathological. The thrill of capturing birds and beasts, the indulgence in pleasure-seeking, resembles the derangement of a disturbed mind. Driven by such desires, people chase after external objects like frenzied hunters racing across the land.

Zhuangzi spoke of five ways in which human nature becomes corrupted: first, being deluded by dazzling colors so that the eyes can no longer perceive truth, and so forth. Rare treasures can impair one’s conduct (the character "妨" means "to harm"). Objects like the He Shi Bi jade of Zhao or the Pearl of Sui—gold, silver, and precious gems—if pursued with insatiable greed, will damage one’s virtue and invite disgrace. These dazzling objects ensnare people in obsessive attachment, becoming causes for the cycle of life and death and forming major obstacles on the path of cultivation.

Thus, the sage focuses on inner cultivation ("为腹" refers to safeguarding the innate nature of the five viscera, eliminating the six emotional desires, harmonizing the heart-mind and Qi, and nurturing the spirit), rather than being deluded by external appearances ("不为目" means the eyes do not gaze indiscriminately, lest the vital essence dissipate outward). The sage’s inner being is filled with Dao and De (Virtue), hence the emphasis on inner refinement. When turning their gaze inward, they perceive no forms; when listening within, they hear no sounds. Their senses remain pure, untainted by worldly dust, and thus they are not beguiled by superficial appearances. This is the principle of rejecting external temptations in favor of inner cultivation.

Regarding "宠辱若惊" (treating favor and disgrace as alarming): when favored, one is elated; when disgraced, one is fearful. In truth, both honor and humiliation disturb the heart-mind because one has not yet transcended attachment to them. Favor means glory and affection, while disgrace means shame and ridicule. People rejoice when honored and fret when humiliated—though the emotions differ, both are manifestations of mental agitation. The awakened remain indifferent to such things, regarding poverty and prosperity as the alternation of winter and summer, honor and disgrace as fleeting occurrences. Even life and death cannot disturb their spirit—how much less would they be alarmed by status, gain, or loss?

"贵大患若身" (valuing great calamity as if it were one’s own body): treating major misfortunes with the same gravity as personal concerns ("贵" means to value, "若" means "as if"). It is precisely because one fears impending disaster that alarm arises.

This scripture primarily discusses two core concepts: the relationship between "valuing the body" (guishen) and "great afflictions" (dahuan), and the impact of "favor and disgrace" (chongru) on human beings.

Regarding "valuing the body" and "great afflictions":

People typically prize their social status and rank, yet forget that the physical body itself is the root of suffering. Ordinary individuals only know to cherish this physical form and detest afflictions like illness and aging, failing to recognize these very troubles originate from the body itself. Excessive pursuit of material sustenance ultimately leads to the body's decay and demise. Thus, valuing the body equates to valuing calamity, while loathing misfortune equates to loathing the body. The Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) points out that the body is the source of suffering—all afflictions like cold, heat, pain, and itching stem from attachment to this physical existence.

Concerning the impact of "favor and disgrace":

"Favor" (chong) refers to honor and glory, while "disgrace" (ru) denotes humiliation and adversity. When receiving favor, people feel apprehension, for occupying high status is like standing at a cliff's edge—even in wealth and honor, one dare not become arrogant or extravagant. Losing favor also brings fear, as one worries about calamity striking again. For Daoist practitioners who attain the Dao (de), the myriad spirits (referring to the Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) throughout the body) operate in harmonious circulation—this is called "attaining it brings alarm." Conversely, losing primordial Qi and vital spirit leads to aging and death—termed "losing it brings alarm." Ordinary people consider receiving favor as beneficial, but from the perspective of wisdom, favor is actually base—because both gaining and losing favor cause mental distress. This dual anxiety stems entirely from attachment to "favor," hence the saying "favor is inferior."

Final summation: The reason we fear impending disaster is precisely because we possess this body. Having a body gives rise to all manner of worries—this is the true meaning of "valuing great affliction as the body."

This scripture primarily examines the relationship between the "body" and "afflictions," as well as how to transcend physical limitations to attain the state of "no-body" (wushen).

It first points out that excessive attachment to one's physical form—constantly worrying about hunger, cold, warmth, and satiety, or indulging in desires—inevitably invites misfortune. The Western Ascension Scripture states that the body is the root of suffering because we become bound by its various sensations. Those who truly understand this principle recognize that overvaluing the physical form and inviting calamity are essentially the same thing.

The text then explains the concept of "no-body": this does not mean destroying the physical form but rather achieving transcendence beyond bodily limitations through "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang, a meditative practice of forgetting the self). Cultivators who reach this state can rise lightly upon clouds, commune with the Dao, and naturally remain free from affliction. Such a state requires "leaving form behind and discarding knowledge" (transcending the constraints of both body and intellect), realizing that the physical form is not the true self.

From a governance perspective, the text illustrates: if a ruler only values their own person while neglecting the people, such rule cannot endure. Conversely, by caring for oneself (not for selfish gain but to better govern) and treating all things with humility, one becomes worthy of long-lasting stewardship of the world. As the Daode Jing states, this embodies the principle of "loving oneself without esteeming oneself."

Finally, it explains the terms "invisible" (yi) and "soundless" (xi) as descriptors of the Dao's nature: "invisible" means the Dao has no color and cannot be seen with the eyes; "soundless" means it emits no sound and cannot be heard with the ears. Because the Dao is impartial and undifferentiated, any visible form would imply distinctions—thus it transcends the realm of sensory perception.

This passage explains the three concepts of "Xi" (希), "Wei" (微), and "Yi" (夷) from the Daodejing. Laozi describes the nature of the Dao (the Way) with the phrases "listening but not hearing is called Xi" and "grasping but not obtaining is called Wei," which are further elaborated here:

"Xi" refers to a state without sound—not the kind of audible tones like musical notes, hence it is called "Xi." "Wei" denotes a formless state that cannot be touched or grasped, as the Dao has no concrete shape, thus it is termed "Wei."

The text specifically points out that "Xi," "Yi," and "Wei" correspond to three modes of existence: Jing (essence), Shen (spirit), and Qi (vital energy). "Jing" represents numinous wisdom, "Shen" signifies unfathomable function, and "Qi" manifests as form. When sages say they "do not see its essence, do not hear its spirit, and do not grasp its Qi," they are not denying their existence outright but indicating that these do not appear in conventional ways—not as ordinary color, sound, or form, but as higher-order manifestations: "color without color, sound without sound, form without form."

These three characteristics (Yi, Xi, Wei) cannot be fully articulated in words because they transcend sensory perceptions like color, sound, and form. They can only be comprehended through tranquil introspection. Though divided into three aspects, they are fundamentally one. The Dao is neither especially bright above nor dim below, showing its continuity without extremes. Whether ascending to the Sanqing (Three Pure Ones, the highest celestial realm) or descending to the Jiuyou (Nine Darknesses, the deepest underworld), it neither brightens nor darkens, embodying the Dao's eternal equilibrium.

The passage emphasizes that describing the Dao as formless does not equate to absolute nothingness, which would align with nihilistic views. In truth, the Dao exists in a manner that transcends conventional understanding—this simultaneous transcendence and immanence is the profound essence of the "Three-in-One" (San Yi) doctrine.

The profundity of the Dao lies in its unchanging constancy—neither increasing nor decreasing, yet perpetually present. It flows continuously without cease, defying definition through concrete names. It cannot be distinguished by colors (blue, yellow, red, white, or black), discerned through musical notes (gong, shang, jue, zhi, or yu), nor measured by form (long, short, large, or small). As the Jiejie commentary states, the Dao permeates human flesh and bones, hence it is described as "inexhaustible yet unnameable."

The Dao ultimately returns to its original state of formless essence. The term "inexhaustible" (绳绳) carries connotations of rectitude, much like a carpenter's plumb line that aligns both itself and others. The Dao's movement and transformation elude conceptual grasp, rendering it indescribable. Another interpretation suggests "inexhaustible" depicts the Dao's dynamic nature—it operates heaven and earth, nurtures all things, yet remains imperceptible to the senses. "Returning" signifies reverting to the source, while "formless" denotes the Dao's fundamental substance. The Dao can manifest responsively (visible and audible) while simultaneously withdrawing into nameless purity, hence the phrase "returns to formlessness."

This is the "form of the formless"—the Dao itself has no fixed shape yet endows all things with form; the "image of the imageless"—though devoid of materiality, it establishes patterns for all existence. The Dao's essence is mysteriously void (xiyi), yet it generates and transforms the myriad things, thus termed "the form of the formless, the image of the imageless."

This state is called "indistinct and vague" (huhuang), hovering between presence and absence, defying description. It is neither purely formed nor wholly formless, shifting dynamically between being and non-being. Meeting it, one cannot perceive its beginning ("confronting it, you see no head"), for the Dao has no starting point. Only by relinquishing selfish desires and distractions can one unite with it. As commentaries note: the Dao's manifestation takes form yet lacks substance; though fundamentally empty, it responds to creation. To declare it existent reveals no shape; to deem it nonexistent ignores its role as life's source. This elusive nature (as Gu Huan remarks)—appearing and vanishing without trace—epitomizes the Dao's profound mystery.

The Dao (the Way, cosmic origin) has no concrete beginning, so when you face it directly, you cannot see its starting point; nor does it have an end, so when you follow behind it, you cannot see its conclusion. The Dao belongs neither to antiquity nor to the present—it is formless, traceless, and an undivided whole without boundaries.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) upholds the ancient Dao to govern the concrete affairs of the present. Just as "the Dao gives birth to the One" (the initial state from which the Dao transforms and generates all things) can govern the myriad things, one who understands that everything in the present also originates from this "One." By applying the ancient Dao of Wuwei (non-action, following natural spontaneity) to the active affairs of today (human intervention), one can return to a state of pristine simplicity. Though the times of antiquity and the present differ, the essence of the Dao remains eternal—only those who grasp the Dao can govern the myriad things. Those who can comprehend the ancient origin are the ones who have truly mastered the fundamental principles of the Dao.

The true practitioners (士, shi) of ancient times who attained the Dao possessed wisdom and De (Virtue/Power) so subtle and profound that their spiritual state resonated with the heavenly Dao. Their cultivation of virtue was unfathomably deep—inwardly, their contemplation was like that of a blind man, and their inner listening like that of a deaf person, making their realm utterly incomprehensible to ordinary people. Those skilled in cultivating the Dao could thoroughly grasp the most subtle and mysterious principles, yet their manifestation of De was so profound that it remained beyond ordinary recognition. This "wisdom of cultivation" (修行智慧) and the "realm of cultivation" (修行境界) were perfectly aligned.

This passage discusses the cautious attitude and inner state that Daoist practitioners should maintain.

"The profound cannot be known through ordinary consciousness, hence we can only sigh in awe" means that the true depth of the Dao cannot be comprehended through conventional thinking, leaving one with only reverent wonder. Precisely because it defies verbal description, we reluctantly resort to metaphors.

Practitioners should move through life as cautiously as crossing a winter river (yu ruo dong she chuan) - stepping carefully as ice may crack at any moment, maintaining reverence with each step. This attitude extends to daily conduct, being as circumspect in speech and intention as one who fears neighbors witnessing their mistakes (you ruo wei silin), thereby preserving purity of thought and word.

When interacting with others, one should maintain the dignified composure of a guest (yan ruo ke), avoiding frivolity or presumption to preserve purity of action. As cultivation deepens, inner attachments dissolve naturally like spring ice melting (huan ruo bing jiang shi), with desires gradually fading to reveal luminous emptiness.

Commentaries particularly note that "four neighbors" (silin) symbolizes not only actual neighbors but also life's adversities like birth/death and aging/illness, as well as the four demonic obstructions (si mo). Practitioners must maintain constant vigilance, as cautious about spiritual missteps as one would be about being caught in mundane faults.

This scripture describes seven virtues a Daoist practitioner should cultivate, using natural imagery to illustrate principles of mental and spiritual refinement.

When inner cultivation reaches a certain level, the practitioner maintains solemn dignity outwardly while preserving perfect serenity within—just as spring melts winter's ice without obstruction. This state is called "dun ruo pu" (simple as unhewn wood), meaning the heart remains as honest and unadorned as raw timber, guarding the shen (spirit) internally without ostentatious display. Upon achieving purity in the three karmic aspects (body, speech, and mind) and eliminating afflictions, one naturally attains harmonious De (Virtue) and returns to original simplicity.

"Kuang ruo gu" (open as a valley) describes a mind vast enough to embrace all things like an empty gorge. Freed from worldly attachments, the practitioner's purified consciousness expands to accommodate the entire Dao. "Hun xi ruo zhuo" (merged as if turbid) means maintaining fundamental authenticity while appearing ordinary—like clear water concealed within murkiness. Though inwardly immaculate, the adept blends seamlessly with mundane society without conspicuous distinction.

"Zhuo yi jing zhi xu qing" (turbid water clarifies through stillness) employs the metaphor of sediment settling to show how practitioners preserve purity amid worldly dust. Just as murky water gradually clarifies when undisturbed, sustained meditative practice leads to luminous clarity. This embodies the ideal of "remaining unstained while dwelling in stain"—engaging the world without contamination.

"An yi jiu dong zhi xu sheng" (tranquility gradually generates vitality through sustained stillness) reveals how prolonged serenity naturally nurtures life energy. Like water clarifying through extended quiescence, a mind anchored in lasting stillness allows vital forces to emerge organically. These seven virtues exemplify the heavenly principle of "rulers containing impurities"—the Daoist ideal of embracing all existence with boundless tolerance.

This scripture primarily explains how Daoist practitioners can attain unity with the Dao through "tranquility" and "gradual movement."

Practitioners should maintain inner stillness, keeping their hearts at ease even when responding to worldly affairs. Just as turbid water gradually clarifies through sedimentation, haste leads to demise while tranquility brings vitality. The truly wise understand how murkiness can transform into clarity, thus flowing with the mundane world without becoming tainted; they know danger can be converted to stability, thus moving gradually to enlighten beings. This subtle transformation cannot be achieved through forced striving—it requires single-minded dedication and long-term accumulation.

Those who maintain this cultivation method never pursue excessive fullness. Only those who avoid seeking absolute perfection can preserve existing accomplishments without obsessively chasing new merits. True sages remain capable of compassionately saving beings and achieving great virtue even amidst worldly turbidity.

The scripture further discusses the cultivation methods of "reaching extreme emptiness" (zhi xu ji) and "maintaining profound stillness" (shou jing du). "Reaching extreme emptiness" means practitioners must relinquish desires to achieve a state of ultimate void-like purity within. "Maintaining profound stillness" requires steadfast adherence to purity with sincere, grounded conduct. Only by calmly abiding in the "Middle Way" can one attain the supremely mysterious fruits of the Dao.

Finally, it speaks of all things growing and transforming, reminding practitioners to observe their patterns of returning to the origin. This serves as a reminder to value the root, for all things ultimately return to their fundamental source.

With extraordinary wisdom, Laozi observed how people are constantly driven by desires to pursue external things. Yet the essential nature of all phenomena (the wondrous origin) appears ever-changing while remaining eternally tranquil in its essence. The enlightened sage (zhiren) perceives this truth, realizing that through cultivation one may return to the original state of authenticity.

Consider how the lush foliage of plants and trees (yunyun) must eventually wither and return to their roots. All things undergo cycles of flourishing and decay, ultimately returning to their source to be renewed. The reason ordinary people cannot attain the transcendence of sages is precisely because they ceaselessly chase after external objects. If one can return to the origin, one may reach the sage's realm.

Returning to the root means returning to stillness. When plants wither and return to their roots, they regain peace; when humans return to their authentic nature (fanzhen), they attain stability. This return is called "restoring destiny" (fuming)—allowing life to return to its eternal true nature (zhenxing huiming). When the heart-mind withdraws from worldly disturbances and settles into tranquility, it can manifest the original wisdom-life.

This state of returning to eternal nature is what we call the "constant Dao" (the universe's eternal principle). Those who comprehend this everlasting truth are the ones who truly understand the Great Dao. Their wisdom can illuminate all darkness.

Conversely, those ignorant of this eternal principle invite misfortune through reckless action. Those who indulge in cunning schemes and deceitful arts ultimately lose their inner divine light (shenming).

If one fails to comprehend the principle of cultivating one's true nature and returning to original purity in harmony with the Dao, delusional thoughts will continuously arise, leading one to be pulled by external circumstances and creating all kinds of negative karma. Every action will invite misfortune. Like those who believe they understand the Dao without truly knowing it, their reckless actions only take them further from the Way, ultimately bringing calamity. Inability to maintain inner stillness means violating natural law—this is the root of disaster.

Those who truly understand the eternal principle of the Dao can eliminate selfish desires and embrace all things with vast openness. Like an empty valley that echoes all sounds, the awakened perceive both favorable and adverse circumstances as ultimately empty in nature, thus embracing all phenomena in the world. With this all-encompassing capacity, one naturally attains impartiality, undisturbed by any deluded thoughts. A heart that is fair and upright, capable of embracing all beings, naturally acts without bias.

Achieving this impartiality enables one to become a true ruler whom all under heaven turn toward. When self-cultivation reaches perfect balance and harmony, countless divine spirits (Shen) gather within. When a person is truly impartial, all things naturally align with them. As a Dharma King who guides sentient beings, it is precisely through embracing all existence with fairness and selflessness that one becomes the refuge for all.

When a ruler's virtue (De) connects with the divine, they unite with heavenly principle. As a sovereign who transforms beings, their virtue shelters all things with a compassion as vast as the sky. Virtue that resonates with heaven merges completely with the Dao. Such a one can nurture all beings equally like heaven while generating life endlessly like the Dao itself.

United as one with the Dao, one attains eternal existence. The mind becomes boundless as the great void, without coming or going, birth or cessation—completely aligned with the supreme Dao. Such a person encounters no danger even when their form disappears. Possessing all four perfections—impartiality, virtue matching heaven and earth, unity with the Dao, and boundless moral power—they remain free from calamity or fault. Even when returning to merge with heaven and earth, they never face true peril. The phrase "disappearance of the body" refers to the elimination of all traces of attachment—such a one can never encounter real danger.

This passage elucidates the Daoist perspective on different levels of governance as presented in the Daode Jing, offering a layered interpretation through Daoist thought.

The most sublime rulers (Taishang) were the nameless and formless sovereigns of antiquity. The people merely knew such rulers existed without perceiving any traces of governance, for this method of rule completely followed the natural Dao (the Way). Commentaries explain that "Taishang" refers both to the sage-kings of high antiquity and to the supreme Daoist deity Lord Taishang Daode Jun (one of the Three Pure Ones/Sanqing). Those of superior spiritual capacity directly comprehend the essence of the Dao, understanding the true meaning behind the title "Taishang."

The next level of rulers are those whom the people cherish and praise. Such sovereigns implement benevolent governance, with their De (Virtue/Power) manifesting outwardly, allowing the people to perceive their beneficence. Those of middling understanding require scriptural texts to grasp the Dao's principles, hence they admire rulers who demonstrate concrete virtuous conduct.

The third-tier rulers are those whom the people fear. These monarchs establish harsh laws and severe punishments to govern the state. Annotations indicate this represents further decline in the embodiment of Dao and De.

The lowest level of rulers are those whom the people despise and deceive. Excessive prohibitions create cumbersome decrees that burden the populace, who respond with deceitful compliance. Those of the poorest spiritual discernment become mired in material desires, fearing only worldly punishments without dread of karmic retribution, thus they mock and slander the words of sages. As the Daode Jing states: "When inferior scholars hear of the Dao, they laugh heartily at it."

The concluding phrase "insufficient trust" reveals the root cause: the ruler's own lack of integrity leads the people to distrust him in turn.

When rulers lack sincerity toward the people, opportunists and deceivers emerge below. The people respond in kind with insincerity, cheating their sovereign. All instances where subjects show contempt or insult toward their rulers stem from the ruler's own deficiency in integrity.

The sage-kings of antiquity governed with particular emphasis on matching words with deeds, ever cautious against straying from the Dao (the Way) or violating natural principles. Yet worldly people value empty, insubstantial rhetoric while distrusting the perfectly authentic teachings of the Dao, thus remaining perpetually confused as their karmic obstructions grow ever deeper.

In times of universal peace, when all affairs reach perfect completion, the people assume this occurs spontaneously, unaware of the ruler's subtle moral influence. Like sunlight and rain nourishing all things without claiming merit, people enjoy peace in daily life without gratitude, believing it all happens naturally.

Only after the primal simplicity of the ancient Dao was abandoned did the need arise to promote benevolence and righteousness. In the Dao's flourishing era, every household had filial children and valued loyalty—no special emphasis on virtue was needed. Only when the Dao declined and wickedness spread did doctrines of benevolence arise. Such attempts to civilize people through virtue already represent a departure from the fundamental principle of wuwei (non-action) in the natural Dao.

When rulers prize clever strategies, severe hypocrisy appears in society. Sovereigns who flaunt wisdom often neglect inner De (Virtue) while emphasizing superficial rhetoric, abandoning质朴 simplicity to pursue ornate formalities.

The text discusses how when society loses the natural Dao (the Way), falsehood and chaos emerge. Rulers who govern through cunning methods create a paradox—the more laws they establish, the more the people resort to deceit to circumvent them, even distorting the wisdom of sages into tools for wrongdoing. Zhuangzi once warned of the harm such cleverness inflicts upon all things.

In the ideal age of the great Dao, people lived without excessive knowledge or desire, and all things existed in natural harmony. But as the Dao declined, schemes and deception arose. People used cleverness to intimidate the ignorant, flaunted their talents to astonish the world, and as their innate simplicity faded, all manner of deceitful behavior flourished.

The phrase "When the six familial bonds are broken, filial piety and compassion appear" means that only when basic human relationships—between father and son, brothers, husband and wife—become disordered do people begin to emphasize virtues like filial devotion. In simpler times, these virtues existed naturally, without needing to be proclaimed. Just as when the moral integrity of the Zhou dynasty declined, figures like Zengzi and Min Ziqian had to exemplify noble conduct to remind society of its lost values.

Similarly, "When the state falls into chaos, loyal ministers emerge" reflects that only in times of political turmoil do loyal ministers step forward to support the ruler. In an era of peace and prosperity, people naturally embody benevolence and righteousness—loyalty requires no special promotion. It is like how stars become invisible under the bright midday sun. Only in the reigns of tyrants like Jie of Xia or Zhou of Shang did loyal ministers such as Long Feng and Bi Gan leave their names in history.

Finally, the text advocates "rejecting sagely wisdom and abandoning cunning," urging a return to primal simplicity. The pictographs of the Five Emperors' era or the writing system created by Cangjie pale in comparison to the pure simplicity of the Three Sovereigns' knotted-rope records. By discarding cleverness and deception, the people would gain a hundredfold benefit. If farmers devoted themselves to their work without selfish distractions, society could return to its natural state of harmony.

The true sage discards artificial distinctions and cunning wisdom, allowing people to return to their original nature and attain the greatest benefit. Excessive words only bring a hundredfold calamity (the phrase "hundredfold" is metaphorical, as Zhuangzi said: "The weak wine of Lu led to the siege of Handan; when sages appear, great thieves arise; Tian Chengzi used the wisdom of sages to steal the state").

Eradicate forced displays of benevolence and abandon superficial righteousness. When people cease striving for these external performances, they naturally restore their innate filial piety and compassion. For true virtue (De) is simple and unadorned. By eliminating contrived benevolence and discarding ritualized righteousness, people return to their fundamental nature without affectation. Filial piety springs from innate disposition, compassion arises spontaneously—this is how we recover the pristine simplicity of ancient times. As Zhuangzi observed: "Benevolence and righteousness are like the temporary thatched huts of ancient kings, or straw dogs used in sacrifices" (metaphors for forms that have lost their practical purpose). He also said: "If we abolish the forced righteousness of exemplars like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, all under heaven will naturally manifest virtue."

Eliminate opportunistic cleverness and abandon the pursuit of profit. Root out deceptive artifices that confuse truth and falsehood, block the pathways of greed, and close the doors to power struggles. Then thieves and robbers will vanish of themselves. When those above govern with impartial selflessness, those below will harbor no wicked thoughts. If people cease flaunting exceptional skills, they will lose the mind to contend for gain. Eliminate cunning artifice, and people won't quarrel; abandon profit-seeking, and they'll naturally become content—contentment leaves no room for theft. As Zhuangzi remarked: "If we break the fingers of master craftsmen" (metaphor for abolishing standards of exceptional skill), "all people under heaven will display their natural abilities."

These three matters (discarding sagely wisdom, abandoning forced benevolence and righteousness, and eliminating cunning profit-seeking) must be thoroughly eradicated. Yet mere doctrinal teaching is insufficient to transform the people, for written precepts cannot truly change hearts. These profound principles belong to sudden enlightenment methods suited to those of superior capacity—they're too abstruse for ordinary individuals.

Therefore, people must be given concrete cultivation methods (referring to what follows). The previous three points only indicate what to discard, without explaining how to proceed. Hence we must further point to practical paths of cultivation—the four methods described below. For those of average capacity, we cannot begin with profound doctrines but must start with fundamentals and progress gradually. Specifically, one must:

1) Maintain pristine simplicity (jian su bao pu)—preserve inner purity without seeking external ornamentation;

2) Hold fast to unadorned nature (bao pu)—guard innate simplicity without artificial refinement.

[Note: The remaining two methods from the original four aren't provided in this excerpt. The translation maintains the classical Daoist terminology while rendering the commentary in clear, flowing English paragraphs as requested. Key terms follow the provided glossary with pinyin parentheticals on first occurrence.]

This passage explains how Daoist practitioners should preserve their innate simplicity to serve as models for others. Specifically:

First, one must diminish selfishness and cultivate impartial integrity; second, one must restrain desires and learn contentment. The commentary clarifies that one should reveal the authentic self by discarding superficiality, guard simplicity to return to original nature, reduce selfish cravings to maintain fairness, and curb greed to pacify covetous impulses.

Regarding "abandoning learning" (绝学) and becoming "free from worries," this means relinquishing false knowledge (textual learning that contradicts the Dao) – by eliminating artificial refinement, one naturally becomes carefree. Supplementary annotations explain: one should set aside various scriptures to return to the pure unity of the Dao; only by abandoning contrived scholarship can one recover original genuineness; sever attachment to superficial learning and comprehend the principle of Wuwei (non-action), whereupon afflictions spontaneously vanish.

The text then illustrates with contrasting examples: the difference between "respectful assent" (唯) and "dismissive reply" (阿) is actually minimal, yet people delight in the former and resent the latter, failing to recognize both originate from the same mouth. Similarly with "praise" (善) and "criticism" (恶) – what pleases is deemed beautiful, what displeases seems hateful, though fundamentally no distinction exists. Clinging to such discriminations is the root of suffering, hence one must sever this attachment.

What Dao cultivators truly fear are rulers who refuse to abandon false learning (as they favor flatterers and execute the virtuous). Such fear is necessary, just as ordinary people dread the cycle of life and death. Worldly individuals drowning in artificial knowledge are like those lost in boundless wilderness, never finding their way out.

(Note: "Embracing simplicity" (抱朴) means preserving innate genuineness; "abandoning learning" rejects knowledge incompatible with the Dao; Wuwei is a core Daoist concept denoting natural non-interference; "dusty realms" metaphorically represent worldly afflictions.)

This scripture reveals the fundamental difference between worldly desires and Daoist cultivation by contrasting the states of "ordinary people" with the "sage" (Laozi's self-reference).

Ordinary people indulge in sensual pleasures like music and beauty, much like starving men before a lavish feast (the "Great Sacrifice" refers to the highest-grade offering of oxen, sheep, and pigs) who never feel satisfied. They are also like those who, climbing high in springtime, become entranced by the burgeoning vitality of all things. Their desires are like stubborn stains, persisting endlessly over time.

The sage (Laozi's self-reference), however, maintains a mind as clear and pure as an infant who has yet to laugh ("not yet laughing" describes the pristine state of a newborn). His heart is vast as the void ("expansive" conveys grand capacity), unattached to anything, like a drifting boat that follows the waves yet remains unmoored to any harbor ("without a home").

When ordinary people flaunt their wealth and cleverness, the sage appears as if he has lost something, seeming deficient. Yet this is not true lack—it is the deliberate rejection of worldly greed ("discarding and not taking"). Ordinary people squander their surplus wealth in extravagance and employ their excess cunning in deceitful schemes. The sage, however, abides in a state of "as if lacking," embodying the Daoist principle of "daily diminishing for the Dao"—only by continuously shedding desires can one draw near to the Dao.

I maintain the mind of a fool (referring to the Daoist practitioner's state of returning to original simplicity), not drifting with the currents like worldly people, but steadfastly holding the realm of "guarding the One" (Shouyi, a Daoist cultivation method meaning focused concentration) without wavering. This state is pure and free from distracting thoughts, resembling the undiscriminating mind of a simpleton.

Worldly people all appear clever and outwardly bright, while I seem dim and obscure. Master Heshanggong (a Han Dynasty commentator) explains this as the active concealment of wisdom. Ordinary people are always scheming and fond of flaunting their talents, while the wisdom of Daoist practitioners is transparent as the sun and moon, yet they restrain their radiance, thus appearing dull.

People of the world nitpick and act hastily, as if enacting strict laws; while I remain generous and tolerant. Ordinary people cling to distinguishing right from wrong, their hearts anxious and hurried; Daoist practitioners, however, see through the nature of all things, understanding that everything is illusory, and thus always maintain tranquility.

My realm is as vast and deep as the ocean (Heshanggong's version uses the character "晦," meaning dark and still), seemingly obscure yet actually transparent. Though coexisting with the mundane world, I always remain transcendent, yet not stagnating in this detached state, thus having no fixed point of attachment. My spirit drifts freely, like a bird with no resting place, my will always abiding in the wondrous realm.

All people in the world pursue action and achievement, while I alone appear dull as a stone and ignorant as a rustic. In truth, my mind has long been awakened—only my exterior seems clumsy. Ordinary people drown in desires without pause; though their pursuits differ, they are all attached to external things. The sage, however, sees through the emptiness of all phenomena, neither distinguishing right from wrong, appearing like a foolish and uncouth person.

I alone differ from ordinary people. Others are bound by emotions and desires, while my heart remains untainted.

(Note: "Guarding the One" [Shouyi] is an important Daoist cultivation method requiring practitioners to focus their spirit and return to the source; "Heshanggong" was a famous commentator on the Daode Jing during the Han Dynasty; the terms "sage" and "Daoist practitioner" in the text refer to enlightened individuals who have attained the highest spiritual realization.)

This passage expounds the principle of "valuing the nourishment from the Mother." Here, "nourishment" signifies practical application, while "Mother" refers to the Dao (the cosmic origin). Laozi states that he particularly emphasizes applying the wisdom of the great Dao. Ordinary people rely on cleverness and intellect to discriminate and calculate, whereas he maintains a state of primal simplicity, free from attachment to distinctions. Precisely because he is not deluded by sensory desires (sounds, sights, etc.), he can focus on the true Dao—this marks the difference between him and worldly people.

This section of the Daode Jing highlights, through contrast, the unique realm of Dao cultivators: while ordinary people chase sensory pleasures (external stimuli like sounds and sights), those who awaken to the Dao preserve inner emptiness and stillness, returning to the source of the Dao. "Suddenly obscure and forgetful" describes a transcendent attitude of not deliberately distinguishing between good and bad, gain and loss. In Daoist cultivation, this state is regarded as approaching the supreme realm of wuwei (non-action).