《道德真經疏義(二)》

The fourth volume of Exegesis on the True Scripture of Dao and De (with the first three volumes missing) was composed by Zhao Zhijian, primarily elucidating the "De Jing" (Book of Virtue) section. Here, the discussion centers on the first chapter, "On Supreme De," exploring the subtle relationship between the highest form of virtue (Shang De, Supreme De) and the Dao (the Way).

De (Virtue/Power) means "attainment"—it is only called De when it aligns with the Dao. De encompasses two meanings: first, the innate De, which refers to the Dao's natural function of nourishing all things; second, the practitioner's cultivation to harmonize with the Dao, ultimately returning to its source. A person of true Supreme De, though possessing the highest virtue, never boasts of having De. This virtue silently nurtures the people, benefiting generations without being recognized—hence it is called the supreme and unparalleled De.

In contrast, those who cling to outward displays of De lose its true essence. Only by reaching the state where self and objects are both forgotten, merging completely with the Dao, can one embody genuine De. If there remains even a trace of self-promotion, no matter how perfect one's conduct may seem, it can only be considered inferior De.

The highest form of De (Shang De) manifests as natural non-action (Wuwei), a mind purified of desire, and complete detachment from external things. In this state, worldly rules and norms lose their meaning. The next level of De (Xia De, Inferior De) still retains utilitarian motives, pursuing achievements, family glory, and posthumous fame—all tangible benefits.

As for "Shang Ren" (Supreme Benevolence), though it involves action, it arises entirely from spontaneity, devoid of any utilitarian purpose. This is like Heaven and Earth nourishing all things without seeking reward, or the sage embodying the Dao without claiming merit.

A person of lofty benevolence (Ren) assists others with kindness without seeking repayment. When seeing others in difficulty, they offer aid willingly, even at their own expense; when noticing others' faults, they forgive in private. Such actions are not for gaining merit, nor do they expect gratitude when bestowing favors. Precisely because no return is sought, more people receive their kindness, and those moved by their virtue multiply—this benevolent influence spreads naturally like flowing water. Thus, benevolence represents the highest moral attainment.

Those who uphold righteousness (Yi) act with clear principles. Righteousness means appropriateness—when people lose measure or things deviate from the proper path, the upright step forward to discern truth from falsehood and restore order. Such individuals fulfill their duties for honor in the near term and sacrifice for achievement in the long term, their actions always guided by purpose.

Those who emphasize ritual propriety (Li) establish norms, and if no one complies, they roll up their sleeves and enforce them. Ritual is the standard for conduct, requiring every gesture to conform to propriety. When social customs grow shallow and human hearts turn treacherous, external behavior must first be regulated. Though ritual can gradually align inner intentions with outward norms, if surface reverence conceals inner hypocrisy, it breeds resentment and conflict—this marks the beginning of ritual's collapse.

Thus, society first loses the great Dao (the Way) of natural non-action (Wuwei), then forfeits its simple virtue (De). Once virtue fades, benevolence alone sustains it; when benevolence wanes, righteousness becomes the reliance; and when righteousness vanishes, only ritual propriety remains to impose restraint.

The Dao is the highest form of virtue (Shang De, "upper virtue"), while its diminished manifestation is called Xia De ("lower virtue"). Upper virtue is united with the Dao, hence it is simply called the Dao. When people can no longer embody the serene non-action of upper virtue, they must settle for the active striving of lower virtue. Benevolence is but one among many virtues—when comprehensive virtue cannot be maintained, upholding benevolence alone is already commendable. Winning hearts through benevolence comes first; discerning right and wrong through righteousness follows. Righteousness binds hearts like penal law, while ritual merely regulates external conduct—thus, it demands repeated practice to master.

This passage discusses the relationship between inner cultivation and outward manifestation. If someone appears as a gentleman outwardly but lacks the gentle virtue (De) of compliance within, they are in fact a hypocrite—such individuals often become entangled in petty disputes.

Ritual propriety emerges precisely when loyalty and sincerity have waned, becoming instead the seed of disorder. True loyalty lies in single-minded devotion, while genuine sincerity means aligning words with deeds. As society shifts from simplicity to superficiality, people focus only on outward etiquette while harboring hypocrisy within—this is the root of chaos. The Great Dao (referring to natural law) values inner purity, as simple as a tree growing naturally in its unadorned state. Ritual propriety, however, emphasizes elaborate formalities, demanding every gesture conform to artificial standards. Cultivating the Dao focuses on refining the heart-mind, while observing rituals prioritizes external form. If one neglects inner cultivation while chasing worldly etiquette, how can disorder be avoided?

So-called "premature knowledge" (foresight) manifests in two ways: speaking before genuine understanding arises within, or aggressively asserting one's supposed prescience. True wisdom speaks only after inner realization, yet modern people chatter without understanding—like artificial flowers on a tree, they lose their essential simplicity, fueling competition for fame and profit, marking the departure from the Dao.

Therefore, those of true virtue (great persons) choose substantial depth over shallow appearances. They abide in inner authenticity, shunning vanity. One should discard flashy superficialities and embrace simple, profound virtue. For depth approaches the Dao, while ornamentation leads away from it.

(Note: This commentary on Chapter 38 of the Daode Jing critiques the prioritization of form over substance in society, emphasizing returning to simplicity in Dao cultivation. "Great persons" in Daoism refers to those of noble character who attain the Dao and guide others. "Dao" denotes the fundamental cosmic principle, while "ritual" represents human-made conventions.)

This scripture elucidates the concept of "One" and its fundamental role in the cosmos. "One" refers to the primordial Qi (vital energy), the initial manifestation of the Dao (the Way) as it begins to unfold. All phenomena in heaven and earth arise from this same primal energy.

Specifically: Heaven receives the clear and light Qi within the "One," maintaining its luminous purity; Earth obtains the turbid and heavy Qi within the "One," preserving its stable tranquility. Beyond the dual forces of Yin and Yang, there exists a "harmonizing Qi" (mediating energy). When this energy leans toward Yin, it gives rise to spirits, deities, and the numinous essence of mountains and rivers—all of which manifest their potency by drawing upon the Jing (essence) of the "One." Just as valleys brim with water when nourished by the "One," all beings depend on it for existence. Rulers who attain the balanced essence of the "One" become the guiding force of governance and moral teaching in the world.

The scripture then cautions: This "One" is supremely empty, tranquil, and formless. Heaven, Earth, and all things must hold fast to it to endure. If selfish desires or willful actions arise, this protective connection is lost. Should Heaven forsake its clarity, it may collapse; should Earth abandon its stability, tremors may follow. Though initially received naturally, the loss of the "One" often stems from human error—hence the warning of cosmic rupture as a reminder.

Crucially, the "One" is not merely the source of creation but requires sustained preservation. For practitioners, maintaining a state of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) is the key to upholding the "One."

This scripture elucidates the profound workings of the Dao (the Way) and how humans should abide by its principles.

First, it explains that the Shen (spirit) will wither without the "One" (the fundamental essence of the Dao) to sustain its vitality, just as a valley will dry up without the "One" to replenish it. This means that if the spirit becomes arrogant and self-satisfied, failing to maintain a state of emptiness and stillness, it will lose its numinous efficacy—just as a river that swells with pride and defies the principle of the "One" will ultimately exhaust its source.

All things perish if they lose the nourishment of the "One," just as rulers will collapse if they lose the foundation of the "One." The "One" is the mysterious Qi (vital energy) of the Dao, the root of all tangible things. If a person can return to this root and hold fast to the "One," they will preserve their life; but if they chase after superficialities and lose the "One," they will forfeit their true nature. Without the "One" as their foundation, even rulers in high positions will swiftly meet ruin.

The scripture uses six examples—heaven, earth, spirits, valleys, and others—to warn against arrogance and complacency. All beings, from the cosmos to the divine, revere the "One" as their shared principle.

Next, it expounds the teaching that "nobility takes humility as its root, and height takes the low as its foundation." Those who uphold the "One" must maintain a mind of emptiness and stillness, making no distinctions between noble and base. The humble and unassuming draw near to the Dao and remain secure, while the proud and overbearing defy the Dao and invite destruction. Thus, rulers refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" (self-deprecating terms like "one unfit for tribute"), demonstrating that they take humility as their foundation.

Finally, it states that "excessive praise is no praise at all": acclaim is illusory. Though the masses may collectively elevate a ruler, the title of "king" is ultimately a false construct. From the perspective of the body’s structure, the limbs and bones each have their own names—there is no fixed, inherent entity called "king." The title "king" arises from the people’s collective designation; in essence, it is unreal. Neither internally nor externally is there any true "king"—all names and forms are similarly illusory. Through this analysis of the concept of "kingship," the scripture reveals that all names and appearances are merely provisional constructs, dependent on causes and conditions.

This passage elucidates the Daoist concept of "returning to the origin and recovering one's true nature" (fanben guizhen). Drawing from the Zhuangzi and Xisheng Jing (Western Ascension Scripture), it explains that the human body is merely a temporary aggregation of the four elements (earth, water, fire, and wind), not an enduring reality. Just as pointing to individual parts of a horse doesn't capture the holistic concept of "horseness," these elemental components will eventually disperse—where then does the body truly belong?

The author critiques those who focus solely on literal interpretations of texts without grasping Daoism's profound truths, emphasizing that Daoist scriptures (Jing) should never be equated with mundane writings. Particular mention is made of Fu Yi, a Tang Dynasty scholar whose misconceptions about Daoism led him to dismiss the entire tradition based on the behavior of certain priests—a flawed approach that conflates human failings with the wisdom of the classics.

Regarding the phrase "not wishing to be prized like jade or rejected like stone": Jade symbolizes worldly pursuits of status, while stone represents humble simplicity. Daoist practitioners shouldn't chase external validation like coveted jade, but rather emulate the unassuming stone, content in its natural state and aligned with the Dao (the Way). This isn't advocating for moderation between extremes, but a definitive choice to return to primordial authenticity.

Finally, the passage interprets "returning is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao": True motion lies in reverting to the source, and true strength manifests through yielding. Ordinary people chase novelty, while cultivators discard superficialities to reclaim their roots. This seemingly static "return to origin" is in fact a profound dynamic process—not physical coming and going, but an inward journey of spiritual homecoming, like a traveler's ultimate return.

This scripture primarily elucidates the nature of Dao (the Way) and the varying levels of human comprehension regarding it.

Regarding Dao's essence: Dao itself undergoes no coming or going, no transformation, yet people describe it as "returning to the source." The cultivation method of maintaining inner emptiness and stillness while outwardly practicing gentleness and softness constitutes the actualization of this return. All things under heaven originate from "being" (concrete existence), while "being" itself arises from "non-being" (Dao). This "non-being" does not signify mere nothingness, but rather points to Dao's primordial state.

The scripture categorizes human understanding of Dao into three levels: Those of superior capacity, upon hearing of Dao, believe deeply and practice diligently; those of middling capacity remain half-convinced, alternating between yearning and doubt; those of inferior capacity laugh upon hearing of Dao, for they cannot comprehend the profound mystery of its formless, actionless (Wuwei), silent nature.

The author observes that the very fact inferior people laugh at Dao proves its authentic value. Were even the most shallow-minded to approve of it, this would indicate it wasn't the genuine Dao. Inferior individuals prize contention, deceit and cunning—precisely what contradicts Dao.

The text concludes by invoking ancient sages' teachings as corroboration: True wisdom has always been mocked by shallow people, yet this very mockery confirms its worth. Here lies an implicit admonition for cultivators to maintain steadfast conviction, unshaken by others' incomprehension.

The one who comprehends the great Dao appears outwardly simple-minded, while the practitioner making progress seems to retreat on the surface. This was the cultivation method of ancient sages - the truly wise hold firm conviction within and practice diligently, inwardly illuminated yet outwardly appearing dim, even regressive in manifestation.

The smooth and even great path appears rugged and uneven. Though the mind harmonizes with Dao in serene stillness, external conduct remains ordinary (some versions interpret "类" as moderation). Inner tranquility manifests as no different from common folk.

Noble De (Virtue) resembles a valley's boundless capacity; the purest seem sullied, while vast virtue always appears insufficient. The valley symbolizes the all-embracing mind, as does supreme De. Though inwardly immaculate, the exterior appears tainted; though virtue is expansive, its expression seems mediocre and dull.

Establishing De should be like acting stealthily ("偷" meaning proceeding discreetly), maintaining pure essence while adapting to change ("渝" denoting transformation). Cultivation proceeds unobtrusively as if fearing discovery, aiming to conceal fame and avoid ostentation (ancient texts alternatively use "输" meaning humble compromise, or interpret as simple-mindedness). Laozi, as the great sage, expounded scriptures to accommodate worldly needs, emphasizing essential comprehension over Confucian textual minutiae. Though versions vary, "stealth" captures the truest meaning. "渝" also suggests light coloring - maintaining inner purity and unwavering Dao while externally adapting to circumstances. This faint hue represents neither defilement nor purity, like the indistinguishable state between blue and white.

True squareness has no corners; the most precious vessel takes longest to complete. These four statements describe the achieved state of cultivation: practitioners of supreme righteousness don't quibble over trivialities (small edges damage the true path); the Dao-cultivating mind is the most precious vessel - worldly objects may be large but easily finished, while this work of Wuwei (non-action) requires prolonged accomplishment, hence "late completion."

The greatest sound cannot be heard; the grandest form cannot be seen. "Great sound" refers to discourses on Dao - few are the enlightened who speak, and few the genuine seekers, thus the greatest sound becomes rare. This cautions against excessive speech. The realized maintain essential simplicity without external adornment, hence "formless."

The great Dao remains concealed and nameless. This reveals Dao's essence: the supreme Dao has no form that people can perceive, thus "hidden"; no substance to name, hence "nameless." Though Dao nurtures all things, we reluctantly call it "great Dao." The preceding eight "as-if" and four "great" descriptions all follow this principle - outwardly hidden yet inwardly luminous, the fundamental tenet of cultivation.

This scripture primarily elucidates how the Dao (the Way) accomplishes all things through the method of "skillful lending" (shandai), as well as the cosmological process of "the Dao begets all things."

Regarding "skillful lending": Only the Dao can temporarily lend out its primordial qi (vital energy) to bring all things to completion. Here, "lending" refers to a temporary borrowing, not a permanent bestowal; "provisional completion" means temporary achievement, not eternal fixation. This is so that all beings receiving the Dao's grace may understand that what they attain will not last forever, and they should timely return to the source. This mechanism of "lending for completion" contains profound meaning.

Concerning the process of "the Dao begets all things": First, the Dao as ultimate emptiness (zhiwu) gives birth to the primordial "One" (miaoyou). This "One" is the Dao's primordial qi (Taihe) – though formless and soundless, it generates the "Two" (yin and yang qi). The yin and yang qi then produce the "Three" (concrete forms and substances), namely Heaven, Earth, and Humanity: Heaven composed of pure yang and clear qi, Earth of pure yin and turbid qi, while Humanity arises from the harmonious blending of yin and yang qi. This generative process reveals the layered evolution from emptiness to subtle existence, and then to concrete phenomena.

A special explanation is given regarding the "One" as transitional state: neither complete emptiness nor concrete existence, it contains the potential of all phenomena and can differentiate into the clear and turbid qi (yin and yang). Though yin and yang separate, they remain fundamentally unified in the "One." This generative process is not simple numerical addition, but rather demonstrates the wondrous mechanism through which the Dao creates all things via different levels of qi transformation.

This passage explains how the Dao gives birth to all things through the harmonization of Yin and Yang Qi (vital energy). The fundamental Dao disperses into the two energies of Yin and Yang (the "two centers"), just as the Dao permeates the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity. Each of these three contains both Yin and Yang. When the two energies of Yin and Yang are complete with harmonious Qi (mediating energy), all things can spontaneously come into being. Without this harmonious Qi, even Heaven and Earth's Yin-Yang couldn't exist independently, let alone generate the myriad creatures.

The "birth" described here doesn't refer to physical reproduction as we know it, but rather the creative process from emptiness to form, from subtle essence to coarse manifestation. When humans first came into existence, they took shape through the tranquil condensation of clear and turbid Qi (the pure, light energy ascending to form Heaven and the heavy, murky energy descending to form Earth). The spiritual consciousness (Shen) contained within them represents the essence of the Dao, sharing the same origin as Heaven and Earth. Thus, the Western Ascension Scripture states: "I share the same Qi with Heaven and Earth while fulfilling different functions"—this reveals the principle of holding to the fundamental. The phrase "three gives birth to all things" means that Heaven and Earth generate creatures, humans then reproduce offspring, and together they nurture all beings to fulfill their respective purposes. Thereafter, all things continue through the interaction of Yin-Yang and physical reproduction—hence "three gives birth to all things."

The statement "All things carry Yin and embrace Yang, achieving harmony through the interplay of Qi" means: what bears downward is Yin, what embraces upward is Yang. The mediating Qi (neutralizing energy) flows between them, harmonizing the five viscera and six bowels, thereby completing both form and spirit. Just as plants grow from earth toward heaven, they too carry Yin and embrace Yang with harmonious Qi—only without conscious awareness.

Though people generally despise being called "orphaned," "widowed," or "unworthy," lords and kings use these terms for themselves. This shows how when emotional desires arise, preferences and aversions emerge—the beginning of karmic creation for sentient beings. Ordinary people hate such terms while chasing wealth and selfish gain, only to invite misfortune; rulers humble themselves with these titles and ultimately receive honor. Commoners seem to profit by harming others but actually incur loss; nobles lose by self-deprecation yet gain thereby. This illustrates the transformative principle of loss and gain.

The teachings others give me, I in turn use to teach others. This connects the meaning throughout the entire passage.

This passage expounds on Laozi's teachings regarding the contrast between "Wuwei" (non-action) and "youwei" (deliberate action). Ordinary people often pursue deliberate cultivation, violating the natural law of non-action, which leads to losing inner humility and risking premature death. Those who act tyrannically and domineeringly often meet untimely ends, as their aggressive competitiveness and self-serving harm to others ultimately result in unnatural demise.

Laozi (revered in Daoism as "Lord Lao") proposes taking the teaching of "self-diminishment and restraint" as fundamental, using the distinction between "diminishment" and "benefit" to enlighten future generations. This chapter first discusses how the origin of life inspires yearning, then warns of calamities, aiming to persuade people to abandon trivialities and return to the root.

The text then explains how the softest things in the world can master the hardest. This contains two meanings: externally, the Dao is the softest yet can penetrate things as hard as metal and stone; internally, the Dao-mind (the original mind of practitioners) is most yielding yet can dissolve afflictions as solid as metal and stone.

"Wu you ru yu wu jian" means: when the human mind eliminates all distracting thoughts (reaching the state of "non-being"), it can unite with the supreme Dao ("wu jian" refers to the Dao's flawless subtlety). Although the Dao is mysterious and unfathomable, an empty and luminous mind can harmonize with it. Thus we understand that maintaining humility and practicing non-action brings the greatest benefit to humanity.

This passage from the Daode Jing discusses the "teaching without words" and the "benefits of Wuwei (non-action)"—realms few in the world can attain. Those who truly understand the Dao guide others through their actions rather than verbal instruction; students of the Dao grasp its meaning through observation, their bodies unburdened and minds free from attachment. One must first dissolve vexations to enter a state of unconstrained freedom—this is the advantage brought by Wuwei.

Teaching without words leaves nothing for the listener's ears to hear; practicing Wuwei offers nothing for the observer's eyes to see. This realm transcends ordinary perception and is incomprehensible to most, which is why so few achieve it. Only those who penetrate appearances to perceive the essence can comprehend this wordless teaching.

Chapter Seven compares the weight of fame and wealth against life itself. While the preceding text explains the virtue of Wuwei and the benefits of wordless teaching, this section reveals how worldly people pursuing "action" often harm themselves through greed. Gain precedes loss, so the argument unfolds in three points: first, weighing which matters more—fame or life; second, showing that deeper greed brings greater danger; and finally, explaining that only by cutting off desire and knowing contentment can one endure.

Fame is an empty reputation external to the self, while the body is the root of one's nature and life. Without the body, life ends; without fame, one may endure longer. Thus, the wise conceal their renown to avoid calamity and preserve life, while fools chase fame, exhausting their Shen (spirit) and endangering their lives. Laozi poses a question: which is closer to you—your body or your reputation? This invites reflection, addressing the tendency of his era where people harmed themselves for fame, warning against such delusion.

Material goods are meant to nourish life, yet some covet wealth to the point of losing their lives, as if possessions mattered more than their bodies—the height of folly. A single arm is worth more than the whole world, let alone the benefit of preserving one's entire life. This admonition is directed at ordinary people.

Next comes a comparison of gain and loss: the world considers acquiring fame and wealth good, and losing them bad. Yet from the Dao's perspective, gain brings disgrace, harming righteousness and inviting disaster, while loss brings peace of mind, growth in De (Virtue), and the arrival of blessings. Fame and wealth are shared resources—moderation brings fortune, excess invites calamity. Only those who discern the boundary between sufficiency and excess are truly wise.

Excessive craving inevitably leads to great depletion; hoarding too much guarantees severe loss. This explains why chasing fame is perilous: obsessive attachment damages the Shen and harms life.

This passage expounds on the wisdom of knowing contentment and recognizing limits, as well as the principle that great intelligence appears foolish.

Regarding knowing contentment and limits: Those who know contentment avoid disgrace; those who understand when to stop steer clear of danger—this is the path to enduring prosperity. Contentment encompasses two aspects: first, what one's nature requires (innate needs), such as eating when hungry or dressing warmly when cold—once satisfied, that is enough; second, material needs (external possessions), taking only what is rightfully one's share. Continuing to eat beyond satiety or adding unnecessary layers when already warm not only harms the body but invites the reputation of insatiable greed. Forcibly pursuing what is not rightfully yours inevitably brings peril.

Concerning "great perfection seems defective": Those who achieve true greatness appear as if lacking. Like an excellent well that never runs dry no matter how much water is drawn, they are inwardly abundant in De (Virtue) while outwardly maintaining humility. This stands in stark contrast to those who chase fame and fortune only to meet ruin.

Regarding "great fullness seems empty": Those perfect in Dao and De appear outwardly modest and receptive. They adapt flexibly to circumstances, their wisdom never exhausted. Though already perfected, they maintain an attitude of humility.

The scripture teaches us: In conduct, one must understand moderation and maintain humble discretion—only then can misfortune be avoided and lasting blessings obtained. True wisdom and virtue often manifest without ostentation.

The inner mind aligns with the true Dao (the correct principles of cultivation), eliminating selfish desires and evil thoughts—this constitutes the greatest integrity. Outward behavior conforms to worldly customs, yielding and compromising without violating common sense, appearing submissive yet embodying wisdom.

True brilliance appears clumsy. Skillfully employing various methods to resolve problems with perfect appropriateness is genuine ingenuity; following conventions without seeking novelty makes one seem dull on the surface.

True eloquence resembles speechlessness. The ability to discern truth from falsehood and analyze complexities constitutes real rhetorical skill; refraining from empty talk and remaining silent upon grasping the true meaning makes one appear inarticulate. (Three similar statements follow.)

Restlessness can withstand cold, while tranquility overcomes heat. This uses natural phenomena to metaphorize extreme states: cold represents the qi of withering, while heat symbolizes the qi of growth. When yang qi becomes excessively agitated, it turns to cold, causing all things to wither; when yin qi reaches perfect stillness, it generates heat, enabling all things to flourish. For humans, overly impulsive behavior damages virtue and merit, leading to failure and the proliferation of evil thoughts, just as the withering qi destroys good deeds. Maintaining perfect stillness may seem deficient, yet the accumulation of benevolent qi allows merit to grow continuously.

Serene non-action (Wuwei) is the true way to govern the world. "Serene" means remaining untainted by external things, while "still" signifies an unmoved inner mind. Unaffected by external dust, the six senses (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) remain pure; with inner stability, the spirits of the five viscera are pacified. Such harmonious and tranquil virtue can serve as a model for the world, hence it is called the "true way."

(Subsequent chapter titles are retained in their original form without translation: Chapter 9: "Under Heaven," Chapter 10: "Not Emerging," Chapter 11: "On Learning," Chapter 12: "The Sage," Chapter 13: "Emerging from Life," Chapter 14: "The Dao Gives Birth," Chapter 15: "Returning to the Origin" (originally missing).)

This is the content of the fourth volume of The Commentary on the True Meaning of the Dao De Jing.

This passage discusses how rulers who deviate from the Dao (the fundamental principle of natural non-action/Wuwei) by excessively pursuing superficial achievements will face severe consequences.

If I were to employ even slight wisdom in implementing the Dao, my greatest fear would be excessive human intervention. The phrase "were I" here is hypothetical, with "slight" indicating minimal interference. Some scholars interpret this "minimal" as small-scale, referring to implementing the Dao with limited wisdom. Forcing teachings upon people through artificial means resembles ancient military tactics where one in ten was executed—methods so harsh they made even fathers and brothers wary and defensive. How much more disruptive would it be to enforce teachings through clever manipulation? Such actions obscure the light of the sun and moon, disrupt the spiritual energy (Qi) of mountains and rivers, throw the four seasons into chaos, and even harm the smallest creatures. Simple folk customs become corrupted, the harmony of the Three Powers (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity) is lost, and the order of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) is thrown into disarray. Nothing in the world is more terrifying than this, and the damage it causes is immense. That is why even the slightest thought of intervention must be avoided.

The Dao is inherently smooth and straightforward, yet people always prefer shortcuts. Here, "shortcut" refers to deviant paths—superficial virtues like forced benevolence and righteousness, or deliberate pursuit of blessings—none of which are the true Dao. People chase these things frantically, unaware they have strayed from the right path. The true Dao is simple and natural, free from desires and conflicts. Internally, it does not exhaust the spirit (Shen); externally, it does not waste resources. Sitting in stillness and practicing non-action (Wuwei), the world naturally transforms. Sadly, most people fail to understand this principle.

When the court becomes overly adorned, fields lie severely fallow, and granaries stand utterly empty—here, "court" refers to the place where the Dao is upheld, originally meant for collective cultivation. It should adhere to principles of humility and simplicity. Yet now, the plain earthen steps and thatched roofs of modesty are destroyed, replaced by ornate palaces and towers, extravagantly carved for show and lavishly decorated to elevate status. This is the manifestation of "an overly adorned court." Forcing farmers into labor conscription leaves the eastern highlands untilled and the southern fields barren—this is "severely fallow fields." Good harvests go uncollected, walls crumble, roofs leak, the people go hungry, and the state lacks reserves—this is "utterly empty granaries." For those cultivating self-cultivation, the "court"... [text continues]

The heart is the gathering place for the deities of the five viscera and all spiritual activities, as well as the convergence point for fame and gain, right and wrong, and discursive thoughts. Thus, the heart is likened to a royal court. One should continuously reduce desires and distracting thoughts to attain the state of Wuwei (non-action). Yet some people disregard their simple original nature, indulging in empty and exaggerated speech. The "court" (referring to the heart) becomes severely polluted, filled with desires, entangled with judgments, dark and filthy like a neglected hall of wisdom, where insight cannot arise—a barren field of the heart. Without cultivating the Dao, lacking virtuous deeds, it is like an empty granary.

Dressed in splendid robes and girded with sharp swords, they show no interest in fine food yet hoard it in mountains; possessing more wealth than they could ever use. The body seeks extravagant adornment, with clothes that must be flimsy and ornate; the heart harbors greed and cruelty, harming others to benefit oneself like wearing a sharp sword; facing delicacies yet unable to lift chopsticks; amassing treasures from the world to fill their storehouses. This is called "robber's ostentation"—such behavior does not accord with the Dao. These possessions are not rightfully theirs but are obtained by exploiting the people, akin to banditry, yet they flaunt their wealth. Calamity will surely be profound—how can this be called cultivating the Dao?

The criticisms above all pertain to actions that do not follow the great Dao. Even those who uphold benevolence and righteousness have already strayed from the Dao—how much more so those who pursue deviant paths beyond these virtues?

Chapter 17: The Good Builder (The preceding explains the dangers of favoring deviant paths, insatiable greed, and harming others for personal gain. Here, the importance of treasuring the true Dao and abiding in one's original nature is clarified. Through self-cultivation and benefiting others, first addressing the illness, then treating it, the discussion proceeds to three points: first, explaining how good people remain steadfast in their resolve to uphold the Dao; second, illustrating how self-cultivation gradually extends its benefits to family and beyond; and third, showing how this leads to understanding the deepest bonds of kinship.)

What is well planted cannot be uprooted; what is well embraced cannot be lost. "Planting" signifies the beginning of establishing something, while "uprooting" is the consequence of collapse and ruin. Those who resolve to cultivate the Dao, correct their beginnings, and solidify their foundation—unshaken by circumstances—can be called skilled builders. "Embracing" means holding fast, and "losing" means letting go. Those who steadfastly maintain their devotion to the Dao without wavering are skilled at holding on.

Their descendants will never cease in sacrificial offerings. "Ceasing" means stopping. Families with ancestral temples flourish when their descendants prosper, and their sacrifices continue; when descendants decline, the sacrifices end. But those who establish lofty aspirations, uphold the Dao without fail, and accumulate goodness will enjoy enduring blessings—extending to ancestors above and descendants below, generation after generation of wise successors without interruption.

This passage discusses the progressive stages of cultivation from the Daode Jing—"cultivating the self, the family, the community, the nation, and the world"—along with three methods of observation.

First, it clarifies that Daoist practice isn't restricted by social status; even ordinary people (commoners in white robes) may cultivate. To refine oneself through the Dao, one must eliminate excessive desires and hypocrisy, focusing on preserving innate authenticity (Shouyi, "guarding the One"), thereby attaining pure Virtue (De). Extending this practice to family life enables the entire household to return to simplicity, finding contentment in humble circumstances while delighting in the Dao—this is called "having surplus."

When practiced within a community, neighbors will admire and emulate this way of being. People naturally understand proper hierarchy, transforming greedy competition into integrity, making Virtue enduring. Governing a nation through the Dao ensures all citizens receive transformative teachings, improving customs and creating material abundance—this is called "plenitude." Expanding to the world, the Dao's influence spreads like torchlight passing from hand to hand, benefiting all beings down to the lowliest mugwort and insects—this is "universality."

Three observational methods follow: First, "comparative observation" (youguan) involves contrast—for example, comparing a cultivated body with an uncultivated one to see which endures. Second, "insight into emptiness" (kongguan) perceives the illusory nature of form, realizing the Three Realms (desire, form, and formlessness) are ultimately empty. Third, "true observation" (zhenguan) investigates bodily essence, contemplating what constitutes limbs and bones, what governs Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit), seeking truth through scriptures.

These methods progress from surface to depth: beginning with external comparison, penetrating illusion, and finally probing origins. Whether refining oneself, harmonizing families, or ordering nations and worlds, all require this layered approach of deepening observation and practice.

This scripture elucidates the principles of cosmic generation and the laws that practitioners of the Dao should follow.

In the beginning, the Great Dao (cosmic origin) emanated the single Qi (fundamental energy), which then differentiated into the two Qi of Yin and Yang. The Dao disperses to form Shen (spirit), while primordial Qi harmonizes to constitute the breath of life. The two Qi of Yin and Yang shape material forms. The Dao acts like a master architect, integrating these elements to forge the human body and mind. The physical body, composed of the refined essences of Yin and Yang, is prone to desires, while the spirit, the quintessence of the Dao, governs the vital energy of life. Thus, the entire body functions as a complete whole.

All things in the world arise from the convergence of various causes and conditions, manifesting as either refined (like sages) or coarse (like ordinary beings and animals)—all naturally formed. Once the earliest life forms emerged, they began to reproduce through physical propagation. Sentient beings (such as humans and animals) and insentient entities (such as plants) each perpetuate in their own way: plants, lacking consciousness, remain unchanging in their innate nature, while humans and animals, possessing awareness, cycle through rebirth according to their karma.

The principle here is clear: the Dao is like a mother, and we are her children. Understanding this relationship, one should strive to return to the source of the Dao. As the scripture states, "All under heaven has an origin, which serves as the mother of all under heaven." To know the mother is to understand the child; to understand the child is to safeguard the mother. This is the truth, difficult for the unwise to grasp.

Therefore, Dao practitioners should cherish themselves, never losing the heart of the Dao, and devote themselves wholeheartedly to serving the motherly Dao through sincere cultivation. They must not indulge in desires or sink into pleasure, lest they fall into peril and forfeit their Dao-nature. Knowing that the Great Dao exists as our mother, we cannot remain indifferent. First, we must recognize her characteristics: she is neither substantial nor void, appearing without trace and departing without form, transcending all images, unlocatable in space, invisible before and after—utterly mysterious and unfathomable.

The key to cultivation lies in transcending worldly concepts, neither clinging to "being" nor fixating on "non-being," maintaining a state of serene emptiness. Persisting in this practice over time, one will naturally experience joy, as if grasping something profound. When the mind aligns with the Dao, harmony and unity are achieved, leading to a state of spiritual bliss. It is like a lost child returning home, finding the treasured "Mysterious Pearl" (a metaphor for enlightenment), where all becomes complete. Having attained personal realization, one must then extend this awareness to family and society.

This scripture primarily discusses how the Dao (the Way) permeates all things and the methods for achieving unity with the Dao through cultivation.

Laozi uses the metaphor "all beings under heaven share the same origin and Qi (vital energy)" to illustrate that the Dao is like the common mother of all things—whether sage or insect, all share the same source. The Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) similarly states: "The Dao is not only within me; all things contain the nature of the Dao, though they themselves remain unaware of it." To truly comprehend the essence of the Dao, one must begin by observing and realizing it within oneself.

The scripture emphasizes that this classic is the best guide for understanding the Dao (the mother) and the key method for grasping ultimate truth. It can unify all things into oneness and harmonize heaven and earth into a state of great unity. However, mere intellectual understanding is insufficient—one must engage in practical cultivation: cutting off distracting thoughts, abandoning worldly affairs, practicing Wuwei (non-action), and sitting in forgetfulness (meditative absorption), personally verifying these methods. Simply memorizing the text without practice is like searching for a reflection in a deep pool—a futile effort.

Cultivation is divided into two levels: the preliminary stage of "contemplating emptiness" allows one to see through illusions and avoid being deluded by external phenomena, while the higher stage of "true contemplation" enables recognition of one's authentic nature, naturally dissolving falsehoods. Yet one must be cautious—attachment to the concept of "emptiness" itself becomes another form of bondage. True awakening transcends the duality of "emptiness" and "form."

Later, the text employs the metaphor "one whose De (Virtue) runs deep resembles an infant": those profoundly aligned with the Dao are filled with harmonious Qi internally, so even venomous insects and fierce beasts will not harm them. Just as an infant's soft bones and tender grip can naturally form a fist, this pure goodness resonates with all things. Those who attain this state are so abundant in genuine, harmonious Qi that external threats like poisonous snakes or wild animals pose no danger to them.

A newborn infant's entire body is rosy and hairless, hence called a "red child" (chizi). At this stage, their tendons and bones remain soft and supple, and they naturally curl their four fingers around the thumb in a gesture called "firm grasping" (wogu, a hand seal used in Daoist cultivation). This grip seals the body's primordial Qi (vital energy) - because infants' innate Qi remains pure and concentrated, they maintain this posture spontaneously without conscious effort.

Though unaware of sexual matters, infants experience natural genital erection due to abundant Jing (essence) within, unrelated to desire. They cry all day without hoarseness, precisely demonstrating their充沛的元气 (abundant primordial Qi).

Understanding how to preserve this harmonious state constitutes "constancy" (chang, the eternal Dao), while comprehending this principle is called "illumination" (ming, wisdom). When one maintains such bodily and mental harmony, they become like infants whose cries never grow hoarse, or like creatures unharmed by venomous insects. Persisting in cultivating this harmony prolongs life and enhances wisdom. First comprehend the principle of harmony, then realize its benefits through practice - thus cause and effect become naturally clear.

Excessive pursuit of health preservation反而招致灾祸 (invites calamity), while forcibly driving Qi leads to rigidity. So-called "omens" (xiang) divide into auspicious and inauspicious: good deeds bring favorable signs, evil acts manifest ominous portents. Overzealous health-seeking attracts bizarre inauspiciousness. Qi should remain balanced - when the mind is calm, Qi gathers; when agitated, it scatters. Transforming gentle Qi into violent rigidity belongs to the way of death, naturally constituting inauspiciousness.

When all things reach peak strength, they begin aging - this contradicts the Dao. Using growth patterns as metaphor: after bodily prime comes inevitable decline, a natural law - why say it contradicts the Dao? Because excessive craving constitutes "strength" (zhuang), while mental obscurity constitutes "aging" (lao) - both deviate from the Dao. Knowing this contradicts the Dao, one should cease promptly.

(Note: The first half discusses how excessive health cultivation and forced Qi manipulation contradict the Dao, while the latter half will explain methods of sensory withdrawal and desire reduction.)

Those who truly understand the Dao never engage in empty talk, while those who constantly speak of the Dao actually know nothing of it. The Dao values practical action over mere words. When one genuinely comprehends the Dao in their heart, they must embody it through practice. If someone merely possesses eloquence and considers themselves knowledgeable about the Dao, how could that be possible? Those who truly understand the Dao recognize that words cannot fully express its essence, and thus excessive speech only leads one further away from it. How much more so for those who know nothing of the Dao yet indulge in grandiose discourse?

One must learn to restrain their sharp edges (the "mouth" here symbolizes desires and idle speech) and close the gates of desire. This "closing" has two meanings: first, moderation in action, and second, transcendence in spirit. In action, one must guard their speech—indulging in delicacies corrupts body and mind, spreading gossip invites disaster, and overusing the senses only increases vexations. In spirit, one must reach a state where, even when faced with temptation, the mind remains undisturbed—where delicacies lose their flavor, words lose their meaning, and the senses encounter the external world without being swayed. Ordinary people must first restrain their actions before pursuing spiritual transcendence, while those of higher insight can directly return both their inner and outer worlds to emptiness—this is true mastery of restraint.

One must smooth their sharp edges (the "sharpness" here refers to a contentious personality) and dissolve inner disturbances (the "tangles" refer to afflictions). When the six emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, love, and hate) no longer spill outward, and the three poisons (greed, anger, and delusion) are eradicated within, the Dao naturally takes residence in the heart, and all disturbances naturally subside. This dissolution is not forced but arises naturally through cultivation.

One must temper their radiance (harmonizing the light) and blend with worldly dust (joining the ordinary). These six lines of scripture are repeated because they hold particular importance for practitioners, requiring constant reminder and reinforcement.

This is called "mysterious unity" (the wondrous state of oneness). "Mysterious" refers to a state free from obstruction—where all the practices mentioned earlier allow one to inwardly realize the Dao while outwardly harmonizing with the world, without attachment to either, fully merging with ultimate truth. Hence it is called "mysterious unity."

Those who attain this state neither deliberately draw close to others nor intentionally distance themselves. Their spirit transcends worldly concerns, their aspirations align with the Dao, and their character is as refined as orchids and osmanthus—beyond the reach of ordinary people's mundane affections. Just as one is perfumed by approaching fragrant herbs and can sense their presence from afar, such individuals cannot be forced into intimacy nor need they deliberately withdraw.

This passage expounds the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei) and its wisdom for personal conduct.

Regarding self-cultivation, it states that true sages remain untroubled by worldly gains and losses. They neither chase profit nor fear harm, are unmoved by wealth or sensual allure, and care nothing for fame or status. Such individuals neither deliberately seek honor nor suffer disgrace, for distinctions like glory and shame arise only from the discriminating mind. When one relinquishes all attachments, these worldly standards lose their power over them. This is the most precious quality in the world.

On statecraft, it presents three tiers of governance: Ruling through decrees of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual laws is the way of feudal lords—it maintains order but exhausts the people. Resorting to cunning stratagems and deception suits times of chaos as a stopgap measure. The highest form, however, is the sovereign’s Wuwei—governing without deliberate action yet winning the world’s heartfelt allegiance.

The passage concludes with a rhetorical question: How do I know this is the proper way to govern the world? Precisely by comparing these three methods and recognizing that only serene non-action (Wuwei) is fundamental. It particularly emphasizes that the six worldly afflictions mentioned earlier—gain and loss, honor and disgrace, etc.—are shackles ordinary people struggle to escape. Only those who awaken to the Dao transcend them.

A ruler governing the state must first align their own position, for only with proper positioning can state affairs be properly managed. Only when talented individuals are placed in suitable positions can the right path be implemented. Thus, by observing the quality of personnel, one can discern whether the state is well-governed; by examining the arrangement of positions, one can distinguish the merits of its people.

When a state imposes too many prohibitions and taboos, the people only grow poorer. This refers to rulers who seize power through forceful means—their policies often harm the people's interests. The so-called "taboos" are the harsh laws imposed from above. These laws are as dense as congealed lard: if the people refrain from labor, they suffer hunger and cold, but if they act, they easily violate the law. Specifically, there are three types of taboos: first, state taboos, where even slight misspeaking can lead to punishment; second, Yin-Yang taboos, where actions easily miss their proper timing; third, legal taboos, where livelihoods often lose their rightful occupations. Laws were originally meant to benefit the people, but if they only serve the ruler, the people suffer whether they obey or violate them—naturally, they fall into poverty. From this, it is clear that such a ruler does not govern through Wuwei (non-action). If simple rites and laws are implemented without excessive restrictions, the people will naturally prosper.

When the people possess too many cunning stratagems, the state grows more chaotic. "Sharp tools" here refer to schemes that benefit oneself at others' expense. Whether in families or states, if those above are obsessed with using manipulation to control those below, the lower ranks will resort to deceit to resist. When both sides scheme against each other, abandoning the right path, the people become hypocritical and crafty, while rulers and ministers grow muddled and confused.

When the people prize cleverness and ingenuity, strange and exotic goods proliferate. "Cleverness" here is mentally exhausting, while "exotic goods" refer to rare and unusual treasures. Opportunists delight in crafting novel items to outdo one another, leading to an ever-increasing array of bizarre techniques and excessive craftsmanship. All this arises because those in power value the exotic, encouraging extravagance among the people.

The more complete the tools of punishment, the more thieves and bandits multiply. "Instruments of law" refer to implements of punishment—shackles, rods, and the like. Penalties were originally meant to prevent theft, yet the harsher the punishments, the more rampant the thieves. This is because when those above pursue rare treasures, those below, lacking them, resort to theft. Though the net of law grows tighter, thieves devise ever more ingenious methods, and crime only increases.

Thus, the sage says: "I govern through Wuwei (non-action), and the people naturally transform." This illustrates the benefits of governing without interference. Suppose an enlightened ruler declares: "I, in my position above, do not act recklessly, and the people of the world naturally follow and are transformed." "Wuwei" means...

This passage elucidates the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," demonstrating how different governance approaches yield contrasting social outcomes while advocating the way of serene inaction in statecraft.

When rulers refrain from harassing the people (imposing no excessive taxes or corvée labor), the populace naturally thrives in peace. Men and women fulfill their respective roles—women weave while men farm—maintaining inner simplicity (De) and outer material abundance. This constitutes true prosperity. Just as still water becomes clear, if rulers preserve tranquility (free from forced action), the people will naturally return to the right path.

Should rulers relinquish selfish desires, the people will revert to their innate purity. "Desire" marks the origin of greed, while "unhewn simplicity" represents the mind's pristine state. Laozi's teaching of governance through non-action is no empty theory; it stands in stark contrast to the harm wrought by excessive interference, serving as a mirror reflecting the successes and failures of rulers throughout history.

Lenient, gentle policies foster honest and simple customs among the people; conversely, overly harsh and meticulous governance leads to social decline. This mirrors self-cultivation: an inwardly harmonious mind ensures the well-being of the internal organs, while excessive scheming depletes the spirit (Shen). Misfortune and fortune are interdependent and ever-transforming—the key lies in maintaining mental emptiness and stillness. By neither forcibly pursuing good nor creating evil, one naturally avoids entanglement with calamity.

Through three corresponding pairs—"non-action (Wuwei) leads to self-transformation," "serenity leads to self-correction," and "desirelessness leads to self-simplification"—the text reveals the social principle of "those above influence those below." It emphasizes the profound unity between a ruler's self-cultivation and statecraft. The contrast between "muddled governance" (yielding benevolence) and "overly scrutinizing governance" (breeding discontent) vividly illustrates the societal effects of different ruling styles.

This passage explores the relationship between calamity and blessing, good and evil, and how they are fundamentally connected to the human heart-mind. The core teaching reveals that the "heart-mind" is the decisive factor determining fortune and misfortune.

Fortune and misfortune exist like interdependent shadows: when calamity manifests, blessings withdraw into concealment; when blessings appear, misfortune lurks beneath. An evildoer who begins performing good deeds may find blessings emerging from misfortune, while a virtuous person who becomes arrogant upon receiving blessings will see those blessings vanish as misfortune takes their place. This cycle has no end because everything stems from the human heart-mind—our thoughts determine good and evil, which in turn attract corresponding fortunes and misfortunes.

Those who truly understand this principle (referring to Dao-realized individuals) maintain "righteous heart-mind." They neither cling to performing good (as attachment to goodness itself becomes a kind of obsession) nor deliberately avoid evil. If one constantly thinks "I am doing good," this actually deviates from the true Dao. It's like those long trapped in the delusion of fortune and loss, mistaking obsession for righteousness and deliberate good deeds for truth—this is itself another form of spiritual confusion.

Thus, the way of sages (Dao-realized beings) manifests uniquely: their conduct is perfectly square yet never appears rigid; their integrity is flawless yet never ostentatious. Maintaining inner purity and simplicity, their upright behavior never becomes showy, and their wisdom remains inward without display. This seemingly paradoxical state actually arises from genuine inner emptiness and Wuwei (non-action)—without consciously performing righteousness, without deliberately displaying purity, without clinging to the reputation of goodness, they naturally transcend the cyclical bondage of fortune and misfortune.

(Note: The character "祅" here means "deviant views that stray from the Great Dao"; "穢" refers to worldly defilements; "大方正" indicates the perfected state of unity with the Dao)

In governing the people and aligning with nature, the supreme method is to follow the principle of "Wuwei" (non-action). Here, "method" refers to the fundamental law or standard, just as the previous passage states: "The sage embraces the One and becomes the standard for the world" — the sage upholds the Dao as the universal norm.

The term "frugality" denotes simplicity and conservation, yet mere frugality alone cannot bring the world to submission. Therefore, we must take Wuwei as the fundamental principle to educate the people, so that both near and far may unite in virtue, ultimately achieving a state of natural harmony. Nothing is more effective than adopting the way of Wuwei as the guiding principle — this ensures human affairs are properly ordered and the heavenly way remains in accord. What we call "accomplishments" are precisely the education of multitudes through the way of Wuwei.

Only by adhering to the principle of Wuwei can the people of all directions submit early. "Early submission" means prompt obedience, and what can make the myriad people willingly submit is none other than this crucial principle of Wuwei. This state of early submission is called "accumulating De (Virtue) abundantly" — where De represents the manifestation of practicing the Dao, encompassing all virtues. Through continuous cultivation of virtue, even those difficult to transform will be influenced and come to follow the Dao early.

When virtue accumulates to profound depths, nothing remains unachievable. "Achieve" here means to accomplish or realize. With abundant virtue within oneself, one can move heaven, earth, and spirits; nothing in creation will oppose, and all endeavors will succeed. When virtue becomes so deep that its limits cannot be known, one becomes fit to govern a nation.

"Knowing no limit" carries two meanings: first, the accumulated virtue becomes as immeasurable as the vast void (cosmos); second, the number of people submitting becomes boundless. Only when virtue reaches this state can one become the ruler who nurtures the people. The final lines declare: by grasping the fundamental principle of statecraft (namely Wuwei), the nation's enduring stability is secured.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principle that both governing a nation and cultivating one's person must follow the Dao. The Dao functions like a mother to the state, nurturing all things. If rulers can apply the laws of the Dao in governance, the nation will achieve stability, prosperity, and enduring fortune.

The text employs the metaphor of a tree: when roots grow deep, the fruits remain firmly attached. Similarly, if practitioners of the Dao can embody three principles - aligning their bodies with the Dao's laws, maintaining virtuous minds, and preserving fundamental harmony through wuwei (non-action) - then their life roots will grow profound. By cultivating De (virtue/power) with humility, the fruits of life will remain secure. Deep roots ensure life's continuity, while firm fruits prevent physical dissolution. The continuation of life constitutes longevity, while the preservation of the body represents enduring vision (perpetual existence). Longevity refers to the essence, while enduring vision describes its function.

In the section on "Governing a Great Nation," the analogy of cooking small fish illustrates statecraft: excessive stirring while cooking small fish makes them crumble, just as excessive interference in governing a large state causes chaos. The optimal approach follows nature's course through wuwei governance.

When the Dao's principles govern the world, not only do people refrain from rebellion, but even ghosts and spirits cease causing disturbances. This doesn't imply spirits lose their power, but rather that when those in authority possess Dao and De, even supernatural beings dare not act recklessly. This demonstrates the Dao's transformative influence extends across all three realms: human, ghostly, and divine.

This passage explains how the virtue (De) of sages makes even ghosts and spirits refrain from harming humans. It's not that ghosts and spirits are inherently harmless, but because the sages' teachings transform the world, even supernatural beings become influenced—filled with gratitude and following the right path—thus daring not to harm people.

When humans and spirits do not harm each other, their virtues merge harmoniously. The phrase "neither harms the other" refers to both humans and spirits: humans avoid grave-robbing or cursing spirits (humans not harming spirits), while spirits refrain from inflicting disasters or haunting people (spirits not harming humans). When humans govern the world with righteousness and perform timely ancestral rites, their virtue influences the spirits; when spirits use their divine power to protect humanity, their virtue reciprocates human kindness. Thus, calamities vanish, and blessings intermingle.

Chapter on Great States (24th Chapter)

(The preceding section discusses governing all things with the Dao, making both humans and spirits grateful. Here, the focus shifts to how great states should practice humility to attract smaller states. Divided into three parts: first, explaining how great states follow the humble path; second, illustrating how softness overcomes hardness; and finally, specifically advising great states to be even more humble.)

A great state should be as humble as the lower reaches of a river ("lower flow" signifies an attitude of modesty and staying below) to become the center of the world's allegiance. A state with vast territory and a large population is called "great," yet willingly maintaining a humble position is called "lower flow." When this happens, smaller states will admire its virtue and eagerly submit.

The principle of attracting the world lies in the feminine often overcoming the masculine through stillness. The feminine represents gentleness and humility, while the masculine represents force and agitation. Humble gentleness wins the world's hearts, thus prevailing; harsh aggression drives people away, making it inferior.

Therefore, if a great state treats smaller states with humility, it will gain their allegiance. Cultivated individuals who embody inner softness naturally draw followers, much like Wang Tai (an ancient sage) gathered people effortlessly. If a small state humbly serves a great one, it gains protection—just as those with limited vision admire vast wisdom, shedding self-attachment to seek guidance from the enlightened, never presuming their own superiority.

The arrogance of great nations leads to decline, while humility and deference win hearts. When those in high positions remain humble, they gain greater support; when those in lower stations maintain modesty, they accumulate strength. Whether great or small, though their power differs vastly, the outcomes of following the Dao (the Way) of humility vary—great nations attract more allegiance, while smaller ones secure survival by aligning with greater powers.

A great nation's humility is not merely a tactic to subdue smaller states, nor is a small nation's compliance simple flattery. True humility is the foundation of conduct in the world, not to be pursued with ulterior motives. When both great and small nations treat one another with humility, it is like a shared breath: the small nation's allegiance feels like returning home, while the great nation's embrace resembles caring for its own. Such harmony arises from embodying the Dao of humility. When sages transmit teachings, they adjust their depth according to the audience—here, phrases like "subduing and attracting allegiance" are used as accessible guidance, though they contain deeper meaning.

Both sides achieve their desires: the great nation fulfills its wish to embrace the small, while the small nation meets its need for protection. Yet special attention must be paid—the greater power must take the initiative in maintaining humility. In reality, great nations often bully smaller ones, making sustained humility difficult. Thus, the warning is clear: great nations must consistently preserve their humility.

(Chapter 25 expounds on the nature of the Dao) The Dao is the profoundest core of all things, the most treasured possession of the virtuous. It is like the deepest chamber, its mystery beyond measure. Though people are born from the Dao, they remain unaware of it; though the Dao resides within them, it goes unnoticed. The foolish fail to recognize its depth—only the wise and worthy cherish it. Those lacking virtue do not value this treasure at all.

(The subsequent text notes: First, it clarifies that the Dao's profundity is grasped only by the virtuous; next, it points out how the foolish dismiss its worth; then it explains how sages hold all beings equally in their universal salvation; finally, it emphasizes that seeking the Dao is actually simple—even the sinful may attain deliverance. These points will be elaborated in three parts below.)

This passage primarily discusses how to deal with "unvirtuous people" (those with improper conduct and unawakened wisdom) and reveals the true essence of cultivating the Dao (the Way).

We should not simply abandon unvirtuous individuals. Their improper behavior and deviant thoughts stem from a lack of wisdom. Petty people employ sweet words when pursuing profit, flattering others like merchants in a marketplace, while gentlemen elevate themselves when contending for fame, always seeking to surpass others. These are not the ways of those who follow the Dao.

Heaven does not easily forsake these unvirtuous people—they are merely temporarily deluded. Thus, the system of the Son of Heaven (the supreme ruler) and the Three Dukes (the three highest-ranking officials: Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian) was established to restrain them through authority, encourage virtue with generous rewards, and deter wrongdoing with severe punishments. This is how the Son of Heaven does not abandon the unvirtuous.

Yet even possessing immense wealth and power—such as holding jade bi discs in both hands or riding in a chariot drawn by four horses (the highest ceremonial mode of travel in ancient times)—cannot compare to the wondrous Dao attained through the practice of "non-action (Wuwei) and sitting in forgetfulness" (a Daoist cultivation method referring to the state of relinquishing attachments and forgetting the self). For worldly glory and riches cannot ultimately avoid sorrow, whereas attaining the true Dao brings divine protection. This serves as an admonition that even rulers should relinquish their pursuit of worldly virtue and instead cultivate the profound Dao.

The ancient sages treasured this Dao precisely because it requires no deliberate hardship or forced cultivation. There is no need to toil daily in pursuit—simply practicing non-action and sitting in forgetfulness allows the Dao to arrive naturally. As the Western Ascension Scripture states: "If one can maintain a state of emptiness and non-action, there is no need to deliberately seek the Dao, for the Dao will naturally return." Past transgressions will also dissolve naturally through the practice of sitting in forgetfulness. Precisely because cultivating the Dao is so marvelously profound, it was revered by the sage-kings and worthies of antiquity.

This chapter primarily discusses the cultivation realm of Wuwei (non-action) and its wisdom for navigating life. The core teaching is that genuine Dao practitioners must transcend worldly pursuits, maintaining a state of purity and non-action in both mind and conduct.

The Dao cultivator's way of life is opposite to ordinary people's: where commoners chase after action, busyness and sensory pleasures, practitioners must relinquish these. This manifests in three specific aspects: the mind must abandon scheming (illuminated heart), the body must cease striving (illuminated form), and nourishment should be simple and bland (illuminated mouth). When one truly attains the mental state of emptiness, stillness and self-forgetfulness, all worldly entanglements naturally dissolve.

The profound meaning behind "repaying resentment with De (Virtue)": worldly people often develop grudges through competing for fame and profit (minor grievances) or harming life (major grievances). These resentments accumulate like small streams becoming rivers, eventually becoming irreconcilable. Only by practicing the Dao of Wuwei—allowing past transgressions to gradually dissolve while preventing new karma from forming—can one fundamentally resolve these deep-seated resentments through such virtuous conduct.

Approach difficulties at their easiest points; handle great matters at their smallest beginnings. Those embodying Wuwei create no new karma and thus receive no karmic retribution, while those engaged in purposeful action should sever negative tendencies while they're still minor. Left unchecked, small faults accumulate into great transgressions, just as all difficult matters begin with ease, and great events sprout from subtle origins. All of the world's challenging and significant affairs ultimately evolve from trivial beginnings.

(Note: "Wuwei" here refers to the cultivation state of following nature's course without forced action; "karma" indicates the causality created by actions; "deep-seated resentment" refers to accumulated grudges from the past; "karmic retribution" denotes the consequences arising from negative karma)

Those who make promises lightly often lack credibility, while those who act carelessly are bound to encounter greater difficulties. People who agree to things casually may speak with ease, but their actions fail to match their words, ultimately leading to broken trust. Once trust is lost, it invites resentment from others, bringing many troubles. This illustrates the principle that what begins easily often ends in hardship, warning against rash behavior.

Thus, the sage (one of wisdom) always approaches matters with caution and therefore never finds themselves in distress. The sage understands that making promises lightly often lacks sincerity and invites future troubles, so they remain prudent and refrain from casual commitments. If even the sage exercises such restraint, ordinary people should take this as a warning. These teachings use the sage’s conduct to inspire ordinary individuals—not to suggest that the sage themselves fears hardship.

Chapter 27 discusses the importance of maintaining inner stability. When the mind is calm, it is easiest to preserve equilibrium; before problems arise, they are easiest to prevent. In a state of tranquility, the heart remains empty and still, free from agitation—this is when holding to one’s true nature is effortless. When issues first emerge but have not yet taken form, addressing them promptly yields the greatest effect with the least effort.

Fragile things break easily; subtle matters scatter effortlessly. Here, "subtle" refers to the faintest signs of something emerging from nothingness—still like smoke, easily dispersed. If not dealt with early, they gradually accumulate and take shape. Even when formed, if they remain fragile, resolving them is not difficult. These four lines describe the progression of thoughts from nothingness to existence, from small to large, urging early intervention. If not addressed promptly, problems grow increasingly severe. Why emphasize "subtlety" first? Because the finest breath of energy is closest to emptiness, as fleeting as smoke or dust.

This scripture elucidates the fundamental laws governing the development and transformation of all things, emphasizing the crucial importance of addressing issues while they are still nascent. Laozi employs vivid metaphors to illustrate his point: the mighty tree that seems unshakable grew from a tiny sprout, the towering terrace was built basket by basket of earth, and the ascent of a high mountain begins with the first step beneath one's feet. These examples all demonstrate how every great undertaking originates from minute beginnings.

The text particularly highlights the need to address matters before they manifest ("acting before things come into being") and to regulate situations before disorder arises ("ordering before confusion takes root"). If one waits until problems become glaringly obvious before attempting solutions—like trying to intervene when the tree has already grown thick enough to embrace, when the terrace has reached nine stories, or when one has already climbed a hundred-ren cliff—it becomes exceedingly difficult to rectify.

The author further cautions that people often neglect subtle beginnings, allowing minor issues to develop into major calamities. Just as a sapling growing into a towering tree will eventually block sunlight, unchecked negative thoughts gradually obscure one's true nature if not restrained early. Therefore, spiritual cultivation must begin with small matters, promptly curbing any harmful tendencies at their inception.

Concluding with profound insight, the scripture observes that forceful striving often leads to failure, and stubborn clinging frequently results in loss. This reminds practitioners to align with natural laws rather than resorting to forceful intervention when situations have already deteriorated. The entire passage embodies the wisdom of preventing problems while they are still trivial and harmonizing with the natural order.

Ordinary people constantly chase after what they don't possess while clinging tightly to what they already have. This relentless pursuit destroys them, and their attachments cost them their vital essence (Jing) and spirit (Shen). If these subtle obsessions aren't eliminated, they ultimately lead to failure and loss.

Thus, those who attain the Dao (sages) practice non-action (Wuwei), therefore they don't fail; they don't cling to possessions, so they don't suffer loss. All worldly failures and losses stem from forced action and possessive attachment. To avoid these, one must practice non-action and non-attachment. Failure necessarily arises from pursuing success—since one who doesn't force action doesn't seek success, how could there be failure without success? Loss necessarily comes from acquisition—if I don't grasp for gains, there's nothing to lose. This illustrates the principle mentioned earlier: "What's easily held is easily shattered." Without timely detachment, failure and loss become inevitable. Practicing non-action and non-attachment preserves one's original mind, prevents failure and loss, and thus averts future calamity.

People often fail when their endeavors are nearly complete. "Nearly" here means approaching completion. In worldly affairs—whether spiritual cultivation or mundane tasks—many begin but few persevere to the end. When success seems imminent, they grow lax. Forced endeavors are inherently unsustainable; only Wuwei undertakings achieve proper completion. Inability to follow through leads to failure—this is heaven's eternal principle.

If one remains as cautious at the end as at the beginning, nothing will fail. Ordinary human nature tends to be "tiger-headed, snake-tailed"—full of vigor at the start but slack later. If one foresees potential failure from the outset and maintains initial vigilance throughout, not only spiritual practice succeeds but worldly affairs too.

Sages desire what others disregard and value not rare treasures. What the greedy prize, the desireless scorn. Ordinary people chase cravings, thus coveting rare objects and greedily pursuing them—this brings failure and loss. Sages "desire not to desire," spurning rare treasures and relinquishing them, hence avoiding failure. In truth, sages make no distinction between "desiring" and "not desiring"—they only advocate "desiring not to desire" to guide the craving, modeling desirelessness to help others avoid failure.

Learn what others neglect; guard against common faults. "Guard" here means prevention. Though people err in countless ways, greed is primary. Desire fuels covetousness, hence using "non-desire" to guide ordinary folk; learning breeds discrimination, hence advocating "non-learning" for cultivators. Only by severing roots and blocking sources can faults be avoided.

This passage elucidates the worldly wisdom of ancient Daoist practitioners. Laozi believed that true cultivators of the Dao (the Way) would never flaunt their intelligence, instead appearing profoundly simple.

In ancient times, those who genuinely understood Daoist cultivation didn't seek to instruct others with cleverness, but made themselves seem foolish. While internally cultivating De (Virtue/Power), these practitioners concealed their brilliance like simpletons, deliberately avoiding displays of intelligence. Ordinary people admire cunning cleverness that often benefits oneself at others' expense, whereas Daoist cultivators willingly embrace apparent foolishness - benefiting both self and others - which constitutes the true method of entering the Dao.

Petty theft causes minor harm, but intelligence that disrupts communal harmony brings great calamity. By eliminating major harms, minor ones naturally cease. Therefore, cultivators employ "self-simplification" to eradicate the disasters caused by cleverness.

When common people become difficult to govern, it's because they possess too much cunning. If rulers govern with clever strategies, the governed will respond with deception, breeding endless fraud and trickery. The more intricate the laws become, the more ingenious the methods of evasion. The reason subordinates become unmanageable lies precisely in their superiors' use of clever governance.

Governing through cleverness brings national disaster, while governing without it brings national blessing. Cleverness manifests in two forms: Dao wisdom and worldly cleverness. Dao wisdom aligns the mind with the Dao (the Way), appearing simple and unknowing, taking Wuwei (non-action) as its highest principle. Worldly cleverness, however, possesses excessive shrewdness with insufficient De (Virtue/Power) - the unvirtuous use it to seek rewards, the treacherous employ it to evade punishment, creating mutual deception and harm between superiors and subordinates, which constitutes a nation's greatest calamity.

The crux of Daoist cultivation lies in eliminating desires and acquired cleverness, restoring the original nature of all things (including inanimate objects). All beings suffer harm from human desires; only by removing desires can their essential nature be preserved. The deeper purpose behind these Daoist teachings is to save all creation, never daring to act recklessly for personal gain.

This passage expounds the wisdom of governing a nation and cultivating one's being. Truly wise individuals refrain from deliberate action (wei), instead aligning with the natural order of things. Only the foolish resort to forceful taking, while those of genuine integrity give without seeking recompense. When those below can act thus, it is because those above possess De (Virtue/Power).

The scripture mentions "knowing these two constitutes the fundamental pattern" - the "two" referring to employing cleverness and abstaining from it. The character "also" (yi) indicates that while previous passages discussed governing through Wuwei (non-action), here it particularly emphasizes ruling without cunning. Understanding that cleverness harms the state while its absence nurtures the people represents mastery of the essential principle for stabilizing a nation and cultivating one's being.

Persisting unwaveringly with this principle constitutes what is called "constancy" (chang). Recognizing that governing and self-cultivation can be achieved without clever artifice, and maintaining this principle without abandoning it, represents the highest De that accords with the Dao.

This profound De (xuan De, or "mysterious virtue") stands contrary to worldly ways yet achieves supreme harmony. "Profound" signifies penetrating to the root, while "far-reaching" indicates encompassing all directions. This virtue fills heaven and earth - where ordinary people esteem cleverness, xuan De values simplicity; where common folk delight in accumulation, xuan De finds joy in giving; where the masses follow worldly customs, xuan De follows the Dao. Therefore it is called "contrary." Yet it brings stability to states and benefit to people, hence it is "accordant." The term "great accord" (da shun) describes how it aligns above with heavenly principles and below with popular sentiment, never opposing anything in creation.

(Note: The term "xuan De" refers to the supreme virtue esteemed in Daoism, characterized by profundity and being contrary to worldly ways yet in harmony with the Dao; "fundamental pattern" denotes the essential principle or standard.)

The sixth volume of the Commentary on the True Scripture of Dao and De contains Zhao Zhijian's annotations on the De section of the Dao De Jing, primarily interpreting ten chapters from the "Chapter on Non-Action (Wuwei)" to the "Chapter on the People." A key focus is his explanation of Chapter 38, the "Chapter on the People."

Regarding why the people suffer from hunger, it is due to the excessive taxation imposed by rulers. Here, "food" refers to daily expenses, while "tax" denotes levied tributes. The root cause of the people's poverty and starvation lies in the rulers' extravagance and oppressive exactions, which force the populace to endure heavy labor while preventing them from storing grain, leaving them famished.

The difficulty in governing the people arises from the rulers' excessive artificial interventions. When proper teachings fail to be implemented from above, the people will imitate corrupt customs. In times of scarcity, they resort to theft and conflict; in times of abundance, they engage in deceit and hypocrisy—hence the challenge of governance. This is akin to how the more precautions are taken, the more cunning thieves become.

The people's willingness to risk death stems from their excessive pursuit of pleasure. Prolonged hunger, cold, and unstable living conditions drive them to desperate acts, even breaking laws for personal vengeance. Overindulgence in pleasure harms the innate nature of life. Though it may seem the people are reckless with their lives, the true cause lies in poor governance. This demonstrates that ruling should not impose artificial interventions.

Only those who do not deliberately seek longevity are wiser than those who cling to life in fear of death. Here, "wise" (xian) refers to discernment. Those unattached to nurturing life are those who transcend concepts of life and death. Excessive indulgence in pleasure hastens death, while only those who remain indifferent to life and death attain true wisdom of survival. This attitude of transcending life and death represents the highest wisdom.

Chapter 39: On Living Beings (Previous sections discuss how true wisdom lies in understanding life cultivation and transcending fear of death, while this passage warns that excessive attachment to life brings the opposite effect)

The bodies of living humans remain soft and pliant, while corpses turn rigid after death. When the harmonious Qi (vital energy) flows within a living being, their sinews and bones stay supple; when this Qi dissipates after death, the limbs stiffen. This contrast between life and death demonstrates how softness ultimately surpasses hardness, revealing that aggressive displays of strength represent inferior strategy.

Fresh vegetation grows tender and fragile, becoming brittle when withered. The term "all things" here encompasses both conscious humans and plants alike. Once the life force departs, all forms harden - softness being the natural state of living organisms. This metaphor illustrates an essential principle.

Thus stubborn rigidity marks the path to death, while gentle pliancy constitutes the way of life. Those with unyielding temperaments constantly assert their strength - either bullying others with brute courage or forcibly seizing benefits for personal gain. Fearless to the extreme, such people charge into danger knowingly and confront stronger opponents recklessly, becoming little more than walking corpses, indistinguishable from the dead. Those who understand gentle yielding, though ultimately meeting the same mortal end, align their conduct with the Dao of longevity.

Therefore armies that grow too powerful invite defeat, just as overly rigid trees break easily. Two examples demonstrate this truth: excessively strong armies attract collective opposition leading to downfall, while hardwood trees snap under ceramic weights. Thus hard things occupy inferior positions while soft things prevail. Overwhelming military might provokes united resistance, and excessive strength invites collective suppression - hence their disadvantage. Yet gentle yielding represents the highest expression of De (Virtue/Power): encountering danger, others rush to assist; displaying mild temperament, people naturally elevate them - thus they occupy superior positions.

Chapter 40: On Heaven (Previous sections explain how abandoning hardness for softness leads to attaining the Dao, while this passage extols the virtue of humility)

The movement of heavenly Dao resembles drawing a bow: when the string pulls too high, lower it slightly; when drawn too low, raise it moderately.

This passage uses the metaphor of drawing a bow to illustrate the difference between the Dao of Heaven and the ways of men. The key to archery lies in achieving balance: if the bow's grip is too high, lower it; if too low, raise it; if the force is excessive, reduce it; if insufficient, increase it—only through such adjustments can the bow function optimally. Governing a nation and cultivating the Dao follow the same principle—one must balance nobility and humility, regulate wealth and poverty just like tuning a bowstring.

Some interpretations suggest that a relaxed bow curves outward at both ends while bulging in the middle, whereas when drawn tight, the ends bend inward creating a concave center. This alternating high-low movement resembles the principle of "going beyond is as bad as falling short." Yet such instability contradicts the constant law of the Heavenly Dao.

The Dao of Heaven reduces excess to supplement deficiency, whereas the ways of men do precisely the opposite—taking from the insufficient to offer to the abundant. This reflects nature's tendency toward equilibrium: excess inevitably diminishes, as if predetermined by unseen forces. The sages take this as truth to admonish humanity: those who can voluntarily share their surplus to relieve others' deficiencies follow the Heavenly Dao; those who seize from the lacking to enrich their abundance follow worldly ways. These two behaviors differ fundamentally.

Who can consciously use their abundance to nourish all under heaven? Only those who have attained the Dao can accomplish this. Ordinary people find it difficult; only the benevolent with compassionate hearts and genuine Dao cultivators will practice it.

Therefore, when sages perform good deeds they claim no merit; when achieving virtuous accomplishments they claim no ownership, still less do they flaunt their abilities. Here lies the teaching: while advocating "reducing excess to supplement deficiency," one must guard against pride. The sages set an example showing us: when aiding others, avoid self-righteousness; when instructing beings, refrain from intellectual arrogance—for true practitioners detest empty fame. On one hand, complacency obstructs Dao cultivation; on the other, reputation brings temptations of profit, breeding hypocrisy and greed. Not only does this hinder spiritual progress, it may even invite celestial retribution.

Nothing in the world is softer than water. Among all things, water stands as the most yielding and pliant, serving as the model for Dao cultivators to emulate.

Though water appears weak, nothing can withstand its assault against hardness—this is because it possesses an irreplaceable nature. Hard objects like mountain rocks can be penetrated or eroded by water, something no other substance can achieve. Water itself remains unburdened by external attachments, yet when utilized, it manifests efficacy, embodying both substance and function in a way unmatched by anything else. Here, we speak of water's wondrous utility. For humans, "hardness" refers to afflictions, while "softness" signifies the mind attuned to the Dao. To dissolve afflictions, one must rely solely on the Dao-mind—no substitute will suffice.

Thus, the soft overcomes the hard, and the weak overcomes the strong—a truth few in the world comprehend, and fewer still practice. "Hardness" here denotes afflictions dissolved by the Dao-mind, hence the mind prevails; "forceful dominance" refers to arrogance subdued by yielding action, hence the seemingly strong are actually at a disadvantage. These are principles verifiable through direct experience, yet the masses fail to understand due to ignorance, while some who grasp them still cannot act due to lack of conviction.

Therefore, the sages declared: Only those who bear a nation's humiliation are fit to be its lords; only those who shoulder a nation's calamities can become kings under heaven. Laozi cites this ancient sage's admonition to exhort people today. "Humiliation" here means slander and malice, while "calamity" refers to unjust blame—as the ancient saying goes, If all under heaven err, the fault lies with me alone. Those who embody humility and gentleness, enduring defamation, may rise as dukes and lords governing the land; those who bear disasters manifest even greater virtue, becoming emperors ruling the world. If Dao cultivators embrace such emptiness and openness, they may become teachers transforming humanity in the near term and attain the status of true sage-kings in the distant future.

These seemingly paradoxical statements are all truths. The earlier teachings—using softness to conquer hardness, enduring disgrace to become kings—are genuine words aligned with the great Dao, not fallacies. They only appear contrary to worldly conventions to ordinary ears.

(Supplementary note: This passage elucidates the core Daoist principle of "the soft overcoming the hard" through water's nature. In spiritual cultivation, "softness" represents the Dao-mind that aligns with nature, while "hardness" signifies afflictions and attachments that defy it. In governance, it emphasizes the ruler's virtue of tolerance and accountability—a seemingly counterintuitive approach that embodies the highest wisdom of rulership.)

This passage discusses the resolution of grievances and principles of governance:

When resolving deep-seated enmities, even if harmony is superficially restored, the seeds of resentment often remain. Just as people fight and harm each other due to insufficient food and clothing, such grievances accumulate like a snowball. Temporary reconciliation through sweet words leaves hatred still smoldering, bound to spark new conflicts later. In this vast world where grievances exist everywhere, how can eloquent mediators going door to door truly solve the problem? Only by ensuring universal prosperity can we eliminate the need for grievance resolution—this is the fundamental solution.

Those truly cultivating virtue (De) who wish to transcend the cycle of life and death and karmic entanglements must maintain inner purity through Wuwei (non-action), behaving naturally without affectation, thereby uprooting resentment at its source. In ancient times before writing existed, people carved wooden tallies as contracts—the ruler kept the left half while subjects held the right. A sage ruler governs like holding such a tally without harshly demanding compliance, adjusting policies by observing folk customs. When conflicts arise, they trace them to their roots; recognizing faults in policy itself, they amend laws, taking responsibility rather than blaming the people.

Virtuous rulers govern as carefully as keeping a contract, examining themselves first when others err; virtueless rulers blame others like those who've lost their tally. Dao cultivators nourish life through the Dao (Way), preserving their innate nature. Even when others resent them, they only reflect inward, never daring to blame heaven, others, or even spirits.

This passage explains how governing a state should follow the principle of natural non-action (Wuwei). When a wise ruler administers a small state with few people, even if possessing various tools and resources ("shi bo zhi qi" refers to all kinds of daily utensils), they wouldn't deliberately use them, instead maintaining a state of emptiness and non-action. This mirrors how spiritual practitioners reduce desires (the "six consciousnesses" being sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought) and avoid attachment to external techniques and methods (jishu).

When a ruler implements the Dao's principles, the people will value life and be unwilling to risk death needlessly, naturally eliminating the need to travel far for livelihood. By maintaining inner tranquility (the "heart sovereign" referring to the spirit-mind) and eliminating greedy thoughts and distractions, even minor faults won't occur, let alone reckless ventures into danger.

Though there may be vehicles and boats (zhou yu) for transportation, there's no need to use them deliberately; though armor and weapons (jia bing) exist, they needn't be displayed. While carts and boats represent primary tools (the foremost of shi bo utensils), those who have attained the Dao are already self-sufficient, requiring no dependence on such external objects. Though land and water routes may be convenient, truly enlightened beings remain unattached to them.

When a person is content with family life, they have no excessive desires to pursue, thus having no need for carriages and horses (symbolizing covetousness for external things). Here, "armor" refers to helmets and breastplates used to protect the body from external threats, while "weapons" denote handheld arms like swords and spears. Alternatively, the finest of weapons may be collectively termed "armor and arms."

Practitioners of the Dao once had temperaments as sharp as weapons, but now they have become gentle as water, thinking only of benefiting others rather than harming them. This state appears to possess weapons yet never employs them, hence the saying "though they exist, they are never deployed."

Regarding "causing the people to return to the use of knotted cords," this speaks of reverting to the original state of simplicity. "Knotted cords" refer to the ancient, unadorned method of governance. Viewed temporally, ancient customs were pure and honest while modern ways are shallow; viewed spiritually, the heart aligned with the Dao is simple while the mundane heart is superficial. When human desires arise, purity turns to shallowness; when greed is eliminated, shallowness returns to purity. Thus, the purity of an era depends on the transformation of human hearts.

Ordinary people preserving simplicity can only perfect themselves individually. To restore the entire world to the pristine purity of antiquity requires the emergence of a ruler who embodies the Dao.

"Finding their food sweet, their clothes beautiful, their dwellings peaceful, and their customs joyful" means: when the heart is free from desire, plain tea and simple fare taste delicious; when aspirations are modest, coarse garments seem splendid; when content with one's abode, a thatched hut suffices; when delighting in the way of Wuwei (non-action), one pays no heed to worldly trends.

"Neighboring states within sight of each other, where the sounds of chickens and dogs are heard, yet the people grow old and die without visiting one another" describes: states so small that one can see the neighboring country from the border, where cockcrows and dog barks are mutually audible. The people never interact from youth to old age because each is self-sufficient—abundant in De (virtue/power), they need not seek advice from others; abundant in goods, they require no loans. Being wholly self-reliant, they forget one another and do not interact.

Chapter 44 of the "Trustworthy Words Chapter" (the 81st chapter of the Daode Jing) primarily summarizes the essential meaning of the entire scripture. This chapter divides into four sections: first distinguishing between true and false speech; next evaluating the gains and losses of seekers of learning; then summarizing the sage's virtue of non-accumulation; finally elucidating the correspondence between the Dao of Heaven and the Dao of Sages.

"Trustworthy words are not embellished; embellished words are not trustworthy" points out that truthful speech is often not ornate or pleasing, while ornate and pleasing words are often untrustworthy.

Genuine and credible teachings constitute true transmission. The principles recorded in scriptures should align with the Dao (the Way), expressed in plain and straightforward language that points directly to the essence—without false ornamentation, deliberate embellishment, or concealment. Simple, comprehensible, and practical—this is the mark of authentic scriptures. In contrast, flowery rhetoric and bombastic words that exaggerate fortune and misfortune to deceive the ignorant may convince the shallow-minded, but they lead people astray from profound truth. Such flashy yet hollow teachings are not genuine scriptures.

Truly virtuous people do not engage in disputes, while those fond of arguing often lack true virtue. Those who understand the Dao in their hearts naturally align their words with actions, needing no deliberate self-justification. The truly virtuous do not constantly blame others, whereas those who always defend themselves, belittle others, overwhelm people with clever words, or conquer external things with glib speech are far from being genuinely good. These observations profoundly reveal the gains and losses of spiritual seekers and the methods for distinguishing truth from false teachings.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not flaunt their knowledge, while those who parade their erudition often lack true understanding. Realizing the truth does not depend on how much one can say. If one believes that verbosity and extensive knowledge can lead to true wisdom, it will only cause the spirit (Shen) to lose its way. This is why it is said, "The learned are not wise." The sage does not deliberately accumulate—here, "accumulation" has two meanings: first, the accumulation of virtue (De), and second, non-attachment to accumulation. Continuously performing good deeds and accumulating virtue is called "profound accumulation of virtue"; "non-accumulation" refers to using virtue to enlighten the ignorant, using wealth to aid the poor, and imparting teachings when the opportunity arises, without the slightest reluctance.

The sage imparts virtue unreservedly to the world, employing various methods to teach according to circumstances and benefit all beings. As more and more people receive these teachings, the sage's virtue grows ever greater. Those who use wealth to relieve the impoverished find their own resources becoming increasingly abundant. The nature of the Dao of Heaven (natural law) is emptiness, yet it is mysteriously efficacious; in its function, it gives birth to and accomplishes all things. The Dao of Heaven always benefits all things and never harms them.

This passage elucidates the way of being for sages: they act without contention. Sages embody the supreme virtue of Wuwei (non-action), their teachings subtle and profound, always maintaining an attitude of humility and open-mindedness. They accomplish tasks without claiming credit, invariably yielding merit to others. Not even grasping at the deeds themselves, how could they possibly engage in contention?

Benefits exist to aid others, and action naturally generates merit. Yet possessing both merit and benefit without contention—this attains the highest state of empty stillness and self-forgetfulness, achieving perfect harmony with the Dao. Human thoughts and words often become tools of strife, but the Dao of Heaven and sage virtue are an undivided whole. The growth of all things relies on the function of Heaven-Earth and sages—without Heaven-Earth, nothing could be born; without sages, nothing could be perfected. Thus, though the Dao of Heaven does not speak, it broadly benefits all beings, viewing the myriad things as straw dogs (treated with impartiality), never causing harm.

Sages possess thoughts and words, yet differ from those inclined toward contention. Though both share thoughts and words, their functions are entirely opposite. Hence, while thoughts and words may appear the same, the teachings of sages stand apart; though thoughts and words are present, sages do not contend. Since there are distinct names for the Dao of Heaven and the way of sages, it is necessary to clarify the different manifestations of contention and harm: the Dao of Heaven manifests as non-harming, the way of sages as non-contention. If we speak from the fundamental "mysterious unity," the Dao of Heaven originally does not contend, and the way of sages originally does not harm. These two names are established only to adapt teachings to circumstances.

Setting aside these teachings to return to the truth, all falls into silence—without distinction between Heaven and sages. Since the source of both Heaven and sages is "non-being," what difference remains between the manifestations of contention and harm? Here, the profound meaning of the entire Daode Jing reaches its conclusion. The reason for both establishing and dissolving concepts is to transcend language in realizing the Dao. Using this chapter to summarize the essence of the five thousand words—if one grasps this meaning, what principle remains unclear?

The Dao permeates all existence, yet if one clings to concrete things in seeking it, ultimately it cannot be seen. There is no separate Dao beyond the myriad things, yet seeking the Dao apart from them is equally fruitless. Truly believe that the Dao is omnipresent, yet wherever it is found, it returns to emptiness. To genuinely seek the Dao, do not fixate on specific directions.

Observing various commentaries today, most interpret based on concrete phenomena: some correlate the scripture to body parts (the "sectional explanation" approach); some discuss alchemical cultivation (the origin of alchemical texts); some focus solely on emptiness (like Wang Bi); some illustrate principles through examples (like Sun Deng); some explain through Yin-Yang symbolism (the Yin-Yang school); some use survival and destruction as metaphors (like Han Fei); some immerse in extinguishing consciousness (like Yan Zun’s expansive theories); others embellish the text for comprehension (the Confucian tradition). Ordinary people cling to form, believing Laozi’s teachings are severed from sagely wisdom; Buddhists mock them as confined to family and state due to their view of emptiness. This is because Confucian teachings lack the essential pursuit of the true Dao, and Buddhism fails to articulate the Dao’s function—merely exhausting the mind in vain.

Those who chase empty fame exhaust precious resources in pursuit of so-called blessings, only to sit in corners convinced of their own righteousness. Clinging stubbornly to partial views, they grow increasingly confused, forever lost on the great path of truth.

Such people compete in studying abstruse theories and debating nebulous principles. Though appearing to cultivate the true Dao (the Way), they in fact stray from the essence of things. This scripture (referring to the Daode Jing) resembles a vast source—profound and boundless. Its function adapts to all scales, like the roc soaring skyward: seen from afar it resembles a swallow, viewed up close a swan goose.

Northerners perceive it as southern, southerners as northern. Because each mind differs, understanding naturally varies. Now we should abandon the pursuit of superficial glamor and return to original authenticity. The Dao nourishes body and mind; through persistent practice of zuowang (sitting-in-forgetfulness, a Daoist meditation state of emptying thoughts and transcending self), one gradually experiences its benefits.

Consider the ointment preventing chapped hands—some use it merely for washing silk floss, while others employ it to conquer territories. This clearly demonstrates how comprehension and application of the Dao differ as vastly as heaven and earth.

(This passage from Commentary on the Meaning of the Daode Zhenjing (Vol.6) critiques cultivation methods that neglect fundamentals for superficialities, emphasizing the need to return to one's true nature and comprehend the Dao's essence.)