《道德真經義解》

Chapter One of the Dao De Jing elucidates the essence of the Dao. The "constant Dao" refers to the eternal, unchanging ultimate truth, while all things in the phenomenal world are in perpetual flux. The true Dao cannot be fully expressed in words ("speakable Dao") nor completely defined by names ("nameable name"). The "nameless" represents the primordial state before heaven and earth took form, while the "named" constitutes the origin from which all things emerge. Through a state of desirelessness, one may perceive the profound mysteries of the Dao; through a state of desire, one may observe its manifestations. These two states share the same origin yet bear different names—both are called "Xuan," the unfathomable ultimate truth. This truth unfolds in ever-deepening layers, serving as the gateway to understanding all mysteries.

Chapter Two examines the principle of relativity. When all people under heaven recognize beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when they acknowledge goodness, the notion of its opposite emerges. All phenomena in the world exist in mutual dependence: being and non-being give rise to each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low incline toward each other, tones and sounds harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Therefore, the sage governs according to the principle of Wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordless instruction. They allow all things to flourish without interference, create without claiming possession, act without self-importance, and accomplish without dwelling on achievements. This attitude embodies the natural non-interfering quality of the Dao.

Laozi states in the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue): "Precisely because he does not claim merit, his merit is never lost." This five-thousand-character classic connects with the mysterious Dao of heaven above while providing practical guidance for worldly affairs below. Those who seek the Dao through it attain the Dao; those who govern states with it achieve peace and prosperity; those who cultivate themselves through it find physical and mental tranquility. The profound subtlety of this classic lies precisely in its integration of three dimensions: heavenly Dao, state governance, and self-cultivation.

This chapter explains: Our original nature is undifferentiated—how can there be distinctions between beauty and ugliness, good and evil? Only after the generation of all things, when forms and names emerge, do people begin making distinctions. Everyone recognizes beauty as beautiful, yet fails to understand that the concept of "ugliness" arises in contrast to "beauty"; everyone knows goodness as good, yet fails to see that "not-good" emerges in opposition to "good." All things in the world exist in mutual relativity: being and non-being generate each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast each other, high and low depend on each other, tones and sounds harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Where one aspect exists, its counterpart necessarily arises.

Sages understand this principle, always positioning themselves ahead of developments and acting in accordance with natural laws. They practice "non-action" (Wuwei, meaning not forcing things) and teach through "wordless instruction" (subtle influence). They neither deliberately pursue good nor reject evil, neither clinging to one extreme nor neglecting any aspect. Though appearing constantly engaged in action, they never act with forced intention; though appearing constantly speaking, they never teach through deliberate instruction. All things grow naturally, and sages simply follow their development; all things multiply naturally, and sages simply accord with their patterns. Though appearing to accomplish things, they merely respond to external circumstances; though appearing to establish merit, they merely adapt to situations. Precisely because they claim no credit, they achieve true merit; precisely because they cling to no results, they grasp the initiative. The sage's realm transcends gain and loss, making them impervious to external influences.

In the chapter "Not Exalting the Worthy," Laozi says: When the worthy are not glorified, people won't compete for fame; when rare objects aren't prized, people won't steal; when desirable things aren't displayed, minds won't be confused. Therefore, when sages govern, they purify people's hearts, enrich their lives, pacify their wills, and strengthen their bodies. Keeping people simple and free of cunning and desire, even the clever dare not act recklessly. Governing through "non-action," nothing remains ungoverned.

Specifically: Any boasting or substitution constitutes exalting the worthy; any coveting or demanding constitutes pursuing rare objects; any seeing and craving constitutes stimulating desire. From the perspective of personal cultivation...

The heart is like a ruler, while the ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and limbs are like its subjects. What the ruler favors, the subjects will pursue with even greater fervor. If I guide the people with self-aggrandizement, they will each flaunt their talents; unceasing boasting inevitably leads to conflict. If I guide them with covetousness, they will compete for profit; endless contention must result in theft. If I make desire my heart—insatiably greedy, seeking to possess everything within sight—chaos will surely follow.

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) keeps the heart empty, diminishes desires, strengthens the sinews and bones, and fills the belly. The heart and will belong to the human-made path, while bones and belly belong to the natural way. The sage follows the Dao of Heaven without clinging to human desires, whereas ordinary people cling to desires and defy Heaven’s way. To follow the Dao of Heaven means the heart is as easily satisfied as the belly, and the will is as steadfast as the bones. An ancient saying goes: "If only the belly of petty men could be as content as the heart of noble men." The belly is easily filled, but the heart is hard to satisfy.

The sage is in harmony with the Dao of Heaven—his fullness is like the belly, his firmness like the bones. He does not know why he is full, yet naturally is; he does not know why he is firm, yet naturally is. Being both full and firm, his heart need not deliberately empty itself to become naturally tranquil, nor must his will consciously weaken to become naturally balanced. Ordinary people are not like this; they cling entirely to human desires without following Heaven’s way, hence their endless strife. A greedy heart never feels satisfied, for the belly has never truly been filled; a complacent will grows slack, and slackness cannot accomplish anything, for the bones have never truly been strong.

The sage maintains clarity within, so external things cannot disturb his heart. Only then can the people remain free of knowledge and desire. For where there is knowledge, confusion inevitably arises; where there is thought, bias inevitably follows—this is the unavoidable nature of all things. The sage knows but is not ruled by knowledge, thinks but avoids bias. He can recognize "knowing" itself without being mastered by it—this is "the knower not being known." Since his knowing is pure, his actions do not become disordered; thus, he appears unknowing, appears to practice wuwei (non-action). Governing the state or cultivating the self with this approach, nothing remains ungovernable.

Chapter Four describes the empty and tranquil nature of the Dao: The Dao appears empty, yet its function is inexhaustible; profound as the source of all things. It blunts sharp edges, untangles knots, softens glare, and merges with the dust. Clear and limpid, it seems both present and absent—I do not know from whence it came, as if it existed before Heaven and Earth. The Dao is empty, tranquil, and mysterious; try to grasp it, and it seems just beyond reach—hence it is called "perhaps" (seeming yet not seeming).

The Dao (the fundamental source and principle of the cosmos) may seem unassuming, yet its profound mystery grows ever more inexhaustible the more it is employed. All things naturally follow the laws of the Dao, yet the Dao itself is not equivalent to any particular thing—thus it is said to resemble the origin of all beings. Ancient practitioners of the Dao never deliberately sought progress yet naturally advanced ("blunting their sharp edges" refers to tempering one's锋芒), nor did they refrain from action out of fear ("unraveling their entanglements" means resolving conflicts). They neither deliberately flaunted virtuous deeds ("harmonizing their radiance" signifies balancing brilliance) nor rejected things deemed negative ("mixing with the dust" implies blending with the mundane). The Dao eternally maintains its pure nature without clinging to that purity, thus existing in a state that seems both present and absent. We do not know its origin, so we cannot say whose descendant it is; we do not know when it appeared, thus it is said to have existed before the Celestial Emperor (Tian).

Heaven and Earth show no partiality, treating all things as impartially as straw dogs used in sacrifices; sages likewise show no favoritism, regarding the people with the same equanimity. The space between Heaven and Earth resembles a bellows (tuoyue)—hollow within yet never collapsing, producing ever more wind the more it is pumped. Speaking too much often leads to exhaustion of reason; it is better to maintain inner emptiness and stillness.

True benevolence (great ren) may appear indifferent to all things yet in reality pervades everything; superficial benevolence (petty ren) may show affection to certain objects but inevitably leaves gaps. Thus, when Heaven and Earth treat all beings, or when sages treat the people, they do not favor each individually but handle them like sacrificial straw dogs: seemingly used yet not deliberately used, seemingly discarded yet not truly discarded, seemingly valued yet not specially valued, seemingly disregarded yet not truly disregarded. They view external things as straw dogs and themselves as bellows—empty yet infinitely functional, generating more the more they operate. The bellows does not know it produces wind, nor does the wind know it comes from the bellows—thus their operation continues without exhaustion. If one insists on deliberately displaying benevolence, it becomes impossible to extend it universally; if one fails to respond to things with an empty mind, comprehensive engagement becomes difficult. Explaining words with words may still lead to exhaustion of expression—how much more so when trying to observe the myriad things through an individual self? Better to maintain inner emptiness and stillness, speaking only at the appropriate moment. Precisely because one does not cling to one's words, even if they spread throughout the world, no fault will arise.

The Valley Spirit (referring to the mysterious function of the Dao) is deathless—this is called the Mysterious Feminine (xuanpin, the profound generative power of the feminine). The gateway of the Mysterious Feminine is the root of Heaven and Earth. Subtle and continuous, seeming both present and absent, its function never runs dry. This divine operation is concealed within form, just as a valley is contained within a mountain—hence it is called the "Valley Spirit." Emptiness relies on substance for support, while substance employs emptiness for function. The Valley Spirit has no fixed form but manifests its wonder through concrete existence.

This scripture conveys three key teachings:

First, it explains the relationship between the "Mysterious Female" (Xuanpin, representing the primordial union of heaven and earth's yin-yang forces) and human cultivation. Heaven (Xuan) corresponds to the human nose, while earth (Pin) corresponds to the mouth. The nose inhales celestial Qi (innate vital energy) through breathing, while the mouth acquires earthly Jing (acquired nourishment) through eating. The secret of human longevity fundamentally lies in emulating this cyclical exchange of essence and energy between heaven and earth. By skillfully regulating breath and diet in accordance with natural rhythms, maintaining continuous internal Qi flow like an echo in an empty valley, one can attain spiritual resonance with the Dao.

Next, it illustrates the philosophy of "non-self-generated existence" through cosmic patterns. Heaven and earth endure precisely because they don't exist for themselves, but selflessly nurture all things. The sage understands this principle—by not clinging to personal existence, one preserves oneself; by not competing for private gain, one accomplishes great deeds. Just as heaven never withholds its gifts and earth never ceases to nurture, this spirit of selfless giving constitutes the key to achieving longevity.

Finally, it uses water's nature to symbolize supreme virtue. The highest goodness resembles water—nourishing all things without claiming merit, willingly occupying low places others disdain. Water adapts to all environments: ascending as rain and dew, descending as rivers, moistening both clean and dirty places. Those embodying this virtue dwell in suitable places, maintain profound inner stillness, speak with integrity, govern skillfully, act according to their strengths, and move at proper times. Because they don't contend with others, they incur no resentment.

What people despise often approaches the Dao (the Way), and the sage's beneficence toward all things follows the same principle. They dwell without choosing locations, thus wherever they go becomes auspicious ground; their hearts harbor no selfish thoughts, so what they accumulate are all springs of goodness; their giving knows no discrimination, thus their offerings embody benevolent kindness; their speech requires no selection, so their words manifest sincere trustworthiness. Acting in accordance with heavenly principles, their conduct never deviates from rectitude—thus their uprightness constitutes good governance; working without deliberate intent, their affairs never fail—thus their actions demonstrate skillful capability. Never acting with forced effort, their movements always align with timeliness—thus their activity embodies perfect timing. What the multitude chases after is precisely what the sage discards; what the sage possesses is exactly what the common people lack. The sage does not tread the same path as ordinary folk, thus never contends with others, and none can find fault with them.

Chapter Nine teaches: Clinging to fullness is inferior to knowing when to stop; displaying sharpness cannot be maintained long. No one can preserve halls filled with gold and jade; wealth coupled with arrogance only invites disaster. Achieving merit and fame yet understanding when to withdraw—this accords with the Dao's way. Knowing something is full yet forcibly maintaining it is less proper than never having reached fullness; knowing one's sharpness yet deliberately displaying it is less wise than never having revealed it. To recognize fullness yet insist on retaining it, to know sharpness yet intentionally expose it—these are already mistakes, let alone those who neither restrain their fullness nor temper their sharpness? Becoming greedier when already full, growing more arrogant when already exposed, insatiably amassing halls of gold and jade—such wealth and arrogance cannot overpower others but first destroys one's original mind. This is precisely inviting calamity. The four seasons operate, withdrawing after fulfilling their purpose—if even heavenly Dao acts thus, how much more should humans?

Chapter Ten inquires: Can the originally formed hun (yang soul) and po (yin soul) be harmonized without separation? Concentrating jing (essence) and qi (vital energy) to achieve softness—can one become like an infant naturally? Clearing distracting thoughts to contemplate the inner self—can one become flawless? Loving the people and governing the state—can one follow wuwei (non-action)? When sense organs interact with the external world—can one maintain tranquil gentleness? Being profoundly understanding yet appearing simple—can one preserve a state of no-knowledge and no-desire? Producing all things without possessing them, acting upon all without claiming credit, nurturing all without controlling—this is the most profound De (Virtue). An infant's ability to maintain softness does not stem from the infant's own capacity, but from the effect of concentrated jing and qi—achieved effortlessly without deliberate pursuit.

This passage expounds the essential principles of cultivating mind and nature. To attain a state of focused purity, one must maintain the simple, uncluttered mind of an infant. Though profound insight (xuanlan) is valuable, if the heart still harbors scattered thoughts, one cannot truly attain the Dao. Therefore, all distracting thoughts must be cleared away to achieve flawless inner purity.

The same principle applies to governing a state: when rulers manage the people with partial affection, they inevitably fail to care for all; when governing through excessive regulations, the state becomes disordered. Only by maintaining a tranquil attitude of wuwei (non-action) can the people be naturally transformed. Just as in the interplay of yin-yang - when yang qi activates, all things flourish; when yin qi withdraws, all things gather - the dynamic balance between movement and stillness sustains endless regeneration. But if one persists in restless agitation, vital energy will eventually be exhausted, hence the need for quiet restoration after action.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao may possess penetrating insight, yet if entangled in worldly trivialities, they cannot reach the natural state of wuwei. The sage treats all beings like parents nurturing children - creating without possessing, acting without claiming credit, guiding without dominating. This represents the most profound manifestation of De (Virtue).

Chapter 11 employs the wheel as metaphor: thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub, and precisely this emptiness enables the wheel to turn; clay is shaped into vessels, and their central void makes them useful; doors and windows are cut for dwellings, and these empty spaces allow habitation. Thus while "being" (substantial form) provides utility, it is "non-being" (emptiness) that creates function. Just as the body is solid but the shen (spirit) is empty - this very emptiness enables ears to hear, eyes to see, nose to smell, mouth to taste, and body to feel. All senses require emptiness to function, just as the spirit must maintain quietude to endure.

Chapter 12 warns of desire's dangers: excessive colorful sights dazzle the eyes, incessant clamorous music deafens the ears, constant rich flavors numb the palate, indulgent hunting unsettles the mind, and pursuing rare treasures distorts behavior. Therefore, the sage seeks only practical nourishment, avoids sensory indulgence, understands how to abandon superficiality, and chooses fundamental authenticity.

The ears can hear sounds yet are harmed by them; the mouth can taste flavors yet suffers from delicacies. The relentless pursuit of wealth through hunting and racing stems from the mind's attachment to external things, ultimately leading to the loss of one's innate nature. Human spirit (Shen) should remain inwardly focused, yet the eyes, ears, mouth, and mind scatter it: the eyes chase colors, the ears chase sounds, the tongue chases flavors, and the mind chases external objects. When the eyes are deluded by colors, vision is stolen; when the ears are beguiled by sounds, hearing is taken away; when the tongue is seduced by flavors, taste is lost; when the mind is ensnared by external things, wisdom is forfeited. When these four senses are controlled by externals, the eyes become blind, the ears deaf, the mouth tasteless, and the mind deranged. It is better to turn inward, allowing the eyes to retain their true vision unswayed by colors, the ears their true hearing undisturbed by sounds, the tongue its true taste untempted by flavors, and the mind its true awareness unshaken by externals. Thus, the sage values inner fulfillment ("filling the belly") over outward pursuit ("chasing with the eyes"). The "belly" symbolizes receptivity without grasping, containment without attachment, contentment without greed—unlike the insatiable eyes that see more yet remain unsatisfied. While the eyes chase outward, the "belly" dwells inward. Sages focus on the internal and forget the external, abandoning outward pursuits to abide within.

Regarding the chapter "Favor and disgrace seem alarming": Why do both receiving favor and suffering disgrace cause alarm? Because great calamity is regarded as one's own safety. What does "favor and disgrace seem alarming" mean? When in lowly positions (disgrace), one is alarmed, and when losing them, one is also alarmed—this is the meaning. Why "value great calamity as the body"? The reason we perceive calamity as significant is excessive concern for the self. If even the concept of "I" vanishes, what remains to worry about? Thus, only those who prioritize governing the world above their own lives may be entrusted with it; only those who cherish the world as their own life may bear its responsibility.

The Doctrine of the Mean states: The noble person acts according to their station without coveting what lies beyond. In wealth and honor, they live accordingly; in poverty and lowliness, they live accordingly. Thus, noble persons find contentment in any circumstance. Favor and disgrace are not inherent to us. Being alarmed upon receiving favor stems from fear of impending disgrace; being alarmed upon losing disgrace arises from dread of approaching favor. Hence, fearing favor is like fearing disgrace, and gaining favor is like gaining disgrace—thus "disgrace is the lower." Understand these as external disturbances. What of "valuing great calamity as the body"? Mencius said: A state without law-abiding ministers and wise counselors internally, and without rival states' threats externally, will often perish.

When one becomes overly attached to their physical existence, it inevitably brings troubles; but by transcending this attachment to the body, one becomes free from such afflictions. The true key lies in not deliberately pursuing a state of "thoughtlessness," as forcing such a state is itself a form of attachment.

True masters cherish troubles as they cherish their own bodies, for they understand that only by first accepting the existence of troubles can one truly transcend them. This principle applies not only to personal cultivation but also to governing the world—only by caring for the people as one cares for their own body can one shoulder the responsibility of ruling; only by treating the world's troubles as one's own can one truly protect the nation.

Chapter 14 speaks of the mysterious characteristics of the Dao (the Way): looking at it, one cannot see it—this is called "Yi" (formless); listening for it, one cannot hear it—this is called "Xi" (soundless); grasping for it, one cannot touch it—this is called "Wei" (intangible). These three characteristics cannot be clearly described in words, for they are originally an undivided unity.

The Dao is neither bright nor dark; it is continuous and unbroken yet defies description, ultimately returning to a state of emptiness. This is the formless form, the imageless image—it may be called "indistinct and vague." Facing it, you cannot see its beginning; following it, you cannot see its end. By holding fast to the eternal Dao to respond to present circumstances, one may comprehend the origin of all things—this is the "guiding principle of the Dao."

Chapter 15 describes the demeanor of the ancient masters who attained the Dao: their minds were as meticulous as treading on thin ice, their actions as cautious as facing an enemy; their bearing was solemn like an honored guest, yet their movements flowed freely like melting spring ice. Their character was as simple as unhewn wood, their hearts as expansive as deep valleys; they were as embracing as turbid waters. Who can remain clear amidst turbidity? Who can stir with vitality while at rest? Those who maintain this state never become complacent, and precisely because they are not complacent, they can continually renew themselves, forever brimming with vitality.

The true sages of antiquity who comprehended the Dao (the Way) attained a state so subtle, profound and unfathomable that ordinary people couldn't possibly understand it. Precisely because it's difficult to comprehend, we reluctantly use these metaphors to describe them: They moved cautiously like crossing a winter river, remained vigilant as if wary of neighbors, carried themselves with the solemnity of an honored guest, flowed freely like melting ice, embodied simplicity like uncarved wood, maintained emptiness like a mountain valley, and appeared turbid like muddy water.

Who can remain still like muddy water that gradually clarifies? Who can nurture vitality within prolonged tranquility? Those who preserve the Dao never seek perfection. Precisely because they don't pursue completion, they can continually renew themselves. When encountering situations, these Dao-realized individuals act like crossing a winter river—never rash; like being wary of neighbors—never quick to judge; like being a guest—never presuming to be the host; like melting ice—never stubborn; like uncarved wood—never artificially adorned; like a valley—never self-satisfied; like turbid water—never proclaiming purity.

People may see them as turbid, but prolonged observation reveals gradual clarification; they may appear inactive, yet their operation slowly manifests vitality. Only sages can nurture clarity within turbidity and cultivate vitality within stillness, thus maintaining lucidity without overflowing. Precisely because of this cultivation, they transform the old into the new and constancy into change. Those who pursue only superficial novelty will find such "newness" quickly exhausted.

Chapter 16 of the Dao De Jing states: "Attain the ultimate emptiness, maintain profound tranquility. While all things flourish, I observe their cyclical patterns. Though myriad phenomena arise, all return to their root. Returning to the root is stillness—stillness means returning to one's nature, returning to nature means constancy. Understanding constancy is wisdom; not understanding leads to reckless misfortune. Understanding constancy brings tolerance, tolerance brings impartiality, impartiality brings completeness, completeness aligns with heavenly Dao, alignment with Dao brings longevity—a life free from peril."

Emptiness is the Dao's ultimate expression; tranquility is the Dao's origin. Therefore cultivation begins with preserving tranquility and culminates in perfect emptiness. While all things grow and change, I don't follow the current, but calmly observe their return. This "return" means thoroughly investigating principles, fully manifesting one's nature, and ultimately returning to life's source. Ordinary human bodies consist of four elements: earth (solidity), water (moisture), wind (movement) and fire (warmth). When these elements are active, people become lost in external changes; when wind and fire disperse, earth and water separate, life returns to its origin.

This passage from Exegesis of the True Scripture of Dao and De elucidates the principles of cultivating mind and nature. The scripture reveals that when human awareness gradually dissipates, one realizes such awareness is actually dependent on external conditions. The heart-mind is the root of the body, yet due to delusional thoughts, various distracting notions (guest wisdom) arise, leading to mental restlessness. If delusions can be eliminated, these distractions will naturally vanish. The original nature of the human mind is pure and luminous—returning to this fundamental state is called "returning to the root" (guigen). By returning to the root, one attains "stillness," which means restoring one's innate nature (fuming). This innate nature is humanity's heavenly endowment; recognizing it allows one to comprehend its eternal and unchanging principle.

People act recklessly because they are misled by distractions, unaware that their original mind-nature is inherently pure. If one illuminates these distractions with the radiance of their fundamental mind without clinging to them, they can maintain constant clarity. The inner mind becomes like empty space—capable of embracing all things without rejection. Attaining this state is called "impartiality" (gong). Through impartiality, one reaches the realm of "kingliness" (wang), which embodies "heaven" (tian). Heaven is none other than the Dao, and the Dao endures eternally. The more enduring it becomes, the more revered; the vaster it grows, the more luminous—thus one may live a life free from peril.

Chapter Seventeen: The Supreme states: "The highest ruler (taishang) governs so subtly that the people merely know of his existence. The next level of ruler is loved and praised by the people. The inferior ruler is feared, while the lowest is despised. This occurs because the ruler's sincerity is insufficient, and thus the people distrust him. The sage issues no arbitrary commands; when his work is accomplished, the people believe it happened naturally."

Chapter Eighteen: The Abandonment of the Great Dao observes: "When the Great Dao (Dadao) is abandoned, only then do benevolence and righteousness arise. When cunning intelligence appears, great hypocrisy follows. When family harmony is lost, filial piety and parental love are emphasized. When the state falls into chaos, loyal ministers emerge." This illustrates how these virtues only gain prominence when social order collapses.

This passage describes the gradual decline of the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) and its consequences. When the Dao begins to dissipate, superficial displays of benevolence and righteousness emerge. When people compete to flaunt these shallow virtues, it indicates the true Dao has already deteriorated to an extreme degree.

In its original, complete state, the Dao naturally encompassed benevolence and righteousness—there was no need to deliberately distinguish them. But when people start consciously performing kindness and boasting about righteousness, the great Dao is no longer whole. If the Dao operated justly throughout the world, such superficial virtues would never need special emphasis. Worse still, when cunning individuals begin exploiting the names of benevolence and righteousness, hypocrisy and disorder arise.

By the final stage, when everyone is mired in pretense, those who appear slightly different are suddenly exalted. Just as filial piety is emphasized only when families are in discord, and loyal ministers are valued only when the state is in chaos. The dissipation of the Dao causes people to fixate on fragments while forgetting the whole. When the decline is complete, people end up praising things that merely resemble virtue—this is why the Dao grows ever weaker.

Chapter 19 states: Do not deliberately pursue the reputation of sages and wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold; abandon superficial benevolence and righteousness, and the people will naturally return to true filial piety and compassion; discard cunning and profit-seeking, and thieves will vanish. These three, if treated as mere formalities, are insufficient. People must return to their genuine nature, preserve simplicity, and reduce selfish desires.

A true sage does not proclaim himself a sage; a true wise man does not boast of his wisdom. The "wisdom" that can be discarded is not true wisdom. Likewise, the "benevolence and righteousness" that can be abandoned are not the real thing. The highest skill leaves no trace; the greatest benefit has no visible form. Sages focus on substance rather than superficial forms, so their outward expressions appear effortless. But ordinary people imitate only the surface, disrupting what is real. Sages despise falsity that distorts truth, so they address the root of the problem—ensuring people no longer mimic sagely behavior out of self-interest or discard true filial piety under the guise of benevolence and righteousness.

This passage expounds principles of state governance. When rulers abandon opportunistic schemes and profit-seeking methods, instead taking the lead in maintaining a state of primal simplicity (素朴 supu refers to the uncarved natural state of being), the people will naturally refrain from using deceitful and ostentatious behavior to cheat others upon witnessing such genuine authenticity in their leaders.

When rulers reduce selfish desires (少私寡欲 shaosi guayu), the people observing such exemplary conduct will naturally avoid deceiving themselves with clever words. The entire passage emphasizes the importance of rulers leading by example—influencing the populace through sincere and unadorned conduct proves more effective than relying on complex government decrees.

The concept of "primal simplicity" (素朴 supu) mentioned here is a crucial Daoist notion, referring to humanity's original, untainted state before worldly corruption. "Reducing selfish desires" (少私寡欲 shaosi guayu) represents a fundamental requirement of Daoist cultivation, advocating that only by diminishing personal cravings can one return to their natural essence.

This passage expounds the principle of "abandoning learning to be free from worries." The Daoist master Xi Zhai explains that true learning is not the frantic accumulation of knowledge, but rather the attainment of a "learning-free" state. Just as the Dao (the cosmic origin) cannot be deliberately pursued, genuine learning paradoxically involves non-attachment to learning.

People often become anxious in their pursuit of knowledge, rejoicing at every gain and lamenting every loss. But the sage perceives the fundamental truth: while surface-level respect (wei) and neglect (a) appear vastly different, they originate from the same source; good and evil seem opposed yet spring from identical roots. Recognizing this essence, the sage effortlessly transforms neglect into respect and evil into good.

Ordinary people indulge in worldly pleasures with the excitement of attending grand feasts (tai lao) or spring outings. The enlightened, however, remain as simple as an unweaned infant—seemingly muddled, going with the flow. Where others appear excessively clever, the enlightened seem deficient; where others calculate shrewdly, they appear confused; where others pursue ambitions, they resemble obstinate country bumpkins.

This distinction arises because the enlightened cherish what nourishes life's root (the mother of nourishment). If learning cannot reach the state of "needing no learning," it isn't true "abandoned learning." The sage understands: deliberate pursuit cannot attain the Dao, and clinging to learning misses true wisdom. Only by seeing the fundamental unity of all things can one transcend worldly distinctions and achieve carefree serenity.

Yet when engaging with the world, sages don't forcibly alter people's desires or perceptions. Instead, they share in the people's joys and understand their fears. This accommodation isn't blind conformity, but wise discernment after comprehending reality's essence.

This passage describes the fundamental difference between ordinary people and enlightened sages. Ordinary people indulge in sensory pleasures, delighting as if ascending a springtime terrace, satisfied as if partaking in grand sacrificial offerings. They consider themselves supremely intelligent, believing they surpass all others. In truth, they have completely lost touch with their original heart-mind and innate nature, chasing only external appearances.

The sage's heart resonates with the Dao (the Way). They never cling to external things, remaining as innocent and desireless as an infant, adrift like a boat with no harbor to return to. Though they may appear dull and clumsy, this is because they perceive the fundamental source of all things, unswayed by superficial illusions. This is the truly precious path of "nourishing the mother" (returning to the origin of life).

Chapter 21 speaks of the highest virtue, which fully aligns with the Dao. The Dao itself is formless and imageless, yet within the hazy and indistinct, it reveals its shape; within the profound and mysterious, it contains its essence. This essence is utterly real, unchanging from ancient times to the present. It is by observing this true nature of the Dao that the sage comprehends the origin of all things.

The Dao appears empty, yet within it lies the most genuine existence. What ordinary people perceive as real is, in fact, illusory appearance. Only by recognizing the "being within non-being" (the true existence within apparent emptiness) can one grasp the essential reality. This essence does not exist because of "being," nor does it vanish because of "non-being"—it is the eternal, unchanging truth.

This scripture expounds two fundamental principles of Daoist wisdom:

The first section illustrates the dialectical concept that "yielding leads to wholeness." When things reach their extreme, they inevitably reverse: bending actually preserves, humility straightens, emptiness fills, the worn renews, restraint gains, while greed brings confusion. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) adheres to the fundamental principle of the Dao—not self-displaying thus enlightened, not self-righteous thus distinguished, not boastful thus accomplished, not arrogant thus enduring. Precisely because they contend with none, none in the world can contend with them. This isn't empty rhetoric but absolute truth. All things cannot remain bent forever, thus bending ultimately transforms into wholeness; cannot remain humbled forever, thus humility ultimately transforms into expansion.

The second section explains the principle of "sparse words follow nature." Violent winds don't last all morning, torrential rains don't last all day—such is the way of heaven and earth. Even the cosmos cannot sustain extremes indefinitely, let alone humans. Therefore, Dao cultivators must align with nature: those in harmony with the Dao are welcomed by it; those in harmony with De (Virtue) are embraced by it; those who lose the Dao are followed by errors. True wisdom speaks with perfect measure—people may not even notice the speaking—this is "few words yet attuned to nature." Forced verbosity resembles storms: momentarily impressive yet inherently unsustainable.

Both passages emphasize the life wisdom of following nature's flow and maintaining humility without contention. Sages become masters of all things precisely because they hold fast to the great Dao—never self-displaying, never self-righteous, never claiming merit—remaining perpetually in humble positions, thereby achieving true greatness.

This passage from the "Exegesis of the True Scripture of Dao and De" elucidates two key principles:

The first layer discusses the mentality of gain and loss. Those who truly comprehend the Dao understand that in reality, there is no such thing as gain or loss—these concepts only arise from worldly attachments. Practitioners of the Dao should transcend such dualistic thinking, remaining undisturbed whether encountering gain or loss. To be united with the Dao is ideal, to be united with De (Virtue/Power) is also good, and even being united with "loss" poses no problem. When one's inner resolve is firm, external fluctuations of fortune cannot disturb the mind. If one's own heart is filled with doubt, how can one expect others to have faith in you?

Chapter 24 employs vivid metaphors to illustrate the harm of forced striving: standing on tiptoe cannot last long, taking oversized strides cannot go far. Similarly, self-display obscures true perception, self-righteousness hinders clear understanding, self-praise nullifies merit, and arrogant complacency prevents endurance. These behaviors are like leftover food or superfluous movements—even ordinary people find them distasteful, let alone those who have attained the Dao. True Dao cultivators should follow natural spontaneity, just as hands and feet move naturally or ears hear effortlessly, without needing deliberate control.

Chapter 25 describes the essence of the Dao: There exists something perfectly complete, existing before heaven and earth came into being. Silent and soundless, formless and vast, it stands alone and never changes. This describes the fundamental state of the Dao—transcending time and space, eternally unchanging. (Note: The Dao is Daoism's most fundamental concept, referring to the origin of the universe and its operating principles.)

This passage elucidates the fundamental nature and operational principles of the Dao (the Way), as well as the relationship between humanity and the Dao.

The Dao circulates ceaselessly, serving as the origin of all creation. It has no fixed name—we reluctantly call it "Dao" or "the Great." This greatness is not static but constantly moving and transforming (receding), extending to the farthest reaches (distant), yet ultimately returning to its source (returning). Thus we say the Dao is the greatest, followed by heaven, earth, and the sovereign—these four being most significant in the cosmos. Humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates the Dao, and the Dao follows its own natural patterns.

The Dao exists as formless chaos, beyond concrete description. It predates the formation of heaven and earth, without beginning or end, existing independently yet never in isolation. It permeates all things without being diminished, serving as the inexhaustible source of all life. Though we describe it as "independent," "circular," or "mother of all things," these names cannot fully capture its essence.

From the Dao's perspective, the sovereign's alignment with the Dao presents no difficulty. When humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, and heaven emulates the Dao, the sovereign's harmony with the Dao naturally follows.

Chapter twenty-six discusses the relationship between gravity and frivolity. Gravity forms the root of frivolity, while stillness governs agitation. Thus the sage travels always with heavy baggage (symbolizing steadfastness), maintaining transcendence even amidst worldly splendor. But some rulers govern recklessly—frivolity loses subjects, haste forfeits sovereignty. This chapter emphasizes governing with solemn composure, avoiding rash actions.

What is light and frivolous will ultimately return to steadiness; what is restless and agitated will ultimately return to tranquility. Thus, steadiness is the root of lightness, and tranquility is the foundation of agitation. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) travels all day without leaving behind the heavy-laden cart—meaning that no matter where one goes, one never forgets the root. Though dwelling in bustling places, one remains transcendent and unbound; seemingly engaged in all things, yet always abiding in the state of wuwei (non-action, following the natural course).

Alas, rulers who command ten thousand chariots fail to recognize the weight of their responsibility, instead exhausting themselves over trivial matters. If entangled by minor affairs, a single triviality is enough to wear one out—how then can one govern the world? Both lightness and agitation are flaws, but agitation is the more harmful. Lightness merely reflects a shallow mind, but agitation plunges one deep into inner turmoil, losing the original nature of tranquility. The fault of lightness lies only in neglecting what should be valued, while the fault of agitation disrupts the heart and destroys the wholeness of serenity. Thus, it is said: lightness causes one to lose the support of ministers (assistance), while agitation causes one to lose the ruler (guidance) within.

The truly wise action leaves no trace; the wise speech has no flaw to criticize; the wise calculation needs no counting rods (ancient tools for reckoning); the wise closure requires no latch yet cannot be opened; the wise binding uses no rope yet cannot be undone. Therefore, the sage is always skilled in rescuing others, so none are abandoned; skilled in utilizing all things, so nothing is wasted. This is to inherit the radiance of the great Dao. Hence, the virtuous person is the teacher of the unvirtuous, and the unvirtuous person is the mirror for the virtuous. Neither excessively revering the teacher nor despising the mirror, appearing clever yet embodying great wisdom in simplicity—this is the profound and subtle truth.

In reality, action cannot be entirely without trace, speech cannot be absolutely flawless, calculation cannot dispense with tools, closure cannot forgo latches, and binding cannot do without ropes. Only those who have attained the Dao can: walk without relying on feet, leaving no tracks; speak without using the mouth, leaving no verbal errors; calculate without employing the mind, needing no counting rods; close without latches, making it unopenable; bind without ropes, making it unbreakable. This is because they take the eternal "constant Dao" as their essence, reaching the wondrous in application, thus achieving perfection in all things. The "constant Dao" is the fundamental principle, inherent in all people and shared by all things. Being "constant," it does not increase with more people nor decrease with fewer things. Though people and things all possess the "constant Dao," they often lose sight of the true "constancy." Thus, the sage always uses the true constant Dao to deliver them. Using the true constant to save people, none are abandoned; using the true constant to save things, nothing is wasted. But how could this be the sage’s deliberate doing? In truth, people and things originally possess this true constant nature.

This passage discusses how sages teach humanity by returning to the fundamental wisdom of the source, known as "inheriting illumination" (xí míng). At this level of realization, distinctions between good and not-good dissolve. The good person serves as teacher for the not-good, showing that the not-good can become good; the not-good serves as mirror for the good, revealing their shared essence. To disrespect teachers, reject virtuous conduct, disregard this mirror and willingly embrace wrongdoing—even with great intelligence—only deepens delusion. The essential teaching is returning to the origin.

Chapter 28 expounds the wisdom of "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine": understanding powerful strength yet abiding in gentle receptivity, like the valleys of the world. This maintains constant De (Virtue) without deviation, returning to infant-like purity. Knowing luminous principles yet dwelling in humble obscurity makes one the world's model, preserving De without error while returning to the boundless source. Understanding honorable status yet embracing lowly posture like the world's valleys allows De to become complete, returning to original simplicity.

The masculine (xióng) governs movement, the feminine (cí) governs stillness—all movement ultimately returns to stillness. Hence one becomes the world's valley. Brightness (bái) represents knowledge, obscurity (hēi) represents non-distinction—the state of no-knowledge is most valued. Thus one becomes the world's model. Honor comes from self-projection, disgrace from others' imposition. By bearing others' imposed disgrace, one paradoxically benefits. Therefore become the world's valley.

Yet how could the Dao itself have distinctions like masculine/feminine, bright/obscure, honor/disgrace? What we "know" and "guard" are not eternal De. When the Dao disperses into particular virtues, clinging to masculinity, brightness or honor causes loss of constant De. Only by guarding femininity can De remain unparted (returning to infancy); guarding obscurity keeps De unerring (returning to infinity); guarding disgrace completes De (returning to primal simplicity). Infant, infinite and simple all point to unchanging truth.

True constancy cannot be grasped by knowing nor deliberately maintained. All that can be known and guarded must return to constancy to accord with Dao. When simplicity disperses into phenomena, sages govern all things through Dao yet never depart from Dao itself.

This passage expounds the core Daoist philosophy on governing the world. Laozi regards the world as a sacred vessel (shenqi) that cannot be forcibly controlled—those who attempt to dominate it will fail, and those who cling to possession will ultimately lose. All things in existence follow their own natural patterns: some move forward while others follow behind; some require warmth and care while others need cooling breezes; some are strong while others are weak; some bear heavy burdens while others are easily destroyed.

The sage understands this principle and therefore eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess, instead aligning with the inherent nature of all things. When governing the world, they act out of necessity, treating it as something temporarily entrusted to them rather than forcibly altering its natural state. Those who fail to grasp this truth view the world as something they can completely control, only to end up damaging and losing it.

The text emphasizes that relying on military force to dominate the world inevitably invites disastrous consequences (qi shi hao huan). Lands where armies are stationed become desolate, and great wars are inevitably followed by years of calamity. Those truly skilled in the use of arms stop once their just purpose is achieved, never bullying the weak with their strength. After attaining their goal, they refrain from arrogance, ostentation, self-importance, and coercion, for when things reach their peak, they inevitably decline—this is the manifestation of acting contrary to the Dao (Dao). Whatever does not accord with the Dao will quickly perish.

This passage expounds the principles of warfare. Laozi teaches that even in victory one should not become arrogant, as war is always a last resort. When things reach their zenith, they inevitably decline. Forcing military action goes against the Dao (the Way), and whatever contradicts the Dao will soon perish.

Those who kill others' fathers will have their own fathers killed; those who slay others' elder brothers will have their brothers slain. This is the law of karma. Even when military campaigns succeed through luck, they bring profound disasters: battlefields overgrown with thorns, famines following armies' passage. Truly skilled commanders only engage in decisive battles when absolutely necessary, never seeking to prove superiority through force. War resembles human aging—its momentum inevitably exhausts itself, violating the natural order.

Chapter 31 explicitly states: Fine weapons are inauspicious objects, detested even by other implements. Thus those who follow the Dao never employ them lightly. Gentlemen normally honor the left side, but in warfare they honor the right, because weapons aren't gentlemen's customary tools—used only when unavoidable. Even victory deserves no praise; to glorify war is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing can never attain the world's allegiance.

Auspicious events favor the left, inauspicious ones the right. Therefore lieutenant generals stand on the left, senior generals on the right—treating war with funeral rites. Mass slaughter should be mourned with grief; victories should be processed with funeral ceremonies.

Weapons shouldn't be refined yet people deliberately refine them, just as humans shouldn't kill yet some choose to kill. Only those without bloodlust may properly discuss military strategy. While Sun Wu and Wu Qi studied tactics emphasizing shifting between void and solid, orthodox and unorthodox maneuvers—elaborating in great detail—they might not have grasped the fundamental principle behind these variations. Laozi's teaching that "tranquil detachment remains supreme; victory shouldn't be glorified" appears unrelated to warfare, yet this very detachment maintains clarity—the foundation of success. Recklessness leads to rash actions, the root of defeat. This mirrors Mencius' response when King Xiang of Liang asked about unifying the realm: "It will be unified through benevolent governance."

Who can unify the world? Only those who do not delight in killing can achieve this. Sadly, people often fail to understand this truth. If one truly refrains from killing, pacifying the world would not be difficult. Throughout history, those who revel in slaughter may achieve temporary success, but they inevitably meet their downfall; while those who abstain from killing are destined to flourish. Thus, even when a noble person overcomes their enemies, they treat the aftermath with funeral rites, for warfare is an inauspicious affair—those who embody the Dao (the Way) do not indulge in it.

Chapter 32 discusses the nature of the Dao. The Dao has no fixed name—it is simple and subtle, yet nothing in the world dares to disregard it. If a ruler can uphold this Dao, all things will naturally submit to them. Just as when the Yin and Yang of heaven and earth harmonize, sweet dew descends, evenly distributed without human intervention. When all things first take form, they acquire names, and with names comes the need to know when to stop—only then can danger be avoided. The Dao exists in the world like countless streams that inevitably flow into rivers and seas.

This chapter illustrates the cyclical relationship between the Dao and concrete phenomena. Though the Dao is nameless and formless, even ordinary people who embody it gain respect. Though rulers may hold noble positions, if they fail to uphold the Dao, all things will not submit. Just as heaven and earth have distinctions of high and low, when Yin and Yang unite and sweet dew descends, it is distributed naturally and evenly—this shows that heaven and earth are fundamentally interconnected. Thus, though the Dao is subtle, it is not insignificant; though rulers are exalted, their status is not eternal; though heaven and earth are separate, their essence is linked. Even when the Dao disperses into myriad things, each with its own name, the Dao never abandons them. The reason all things exist between heaven and earth without perishing is that the Dao continuously nourishes them. Just as vapor from valleys forms clouds and rain, and the qi (vital energy) of rivers and seas moistens all things, the breath of valleys and seas remains connected. From the perspective of the Dao, this cycle is unbroken; yet from the perspective of concrete phenomena, land and water may appear distinct.

Chapter 33 speaks of self-awareness. To understand others is wisdom; to know oneself is true clarity. To conquer others is strength; to master oneself is true power. To know contentment is wealth; to persevere in action is determination. Only by not losing one's innate nature can one endure; to die physically while one's shen (spirit) endures is true longevity.

To understand others is wisdom, but to know oneself is true clarity. To conquer others may show strength, but to master oneself is true power. Those who know contentment are truly rich; those who persist in action possess true resolve; those who never lose their roots endure long; and those whose spirit remains undiminished after death attain true longevity.

Outer knowledge is cleverness, but inner awakening is true wisdom; outer victory relies on brute force, but inner transcendence is true strength. Cleverness and brute force are illusions, while awakening and strength are reality. Herein lies the key to entering the Dao. The reason people fail to attain the Dao is that they cannot see themselves clearly and become entangled by external things. If the mind is awakened, it will not be disturbed by the external; undisturbed by the external, one gradually transcends material attachments. Accumulating this over time, one naturally enters the Dao.

Those who always feel lacking do so because they fail to realize they already possess everything. All things exist within the mind—turn inward in contemplation, and you will find yourself already complete. Is this not true wealth? Once contentment arises, attachments gradually fade. Though strength may not yet be fully developed, steadfast resolve ensures continued cultivation. Perceiving the pure nature within, one gradually returns to the great Dao, realizing truth within emptiness—unchanging, transcending past and present, vast and enduring. This is what it means to never lose one’s roots. Regarding life and death as the alternation of day and night, one neither clings to life nor fears death, for the spirit remains undiminished—this is true longevity.

The Dao is like an overflowing river, omnipresent. All things depend on it to grow, yet it never refuses them. It accomplishes all yet claims no merit; it nurtures all yet asserts no dominion. Without desire, it may be called subtle; though all things return to it, it does not presume to be their master—thus it may be called great. Therefore, the sage never considers himself great, and so achieves true greatness.

The Dao fills heaven and earth, yet when put to use, it seems close at hand. Without the Dao, nothing can grow, yet it never boasts of its power; without the Dao, nothing can be accomplished, yet it never flaunts its achievements; without the Dao, nothing can be sustained, yet it never presumes to rule. So subtle it leaves no trace, so vast it does not dominate—all things return to it naturally. The sage is likewise: never considering himself great, he remains unsurpassed. Precisely because he does not seek greatness, he attains true greatness.

Those who embody the Dao are welcomed by all under heaven without harm, dwelling in peace and prosperity. Music and fine food may briefly attract passersby, but the true flavor of the Dao is plain and unremarkable—look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard; yet use it, and it is inexhaustible.

The Dao (the Way) manifests in such subtle simplicity that it seems utterly flavorless to the taste, indistinct to the eye, and inaudible to the ear—yet its workings are inexhaustible and boundless.

When the Dao takes tangible form, all things follow its course. The unwise chase after superficial appearances and lose their way, while the discerning follow phenomena without falling into harm. Those who stray do so because they abandon the Dao to pursue external objects; those who remain unharmed walk ever in harmony with the Dao. Those aligned with the Dao never deviate from it, no matter where they go, and their hearts remain perpetually tranquil.

The sage engages with the material world as a traveler lodges briefly at an inn—without lingering attachment. To be seduced by desire and remain trapped invites calamity. Thus, though sages dwell in the world of form, they always grasp the essence of the great Dao. They savor the flavorless, observe the formless, listen to the soundless, and employ the useless—fully embodying the Dao’s function in the mundane world, thereby maintaining perfect peace.

Chapter 36 speaks of the principle of "retreating to advance": To gather something in, one must first let it expand; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first let it flourish; to take something, one must first give it. This is the subtle wisdom of the Dao. The soft and yielding overcomes the hard and unyielding—just as fish cannot leave the depths, so too must the essential methods of governance never be carelessly revealed.

This is the sage’s method of taming the mind and subduing desire. The human heart is ever-changing and elusive; forceful suppression only backfires. Therefore, the sage employs reverse strategy: to restrain, first indulge; to weaken, first strengthen; to abolish, first support; to take, first give. Through this counterintuitive approach, restless impulses naturally settle, ultimately returning to their original purity. This subtle wisdom appears gentle, yet it prevails over all rigidity.

This passage elucidates the principles of governing the world. Rulers who can truly overcome the strong desires of the world are those who never depart from the "Mother Dao" (the fundamental source of the Way). Just as fish cannot leave the depths of water, a ruler must not abandon the root of Dao. If the essential methods of governance are casually displayed to others, people will not believe in them. Unfortunately, later commentators often misinterpret this text by associating it with the military strategies of Sun Wu or Wu Qi, which is as superficial as adorning a tomb with poetry and rituals.

Chapter 37 discusses how "Dao is eternally Wuwei (non-action)." Though Dao appears to do nothing, it accomplishes everything. If lords and kings can uphold this principle, all things will naturally flourish. When desires begin to stir, they should be pacified with "the uncarved block" (the pristine state of original simplicity). To stabilize with this simplicity, one shouldn't even entertain the thought of using simplicity. Maintaining this desireless tranquility will naturally return the world to its proper course.

Dao emerges from nothingness into manifestation, initially appearing as the stirrings of emotions like joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure, eventually developing into systems of rites, music, punishments, and governance. But if this development reaches extremes without understanding the need to return, one will drift increasingly further from Dao amidst endless transformations. Therefore, when worldly affairs verge on indulgence, the sage restores them with simplicity. To stabilize with simplicity means this simplicity itself must remain nameless. Even when employing nameless simplicity, it should be as if one isn't using it at all. If one consciously intends to use simplicity, it ceases to be true simplicity. Preserving desireless tranquility will naturally guide the people back to the right path.

This passage explains the distinction between "superior virtue" (Shang De) and "inferior virtue" (Xia De), as well as the hierarchical relationship between Dao, De, humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), and ritual propriety (li).

True superior virtue does not consciously display virtue—that is why it is genuine De. Those who deliberately maintain virtuous behavior (inferior virtue) actually lose the essence of De. People of superior virtue follow natural spontaneity without forced action (Wuwei), while those of inferior virtue act with conscious effort.

Humaneness arises from sincere, unforced action; righteousness involves purposeful conduct; ritual propriety becomes coercive regulation. When ritual norms meet no response, people roll up their sleeves to enforce compliance. Thus it is said: When Dao is lost, people speak of De; when De is lost, they speak of humaneness; when humaneness is lost, they speak of righteousness; when righteousness is lost, they speak of ritual propriety.

Ritual propriety emerges when loyalty and trust have grown thin—it marks the beginning of disorder. Those who pride themselves on foresight merely grasp the surface of Dao while actually descending into folly. Therefore, the truly noble person chooses substantial, genuine virtue over superficial formalities.

People of superior virtue follow natural spontaneity without clinging to displays of humaneness or righteousness. Those of inferior virtue deliberately maintain virtue, turning humaneness, righteousness, and ritual into rigid norms. Superior virtue merges with Dao through natural non-action; inferior virtue leaves traces of artificial effort.

Humaneness approaches Dao's essence and thus remains non-coercive. Righteousness involves judging what is appropriate, already carrying purposeful intent. Ritual propriety enforces regulations coercively—when norms are rejected, compulsion follows. From Dao to De, De to humaneness, humaneness to righteousness, righteousness to ritual, this represents a natural process of diminishment. Ritual systems emerge after chaos arises, established to regulate social hierarchy, but when enforcement becomes necessary, the original authenticity is already lost.

Laozi here expounds the fundamental principle of "the One." This "One" refers to the origin and unity of all things in the cosmos. The harmonious functioning of heaven, earth, and the myriad beings all stems from attaining this "One": Heaven attains clarity through the One, earth attains stability through the One, spirits (Shen) attain efficacy through the One, river valleys attain fullness through the One, all beings attain growth through the One, and rulers attain proper governance through the One.

Should this "One" be lost, all existence would descend into chaos: Without clarity, heaven would crack apart; without stability, earth would quake; without efficacy, spirits would vanish; without fullness, valleys would dry up; without growth, beings would perish; and without proper governance, rulers would fall. Thus Laozi emphasizes that nobility must take humility as its root, and elevation must be founded upon the base. This explains why ancient kings referred to themselves as "the solitary one," "the undeserving one," or "the grainless one"—precisely because they understood the principle of taking the lowly as foundation.

Confucius said, "My Way is threaded by one principle"—this "One" is the common source behind heaven's clarity, earth's stability, spirits' efficacy, valleys' fullness, beings' growth, and rulers' governance. Comprehend why heaven is clear, and you'll understand why earth is stable; grasp why spirits are efficacious, and you'll know why valleys are full; discern the principle of beings' growth, and you'll apprehend the method of rulers' governance.

The Book of Changes states: "All paths under heaven lead to the same destination; a hundred thoughts converge in one truth"—all things ultimately return to this "One." Those who fail to understand this fundamental principle become self-righteous and oppositional toward existence. Just as cart parts each have names but the "cart" as a whole cannot be defined by any single component; just as benevolence, righteousness, propriety and wisdom combine to form the Dao (the Way), yet the Dao itself cannot be defined by any one concept; just as rewards, punishments, penalties and governance combine to form statecraft, yet statecraft cannot be defined by any single measure.

Thus truly precious things (like jade) and base things (like stone) are merely appearances—what matters is the unified "One" behind them. Laozi warns us not to cling to superficial differences, but to grasp that fundamental Way which brings all things into harmonious unity.

This passage explains the operational principles of the Dao (the Way) and varying degrees of human comprehension. The movement of the Dao follows cyclical patterns ("reversal is the movement of the Dao"), while its function manifests through gentleness and non-contention ("weakness is the function of the Dao"). All things under heaven originate from the state of "being" (you), which itself emerges from "non-being" (wu). Therefore, to return to the Dao, one must transition from "being" back to "non-being," transforming rigidity into pliancy.

Human understanding of the Dao exists at three levels: Those of superior capacity (shangshi) practice diligently upon hearing the Dao; those of middling capacity (zhongshi) respond with half-hearted belief and doubt; while those of inferior capacity (xiashi) laugh boisterously when they hear it. Indeed, if the Dao weren't mocked, it wouldn't be the true Dao. The Dao invariably appears in contrary manifestations: The luminous Dao seems dim ("the bright Dao appears dark"); the advancing Dao appears to retreat ("progress in the Dao resembles regression"); the level Dao appears uneven ("the smooth Dao seems rough"). The highest De (Virtue/Power) resembles an empty valley ("superior De is like a hollow"); the purest white seems stained ("great whiteness appears sullied"); expansive De always seems insufficient ("abundant De appears deficient").

The true Great Dao has no corners ("the great square is cornerless"); the most precious vessel takes longest to complete ("the great vessel is late in completion"); the grandest sound is nearly inaudible ("the great sound is faint"); the greatest form has no shape ("the great image is formless"). The Dao remains hidden and nameless ("the Dao conceals itself without name"), yet skillfully nurtures and perfects all things ("excellent at lending and completing").

Those of superior capacity continue their cultivation undeterred even when mocked by the multitude; those of middling capacity neither fully believe nor wholly doubt; while those of inferior capacity would laugh even if a sage personally expounded the truth to them. Ordinary people cling stubbornly to the realm of "being"—when suddenly told that "non-being" constitutes reality, their skepticism and derision become inevitable. The diligent practice of superior individuals stems from genuine realization; the mockery of inferior individuals arises from complete incomprehension; while those of middling capacity, suspended between partial understanding and doubt, face the greatest difficulty in transcendence.

Virtue (De) is so vast that it encompasses all things, and even when faced with the strange and unusual, I regard them with equanimity. Like a deep valley that holds everything within it, the purest white cannot be stained—as long as one's innate nature remains untainted, even mingling with the mundane world is of no consequence. Hence it is said, "as if able to endure disgrace." True, expansive Virtue inevitably perceives the grandest of realms, and once such grandeur is witnessed, it becomes impossible to halt. Thus it is said, "as if never satisfied."

Those who establish Virtue first solidify their innate nature within. Once the nature is settled, their interactions with others naturally become simple and unadorned. Therefore, it is said, "as if lazy." Those who preserve their original simplicity do not chase after external things; unburdened by worldly attachments, they act freely. Hence it is said, "as if shifting and uncertain." The most square lacks sharp corners (where "sharp corners" refers to rigid edges), and cannot be understood by observing its sides. The most precious vessel is completed last, and cannot be judged by whether it is finished. The grandest sound is faint, and cannot be grasped by hearing. The most immense form has no shape, and cannot be grasped by physicality.

Those of middling or lower understanding remain confined to what they see and hear, using superficial appearances to discuss the traces of the Dao (the Way)—mistaking emptiness and stillness for foolishness, yielding for cowardice, simplicity for crudeness, and change for fickleness. Few indeed are those who do not mock or insult. Because the Dao has no name and remains hidden from view, what manifests to accomplish all things is merely its most trivial expression.

Those of superior insight (shangshi) know that the Dao is nameless, disregarding trivial details to grasp the whole, and thus refrain from reckless discussion. Those of middling or lower understanding cling to specific phenomena, using partial knowledge to judge the whole, and in doing so, their words only take them further from the truth.

Regarding the passage "the Dao gives birth to the One": when the Dao is in the state of "One," this "One" has not yet truly come into being. If the "One" has not yet arisen, how can there be a "Two"? Without "Two," the "One" cannot disperse, hence it is called "non-dual." Once the "One" exists, "Two" naturally emerges—where there is Yang, there is Yin, and the interaction of Yin and Yang gives rise to a third state. From this, all things are transformed. All things contain Yang (this is the "One") and Yin (this is the "Two"), and the harmonious blending of Yin and Yang produces the vital energy (Qi) of harmony (this is the "Three").

The world despises titles like "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy," yet kings and lords use them to refer to themselves. Things often seem to lose but actually gain, or seem to gain but actually lose. The principles others teach me, I also use to teach others: the violent and overbearing do not meet a good end—this I take as the foundation of instruction.

All things possess the characteristics of the "Three" (referring to Dao, Heaven, and Earth), yet their ultimate origin returns to the Dao. The Dao represents the state of "not yet having one" (the formless source beyond manifestation). Since all things originate from the Dao, even their most developed branches never lose their essential connection to it. Worldly affairs often appear contradictory—what seems like loss may actually bring gain, and apparent gains may conceal true loss. Consider how ancient kings referred to themselves as "the Solitary One," "the Desolate One," or "the Unworthy"—through self-deprecation they attained true benefit. Those who rely on brute force and domination rarely meet good ends, illustrating how excessive pursuit of advantage ultimately brings ruin.

The softest things can master the hardest; formless power penetrates what has no crevices. From this we understand the benefits of wuwei (non-action through natural alignment). The teaching beyond words, the benefit of non-action—few in the world attain this understanding. Hardness is ultimately an illusion; even the most solid objects eventually return to emptiness. If the softest can overcome the hardest, how much more can true "nothingness" (the essence of Dao) accomplish? Thus formless power penetrates all things. What we call "seamless penetration" means traversing water, fire, metal or stone without damage to one's essence. Action through non-action means acting according to the Dao's way; teaching without words means instructing through heavenly principles—therefore none can surpass it.

Which is more precious—reputation or life? Which matters more—life or possessions? Which brings greater harm—gain or loss? Excessive craving inevitably leads to great waste; hoarding too much invites severe loss. Those who know contentment avoid disgrace; those who understand moderation endure. Most people chase empty fame, obsess over wealth, and pursue profit because they fail to perceive reality's essence. Overattachment to external things depletes the self; excessive accumulation wearies body and mind—minor cases bring shame, major ones invite ruin, leaving no room for regret. The wise differ—understanding their innate completeness, they seek nothing externally, making it impossible for disgrace to touch them.

These chapters of the Daode Jing reveal the profound mysteries of the Dao and its wisdom for navigating life. The most perfect achievement appears flawed ("Great perfection seems defective"), yet its efficacy never wanes; the fullest state seems empty ("Great fullness seems hollow"), yet its function is inexhaustible. Just as the straightest seems crooked, the most skillful seems clumsy, and the most eloquent appears inarticulate. Movement overcomes cold, stillness conquers heat, yet serene non-action (Wuwei) remains the true path to governing the world.

The genuinely wise understand cosmic patterns without stepping outdoors ("Without going out the door"); they comprehend celestial principles without peering through windows. Those who travel farthest know the least. Sages perceive without direct experience, name without seeing, and accomplish without striving—for the essence of all things lies not in outward forms but in their intrinsic order.

When the world follows the Dao, warhorses return to fertilize fields ("Racing steeds are turned back to haul manure"); when the Dao is lost, even the suburbs breed battle steeds ("Warhorses are bred in the wilds"). The gravest crime is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, the deepest fault is unbridled greed. Thus, only those who know contentment attain true fulfillment.

Herein lies a profound truth: those embodying the Dao transform weapons into plowshares and warfare into farming; those understanding the Dao transmute material cravings into spiritual pursuits. The key lies in grasping the Dao's essence—where seemingly opposite phenomena interdepend, and supreme attainment often manifests through ordinary appearances. Serene non-action (Wuwei) is not passivity but the highest wisdom that transcends duality and harmonizes with nature's flow.

One who comprehends the Dao (the Way) can transform emptiness into substance. Those who crave external things become enslaved by desires, while the insatiable endlessly grasp for more. The desire to obtain leads to attachment to possession—from craving arises grasping, and from grasping arises ownership. As these attachments multiply endlessly, they become the source of boundless calamity. If one understands that fulfillment need not be sought externally, this is called true contentment. Those who are genuinely content will never experience inner lack.

In learning, knowledge is accumulated day by day, but in cultivating the Dao, one must diminish day by day. Diminish further and further until reaching the state of wuwei (non-action). Only by attaining wuwei can one accomplish all things effortlessly. Governing the world requires maintaining a state of non-interference—if one constantly seeks to act, true governance becomes impossible.

Learning aims to expand knowledge, hence accumulation is necessary; cultivating the Dao aims to eliminate delusions, hence diminishment is necessary. Only when knowledge reaches its peak can delusions be fully diminished. By continuously reducing delusions until they vanish entirely, one attains wuwei. Those who truly reach the state of wuwei act in perfect harmony with the Dao—this cannot be measured by increase or decrease. When wuwei reaches its ultimate expression, even in governing the world, no deliberate action is visible. If one tries to acquire things through forceful action, not even a single thing can be obtained—how much less the governance of the world?

The sage has no fixed mind but takes the minds of the people as their own. To the virtuous, they show kindness; to the unvirtuous, they also show kindness—thus universal virtue is achieved. To the trustworthy, they extend trust; to the untrustworthy, they also extend trust—thus universal trustworthiness is realized. The sage moves cautiously through the world, guiding all minds back to simplicity. While common people fixate on sensory pleasures, the sage nurtures them like children.

The discriminating and grasping mind is the greatest harm to the world. Zhuangzi said that no calamity is greater than a scheming mind, and scheming arises from visual distinctions. The human mind can hide in heaven or earth—it penetrates everywhere. People habitually perceive things through discrimination, and from discrimination arises false views, obscuring holistic understanding. Hence Zhuangzi called it a calamity. The sage's mind abides constantly with the Dao. Since the Dao is omnipresent, the sage's mind is also omnipresent, without fixed intentions. When responding to worldly affairs, the sage understands all as illusory and thus harbors no preferences. By accommodating both the virtuous and unvirtuous, all under heaven becomes virtuous—this is true De (Virtue). By trusting both the trustworthy and untrustworthy, all under heaven becomes trustworthy—this is true integrity.

The two chapters of "Exposition on the Meaning of the Dao De Jing" primarily discuss "the Virtue (De) of sincerity" and "the Dao of life and death."

Regarding "the Virtue of sincerity": True Virtue is not deliberately displayed but naturally manifested. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) treats the common people like children, not allowing them to be deluded by superficial cleverness. Ordinary people often cling to what their eyes and ears perceive, believing it to be the truth, when in fact this is precisely "non-illumination" (not true wisdom). The sage maintains simplicity, preventing the people from being disturbed by false wisdom.

Concerning life and death: A human life can be divided into three stages—from youth to prime is the "phase of vitality" (period of vigorous life force), from prime to old age is "moving toward death" (phase of decline), and from old age to death is the "phase of death" (approaching death). If divided into ten parts, each stage occupies three. The reason people hasten toward death is their excessive pursuit of life-nourishment ("over-nourishing life"), employing any means to prolong life, which instead accelerates death.

Those who truly understand life cultivation realize that life is inherently illusory ("life is non-life"). Since life is fundamentally illusory, there is ultimately no such thing as death. For such people, rhinoceroses cannot harm them with their horns, tigers cannot injure them with their claws, and weapons cannot cut them with their blades, because they have already transcended the "realm of death."

Chapter fifty-one describes the process by which the Dao gives birth to all things: The Dao generates all things, Virtue nourishes them, matter forms their physical bodies, and the environment facilitates their growth. Thus, all things revere the Dao and value Virtue. The reason the Dao is revered and Virtue is valued is precisely because they never forcibly interfere but allow all things to develop naturally.

If one reveres De (Virtue/Power) without honoring the Dao (the cosmic origin and principle), then the nobility of the Dao and the preciousness of De lose their meaning. The dignity of the Dao and De is not commanded by anyone—it is entirely spontaneous. Thus, the Dao generates all things, while De nourishes them, enabling their growth, development, maturation, and protection. The Dao gives birth to all things yet does not claim possession; it accomplishes all things yet does not boast of merit; it guides all things yet does not seek to dominate. This is the profoundest expression of De.

Without the Dao, nothing could come into being; without De, nothing could endure. From the formation of all things to their flourishing, the Dao and De serve as their foundation. Though the nobility of the Dao and De reaches the highest degree, they never regard themselves as noble. Their influence upon all things is not deliberate but entirely spontaneous. All things grow and exist naturally, and all nurturing, maturation, and protection occur as part of this natural process. Precisely because they follow nature completely, they never expect anything in return. They labor tirelessly to bring forth all things yet seek no gratitude for their beneficence. This is the profoundest expression of De.

All things under heaven have their origin, and this origin is the mother of all things. Knowing this origin (the mother), one can understand the things it gives rise to (the children). Recognizing these things and holding fast to their origin ensures a lifetime free from peril. By blocking the apertures of desire (sensory cravings) and closing the gates of craving, one avoids lifelong toil. Conversely, opening these apertures and chasing worldly affairs leads to irremediable suffering. To perceive the subtle is called wisdom; to hold fast to the soft is called strength. Using the light of wisdom to reflect inward, leaving no calamity for oneself—this is following the eternal Dao.

The Dao is the mother of all things, and all things are its children. The ancient masters of the Dao ensured that mother and child never separated, uniting the Dao with its manifestations. Since all things arise from the Dao, there is no essential difference between them and the Dao. Just as a child is born from its mother, there is no essential difference between them. People mistakenly believe they must abandon things to seek the Dao or forsake the child to find the mother. But where no distinction exists, none should be made. Only when one realizes that all things are the Dao and the child is the mother—recognizing and abiding by this truth—can one attain universal understanding. The reason things fail to manifest the Dao is that people open the apertures of desire. The so-called "opening" (the outlet of desire) is a breach. When this breach is widened to indulge cravings, the spirit scatters and vital essence (Jing) wanes, leading to the loss of one’s innate nature. One must block these apertures and close these gates, preventing the dissipation of spirit (Shen) so that primal Qi naturally returns. Thus, mother and child remain inseparable, and the Dao merges with its manifestations. The ancient masters preserved themselves and endured by applying this principle. Human suffering arises from neglecting the smallest details.

(First Section Interpretation)

If one neglects cultivation in subtle matters but instead begins with careful attention to small things, nurturing from the minutiae, then even the smallest matters will become clear, and even the weakest force can grow strong. Hence the saying, "To perceive the subtle is called wisdom; to understand gentleness is called strength." Here, "clarity" (ming) is the root, while "radiance" (guang) arises from it. The original state is pure luminous awareness (referring to humanity's innate spiritual clarity), which later gives rise to functions like sight, hearing, perception, and touch—all of which are the radiance emitted by this "clarity." The Dao flows from the root to the branches, yet cultivation must return from the branches to the root. Thus it is said, "Use its radiance, yet return to the state of original clarity," which is to follow the eternal principle—"constancy" (chang) refers to this primordial clarity. Radiance originates from clarity, and now we must return radiance to clarity—this is called "inheriting the eternal."

(Fifty-Third Chapter Interpretation)

Suppose I suddenly attain a certain kind of knowledge and proceed to walk the great Dao—what I must most guard against is deliberate action. The Dao is inherently smooth and level, yet people always prefer shortcuts. The court is adorned in splendor, yet the fields lie barren and the granaries stand empty. People wear ornate robes, carry sharp swords, feast daily yet remain insatiable—these are the boasts of thieves, far removed from the Dao.

The true Dao does not lie in deliberate pursuit of knowledge, for clinging to knowledge breeds deviant thoughts. The true Dao must be limpid, a clarity that transcends human cognition. Because knowledge is always limited, while the Dao is boundless. If I walk the great Dao with limited knowledge, I will tremble in fear of inadequate action—this is the meaning of "only acting with trepidation." The Dao is naturally level, yet people favor shortcuts—this preference is precisely the obstacle created by knowledge. If one can relinquish human cognition, all that is seen and heard becomes a manifestation of the Dao, and the mind naturally becomes broad and at ease.

But later generations are not like this: the more meticulously the court is adorned ("polished" refers to artificial refinement), the more superficial extravagance flourishes; barren fields signify neglected inner cultivation, and empty granaries symbolize depleted virtue. Instead, people dazzle with lavish robes, intimidate with sharp swords, and hoard useless wealth—this is called "the empty bluster of thieves," a state already far removed from the Dao.

(Fifty-Fourth Chapter Interpretation)

What is skillfully established cannot be shaken; what is skillfully preserved cannot be lost. The sacrifices of descendants will continue for generations. Cultivating the self with the Dao makes virtue (De) genuine; cultivating a household makes virtue abundant; cultivating a village makes virtue enduring; cultivating a state makes virtue flourishing; cultivating the world makes virtue universal. Therefore, observe others through oneself, observe other households through one's own, observe other villages through one's own, observe other states through one's own, and understand the patterns of the world through the world itself. It is through this method that I comprehend the great trends of the world.

(Note: This passage explains that cultivation must expand step by step, from the near to the far, from the small to the great, ultimately reaching the state where "virtue pervades the world." The method of observation emphasizes analogical wisdom, moving from the specific to the universal.)

Those who pursue only fame and fortune see their achievements vanish like smoke and their wealth dissipate into nothingness. Only those who truly cultivate the Dao (the Way) and accumulate De (Virtue/Power) can ensure their descendants maintain unbroken ancestral sacrifices for generations. The sages cultivate themselves through the true Dao, then extend this cultivation to govern their households, villages, states, and ultimately the entire world. When sages observe individuals, they do not limit themselves to individuals; when observing families, they do not confine themselves to families; when observing states, they do not restrict themselves to states; and when observing the world, they do not fixate on the world alone. Instead, they observe according to their circumstances. As the "Guan Hexagram" in the Book of Changes states: "When observing sacrifices, one values sincerity over offerings." Such genuine sincerity naturally transforms the people. With this attitude, the transformation of the people occurs spontaneously, without forced effort—indeed, the results come even faster.

Chapter 55 speaks of those whose De (Virtue/Power) is profound, likening them to newborn infants: poisonous insects do not sting them, fierce beasts do not harm them, and birds of prey do not seize them. Though their sinews and bones are soft, their grip is firm; though they know nothing of sexual union, their vitality naturally arises—this is the manifestation of abundant Jing (essence). They cry all day without growing hoarse—this is the harmony of Qi (vital energy). To understand harmony is to grasp the constant Dao; to comprehend the constant Dao is true wisdom. Excessive pursuit of longevity instead invites misfortune, and forcibly controlling Qi through willpower is artificial strain. When things reach their peak, they decline; to violate the natural order is to meet an early end.

Regarding the claim that poisonous insects and fierce beasts do not harm infants, doubts have long existed. Su Zhe once remarked that tigers fear only those who do not fear them, while Su Shi noted that no one in the world has ever seen a tiger without feeling fear, making it difficult to verify. Yet there is a story: A woman was washing clothes by a river, leaving her two children on the sandy bank. Suddenly, a tiger rushed down from the mountain. The children continued playing without fear. The tiger nudged them with its head, but the children, innocent and unaware, showed no fright—and the tiger eventually left. This, perhaps, is what is meant by "fierce beasts do not harm people." As for infants—though their hands lack the strength to restrain a chicken, they can grip firmly; though devoid of desire, their vitality naturally arises; though crying all day, their voices never grow hoarse—all this stems from their abundant Jing, harmonious Qi, and supremely flourishing Yang energy. If one can preserve such Jing and attain this state of harmony...

This scripture elucidates three fundamental principles:

The first section discusses the relationship between harmony ("he") and constancy ("chang"). True harmony does not decline with prosperity—this is the "constant Dao" (the eternal, unchanging law). The constant Dao represents the natural essence of all things, not something artificially created. Those who understand this principle attain true wisdom. The more the wise comprehend this truth, the more they nourish life—this is auspiciousness. The key lies in the mind's ability to govern Qi (vital energy) rather than being driven by it; true strength resides within, not in external things. All things inevitably decline after reaching their peak, and from the moment of strength begins the loss of infant-like purity. Mencius said the "great person" (one of virtue) never loses the heart of a child—to lose this childlike heart is to deviate from the Dao, and deviation leads to premature demise.

The second section explains the wisdom of "the knowing do not speak." True sages seldom speak, while those who chatter endlessly lack real understanding. One should block sensory desires ("dui" refers to the mouth, ears and other senses), close the gates of desire, smooth sharp edges, resolve conflicts, harmonize radiance, and blend with worldly dust to achieve "mysterious unity" (the state of oneness with the Dao). Having reached this state, one becomes impervious to distinctions of closeness or distance, benefit or harm, nobility or baseness—thus becoming the most revered under heaven. All worldly phenomena are like dreams; the wise know words cannot fully express truth, while fools mistake dreams for reality, endlessly chattering while remaining trapped in illusion.

The third section addresses governance. Govern the state with proper principles, command armies with extraordinary strategies, and win the world through Wuwei (non-action, natural spontaneity). Why is this so? Because the more prohibitions imposed, the poorer the people become; the more weapons among civilians, the greater the national chaos; the more clever techniques people possess, the more bizarre occurrences arise; the stricter the laws, the more thieves proliferate. Therefore the sage says: Through my non-action, the people transform themselves; through my tranquility, they become upright; through my non-interference, they grow prosperous; through my desirelessness, they return to simplicity.

(Note: "Dui" refers to sensory openings like mouth and ears; "mysterious unity" denotes the supreme state of union with the Dao; "Wuwei" is a core Daoist concept meaning non-forcing action in accordance with nature)

Governing the people requires uprightness, for human nature is inherently good; waging war demands unorthodox strategies, as conflict inherently calls for the unexpected; ruling the world follows the principle of wuwei (non-action), for the world should operate naturally. These approaches do not stem from personal will but from aligning with the inherent nature of things. The ancient sages could regard the world as a unified whole and the state as one body because their governance arose from inner cultivation.

When rulers impose excessive prohibitions, the people fall into poverty; when they lure the people with material gains, competition for profit arises, and the state descends into chaos; when cunning techniques are glorified, all manner of deceitful crafts flourish; when laws are used to forcibly restrain the people, they exploit loopholes for personal gain, leading to mutual deception between rulers and subjects, and inevitably, more thieves emerge. The governance of sages differs—they embody wuwei (non-action), tranquility, effortlessness, and desirelessness, and the people naturally follow their example. Like the wind bending the grass, the ruler's conduct directly shapes the customs of the people.

When governance is lenient, the people remain simple and honest; when it is harsh, they resort to cunning. Fortune and misfortune are interdependent and transform into each other—this principle has held true since ancient times. Lenient policies may seem as though the ruler seeks nothing, yet the people refrain from petty schemes; harsh policies may appear to benefit the ruler, yet the people devise ways to evade them. When the ruler gains profit, the people suffer loss; when the ruler enjoys blessings, the people endure misfortune—this is the natural order.

The ignorant fail to grasp this principle, stubbornly pursuing oppressive rule in the delusion of attaining undeserved fortune, only to distort the Dao into deception and turn good outcomes into calamity. People have been lost in this delusion for far too long. Therefore, the sage acts with integrity yet does not harm others, remains incorruptible yet avoids harshness, stands upright without excess, and shines brightly without dazzling.

Systems of rewards, punishments, and penal codes should be established but not overused. If one can maintain proper measure, those who stray beyond boundaries may return to the right path, and evildoers may transform into virtuous individuals. Thus, implementing moral education can guide ordinary people toward the realm of noble character, while abandoning such instruction risks allowing them to degenerate into petty and mean behavior. This principle must be clearly understood.

Here lies the essence of governance: laws are not established for harsh enforcement but to guide people toward goodness through measured influence. This aligns with the Daoist principle of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), which does not mean complete laissez-faire but rather avoiding excessive interference. When education is properly applied, even those with eccentric behavior (the "unusual") and wrongdoers (the "deceptive") can reform. Conversely, abandoning moral instruction may cause those who could have become noble individuals to descend into base conduct.

In governing the people and serving Heaven, nothing surpasses the principle of "restraint" (se). Only through restraint can one return early to the Dao. Early return means accumulating De (Virtue) without cease. When De becomes profound, there are no obstacles one cannot overcome. Being omnipotent means no one can fathom one's limits. Reaching this state enables one to protect the nation, and mastering this fundamental principle ensures lasting peace. This is the enduring way of deep-rooted stability—the Dao of long life and perpetual vision.

Whether governing external affairs or cultivating internal cultivation, one must follow the principle of restraint. Restraint means moderation in both inner and outer aspects: the heart does not indulge, and external desires do not run wild. In this way, one cultivates both internally and externally, stabilizing the Shen (spirit) and aligning the body with the Dao. Accumulating De in stillness may seem like Wuwei (non-action), yet it accomplishes all things. Profound De makes one invincible, and invincibility leads to omnipotent governance. Even ruling a large nation becomes effortless. People only know that one can govern a state, but they do not realize that the foundation of governance lies in accumulating De. When the foundation is deep, even dregs can produce sages like Yao and Shun—how much more so for other matters? This is the way of governance with deep roots and firm foundations.

Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish (do not stir it excessively). Using the Dao to govern the world, even the spirits and deities do not manifest supernatural powers. It is not that the spirits lack supernatural abilities, but that their powers do not harm people. Not only do the spirits not harm people, but the sage also does not harm them. When neither side harms the other, their De blends harmoniously. For the sage, governance is merely a secondary matter, as simple as cooking a small fish. Because the Dao permeates all things, it transforms all anomalies into the ordinary—thus, the spirits do not manifest supernatural powers. It is not that the spirits lack supernatural abilities, but that the Dao nurtures all things—how could the Dao harm anyone? The sage's original heart has no intention to harm, so even the spirits of the underworld cannot use their powers to harm creation. Whether in the clarity of governance or the tranquility of the spirits, when humans and spirits do not harm each other, their hearts and the hearts of the spirits merge as one. Without the highest De, how could one reach such a state?

A large state should position itself like the rivers and seas—staying low to become the gathering place of the world. The feminine (soft and still) often overcomes the masculine through stillness. Thus, if a large state humbly accommodates smaller states, it will win their allegiance.

In the relations between states, if a small country humbles itself before a great power, it will win the latter's trust; if a great power lowers itself to treat small countries, it will gain their allegiance. Thus, sometimes humility brings greater gains. The great power humbles itself to embrace smaller states, while the small country humbles itself to attach to the greater. Both sides obtain what they need, but the greater power should take the initiative to lower its posture.

Just as the female (the receptive) overcomes the male (the active) through stillness and gentleness, so too will a great power win over small countries by humbling itself before them, while a small country will gain the protection of a great power by showing humility. The essence of this "gaining" is that both sides obtain what they truly desire. The great power seeks only to lead the small, while the small country seeks only to serve the great—thus both achieve their aims. As Mencius said: "A small country serving a great power is reverent toward Heaven's decree; a great power treating a small country well is in accordance with the Dao of Heaven. Those who accord with the Dao of Heaven preserve all under Heaven; those who revere Heaven's decree safeguard their own state." Therefore, the greater power should maintain humility.

The Dao is the most profound essence of all things (奥 refers to its deeply hidden nature). It is the treasure of the virtuous and the safeguard of the unvirtuous. Words that align with the Dao command respect; actions that follow the Dao move others. Even the unvirtuous are not abandoned by the Dao. Thus, when appointing the Son of Heaven or the Three Dukes (the highest ministers of antiquity), rather than displaying honor with jade and chariots (symbols of wealth and status), it is better to teach the people through the Dao. Did the ancients not revere the Dao precisely because it enables daily refinement and even pardons faults? Therefore, the Dao is the most precious thing in the world.

The Dao is like a hidden treasury, cherished by all things. The wise treasure it and delight in its cultivation, while the unwise rely on it to avoid punishment. Because the Dao is rooted in human nature, it is not imposed by external force. Speech that accords with the Dao is beautiful and moving; action that follows the Dao influences others. If one contradicts human nature, no matter how eloquent the words, none will listen; no matter how numerous the deeds, none will respond. Since all people are rooted in the Dao, even if some unfortunately fall into unvirtuous ways, how could the sage bear to abandon them? Thus, the positions of Son of Heaven and the Three Dukes were not established for the sake of wealth and honor, but to ensure that none who stray are forsaken—they are to be guided back to goodness through the Dao. Better than offering jade and chariots is to speak a single kind word or perform a single virtuous deed.

This scripture conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer discusses the importance of "virtuous conduct." Through virtuous deeds that educate the people and preserve their innate goodness, one accumulates immense merit. The ancients revered the Dao precisely because those who follow it swiftly reap virtuous rewards. Even if someone unfortunately commits errors, returning to the path of virtue can still avert negative consequences. This explains why the Dao is treasured by all under heaven.

The second layer expounds the wisdom of "non-action" (Wuwei). "Non-action" means not forcing outcomes, "non-interference" means not creating complications, and "non-indulgence" means not craving pleasures. The sage transcends worldly distinctions, perceiving both great and small, much and little as one, never calculating favors or grievances, but transforming others solely through virtue (De). In handling affairs, one should begin with simplicity; in accomplishing great tasks, start with subtle beginnings. Though sages appear not to pursue great achievements, they ultimately accomplish them precisely because they avoid forceful striving. Ordinary people make promises lightly but struggle to keep them, and by underestimating difficulties, they invite complications. Sages always approach matters with caution, and it is precisely this prudent attitude that ultimately leaves them without true difficulties.

The supplementary passage beginning "What remains still is easy to maintain" teaches the principle of preventing problems before they arise: situations are easily maintained when stable, issues are easily planned before manifesting, things are easily resolved while fragile, and omens are easily dispersed while faint. This continues the earlier wisdom of "tackling difficulties while they're easy" and "accomplishing great things through small steps."

Prepare for things before they arise, and bring order before chaos appears. Just as a giant tree grows from a tiny sprout, a nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth, and a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. Forcing things leads to failure; clinging tightly results in loss. Therefore, the sage follows nature without forcing, thus avoiding failure; does not grasp or possess, thus nothing is lost. Ordinary people often fail when success seems near—if they could remain as cautious as at the beginning, there would be no failures.

The sage seeks what most neglect—the state of "no desires"—and does not value rare treasures. They learn what most ignore—the way of Wuwei (non-action)—correcting the common faults of others, assisting all things to develop naturally without interference. The sage abides in original tranquility, so their peace is genuine peace; appearing to hold nothing, they maintain stability precisely by "not grasping." By planning before signs emerge, resolving issues while still small, and addressing matters when they are minute, nothing can disturb their serenity.

Like the great tree growing from a sprout, the tower rising from its foundation, the journey starting with one step—the sage seems to do nothing yet accomplishes all, appears to accumulate nothing yet achieves everything. Virtue (De) grows daily without their notice. Forcing action brings failure; clinging brings loss. People struggle in cultivating the Dao precisely because of forced effort and attachment. They begin diligently but inevitably slacken—this is the error of striving. Had they never strained from the start, there would be no diligence to abandon, much less decline. This is why people often fail near completion.

The sage takes "no desires" as true pursuit, thus never prizes valuables—what is "valuable" includes not just jewels but all external things people chase. While others indulge in sensory pleasures, the sage regards "not learning externals" as true study, withdrawing the outward-gazing eyes and ears, correcting excessive pursuits, assisting the Dao's natural flow without interference. How could forced action or clinging arise then?

(This passage originates from Chapter 65 of the Daode Jing, elucidating the core Daoist principle of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." It emphasizes the wisdom of following nature and addressing issues while they are small, revealing how deliberate striving paradoxically leads to failure.)

The ancient masters who truly understood the Dao (the fundamental law of the cosmos) did not govern the people with cunning intellect, but preserved their natural simplicity. The difficulty in governing people arises precisely from their excessive cleverness. To rule a state with cunning is its calamity, while governing without artifice is its blessing. Recognizing this distinction constitutes grasping the fundamental principle, and understanding this principle is called "profound De (Virtue/Power)." Profound De is unfathomably deep and runs counter to worldly conventions, yet ultimately achieves the greatest harmony.

The true Dao does not reside in sensory phenomena of sight and sound, yet ordinary people remain deluded by what meets their eyes and ears, unaware of higher realms beyond sensory perception. If one were to suddenly declare, "Your perceptions and experiences are illusory," who wouldn't consider it absurd? Therefore, the Dao's purpose isn't to make people clever, but to return them to simplicity. When people become hopelessly addicted to sensory pleasures, even my (Laozi's) teachings of wuwei (non-action) and detachment struggle to reach them—how much less effective would be instruction through cunning intellect!

The people's misfortune lies precisely in their excessive cleverness, for when intellect isn't properly directed, it becomes wickedness. Before dispelling their misguided thoughts, to then guide them with cunning would only foster hypocrisy. Thus governing a state with clever artifice becomes its calamity. Only by following nature's course without stimulating people's calculating minds, preserving their innate purity, can a state find true blessing. The ruler's conduct influences the ruled—there has never been a case where I remain serene while the people become agitated, nor where I maintain simplicity while the people grow greedy. This is the fundamental principle. Understanding this principle is profound De. Profound De runs deep precisely because it contradicts worldly ways—thus it cannot teach people to become clever; yet because it aligns with the Dao, it achieves perfect harmony.

The reason rivers and streams all flow into the ocean is that it excels at occupying the lowest position. Similarly, when sages wish to lead the people, they humble themselves in speech; when guiding the people, they put others' interests before their own. Thus though occupying high positions, the people feel no burden; though leading from the front, the people experience no obstruction. Therefore all under heaven gladly support such rulers without resentment. Precisely because they contend with none, none in the world can contend with them.

Sages only govern the world out of necessity, for they consider ruling over the masses an immense responsibility! Thus to possess all under heaven yet remain humble in speech—this is the sage's wisdom.

A truly enlightened ruler places the people's welfare before his own—a state of being unattainable by those who deliberately seek fame and merit. Though such a sovereign stands above the masses, the people feel no burden; though he leads from the front, they sense no obstruction. This is because both ruler and ruled have reached a state of selfless unity, making the world willingly support him without resentment. The ruler does not pursue what the people contend for. Governing through Wuwei (non-action, acting in accordance with nature), his rule leaves no trace—how could he ever compete with the people?

Chapter 67 of the Daode Jing states: "All under heaven say the Dao is vast, yet it defies description. Precisely because it is vast, it resembles nothing concrete. If the Dao were like any particular thing, it would long have become insignificant. I hold fast to three treasures: the first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is daring not to be ahead of the world. Compassion gives rise to true courage; frugality enables abundance; not contending allows one to become the guide of all things. To abandon compassion for bravery, discard frugality for extravagance, or forsake yielding to rush ahead is to court ruin. With compassion, one prevails in battle and stands firm in defense. When heaven wishes to save someone, it shields them with compassion."

The word "resemble" here refers to outward comparison. If one seeks greatness in form, even something as vast as heaven and earth remains limited. People say the Dao is immense yet indescribable precisely because its vastness transcends all concrete things. If the Dao resembled any particular object, it would be reduced to mere ordinariness and lose its grandeur. The Dao maintains its greatness through these three treasures: compassion, frugality, and not contending. Though these may seem humble in themselves, their application achieves the greatest accomplishments. True greatness cannot be pursued through outward form—only by relinquishing attachment to appearances can its fullest power be realized.

Only with compassion can one save all beings, even at the cost of great personal sacrifice—a feat beyond the reckless bravery of a mere warrior. Only through frugality can one truly give, for the less one demands for oneself, the more one can offer others—a truth lost on the wasteful. Only by not contending can one engage with all things without defeat, for by not rushing ahead, one responds with ease. Acting without selfish motives, even one's deeds provoke no resentment.

This passage expounds Daoist wisdom regarding military strategy and worldly conduct. The core philosophy holds that true power originates from "compassion" (ci) and the attitude of "non-contention" (buzheng).

First, it explains that those who achieve great things derive their courage from compassion, making this courage inexhaustible; their expansiveness is built upon frugality, allowing infinite extension; though they lead, they willingly take the rear position, making them unsurpassable. Those who rely solely on force, expansion, and competition will quickly fail. Weapons are inauspicious objects—unless rooted in compassion to save people from suffering, killing can never be an act of mercy. Heaven protects those who rescue others with compassionate hearts.

Those skilled in handling affairs do not flaunt strength or bravery; skilled warriors remain unprovoked; skilled victors avoid contention; skilled leaders stay humble. This embodies the "virtue of non-contention" (buzheng zhi de), the "power of employing others," and the highest expression of alignment with the Dao (Dao). Sages do not cling even to themselves—how much less would they contend with others? Precisely because they do not contend, their responses to all things arise from necessity. True scholars avoid martial posturing, remain calm in battle, achieve victory without direct conflict, and lead without domination. Only thus can they inspire genuine following through virtue (De). This represents the supreme state of harmony with the heavenly Dao (Tiandao).

Regarding military principles, Laozi states: "I dare not take the offensive but prefer defense; dare not advance an inch but prefer retreating a foot." This appears formless yet follows inherent order, weaponless yet wields true power. The greatest calamity is underestimating opponents—doing so risks losing what is most precious. When armies clash, the side holding compassion often prevails.

The text also references Confucian perspectives: Confucius claimed expertise only in rituals and music, not military matters, yet asserted "When I fight, I invariably win." Mencius argued that if rulers practiced benevolent governance, neighboring people would revere them as parents—making attacks against such rulers as unthinkable as children assaulting their parents, historically doomed to fail. Laozi's concepts like "daring not play host but acting as guest" and "weapons being inauspicious" resonate with Confucius's "never having heard" of military arts and Mencius's advocacy of benevolent rule.

When one is compelled to resort to force, it is like walking without feet or fighting without arms—preparing for battle when no enemy seems present. This recalls Confucius saying "If I must wage war, I shall surely prevail," while Mencius observed "No one truly succeeds in this." The sage employs arms only when absolutely necessary, never with thoughts of underestimating foes or seeking victory. To act rashly while belittling opponents is to initiate conflict. Should such efforts fail, the people will withdraw their support from their ruler. Therefore in warfare, one must exercise restraint and avoid exhausting the people's resources—only then can ultimate victory be achieved.

(Chapter 70) The Dao I speak of is actually simple to understand and easy to practice, yet the world finds it difficult to comprehend and hard to follow. This is because words have their source and actions have their principle. Precisely because people don't understand this, they fail to understand me. Those who can comprehend me are few—this is why I am precious. Thus the sage wears coarse garments (bei he) yet harbors jade within (huai yu). The Great Dao appears simple to grasp and easy to practice, yet is profoundly difficult to truly realize and challenging to genuinely implement. Its apparent ease lies in requiring no contrived path (wu dao ke dao), no forced learning (wu xue ke xue), no artificial action (wu wei ke wei), and no strained effort (wu shi ke shi). Yet the true Dao cannot be spoken—no words can adequately express it; true knowledge cannot be studied—the moment one consciously pursues it, it becomes false; apparent non-action (wuwei) in silence isn't necessarily correct, while constant activity isn't necessarily wrong—this is why it's so hard to comprehend. The sage's words have roots and actions have foundations, hence their speech carries surface meaning while concealing deeper significance; their deeds may appear similar but spring from different intentions. Understanding the source of words prevents entanglement in verbal differences; grasping the basis of action removes doubt about behavioral variations. Because people don't understand this principle, they don't understand me. And precisely because I'm not understood, my value becomes apparent. Were my insights no different from ordinary people's, I wouldn't be worth treasuring.

(Chapter 71) To know what one does not know—this is supreme wisdom; to pretend to know what one doesn't—this is a flaw. Only by recognizing flaws as flaws can one avoid truly possessing them. The reason sages are flawless is because they honestly confront their shortcomings. Those who pursue knowledge often chase external things, thus tending toward falsity; those who don't forcibly seek knowledge return to authenticity, thus approaching truth. When one realizes that "not knowing" approaches truth while "forcing knowledge" leads to falsity—this is the highest attainment. If one remains unaware of the harm in forced knowing and merely accumulates information, one only aggravates one's flaws.

Chapter 72 discusses the relationship between rulers and the common people. When the people no longer fear authority, greater chaos will ensue. Therefore, the sage (the ideal ruler) does not constrict the people's living space nor exploit their resources. Precisely because they refrain from oppression, the people do not resent them.

The sage understands this principle: true dignity comes not from external coercion but from inner cultivation. They know themselves without self-display, and cherish themselves without self-importance. Those who constantly seek others' fear and admiration are inwardly empty. The sage, being inwardly fulfilled, neither exults in others' affection nor rages at their disrespect. They approach all things with Wuwei (non-action), occupying high positions without deliberately inspiring fear.

The most difficult achievement is not making others fear you, but making them forget your presence. When the people no longer fear authority, it signifies the ruler has attained the state of "the dignity of Dao and De (Virtue)." The sage remains content in any circumstance, understanding that neither status nor life is permanent. Only by avoiding self-importance and arrogance can one truly live and work in peace.

Chapter 73 examines two manifestations of "courage." Reckless boldness invites fatal consequences, while the courage to show restraint preserves life. Though these two types of courage yield entirely different outcomes, people often only recognize surface-level bravery.

Taking up arms in battle requires courage, but far more challenging is maintaining the Middle Way. People recognize the danger of swords, yet fail to see how much harder the Middle Way is to master. Though reckless aggression is perilous, its dangers are often underestimated; though the Middle Way is beneficial, its value is frequently overlooked. This explains why the Middle Way proves so difficult to practice.

Foolhardy courage provokes heaven's wrath and popular resentment, yet how many truly comprehend this principle? The Dao of Heaven (natural law) operates thus: without contention it prevails; without speech it responds; without summons it arrives; seemingly unhurried yet excellently planned. Like heaven's net—wide-meshed yet letting nothing slip through.

Even sages find the Dao (the Way) of heaven difficult to comprehend, let alone ordinary people. The operation of heaven's Dao follows this principle: it never contends yet naturally prevails, speaks no words yet naturally responds, issues no summons yet things come unbidden, appears unhurried yet excels in strategy. The Dao particularly abhors the reckless use of force. People often assume heaven's will hasn't manifested, its response hasn't arrived, or its plans aren't settled, and thus rush to speak and act first. In such cases, the strong may temporarily succeed, and the bold may achieve momentary victory—such instances do occur. But observe the subsequent developments, and you'll understand that heaven's net (referring to the laws of the Dao), though vast and loosely woven, lets none who deserve punishment slip through.

Chapter 74 discusses how threatening death holds no power over people who no longer fear dying. If people truly feared death, then executing those who cause disorder would deter others from rebellion. Yet in reality, there exist deities (referring to the laws of the Dao) specifically governing life and death. When humans presume to carry out executions in place of these deities, it's like a novice attempting to chop wood for a master carpenter—rarely does one avoid injuring their own hand. This chapter illustrates how worldly punishments cannot truly maintain order. When people cease fearing death, threats of execution are ineffective; even if they did fear death, maintaining order through killing might bring temporary peace, but the more one kills, the fiercer the resistance grows. History proves this unreliable—the Qin dynasty's draconian laws failed to eliminate corruption, while the Han dynasty's lenient statutes tolerated great evils yet won the people's hearts. The Dao naturally rewards good and punishes evil; life and death are governed by divine law. Those who presume to kill in heaven's stead will inevitably harm themselves, just as an amateur woodcutter injures his own hand.

Chapter 75 states that people starve because their rulers overtax them; they become ungovernable because their rulers act arbitrarily; they risk death lightly because their rulers cling too desperately to life. Only those who don't deliberately pursue longevity surpass those obsessed with survival. When rulers overtax, the people grow poor; when rulers act recklessly, chaos ensues—this is inevitable. If I prosper while disregarding others' suffering, if my wealth creates their poverty, how can they not fight desperately? Sages approach life with natural acceptance. They appear indifferent to preserving life precisely because they refuse to secure their own survival at others' expense—thus truly transcending the fear of death.

In life, the human body is soft and pliant; in death, it becomes stiff and rigid. Similarly, plants are tender and fragile when growing, but turn dry and brittle when withered. Thus, things that are hard and strong belong to the category of death, while those that are soft and weak belong to the category of life. Therefore, an army that is overly rigid cannot achieve victory, and trees that are too hard are felled. What is strong often occupies a lower position, while what is soft and weak rises above.

This passage broadly discusses the principle that weakness ensures survival, while strength leads to death. Though weakness is not entirely synonymous with the Dao (the Way), it is close to Wuwei (non-action, or going with the natural flow). Strength, though not entirely contrary to the Dao, leans toward deliberate action. Wuwei keeps one near the Dao, whereas deliberate action brings fortune and misfortune in its wake, pulling one further away from the Dao.

Chapter 77 describes the movement of the Dao of Heaven: it is like drawing a bow—lowering what is high and raising what is low, reducing what is excessive and supplementing what is lacking. The Dao of Heaven takes from the surplus to make up for the deficit, but human society does the opposite—taking from the insufficient to give to the already abundant. Only those who have attained the Dao can use their surplus to nourish the world. Thus, the sage acts without claiming credit, achieves without dwelling on accomplishments, and has no desire to display his worthiness.

Taking from the excessive to benefit the deficient is the way of Heaven; taking from the deficient to increase the excessive is the way of man. Only the sage can offer his surplus to make up for others' lack. Thus, he benefits all things without boasting of his ability, covers the world with his achievements without claiming them, and spreads his grace everywhere without seeking recognition—only one who has attained the Dao can accomplish this.

Chapter 78 states that nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard, for nothing can replace its nature. The weak can overcome the strong, the soft can conquer the hard—though all under Heaven know this principle, few can put it into practice. Therefore, the sage says: "Only one who can bear the disgrace of the nation is fit to be its master; only one who can endure the calamities of the land is worthy to be its king."

Even water, which has no emotions, overcomes through softness—how much more so should humans, who possess feeling? The Book of Documents says: "The faults of all under Heaven rest on me alone; if I have erred, let none under Heaven suffer for it." The sage-kings of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties taught the people with this virtue—this is what is meant by "bearing the disgrace of the nation and enduring its calamities."

Chapter 79 speaks of resolving deep-seated grievances: even if great enmity is reconciled, resentment will inevitably linger—how can this be considered a proper resolution? Therefore, the sage keeps the left half of the tally (symbolizing tolerance) but does not demand repayment. The virtuous are generous like the keeper of a contract, while the unvirtuous are harsh like a tax collector. The Dao of Heaven shows no favoritism—it always aids the good.

The Dao follows what is natural, making no distinction between intimacy and distance, yet it often favors those who are virtuous. Resentment is as difficult to reconcile as trying to make fire cold or water hot—if forced, the resentment will still linger. To practice goodness in this manner ultimately falls short. Thus, when the sage governs the world, it is like holding the left half of a contract to match the right—neither grievances nor gains are held in mind, as long as the contract aligns perfectly. If they do not match, there is no insistence on what is missing, nor any harsh blame. The sage governs the world like a contract keeper who only verifies the terms—whether long or short, large or small—and if the other party finds it suitable, harmony naturally follows, with no personal bias from the sage. To forcibly demand agreement would make one a tax collector (Si Che), not a keeper of contracts. The Way of Heaven is the same—it shows no favoritism, yet never overlooks the virtuous. In essence, it is as impartial as verifying a contract.

Regarding the ideal of a small state with few people: The state is small, and its population is sparse. Even if advanced tools exist, they are not used, so the people value life and do not wander far. Though boats and carriages are available, they are not ridden; though weapons exist, they are not displayed. The people return to the simplicity of knotting ropes to keep records, finding their food sweet, their clothing beautiful, their dwellings comfortable, and their customs joyful. Neighboring states are within sight, and the sounds of crowing roosters and barking dogs are heard, yet the people live and die without ever interacting. Because the state is small and talent scarce, great talent would only be buried; if the people disregard life, they will wander far without concern, and wandering without concern leads to unrestrained actions. Thus, by not using advanced tools, the people cherish life and do not wander far, rendering boats, carriages, and weapons unnecessary, and governance can be achieved even with knotted ropes. Let the people be content with their food and clothing, settled in their homes and work, and though neighbors are within sight, they do not interact—this is a state that can only be realized when there is abundance without greed.

Truthful words are not embellished; embellished words are not truthful. The virtuous do not argue skillfully; those who argue skillfully are not virtuous. The truly wise do not flaunt their breadth of knowledge; those who flaunt their knowledge are not truly wise. The sage does not hoard—the more they help others, the more they themselves are fulfilled; the more they give, the more they themselves are enriched. The Way of Heaven benefits all things without harming them; the Way of the sage is to act without contention.

The one who truly understands the Dao (the Way) does not engage in arguments, for those who love to debate often lack genuine comprehension. The truly upright person has no need to flaunt knowledge, as erudition does not necessarily equate to true realization.

The sage embraces the great Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) without reservation, yet those with shallow understanding project their own narrow views, doubting whether the sage is truly trustworthy, benevolent, or wise. Such people either indulge in superficial elegance, are beguiled by clever words, or pursue breadth of knowledge without depth—ultimately failing to truly grasp the Dao.

How could they know that the sage's relationship with the Dao is as vast as the ocean—constantly giving yet never exhausted? The more one helps others, the more one possesses; the more one gives, the greater one's own harvest. Sadly, worldly people have such small capacity, and when they seek from me (the Dao), their demands are too narrow to receive more. This is like how heaven nourishes all things without harming them, allowing all beings to coexist in harmony. Thus it is said: "Qian" (the symbol of heaven) benefits the world from the beginning in the most beautiful way, yet never boasts of its merit—this is the truly great realm of selfless benefit.