《道德真經註(六)》

This passage explains the opening lines of the Daode Jing: "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao." Master Li Rong interprets that "Dao" represents the most fundamental truth of the universe, transcending all concrete forms. It cannot be defined by "being" or "non-being," nor confined by spatial directions. This profoundly mysterious truth lies beyond ordinary human comprehension.

To guide people toward understanding this truth, sages reluctantly use the name "Dao" as a designation. However, it is crucial to note that this "Dao" is not the same as the commonplace principles of the secular world. Worldly doctrines emphasize superficial rituals, righteousness, and vanity, chasing fame and profit—leading people astray from their true nature. The genuine Dao requires transcending such superficial efforts and returning to the simplicity of the original source.

Regarding "The name that can be named is not the eternal name": Names serve as symbols pointing to the great Dao. We reluctantly use the word "great" to refer to it, but this name is not arbitrarily assigned—it arises from the essential nature of the Dao itself. The "name" discussed here is not the empty reputation pursued in the secular world, but rather a skillful means to guide people beyond impermanence and back to true constancy. In reality, at the deepest level, there is neither an "impermanent" to discard nor a "true constancy" to obtain, as these are all relative concepts.

"Nameless, it is the origin of heaven and earth; named, it is the mother of all things": The Dao itself transcends being and non-being, beyond names. Yet its function permeates everywhere—in its nameless state, it is the source from which heaven and earth emerge; in its named state, it becomes the nurturing mother of all things. This is what the Daode Jing means by "The Dao gives them birth; De (Virtue/Power) nourishes them."

This passage discusses the distinction between the "desiring" (youyu) and "non-desiring" (wuyu) states in Daoist cultivation. When one maintains a mindset free from desire and seeking, one can perceive the subtle essence of the Dao (the Way). Conversely, when observing with desires, one only sees the superficial manifestations of the Dao.

All human beings originate from Dao and De (Virtue/Power), and are all influenced by the interplay of Yin-Yang energies. Yet some possess clear and tranquil minds, while others remain restless and agitated. If one can maintain inner stillness, cleanse distracting thoughts, and make the mind as clear as a polished mirror, one can perceive the subtle mysteries of the Dao—this is the "non-desiring" state of cultivation. On the contrary, if constrained by worldly knowledge, chasing after fame, fortune, and sensory pleasures, one remains trapped at the level of "action" (youwei), unable to comprehend the true meaning of "non-action" (wuwei)—this is the "desiring" state.

Though "desiring" and "non-desiring" appear different, they actually stem from the same source. From the human perspective, all possess the innate nature of the Five Constant Virtues (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness) and share the same fundamental heart-mind. By relinquishing cleverness and maintaining serenity, one can penetrate to the origin of the Dao; by clinging to worldly knowledge, one becomes lost in mundane affairs. From a higher viewpoint, sages expound the principles of purity and emptiness, taking Dao and De as their fundamental tenets.

"Xuan" (mystery/profundity) refers to the ineffable depth of the Dao. The empty stillness of Dao and the profound subtlety of De both defy verbal description—they can only be called "xuan." Both Dao and De may be termed "xuan," hence expressions like "mysterious virtue" (xuande) or "the supreme Dao's mysterious stillness." This "xuan" transcends all forms and the boundaries of being and non-being, serving as the gateway to all mysteries. Yet one must beware of treating "xuan" as a fixed, absolute truth—clinging to this concept would ironically lead one astray from the true Dao.

This scripture elucidates the Daoist cosmological view of "the mystery beyond mysteries" (xuan zhi you xuan) and its dialectical wisdom for navigating life.

"Xuan" (referring to the primordial origin of the cosmos) transcends the binary opposition of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). When even the concept of "xuan" is relinquished, one attains the state of "you xuan" (the mystery beyond mysteries)—an ineffable ultimate truth that serves as the gateway to all profundity.

The text then illustrates the principle of relativity through everyday examples: When everyone in the world pursues a certain standard of beauty, that beauty becomes ugliness. People often mistake sensory pleasures for happiness, unaware that excessive pursuit leads to sorrow. Similarly, when all agree that a certain behavior is good, that goodness transforms into its opposite. For instance, Bo Yi starved himself for fame, while Robber Zhi died for profit—both suffering the consequences of attachment.

The passage presents four pairs of interdependent concepts:

1. Being (you) and non-being (wu) generate each other (all things arise from "being," yet "being" emerges from "non-being").

2. Difficulty (nan) and ease (yi) complete each other (great tasks begin with small steps, while trivial matters gain significance through challenges).

3. Long (chang) and short (duan) reveal each other (things have no inherent scale when dispersed; comparison arises only when gathered).

4. High (gao) and low (xia) depend on each other (water both carries and capsizes boats—elevation relies on foundations, yet foundations can overturn heights).

These examples demonstrate how all things arise through mutual opposition and unity, cautioning against rigid adherence to singular standards. Instead, one should observe the relativity of worldly phenomena with a transcendent mind.

When a ruler truly comprehends the laws of the Dao, the relationship between sovereign and subject becomes harmonious and stable, like high and low musical notes resonating in perfect accord. The superior instructs the people as the wind bends the grass, while the inferior follows their leader as an echo responds to sound. Just as the gong and shang tones (two primary notes in the ancient pentatonic scale) complement each other, overtightened strings will snap, and an impatient ruler will cause chaos among ministers. Only when all five tones harmonize can the eight instruments (representing all musical varieties) achieve concord; only when governance is enlightened will the people rejoice. Thus the sovereign serves as the people's exemplar, and subjects naturally emulate his conduct.

Sequence reflects cosmic order: the ruler precedes while ministers follow, the father precedes while sons follow. Therefore, those in sovereign or paternal roles must avoid rashness that would sever their connection with the Dao, maintaining instead dignified serenity to align with Dao and De. Hence when sages govern the world, they appear to practice non-action (Wuwei) yet achieve perfect order, teaching without words. All things develop naturally without coercion, just as historical cycles reveal alternating periods of social refinement and decline, while successive emperors demonstrate varying rhythms of governance.

The truly great ruler needs no honorific titles nor seeks glorification in records. Aligning with millennial cycles, he establishes foundations lasting seven centuries, securing popular allegiance without resorting to arms. The sage's foresight manifests before events unfold, his patterns crystallize within formlessness. Valiant generals pacify borders through awe-inspiring virtue, while wise chancellors rectify administration through discourse. Instruction transcends language—this constitutes "teaching without words." All vocations flourish peacefully, all beings preserve their innate nature, transforming spontaneously without interference.

The great Dao nurtures all yet claims no possession, like daily necessities people use unconsciously; it accomplishes all yet claims no merit, regarding all things as sacrificial straw dogs (symbolizing impartiality toward existence). Even monumental achievements leave him detached—like the Daoist adept who transcended worldly concerns, inquiring after truth at Xiangcheng and cultivating spiritual stillness on Mount Guye (legendary abode of immortals). Precisely because he claims no credit, his accomplishments never fade. The supreme Dao fills the cosmos, the highest De embraces heaven and earth—seemingly inactive yet spontaneously revered by all, governing with folded sleeves while clarifying the world, practicing non-action yet attracting myriad states to pay homage.

When worthiness isn't artificially exalted, people won't contend. The ideal way of governance is broad and level, free from favoritism or factionalism—where noble and humble walk like jade and stone upon one road, the wise and simple share equal standards. This represents the contention-free state nurtured by the Dao's transformations. True worthiness should be positioned according to ability, rewards must correspond to merit; commoners undertake labor, punishments must match offenses.

This scripture primarily discusses how rulers should govern a state and how practitioners should cultivate their body and mind. The core philosophy emphasizes maintaining the Dao (the Way) of harmony and balance, avoiding extremes.

Regarding state governance: Excessive rewards for the capable will lead to arrogance and indulgence, while driving commoners beyond their natural station creates poverty. The arrogant inevitably oppress others, and desperate people will rebel—thus sowing discord. Therefore, sages govern like the impartial radiance of the sun and moon, or the all-encompassing embrace of heaven and earth, never altering standards based on human virtue or vice. By not valuing rare treasures, the people won’t steal; by distancing themselves from temptations, their minds remain undisturbed.

Regarding self-cultivation: One must purge desires and distracting thoughts to preserve inner purity; fill the heart with the Dao (the Way) to nurture inner De (Virtue/Power); maintain a gentle will, yielding to the great Dao. This strengthens the bones naturally and aids in achieving immortality. Rulers should govern through Wuwei (non-action), while the people retain their simplicity—harmony between high and low brings perfect order.

The essence of the Dao (the Way) is centered, balanced, and inexhaustible. Just as the ocean’s depth allows it to receive all rivers, the Dao’s profundity makes it the source of all things. Practitioners must "grind away sharp edges" (discarding preconceptions) and "resolve conflicts" (calming inner and outer strife). These are achieved through harmony, emptiness, and openness.

Note: "Huangyi" refers to a revered Daoist deity; "Laojun" is Lord Lao (Laozi, deified as Taishang Laojun). "Zheng-Wei music" denotes the decadent tunes of the Zheng and Wei states during the Spring and Autumn period, while "Baosi and Daji" were infamous beauties who brought ruin to their kingdoms.

Human desires disturb the right path, causing confusion between gain and loss, and mental turmoil. One must relinquish external attachments, forget the self, distance from desires, and regulate emotions to attain liberation.

The Dao (cosmic origin) resembles gentle light, blending indistinguishably with all things—seeming void yet truly existent. It shines without glaring, remains pure without contamination, harmonious without disorder. Though unified with all existence, it never harms their essence, thus we know it as eternally serene.

I know not whence the Dao comes—it predates even the Celestial Emperor. Profound and unfathomable, it is the abyss of emptiness, beyond sensory perception or temporal definition. Moving spontaneously, it propels creation through the Three Powers (heaven, earth, humanity), embracing all things. Examining its function, it manifests prior to the Celestial Emperor.

Heaven and earth show no partiality, treating all beings as straw dogs (sacrificial artifacts). Length and brevity contrast each other, right and wrong mirror one another—this is nature's principle. What's called benevolence inevitably breeds its opposite hatred. Heaven and earth are heartless, transcending love and hate. Being without affection, they're deemed unkind. Straw dogs were ancient ritual objects discarded after use—neither cherished when employed nor resented when abandoned. This metaphor shows heaven and earth generate all things like spring's harmonious qi, unaware of their kindness; they withdraw life like autumn frost, unconscious of cruelty.

The sage (Dao-realized being) likewise shows no favoritism, treating common people as straw dogs. The sage's undiscriminating mind aligns with heaven and earth's virtue. Though grace extends to plants and animals, transformation begins with humanity—hence "common people."

Between heaven and earth resembles bellows (tuoyue, ancient air pumps)—hollow yet unyielding, producing more wind with greater movement. The bellows' emptiness enables endless sound; heaven and earth's void permits infinite creation. When humans empty their hearts of self, wisdom and virtue function boundlessly.

Excessive speech courts peril—better abide by the Middle Way. Proper speech leaves the world blameless; improper words invite disaster through the mouth. Fortune and misfortune hinge on appropriateness, not verbosity. This admonishes against loquacity, urging adherence to the center where teaching isn't limited by words, and the heart merges with the wordless Dao.

This passage elucidates the profound meaning behind the phrase "the valley spirit never dies" from the Daode Jing. The "valley spirit" refers to the eternally empty nature of the Dao, while the "mysterious female" (Xuanpin) symbolizes the tranquil essence of the Dao.

Heshang Gong (a Han dynasty commentator) interpreted this as a method for cultivating the spirit (Shen), while Wang Bi (a Wei-Jin period philosopher) used the metaphor of an empty valley. In truth, the genuine state of Daoist cultivation requires both body and mind to attain complete emptiness. As long as humans possess form and spirit, they remain bound to the cycle of life and death—this cannot be considered the true Dao. The Dao is fluid and ever-changing—how can it be called static?

If one can achieve emptiness in both body and mind, transcending the constraints of material existence and selfhood—where the gathering of Qi is not mistaken for life, nor its dissipation for death—then one attains the state of neither birth nor death. This is the true meaning of the "valley spirit." Life and death are merely transient fluctuations, while the mysterious female represents the profound, tranquil, and unchanging ultimate truth.

The "gate of the mysterious female" is called the root of heaven and earth. When the Dao is still, it has no form or appearance; when it moves, it gives birth to heaven and earth. All manifestations arise from here, hence it is called the "gate." All things in heaven and earth emerge from it, hence it is called the "root."

"Continuous, as if ever-present" describes the subtle state of the Dao. The Dao of the mysterious female is neither birth nor extinction; the truth of feminine tranquility neither exists nor ceases to be. To say it exists is to find no form, yet to say it perishes is to see all things born from it. It neither flourishes nor decays, neither ends nor persists—thus it is described as "continuous." "Toil" here means laborious effort, yet those who comprehend the Dao of the mysterious female apply it endlessly, effortlessly and joyfully—hence it is said to be "without toil."

This commentary reveals the highest state sought by Daoist practitioners: transcending the dualities of life and death, movement and stillness, and returning to the eternal, silent cosmic source that gives birth to all things. Through cultivation in emptiness and non-action (Wuwei), one ultimately attains the liberated state of unity with the Dao.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not seek existence for themselves. The sun and moon wax and wane, the alternation of Yin-Yang brings the cycle of cold and heat, and all things must eventually perish—only Heaven and Earth remain. The secret to their enduring nature lies precisely in their selflessness, their lack of striving for survival.

If humans emulate Heaven and Earth by relinquishing selfish thoughts and ceasing to deliberately pursue longevity, they can nourish their immortal foundation (the root of cultivation), making their lives as enduring as metal or stone. But if one becomes entangled in disputes, indulges desires, allows sensory pleasures to delude the eyes and ears, or lets rich flavors disturb the senses—exhausting the body and wearying the spirit—then even a hundred-year lifespan will be as fleeting as morning dew, and vast wealth will wither like evening hibiscus. Thus, the reason humans hasten toward death is precisely their excessive pursuit of pleasure.

Therefore, those who attain the Dao (sages) place themselves behind others, yet naturally take the lead; they disregard their own existence, yet are preserved. In this world, few restrain their desires—most chase after pleasure. Only sages understand the principle of humility and yielding, and thus their lofty virtue naturally elevates them. By transcending physical constraints through cultivation, their lives align with the Dao.

Is this not because their selflessness ultimately fulfills them? Ordinary people, blinded by selfish desires, act with bias—exalting themselves while belittling others, craving pleasure yet unable to transcend. In seeking to preserve life, they hasten its end. Sages, free from competitive impulses, naturally lead; without striving for permanence, they endure. This is the true meaning of "self-fulfillment."

The highest good is like water. Water nourishes all things without contention, willingly settling in low places others disdain—thus it comes closest to the Dao. The Dao is profound and unfathomable, and the actions of cultivators are subtle and inscrutable, hence water serves as its metaphor. Just as water moistens all things, the Dao uplifts all beings; just as water breaks through obstructions, the Dao brings harmony and equality.

Most creatures despise lowly places, and most people chase high positions—yet water flows downward. So too do cultivators willingly dwell below, contending with none. Such virtue is nearest to the Dao.

The nature of water is closest to the essence of the Dao, thus we use water's characteristics to describe the virtues of a Dao cultivator. Just as water always flows downward, the practitioner should maintain humility and modesty, thereby finding peace wherever they dwell.

When water is still, it becomes perfectly clear. If the human mind can maintain emptiness and stillness, it becomes like a bright mirror reflecting the true nature of all things. Water nourishes all beings without seeking reward, and so should the cultivator approach others with the same benevolent heart. Water's surface faithfully reflects both beauty and ugliness, just as the Daoist's speech should remain truthful and consistent.

The most placid water surface achieves perfection - likewise, the cultivator should handle affairs with the impartiality of still water. Though appearing soft and yielding, water can wear through stone and bear ships - similarly, the practitioner must skillfully employ their strengths. Water freezes in winter and rises in summer without violating seasonal rhythms, teaching us to act in harmony with the proper timing.

Precisely because water contends with nothing, it never makes mistakes. If cultivators can maintain vast emptiness within, avoiding competition for fame and profit, they naturally avert misfortune. Just as an overfilled tilted vessel must spill, those who greedily grasp will ultimately meet failure. Sharp edges cannot be maintained forever - just as exalted positions invite criticism, excessive rigidity leads to vulnerability.

Hallways piled with gold and silver cannot be kept, for wealth has no feet to stay. Facing floods, fires or thieves, such riches cannot be preserved. This teaches us that greedy accumulation violates heavenly principle, while timely generosity accords with the Dao. When wealth breeds arrogance, calamity arises from within, not from external sources.

At the peak of achievement, one must know when to withdraw - this aligns with heavenly law. Just as yin and yang alternate and seasons change, those who cling to glory invite danger. The Han dynasty's Shu Guang and Shu Ren understood this timely retreat, as did the Four Elders of Shangshan who attained peaceful ends through this wisdom.

The human spirit (yingpo) must remain inseparably united with the Dao (the One). The body is like a chariot carrying divine spirits - when purified, the soul finds peace; when defiled, the true spirit departs. By eliminating distractions to guard the primordial spirit (shoushen) and maintaining undivided concentration (baoyi), we merge completely with the Dao.

The wise person can unite the Dao with their spirit and physical form, which is why it's called "inseparable." When one concentrates their vital essence (Jing) to achieve a state of softness, they become as pure as an infant. The unity of body and mind maintains perfect harmony without dispersion, and focusing one's vital essence is the method for attaining longevity. Achieving this softness means not yet understanding the intercourse of Yin-Yang, nor distinguishing between right and wrong—this is the state of an infant.

By cleansing the mirror of the heart-mind (xuanlan refers to the spiritual mirror), one can become flawless. Wash the inner self with the mystical flowing waters, sweep away attachments with the ethereal breeze, achieving internal and external purity like a clear water-mirror, with radiance inside and out surpassing unblemished jade.

In governing the people and the state, can one practice non-action (Wuwei)? If those in high positions cannot naturally influence the people, they must rely on others to teach them. Handle affairs with stillness and non-action—those who act deliberately and restlessly will harm things, while those who are non-active and tranquil truly care for the people.

Heaven has the gates of the four seasons (Tianmen refers to the pivotal points of seasonal change): the green gate opens to bring warmth, the red gate opens to bring heat, the white gate opens to bring coolness, and the black gate opens to bring cold. Nowadays, petty people complain when encountering extreme heat or cold because they cannot maintain tranquility. Close the other three gates and open only one, preserving the stillness of the feminine. The sage's spirit gathers in the Great Void, their wisdom abides in the mysterious realm—life and death, fortune and misfortune cannot disturb them; water and fire, cold and heat cannot shake them.

When wisdom penetrates all directions, can one remain without knowledge or awareness? The sage's wisdom encompasses all things, their brightness rivals the sun and moon, illuminating all four directions—this is called "fourfold penetration." Though they perceive everything, they remain silent; though they possess radiance, they do not flaunt it. Letting go of distinctions and merging with all things—this is "without knowledge."

The Dao gives birth to all things, and Virtue (De) nourishes them. The sage follows the Dao's way of birth and nourishment, enabling the people to preserve their simple nature and allowing all things to grow naturally.

To give birth to and nurture all things without claiming possession, to act without self-importance, to guide all things without dominating—this is the most profound "Mysterious Virtue" (Xuande, the highest form of De). True superior Virtue does not deliberately display Virtue, and thus it is genuine Virtue. Virtue that forgets itself as Virtue is the deep and mysterious Virtue.

Thirty spokes converge at a single hub—it is precisely because the center is empty that the wheel functions. The spokes are on the outside, the hub within; because the hub is hollow, the spokes can gather. The sage is as open as a valley, and the people naturally follow. "Nothingness" is emptiness. Though the cart has form, what truly makes it useful is its emptiness. If the cart had no hollowness, it would be unusable. Its present function originates from emptiness—hence it is said, "When there is nothing, there is the use of the cart." This uses the cart as a metaphor for the function of the Dao.

Daoism teaches that using language to explain principles represents "being" (concrete existence), while the ultimate truth beyond words is "non-being" (formless and imageless). The transmission of doctrine requires concrete theories for explanation, yet profound truth must also manifest through doctrine. Truth relies on doctrine to be revealed—without doctrine, truth has no vessel; doctrine depends on truth for clarity—without truth, doctrine loses meaning. Understanding this interdependence between truth and doctrine allows one to grasp the dynamic interplay of "being" and "non-being."

Just as clay vessels derive their usefulness from their hollow centers, the art of pottery requires properly tempered clay—only when the material is well-blended can the vessel function. Similarly, self-cultivation requires refining one's character—only with noble conduct can one attain the Dao. "Shan" means blending, while "zhi" signifies clay. Likewise, when constructing a house by carving doors and windows in walls, it is precisely the empty spaces that grant the structure its functionality. What use would a house serve if its interior weren't hollow or lacked entryways? If practitioners cultivate with darkened minds internally while remaining as blocked as the deaf and blind externally, how could they possibly attain the Dao? Just as houses require openings to be useful, humans need awakened wisdom to realize the Dao.

Thus "being" provides convenience, while "non-being" performs the actual function. "Being" cannot operate without "non-being," nor can "non-being" manifest value without "being." Recognizing that "being" depends on "non-being" to generate benefit, and "non-being" requires "being" to function, one comprehends the mutual dependence between the coarse and the subtle.

Excessive pursuit of the five colors blinds the eyes; indulgence in the five tones deafens the ears; craving the five flavors dulls the palate. Though eyes can see, obsession with beauty causes blindness; though ears can hear, addiction to decadent music brings deafness; though tongues can taste, fastidiousness about delicacies violates nourishment principles. "Shuang" here means loss. True blindness isn't visual impairment but failing to recognize sages; true deafness isn't auditory loss but missing celestial harmonies; the tongue's purpose lies in discernment—clinging to worldly flavors makes one miss the Dao's true essence.

Reckless hunting disturbs the spirit. Indulgence in hunting and fishing pleasures wastes proper endeavors; chasing fame and reputation deranges the mind.

Rare treasures lead to misconduct. Beauty and valuables—being scarce—agitate the spirit and corrupt virtue.

Therefore, sages value inner fulfillment over external appearances, rejecting superficiality to embrace fundamentals. "Focusing on the belly" means maintaining inner emptiness while being spiritually substantial; "ignoring the eyes" signifies inward contemplation over external distractions.

This scripture explores two core concepts: how to face honor and disgrace, gain and loss, and how to transcend the limitations of the physical body to attain a higher state of being.

Regarding honor and disgrace, the scripture points out that people often become anxious about their fluctuating status. Those in high positions fear danger, while those in low positions feel shame—both stemming from excessive concern about external judgments. True wisdom understands that overvaluing oneself invites misfortune. Honor and disgrace are like twin brothers: when receiving glory, one fears its loss; when suffering humiliation, one panics. Only those with a serene and detached mind can rise above such disturbances.

Concerning physical limitations, the scripture teaches that the human body itself is the root of various afflictions, as it undergoes the inevitable cycles of flourishing and decay, life and death. However, by attaining the state of "no-self" (wushen)—meaning non-attachment to physical existence—one transcends the bondage of life and death, honor and disgrace. The true sage values De (Virtue) over the physical form and cherishes others more than oneself, thereby embodying the selflessness of heaven, earth, and the sun and moon.

Finally, the scripture uses "yi" (invisible), "xi" (inaudible), and "wei" (intangible) to describe the characteristics of the Dao. Though the Great Dao appears ordinary, it contains profound wisdom; the grandest sounds are often unheard, just as nature's teachings are rarely encountered. Sages comprehend these truths that elude ordinary perception because they have achieved unity with the Dao.

This passage from the Daode Jing describes the mysterious realm of the Dao (the Way). The supreme Dao has no concrete form, yet sages comprehend its formless origin through profound realization.

Three core concepts are presented here: "Xi" (soundlessness), "Wei" (formlessness), and "Yi" (tracelessness). These three cannot be fully expressed in words, and thus they merge into the unity of the "One" (the wholeness of the Dao). They transcend concrete attributes like sound, color, or shape and cannot be simply defined as "being" or "non-being," resembling the undifferentiated state of primordial chaos.

The "One" and the "Three" are interdependent: without the "Three" (Xi, Wei, Yi), the wholeness of the "One" cannot be formed; conversely, without the unifying nature of the "One," the "Three" cannot exist. Fixating on numerical concepts only obstructs the understanding of the Dao.

The supreme Dao is neither bright nor dim (bujiao bumei), free and unconstrained like drifting in a boat. It transcends all concrete things, ultimately returning to the realm of "non-being." Yet this "non-being" is not mere emptiness—it is a higher state that even surpasses the concept of "non-being" (xuan zhi you xuan, the mystery beyond mystery).

This state is called "the form of the formless" and "the image of the imageless," existing in a liminal space between presence and absence. It manifests function from formlessness (cong ti qi yong) and returns phenomena to their essence (she ji gui ben). This transformation is not fixed but flows unpredictably, suddenly appearing and just as suddenly vanishing.

If one seeks its beginning, no origin can be found (ying bu jian qi shou); if one follows its traces, no end can be seen (sui bu jian qi hou). This is precisely the Dao’s nature—transcending time and space, forever elusive.

This passage discusses the realms and cultivation methods of ancient Daoist practitioners. The general meaning is:

The true Dao is difficult to describe in words. Ancient cultivators used Wuwei (non-action, following natural flow) to correct the excessive Youwei (forced striving) tendencies of modern times. The sages of old could comprehend the subtle and profound Dao—their actions were in harmony with the Way, unfathomably deep.

Since the great Dao defies verbal expression, we reluctantly use metaphors to describe the cultivator's state: they are as cautious as crossing a winter river, as alert as fearing to disturb neighbors, their demeanor solemn like honored guests. Their mental state unfolds like spring-melting snow, remains simple as uncarved wood, and embraces emptiness like a hollow valley.

Though outwardly appearing turbid and indistinguishable from worldly ways, they maintain inner purity within. Who can remain tranquil amidst this seeming turbidity, gradually clarifying? Who can maintain lasting stability, allowing life to grow naturally? Those who truly attain the Dao don't pursue fullness, but understand knowing when to stop.

The mentioned "Wuwei" is a core Daoist concept referring to following natural laws without forcing; "Youwei" denotes artificial manipulation. Through maintaining a receptive and tranquil mindstate, cultivators ultimately achieve unity with the Dao.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles that spiritual cultivators should follow. It first emphasizes maintaining a tranquil and humble disposition, warning against arrogance and self-satisfaction. Just as a vessel must remain unfilled to continue receiving contents, practitioners must preserve inner emptiness to progress continuously. Even in advanced age, one can experience renewal if the will remains undiminished; even amid worldly distractions, true attainment is possible by purifying distracting thoughts.

Reaching the ultimate state of emptiness and maintaining profound stillness purifies and fortifies one's nature, elevating conduct to sublime heights. Only those who steadfastly preserve this state can comprehend the Dao of extreme emptiness. All phenomena undergo constant transformation, yet ordinary people, driven by desires, often abandon their authentic nature to pursue illusions—like discarding roots for branches.

The sages teach us to return to the root. Just as flourishing vegetation ultimately returns to its roots, the human heart must return to its original truth. Returning to the root means returning to stillness, liberating oneself from cyclic existence; preserving stillness allows the restoration of innate nature, freeing one from the turmoil of birth and death. Understanding this eternal truth constitutes wisdom, while violating it invites calamity.

Those who truly comprehend the eternal Dao develop hearts vast as the void, embracing all things. Such capacity enables impartial fairness; impartiality qualifies one to become a true sovereign—one who aligns with celestial patterns. Here, "sovereign" does not denote worldly rulers but realized beings who embody the Great Dao and unite with heaven and earth in virtue (De).

The operations of Heaven and Earth are without selfish intent, unfolding according to natural laws that embrace all things. The Dao of Heaven (natural principle) endures eternally because it aligns with the fundamental De (inherent virtue) and Dao (cosmic truth) shared by Heaven and Earth. Flowing unimpeded, all its movements accord with natural order.

The true Dao is perpetual, existing unchanged from antiquity to the present. The sages (those who attain the Dao) can abide with the Dao, thereby gaining boundless vitality. Even when their physical forms perish, their Shen (spirit) merges with the Heavenly Dao, eternally free from peril.

The most ideal state of society manifests when the supreme ruler (Taishang) governs through Wuwei (non-action). The people merely know of his existence without sensing his interference. Because the ruler embodies lofty virtue, the people naturally prosper. Between superior and inferior, no deliberate displays are needed—each simply abides in their proper place.

A lesser ruler gains the people's affection and praise because they begin acting through conscious effort, relying on verbal instruction. An even lesser ruler inspires fear and deceit among the people, as they establish harsh laws that violate natural harmony.

Where sincerity is lacking, distrust arises. When rulers teach through the Dao, demonstrating integrity through personal example, mutual trust flourishes between high and low. Should rulers fail to honor trust, the people naturally respond in kind.

In the ideal condition, when achievements are completed, the people consider them the spontaneous fruition of natural processes. Only after the pristine virtue of ancient times declined did concepts like benevolence and righteousness emerge. But the supreme Dao (ultimate truth) transcends distinctions of kinship or status—in its pure natural state, all things exist in harmonious unity, requiring no artificial promotion of virtue.

When society returns to the state of knotting ropes to record events and natural simplicity, people can dwell peacefully within the Dao (the Way), where even written characters become unnecessary. This realm attains the mysterious state of unity with the Dao.

The scripture points out: when the Dao prevails, people naturally possess benevolence and the ability to discern right from wrong; when social customs become superficial, it is because people have strayed from the Dao. However, it should be noted that the Dao itself has no distinction of flourishing or declining—what changes are human hearts and worldly affairs.

Regarding "when wisdom emerged, great hypocrisy arose": the most profound Dao exists in a state of undifferentiated namelessness. When people deliberately flaunt wisdom to intimidate the ignorant or debate right and wrong to appear unconventional, they instead provoke more disputes and deceitful behavior. Figures like the infamous robber Zhi and the usurper Tian Chengzi exploited this "great hypocrisy" to commit acts of stealing entire states.

Concerning "when the six relations are discordant, filial piety and kindness appear": relationships between father and son, brothers, and spouses should naturally be harmonious. But when comparisons and preferences arise among them, "filial piety" becomes particularly emphasized—precisely because unfilial behavior exists, filial piety needs to be highlighted.

Regarding "when the state is in chaos, loyal ministers appear": in the peaceful eras of Fuxi and Shennong, no one particularly praised loyal ministers; it wasn't until the tyrannical reigns of Jie and Zhou that loyal ministers like Guan Longfeng and Bigan were celebrated. This is like how stars don't shine when the sun is at its zenith, or how artificial irrigation becomes unnecessary when timely rain falls. Only when rulers become foolish and ministers rebellious do those ministers who can rectify the ruler and stabilize the state stand out.

(This is the content from Volume 2 of the Commentary on the Dao De Jing)

Here Laozi speaks of relinquishing artificial constructs and returning to natural authenticity. The commentary by Li Rong (a Daoist priest of the Yuan Dynasty's Tian Guan Temple) explains:

The phrase "reject sageliness and discard wisdom" means that while sages are revered by the world and wisdom is pursued by the foolish, true wisdom needs no deliberate display, nor does a genuine sage need to consciously dominate all things. Clinging to the labels of "sage" and "wisdom" only leads people astray. True sages merge with the great Dao (the cosmic origin), and the Dao itself is nameless. Once names and forms are established, people become deluded by appearances. Thus we must let go of attachment to sageliness and wisdom to avoid the hypocrisy and scheming that arise from their pursuit.

"Reject benevolence and discard righteousness" teaches that while humaneness and righteousness serve as ethical standards, overemphasis distorts our innate nature. It's better to return to the genuine heart of familial love and compassion—these are natural emotional outpourings.

"Reject cleverness and abandon profit" means abandoning cunning minds and greedy thoughts. Like breaking a craftsman's skilled fingers, setting aside precise machinery, or discarding fine jade and destroying precious gems—when such external temptations disappear, thieves naturally cease to arise.

These three principles remain insufficient as mere doctrines; they must be embodied in action. True cultivation doesn't demand forced pursuit of sageliness or calculation of gains, but rather a return to original simplicity.

Practically, this means: maintain the plainness of your original nature (embracing simplicity and holding to the uncarved block), and reduce selfish thoughts and desires (having few desires and little selfishness). "Plainness" refers to the mind untainted by external things, while the "uncarved block" means preserving the pure unity of heavenly nature. Treat others with impartiality without forming cliques, and use your innate nature to regulate desires.

"Give up learning, and you will be free from worry" means that when your will aligns with the way of wuwei (non-action), no deliberate study is needed. Blurring distinctions between foolishness and wisdom eliminates anxiety over gain and loss; transcending fame and disgrace removes disturbances of joy and sorrow. Those who study by candlelight or hang their hair from beams to stay awake—constantly worrying about unattained reputation or unrealized profit—will naturally generate endless worries.

Finally, we're reminded that flattery and scorn aren't far apart, nor are good and evil clearly divided. This cautions us against clinging to superficial judgments of right and wrong.

This scripture explores the fundamental differences in behavior and mentality between ordinary people and those who have attained the Dao (the Way).

Regarding the distinction between good and evil, the text observes: When people become attached to superficial rituals and norms, using subjective preferences to differentiate between good and evil, they actually move further away from the essence of the great Dao. True sages do not deliberately pursue external fame or pretense, because excessive pursuit of cleverness and outward embellishment are fundamentally contrary to one's natural essence. Just as the dangers of fire, water, and wolves objectively exist, those who indulge in fame, profit, love, and hatred will ultimately invite calamity.

Ordinary people (referring to those who have not realized the Dao) enthusiastically pursue sensory pleasures, chasing after sights, sounds, and flavors as if attending lavish banquets or enjoying springtime mountain views. They become addicted to desires they cannot escape, yet consider themselves happy. In contrast, those who have attained the Dao (sages) maintain a pure state like infants, unaffected by external temptations, with hearts calm and free.

Common people constantly feel material pleasures are insufficient, endlessly accumulating possessions and indulging desires; whereas sages seem to have forgotten something as they transcend worldly concerns. Here, "dust" is used to describe the sage's state—meaning they dwell in the mundane world yet remain untainted, just as dust, though light, can cover all things without being stained itself.

Through these contrasts, the scripture reveals two completely different approaches to life: one is the worldly path of chasing external things and distinguishing good from evil; the other is the path of cultivation that returns to one's original nature and transcends worldly attachments.

This passage explains the fundamental difference between those who have attained the Dao and ordinary worldly people.

Worldly people always consider themselves clever, constantly indulging in desires and emotions, with minds in perpetual turmoil. The great sage who has attained the Dao appears foolish, but this is because his inner being remains pure, with both body and spirit (Shen) maintaining a state of emptiness and tranquility, allowing him to preserve his pristine, untainted nature daily.

Ordinary people enjoy showing off everywhere, pretending to understand what they don't, with minds deluded by external things yet believing themselves enlightened—this is what the scripture calls "appearing bright." The Dao-attained person seems muddled and confused, but this is actually the manifestation of great wisdom appearing as foolishness.

Worldly people nitpick over trivial matters, constantly entangled in judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss. The Dao-attained person seems vague and indistinct because he has transcended such dualistic distinctions. Like the ocean—though its surface appears turbulent with waves, its depths are boundless; it drifts with the wind yet always maintains its fundamental truth.

Common people pursue achievements through deliberate action (youwei), while the Dao-attained person seems obstinate and crude, like an ignorant fool. In truth, this is because he seeks the root—the Dao itself ("feeding from the mother" refers to being nourished by the Dao). The realm of great Virtue (De) completely follows the patterns of the Dao, because De is precisely what emerges from the Dao.

This thing called the Dao—so elusive and indescribable. Say it doesn't exist, yet there is something undifferentiated; say it exists, yet it returns to nothingness. This state of seeming presence and absence constitutes the profound mystery of the Dao. Within this elusiveness lie the forms of heaven and earth; within this chaos resides the origin that creates all things. Thus the Dao divides into the two energies of Yin-Yang, from which all phenomena in the world are born.

Within the profound and mysterious realm lies the subtle truth. The most fundamental principle is singular, hence called "Jing" (essence); its nature is eternal and unchanging, thus termed "Zhen" (truth). This supremely subtle truth genuinely exists, containing immutable laws.

In stillness, it is formless and imageless, yet in response, it permeates all things. The karmic retribution where good deeds bring blessings and evil acts invite misfortune is as real as shadows following forms and echoes answering sounds. From ancient times to the present, this law has never vanished, ceaselessly observing the primal state of all beings. ("Observing the origins of myriad things" refers to examining the source of creation.)

The ignorant fail to grasp this principle, and ordinary people are often deluded, believing the profound Dao lacks causality and that in its indistinctness, there is no retribution. This leads the virtuous to slacken and the wicked to remain unrepentant. They do not realize that within the subtle lies efficacy, and within truth lies evidence. The scriptures emphasize "therein lies trust" precisely to demonstrate this principle is not illusory.

To save sentient beings, sages established teachings: tracing effects back to causes, examining the roots of good and evil; observing righteous and deviant conduct throughout history. The loyal and filial are rewarded with honors, while the errant are punished with penalties. This law penetrates the tangible and intangible, pervading the cosmos. Its essence stands alone and eternal, its name everlasting.

How do I know the law governing the beginning and end of all things? By observing the present, one comprehends past and future: yielding leads to preservation, bending to straightening, emptiness to fullness, the worn to renewal, restraint to abundance, and greed to confusion.

When outward actions align with inner cultivation, and the mind nurtures Shen (spirit), one achieves mutual non-harm between self and others while preserving one's being. Yielding to others ensures one does not stray from the Dao. Humble retreat fills one like lowlands naturally gathering water. Merging with all things without taint brings renewal. The fundamental principle is singular, hence called "restraint"; forgetting words to unite with truth is called "attainment." Clinging to the realm of action, doctrines proliferate; chasing desires confuses the mind, and rigid adherence to teachings breeds delusion.

Thus, the sage upholds the Dao as the world's standard. "One" is the Dao; the sage embraces it, hence called "holding to the One." All actions accord with principle, serving as a model for all things.

Not displaying oneself brings clarity; not asserting oneself brings distinction; not boasting brings achievement; not exalting oneself brings endurance. Abandoning discrimination and attachment, wisdom naturally brightens; relinquishing self-other divisions preserves true nature, and De (virtue) naturally manifests. Grasping for merit leads to loss; flaunting virtue prevents endurance. Only by not contending can one remain beyond contention in the world.

This scripture primarily teaches the principles of humility, reticence, and following the natural course in human conduct.

If one constantly clings to their own opinions, believing only they are right while others are wrong, conflicts inevitably arise. The sage understands how to follow things as they naturally are, without obsessing over right or wrong, nor contending for fame and fortune. Thus, no one in the world can oppose them. The ancients said, "To bend is to be preserved whole"—this is no empty saying, for it truly allows one to withdraw unscathed. The sage does not act arbitrarily but borrows the words of the ancients to illustrate: yielding appropriately can actually ensure self-preservation, and these are all concrete truths.

Speaking sparingly aligns with the natural Dao (the Way). Excessive words invite mistakes, while restraint allows one to harmonize with the great Dao. The great Dao is neither absolute emptiness nor rigid fixity—the key lies in finding balance. Even violent winds and torrential rains cannot last a full day, let alone a person who speaks carelessly and excessively. Few words and quietude bring lasting peace, like rain every ten days and wind every five—such is harmony. Excessive and reckless speech is like a storm, ultimately harming oneself. If even Heaven and Earth cannot sustain extremes indefinitely, how much less can humans?

Those who seek the Dao will find the Dao embracing them; those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) will receive its rewards; those who turn away from the Dao and De will be abandoned by them. Those lacking sincerity will naturally not be trusted.

Standing on tiptoe leads to instability; taking overly large strides prevents going far. Walking slowly ensures endurance, while rushing to show off makes it difficult to last. This admonishes people that humility and yielding lead to longevity, whereas pride and arrogance invite self-destruction. Self-display obscures the truth; self-righteousness fails to illuminate; self-praise yields no merit; complacency cannot endure. These are not the ways of a noble person, much less the realm of one who has truly transcended.

Through metaphors drawn from natural phenomena and daily life, this passage emphasizes humility, restraint, and following the natural course in human conduct, opposing contentiousness and self-promotion.

This passage from the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) describes the fundamental nature and characteristics of the Dao (the Way). Laozi states that excess food and superfluous actions are detested even by all creatures, so those who truly understand the Dao would never engage in such behaviors.

Leftover food cannot be used in sacrifices, and walking on tiptoes (symbolizing artificial affectation) cannot lead one to the true path. The deluded may enjoy such practices and feel secure in them, but the wise despise these actions as contrary to the Dao.

There exists something (referring to the Dao) that predates the formation of heaven and earth—a formless, undifferentiated unity. It cannot be defined as "existence" or "non-existence," nor can it be divided into Yin-Yang. It arises spontaneously, operates through transformation, and manifests its presence without form. Fundamentally, it existed before heaven and earth.

This Dao is silent and soundless, unchanging in its independence, ceaseless in its cyclical movement—it may be regarded as the mother of all things under heaven. It cannot be heard or touched, has no opposite, exists eternally, and is omnipresent yet never exhausted, nurturing all things like a mother.

I do not know its name, so I reluctantly call it "Dao," or alternatively "Great" (indicating boundless vastness). Heaven has form and can be named, but the Dao is formless and thus indescribable. It encompasses all laws, hence called "Dao"; it contains all principles, hence called "Great." These are merely provisional names.

"Great" means ceaseless movement; ceaseless movement means boundlessly far-reaching; boundlessly far-reaching means ultimately returning to the source. You may seek it but never find it, chase it but never catch up—yet it is actually within us, hence the concept of "return."

Thus it is said: The Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is also great. The Dao is supreme; heaven covers all things without distinction of nobility; earth bears all things without distinction of beauty; the king governs all under heaven without regard for distance, nurturing the people without regard for wealth or poverty. Though their functions differ, all are equally great.

In the cosmos there are four greats: Dao, heaven, earth, and king—with the ruler being one of them. Though the myriad things in the world are diverse, ultimately the most essential are these four greats.

This scripture primarily discusses the principles rulers should follow in governing a nation and cultivating personal virtue, with the core idea of emulating the natural Dao.

It first points out that rulers should model themselves after the movements of heaven and earth: in stillness, they should be as inclusive and selfless as the earth; in action, they should be as impartial and orderly as celestial phenomena. Maintaining a state of Wuwei (non-action) and allowing all things to unfold naturally without force is the embodiment of following the Dao. The sages, free from selfish desires and deliberate actions, align with the natural development of all things—this represents the highest state of emulating "naturalness." The text emphasizes that humans should follow heaven and earth, not the other way around.

The passage then uses the metaphor "the heavy is the root of the light, the still is the master of the restless" to illustrate that steadiness is the foundation of frivolity, and calmness governs agitation. Just as a ruler should remain composed and serene while ministers handle specific affairs, each fulfilling their roles ensures effective governance. Thus, wise rulers always act with steadiness, ensuring their movements and stillness align with the Dao, thereby avoiding peril.

Even amidst luxurious palaces, the sages' minds remain detached from material concerns. They value the great Dao and cherish qualities of steadiness and tranquility. No splendid residence or beautiful attendant can disturb their serene Wuwei state. The text particularly criticizes rulers of great nations who act rashly, pointing out that frivolity leads to losing the support of ministers, while impetuousness erodes the dignity of rulership.

In conclusion, steadiness and calmness bring stability to both superiors and subordinates, whereas frivolity and haste harm both rulers and ministers. The entire passage emphasizes that those who govern should emulate the natural Dao, maintaining the cultivation of steadiness and serenity.

This chapter of the Daode Jing, through Daoist Master Li Rong's commentary, reveals the subtle application of the Dao (the Way) in human affairs.

Those truly skilled in action leave no traces. Like the immortal's seven-scented chariot or cloud-borne steeds that move swiftly without leaving tracks; like the sage governing the empire effortlessly with folded sleeves in court, or the virtuous recluse cultivating nature in mountain forests—none deliberately display their deeds.

Those skilled in speech make no mistakes. Their words strike true, resonating across a thousand miles, for they follow natural principles and thus never misspeak.

Those skilled in calculation need no counting rods. Viewing all things through the lens of the Dao, everything becomes transparent, rendering calculation tools unnecessary.

Those skilled at closing need no bolts yet cannot be opened. Governing the state with the Dao, people naturally live in peace; cultivating oneself with the Dao, external temptations cannot penetrate.

Those skilled at binding need no cords yet cannot be untied. Uniting the world with the Dao, all nations naturally submit; the practitioner united with the Dao forms an unbreakable bond.

Therefore, the sage always excels at saving people, so none are abandoned; always excels at utilizing things, so nothing is wasted. This is the luminous wisdom inherited from the great Dao.

The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous serve as mirrors for the virtuous. Those who neither respect their teachers nor value these mirrors, though believing themselves enlightened, remain profoundly deluded. This is the essential mystery of the Dao.

(Note: The "seven-scented chariot" refers to the luxurious vehicle of immortals, "cloud carriages" to divine transports, "bolts" to door latches, and "tuition gifts" originally meant educational fees—here symbolizing the value of learning from others.)

This passage elucidates the worldly wisdom and essential cultivation principles that Daoist practitioners should follow.

It first emphasizes the paramount importance of revering teachers and honoring the Dao. Teachers should instruct students with benevolence, while students should approach their teachers with deep respect. Without this mutual affection and reverence—like blocked streams failing to nourish all things—the path of cultivation becomes obstructed and difficult to retrace. Understanding this principle is crucial, as those who fail to comprehend it will fall into great confusion.

The text then presents three contrasting pairs that reveal core cultivation principles: knowing strength yet abiding in softness, like the valleys that contain all under heaven; understanding brilliance yet dwelling content in obscurity, serving as the world's model; recognizing glory yet resting in humility, like the lowlands that embrace the world. These three states all manifest the perfection of "constant De" (enduring Virtue).

Specifically, practitioners should maintain infant-like purity without discriminatory thoughts. When the mind becomes truly clear, it naturally aligns with De. Genuine wisdom appears as simplicity, while inner nobility wears ordinary garb—only through such an approach can one establish lasting conduct in the world and attain the "limitless" (wuji) state in cultivation. Those in high positions remain free from arrogance, while those in humble stations maintain inclusive acceptance—such virtue resembles uncarved wood in its primal naturalness.

Finally, it reveals that the universe originally existed as undifferentiated "primordial Qi" (hunyuan qi) before manifesting as heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Sages who understand this principle govern the world with holistic unity rather than fragmentation. This teaches practitioners to return to the source and preserve their original, unadorned nature.

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist principles of governance and personal conduct. It begins by addressing the fundamental nature of ruler-minister relations: the sovereign's exalted position and the subject's subordinate status form a natural hierarchical structure. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) governs through wordless teaching, much like crafting raw, unhewn wood into useful implements. By employing the great Dao to guide all things, all beings naturally submit to its influence.

The text emphasizes the crucial importance of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Those who attempt to seize the world through brute force are ultimately doomed to fail. The world is a sacred entity that cannot be forcibly controlled—such attempts inevitably lead to loss. The truly wise approach involves sharing benefits with all under heaven without monopolizing them, eliminating misfortunes without claiming merit. This way, all within the Four Seas will be moved by such virtuous conduct (De).

Through contrasting examples, the scripture illustrates how all things possess dual aspects: where there is advancement, there must be retreat; warmth implies cold; strength contains weakness within it. When gathered together, things form close connections; when dispersed, they separate naturally. Deliberate striving may bring temporary success but ultimate failure, while following nature's course may appear weak yet leads to renewed flourishing.

The way of the sage (Dao-attained person) in worldly affairs involves eliminating extremes, extravagance, and excess. Excessive desire constitutes extremity, indulgent thoughts represent extravagance, and insatiable pleasure-seeking becomes excess. The sage maintains inner emptiness and stillness, finding contentment in sufficiency, returning to original simplicity, forgetting external pleasures while abiding in inner fulfillment.

Those who assist rulers through the Dao never rely on military might to dominate the world, for violence begets retribution. Loyal ministers and wise chancellors should govern through the Dao, bringing peace to both high and low. Resorting to force only creates a vicious cycle of mutual aggression and conflict.

Finally, the text warns of war's devastation: lands where armies encamp become desolate wilderness overgrown with thorns, and great battles inevitably bring years of famine. When good crops fail to grow, this is the bitter fruit of militarism.

The truly adept in the art of warfare seek only to quell conflict, never to flaunt military might. What we call "adept" refers to the ability to handle military affairs with wisdom, while "decisive" means eliminating invading enemies—when foes attack, they must be eradicated. Yet one must never abuse military strength simply because a nation is powerful or its army formidable.

Upon achieving the objective, one must not become complacent (矜), boast of military achievements (伐), or grow arrogant toward the enemy. Resorting to arms should always be a last resort. Self-aggrandizement is called "矜," taking pride in one's merits is called "伐," and competing for dominance or flaunting military prowess before the enemy is called "骄." Thus it is said: A righteous army can establish a kingly reign, a defensive army can secure victory, an army driven by rage is doomed to fail, and an arrogant army will ultimately meet destruction. Those skilled in warfare act with resolute decisiveness—without arrogance, without rage, without greed, without eagerness for battle—only striking in response when absolutely necessary. The purpose of warfare lies in eliminating threats and saving the people, never in flaunting might or reveling in conflict.

This embodies the principle of "achieving the objective without flaunting strength." Those with steadfast hearts remain free of arrogance and agitation, acting only when compelled by necessity.

When things reach their zenith, they inevitably decline—this contradicts the natural order of the Dao. What violates the Dao swiftly perishes. Youth must grow to maturity; strength must wane into decline—this is the principle that "what flourishes strong must age." Nations that boast of military might will ultimately weaken and fall. Only what aligns with the Dao endures; what defies it should cease early.

Fine weapons are inauspicious tools, despised even by heaven, earth, and all living things—thus those who follow the Dao never employ them lightly. Even the finest arms (佳兵) carry the risk of national ruin and annihilation, hence their inauspicious nature. Life is cherished by all; death is abhorred by all things. A ruler who embodies the Dao does not revel in war.

In peacetime, the nobleman honors the left (symbolizing civil governance); in war, he honors the right (symbolizing martial force). Aligning with celestial patterns is called "civil," while ceasing conflict is called "martial." Governing a state requires both civil and martial approaches, just as rites and music must coexist, or water and fire must balance. Warfare must accord with principle; action must seize the timely moment. Thus, in peacetime, life is valued and the left is honored; in war, decisive action is paramount and the right is revered.

Weapons are inauspicious tools, not instruments for the nobleman's regular use. Though sometimes unavoidable, their employment inflicts great harm. These are the implements of generals (爪牙), not the daily tools of sovereigns (元首).

When compelled to wield force, maintain a mindset of serene detachment. Even in victory, take no pride. The true king's military campaigns often subdue enemies without battle—movement contains stillness, hence the emphasis on detachment. He takes no pleasure in war, nor does he consider victory worthy of celebration.

To regard warfare as glorious is to delight in killing. And those who delight in killing can never truly win the allegiance of all under heaven.

This scripture expounds two key teachings: first, the compassionate principles of military conduct, and second, the fundamental nature of the Dao (the Way).

The first section describes how rulers should act as parental figures to their people. Those who delight in warfare and slaughter fail in their duty of true care. In ancient symbolism, the left (yang position) represents auspicious matters while the right (yin position) signifies inauspicious affairs. Thus the deputy commander stands to the left while the commanding general takes the right position—as the latter bears responsibility for carrying out executions. Even in victory, the occasion should be treated as a funeral rite, with generals presiding in plain mourning garments. Ancient military philosophy valued benevolence as its foundation, prioritizing De (Virtue) over weapons, and required solemn mourning for the fallen after battle.

The second part reveals the essential characteristics of the Dao. As the eternal, nameless primordial existence (referred to as "uncarved wood" symbolizing its original state), the Dao appears insignificant yet commands the allegiance of all things under heaven. When rulers maintain this Dao, all beings naturally return to it. Just as heaven and earth in harmony produce sweet dew (considered an auspicious omen in antiquity), cosmic balance occurs without human intervention.

The text employs mother-child imagery to illustrate the relationship between Dao and creation: all beings (children) emerge from the Dao (mother), and understanding this truth prevents peril. Like rivers inevitably returning to the sea, all things originate from and ultimately reunite with the Dao. Losing this fundamental awareness resembles a river forgetting its oceanic destination—a severance from the source. Conversely, those who uphold the Dao find all creation flowing to them like tributaries merging into the ocean.

To understand others is wisdom, but to know oneself is true enlightenment. Those who comprehend principles through hearing may be called sagely, while those who perceive truth through direct observation may be called wise. The most difficult thing to discern externally is others, while the most challenging thing to recognize internally is oneself. The ability to observe others and distinguish good from evil demonstrates wisdom; the capacity for self-reflection to recognize gains and losses reveals clarity. Knowing virtuous deeds, one draws near to noble persons as if inhaling orchid's fragrance; recognizing wickedness, one avoids petty men as one shuns a fish market's stench. Understanding righteousness, one serves with utmost loyalty; realizing faults, one repents promptly to eliminate regret—this constitutes genuine wisdom.

If one can perceive the path leading to profound mystery and behold the gate of emptiness and stillness, those who understand others will recognize all worldly phenomena as illusory, while those who know themselves will realize their own existence as transient. Since the body is understood as unreal, the mind no longer craves fame and profit; recognizing the external world as illusory, one remains unswayed by sensory temptations. Pure both internally and externally, this is called luminous clarity; penetrating both self and phenomena, this is called true wisdom.

Those who can conquer others possess strength, but those who master themselves are truly powerful. Warriors overcome others through physical might, while virtuous individuals transform all beings through moral excellence. Continuously cultivating virtue (De), refining one's practice with diligence, and remaining unshaken by error—this constitutes self-mastery. Practitioners of the Dao (the Way) forget selfish desires, rendering external things incapable of harming them—this is called conquering others. Maintaining inner emptiness, one's immortal foundation (the "immortal bones") grows ever stronger—this is called conquering oneself.

Those who know contentment are truly wealthy; those who persevere in action possess genuine resolve. Understanding one's inherent nature, even a single gourd of water brings fulfillment, while the greedy remain impoverished despite amassing millions. Cultivating body and mind, exhorting oneself, and steadfastly adhering to the true path with increasing resolve—this is called having aspiration.

Only those who do not lose their roots endure. The highest teachings exist precisely to guide people; practicing according to these teachings without violating their principles constitutes "not losing the root." Applying this principle, rulers ensure their nations' longevity, while cultivators ensure their lives' endurance.

When the body perishes but the spirit (Shen) remains undiminished, this is true longevity. When a ruler governs with the Dao (the Way), heaven and earth are tranquil, the people are at peace, and the spirits are serene—then no danger of collapse remains. Even encountering calamity or decline, one maintains stability amid adversity, finding safety in hardship, thus preserving existence for myriad generations. Hence, "perishing yet not vanishing" is true longevity. Practitioners of the Dao, with bodies destined to decay in a century, attain deathless longevity across countless eons—this too is "perishing yet not vanishing." All things undergo birth and death; humans experience existence and extinction—these are natural patterns. Yet the Dao itself, though not generating, manifests generation; though manifesting generation, it clings not to existence. Though not dying, it manifests death; though manifesting death, it never vanishes.

The Dao (the ultimate source and truth of the cosmos) neither exists nor perishes. Precisely because it transcends the concepts of existence and non-existence, it attains eternity. When the boundaries between being and non-being dissolve, distinctions like longevity and brevity of life also vanish.

The Dao permeates all directions like flowing water, effortlessly adapting to every circumstance. Like an unmanned boat drifting with the currents yet remaining unbound, the Dao operates without obstruction, mysteriously penetrating all realms. Being unbound means it is not confined by directions like east or west; its mysterious penetration means it is not limited by spatial orientations. It can be so subtle as to pass through the tip of a hair while disregarding the minuscule, yet so vast as to fill the cosmos while forgetting the immense. The forms the Dao manifests are endlessly varied, and its wondrous transformations defy constancy, yet all things resonate with it—what could be impossible?

All things rely on the Dao for their existence, yet the Dao never refuses them. All life owes its vitality to the Dao, which silently nurtures and allows things to grow naturally. That which creates life does not claim merit, and that which is created does not express gratitude—this is the truest principle, where no formal thanks are needed between them.

The Dao accomplishes all things yet does not claim credit. The Dao nurtures life into being, which is its greatest achievement, yet it forgets even the notions of "creator" and "created," never boasting of its deeds.

The Dao covers all things like a garment yet does not presume lordship—one might call it "small" (though this description is inadequate). It gives birth to and nourishes all equally, sheltering and sustaining without bias. Though it fosters all things, it does not control them—one might call it "insignificant" (though in truth, it is not).

All things ultimately return to the Dao, yet it does not presume lordship—one might call it "vast" (though this too is incomplete). The cycles of all phenomena never exceed the formless, and the beginnings and endings of all life converge in the silent origin. Thus, all things return to it. One might call it "vast" (though in reality, it transcends all notions of size).

Therefore, the sage (one who embodies the Dao) never considers themselves great, and thus they truly achieve greatness. The sage co-creates with the Dao, following the supreme truth while forgetting all merit, neither clinging to emptiness nor fixating on form, nor confined by distinctions of size. Because they completely transcend the duality of great and small, they never presume greatness. Those who obsess over "greatness" appear small, while those who forget size attain true greatness. Not claiming greatness is precisely how one achieves it—thus, they fulfill their greatness.

Hold fast to the formless Dao, and all under heaven will turn to it. The Dao has no concrete form—this formlessness is the unfathomable truth of emptiness. "Holding fast" means maintaining unwavering focus. Those who align themselves with the profound De (virtue) and dwell in deep stillness will naturally draw all things to them—thus, all under heaven will turn to them.

Turning to the Dao brings no harm—only peace, equanimity, and harmony. Like dense clouds nourishing all things or sweet rain sustaining every plant, even the tiniest creatures benefit. From this, we know that aligning with the Dao is utterly free from harm. This state of harmlessness manifests as: stillness of body and mind, called "peace"; seeing beyond the boundaries of life and death, called "equanimity"; and mystical communion with all things, called "harmony."

This scripture primarily explores the contrast between worldly desires and the realm of Dao cultivation, as well as the laws governing the development and transformation of phenomena.

The passage begins with the metaphor "music and delicacies make passersby stop": enchanting music (the five tones) and exquisite cuisine (the eight treasures) are like temptations that detain travelers. A human lifespan of a hundred years is but a fleeting journey—only by returning to the Dao can material desires be pacified. Regrettably, most people become engrossed in the pleasures of silk-stringed music and delicacies like orchids and cassia, yet fail to grasp the true essence of the Dao.

The Dao itself is plain and flavorless, which stands in opposition to worldly habits of pursuing splendor. People consider sensory pleasures beautiful, yet perceive the empty stillness of the Dao as insipid. Eyes may be dazzled by the five colors, ears disturbed by the five tones, and minds tempted by treasures—but all these have limitations: the blind cannot see colors, the deaf cannot hear music, and treasures will eventually be exhausted. Yet Dao cultivators, though not pursuing these, attain keener vision, sharper hearing, and inexhaustible wisdom in application.

Next, it reveals the dialectical laws of development: to contract something, one must first expand it; to block something, one must first release it (like dealing with an unruly fool); to weaken something, one must first let it grow strong (as strength ultimately leads to decline); to abolish something, one must first let it flourish (things reverse at their extremes); to take something, one must first give (letting people reap what they sow after accumulating misdeeds). This seemingly paradoxical yet profoundly meaningful principle is called "subtle illumination" (weimiao)—a wisdom both delicate and manifest.

Finally, it points out that although the eighty-one chapters of the Daode Jing all expound the Great Dao, worldly people often struggle to accept it due to their attachments. When straightforward teachings fail, this flexible method becomes necessary to guide them back to the mysterious Dao. This reflects the adaptability of Daoist pedagogy.

This scripture passage explains how practitioners of the Dao employ the wisdom of "softness and pliancy" to guide sentient beings. Those who cultivate the Dao must understand how to guide according to circumstances, much like skillfully balancing between alternatives. When instructing others, they first use words to resolve doubts, then demonstrate true meaning through practical principles.

Specifically, Dao cultivators help people restrain their indulgent tendencies and awaken their obscured minds; diminish worldly desires while strengthening the foundation for spiritual cultivation; eliminate evil thoughts and guide them toward the right path; stop harmful actions and nurture virtuous karma. This illustrates the principle that "the soft and pliant overcomes the hard and strong" — seemingly gentle Daoist methods can ultimately subdue the rigid forces of worldly attachments.

The scripture uses two metaphors to clarify this principle: fish cannot survive without deep water, just as state authority should not be casually revealed. Fish depend on water for survival, much like sages governing the world must hold the "sharp tools" (referring to the methods of statecraft). If fish leave water they perish, just as revealing governance techniques indiscriminately invites danger. Therefore, one may guide people to follow Daoist practices without fully explaining their profound mysteries. This represents the principle of strategic adaptability, not something ordinary people can easily comprehend.

Finally, it mentions that the "soft and pliant" approach must follow natural laws without violation, hence seemingly gentle methods ultimately overcome the rigid. This commentary comes from the fourth volume of Commentary on the True Scripture of Dao and De (Daode Zhenjing Zhu), with the latter portion now lost.