《道德真經集義(二)》Vol. 10

Bibliographic Information

Title: Collected Explanations of the True Classic of the Dao and De, Volume Ten (Poem Five)

Compiled by: Master Ningyuan and Liu Weiyong, Supervisor of the Xuanmiao Temple in Changde Circuit

Collated by: Ding Yidong, formerly Assistant Court Gentleman, Registrar of the Court of the Imperial Treasury, and Compiler at the Privy Council

Chapter title: “Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent” (Some editions call it “The Use of Emptiness” or “The Meaning of the Great Transformation Operating Impartially”)

Earlier Explanations and Discussions

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang’s explanation: The previous chapter discussed “the subtle source and its unimpeded function: it acts without Wuwei (non-action).” This chapter says that if one shows favoritism or partial affection, it is difficult to benefit all things universally. It first uses “straw dogs” and “the myriad things” to show that Heaven and Earth do not cling to benevolence. It then compares them to a bellows, whose emptiness enables it to be used without exhaustion. Finally, “many words often lead to exhaustion” advises people to maintain balance and harmony.

Du Guangting: To treat “benevolence” as benevolence is to become attached to it; to avoid treating it as benevolence is to be impartial. Rulers regard the people as Heaven and Earth regard the myriad things: things arise and transform on their own, and Heaven and Earth do not claim credit for this; the people live in peace and attend to their own affairs, and rulers do not claim it as a favor they have bestowed. To shape and sustain things through subtle Qi (vital energy), and bring them into being through mysterious transformation, is the highest transformation. If one insists on emphasizing benevolence and kindness, the reasoning becomes impossible to exhaust. Though Heaven and Earth are greatly benevolent, plants still flourish in winter and wither in summer; though rulers are greatly benevolent, the law still imposes exile and punishment. This is less expansive than “not treating benevolence as benevolence.” Maintaining inner harmony and stillness is the essential way to cultivate oneself.

Zhang Chongying: “Emptiness” means void. The Great Void has no form; it moves between Heaven and Earth without sound or smell, yet through its operation it brings all things to completion and thus nurtures them without end. If people can understand this emptiness and put it to use, nothing will be beyond their capacity.

Main Text

Heaven and Earth are not benevolent: they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not benevolent: he treats the people as straw dogs.

(Textual variants: Some versions read “the empty becomes ever more productive” or “the more it produces.”)

Commentary by Heshanggong: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” means that Heaven gives and Earth transforms without intending to show benevolent favor; they let things follow their natural course. “They treat the myriad things as straw dogs” means that although human beings are the most honored among the things Heaven and Earth bring forth, Heaven and Earth regard them like bundles of straw or animals, expecting nothing in return.

The space between Heaven and Earth—is it not like a bellows? It is empty, yet never exhausted; when it moves, it produces ever more. Many words often lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the middle.

A “bellows” was an ancient device for driving air into a fire. Hollow inside, it could send out an unceasing current of air. The image compares Heaven and Earth to a hollow vessel: empty yet inexhaustible, and, once set in motion, ceaselessly giving rise to life. Too many words lead to exhaustion; it is better to maintain the middle way.

Note: The chapter’s central point is that “not being benevolent” does not mean being cold or cruel. It means avoiding partiality and letting things follow their natural course. This continues the themes of “the use of emptiness” and “holding to the middle.”

Laozi here uses the phrase "Heaven and Earth are not benevolent" to illustrate the profound simplicity of the Dao (the Way). The operations of Heaven and Earth may appear indifferent, yet it is precisely this natural law—free from deliberate favoritism—that allows all things to find their proper place. Just as Heaven and Earth do not specially grow grass for wild beasts, the beasts naturally find sustenance; they do not rear dogs for humans, yet humans still obtain what they need.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) emulates this attitude of Heaven and Earth, treating the common people with the same impartiality as straw dogs used in rituals—neither imposing artificial kindness nor showing deliberate care. This is not coldness but a way to avoid human interference that disrupts natural balance. Like ceremonial straw dogs, they are not overly cherished when used nor deliberately destroyed when discarded, simply following the natural course.

The text employs the metaphor of a bellows (tuóyuè): though hollow at its center, the more it is pumped, the more air it produces. This mirrors how the Dao, though empty and formless, contains boundless vitality—the more one practices Wuwei (non-action), the more all things are accomplished. If the bellows were to strive to make sound, it would fail to fulfill its purpose.

Thus, Laozi admonishes us: excessive speech exhausts meaning, and forced action depletes one's Shen (spirit). Instead, maintain inner emptiness and stillness, guarding the tranquility of the heart like the hollow center of the bellows. Let all things unfold naturally, just as Heaven and Earth, seemingly indifferent, embrace everything. This is the highest form of "benevolence."

Heaven and Earth have no “benevolent concern” for human beings. A grass dog is a dog-shaped offering made of straw. A real dog guards the home, and its owner may shelter it in return. A grass dog has only the appearance of a dog; it cannot bark or defend anything, so it is not an object of affection. The point is that Heaven and Earth regard human beings as people regard grass dogs: they make no demands of them.

Consider this: perfect benevolence makes no distinction between those close to us and those far away. If we speak of “universal love,” then that love has not reached its utmost; it has instead become a form of partiality. To regard no one as a relative apart from one’s own relatives is to make everyone in the world one’s relative. To cherish no children apart from one’s own is to make everyone in the world one’s child. This is perfect benevolence: everyone is kin. How could the ordinary notion of “universal love” fully express it?

The commentary says: Benevolence is another name for universal love. A grass dog is an object made by tying grass into the shape of a dog and used in sacrifice. Heaven and Earth are perfectly benevolent: they bring forth the myriad things, yet treat them as people treat straw dogs. They do not expect them to bark or guard, nor do they count bringing forth the myriad things as a favor bestowed. Hence the saying, “They are not benevolent.” A sage who holds office and governs the world should regard the people in the same way.

The note says: The favor of sheltering a dog comes from a saying of Confucius in the Book of Rites: a worn-out mat should not be thrown away, but used to bury a dog. “To regard no one as a relative apart from one’s own relatives” is found in the Record of Rites.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows and flute? The bellows is a leather bag; the flute is a pipe. The bag drives air, and the pipe sends out breath. Because they are empty within and have no intent of their own, they can move and respond. Indeed, what is most impartial between Heaven and Earth is precisely what is empty and free of intent.

“Empty, yet never exhausted; in motion, it produces ever more.” The bellows is hollow and does not buckle; when it moves and blows air, the sound grows stronger. Sound and breath serve as a metaphor: when the sage’s heart is free of partial affection, it never buckles, and its responses are inexhaustible. It can be said to produce ever more through movement.

The commentary says: The bellows is a leather bag that drives air and feeds a fire; the flute is a pipe. Heaven and Earth can treat the myriad things like grass dogs because the space between them is empty: they bring things forth impartially and make no demands of them. They are also like a bellows that drives air and a flute that sends out breath: they respond constantly to people’s needs, yet feel no emotion for themselves. Thus they are empty but never exhausted, and in motion their sound and breath grow ever more. Sound and breath are a metaphor for a ruler who empties the heart, remains still and mysterious, and transforms the people through an even, unadorned influence. In daily affairs, such a ruler never buckles; in motion, he produces ever more.

“Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” Too many words make it difficult to respond to everything, and so one soon reaches one’s limits and falters. Universal love is difficult to extend to everyone and may instead invite resentment. Better to hold fast to the middle way.

Plain-language interpretation

1. “Keep to the center and harmony, and all will naturally be enough”

The commentary says: People who talk too much often fill their mouths with talk of “universal love” and the like. Though they say a great deal, when it comes to putting their words into practice, they cannot attend to everything. They therefore often run out of arguments, find their reasoning exhausted, and fail to make things work. From this we can see that it is better to let go of such concerns, remain empty and responsive, and hold fast to “the center and harmony”; then everything will naturally be sufficient.

“Repay” means to answer or put into practice. The point is that these are empty words: one’s actions do not match them, and one cannot fulfill what they promise.

2. Du Guangting on “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent,” straw dogs, and related passages

Du Guangting says: From “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” to “the people are treated as straw dogs”—in ancient sacrificial rites, offerings made for use in rituals were often shaped to resemble real things and placed among the bamboo offering vessels. This is how objects such as “straw dogs” came to be used in the rites. Real dogs are used to bark and guard, but straw dogs cannot bark or guard. Heaven and Earth regard the myriad things, and sages regard the people, just as one regards straw dogs: they do not demand that them be able to bark and guard; they do not treat benevolence as a matter of showing kindness, demand repayment, or make a display of their virtue. Hence the phrase “not benevolent.”

People show kindness to living dogs by covering and burying them, but they do not extend the same kindness to straw dogs. This shows that sages do not regard “universal love” as benevolence.

The phrase “cover and bury” comes from the Book of Rites, in the “Tan Gong” chapter. Confucius’s dog died, and he asked Zigong to bury it. Confucius said: “I have heard that a worn-out curtain should not be thrown away, but can be used to bury a horse; when a ruler’s carriage horse dies, it is covered with a curtain. A worn-out mat should not be thrown away, but can be used to bury a dog. I am poor and have no mat to cover it with, so when you bury it, give it a mat, too. Do not let its head sink directly into the earth”—he did not want its head to lie stiffly against the ground.

“Do not care only for your own parents” appears in the Book of Rites, in the “Liyun” chapter: “When the Great Dao is put into practice, the world belongs to all.” One cares not only for one’s own parents and raises not only one’s own children; one extends love broadly to all things and acts with public-mindedness, rather than with partial affection.

Between Heaven and Earth, “the more they move, the more they produce”: the bellows—a leather bag—blows air, while the flute—a bamboo tube—channels it. Without the flute, the bellows’ gust cannot be directed; without the bellows, the air in the flute cannot be set in motion. The two work together through movement. This is an analogy: Heaven and Earth are the bellows, and the Five Qi are the flute. Holding emptiness, they move, bringing forth and transforming the myriad things without exhaustion. When a ruler empties his heart and puts the Dao into practice, and his ministers and assistants embody his intent and carry out its transformations, they are like Heaven and Earth circulating the Five Qi without end. Then government meets with no obstruction, and the four seas are at peace. “The more it is moved, the more it produces” also suggests that sounds, breath, and speech are inexhaustible.

“Equal and universal transformation” means that the virtue of purity and harmony reaches all things. It is used every day, yet people remain unaware of it.

The Appended Remarks to the Book of Changes says that all the people under heaven depend on this Dao in their daily lives, yet may not understand the Dao’s contribution. It is hidden and inconspicuous, and does not claim credit for its achievements. The people use it without noticing it. “Bent” means exhausted; “entangled” means disordered.

Too many words lead to repeated failure; better to keep to the center. Too much talk invites mistakes, and too many undertakings bring harm. “Too many words” means speaking when one ought to remain silent, and this leads to exhaustion and defeat. In governing a country, issuing orders constantly and changing them from day to day is “repeated failure.” In cultivating oneself, excessive speech makes one’s faults plain. Once spoken, a careless word cannot be caught by four horses; how much worse is speaking too much? Words can separate what is firm, unite what is different, and turn white into black. Guarding against people’s speech is harder than guarding against a river’s flood, so one must be careful. Better to keep silently to the center and to harmony: in governing, do not burden people with needless orders; in cultivating oneself, do not invite disgrace. Cherish Qi, speak little, preserve De, and teach without words—this is the good and beautiful way.

The Song Daoist ruler says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent”—the highest teaching says they “treat the people as straw dogs.” Benefit can arise from harm, and harm from benefit; when benevolence is treated as a benefit, harm follows in its wake. Heaven and Earth toward the myriad things, and the sage toward the people, simply follow what is natural. They have no deliberate intention to love or benefit. Benevolence has no fixed name or form by which it can be identified. Straw is bound into the shape of a dog for sacrifice, then discarded afterward. The myriad things arise naturally and the people govern themselves; what need is there for private intentions? The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows: empty, yet able to receive and respond, so its response never runs out. If its center were filled, everything it touched would be obstructed. The Dao is originally one, but when it takes form in things, it becomes a particular aspect. Empty oneself and move freely through the world, and one can respond broadly and aptly to each situation. Hence it is said, “empty, yet never exhausted.” When pressed, it moves; its workings are not confused, so it is said, “in motion, it produces ever more.” When the sage emerges to respond to rulers, he is often burdened by “too many words.” Too many words lead to repeated failure; better to keep to the center. The bellows waits empty for Qi: when Qi arrives, it sounds; when Qi does not arrive, it is still. The sage’s words are like this. Those who argue are confined by their many words and cannot avoid being burdened; keeping to the center is better. Guard what is within you and close what is without; gather your sight and turn your hearing inward, returning to perceive the heart of Heaven and Earth. This is what it means to keep to the center.

Explanatory Reading of Collected Commentaries on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue (II)

Wang Jiefu (Wang Anshi) says

“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” Heaven and Earth, in their dealings with the myriad things, and the sage, in dealing with the people, each have a side that “loves” and a side that “does not love.” To love is to be benevolent; not to love does not mean being lacking in benevolence. It means that even when loving, one does not cling to love. It is like a straw dog—a dog made of woven grass—used in a sacrifice: placed in a bamboo basket, covered with an embroidered cloth, and respectfully presented after the officiant has completed the purification fast. Once the sacrifice is over, travelers step on its head and back, while woodcutters burn its limbs. When Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad things in spring and summer, they may seem full of benevolence. When things wither in autumn and winter, this does not mean Heaven and Earth have ceased to love them; it is simply the natural pattern of things. The sage’s “lack of benevolence,” treating the people as straw dogs, means that the sage extends benevolence and righteousness throughout the world and may seem deeply loving. But human affairs have beginnings and endings, and life and death change in turn. This too is the natural order. The sage does not deliberately love at first and then harden his heart; things simply follow their natural course. Thus, to be “not benevolent” is precisely to embody benevolence to its fullest. Zhuangzi’s words “The Perfected Person has no personal attachments” and “The Great Person is not benevolent” accord with this.

The more things move within Heaven and Earth, the more they arise from the Dao (the Way). The Dao has no form or fixed direction. Its balanced, harmonious Qi (vital energy) stirs between Heaven and Earth and brings forth and nourishes the myriad things, like a bellows: empty, yet never exhausted, it produces a steady flow of air whenever it moves. “Too many words bring repeated failure; better to hold fast to the center.” As soon as one speaks, one gives things a shape and a direction. Grand words may be used to reveal the Dao, but once words are spoken, they point to something; and once they point to something, they are liable to error. So speaking too much often leads to an impasse. Better to hold to the center and respond to change as it comes.

Su Yingbin (Su Zhe) says

From “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” to “they treat the people as straw dogs”: Heaven and Earth are impartial and let the myriad things follow their natural course, so that things are born and die of themselves. Their deaths are not caused by Heaven and Earth, and their lives are not the result of Heaven and Earth deliberately showing benevolence. It is like a dog made of straw and placed on an altar for sacrifice: it is offered with every care, but this does not mean it is truly “loved”—that is simply what the occasion calls for. Once the ritual is over, it is discarded; passersby step on it and people burn it, but this does not mean they truly “hate” it. That too is simply natural. The sage treats the people in the same way: as long as they are not harmed, they can preserve their nature. The sage does not forcibly interfere with life and death, gain and loss.

If we approach it through “benevolence,” benevolence can also be understood on a very grand scale. The most striking phenomenon between Heaven and Earth is that the more they move, the more they bring forth—like a bellows and its air valve, the leather bag and gate used for blowing air in ancient times. Once set in motion, everything touched by the Qi moves with it. Those who do not understand think this is the height of mechanical ingenuity. But what do the bellows and valve themselves do? They are simply “empty and never exhausted,” so that as they move, more and more Qi flows out. The giving and taking of life among all things, and the shaping of their many forms, is just the same. Much talk leads to exhaustion; better to hold to the center. We see only that movement brings forth more, without knowing that this is the return of emptiness within. Thus we are told: “Much talk leads to exhaustion; better to hold to the center”—and so avoid exhaustion.

Lü Jifu says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs”—straw figures of dogs used in sacrifice, honored while needed and discarded afterward. The Dao of Heaven lies beyond images, before the divine ruler; we do not know from what it arises. One who embodies this Dao cannot be named by “benevolence.” Benevolence is no more than a matter of the human heart. Heaven and Earth embody this Dao and have no need to practice benevolence; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. Straw dogs are used in sacrifice: once received, they serve no further purpose, yet they cannot be dispensed with. So it is with Heaven and Earth and the myriad things: they have no personal concern for things and seem to love nothing; yet when spring brings forth life and summer nurtures growth, they seem to love them. The sage is likewise toward the people: “The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.” The sage embodies this Dao and does not contend over benevolence. Straw dogs do not contend over benevolence, yet they are kept for the sacrifice. The myriad things share one body with Heaven and Earth; the people share one body with the sage. Heaven, Earth, and the sage regard themselves as straw dogs, and regard the myriad things and the people in the same way. Between Heaven and Earth, movement reaches its height and brings forth ever more: things are born, nurtured, grown, and nourished. What need is there to practice benevolence? Only what is not benevolence may be called great benevolence. The bellows make this clear: they are empty and never exhausted, and so their movement brings forth ever more. “Much talk leads to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” For one who embodies this Dao, words emerge from silence. To speak without speaking is to understand why words are spoken; then one makes it one’s task to hold to the center, for much talk leads to exhaustion.

Explanatory Interpretation in Modern Language

Lu Nongshi says: When Laozi says, “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs,” he means that Heaven and Earth, and the sages in their dealings with the people, remain detached and unbound. They do not cling to “benevolence” as a fixed, unchanging principle. They use it when it suits the moment, then let it go when the moment has passed—that is all.

Straw dogs were straw figures shaped like dogs and used in sacrifices. Before they were brought out for the ceremony, they were kept in bamboo baskets and covered with embroidered cloth. Once the ritual was over, passersby trampled on their heads, and people gathering firewood took them away to burn. This is what it means to use something when the time is right and discard it when that time has passed. The workings of Heaven and Earth are also like a bellows, the air bag used in smelting: empty inside, yet never exhausted; when it moves, air pours out without end. Laozi also says, “Too many words lead to repeated dead ends; better to hold to the center.” To be empty yet inexhaustible is to be free of constraint; to move and produce more is to make oneself manifest. Being free of constraint while also manifesting oneself is what is meant by “spirit.” Only by being empty enough to be unconstrained and moving enough to make oneself manifest can one respond to the influence of the myriad things. Even when speech reaches this point, it still does not run out. But if one merely repeats the old sayings of the ancients like clay figurines, or the old rites of the former kings as though they were straw dogs; if one clings to traces already laid down and sticks rigidly to old routines already trampled into the ground, trying to force purposeful action upon a world that is steadily passing away, then “too many words lead to repeated dead ends.” It is better to hold to the center—to maintain the center of stillness and emptiness. The general meaning of this chapter is close to what the Zhuangzi says about straw dogs.

Wang Yuanze says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” Straw dogs were used in sacrifices. While they were in use, they were presented with elaborate ceremony and reverent offerings; after the ritual, they were discarded and treated no differently from dirt. The ceremony and reverence were not lacking in sincerity, but the dogs were ultimately made of straw and were not truly worthy of worship. Yet worshipping them despite this does not make the worship false. The myriad things each follow their own course; life and death, formation and decay, each have their proper place. Heaven and Earth, however, must serve as the “parents” of the myriad things, and so cannot help but care for them. But when we consider the mind of Heaven and Earth, how could it ever be burdened by attachment? Thus, when they “love,” their care may be utterly sincere, yet the myriad things simply follow their own course; there is truly nothing that Heaven and Earth must favor above all else. When they “do not love,” though it is like passersby trampling straw dogs or woodcutters burning them, the myriad things still simply follow their own course; there is truly nothing that Heaven and Earth must treat harshly.

In the end, people all return to the same dust. Why attach an extra measure of affection to the “sage”?

“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” Benevolence means cherishing things outside oneself in a human way. Sages have human form, but their source is Heaven; how can we force the name “benevolence” onto them? Sages first care for their own kin, then extend that care to the people. That is why the text speaks here only of “the people.” From the perspective of the Dao’s body, sages and Heaven and Earth are one. They take on distinct roles only because they have human form.

Between Heaven and Earth, nothing moves more than the bellows. It can respond to things because it is hollow within. At each touch, it responds, yet keeps nothing. Heaven and Earth toward the myriad things, and sages toward the people, both respond as circumstances call for. They do not bind themselves to the present moment or cling to feelings from the past. That is why the bellows can be used without being exhausted: its substance is empty, while its function is movement.

“Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” The more one speaks, the narrower the way becomes; better to hold to the Middle Way. To say nothing may seem to leave one at an impasse, yet once one speaks, others can understand. The sage acts by “speaking without doing”: holding to the center in response to the myriad changes.

Liu Zhongping says: When Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things as straw dogs, this does not mean they lack a benevolent heart. Straw dogs are dogs made of straw for use in sacrifice. One may cherish them with compassion, or without compassion; either is acceptable.

When they are treated with ceremony, they are placed in a box and set on embroidered cloth, then brought out only after the ritual officiants have purified themselves. It seems as though they are being treated with great tenderness. But once passersby trample their backs and woodcutters use their bodies for firewood, they are no longer of any use. They are left to scatter in the dust, and no one gives them another thought. Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things in the same way. Thunder and wind stir them; rain and dew nourish them. Heaven covers them and Earth supports them, illuminating and nurturing all things. Whatever is to be born is allowed to be born; whatever is to come to completion is allowed to reach completion. Things with form take shape, and things with a nature fulfill it, as though they were being treated with compassion. But when frost, sleet, ice, and snow arrive, harshly breaking and destroying, when Yang dares not advance and the sun dares not warm the earth, the great are ruined, the small extinguished, the hard broken, and the soft destroyed—as though there were no feeling at all. That is why it says, “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.”

The same is true of sages toward the people; it is not only Heaven and Earth that treat the myriad things this way. When sages respond to the people, they too adapt to each circumstance, without turning “benevolence” into an emotional attachment that clings.

This passage elucidates the Way (Dao) of Heaven-Earth and the conduct of sages. Heaven-Earth treats all beings like a bellows (tuoyue)—seemingly without intention yet ceaselessly generating life. Sages emulate Heaven-Earth, neither forcing displays of benevolence nor abandoning the Middle Way (Zhongdao).

Initially, it describes how rulers may treat the people with infant-like tenderness, arising from natural compassion. Yet for grave crimes, execution is mandated; for minor offenses, punishment—even dismemberment and public exposure—without mercy. Like the blood-drenched era of King Zhou of Shang, where no benevolence was evident. Hence the saying "The sage is not benevolent, treating the people as straw dogs (chugou)"—the sage avoids artificial displays of kindness, regarding the people as naturally as sacrificial straw effigies.

The wonder of Heaven-Earth lies precisely in its non-deliberate manifestation that nonetheless endlessly generates all things. Like the bellows—hollow yet never collapsing, producing more wind the more it's pumped. Sages mirror this principle, their speech and action perfectly measured, neither excessive nor deficient—this is the state of "guarding the center (shouzhong)."

Ordinary people often speak in extremes: either clinging to "having" (forced expression) or fixating on "nothingness" (complete silence). The truly enlightened abide in the Middle Way of "neither having nor not-having, neither grasping nor rejecting." As Confucius said, true singers don't flaunt technique. Maintaining this centered state makes words flow as naturally as bellows-produced wind—neither exhausting meaning through excess nor failing worldly engagement through silence.

The crux: speech serves to respond to all things, yet should emerge as naturally as Heaven-Earth's workings. Excessive words easily stray from truth; only by holding the center can speech find perfect measure—neither too much nor too little—ensuring smooth implementation without obstruction.

Plain Language Interpretation

(On “Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center”)

As for “exhaustion,” Laozi says that too much talk inevitably reaches its limit, so it is better to hold to the “center.” Holding to the center does not mean deliberately speaking less or deliberately speaking more, but speaking just as much as the moment calls for. Why, then, does Laozi especially object to “too much talk”? Because what he expounds is the Dao (the Way). The Dao is naturally still and wordless; only when there is no choice does it reluctantly find words. Speaking little therefore brings one closer to the Dao, while speaking too much takes one farther from it. That is why Laozi is especially wary of excessive speech.

Liu Jiji’s Commentary

“ The Sage is not humane; he treats the people as straw dogs.” Nothing is more cruel than punishment and warfare. Even great De (Virtue/Power) cannot remove them from the world altogether, so the Sage simply responds to them in accordance with their nature. Whether speaking of “the myriad things” or “the people,” each has its own proper order; they should not be conflated. Between Heaven and Earth, the more things move, the more sounds and manifestations arise. This further explains the chapter on “Heaven and Earth.” The open spaces between Heaven and Earth can remain empty, allowing Qi to enter and leave freely and without interruption. “Emptiness” is like the body of a bellows: because it is empty, it does not collapse, and so it can perform the bellows’ function. A bag moves when wind fills it, and an aperture moves when Qi passes through it; movement brings response, and the more they move, the more sound they make. “Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center”: Heaven and Earth, through emptiness, respond to the myriad things without relying on many words. The Sage, too, responds to the people through emptiness. When turmoil comes, the problem is not that there are “too few words”; success does not depend on how many words are spoken. The Yi Jing says, “To prize the mouth is to reach exhaustion.” The substance of the “center” is oneness, which can be held to; its function is emptiness, which can respond to things—like the open space between Heaven and Earth.

The Chancellor’s New Interpretation

“The Sage is not humane; he treats the people as straw dogs.” The Sage is still and unstained, pure and unsoiled. For a ritual offering to be conducted with due ceremony and reverence, all that is needed is an object such as a straw dog: before it is used, it is dressed in brocade and placed in a basket; after the ritual, passersby tread on its head, and woodcutters use its body for kindling. The Sage does not cling to what he likes or become attached to what he possesses. When something should be used, he acts in step with the time; when it should be discarded, he follows the changing course of things. Could the “humaneness” of Heaven and Earth and the Sage ever be separated from this sense of proportion?

The substance of Heaven cannot itself “give birth”; what gives rise to life is the “True Sovereign,” who does not itself give birth on earth. The substance of Earth cannot itself “transform”; what brings about transformation is the “True Ruler,” who does not itself transform in the world. Thus humane virtue becomes manifest in the realm of appearances. Therefore, all that lies between Heaven and Earth…

Plain-Language Interpretation

Before things take shape, all things are only sound and color, gathered together under “me.” Things cannot yet grow distant from me.

Once they have come into being and undergone change, they enter into different uses and are stored away. Things then become distinct, and kinds gather into groups. Each thing either attaches itself to others or separates from them, while forgetting this layer of “me.” Things can no longer be especially close to me.

Even so, Heaven can bring things to life, but cannot ensure that each finds its proper place; Earth can bring things to completion, but cannot govern them. The Sage appears to govern for this very reason. Thus, taking openness as the basis for action and practicing benevolence, the Sage shares outwardly in the fortunes and misfortunes that befall all things. Whatever comes into being is mutually supported, and nothing loses its proper place. Taking hiddenness as the way of acting, inwardly the Sage shares none of the world’s sorrows—not even the sorrows of other sages. The Sage erases all traces and joins with things in the depths of the heart, viewing the myriad things as though each were different.

Ah, how could the Sage, in relation to Heaven and Earth, let “benevolence” burden the heart? So: when things depart, go with them without resisting; when things arrive, welcome them without refusing. Give life without claiming ownership; act without relying on your own power; help things grow without ruling them; accomplish the work without taking credit. Some things praise, and some blame. Can what Laozi meant by “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The Sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs” be far from this?

Later students cling to a narrow meaning of “benevolence” and forget the broad principle on which the ancients based their arguments. In dealing with others, they fail to embrace all; in dealing with themselves, they fail to become selfless. How could they know that the Sage neither loses himself nor loses others? Moving with the times and turning with things, is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? Thus, when it moves, Qi flows out ever more abundantly. Setting oneself right and having no self is how one responds to things, not how one opposes them. Empty, it yields without being exhausted. Having no self and forgetting the “I” is how one cuts off attachment, not how one makes things into something.

Ah, the Dao of Heaven and Earth and the Sage—the meaning of treating the people and the myriad things as straw dogs—can be summed up in a single sentence.

Liu Ji says (in a note): “‘Heaven and Earth are not benevolent’ through to ‘better to hold to the center’: Heaven in relation to the myriad things, and the Sage in relation to the people, both follow nature and let things be as they are, without private preference. That is why they are called ‘not benevolent.’ It is like a straw dog fashioned for a ritual: it serves during the ceremony, then is discarded when the ceremony is over, without regret. Meeting things with an empty heart is like the Great Void setting one Qi in motion, making Heaven and Earth like a bellows.”

(The following elaborates on the meaning of “bellows” and related terms. Echoing the earlier phrases “the more it moves, the more flows out” and “empty, it does not collapse,” it emphasizes that the Sage responds to things without clinging to them, and that when the heart is free of self, the myriad things transform of themselves.)

A bellows—an ancient device for fanning a fire or directing air, like a blacksmith’s bellows or a bamboo tube—can kindle a flame with one pump and make a sound with one breath. Its body is empty, yet it does not collapse; the more it is used, the more air it releases. How is this different from Heaven moving through Yang and Earth resting in Yin, with Yin and Yang striking and stirring one another so that life continues without end? Creation and transformation unfold within this process.

The human form takes its pattern from Heaven and Earth, and nature and life accord with Yin and Yang. In this way, the human being is also like a bellows, an “instrument.” Thus, in truth, human beings exist within Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth obtain the marvel of “One Qi” and move without cease; the sage obtains the marvel of “One Qi” and rises and descends without end. This Dao is remote and profound, beyond words. Seeking it through excessive talk only entangles one in the dregs of the ancients and wastes one’s spirit on superficial things. It brings no benefit and may even do harm. That is why Laozi says, “Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” When words reach their limit, they run dry; better to hold to the middle way. To hold to the center is to guard one’s true nature inwardly and remain undisturbed outwardly: to be without thought or action, still and unmoving, holding to the center like Heaven and Earth’s bellows, which operate naturally without intention. For within abides the “True Sovereign”—the original Shen of the Heavenly Valley—which is why the text next speaks of the “Valley Spirit.”

Zhao Shian says: The earlier reference to “Two” and “One” speaks of Heaven’s utter impartiality. Heaven and Earth are not benevolent: they treat the myriad things like straw dogs, bringing all natures together in the great sameness. To be benevolent or not benevolent means that when private affection is involved, things are judged as right or wrong. Benevolence gives life and righteousness takes life; both arise naturally from the workings of Heaven. Benevolence should be understood as favor, and harm often follows in its wake: human affairs repeatedly unfold this way. The scripture’s teaching of “not being benevolent” in fact expresses great benevolence—great benevolence is impartial and utterly just. What should live is born: this is the beginning of Yang’s warmth and harmony. What should die is killed: this is the season when Metal Qi brings its harsh decline. In terms of the seasons, what is due to die cannot be kept alive; in terms of allotted destiny, each life and death has its appointed measure. When Zhen (Thunder) stirs, the myriad things awaken and flourish; when Dui (Lake) joins, their many uses wither and fall. Even as life sprouts, decline has already begun; even amid killing, the promise of life is clear. Such is Heaven’s impartiality.

If what should live is killed, or what should die is kept alive, this is not the impartiality of Heaven’s Dao. It is a person using private affection to claim the name of “public good,” advancing private aims and harming the public interest. Such conduct is perverse and extravagant. That is why the text speaks of “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” and uses straw dogs as a metaphor: here we can see the heart of Heaven and Earth. In governing the world, the sage embodies Heaven and follows the Dao, casting aside private affection in order to align with the rectitude of Heaven and Earth.

On Private Motives, Rewards and Punishments, Benevolence and Righteousness

Once rules for rewards and punishments are established, there is no room for private motives to intrude upon benevolence and righteousness.

Commentary: Favor arises from harm, and harm arises from favor. When benevolence is treated as favor, harm follows in its wake. All of this points to cutting off private attachments. Thus the sage is “not benevolent” and treats the people like straw dogs, enabling later sages to move in the same current as the Dao and respond to change without becoming stuck. Zhuangzi says, “Constant benevolence does not bring things to completion”; he also says, “To be excessively benevolent is to bestow favor.” Laozi aligns the benevolence of Heaven and Earth with the Dao: the Dao is great, and therefore impartial; it is beyond the reach of the benevolence of the Five Constant Virtues. The point is that the benevolence and righteousness of ordinary people are limited. Otherwise, why say, “Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to hold to the center”? That is why straw dogs serve as the analogy: the sage practices “not benevolent” as a form of benevolence. By embodying the benevolence of “not being benevolent,” the sage embodies Heaven and becomes one with the Dao.

Second, the sage is “not benevolent, and treats the people like straw dogs”: in governing the people, the sage acts without self-interest, in accord with Heaven and Earth.

The second analogy illustrates the Dao through its essence: “Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows?”

Imperial Commentary: A bellows can receive because it is empty, and respond because it has received. The Dao takes Wuwei (non-action) as its essence and emptiness as its function. Because the Dao’s essence is without form, it can respond broadly; viewed in terms of principle, emptiness allows it to move and measure. The Dao responds broadly through its utmost emptiness, though none knows where that response comes from. A person acts and measures without a set intention; who can fathom how? Between Heaven and Earth, neither above nor below, Qi moves through the middle, like the motion of a bellows.

Second, the bellows in use: empty, yet never exhausted; set in motion, and it produces ever more.

Zilie says, “Why do you prize emptiness? There is nothing precious about emptiness.” To prize emptiness is to create an obstruction within: it is simply that emptiness is the original state, not that emptiness itself is precious. What makes emptiness precious is that, when set in motion, it produces ever more. Seen through the bellows, emptiness is indeed precious. Yet even when the bellows is used to illustrate emptiness, emptiness itself is not what is prized. The sage has no fixed intention: when things come, the sage responds, and the response never runs dry; whatever is needed is met without fail. If it is called a compass or a square, the sage becomes a compass or a square; if it is called a scale, the sage becomes a scale. Each thing finds its own use—what name can I give it? Even so, one who responds to rulers and brings order to the world takes embodying the Dao as the heart. In dealing with affairs, this is called having no intention; in dealing with things, it is called having nothing.

Ritual, righteousness, law, and measure: What makes something “righteousness” or “ritual and law”?

Laozi does not rush to label himself with terms such as ritual, righteousness, law, and measure. People use these as tools, and that is how each acquired its name. If Laozi does not claim those names for himself, how could he be bound by “names”? The saying “the more it issues forth, the more there is; the more it responds, the more it gives” points to the fact that the “ultimate principle” behind it is still at work. Thus Laozi concludes the whole text: Too much talk brings one’s way to an impasse; better to hold fast to the center.

This chapter begins with “The Dao is empty, yet its use is inexhaustible,” compares it to a bellows—an ancient device for blowing air—that is empty yet responsive, and finally returns to “Too much talk brings one’s way to an impasse; better to hold fast to the center.” As in the preceding passage, it leads from “words” back to “the center.”

Laozi uses the bellows as a metaphor for the sage: the sage does not speak lightly. When the sage does speak, it is only when compelled to act, responding when moved—because the heart is free of selfish motives and deluded attachments.

The Yijing says that a gentleman’s words and actions are the pivots of fortune: once these pivots turn, honor or disgrace follows. This, too, is a matter of getting things exactly right.

“Holding fast to the center” does not mean merely avoiding mistakes; it means acting according to proper measure. Confucius said that “being centered and constant is a virtue,” so one must speak with care. Yan Junping, a Han dynasty scholar, said that once words leave the mouth, trouble enters the door; if one speaks wrongly, one may not keep one’s life. Han Feizi likewise said that one should be as cautious with words as with fire and water.

The Dao is wordless; speech comes only when unavoidable, and then one should respond according to a constant principle. How could one refrain from speaking altogether? Thus the sage seals the mouth three times—a figure for extreme caution—and sets forth images to teach. Students should seek the sage’s intent, not pile up fine-sounding phrases.

Shao Ruoyu explains the main idea from “Heaven and Earth are not humane” through “better to hold fast to the center” as follows:

Heaven and Earth follow the natural Dao, and this is what is meant by ultimate benevolence. Without ultimate benevolence, they would distinguish between those who are favored and those who are not. Spring’s bringing forth life is not partial benevolence, and autumn’s killing is not partial lack of benevolence—what is set aside and what is put to use follow the seasons, and all things are treated like straw dogs, ritual figures made of straw and discarded after the ceremony, a metaphor for freedom from attachment.

The sage takes a single mind as De, and makes the people’s minds his own: rewarding the good is not partial benevolence, and punishing the evil is not partial lack of benevolence. The sage responds to the people’s needs and takes up their affairs; rewards and punishments follow the circumstances, so the people, too, are compared to straw dogs. Zhuangzi says, “Ultimate benevolence has no special affection” and “Great benevolence is not benevolent”—because it is free of partiality, it is truly great benevolence.

The space between Heaven and Earth—that is, the four directions above and below—is like a bellows. The bellows is hollow within, and its function lies in “nonbeing,” so its wind does not run out. The bag blows the air, and the tube directs it; the more it moves, the more air issues forth, like Heaven and Earth opening and closing.

Laozi says that too much talk exhausts the principle; it is better to hold fast to the center. The center is emptiness: when the mind abides in emptiness, its use is inexhaustible.

Notes on retained terms, briefly explained in the text:

• Holding fast to the center means keeping to the middle way and avoiding empty, excessive speech; here it also carries the sense of an empty mind that can respond.
• Bellows refers to an ancient device for blowing air, used by Laozi as a metaphor for emptiness that can give rise to function.
• Straw dogs were ritual objects, used here as a metaphor for Heaven, Earth, and the sage’s freedom from possessive attachment to all things.

Wang Zhiran says: The passage moves from “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” to “better to hold fast to the center.” Its general meaning is as follows.

The Great Dao does not “concern itself” with Heaven and Earth, yet Heaven and Earth come into being through it. It does not “concern itself” with the myriad things, yet they too arise through it. Heaven and Earth come first; only then do the myriad things. Among them, human beings are the most perceptive, but all receive their nature from the natural order. To treat “benevolence” as the granting of favors is to take far too narrow a view.

Heaven and Earth have no feelings. They regard the myriad things as straw dogs used in sacrifice: they never ask anything in return, and the myriad things may not understand the great gift of their ceaseless creation, yet that gift is naturally present. The sage has no feelings either. The sage asks nothing in return from the people, and they may not even think, “What has the ruler’s power ever done for me?” Yet great benevolence is naturally present. Heaven and Earth and the sage each establish an order between higher and lower—why would either need to harbor a “benevolent heart”? Follow this reasoning and it has no end. Their work is used every day without being understood, so what is there to say about serving “benevolence”?

A straw dog is clean and unstained. When used in a sacrifice, it is like an offering in the Grand Temple: dressed in brocade, it is honored as divine, without any favoritism or private attachment. Once the ceremony is over, it is no different from dirt; this does not mean it is despised. If one anxiously calculates whom to favor and whom to reject, would that not imply that the sage, too, has private motives? Thus Heaven and Earth and the sage regard themselves as straw dogs, and regard the myriad things and the people in the same way.

The image of a bellows (tuoyue) puffing out primordial Qi and stirring all beings suggests how the Dao responds to the myriad things and transforms without limit: it moves when pressed, answers without holding anything back, is empty yet never exhausted, and the more it moves, the more it produces. Transformation and sound answer one another, as though there were feeling in them. But it is people who can make the Dao flourish; the Dao does not make people flourish.

The sage’s words are not confined to argument. If what needs to be said is sufficient, the Dao can be fully expressed in a day; if the words cannot be finished, a whole day of speaking can reach only the things of the world. When argument runs its course, silence accords with the highest principle. If one does not understand the principle deeply or speak clearly about the Dao, then the more elaborate the language, the farther one strays from the Dao. Even with Huishi’s eloquence and a mouth like a hanging river, what is gained by examining the great meaning? Better to understand silently and deepen one’s insight. Hence it is said: nine out of ten words may hit the mark, yet they are not as good as silence; excessive speech brings one to exhaustion, so it is better to hold fast to the center—that is, to keep to the middle way and speak sparingly.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Huang Maocai says: The line in the Daodejing, “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs,” means that Heaven and Earth do not favor or protect any of the myriad things. They simply let them grow and decline of their own accord. When a sage governs the people, he likewise avoids disturbing them, allowing them to live their own lives. Without forced interference, the people can each make their own way; without arbitrary control, the myriad things can each follow their natural course. This kind of “benevolence” is actually greater, because it lets everything follow its nature. On the surface, it may seem to show no special care or private affection, which is why Heaven and Earth and the sage are called “not benevolent.” It is like a straw dog used in a sacrifice: it is set out for the ritual, then discarded when the ceremony is over, with no further care taken for it. Later, some followers of Shen Buhai and Han Fei, in the Legalist tradition, distorted this idea and twisted it into a doctrine of penal laws and harsh statutes, making it cruel in the extreme. Asked why, they would say that a sage governing the world spares nothing. This view likely arose from a misunderstanding of Laozi, and is entirely contrary to his original intent.

The most important thing between Heaven and Earth is to hold fast to the “center.” Heaven above and Earth below are visible to us; the hidden workings of Yin-Yang and the quiet shifts of transformation are difficult to grasp. Laozi uses a bellows to illustrate this: the Dao of Heaven and Earth is close to Wuwei (non-action), yet contains everything. It takes emptiness as its foundation, so it is never exhausted; its motion never ceases, so the myriad things continually come into being. Laozi’s Dao does not originally divide into inner and outer. To understand the image of the “straw dog” is to let go of attachment to bodily form; to understand the bellows is to cultivate Jing and Qi—the subtle vital energies of life, as Daoism describes them. These matters are not suited to lengthy explanation, for too much talk can make them seem fixed and lifeless. Only by holding to the “center” can one truly understand.

He Binggong says: When Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things as straw dogs, and the sage treats the people as straw dogs, this does not mean that they literally regard them as straw dogs. It means that they treat them as straw dogs are treated: using them when needed and setting them aside when the time comes, without emotional attachment. After a sacrifice, the straw dog is discarded; likewise, in governing the world, the sage does not let private affection undermine public duty. This is about “use” and “setting aside,” not about rank or worth.

Cheng Taizhi says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” Straw is tied into the shape of a dog for use in a sacrifice, then thrown away afterward. It is valued in its proper moment and set aside once that moment has passed. The way Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things, each taking the place of another, is just like this: rice ears ripen as wheat withers; melons grow as shepherd’s purse dies; deer shed and replace their antlers; spring and autumn reverse one another; wild geese come and go, avoiding one another as they move north and south. The natures of the myriad things differ in countless ways, and the same principle applies throughout: the nature of one thing is not the nature of another, and what suits one thing may not suit another. If one stands at the central pivot yet insists on favoring one side in the name of “benevolence,” whom could one really help? Helping one side obstructs another; benefiting one thing means losing a hundred. Such “benevolence” is both painful and small. Better to move everything with a single Qi, bringing all things into harmony with their seasons, so that each, in keeping with its nature and the course of Qi, may grow and transform, take shape and change color, wax and wane, and rest and renew itself. This is the great benevolence of Heaven and Earth. Thus Heaven and Earth’s lack of benevolence is in fact the greatest benevolence; the sage’s lack of benevolence is likewise the greatest benevolence. It is not a true lack of benevolence, but benevolence so vast that no trace of private interest can be found in it.

Su Tianmin says: When Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things as straw dogs, and the sage treats the people as straw dogs, the comparison means that Heaven and Earth and the sage have no private affection for the myriad things or the people, but let them follow their nature. This does not mean neglecting them, but refraining from reckless interference; it does not mean lacking care, but refusing to let private affection harm the common good. This interpretation focuses on letting things follow their nature.

Wu Cheng says: When Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things as straw dogs, and the sage treats the people as straw dogs, this does not mean that they literally regard them as straw dogs. It means that they treat them as straw dogs are treated: using them when needed and setting them aside when the time comes, without emotional attachment. After a sacrifice, the straw dog is discarded; likewise, in governing the world, the sage does not let private affection undermine public duty. This is about “use” and “setting aside,” not about rank or worth.

A benevolent world does not show partiality or act from prior designs. This is what is meant by “the benevolence of non-benevolence.”

The sage treats the people like straw dogs used in ritual offerings. A straw dog is honored before the rite and discarded afterward; the image suggests impartial treatment. This does not mean the sage is coldhearted. Rather, the sage acts without private intent, making no choices out of personal preference, and follows what is utterly just and impartial, taking Heaven and Earth as the model.

Thus the sage has never shown a particular person undue favor, yet no one has failed to receive the sage’s beneficence.

Zhuangzi develops this idea and says, “The highest benevolence has no favorites.”

I should forget the world, and the world should in turn forget me. This is precisely “the benevolence of non-benevolence”: beneficence has been bestowed upon the world, yet people do not know its source. It does not mean that we truly forget one another.

Zhuangzi also says: When the sage cares for people, if they are not told, they do not know that the sage cares for them. The sage’s beneficence reaches across the ages, yet the sage does not know that this is benevolence in action. This is called “the benevolence of non-benevolence.”

If one chooses whom to care for, extending kindness only as far as one’s intentions reach, that is no more than a tiger or wolf refraining from devouring its own young. It has nothing to do with “the benevolence of non-benevolence.”

Mencius said: “When people are put to death, they feel no resentment; when they are benefited, they offer no thanks. The people gradually turn toward goodness and distance themselves from wrongdoing, without knowing who brought this about: this is the method of governance. They say that their plowing, well digging, and carefree lives have nothing to do with the Emperor’s power: this is the result of successful instruction and governance.”

Between Heaven and Earth, the more movement there is, the more things emerge. It is like a bellows and its pipe.

A yue is a pipe. In music, it is called a feathered flute; in a door bolt, it is called a bolt tube; and in smelting equipment, it is part of the bellows. The names differ, but each is a pipe.

The bellows draws in air, fills with it, and sends it into the furnace. The pipe receives this inrush and blows it onward, distributing the air.

The image of one breath blown out and one drawn in is just like Yin and Yang alternately moving and giving rise to the four seasons.

Thus, between Heaven and Earth, cold and heat push against each other to form the four seasons; life and death succeed one another to make the present and the past. This is just like the bellows blowing out and drawing in.

Jia Yi’s comparison of Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang, and the transformations of the myriad things to smelting and casting comes precisely from this idea.

The alternation of one breath out and one breath in is a cycle of action and return, each urging on the other. What is wondrous must become putrid, and what is putrid may again become wondrous—just as straw dogs are honored at one time and treated as worthless at another.

To say that the space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows is to say that everything taking form and living between them depends on this breathing in and out, this expansion and contraction.

Zhuangzi’s discussion of things… (The final phrase, “Zhuangzi’s discussion of things,” appears unfinished in the original. If the text continues with Zhuangzi’s account of things, it would need to be connected to the rest of the book.)

Section One: Yin-Yang Interacting, All Things Coming into Being

First, Yin and Yang join and harmonize, and all things come into being from them. They wane and wax, fill and empty, alternating between darkness and light; the sun changes and the moon moves. Day after day, they act, yet their work cannot be seen. Birth and death, beginning and end, oppose and turn into one another at a point without origin, yet no one knows where their course ends.

Yin and Yang interact, and all things depend on them for their generation: this is the beginning of all things. “Activity and return” refers to the aspect of generation and transformation whose traces can be followed. Waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, are Yin and Yang in motion, breathing in and out like a bellows. Transformation and death describe all things taking their turns, like straw dogs—figures made of straw for sacrifices and discarded afterward. Laozi uses the bellows and straw dogs to explain this principle; Zhuangzi applies it directly to particular things.

“Too much speech leads to repeated failure; it is better to keep to the center”

Most schools interpret “the center” here as the center of the Mean. Su Huangmen alone disagrees. He says it refers to the hollow space at the middle of the bellows, and this interpretation is correct. Laozi developed a system of his own: he replaced nearly all the names for the Dao found in the Six Classics with other words. What the Six Classics call “the center,” Laozi names “goodness.” Read as a whole, Laozi never speaks directly of “the center.” So here, as in “within the realm,” “within the bow,” and “within the ring,” “the center” names a place or position. It does not refer to the ultimate principle, as “the center” does in the Doctrine of the Mean. To “keep to the center,” then, means to remain with the hollow space at the heart of the bellows. It is like saying, “The pivot finds its place at the center of the ring, and can thus respond without limit.”

Speech and keeping to the center

“Speech” means making a claim about something before it happens, as in, “I can accomplish this through my Virtue.” But that is only what the speaker says. In the world, things may go one way or another, accord or conflict; there is no certainty. If one puts something into words before events have naturally confirmed it, one may sometimes guess correctly, but there will be countless times when one guesses wrong. In time, this leads inevitably to “repeated failure.” Keeping to the center while awaiting a response may seem slow at first, but in the end it will never be exhausted. That is why it is better to keep to the center.

Heaven and Earth as a bellows

If the space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows, then people living between Heaven and Earth depend on the smith’s working of the bellows for their activity and return. The smith is the one who directs the transformations of creation. To empty the mind and let the craftsman of transformation work through it is to reach the source of Yin and Yang’s waxing and waning. All things with form are hollow as they await the craftsman of transformation. This is speaking of Earth.

This scripture employs the metaphor of the bellows (tuoyue) to expound the Daoist core concept of "being empty yet inexhaustible." The bellows can inhale air and produce wind precisely because of its hollow interior—if stuffed full, it becomes useless. This mirrors the principle by which heaven and earth create all things: only by maintaining a state of emptiness can one continuously receive new things, allowing the yin and yang energies to circulate and transform within.

The text compares two realms of "emptiness": ordinary bellows, though hollow, require external force to operate, whereas the higher state of "valley spirit" (gushen, referring to the mysterious void-nature of the Dao) can autonomously regulate existence and non-existence without relying on external power. The author reveals that true profundity lies in maintaining inner stillness like the hollow center of bellows—this very emptiness generates infinite wondrous function.

Later commentaries by Zhan Qiupu and Zhang Chongying further elucidate: the "non-benevolence" of heaven-earth and sages refers to impartiality toward all things, treating everything equally like straw dogs (sacrificial objects). Though crude, straw dogs serve their purpose during rituals before being discarded, embodying the natural Dao. This wisdom of "empty function" resembles how bellows generate wind through hollowness—the greater the stillness maintained within, the more boundless its efficacy becomes. The optimal state is preserving this inner void, from which wondrous function naturally flows endlessly.

(Note: Tuoyue refers to ancient leather bellows used in iron smelting; gushen derives from the Daodejing's phrase "the valley spirit never dies," symbolizing the Dao's numinous void-nature.)

Plain-Language Interpretation

The Dao is vast and boundless, and cannot be made clear in words. That is why Confucius rarely spoke of such things, and Laozi did not speak as if he could say it all. “Rarely speaking” means saying little because the Dao cannot be described; “not taking a position” means refusing to insist on a particular account when it cannot be described.

Heaven and Earth do not claim “benevolence,” yet they cover and contain all things. Everything grows within them, without knowing how it is sustained. The sage, too, does not claim “benevolence,” yet can embrace and accommodate all people. The people live in peace within this care, without knowing how they are cared for. They treat all things as if they were straw dogs used in sacrifice, or livestock: they tend and protect them, taking care that they are not damaged or spoiled, but without any thought of doing favors in order to be repaid.

Heaven and Earth are “not benevolent,” and the sage is “not benevolent,” because the primordial Qi (vital energy) moves between above and below, like air within a bellows or breath through a tube. It flows endlessly and contains the boundless. Though empty, it does not collapse when blown; though vast, its movement makes its activity all the more apparent. This is how “benevolence” as the Dao is vast. As Confucius said, “What does Heaven say? The four seasons proceed.” Has the heart of Heaven, Earth, and all things ever made a sound among them? Anyone who wants to learn the Dao and embody this all-encompassing benevolence, yet remains attached to words, will tire the tongue and unsettle the spirit, while wasting Jing (essence) and depleting Qi. Too much speaking only exhausts it. So it is better to keep to the center: hold to this inner space, spreading benevolence among all things without leaving a trace.

Bai Yuchan says: Heaven and Earth are not benevolent because they are without intention: they take all things as straw dogs and let them follow their natural course. The sage is not benevolent because he takes the heart of Heaven and Earth as his own and takes the people as straw dogs. He has even forgotten himself—what else could there be? The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows: it moves without ceasing, empty yet never exhausted; its use is boundless, and the more it moves, the more it produces. It remains wholly one and never stops. Too many words bring exhaustion; how could they explain it clearly? Better to keep to the center and fulfill what lies within oneself.

Liao Cuiran says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent”—Heaven and Earth are originally connected with human beings. If one turns back to the root and takes all things as straw dogs, one sees the myriad forms as unaware things; people, too, should restrain themselves in this way. “The sage is not benevolent”—a ruler, too, is rooted in benevolence. By turning back to the root and returning to it, he takes the people as straw dogs.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Interpretation of the Earlier Passage

The straw dogs used in ritual are discarded once the ceremony is over. If the people are treated as though they were similarly “useless things,” then, in our view, that amounts to a departure from ritual propriety. Is the space between Heaven and Earth, within which all things exist, not like a bellows? For Heaven and Earth, it is emptiness; for this body of mine, it is merely a smelly bag of skin. Empty, yet never exhausted: let it open, and it fills the Six Directions; draw it in, and a single hand cannot contain it. The more it moves, the more Qi it gives forth; original Qi surges in harmony, flowing without end. Too many words bring one to exhaustion; better to maintain a single silence. Better than keeping one’s lips sealed is to guard the center, embrace the origin, and hold fast to the One—then the supply is inexhaustible. When a person can do this, the Qi of the Dao is present within.

Chen Bixu’s Commentary

“天地不仁，以万物为刍狗”—“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” Chu means straw: it is bound into the shape of a dog. In ancient times, straw dogs were used in rituals and to dispel misfortune, then discarded after use. They were not especially cherished in daily life, nor especially despised when thrown away. Straw dogs were made for the spirits, but the spirits did not depend on them. Because they were “of no use,” there was no partiality toward them; without partiality, there was no favor bestowed on one thing over another. Thus Heaven and Earth may seem to show no kindness, yet great kindness is contained in this; the sage may seem not benevolent, yet great benevolence can thereby be fulfilled. “Not benevolent” means not clinging to the feeling of benevolent affection, not being cold or heartless. Heaven and Earth have no personal feelings: they regard the myriad things as straw dogs and demand no repayment from them. The sage has no personal feelings: the sage regards the people as straw dogs and demands no repayment from them. This is the natural principle of Heaven and Earth.

Yan Junping’s Commentary

Heaven is high, bright, and clear; Earth is deep, substantial, and still. Yin and Yang interact, harmonious Qi flows, and in calm non-action the myriad things arise of themselves. Heaven and Earth do not set their minds on things, shift their intentions, or exhaust themselves in purposeful action to bring the myriad things into being. This is what is meant by “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” An enlightened ruler or sage sovereign holds to the Dao, in harmony and balance, remaining unchanged in stillness. Responding to the myriad transformations with oneness, the ruler silently reaches the spiritual and accords with the Dao. The world responds of itself, and the myriad things transform of themselves. The sage does not exhaust wisdom and ability, unsettle the mind and strain the will, or deplete Jing and spend Shen in anxious, conspicuous efforts to govern the people. This is what is meant by “The sage is not benevolent; the sage treats the people as straw dogs.”

On “The More It Moves, the More It Gives Forth”

Between Heaven and Earth, “the more it moves, the more it gives forth,” just like a bellows, whose bag is worked to set the air in motion. Heaven and Earth are empty in this way; this body is a skin bag in this way. Empty, yet never bent or exhausted: let it open, and it fills the Six Directions; draw it in, and it cannot fill a single hand. The more it moves, the more it gives forth; original Qi surges forth and never runs dry. Too many words bring one to exhaustion; better to be silent with the Dao. Keeping one’s lips sealed is not as good as guarding the center and embracing the origin, holding fast to the One; then the supply is inexhaustible. When a person does this, the Qi of the Dao naturally remains within.

“The one who blows on a fire, and the flute”—this refers to one person pumping air and another playing a flute. The bellows and the flute are used as metaphors: the empty space between Heaven and Earth is Wuwei (non-action), bringing forth and transforming the myriad things without any private intention. This is compared to the heart of the sage: open and spacious, deep and still, responding to the world without resistance.

The bellows hold air, which must be pumped to shape things; the flute holds sound, which must be blown to produce harmony with the musical scale. Their use never ceases, yet they are never exhausted. This is a metaphor for the sage, who is free of private aims and intentions and does not deliberately perform acts of love and benefit.

Yan Junping said: If Heaven and Earth abandoned emptiness and acted out of love and a desire to benefit, their transformations would no longer flow freely, and things could not all come into being. If the sage abandoned emptiness and acted out of love and a desire to benefit, his virtue would not reach everyone, the realm would not be equitable, his kindness would not extend to those below, and affairs could not all be brought to completion. Why? Because benevolence is a method with limits. The myriad things look to transformation that has no end; if limited shares of benefit are used to meet an unlimited need, they will inevitably prove insufficient—like trying to refill a dried-up river with tears.

He also said: Lice crawling among the hairs make it impossible to sleep in peace. Mosquitoes and flies biting the skin unsettle the spirit and cloud thought. The sting of bees and scorpions wounds from without and causes anguish within. If the ears and eyes have not yet been harmed, all the limbs are still unable to function. This shows that when concern with love and benefit resides in the heart, how could it fail to cause strain, deplete pure harmony, and damage the blood and Qi (vital energy)?

“Too many words lead often to exhaustion; better to hold fast to the center.” “Too many words” refers to speaking at length about doctrines such as universal love. When there are too many words, they are difficult to put into practice everywhere, and so one repeatedly reaches an impasse and fails. If one follows Heaven and Earth in their emptiness and stillness, and is as free of intention as the bellows and flute, one can hold fast to central harmony, and all will naturally be sufficient. This, too, belongs to the teaching without words.

The Honglie (Huainanzi) commentary says: Wang Shou was carrying books when he met Xu Feng in Zhou. Xu Feng said, “Affairs require responding to change and acting accordingly. Change arises in its time, so one who understands the time has no fixed course of action. Books are where words come from; words arise from knowledge, and the knowledgeable keep books in their hearts.” Wang Shou then burned his books and danced, saying, “Too many words lead often to exhaustion; better to hold fast to the center.”

Xie Tunan said: Heaven and Earth are not benevolent, and treat even straw dogs as straw dogs. The myriad things receive Qi from Heaven and Earth and come to life; the people receive the sage’s kindness and flourish—so one might say benevolence is indispensable. Yet prosperity and decline, success and failure, are left to things’ own nature; life and death, fortune and misfortune, are brought upon people by their own actions. In all this, Heaven and Earth and the sage have no intention at all.

所谓“不仁”，并非真的不仁，而是到了那个阶段，已经没办法再像当初那样施展仁心了。 Wait Chinese inadvertent! Need translate. Start English.

“Not benevolent” does not mean truly lacking benevolence. It means that, by that stage, there is no longer any way to extend benevolence as one could at the beginning.

A straw dog was a dog made of straw for use in a sacrifice. Once the ritual was over, it was left to its own fate and no one paid it any further attention. The principles of Heaven and Earth work in the same way: the two Qi of Yin and Yang circulate freely through empty space, naturally, like the bellows, without human-made divisions or obstructions.

The changes people undergo between birth and death are likewise natural. That is why Laozi says, “Too much talk leads to exhaustion”: the more one speaks and meddles, the sooner one reaches an end, until neither words nor actions can get through. Better to hold fast to the principle of the Center.

What is the “Center”? It is what is just right, without leaning to either side. Heaven and Earth, sages, ordinary people, and all things are all within this Center.

All the myriad things and people share the same Qi, and all people share the same heart-mind. Heaven and Earth take the generation of the myriad things as their heart-mind; sages take care for the people as theirs. Yet life must change from beginning to end, and care must also change over time. Why?

Because the Dao of Heaven is Yin-Yang, while the human Dao is benevolence and righteousness. Growth belongs to Yang, but cannot do without the settling force of Yin; care belongs to benevolence, but cannot do without the restraint of righteousness. This follows from principle and circumstance.

Though the straw dog is a humble thing, before the sacrifice people take care that it is whole. Afterward, it is discarded as useless, and its destruction and ruin are unavoidable. People, too, are endowed alike between Heaven and Earth: at birth, all are worthy of care, but once they have taken shape, they differ. Some are to be nurtured, others overturned; the good receive good fortune, while the wicked meet misfortune. Each meets a different fate according to their lot.

At this point, Heaven and Earth can no longer fully extend the grace with which they generate life, nor can sages fully extend their virtue of care. This is why they are said to be “not benevolent”: they can no longer give full expression to benevolence.

Heaven and Earth embrace the myriad things through the empty, quiet way of the Center; sages respond to the people through the centered and upright way. So Laozi sums it up in one phrase: better to hold fast to the Center.

This “Center” is a state of perfect impartiality, without excess or deficiency.

Lin Yunzai says: From “Heaven and Earth are not humane” to “better to hold to the center,” the discussion concerns ren—benevolence—in the sense of giving life to things.

Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things, yet do not claim this as their own achievement; they and the myriad things simply forget one another. The sage nourishes the people, yet does not regard this as a kindness bestowed; the sage and the people simply forget one another. “Not humane” means precisely “not considering oneself humane.” Straw dogs are discarded after they have served their purpose: they serve as a metaphor for mutual forgetfulness. Chapter 38 says, “Those of highest De do not possess De, and so they have De”—“not humane” is like “not possessing De.” Zhuangzi makes the same point in “On the Equality of Things” with “great benevolence is not benevolent,” and in “Heaven and Earth” with “in the age of utmost De, people loved one another but did not know to call it benevolence.” Straw dogs are used in sacrifice and thrown away once the rite is over. They symbolize having no deliberate intention and forgetting one another. In a more subtle reading, they also suggest that what has passed through its course transforms and disappears. Those who interpret this as “treating the people like weeds” are mistaken.

In general, the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi favor startling, unconventional statements, so their wording can often seem extreme. The main point of this chapter is simply that Heaven and Earth bring forth things without intention, and the sage cares for the people without intention. Yet the author chooses to express this in deliberately strange language. Readers who do not examine it carefully may draw deeply harmful conclusions. Thus the harsh cruelty of Shen Buhai and Han Fei has its roots in phrases such as “straw dogs” and “the people.” Even Laozi himself cannot entirely escape blame.

A tuo is a leather bag, and a yue is a tube opening. When the bellows are used, wind is produced. Though the instrument itself is hollow, its use does not exhaust it; as soon as it moves, wind arises, and the more it blows, the more it produces. Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things in the same way. Do the bellows intend to produce wind? And does Heaven and Earth intend to bring forth things? That is why this metaphor is used. Moreover, “when used, it produces wind; when not used, there is none” also carries the sense that what has passed through its course transforms and disappears.

“Number” here means “often.” “Hold to the center” means to remain silent and keep one’s mouth closed: the Way of Heaven and Earth cannot be fully expressed in words. Those who speak too much often reach the point of exhausting themselves, so it is better to remain silent and forget words. Confucius said, “Do you wish me to say nothing?” and “Does Heaven speak? The four seasons proceed, and the myriad things are born”—the meaning is the same. But the sage’s words are refined and easy to understand, whereas this book ranges back and forth in ways that are hard to follow. If we take it merely as a warning against speaking too much, it will not connect with what came before. Once this is understood, the whole chapter becomes coherent from beginning to end.

Fan Yingyuan’s Commentary

“Humaneness” refers to the principle of caring for others. Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad things, yet their great Virtue of humaneness is never called “humaneness.” Their treatment of the myriad things is like the use of straw dogs in ritual. Before they are placed on the altar, the straw dogs are kept in a box and covered with an embroidered cloth. This is not a sign of special affection; the proper time has not yet come. After the sacrifice, passersby trample on their heads and backs, and woodcutters gather them up for firewood. This does not mean they are no longer cared for; the proper time has come. Growth in spring and summer is like straw dogs “before they are displayed”; decline in autumn and winter is like straw dogs “after they have been displayed.” Both happen in season. It is not that spring and summer are loving while autumn and winter are uncaring. When Qi (vital energy) arrives, the myriad things come into being in this way, without knowing why.

The sage is “inhumane,” treating the people as straw dogs. The sage embodies this Dao (the Way) and acts with universal care. Humaneness has reached its utmost, yet the sage does not make a point of speaking about it. The sage treats the people as Heaven and Earth treat the myriad things: following their natural course without obstructing them, so that they can sustain life and meet death as they should, without regret. The people do not know what the ruler’s power has to do with them. Between Heaven and Earth, the more active it is, the more it produces.

The bellows (a leather wind bag) and tuyere (a bamboo tube) are tools used in smelting to direct air and feed the fire. When the bellows move, more air comes out through the tube. The space between Heaven and Earth is open and permeable, like a bamboo tube channeling air: empty, yet not bent out of shape. When Qi comes, it passes through; when Qi goes, nothing is stored up. The more the bellows move, the more air flows through the tuyere. Once the materials in the furnace have been made into vessels, the bellows and tuyere themselves make no claim to “humaneness.”

“Too many words lead swiftly to exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” The myriad things are many, and the people are numerous, yet the sage merely follows this one Dao and cares for all. How could the sage quibble over humaneness in words alone? If one speaks at length about humaneness but does not embody the Dao, one has words without substance; too much talk only brings exhaustion. Better to follow Heaven and Earth in holding to the way of inner emptiness, without bias or distortion. Then the myriad things naturally find their proper place. How could this ever be exhausted?

Xue Yongzhai’s Commentary

The passage from “Heaven and Earth are inhumane” through “treating the people as straw dogs” is the parable above: Heaven and Earth and the sage bring about change in season, do not claim the name of humaneness, and are likened to straw dogs.

Plain-Language Interpretation

On the Sage. The Sage nurtures the people without inwardly clinging to any particular household or matter, and without favoritism or fixation.

On Heaven and Earth and the “bellows.” The place where movement is strongest between Heaven and Earth is, paradoxically, like a bellows: it does not manipulate external things, yet its interior is empty. The more it moves, the more Qi (vital energy) flows out and the louder the sound becomes. Heaven and Earth can continually bring forth and transform the myriad things without being exhausted because they are empty yet able to function, moving in order to give rise to life.

On many words and holding to the center. Too many words and piled-up comparisons only exhaust what can be said about the Dao (the Way). Better to hold to the “center”: that point of inward emptiness and stillness, free of partiality. The eloquence of someone like Hui Shi cannot match Yan Hui’s “fasting of the mind”: only when the mind is emptied can it receive the Dao.

The Saying of Xiuxiu Hermitage: Explaining “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” through “better to hold to the center”

“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” does not mean that they are cruel. It means that they do not treat private feelings as kindness or partial affection as benevolence.

A straw dog used in sacrifice was made from straw in the shape of a dog, placed in a vermilion-lacquered box, and covered with an embroidered cloth. When the ritual was over, it was discarded and left to be trampled. Heaven and Earth, and the Sage, embody the subtlety of Wuwei (non-action): they bring forth the myriad things without seeking repayment and do not forcibly impose their rule, allowing things to transform of themselves. Like the straw dog, they are discarded once their purpose is served; in this sense, they may seem “not benevolent.”

The space between Heaven and Earth is empty, like a hollow bag. A single Qi circulates, bringing forth and transforming the myriad things. The human mind follows the same principle when it is empty and clear: once its subtle workings are set in motion, its wondrous uses do not run out. This is called “empty yet inexhaustible, moving yet ever more emerges.”

A tuo is a leather bag, and a yue is a tube; together, they form an instrument for pumping or blowing air. The Jing (classic) uses this image to describe the subtle workings of creation. Yet many words lead away from the Dao: even the most eloquent person can offer a thousand comparisons, but comparisons always have their limits, while the Dao cannot be fully captured in words. Better to speak less and hold to the subtlety of inner emptiness at the center; then the workings of creation can be seen more clearly.

The Explanation of Chu Boxiu

From “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” through “better to hold to the center”: benevolence is the concrete expression of the divine Dao. It establishes the heart of Heaven and Earth and sustains the lives of the people. In the larger scheme, it is like the “Origin” in relation to Qian: all virtues are present in it, and it molds and shapes the myriad kinds of beings without leaving any out. In human beings, benevolence means perfecting oneself and helping others to flourish, showing broad love, and doing good to save others. These are all ways benevolence is put into practice.

Heaven and Earth possess natural benevolence, which lies beyond words and images. Only by embodying Heaven and extending benevolence can the Sage expand the Way of the sovereign and accomplish the work of good governance. Why, then, does the Jing use the words “not benevolent” twice? Because it is saying that benevolence should not be displayed for show—just as “the highest De (Virtue/Power) is not conscious of itself as De.” It states the opposite in order to keep people from becoming attached to the name and appearance of “benevolence.”

The comparison is to straw dogs made for sacrifice: before the ritual, they are adorned and treated with reverence; afterward, they are discarded and trampled. Their making and destruction have nothing to do with love or hatred. By using what is real—the sincerity of the sacrifice—to illuminate what is illusory—the straw dog’s form—we can understand the way things work. The birth, flourishing, decline, and disappearance of plants, animals, birds, and fish between Heaven and Earth all arise from the circulation of a single Qi. In principle, this is like the straw dog, which is scattered after the ritual.

Brief notes on key terms: Tuo-yue means a bellows; straw dog means a sacrificial figure made of straw; holding to the center means keeping to inward stillness and freedom from partiality; fasting of the mind means the inward emptying associated with Yan Hui; Wuwei means not imposing control, but allowing things to transform of themselves.

The phrase “the dog tramples it, then the dog goes back to eat the straw” means that there is no need to take such things to heart or dwell on them. In the same way, the sage lets the people live and make their own livelihoods as they naturally will; the Dao then fulfills itself. This is what Zhuangzi meant by “great benevolence is not benevolent.”

Between Heaven and Earth, things are also like a bellows—the tuoyue, an ancient device for blowing air into a fire. The tuo is its leather bag, and the yue its mouthpiece. This is a metaphor for benevolence coursing through the world like the breath of Yin and Yang, never pausing for an instant. All who become people or things are shaped by this forging force. Only when there is emptiness within, without obstruction, can it move; then Qi flows out ever more freely. This principle accords wondrously with the transformations of nature. Why say more and risk exhausting oneself in empty argument? Better to hold fast to the “center” within oneself and investigate how the bellows and Heaven and Earth are present in one’s own body. Is there not within oneself the principle by which all things are born and nourished? Some explain the passage as meaning that “an impatient person talks too much,” but this does not fit the surrounding text. The chapter’s central meaning lies in the words “hold to the center.” Its deepest principle is hidden and profound; only through practice can a student seek confirmation within their own body. Heaven and Earth are present within the human body; the task is simply to recognize them there.

Niu Miaochuan says: “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs.” The great virtue of Heaven and Earth is to give life; the ceaseless continuation of life is called benevolence. Benevolence is the virtue by which Heaven and Earth bring things into being, yet they are said to be “not benevolent” because they do not claim this virtue as their private possession. The myriad things fill Heaven and Earth, in countless kinds and forms. Straw dogs were ritual objects made by binding straw into the shape of dogs for ancient sage kings’ suburban sacrifices. Straw was humble material, yet the ritual use of it was solemn. Dogs are domestic animals associated with the earthly branch Xu and corresponding to Qian, the Creative. Thus the ancients bound straw into dog shapes for sacrifice as a mark of reverence. Heaven and Earth treating the myriad things as straw dogs does not mean they regard them with contempt. To say that Heaven and Earth see the myriad things as ignorant and unknowing, like straw or domestic animals, and demand no repayment from them, makes no sense: the myriad things are born from the same Qi as Heaven and Earth, differing only in the smallness of their forms. If Heaven and Earth truly regarded the myriad things in this way and acted with self-importance, how could they be called not benevolent? Such is the shallow view; the discerning can judge for themselves.

“The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.” The sage provides for things and puts them to use, and serves as a teacher for generations. The people honor him like the sun and moon and look up to him as they would to their parents.

On “the unbenevolent”: such a person does not claim to be benevolent. This expresses humility and deference, much like Confucius’ teaching that a sage does not claim to be a sage.

“Hundred families” means the people. The people and the sage alike receive a single Qi (vital energy) and are born between Heaven and Earth; they differ only in status and in whether their lives are prosperous or impoverished. When the sage treats the people as straw dogs, this does not mean that he looks down on them. Some interpret the phrase to mean that the sage regards the people as ignorant creatures, like straw effigies of dogs used in sacrifice, and expects nothing in return from them. This interpretation is probably mistaken. Human beings stand alongside Heaven and Earth, forming the Three Powers; how could they be regarded as straw or dogs? Mencius said: if a ruler treats his ministers as his hands and feet, they will treat him as their heart and belly; if he treats them as dogs and horses, they will treat him as a passing stranger; if he treats them as dirt and weeds, they will treat him as an enemy. If the sage truly likened the people to straw and dogs, would he not be unbenevolent? I earnestly ask those who share my understanding to consider this carefully.

Between Heaven and Earth, the more things move, the more they emerge. A “bellows” refers to the casing of a drum, while a “pipe” refers to a wind instrument such as a flute. “Like” means functioning in the same way. In the space between Heaven and Earth, emptiness works through the four seasons and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Instruments such as bellows and pipes are hollow, too, and work through the five notes and six pitch standards. Thus it is said that the space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows and pipe. The Old Master, Laozi, says that such instruments are defined by their use: emptiness and fullness, presence and absence, square and round, large and small, long and short, wide and narrow—all are subject to how people use them, and the instruments do not contend with people. A good person in the world is like a bellows and pipe: he does not contend with the myriad things, and De (Virtue/Power) naturally gathers around him because he is humble and practices Wuwei (non-action). This means that Heaven and Earth take “emptiness that can receive” as their generative virtue, allowing things to follow their own nature and people to follow their wishes. They do not contend with things, just as a bellows or pipe lets others play it and set the pitch.

“Many words bring frequent failure.” Words are the voice of the heart: within the heart they are intent, and when expressed they become speech. “Frequent” means repeated; “failure” means hardship and regret. More words lead to more mistakes, hence “frequent failure.” The ancients said: with a single statement, one may bring down a state—this describes the most extreme case of speaking too much; with a single statement, one may invite disaster—this is the middle case; with a single statement, one may bring oneself disgrace—this is the lesser case. Thus Heaven has its turning... (If the discussion continues with “Heaven has its turning,” it should follow the original scripture.)

Collected Meanings of the True Scripture of the Dao and De (II): A Plain-Language Interpretation

Main Idea of the Scripture

Careful Speech and “Guarding the Center”

People of insight often remind themselves to “say less”: before speaking, one must be careful. As the saying goes, a noble person should be slow to speak and quick to act. That is precisely the point.

According to tradition, Confucius entered the Zhou court to observe its rites. In the Temple of Hou Ji, he saw a golden figure beside the right-hand steps. Its mouth was sealed three times, and an inscription on its back held it up as an example of the ancients’ care in speaking, warning later generations: “Take heed! Do not speak too much—too much talk can easily spoil things. Do not meddle in too many affairs—too many affairs can easily bring misfortune.” The Classic of Poetry also says: “Be reverent in your bearing, and careful with the words you speak.” Both express the same idea.

Laozi says, “It is better to guard the center.” The “center” is like a pivot or trigger; to “guard” it is to hold fast and keep watch over it. The sun and moon are the patterns of the sky, mountains and rivers are the patterns of the earth, and speech is the pattern of the human body. Words rest in the mouth like a blade: they must not be released lightly. It is like a bow whose trigger has not yet been pulled: the arrow can still be held back. Once it leaves the bowstring, it cannot be called back.

The Appended Statements of the Book of Changes says: “Words arise from the person and take effect among the people; deeds begin nearby and become visible far away.” Words and deeds are the pivot of a noble person. Once that pivot is set in motion, honor and disgrace follow. Words and deeds can move Heaven and Earth—how could one fail to be careful? This is one meaning of “It is better to guard the center.” The Book of Changes also says, “Tie up the sack: there will be no blame and no praise.” To keep the sack tightly closed is to speak and act with care—is this not the same idea?

Commentary by Yang Zhiren (excerpt)

“Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent” and “It Is Better to Guard the Center”

Yang Zhiren says: When discussing “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent,” one must ultimately come back to “It is better to guard the center.”

“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent” means that all things are treated like straw dogs—sacrificial figures made of straw. Heaven and Earth bring forth and nurture all things without favor or private benevolence, letting them follow their natural course. The sage who learns the Dao does the same: untouched by even the slightest worldly desire, body and mind are like the Great Void, clear and serene in constant stillness. Between Heaven and Earth, Kan and Li (Yin-Yang) revolve within; the bellows billow through the cosmos; primordial Qi rises and descends within the Yellow Court (the Dantian, or energy center). Close the openings and lower the curtains; contain the light and remain silently still. Be empty yet inexhaustible, preserving this state in harmony; do not stir it lightly—for the more it is stirred, the more it pours forth. As the old saying goes: “Let the whole body relax; let not a single thought arise.” If “too much talk leads to repeated exhaustion,” it brings only loss and no benefit. Better to guard the center for a long time. With time and practice, it becomes fully integrated of its own accord.

The Confucians also say that the Way of the sage consists simply in benevolence, righteousness, balance, and correctness. When Heaven and Earth and the sage regard all things as straw dogs, they are attached to nothing. Open and vast, without a self, a person can thus match Heaven and Earth, like a bellows: empty yet inexhaustible, and the more it moves, the more it gives forth. This is simplicity and ease at their utmost.

How hard it is to know! So the more one speaks, the more one exhausts the matter; better to hold to the middle. A noble person takes “the yellow center” as a model for cultivation: yellow is the color of the center, and the center means neither leaning one way nor the other. In this way, one accords with the principles of Heaven and does not lose what is right.

Yu Qingzhong says: “Heaven and Earth are not humane”—this leads to “better to hold to the middle.” Why would Heaven need to say much? The four seasons run their course, and the myriad things grow of themselves. Heaven and Earth bring forth and transform the myriad things without thinking they are showing kindness; they forget that “things” are things. They neither know nor understand, but follow the order of the Heavenly Sovereign. What power has the Heavenly Sovereign ever added to me? The sage nurtures the people without thinking he is showing kindness; he forgets that “the people” are the people.

A straw dog is a dog-shaped figure made from bound straw. In the “Heaven’s Cycle” chapter of the Zhuangzi, it is said that before a straw dog is set out for the sacrifice, it is kept in a bamboo basket and covered with embroidered cloth. After the ceremony, passersby trample on its head and back, and woodcutters take it away to use as kindling. It is honored before the sacrifice and discarded afterward. This image also carries the meaning of “preserving the spirit as it passes through transformation.”

I once read Liu Zongyuan’s “Biography of Guo the Camelback” and learned from its account of tree planting how to nurture people. When Guo planted trees, he neither fussed nor worried, and did not look back once the planting was done. He planted them as if they were his children, then left them alone as if he had abandoned them. Does a father ever think of his care for his child as a favor? He tends a tree as if it were a child, helping it grow and nourishing it, without thinking himself kind: he simply lets it have what is its own. If he meddles and clings to it, he forgets what is its own. When he passes through transformation, he leaves it as if abandoned—like a straw dog after the sacrifice.

Between Heaven and Earth, movement is like that of a bellows. The tuo is a leather bag, and the yue is a pipe through which the air flows. Though empty within, it does not collapse; the more it moves, the more it gives out, and the more it gives out, the more there is. Its coming has no beginning, and its outflow is inexhaustible. The kindness of Heaven and Earth, and of the sage, is like this.

The way of Heaven and Earth cannot be fully expressed in words. Using sights and sounds to transform the people is only a minor branch of it. Thus it is said: “The more one speaks, the more one exhausts the matter; better to hold to the middle.” To hold to the middle is to remain silently present.

Xu Liuxu says: “Heaven and Earth are not humane”—this leads to “better to hold to the middle.” The great virtue of Heaven and Earth is life, yet they treat the myriad things as straw dogs: they cover and support them, leaving those that are to live to live, and those that are to wither to wither. Heaven and Earth take no part in this. That Heaven and Earth do not claim their own kindness, and treat the myriad things as straw dogs, is the highest kindness. As for the straw dog: before the sacrifice it is honored with reverence; after the sacrifice it is discarded.

Heaven and Earth deal with all things not through deliberate action, but by following natural laws. The sage emulates this, embracing and nurturing the people while giving them space to grow freely. Just as farmers plow and weave to bring prosperity to households and stability to the state, the sage claims no merit—this reveals the profound meaning behind the sage's refusal to flaunt benevolence (De), instead treating the people like sacrificial straw dogs (grass effigies used in rituals and discarded afterward).

The growth of all things between Heaven and Earth operates like the bellows (tuoyue, ancient air-blowing device): though hollow at the center, it generates ceaseless movement. Similarly, the sage nourishes the people with selfless virtue yet makes no claim over them. How is this possible? Simply by maintaining emptiness and stillness. Thus one can respond to endless changes without exhaustion. Those who fail to grasp Heaven and Earth's essential "non-benevolence"—instead touting virtue, establishing harsh laws, or demanding obedience through flowery rhetoric—violate cosmic principles and ultimately incur divine and human wrath. Hence the saying: "More doctrines lead to swifter failure; better to hold fast to the center" (shouzhong, maintaining inner equilibrium).

Chai Yuangao explains: Though Heaven and Earth never speak of benevolence, they nurture all things through natural harmony, treating creation like straw dogs—revered during rituals yet disregarded afterward. The sage likewise, while regarding the people as straw dogs, attends to them as meticulously as when first crafting the effigies, ensuring none are neglected. The cosmic mechanism resembles both bellows and triple-pipe flutes—only inner emptiness allows Qi to circulate. Human breathing, state governance, and self-cultivation follow the same principle: only with inner vacuity can one respond fluidly, only through emptiness can action be ceaseless. Flaunting virtue or boasting achievements pales before abiding in the centered Way.

(Note: Concepts like "straw dogs" (chugou) and "bellows" (tuoyue) originate from Chapter 5 of the Daode Jing. Laozi uses sacrificial effigies to illustrate Heaven and Earth's impartiality toward all things, and the bellows to symbolize the function of emptiness.)

A concluding reflection

When words have said all they can, they reach their end. How much better to preserve and nourish the spirit in emptiness and stillness, and to take Heaven and Earth as one’s own body?

Su Jingjing says:

The Daodejing speaks of “Heaven and Earth are not benevolent,” but it would be better to speak of “keeping to the center.” In ancient times, people made dogs of straw for sacrifices. During the ceremony, they were respectfully presented; once it was over, they were discarded. The straw dogs served only for the ritual, then passed away. Though Heaven and Earth bring forth and nourish the myriad things, they do not consider themselves benevolent. Though the sages nurture the people, they do not consider themselves benevolent either. They are like straw dogs: used when the rite calls for them, discarded when it is done. Past and passing away are both forgotten. How could they claim benevolence for themselves?

The tuo (bellows) and the yue (pipe) are different uses of the same kind of tube: in music, the yu-yue is a flute; in a lock, the guan-yue is a key; beside a smelting furnace, they are the bellows and air pipe. The bellows draw in air, and the pipe receives it and blows it onward into the furnace. This breathing in and out is the alternation of Yin-Yang and the turning of the four seasons; it is the mechanism by which life continues without end. Yin-Yang join, and the myriad things come forth; waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, are Yin-Yang in motion, like the bellows breathing in and out. Emptiness receives the air, and as the air moves, it flows out again and again, without being depleted or brought to a stop. The bellows can draw in air and the pipe can blow it out because their insides are empty. If they were packed full, the person blowing could not send air through them.

Heaven and Earth are like a great furnace and bellows, while creation and transformation are the great smith. Amid the in-and-out breath of Yin-Yang, the myriad things arise and unfold of themselves, diminish and grow of themselves. How could they claim benevolence for themselves? Some see Heaven and Earth’s power to bring forth the myriad things and try to explain that power fully in words. They do not understand that Heaven and Earth cannot be fully explained in words. Too many words often lead to an impasse. Better to fall silent, forget words, and keep to the “empty center” of the bellows and pipe. Then one can see that life continues without end through the natural workings of Yin-Yang Qi, without anyone deliberately setting out to be benevolent.

The Layman of the One-Origin Hermitage says:

Heaven and Earth in their dealings with the myriad things, and the sages in their dealings with the people, do not wear benevolence on their faces with tender solicitude. They simply let things and people arise and transform of themselves, without obstructing them. It is like making a dog of straw for a sacrifice: it is presented when the rite calls for it, then discarded once the rite is over. There is no private liking or dislike; things simply follow the circumstances. Besides, waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, are constant principles. Heaven and Earth and the sages can only follow them. What else can they do?

A Plain-Language Interpretation

The Main Idea of the Collected Commentary

The sage simply allows people and all things to live in accord with their own nature. He does not use violent storms to batter them, nor harsh policies and laws that run against the seasons to obstruct them. This is the fullest expression of benevolence.

A bellows opens and closes. Because its interior is empty and does not collapse, each movement sends out more and more air. Increase and decrease, fullness and depletion, emptiness and substance alternate in an unending cycle. Heaven and Earth, and the sage in his dealings with all things and the people, work in the same way. An earlier Confucian scholar said: “The movement and stillness of Heaven and Earth cannot spread outward unless they first draw inward.” That is the meaning here. From this we can infer that, between speaking and keeping silent, talking too much leads repeatedly to dead ends, because it only spreads outward and never draws inward. Holding to the center, by contrast, allows one to remain empty without collapsing, and so one does not reach an impasse.

Lu’s “Collected Addenda”

All things are born through Heaven and Earth, yet Heaven and Earth ask nothing of them in return. The people are governed through the sage, yet the sage asks nothing of them in return. It is like the straw dogs made for a sacrifice: the spirits do not depend on the straw dogs. Precisely because there is no seeking and no private interest, there can be no favoritism or special affection. Thus Heaven and Earth do not claim benevolence for themselves, yet their great beneficence is present of its own accord; the sage does not claim to be benevolent, yet great benevolence comes about of its own accord. The people need not thank the sage for his De, and all things need not thank Heaven and Earth for giving them life. How do we know this? I see the space between Heaven and Earth as being like a bellows, moving without intention. The bellows has no intention, and so its air flows without end; Heaven and Earth have no intention, and so their generative work never ceases. Therefore, good governance does not depend on many words. Words without substance lead nowhere; acting in this way repeatedly reaches an impasse. Better to practice Wuwei (non-action) and silence: this is the way of holding to the center.

Supporting Evidence from Other Masters

Zhuangzi: Before the straw dogs are placed on the altar, they are kept in a bamboo chest, covered with embroidered cloth, while the ritual officiant fasts and carries them respectfully. Once the sacrifice is over and they have been displayed, passersby trample them and woodcutters take them for kindling. That is all. To put them back in the chest and cover them again with embroidered cloth would be strange. Nowadays, some people bring out the “old straw dogs” used by the ancient kings and hold them up as treasures. Are they not bound to meet the same fate—trampled by passersby and burned by woodcutters? What a pity.

Wenzi, speaking in Laozi’s name: The Way of Heaven and Earth takes De (Virtue/Power) as its substance and the Dao (the Way) as its foundation; all things each fulfill their own nature. Its subtlety lies within. It does not prize itself for its achievements, and so it does not depend on achievements to stand firm. It does not regard rank as a source of honor, nor rely on fame to become manifest. It needs no ritual to be dignified and no weapons to be strong. Thus the Dao stands firm without issuing commands, and shines brightly without boasting.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Not discerning, the Dao stands established without teaching; it does not take away people’s abilities. It illuminates clearly, yet—

The Dao is already established, yet it does not impose instruction recklessly or take away what is proper to each person. It sees everything clearly, yet—

—it does not interfere, and so does not harm the workings of things. To teach the Dao by force goes against De and harms—

—it does not obstruct the natural course of things. To insist on “teaching the Dao” goes against De; to insist on intervening in the myriad things harms them. Yin-Yang, the four seasons, and the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—belong to one Dao, yet each follows its own principle. The myriad things come from one source, yet take different forms. The wise do not need to lecture one another, and the capable do not need to force one another to accept what they offer. The sage therefore establishes laws and standards to guide the people’s hearts and help each person return to what is natural. Thus, the living feel no debt of gratitude for De, and the dead bear no resentment.

Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs. As for compassion, love—

—benevolence, and righteousness, these are narrow paths. Those with narrow minds enter the vast and lose their way; those who focus only on what is near travel far and become confused.

The sage’s Dao enters the vast without losing its way and travels far without becoming confused. By remaining constantly empty and still, one can reach the utmost. This is called the De of Heaven.

“Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.” (Straw dogs were straw effigies used in ancient sacrifices and discarded afterward. The image suggests that things each have their time, and are not clung to.) Compassion, love, benevolence, and righteousness are narrow paths. A narrow-minded person enters the vast and loses their way; someone concerned only with what is near travels far and becomes confused. The sage’s Dao enters the vast without losing its way and travels far without becoming confused. By remaining constantly empty and still, one can reach the utmost. This is called the “De of Heaven.”

Shitan says: Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not—

—benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs. Heaven and Earth take the life-giving of things as their concern, so why call them “not benevolent”? Because their concern extends throughout the myriad things, yet they themselves have no partiality.

The sage takes Heaven and Earth’s life-giving concern as his own, so why, too, call him “not benevolent”? Because the sage uses his feelings to discern the affairs of the world, yet has no personal attachments. Straw—

—dogs are sacrificial objects, as explained in the Zhuangzi. To regard the myriad things as straw dogs means that their coming into being and their decay each have their own time. Each thing is left to its own place; those who live simply live, without knowing why they do so. The sage, too, lets the people—

—live and nourish themselves, work and rest of their own accord. Since he keeps no thought of himself in these matters, it is said: Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? Empty, yet never exhausted; set in motion, and it gives out all the more. What allows life to arise and continue without end between Heaven and Earth—

—is much like a bellows that can keep sending out air. Empty, yet never exhausted: Heaven and Earth give life to the myriad things without being constrained by them. In other words, they are not made to serve the myriad things. Set in motion, and it gives out all the more: the air is never exhausted, and Heaven and Earth’s creation of the myriad things is likewise never exhausted.

More words bring exhaustion; better to hold to the center. “More words bring exhaustion” means that if we use many words to describe Heaven and Earth and the sage—

—Heaven and Earth and the sage cannot in fact be fully described. “Exhaustion” means that even many words eventually run out.

Shitan says: Heaven and Earth take the life-giving of the myriad things as their concern, yet are called “not benevolent.” Why? Because their concern extends throughout the myriad things, while they themselves have no private interest. The sage takes Heaven and Earth’s life-giving concern as his own, yet is also called “not benevolent.” Why? Because the sage uses his feelings to discern all affairs, yet has no personal attachments. Straw dogs were objects used in sacrifices, as explained in the Zhuangzi. To treat the myriad things as straw dogs means that their coming into being and their decay each have their own time. Each thing is left to its own place; the living live of their own accord, without knowing why they live. The sage likewise lets the people live, nourish themselves, work, and rest of their own accord. He keeps no thought of himself as a benefactor, so it is said again that Heaven and Earth are not benevolent, and the sage is not benevolent.

Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? Empty, yet never exhausted; set in motion, and it gives out all the more. The reason life arises and continues without end between Heaven and Earth is much like a bellows that can keep sending out air. “Empty, yet never exhausted” means that Heaven and Earth give life to the myriad things without being constrained by them—that is, they are not made to serve the myriad things. “Set in motion, and it gives out all the more” means that the air is never exhausted, and Heaven and Earth’s creation of the myriad things is likewise never exhausted.

“More words bring exhaustion; better to hold to the center.” This means that if we use many words to describe Heaven and Earth and the sage, they cannot in fact be fully described. “Exhaustion” means that words, however numerous, eventually run out. Better to hold to the center and remain still: this is the best course.

Words will eventually reach their limits and fail to express everything. Since no image or concept can describe it fully, it is better to remain inwardly centered in emptiness and stillness. Only then can we grasp the root from which all things in Heaven and Earth ceaselessly arise and renew.