《通玄真經(一)》Vol. 10

The Tongxuan Zhenjing (Scripture of Pervading Mystery) primarily expounds on principles of governance and self-cultivation.

The highest ideal of rulership is divided into four levels: Those with superior benevolence (De) can unite the world under their virtue; those with superior compassion can win the hearts of all lands; those with superior righteousness can gain the support of a nation; those with superior propriety can earn the respect of a community. Without these four fundamental virtues, the people will not submit.

Laozi states that the noble person cultivates themselves through stillness and non-action (Wuwei), living with frugality and simplicity. If a ruler maintains inner stillness, the realm below will not be disturbed; without disturbance, the people will harbor no resentment. Conversely, when subordinates are agitated, governance becomes chaotic; when the people resent, virtue declines. In times of political chaos, the wise refuse to offer counsel; when virtue decays, the brave refuse to fight. The enlightened ruler, through cultivating stillness and nourishing virtue with frugality, ensures orderly governance and contented people. Thus, the wise naturally offer strategies, and the valiant willingly serve.

The foolish ruler does the opposite: Though possessing the wealth of the realm and supreme authority, they exhaust the people's strength to satisfy personal desires—indulging in extravagant palaces, pleasure gardens, and rare animals. Consequently, the people struggle like wolves and tigers for survival amidst hunger and cold, while the court parades in embroidered silks. Such rulers hoard useless treasures while denying the people peace, mirroring the Second Emperor of Qin whose excesses doomed his dynasty.

Laozi further observes: Without detachment, one cannot manifest virtue; without tranquility, one cannot plan for the long term; without magnanimity, one cannot embrace all things; without impartial serenity, one cannot discern right from wrong. To govern well, one must see through the eyes of all, listen through the ears of all, think through the minds of all, and strive through the strength of all. Only then can decrees be thoroughly implemented and the people's voices reach the throne. Officials perform their duties faithfully, ministers work in harmony. The ruler neither bestows rewards recklessly in joy nor metes out punishments in anger. Laws are strict yet not harsh; awareness is keen yet not oppressive. Thus, good and evil, right and wrong, become clearly evident each day.

This passage expounds principles of governance and self-cultivation. It first describes how enlightened rulers employ talent: A wise sovereign enables capable individuals to fully utilize their abilities while ordinary people contribute their efforts. Those nearby live in contentment, while distant subjects are moved by his virtue (De). Like riding a chariot effortlessly to travel a thousand miles, or boarding a boat to cross rivers and seas without swimming. Good advice should be heeded even from woodcutters, while erroneous statements must be rejected even if spoken by kings and ministers. Judging right and wrong shouldn't depend on social status—useful strategies matter regardless of the advisor's humble origins, and practical suggestions count more than eloquent words.

The text then criticizes foolish rulers: Unwise monarchs distrust loyal ministers while favoring sycophants. The worthy remain unrecognized, and low-ranking subjects exhaust their loyalty without reward. They obstruct advisors with endless difficulties and punish those offering remonstrance. For such rulers to expect national stability is pure delusion.

Finally, it quotes Laozi's teachings on nurturing life: Those who truly understand valuing life won't harm their bodies through luxury when wealthy, nor exhaust themselves chasing profit when poor. Modern people highly value inherited noble titles yet disregard life itself—isn't this profoundly confused? Only those who cultivate themselves can properly govern the world, and only those who cherish their own bodies can shoulder cosmic responsibilities. If one cannot even preserve ancestral legacies, how could they be entrusted with the world?

[Historical references: "Xuānhuáng" denotes the Yellow Emperor; the "shepherd boy's advice"典故 alludes to when the Yellow Emperor sought governance wisdom from a young herder. "Húhài" was the second Qin emperor, with "Zhào Gāo" being the infamous Qin dynasty minister.]

Wenzi (a Daoist figure) inquired of Laozi about the fundamental principle of governing a state. Laozi replied that the root lies in cultivating oneself. Never has it been heard that one who cultivates oneself well brings chaos to the state, nor that one who is disordered within can govern effectively. Thus, only when one cultivates oneself can De (Virtue/Power) become genuine and pure. (If one cannot even cultivate oneself, how can one govern a state?) The profound mystery of the Dao lies in the fact that a father cannot directly transmit it to his son, nor can a son inherit it directly from his father. The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name. (The eternal Dao cannot be described in words—what can be articulated is not the true Dao. Hence, even between father and son, it cannot be passed down through speech.)

Wenzi then asked: What should a ruler do to win the affection and support of the people? Laozi answered: Follow the timing of Heaven in employing the people, while maintaining a reverent and cautious attitude, as if standing at the edge of an abyss or treading on thin ice. The law of Heaven and Earth is this: Treat the people kindly, and they will support you; treat them unkindly, and they will become your enemies. Historically, the subjects of the Xia and Shang dynasties ultimately turned against the tyrants Jie and Zhou, instead submitting to the virtuous rulers Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou. The people of the Susu Kingdom even rose up spontaneously against their oppressive ruler and pledged allegiance to the Divine Farmer (Shennong). Thus, what the people fear, the ruler must also fear. (What should truly be feared is not the ruler’s authority, but the consequences of mistreating the people.)

Laozi elaborated further: Governing a large state requires following the Great Dao, not getting bogged down in trivialities; a vast territory demands institutions suited to its scale, not narrow-minded restrictions; those in high positions should not complicate governance with excessive details; when instructing the masses, one must avoid harshness. Complicated affairs are difficult to govern; harsh laws are difficult to enforce; excessive demands are difficult to satisfy. If you measure by the inch, errors will inevitably accumulate by the yard; if you weigh by the zhu (an ancient unit of weight), discrepancies will inevitably arise by the dan (a larger unit). Conversely, using larger units like dan and yard reduces errors. Grasping the whole reveals wisdom, while obsessing over details betrays foolishness. (The Great Dao often lies in simplicity; truth is often obscured by ornate words.) Therefore, the sage does not engage in actions that harm rather than benefit governance; the wise do not pursue useless endeavors that only waste resources. Thus, achievements are never too simple, governance never too streamlined, nor demands too few—simple achievements are easily accomplished, and streamlined governance is easily managed.

This scripture elucidates the fundamental principles of governance and personal conduct through metaphorical comparisons.

A river flows far precisely because of its winding course (not by mere scoops of water), a mountain appears lofty due to its gentle slopes (not by handfuls of piled earth), and the great Dao nurtures all things through its unhurried rhythm (not through momentary effort). Just as the small strings of a zither must be taut while the large strings remain relaxed, in governing a state, those of lower status should labor diligently while those above remain at ease (meaning harmony requires proper coordination, just as governance demands each finding their rightful place).

The Way of Heaven teaches us: In the primal chaos of undifferentiated existence, one must align with celestial majesty and breathe in unison with Heaven and Earth. Those who share virtue with Heaven may be called Emperors; those who uphold righteousness may be called Kings; those who achieve merit may be called Hegemons—but those who lack all three will perish. Thus, the highest attainment is to inspire trust without words, embody benevolence without giving, and command awe without anger—this is the state of communion with the Heavenly mind (like the Five Emperors, whose Wuwei [non-action] naturally transformed all things). The next level manifests virtue, sincerity, and authority through acts of generosity, speech, and sternness (like the Three Kings, whose sincerity was outwardly evident). The lowest merely feigns appearances without substance (like the Five Hegemons, whose insincerity rendered them hollow).

The essence of governance lies in its alignment with righteousness: when accordant with the Dao, even few laws bring order; when contrary, countless laws breed chaos. Just as a whale stranded from water falls prey to ants, a ruler who abandons his duties to contend with ministers becomes subordinate to them. Therefore, the enlightened ruler embraces Wuwei [non-action], holding to his fundamental position while letting ministers fulfill their roles, whereas sycophantic officials conceal their wisdom to flatter their sovereign.

This passage elucidates the principles of governance for a ruler. If a monarch fails to employ virtuous and capable individuals, preferring instead to act autocratically, it will lead to the gradual exhaustion of wisdom, ultimately leaving the ruler to bear all responsibilities alone. When subordinates face dilemmas, the ruler becomes incapable of rendering fair judgments; when decrees deteriorate in their implementation, the ruler lacks the power to uphold institutional order.

Should a ruler's wisdom prove insufficient to govern the state, and authority inadequate to enforce punishments, they will be unable to establish proper relations with the people. If both inner emotions (joy and anger) and external desires are openly displayed, conscientious officials will deviate from righteousness to curry favor, while law enforcers will twist justice to follow trends. Rewards bestowed without merit and punishments meted disproportionate to crimes will cause alienation between ruler and subjects, mutual resentment between monarch and ministers, chaotic disorder among officials—yet the ruler's wisdom remains powerless to resolve these issues.

When criticism arises, the ruler's discernment fails to perceive it clearly. Blaming oneself for faults not one's own only wearies the ruler while ministers grow increasingly complacent. This resembles an amateur attempting to chop wood for a master carpenter—rarely does one avoid injuring one's own hand.

The text employs horsemanship as metaphor: competing in speed with racehorses exhausts one without catching up, yet sitting in a chariot holding the reins allows even a horse dying in its traces—with a Bo Le (ancient horse-whisperer) to evaluate steeds and a Wang Liang (legendary charioteer) to drive—to carry an enlightened ruler a thousand li without personal exertion in driving or horse selection. Herein lies the principle of leveraging others' talents.

True statecraft manifests as: achieving through Wuwei (non-action), establishing without personal preference. Any overt action invites criticism, any partiality attracts flattery. Criticism may usurp proper governance, flattery may seduce one from the Dao. Rulers who create institutions yet become constrained by them never truly master their realm. Thus those skilled in establishing systems remain unshaken, for their establishment is formless. Only those attaining the realm of divine transformation remain unconquerable by all things.

When inner desires remain unmanifested, it's called "barring the gate" (Jiong); when external evils cannot penetrate, it's called "sealing." Achieving both inner barring and outer sealing—what cannot then be restrained? This represents the highest realization of governing through Wuwei.

This passage elucidates the principles of governance and alignment with nature's rhythms. When one restrains external actions while maintaining inner clarity ("中扃" refers to the inner gateway of the heart), all endeavors will succeed. Through wuwei (non-action), achievements come naturally; what appears as inaction actually accomplishes great things. The wise ruler neither boasts of accomplishments nor contends for gains, but examines titles and duties according to actual circumstances, allowing each department to fulfill its proper function. The sovereign grasps the grand scheme while delegating specific affairs to officials, simply evaluating their administrative results.

Laozi said: Grain is the foundation of the people's survival, and the people are the foundation of the state. Thus enlightened rulers follow celestial timing, utilize land resources appropriately, and fully employ human potential. In this way all things flourish: felling deadwood in spring, harvesting fruit in summer, storing vegetables and grain in autumn, gathering firewood in winter—ensuring the people's prosperity and eliminating worries about unattended burials ("传尸" means corpses left unburied). The ancient sage-kings' laws decreed: never exhaust entire herds of animals, never drain ponds to catch fish, never burn forests for hunting (all to avoid excessive exploitation). They followed natural patterns: setting no traps before the panther's hunting season, casting no nets before the otter's fishing time, spreading no snares before the hawk's preying period, entering no mountains to fell trees before leaf-fall, lighting no fires before insects hibernate. They killed no pregnant beasts, robbed no bird nests, caught no immature fish, ate no undergrown pigs or dogs (all acting in accordance with seasonal timing without wanton harm). Thus all things flourished like rising steam (for if slaughter violates seasons and plunder becomes indiscriminate, the jing-qi of all creatures ascends to heaven, ultimately harming humanity). This was the ancient sage-kings' method of aligning with seasons and storing resources to achieve national prosperity ("nourishing with measure, taking in season"—never violating natural law). One needn't personally witness or perform every task to benefit the people; with benevolent intent, the populace naturally thrives (by comprehending all things through the heart and treating others through personal example—why must elaborate displays be necessary for thorough preparation?).

Laozi said that the wise rulers of ancient times governed their states with great restraint. When collecting taxes, they considered the year's harvest, assessed the people's reserves, and understood whether the people had surplus or shortage before levying reasonably. This approach not only aligned with the Dao (the Way) of heaven and earth but also spared the people from hunger and cold. Such rulers genuinely cared for their subjects: during famines, they refrained from adding a second course to their meals; when the people suffered from cold, they wore no fur robes in winter. By sharing both joy and hardship with the people, no one in the realm was left to suffer.

Foolish rulers, however, did the opposite. They imposed taxes without regard for the people's capacity, failing to account for their reserves, which left men and women unable to farm or weave in peace to sustain the state. Exhausting their strength and resources, the people might have food in the morning but none by evening, breeding mutual resentment between ruler and subjects. Consider this: one person farming could cultivate no more than ten acres, and the yield from average land would barely reach four dan of grain—enough to sustain an entire family. If disaster struck, they couldn’t even pay the state’s taxes, yet the ruler showed no compassion. Greedy and tyrannical rulers drained the pond to catch fish, squeezing the people to satisfy their insatiable desires, depriving them of heaven’s harmonious Qi (vital energy) and earth’s nurturing bounty.

Laozi elaborated further: the most vital principle between heaven and earth is "harmony." Harmony means the balance of Yin-Yang and the equilibrium of day and night. Thus, all things grow at the spring equinox and ripen at the autumn equinox. Both growth and maturation depend on the subtle workings of harmony. Excessive Yin cannot nurture life, while excessive Yang cannot transform it—only the blending of Yin and Yang achieves the state of harmony.

Therefore, the way of the sage is this: generous yet not lacking authority, stern yet not devoid of warmth, yielding yet not without integrity, strong yet not unkind. Excessive rigidity leads to breaking; excessive softness makes extension difficult. The true essence of the Dao lies in balancing firmness and flexibility. Like the carpenter’s ink line: it can coil and retract or stretch straight; it may be long or short, bent or straight, yet never loses its purpose. The sage emulates this quality (this is the sage’s "harmony": resilience with uprightness, like a master craftsman’s compass—adaptable yet unyielding). Excessive kindness becomes weakness, and weakness erodes authority; excessive severity turns to cruelty, and cruelty destroys harmony; excessive indulgence breeds license, and license undermines discipline; excessive punishment invites calamity, and calamity forfeits the people’s hearts. Thus, the most precious virtue is to grasp the measure of harmony.

Laozi said that a nation endures by following the Dao (the Way, cosmic principles and governance laws), while its downfall stems from obstructing this path. Thus, the sage observes social changes to foresee omens, as the rise and fall of De (Virtue/Power) always manifests signs beforehand. A state that grasps the Dao of survival, though weak now, will inevitably grow strong; while a nation showing signs of decline, though superficially mighty, will ultimately perish.

When a country approaches ruin, even vast territories cannot save it; yet when the Dao prevails, even the smallest force should not be underestimated. A nation's survival does not depend on its size, nor does its demise hinge on expansive lands. Rulers who bring chaos pursue territorial expansion without benevolent governance, covet high positions without cultivating virtue—this abandons the root of survival and invites self-destruction.

(Observing wisdom and folly reveals prosperity or decline—the key lies in virtue, not territory.) If a ruler disrupts the movements of the sun, moon, and stars above (violating natural law) and loses the people's hearts below, who could not replace him? Thus, wise rulers reflect on themselves rather than blame others.

Ancient rulers practiced the Dao at varying depths: profound practice was called Dao-De (the Way and Virtue), shallow practice was called humaneness and righteousness, and superficial adherence was called ritual and wisdom. These six (Dao, De, humaneness, righteousness, ritual, wisdom) form the fundamental principles of governance. The deeper the practice, the greater the blessings; the shallower the practice, the fewer the rewards. If fully realized, all under heaven would submit.

In antiquity, cultivating Dao-De could rectify the world, practicing humaneness and righteousness could govern a state, and upholding ritual and wisdom could stabilize a village. Rulers with profound virtue influenced widely; those with shallow virtue affected little. Thus, the Dao of governance cannot be established by force, won through coercion, or gained by greed and competition. To stand firm in the world, one must extend oneself to others; to prevail, one must win hearts; to gain the world, one must receive it from the people, not seize it.

Just as the feminine (the receptive) overcomes the rigid through softness, yielding prevails over force. Only through humaneness and righteousness can one truly gain; by not contending, none can contend against you. The Dao operates in the world like rivers flowing into the sea. According to heavenly law, what is forced will fail; what is clutched will be lost. The more one chases fame, the more it eludes. Even if temporarily obtained, it cannot be retained. True renown is not seized—it is bestowed by the world. What the people rally to is virtue.

Thus it is said: Rulers with supreme virtue attract all under heaven; those with supreme humaneness draw allegiance within the four seas; those with supreme righteousness win over a state; those with supreme ritual command a village. Without these four virtues, the people will not follow. To resort to arms when the people do not submit is to walk a perilous path. Hence, weapons are instruments of ill omen.

This scripture presents a dialogue between Laozi and Wenzi elucidating the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) with humaneness, righteousness, and ritual propriety. Laozi asserts that military force is an ominous instrument to be used only as a last resort—even victory in war merits no praise. Conflict brings only death and desolation, thus the noble person should focus on cultivating Dao-De rather than recklessly employing violence. While cultivation of virtue admits varying depths, it must never be abandoned, whereas ominous instruments (military force) must never be wielded lightly.

When Wenzi asks why humaneness and righteousness appear more superficial than Dao-De, Laozi explains: those practicing humaneness constantly measure situations with sorrow and joy, while those practicing righteousness perpetually demonstrate choices and rejections. Yet the world is vast—feelings of sorrow and joy cannot reach all people, nor can government storehouses satisfy every citizen's needs. Therefore, it's better to cultivate Dao-De, aligning with heaven and earth's intrinsic nature, allowing all things to naturally find their proper place. Then the world achieves true abundance. Humaneness and righteousness are merely superficial layers dependent on the foundation of Dao-De.

The great person should stand firmly upon profound Dao-De rather than shallow humaneness. Ritual propriety manifests external form, while humaneness expresses beneficence. Rituals should be established according to human sentiment without excess; humaneness should distribute kindness moderately without extravagance. Grief springs from genuine emotion; funerals demonstrate humane care. Nourishing life means neither demanding the impossible nor prohibiting the achievable—maintaining moderation prevents criticism.

Music was created to bring harmony and joy, not to pursue excessive ornamentation. The wise understand the distinction between life and death, comprehending the proper measure between extravagance and frugality. In eras of decline (when Dao-De deteriorates), words and deeds contradict each other—appearances oppose reality. Rituals become elaborate yet hypocritical; music turns indulgent and licentious; customs degenerate; courts overflow with slander. Therefore, the perfected person (one who has attained Dao) abandons such hollow rituals and music.

This scripture primarily discusses principles of governance and personal conduct.

The text begins with an analogy of horses and chariots: If a person races against a swift horse, they will surely lose, but if the horse is harnessed to a chariot, the horse cannot match the person. This teaches that those skilled in the Dao (the Way) must know how to leverage the strengths of others to accomplish great deeds, using their own expertise to compensate for their shortcomings. When a ruler timely bestows kindness upon the people, they will repay with material support; when a ruler treats them with respect, they will willingly pledge their lives in service. Thus, in times of national crisis, there can be no ruler at ease, and when the ruler is troubled, there can be no ministers indulging in pleasure.

Next, it explores the relationship between virtue (De) and position: When one's virtue exceeds their rank, it is honor; when their salary exceeds their virtue, it invites disaster. To hold high office without virtue is to steal authority; to amass wealth without righteousness is banditry. The sage remains content in poverty and delights in cultivating the Dao, never harming life for desire nor burdening themselves for profit, and never grasping recklessly in violation of righteousness. In ancient times, those without virtue were not honored, those without talent did not hold office, those without merit were not rewarded, and those without fault were not punished.

Regarding the art of employing talent: Ancient sages appointed officials with propriety and dismissed them with righteousness. But in eras dominated by petty men, promotion elevates one to the heavens, while demotion casts them into the abyss. Another horse analogy is used here: When selecting horses, one must not overlook a fine steed due to its leanness; when choosing talent, one must not neglect a worthy person due to their poverty. A fat pig may be slaughtered for a feast, but a bony horse can travel great distances; as long as a minister is loyal, even in poverty, they can achieve great things.

Finally, it emphasizes the proper relationship between ruler and minister: A noble person discerns the truth and does not heed slander. If a minister sees their ruler's faults but does not remonstrate, they are no loyal subject; if they remonstrate and the ruler does not listen, the ruler is unwise. A ruler who does not grieve when the people suffer in hardship is no worthy sovereign. To die for integrity is the duty of a minister; to spare one’s children from hunger and cold is the kindness of a loving father. When a great state serves a small one, it is called adaptability; when a small state provokes a great one, it is rebellion.

This passage expounds principles for personal conduct and governing the world. The first part explains that even if someone ascends to high position, they may later fall into deep abyss. Just as villages respect elders for their seniority, the imperial court distinguishes rank to maintain order (when young and old each keep to their proper roles, calamities find no opening). We honor the powerful because they approach the ruler, revere elders as kin, and respect seniors as elder brothers (nobility through connection with the sovereign, filial piety through familial bonds, propriety through ritual hierarchy).

It then observes that those born to wealth and status easily become arrogant. Few who don't comprehend the true meaning of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) can maintain high position without error (wealth without restraint breeds pride; high rank without understanding of Dao-Virtue inevitably leads to missteps). Diligent study cultivates character, while tireless teaching governs people. With wise teachers and virtuous companions, one seldom strays from the path (learning must follow Dao; receiving instruction transcends social status—like entering an orchid garden where one naturally absorbs its fragrance).

Recognizing worthies demonstrates wisdom; cherishing them shows benevolence; esteeming benevolence reflects righteousness; honoring worthies embodies ritual propriety; taking joy in them reveals true happiness. Ancient masters of governance appeared to practice Wuwei (non-action), yet accomplished everything (creating no artificial disturbances is "non-action"; responding to people's needs is "omni-action"). Governing requires expansive tolerance—with tolerance comes effortless rule; without it, reckless action invites disaster.

Finally, seven metaphors describe the ruler's posture: cautious as crossing winter rivers, vigilant as guarding against neighbors, dignified as a guest, fluid as melting ice without accumulation, simple as uncarved wood, blending as turbid waters, and receptive as mountain valleys. These all convey that governing demands constant reverence ("Yu" means avoiding rashness; "You" signifies harm prevention; "Yan" indicates humility; "Huan" represents non-accumulation; "Dun" embodies natural simplicity).

This passage elucidates the paradoxical wisdom of the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle). What appears turbid and unclear actually dares not display excessive clarity, just as vast things like empty valleys dare not become completely full. When advancing, one dares not rush ahead; when retreating, one dares not compete to be first—this is the practice of maintaining softness and weakness to avoid self-harm, never daring to become arrogant or complacent.

The humble and reverent consciously position themselves in lowly places, respecting others and never daring to hoard or accumulate. This is the conscious practice of self-diminishment, never daring to cling to rigid opinions. They dare not pursue flawless perfection because they understand that incompleteness is the natural state; they dare not deliberately display clarity because they willingly dwell in turbid humility, never daring to seek novelty or distinction; they dare not become excessively full because they recognize their own inadequacies and never dare to be self-righteous.

In truth, the profound mystery of the Dao lies precisely in this: yielding consciously allows one to lead; maintaining softness enables true strength; dwelling in lowliness allows one to surpass others; diminishing oneself results in genuine stability; acknowledging incompleteness leads to wholeness; embracing turbidity gives rise to renewal; recognizing inadequacies cultivates true virtue. The Dao appears to practice Wuwei (non-action), yet in reality, nothing is left undone.

(These are all manifestations of the Dao’s reverse operation: when you consciously step back, others will push you forward; when you diminish yourself, others will give to you. Thus, the world upholds it without feeling burdened, and the people delight in honoring it without ever growing weary.)