《通玄真經(一)》Vol. 12

In ancient times, the Perfected Ones (the enlightened sage-rulers of antiquity) could harmonize the two Qi (vital energies) of Yin and Yang, connecting with heaven and earth through breath regulation. All living beings revered their De (Virtue/Power), and the myriad things existed in perfect harmony. Governance during this era was subtle yet thorough, preserving the world's natural purity and simplicity. While this primal simplicity remained unbroken, all things flourished in their optimal state (internally embodying luminous De, externally harmonizing creation, bringing universal peace where each found its place without conflict, allowing all to live freely).

By the era of Fuxi, as the world's decline began, humanity awakened from primal ignorance, seeking to shed childlike innocence and comprehend the principles of heaven and earth. During this transition, De became fragmented and impure (Fuxi created the Bagua [Eight Trigrams] to commune with spirits, invented knotted cords for record-keeping, and devised nets for hunting and fishing. As people emerged from ignorance, rulers gradually lost touch with fundamental governance, and De grew disordered—marking decline compared to antiquity).

During the reigns of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, they systematized celestial patterns and calendars, regulated Yin-Yang, and thus commanded the people's reverent gaze and attentive ears. Though well-governed, this era lacked true harmony (Shennong crafted farming tools to teach agriculture; the Yellow Emperor established ceremonial robes. They cleared blockages between Yin-Yang, suppressed chaotic Qi, invented writing, formulated calendars, and balanced the Wuxing [Five Phases], fearing cosmic disorder. People obeyed rulers with awestruck compliance under strict moral transformation—hence the absence of harmony).

By the Xia and Shang dynasties, human desires were seduced by external things, with cleverness directed outward at the cost of life's authentic essence (these eras saw rising greed lured by material temptations; flaunting intelligence while losing inner truth). Continuing into the Zhou dynasty, pristine customs dissipated, simple Qi disintegrated, as society abandoned the Dao (the Way) for artifice, corrupting De in its conduct. Cunning stratagems emerged—some imitated sages for fame, used grandiose rhetoric to manipulate crowds, and embellished poetry and texts for reputation. All sought worldly standing through clever deception, forfeiting the Dao's foundation. Thus emerged an age of lost innate nature and moral decay.

This scripture reveals the root causes of moral decline by contrasting the social conditions between the era of ancient sage-kings and the declining period of the Zhou dynasty. The text points out that moral degeneration did not occur suddenly—it has been a gradual process spanning millennia from the times of Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor to the present. During the Zhou dynasty, people mistook hypocrisy and cunning for righteousness, regarded superficial cleverness as virtue, and sought fame by flaunting false morality, completely deviating from the fundamental Dao (the Way).

True adepts (zhiren, "perfect persons") pursue the return of their innate nature to the state of emptiness, allowing their minds to roam freely in the void. Yet worldly people artificially elevate virtue, distort their true nature, become internally troubled by the "five viscera" (referring to emotional desires), forcibly pursue knowledge beyond their capacity, and seek reputation through clamor and ostentation. Adepts of the Dao do not act this way, for deliberately displaying virtue obscures one's true nature, and distorting innate qualities severs the lifeforce.

Those who attain the Dao perceive the essence of life and death, understanding the true meaning of honor and disgrace. Even if the whole world praises them, they won't strive harder; even if the whole world condemns them, they won't be discouraged—this is the key to mastering the highest Daoist principles. Every era has such adepts, though they are exceedingly rare. They maintain their true nature amidst the flashy hypocrisy of the mundane world, nourishing their spirit (shen) in the realm of emptiness and tranquility. They neither boast of virtue nor flaunt abilities—neither life nor death can alter their resolve, neither gain nor loss can disturb their mind. In contrast, modern seekers of knowledge violate their innate nature to pursue fame, chasing empty reputation to elevate their status, resulting in rampant wickedness and the withdrawal of true virtue. Such behavior neither brings peace to the world nor personal tranquility.

Laozi mentions that ancient sage-kings ruled the world with unbound hair (beifa) and folded collars—their virtue (de) nurtured all things without harm, gave without taking. Though people wore different clothing, all felt gratitude for their kindness. In that era, yin and yang were harmonized, all things flourished abundantly—one could peer into birds' nests and lead wild beasts by a leash. The ancient rulers governed with disheveled hair yet enabled people to live in peace, never plundering public resources. Thus the seasons harmonized, all things followed their order, and even birds and beasts showed no fear of humans. But when the world declined, creatures became threats, forcing people to smelt iron and forge weapons for defense. Facing calamity, people sought expediency; confronting danger, they prepared tools—each using cleverness to avoid harm and pursue gain. Therefore, one cannot rigidly cling to old ways, nor can tools remain unchanged forever—this is why the ancient kings established laws and measures.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, the importance of adapting governance to changing circumstances, and second, the method by which sages establish societal norms.

The first part explains that all things in the world are in flux, and thus the names and classifications of things are not fixed. In ancient times, when society declined, human hearts became impure, leading to mutual harm, deceitful schemes, and the creation of weapons for defense. Therefore, the ancient kings reformed laws and institutions without clinging to rigid, unchanging rules. The Five Emperors (Huangdi, Zhuanxu, Diku, Yao, and Shun) governed differently, yet all brought virtue (De) and prosperity to the people. Similarly, the Three Kings (Yu the Great, Tang of Shang, and King Wen of Zhou) achieved greatness through distinct methods, yet their names endured in history—all because they adjusted to the needs of their times. This is like the master musician Shi Kuang tuning his instruments: though the pitches vary, they are all measured against a standard and thus harmonious. A true musician can compose because he grasps the fundamental principles. Likewise, governing a state requires understanding the root—just as the five musical notes revolve around the central "gong" tone, the people revolve around their ruler.

The second part describes the wisdom of ancient sage-kings in establishing societal structures. They observed celestial phenomena, geographical features, and human affairs, harmonizing yin-yang and the four seasons while studying the characteristics of mountains, rivers, and land to develop agriculture and address hunger, cold, and disease. Based on human relations, they created rituals and music (Li-Yue) and promoted the Dao of benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi) to regulate ethical conduct. They used the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to establish familial bonds between father and son, musical tones to define the ruler-minister relationship and build the state, and the cycle of seasons to set the order of elder and younger, forming the structure of society.

The text concludes by emphasizing true wisdom: those who create rituals and music should not be bound by them; those who craft tools should not be limited by them; those who establish laws should not be confined by them. Excessive attachment to form risks straying from the original intent of the Dao.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles for governing the world. Establishing hierarchical order according to the four seasons, demarcating administrative regions, creating state management systems, and founding the Imperial Academy (the highest institution of learning in ancient times) to educate the people—these constitute the essential framework of statecraft. Following the Dao leads to success, while opposing it brings failure. All things in the world cannot remain perpetually tense without relaxation, nor eternally prosperous without decline—only sages can achieve enduring prosperity.

When sages first created music, their purpose was to return the spirit (Shen) to its original purity, eliminate decadence, and restore innate nature. Yet in times of decline, music becomes unrestrained and indulgent, drowning in sensual pleasures while disregarding ritual norms, ultimately leading to the fall of states. When sages first devised writing, it was to manage affairs, ensuring the forgetful would remember and the wise could record. But in decline, writing is misused to forge documents, exonerate criminals, and even frame the innocent.

The original purpose of establishing imperial gardens was to prepare sacrificial offerings for ancestral temples and train soldiers for emergencies. Yet in decline, they become hunting grounds for indulgence, encroaching on farmers' seasons and exhausting the people's strength. Honoring the virtuous was meant to promote moral transformation and impartial judgment, placing the worthy in high positions and the capable in key roles, spreading benevolence for all to appreciate. But in decline, it devolves into factionalism, mutual recommendations among cronies, with the wicked in power and the virtuous in retreat.

The Dao of heaven and earth follows the principle that things reverse upon reaching their extremes—overflowing leads to loss. Thus, sages reform institutions when flaws emerge and renew methods when matters conclude. The key lies in maintaining harmony, while failure stems from abusing authority. The sage's way of governance is this: without cultivating ritual propriety, righteousness, integrity, and shame, one cannot stand firm; without these virtues among the people, they cannot be governed. Without understanding ritual and righteousness, laws cannot rectify behavior. Without esteeming goodness and abolishing evil, people won't aspire to propriety. Without ritual and righteousness as foundation, laws cannot function properly. Laws may punish the unfilial but cannot make people filial; they may penalize thieves but cannot make people honest.

This passage elucidates the principles of selecting talent and governing the state. Those in high positions must establish clear standards of preference to guide the people, regulate behavior through praise and criticism, draw close to the virtuous while distancing themselves from the unworthy. In this way, punishments may be set aside, ritual propriety (Li) can flourish, and the virtuous will be properly employed.

The most outstanding talents in the world may serve as the Three Dukes (the highest ancient official positions), the finest in a province as the Nine Ministers (high-ranking central officials), the most capable in a state as the Twenty-Seven Grandees, and the most exemplary in a village as the Eighty-One Scholars (these numbers symbolize a complete bureaucratic system). Establishing offices and assigning responsibilities means employing the worthy while eliminating the wicked, making these talents the sovereign's capable assistants in governing the realm.

Talents are categorized into several grades: those whose wisdom surpasses ten thousand are called "Heroes" (Ying), those surpassing a thousand are "Outstanding" (Jun), those exceeding a hundred are "Eminent" (Jie), and those surpassing ten are "Distinguished" (Hao). True talent understands the patterns of Heaven and Earth, comprehends human affairs, possesses magnanimity to embrace the multitude, bestows kindness sufficient to influence distant lands, and wields wisdom capable of weighing advantages—this is the standard of a "Hero."

Virtue (De) sufficient to transform the people, conduct aligned with the Dao, integrity that wins hearts, and discernment that shows compassion for subordinates—this is the standard of the "Outstanding." Actions worthy of emulation, wisdom to resolve dilemmas, trustworthiness to keep covenants, incorruptibility to distribute resources, deeds that can be followed, and words that convey principle—this is the standard of the "Eminent." Diligence in duty without negligence, adherence to righteousness without factionalism, refusal to compromise in adversity, and restraint from improper gain—this is the standard of the "Distinguished."

Heroes, Outstanding, Eminent, and Distinguished are each placed according to their capacity, like a tree from root to branch, where the essential governs the secondary. When those above lead, those below respond; within the Four Seas, all unite in shared virtue, abandoning greed and baseness while aspiring to benevolence and righteousness. Governing the people thus becomes as natural as the wind bending grass.

If unworthy individuals are set to oversee the virtuous, even harsh punishments cannot suppress wickedness, for the small cannot restrain the great, nor the weak command the strong—this is the natural order of Heaven and Earth. Thus, enlightened rulers promote worthy talents to achieve merit, while foolish rulers appoint those like themselves. Observing whom a ruler employs reveals whether the realm is well-governed or in chaos; examining his associates distinguishes the worthy from the unworthy. The sage employs each according to their ability, ensuring offices do not overstep their bounds, and the world naturally attains peace.

In the Tongxuan Zhenjing (Scripture of Pervading Mystery), Laozi observes that excessive emphasis on ritual propriety is like carving away human nature and distorting natural emotions. Eyes long to see but are restrained by rules; hearts yearn for joy but are confined by etiquette. People perform reverent bows and ceremonial kowtows like circling birds, yet dare not touch delicacies before them or drink fine wine freely. Outer behavior becomes shackled, while inner De (virtue, one's natural disposition) is suppressed—this violates the Dao's harmony of Yin-Yang and harms life's innate authenticity, leaving one trapped in lifelong sorrow like a prisoner.

Why does this happen? Because those who devise rituals fail to investigate the root causes of human desires, merely prohibiting them outright. They neglect the source of joy, focusing only on restraining it. This is like confining a wild beast in a pen without mending the fences, hoping to tame its nature; or like trying to stem a flooding river with bare hands—utterly futile. Thus, once desire's floodgates are opened, attempts to remedy the damage become lifelong struggles.

When ritual and music systems reach extremes, they breed hypocrisy and affectation. Without addressing desires through their root in "non-desire" (wuyu) or guiding joy back to its origin in "non-attachment" (wule), neither desire nor joy can be regulated. Unrestrained joy leads to indulgence; ritual's failure to guard against excess results in laxity. It resembles releasing beasts from their pens or breaching dikes while hoping to stop the current—once authenticity is lost, the multitudes lose their way beyond return.

So-called ritual propriety, in truth, suppresses genuine feelings and seals off desires, forcibly binding the self with moral codes. Though inner emotions churn like nausea and the body suffers as if starved or parched, one must endure the strain. Thus, few attain their natural lifespan under such constraints. Rituals cannot eliminate desire—they merely suppress it; music education cannot erase joy—it only restrains it. Better than making people fear punishment to deter theft is ensuring they never conceive the thought. Without stirring greed, what need is there for restraint? Without hoarding wealth, why fear robbery?

Laozi concludes: When something's futility is understood, even the covetous reject it; when its value remains obscure, even the upright refuse to yield. Rulers who lose their states and lives perish precisely because they fail to grasp this truth. (Here "sheji" refers to state power, while "death at others' hands" denotes a tragic end.)

The things that people in the world chase after with laughter and amusement are often driven by desire (how severe indeed are the calamities brought by desire!). It's as useless as waving a fan in winter or wearing fur in summer—all things in the world ultimately turn to dust (precisely because these things are ultimately useless and all worldly things will decay, the true Dao lies in wuwei [non-action], while misfortune always befalls those consumed by greed). Like stirring boiling water with a spoon hoping to stop it from boiling, which only makes it boil more fiercely, those who understand fundamental principles know to simply remove the firewood (the best way to approach the great Dao is to eliminate desires; the key to stopping boiling lies in removing the fire source).

Laozi said: Following one's natural disposition is called "Dao," and preserving one's innate nature is called "De [Virtue]." It is only when people lose their innate nature that benevolence and righteousness need to be emphasized. The glorification of benevolence and righteousness, in fact, signifies the decline of Dao and De. When purity and simplicity dissipate, rituals and music are used to adorn the surface; when standards of right and wrong become confused, the common people are bewildered. When people begin to covet pearls and jade, the world falls into contention (after the Dao and De decline, benevolence and righteousness cannot restrain selfish desires, and rituals and music cannot curb greed. When a few advocate extravagance, the masses follow suit, leading to chaos).

What is called ritual was originally meant to distinguish between noble and humble, high and low; what is called righteousness was originally meant to harmonize relationships between ruler and subject, father and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife. But by the end times, ritual becomes superficial courtesy masking mutual scheming, and righteousness degenerates into a means of bribery and favor. Rulers and ministers accuse each other, and family members turn against one another. Just as stagnant water breeds insects that kill one another and piled-up earth gives rise to flesh-eating beasts, excessive emphasis on ritual and music instead breeds hypocrisy and deceit (this is like raising a fire to burn oneself or throwing oneself into water to drown. Ritual and righteousness themselves are harmless, just as fire and water have no intent to harm—used correctly, they bring fortune; misused, they bring calamity).

In governing a nation in its decline, instead of focusing on nurturing the fundamental well-being of the people, they destroy simple and honest customs, erode innate purity, and confuse standards of right and wrong. They mistake clarity for turbidity, causing life to lose its direction. Laws run counter to Dao and righteousness, while actions conflict with benefit. The opposition between rich and poor becomes extreme, and the gap between ruler and servant becomes irreconcilable. When goods are abundant, people are modest and yielding; when they are scarce, they contend. Yielding gives rise to ritual and righteousness, while contention leads to violence and chaos. Thus, excessive desires make governance difficult, and insatiable greed leads to endless strife. In times of peace, even petty people abide by the law, but in chaotic times, even gentlemen commit wrongdoing, and the law cannot restrain them.

In the Tongxuan Zhenjing (Scripture of Pervading Mystery), Laozi describes the perverse actions of rulers during times of decline: They quarry mountains to seize gold and jade, pry open clams to search for pearls, and smelt bronze and iron, disrupting the natural growth of all things. They slit open the bellies of pregnant animals, set fire to wilderness vegetation, destroy birds' nests and crush their eggs, causing phoenixes to cease soaring and qilin to vanish. They fell trees to build lofty towers, burn forests for hunting, drain lakes to catch fish, pile up earth mounds for dwellings, dig deep for drinking water, dredge rivers to create ponds, fortify city walls for defense, and capture wild beasts for domestication. These actions throw Yin-Yang into disarray, disrupt the sequence of the four seasons, bring thunderbolts that destroy creation, and summon frost that wreaks havoc—over half of all living things wither prematurely, and plants wither in summer itself.

Tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang possessed cities that were not unlofty, silks and jades that were not scarce, beauties that were not lacking, nor granaries that were not full. Yet they swiftly brought about the ruin of their ancestral temples, the severing of sacrifices, death at others' hands, and the ridicule of all under heaven. Thus it is said: Heaven's mirror is never distant—the lessons of the Xia and Shang dynasties stand as clear testimony. They divided mountains, rivers, and valleys to demarcate territories, tallied populations to enforce control, erected barriers and traps for defense, prescribed robes and colors to distinguish nobility from commoners, and used rewards and punishments to separate the worthy from the unworthy—only to incite warfare, breed resentment and strife, and unleash wanton slaughter of the innocent and punishment of the guiltless everywhere.

Laozi points out that when an era is about to lose the principle of life (性命之理), it is like the gathering of Yin energy. The ruler, benighted and uncomprehending, allows the great Dao to be abandoned and Virtue (De) to fade unmanifested, whereupon all manner of aberrations arise. Heaven and earth cannot but undergo upheaval, and both humans and the myriad creatures inevitably suffer calamity and peril. Just as the decline of the Zhou saw three great rivers run dry, and the weakening of Jin brought the collapse of Mount Shalu, so the impending rise of a state must be heralded by auspicious signs, while its impending fall is foretold by ominous portents.

This scripture depicts contrasting visions of societal chaos and sage governance:

When rulers defy the Dao and act contrary to heaven's way, the seasons fall into disorder and heaven-earth lose their natural rhythms. The sovereign becomes restless, officials shirk responsibilities, ministers flatter and undermine proper order, while family members grow distant. Deceitful sycophants whisper schemes, inflating the ruler's arrogance to exploit the chaos for personal gain. Thus ruler and ministers become estranged, kin grow apart, fields lie fallow, and roads stand empty of travelers. Gold accumulates yet none remain incorruptible; jade fills chests yet serves no real purpose. Even the divination tortoise shells lie empty-bellied - daily consultations prove futile.

The realm fractures as warlords establish separate regimes amidst crumbling customs. Abandoning fundamental principles, they impose harsh laws while squabbling over trivial gains. Half the people's wealth is confiscated, wars are waged at whim, cities stormed and lands seized, leaving corpses strewn across battlefields. Chariots run rampant, fortresses tower high, soldiers marched to certain death. Even victorious expansions leave hundreds of thousands dead, with countless elderly and weak perishing from hunger and cold. Thus the world loses all peace and stability.

(The text particularly notes: Tyrannical rulers of degenerate ages expand territories through brute force, sacrificing countless lives for petty gains, creating endless bloodshed - how could this be considered governance aligned with the Dao?)

Then sages emerge according to the times, establishing the Dao and De (Virtue) as foundations, supported by humaneness and righteousness. Nearby regions contribute wisdom while distant lands are moved by virtuous governance. The realm reunifies, establishing enduring legacies. Slanderers are dismissed, petty disputes settled, cruel punishments abolished, cumbersome policies simplified. Gossip ceases and factionalism ends. Cunning minds return to natural law, bodily toil gives way to simplicity, clever artifice yields to genuine wisdom. Aligning with the great Dao, all things return to their original nature.

(Explanation: The sage isn't one who creates circumstances, but who skillfully responds to them. When chaos reaches its extreme, sages emerge to restore order, eliminate cruelty, and shelter the people. This is heaven's chosen timing, never interrupted midway.)

Concluding with Laozi's metaphor: The Feng River's ten-fathom depths remain transparent, revealing gold and stones at its bottom - illustrating how the sage's inner clarity naturally manifests through virtuous conduct.

When water is too clear, fish and turtles will not dwell there (meaning overly clear water drives fish away, just as overly harsh governance drives people away). Crops cannot grow on bare rocks, and deer avoid treeless mountains for lack of shelter. Thus, if governance mistakes severity for insight, cruelty for wisdom, harshness toward subordinates for loyalty, and excessive calculation for merit—such methods are like forcibly stretching leather, which inevitably leads to rupture (excessive harshness in governance will fail, just as overstretched leather must tear). Lenient policies foster simplicity in the people; oppressive policies breed cunning (when rulers are overly shrewd, the people grow restless).

Laozi says: Govern the state with uprightness (zheng), wage war with unorthodox strategies (qi). First establish an unshakable political foundation, then seek victory over enemies. To attack a chaotic foe before putting one’s own house in order is like fighting fire with fire or water with water—like cannot subdue like. Thus, one must prevail through opposition: stillness counters agitation, order counters chaos, satiety counters hunger, ease counters exhaustion. The interplay of upright and unorthodox is like the mutual conquest of water, fire, metal, and wood (Five Phases theory). Used this way, no battle is unwinnable.

When virtue (De) is equal, numbers prevail; when strength is equal, the wise subdue the foolish; when wisdom is equal, the strategist captures the unstrategic (this shows that in contests of upright/unorthodox or wise/foolish, even under equal conditions, the side with greater numbers wins; with equal strength, the wise overcome the unwise; with equal wisdom, the strategic outmaneuver the unstrategic. These tactical principles of mutual conquest are not the fundamental Dao but expedient measures).