《御定道德經註》

This passage elucidates the core philosophy of the opening chapter of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue). The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be defined is not the ultimate, immutable name. "The nameless" represents the origin of heaven and earth (referring to the formless, shapeless nature of Dao that nonetheless gives birth to all creation), while "the named" signifies the mother of all things (referring to Dao's manifested creative power).

Practitioners of the Dao must maintain a state of "constant nothingness" (an empty, luminous mind) to perceive the subtle mysteries of the Dao, while also understanding the application of "constant being" (engagement with worldly affairs) to grasp the Dao's operational principles. Though "being" and "nothingness" appear contradictory, they share the same origin in the Dao, manifesting at different levels. This profound, ineffable quality is called "the mysterious" (xuan), describing the Dao's transcendent reality beyond verbal description. When this mystery reaches its ultimate expression, it becomes the source of all wonders.

Annotations:

1. The "Five Constant Virtues" refer to benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness.

2. "The natural Dao" indicates the self-so (ziran) state of Dao—spontaneous and free from artificial contrivance.

3. "Form without form" describes the practitioner's attainment of a state where both self and objects are forgotten.

Those who cultivate the Great Dao (the Way) manifest in several approaches: some cling to "being" (concrete existence) in their practice, others adhere to "non-being" (emptiness and stillness), while some are attached to both "neither being nor non-being" or simultaneously cling to "both being and non-being." All these practitioners fall into dualistic conceptualizations, failing to realize that "being" and "non-being" are originally an undivided whole.

When "being" and "non-being" completely merge, this state is called "the Mysterious" (Xuan, the profound and ineffable ultimate truth). Yet even this concept of "the Mysterious" cannot fully describe the Great Dao, for beyond it lies the "Mystery within the Mysterious" (Xuan zhi you Xuan), which is the source of all wonders. Nothing in the world surpasses this supreme principle.

Chapter Two explains that when all people recognize what beauty is, the concept of ugliness arises (for true beauty transcends definition—once conceptualized, its essence is lost). When everyone knows what goodness is, the notion of non-goodness appears (true goodness cannot be conceptualized). Thus all things in the world exist in mutual dependence: being and non-being generate each other (all things emerge from "being," yet "being" originates from "non-being"); difficulty and ease complete each other (when difficulty is perceived, ease emerges, and when ease is felt, difficulty follows); long and short manifest through contrast (length requires shortness for definition, and vice versa); high and low depend on each other (the low looks up to the high, while the high needs the low for support); sounds harmonize in response (when one note ends, another answers); front and back follow in sequence (what seems foremost still has what precedes it, and what appears behind still has what follows).

Therefore, the sages who embody the Dao practice Wuwei (non-action, effortless action) in their affairs and teach through "wordless instruction" (leading by example rather than speech). They allow all things to unfold naturally without interference, creating without claiming possession, acting without self-importance, and accomplishing without dwelling on achievements. Precisely because they do not dwell on merit, their accomplishments never fade.

These five thousand words of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) connect with the profound mysteries of heaven above and penetrate the subtlest principles of earth below. Those who seek the Dao through it will attain the Dao; those who govern with it will bring peace to the nation; those who cultivate themselves through it will achieve tranquility of body and mind.

This passage explores the relationship between human nature and emotions. What people commonly perceive as beauty and goodness actually stem from emotional preferences—things seem beautiful when they align with one's emotions, but may not be true beauty; things appear good when they satisfy emotions, yet may not be genuine goodness. Why is this so? It all comes down to emotions taking the lead.

Human nature is fundamentally the same, yet emotional expressions vary. When different emotions interact with external things, tangled preferences and aversions arise. It's essential to recognize that when people define what is beautiful, the concept of "ugliness" simultaneously emerges; when they identify what is good, the standard of "not good" also appears. All things in the world exist in mutual opposition: being (you) and non-being (wu) depend on each other, difficulty and ease complete one another, long and short define one another, high and low contrast with one another, sound requires resonance, and front and back follow each other. Nothing can exist in isolation.

Sages who embody the Dao understand this principle. To restore human nature, one must dissolve biased emotions. They act in accordance with natural laws, engaging in Wuwei (non-action) and teaching without words. In this way, true beauty naturally manifests, and what seems ugly transforms; true goodness naturally reveals itself, and what appears not good shifts accordingly. Thus, there is nothing to discard and no one to abandon. All things develop according to their inherent nature, as if it were always meant to be.

When all things flourish, the sage merely participates in harmony; when they multiply naturally, the sage nurtures them in accordance. What appears as action is simply following the way of things; what seems like achievement is merely responding to necessity. Precisely because they claim no merit, all things revere them as they do heaven and earth and cherish them as they do parents—never forsaking them.

Chapter 3

Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not compete for fame and profit (exalting the worthy stirs rivalry among those who feel inferior); do not prize rare goods, and the people will not steal (valuing rare goods incites theft due to perceived scarcity); do not display objects of desire, and people’s minds will not be disturbed (for temptations like admiration for the worthy or precious goods breed contention and theft). Therefore, the sage’s method of governing is this: purify people’s greed and satisfy their basic needs (eliminating excessive desires).

The mind remains empty (free from distracting thoughts), desires naturally dissolve, and the principles of heaven return—thus the inner self becomes truly fulfilled. By softening the will (refraining from forceful striving), the sinews and bones grow strong (for when the heart is gentle and restrained, undisturbed by desires, the body naturally becomes resilient).

A ruler should keep the people simple and unspoiled, not provoking their cunning or greed. Even if there are clever individuals, they dare not act recklessly. Governing through wuwei (non-action, aligning with the natural order), there is nothing that cannot be properly managed.

The sages understand this: once people recognize what is beautiful, the concept of ugliness arises; once they know what is good, the standard of what is not good appears. Therefore, they do not deliberately exalt the worthy (not that they reject capable people, but they avoid glorifying reputation, which incites competition among the people), so the people return to their natural state without contention. Nor do they overvalue material wealth (not that they discard riches, but they do not emphasize their worth to stir greed), so the people remain content in simplicity and refrain from theft.

The martyr dies for reputation; the greedy perish for riches—these are the roots of chaos. If no one glorifies fame, people will not see its temptation; if no one prizes wealth, they will not perceive its lure, and their hearts will remain unshaken.

Thus, the sage’s way of governance is this: keep the mind empty, and the inner self will naturally be fulfilled (through serenity and wuwei, one aligns with the Dao); keep the will soft, and the body will naturally grow strong (without greed, one attains true vigor). The people are born with desires, but if cunning does not entice them, those desires will not swell. The sage, precisely to prevent the endless proliferation of cleverness, does not provoke insatiable greed. When all people return to their simple nature, even those with insight dare not act recklessly—thus the world naturally settles into governance through wuwei.

Additional commentary on Chapter 4: The Dao itself is empty (the Dao is the formless, nameless origin), yet it contains inexhaustible marvels and never runs dry (as the source of all things, its function is endless). Like an abyss (symbolizing the Dao’s vast depth), it appears hollow yet holds all potential.

The Dao is like the most fundamental source of all things—profound and unfathomable as an abyss, serving as the mother of all beings, hence called the "ancestral root." One should retract their sharp edges (when the wandering mind contacts external objects it creates sharp edges, thus should be withdrawn), dissolve disturbances (when external matters enter the heart they cause chaos, thus should be resolved), harmonize radiance (the original light should be tempered without glare), and blend with worldly dust (dwelling among the multitudes without appearing special). It is so clear and pure that it seems both present and absent—I do not know whose child it is, as if it existed even before the Celestial Emperor (the sovereign who creates all things).

The Dao of Wuwei (non-action) is fundamentally the most empty and tranquil, yet it adapts to all existence. Even with the vastness of heaven and earth and the multitude of all things, the Dao permeates everywhere—the more it is used, the more inexhaustible it becomes. All things may reach fullness, but the Dao never overflows. All things arise from the Dao, yet the Dao never depends on them. It is unfathomably deep—truly the origin of all things.

Everyone possesses the Dao, but only sages can fully realize it. How? Withdrawing sharp edges prevents falling into delusion; dissolving disturbances prevents conflict with the external. By avoiding delusion and conflict, one removes defilements to reveal the original luminous heart. But if one deliberately flaunts this radiance, it becomes an intention to stand apart from the masses. Therefore, one should harmonize this light with worldly dust, using the purest brilliance to engage the most complex mundane affairs without rejecting anything. How could one abandon all things to seek the Dao? Only by realizing the Dao in this complete manner can one maintain clarity and constancy.

Though it exists, no one can truly know it—hence it "seems both present and absent." Though it exists, it ultimately cannot be named—hence "I do not know whose child it is." Yet it cannot be said not to exist—hence "as if it existed before the Celestial Emperor." The "Emperor" is the sovereign who creates all things; all transformations come after, yet the Dao precedes even the "Emperor." Thus, nothing exists before the Dao.

Heaven and earth show no partiality—they treat all things as straw dogs (sacrificial straw figures discarded after use, the most disregarded objects). The sage shows no partiality—they treat the people as straw dogs. Is not the space between heaven and earth like a bellows? (The "tuoyue" was an ancient bellows used in smelting.)

This passage elucidates the philosophical meanings of the "bellows" (an ancient windbox) and "holding to the center" in the Daodejing, along with the profound implications of Chapter Six concerning the "valley spirit" and "mysterious female."

The text first employs the bellows as a metaphor: its outer shell (橐, tuo) serves as the container, while the inner pipe (籥, yue) generates wind. Though seemingly empty, it never collapses—the more it operates, the more wind it produces. This illustrates the nature of the Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe): seemingly void yet containing infinite potential, whose wondrous functions manifest the more it is activated.

Next, it explains "the more one speaks, the sooner one is exhausted; better to hold to the center": excessive words lead to predicaments, whereas maintaining the Middle Way (a state of impartial balance) is preferable. Sages emulate the Dao's nature, governing the world through wuwei (non-interference), just as heaven and earth nurture all things without deliberate intent. Neither heaven and earth nor sages possess the conscious thought of enforcing benevolence; they treat all beings and people as naturally as straw dogs (chugou). Precisely because of this, their benevolence becomes inexhaustible.

Chapter Six interprets the "valley spirit" and "mysterious female": the valley symbolizes the Dao's boundless openness (the "valley spirit" refers to the Dao's divine subtlety), which is eternal and indestructible (deathless). The "mysterious female" represents the hidden feminine principle, akin to a mother giving birth without revealing the process of creation—the Dao generates all things in the same enigmatic way. This creative gateway (the "door of the mysterious female") is the root of heaven, earth, and the myriad beings.

The passage emphasizes three key attributes of the Dao: emptiness that accommodates, naturalness without force, and ceaseless vitality. It reminds practitioners to emulate these qualities—maintaining stillness and openness, avoiding artificial striving, and refraining from excessive speech—to harmonize with the Dao.

All things in heaven and earth arise from the root of Dao (the "heaven-earth root" signifies their origin). The Dao's operation is subtle yet unceasing (mianmian ruocun), ever functioning yet never exhausted (yong zhi buqin). Like a valley that appears empty yet has form, the "valley spirit" (a metaphor for Dao) is utterly formless and imageless. This state of emptiness transcends life and death—only that which is deathless can generate life, and this generative capacity is called the "mysterious female" (xuanpin, referring to the life-originating union of yin-yang). Thus does the Dao give birth to heaven and earth.

When humans comprehend this principle, they can make their physical bodies empty as a valley and their formless spirit-shen (spirit) still as the Dao. Applied effortlessly, this practice naturally aligns with the Dao. Though later generations used this chapter as cultivation guidance, Laozi's original intent was not exclusively about self-cultivation.

Chapter seven explains the principle of heaven and earth's enduring existence. Their longevity stems precisely from not existing for themselves (bu zisheng), but selflessly nurturing all things. Like sages who place themselves after others (hou qi shen) yet gain reverence, or relinquish attachment to their bodies (wai qi shen) yet preserve their lives—this isn't absence of self-interest, but rather achieving self-realization through selflessness (cheng qi si).

Where the previous passage described the Dao generating heaven and earth, this chapter explains how heaven and earth nurture all beings and sages teach the people. The secret of their endurance lies in heaven's ceaseless bestowal of sunlight and rain, earth's tireless nourishment of all things—never hoarding their qi (vital energy) nor halting their growth. This is the state of "not existing for themselves." All creatures depend on heaven and earth for survival, yet it is precisely through selfless giving that heaven and earth achieve their own eternal existence.

This passage conveys two main ideas: the way of the sage in dealing with worldly affairs, and the philosophical analogy of water representing the Dao.

First, it explains the realm of the sage: Those who have attained sagehood understand the true meaning of life, maintaining an eternally unchanging state of mind with a compassion as vast as heaven and earth. Precisely because they don't cling to physical existence, they devote themselves wholeheartedly to benefiting humanity. Because they don't covet personal gain, they paradoxically earn universal respect, receiving official positions, fame, and longevity. This illustrates the principle that "by placing themselves last, they come first; by disregarding their own lives, they preserve them." The sage's mind is luminous, penetrating, and impartial—though they seek no personal advantage, they thereby achieve true self-realization.

Chapter Eight uses water's characteristics to metaphorically represent the highest form of goodness (supreme goodness). Water exhibits three remarkable qualities: nourishing all things without claiming merit; willingly occupying low places people disdain—these attributes make it closest to the essence of the Dao. This manifests concretely in seven forms of goodness:

1. Skill in choosing position (flowing downward)

2. A mind as profound as the abyss (silent and all-embracing)

3. Giving to all creatures without seeking reward

4. Keeping faith in word and deed (round when roundness is needed, square when squareness is required)

5. Governing effectively (cleansing filth, balancing high and low)

6. Adapting to circumstances (taking the shape of whatever contains it)

7. Acting in accord with timing (freezing in winter, melting in spring)

The passage concludes by noting that precisely because water doesn't contend, it incurs no resentment. Sages are likewise—they transcend attachment to the pursuit of "goodness," embodying the same nature as water. This goodness isn't the conventional understanding of virtue, but rather the goodness manifested by the Dao itself. Though water performs meritorious deeds like irrigation and cleansing, it willingly occupies muddy low places—this very quality makes it akin to the Dao.

Water embodies seven virtues yet contends with none, mirroring the sage's nature. Thus the sage dwells in fitting places, their mind still and profound as deep pools. They extend benevolence to all under heaven, speak with cautious sincerity, govern with impartial order, handle affairs with adaptable skill, and act in harmony with the timeliness of things. Though ordinary people may possess virtues, they often face criticism because of their contentiousness. The sage, though endowed with all virtues, never boasts of ability—thus they contend with none, and none in the world bear them resentment.

Chapter Nine elucidates principles of self-cultivation: Forcing retention leads to loss, just as over-sharpened tools break easily. A house filled with gold and jade cannot be kept forever—this warns against greed. Pride during wealth and honor invites calamity—this cautions against arrogance. Withdrawing appropriately after achieving merit aligns with the Dao's natural rhythm. This chapter emphasizes understanding that fullness leads to overflow; rather than straining to maintain excess, one should preserve moderation. Knowing sharp edges break easily, one should sheath brilliance rather than calculate obsessively. Only by maintaining humility when successful can one avoid misfortune and preserve oneself—this is true alignment with the Dao.

Chapter Ten explores methods of mental cultivation: Can one's hun and po (spiritual consciousness) remain inseparably united? Is it possible to achieve an infant's focused breath and supple state? Can the mind's mirror be cleansed of impurities until flawless? Here "mystic vision" (xuanlan) refers to the mind as mirror; "cleansing the mystic vision" means purging mental distractions. Through three rhetorical questions, this chapter establishes three cultivation goals: spiritual focus, breath harmony, and mental clarity.

This passage elucidates core Daoist principles concerning spiritual cultivation and state governance.

Regarding "mystical observation" (xuanlan, the contemplation of profound truths), it suggests that clinging to such observation creates imperfections, and one should relinquish such attachment. In governing a nation, true care for the people isn't achieved through forced effort but through maintaining clarity and wuwei (non-action), whereby the populace naturally becomes cultivated.

The "heavenly gate" (tianmen) refers to the human heart-mind (shen). One should maintain inner stillness like the feminine principle (which Daoism associates with quiet receptivity) – even amid mental fluctuations, one must preserve tranquil stability. Even when comprehending all phenomena, one retains a mindset free from preconceptions, maintaining childlike unknowing.

To nurture all things without possessing them, to act without self-importance, to guide without domination – this constitutes the profoundest "mystical virtue" (xuande). The text explains the relationship between hun (ethereal soul, yang spirit) and po (corporeal soul, yin substance). The sage's mind remains stable with concentrated shen, undisturbed by external matters, whereas ordinary people become distracted by material concerns. The teaching emphasizes unifying hun and po without separation – this forms the foundational method for self-cultivation and attaining longevity.

When shen becomes disordered, qi (vital energy) grows chaotic, causing the strong to become aggressive and the weak fearful. With stabilized shen, qi becomes harmonized, achieving infant-like pliancy. Sages remain unswayed by external matters nor driven by internal qi, thereby reaching transcendent mystical states. Yet even this "mystical perception" must ultimately be relinquished to avoid its entrapment. Importantly, this state isn't mere nihilistic emptiness but manifests through wuwei governance in loving the people and ruling the nation.

Chapter 11 of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) illustrates the interdependence of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) through everyday objects. Thirty spokes converge at the hub (the central wooden block of a wheel), yet it is precisely the hollow space in the middle that allows the axle to pass through and enable the wheel to turn. Clay is kneaded to form vessels, yet it is the emptiness within that makes them useful for holding things. Doors and windows are cut out to build a house, yet it is the vacant interior that makes it livable. Thus, while the solid parts (the wheel's body, the vessel's walls, the house's structure) provide utility, it is the empty spaces (the hub's hole, the vessel's interior, the house's room) that truly serve their purpose.

Chapter 12 further elaborates on the unity of "being" and "non-being." People often focus only on the tangible aspects of things, overlooking the role of emptiness. Just as a wheel turns because of the hollow hub, a vessel functions because of its inner space, and a house shelters because of its vacant interior, these three examples demonstrate that without the solid ("being"), emptiness ("non-being") has no foundation—yet without emptiness, the solid cannot fulfill its function. The true wisdom of the Dao lies in understanding that "being" and "non-being" are inherently inseparable.

Chapter 12

The five colors blind the eyes (what is called "blindness" refers to being deluded by visual pleasures); the five tones deafen the ears (what is called "deafness" refers to being confused by auditory pleasures); the five flavors dull the palate (what is called "dulling" means losing proper taste sensation). Excessive hunting drives the mind to frenzy (what is called "frenzy" refers to mental agitation), and rare treasures lead one to misconduct (rare objects are not daily necessities—pursuing them damages one's Virtue [De]).

Therefore the sage attends to the inner nourishment ("belly" symbolizes the inner self, which receives without grasping) rather than chasing external pleasures ("eyes" symbolize externals—greed can never be satisfied). Thus one should reject external temptations and choose inner fulfillment ("that" refers to external desires, "this" to inner cultivation).

This chapter reveals the crux of the sage's self-cultivation. Those who attain the Dao [Dao] maintain inner stability: they properly appreciate colors, listen to music, savor flavors, hunt in moderation, and use treasures reasonably, remaining centered and unconfused in all circumstances. Without inner mastery, one becomes enslaved by externals—colors blind the eyes, music deafens the ears, flavors numb the palate, hunting incites madness, treasures corrupt conduct—all actions stray from the true path. The more external temptations, the fainter one's innate nature becomes. The sage holds fast to the inner self without chasing externals, embracing all things without being swept away. Thus by valuing inner nourishment over outer pleasures, abandoning desires to return to authenticity, one maintains a mind as serene and clear as still waters.

Chapter 13

Favor and disgrace equally disturb the mind ("favor" means honor and prestige, "disgrace" means humiliation—"disturb" describes unease. "Favor and disgrace disturb alike" means regarding honor as cautiously as disgrace). Valuing great calamity as one values the body ("valuing" implies fear—cherishing the self as one dreads great misfortune).

Why say "favor and disgrace disturb alike"? People usually consider favor as elevation and disgrace as degradation (they only recognize disgrace as lowly). Yet they fail to see that disgrace stems precisely from favor—thus disgrace is not true lowness, while favor is the real degradation. Receiving favor brings anxiety, losing it brings equal anxiety—this is called "favor and disgrace disturb alike" (understanding that favor is true degradation, one neither exults in gaining it nor feels worse upon losing it).

This passage conveys two main philosophical concepts: the distinction between "having a body" and "being without a body," and a description of the ineffable nature of the Dao (the Way).

The first part explains that human suffering and afflictions (great troubles) all stem from attachment to the physical form. The body brings internal worries like illness, while external concerns like honor, disgrace, gain and loss create external troubles. By realizing the body's illusory nature and attaining the state of "forgetting the body," these afflictions naturally dissolve. Those who truly cherish life paradoxically become fit to govern the world, as they remain unburdened by material attachments.

The second part describes the Dao's mysterious qualities: looking at it, one sees nothing - this is called "Yi" (formless smoothness); listening for it, one hears nothing - this is called "Xi" (soundless silence); grasping for it, one touches nothing - this is called "Wei" (imperceptible subtlety). These three characteristics cannot be separated - their unified whole constitutes the Dao. Unlike ordinary things that appear bright above and dark below, the Dao transcends such distinctions entirely. It operates continuously yet defies description, ultimately returning to emptiness. This is form without form, image without image - what we might call the "indistinct and elusive" state.

This passage describes the mysterious characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and the state of ancient adepts who attained it.

Regarding the depiction of the Dao: The Dao is elusive, neither fully present nor entirely absent. Looking ahead, one cannot find its beginning (it has no origin); looking behind, one cannot find its end (it has no conclusion). Those who grasp the Dao, which has existed since antiquity, can govern all things in the present. To comprehend the source of the Dao is to grasp its guiding principle (Daoji).

The Dao has no concrete form—it cannot be seen, heard, or touched. One might reluctantly describe it as "smooth" (yi), "rare" (xi), or "subtle" (wei), yet even the wisest cannot accurately define it. Neither bright nor dark, it operates continuously in an unbroken flow. Attempting to name it only leads back to emptiness. This state of seeming presence and absence can only be called "indistinct and elusive" (huhuang).

The Dao fills heaven and earth yet cannot be grasped. If one thinks it has arrived and goes to meet it, there is nothing ahead; if one thinks it has departed and follows it, there is nothing behind. The Dao is everywhere and nowhere at once. Without distinction between front and back, it transcends past and present. Yet by tracing the origins of all things (the ancient) and observing their present state (the now), those who attain the Dao can hold fast to its eternal nature to govern the present, thereby understanding its source and mastering its timeless law.

Chapter Fifteen speaks of the ancient adepts (those skilled as masters) as profound, subtle, and unfathomable. Precisely because they defy description, one can only attempt approximations: They act with caution, as if crossing a river in winter (yu); they remain ever-vigilant, as if wary of surrounding neighbors (you).

This scripture describes the state and cultivation methods of those who have attained the Dao. The enlightened move cautiously like crossing a winter river, remain vigilant as if wary of neighbors, carry themselves with the solemnity of a guest, tread carefully as if on thin ice, embody the simplicity of uncarved wood, maintain the emptiness of a valley, and blend with all things like turbid water. These seven states are difficult to describe precisely in words.

Ordinary people are often deluded by the turbid world—who can remain still like murky water, gradually clarifying through stillness? Who can maintain stability like withered wood, reviving vitality through gradual movement? The key to preserving this Daoist method lies in keeping the mind eternally empty and free from self-satisfaction. Precisely because one is not self-satisfied, one can retain the ancient authenticity without chasing novelty, and thus the Daoist practice can ultimately be perfected.

Chapter Sixteen speaks of reaching the ultimate state of emptiness. When the practice of stillness is carried to its extreme, all "being" returns to "non-being." The cultivation of stillness must be firm; when stillness reaches its peak, one can observe the cyclical patterns of all things. The myriad phenomena, despite their complexity and transformations, ultimately return to their root. Returning to the root is stillness, stillness is returning to one's nature, and returning to one's nature is the eternal law. Understanding this eternal law is enlightenment; failing to understand leads to reckless action and invites calamity. Those who comprehend the eternal law can embrace all things; embracing all things leads to impartiality, impartiality leads to wholeness, wholeness aligns with the Dao of Heaven, aligning with the Dao of Heaven leads to unity with the Dao, and unity with the Dao ensures longevity—free from danger throughout one's life.

All movement and transformation in the world are contained within stillness. When we observe the flourishing growth of all things, we are actually witnessing their return to the source (the term "作" refers to movement and change, while "复" signifies returning to the original state—where there is growth, there must inevitably be return).

When the mind reaches a state of perfect emptiness and stillness, one can simultaneously observe both the growth and return of all things. The myriad flourishing phenomena (the term "芸芸" describes their luxuriant appearance) ultimately return to their roots, just as leaves sprout from and fall back to the base of a tree. This state of returning to the source is true stillness (artificially suppressing thoughts or forcibly seeking stillness is not genuine stillness—only the natural return to the source constitutes real stillness).

This silent state of returning to the source is a return to life's innate nature (humans are naturally endowed with this silent essence, which is the inherent quality of life). Returning to life's innate nature means returning to the eternal Dao (that which is clear and enduring is the constant Dao). Understanding this eternal truth constitutes genuine wisdom (true knowledge arises only when one is not obscured by external things). Those who fail to comprehend this principle and act recklessly will invite misfortune.

Those who understand the eternal truth can embrace all things (having dissolved distinctions between self and others, or attachments to good and evil). Being all-embracing leads to impartiality; impartiality enables one to govern the world. Such a ruler aligns with the Heavenly Dao, which itself is a manifestation of the Great Dao. Only by following the Great Dao can one endure without decline and remain free from peril throughout life.

(Supplementary note: This passage describes how Daoist practitioners observe the patterns of all things by maintaining a state of empty stillness. When cultivation reaches perfect stillness, one can perceive the entire process of growth and dissolution. Though phenomena appear chaotic, they ultimately return to their source—this return marks the crucial transition from movement to stillness. Within supreme stillness, one recognizes the principle of life's innate nature, and this recognition constitutes a return to the eternal Dao. Only through understanding this constant Dao can one attain true awakening.)

This scripture primarily discusses the art of governance and the hierarchical differences in moral attainment.

The most enlightened ruler (Taishang, the Supreme) governs through wuwei (non-action), to the extent that the people are scarcely aware of his presence—this represents the ideal "age of the Great Dao." Such a state is as natural and enduring as the movement of heaven and earth, encompassing all things. If a ruler can grasp this unchanging Dao, he will govern the world with the same impartiality and selflessness as heaven and earth.

The subsequent descending levels of governance are as follows: rulers whom the people hold dear and praise; rulers whom the people fear; and finally, rulers whom the people despise. The reason for this gradual decline lies in the ruler's own lack of sincerity, frequently altering governance methods, which leads to the people losing trust.

True sages (those who have attained the Dao) are entirely different. Their hearts are filled with sincerity, their words are measured (valuing restraint in speech), and they refrain from issuing commands lightly, yet the people naturally place their faith in them. When the world is well-governed and achievements are made, the people will believe it all happened spontaneously, without sensing any trace of deliberate intervention.

The scripture particularly emphasizes that this "unawareness of rulership" through wuwei is the highest state, as constant and unchanging as the Dao itself. The more one deliberately acts—employing benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, or even manipulation and punishment—the further one strays from the Dao, leading to a worsening relationship between ruler and people.

When the supreme natural law (Dao) is abandoned, people begin to emphasize benevolence and righteousness. In an era that truly follows the Dao, these virtues arise spontaneously and need no special promotion. When people start prizing wisdom, all manner of hypocrisy and cunning emerges.

Family values like filial piety and paternal love only become highlighted when domestic harmony breaks down. Among close kin—fathers and sons, brothers, spouses—when relationships are naturally harmonious, no one needs to proclaim their filial devotion or parental care. It is only when conflicts arise that people feel compelled to emphasize these virtues. Similarly, when a nation is well-governed and ruler and ministers share mutual trust, loyal ministers need no special recognition. It is only in times of chaos that "loyalty" becomes a conspicuous virtue.

This chapter examines the consequences of society's departure from the Dao. The true Dao is formless and nameless—why would it require labels like benevolence or righteousness? It is precisely when people begin making distinctions and showing partiality that such virtues must be emphasized, which itself signals the decline of the Dao. Once the Dao weakens, people turn to cleverness, deception proliferates, and hypocrisy thrives.

In an ideal society, people care not only for their own kin but for all families, and harmony arises naturally. When people focus solely on their own relatives, filial piety and parental love must be deliberately promoted—proof that family bonds have already deteriorated. Likewise, when ruler and ministers are united in purpose, "loyal ministers" need no praise. The very emergence of such titles indicates national disorder. All these signs reveal how far society has strayed from the true Dao.

Thus, the real solution is this: discard the forced pursuit of sage-like wisdom, and the people will gain a hundredfold benefit. Though wisdom itself is not wrong, when people chase it for reputation, it breeds contention and harm. Similarly, abandon the artificial promotion of benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to their natural filial and caring ways. These virtues are inherent expressions of the Dao—when people exploit them for personal gain, they ironically lead to unfilial and unkind behavior.

This scripture primarily teaches the renunciation of worldly cunning, material gain, and excessive pursuits to return to one's natural and unadorned essence.

It first points out that if people can abandon opportunistic cleverness ("rejecting cunning") and the chase for profit ("discarding gain"), thieves and robbers will naturally disappear. While cunning and profit themselves aren't thieves, it is precisely these means that robbers employ to operate.

The text then explains that sagely wisdom, humaneness and righteousness, and clever profit-seeking—these three things emerge when society increasingly emphasizes superficial forms. Yet such external forms are insufficient to govern the world, so people must have something to return to. This return means preserving one's simple, unadorned nature ("appearing plain and embracing simplicity") while reducing selfishness and desires ("having few selfish thoughts and scant desires"). "Plain" (素) refers to undyed silk, and "simple" (朴) to uncarved raw wood—metaphors for humanity's most authentic state.

Chapter 20 further elaborates on abandoning the deliberate pursuit of learning ("rejecting learning") to reach a carefree state. The difference between respectful responses ("yes") and negligent ones ("hmm") is actually minor, and the distinction between good and evil isn't as absolute as imagined. Even sages revere what people revere, but their reverence is vast and boundless.

Finally, it describes ordinary people indulging in pleasure: jubilant and excited, as if attending a grand sacrificial feast (太牢 referring to ancient ceremonial livestock offerings), or like climbing high to enjoy spring scenery. This implies how people often become enchanted by superficial joys while forgetting their fundamental pursuit of authenticity.

Laozi here employs contrasting imagery to describe the unique state of those who have attained the Dao. While ordinary people pursue external pleasures, the Dao cultivator maintains the purity of an infant. The "grand sacrificial feast" (representing worldly abundance) and the "spring terrace" (symbolizing human joys) hold no allure for them—they remain as serene and detached as a toothless babe.

The cultivator's condition appears paradoxical: like a charioteer wandering without destination when others feel assured of their knowledge, he seems to have forgotten everything. This "mind of a fool" actually embodies supreme wisdom—while people flaunt their cleverness, he appears dull; while they calculate meticulously, he seems muddled. His presence flickers like faint light, so silent it seems to have no resting place.

The fundamental distinction lies in this: where people chase practical benefits, the Daoist resembles an obstinate rustic accomplishing nothing. This peculiarity stems from treasuring the "nourishing mother"—taking the Dao (source of all things) as sustenance. Just as infants depend on their mothers, those who attain the Dao root themselves in it. Transcending worldly benevolence, righteousness, and cunning wisdom, they return to original simplicity, needing no deliberate study. Human suffering arises from clinging to distinctions between good and evil, while the Daoist abandons even the concept of "good," maintaining a mind empty and unhindered.

Yet note: the Daoist isn't recklessly unrestrained. What people fear, he too treats with caution—only his reverence knows no bounds. When others indulge in worldly flavors, the cultivator perpetually abides in transcendent detachment.

This passage describes how those who have attained the Dao differ from ordinary people. When abiding in stillness, the Dao-realized person maintains serene detachment without a single distracting thought arising, as pure as an infant who hasn't yet learned to smile. In movement, they appear to act yet seem motionless, leaving no traces behind.

Ordinary people constantly flaunt their strengths, believing themselves superior to others. The Dao-realized person embraces all things yet maintains inner clarity, transcending worldly concerns as if having forgotten themselves. They appear to possess the mind of a simpleton - muddled and undifferentiated. Thus while common people pursue cleverness, the Dao-realized seem foolish; where others busy themselves with distinctions, they maintain Wuwei (non-action).

The masses cling to their opinions as if they were useful, while the Dao-realized remain as unadorned as uncarved stone, deliberately displaying nothing. The difference lies in how the Dao-realized have cast off the constraints of worldly knowledge, taking the Great Dao as their foundation - as natural as an infant nursing. When an infant nurses, how could there be any anxiety?

Chapter 21 specifically describes the characteristics of the Dao: the highest level of De (Virtue/Power) completely follows the Dao's patterns. The Dao itself has no concrete form - whatever can be described belongs to the realm of De. This thing called the Dao seems to exist yet not exist (weihu weihuang). Within this hazy, indeterminate state lies the embryonic form of the universe (xiang), and between existence and non-existence there exists a substantial material foundation (wu).

Profound and obscure (yaoxi mingxi), the Dao contains the most refined subtle energy (jing). This energy is utterly real (shen zhen) and follows constant, unchanging patterns (xin). This reality isn't ordinary form, but rather formless essence - neither increased by existence nor diminished by emptiness, hence called "possessing constancy" (you xin).

From ancient times to the present, the name "Dao" has never changed. It is like the great gate (zhongfu - the origin of all things) from which everything emerges. To understand the fundamental reason for all existence, one must begin by knowing the Dao.

The Dao appears to transcend material things and abandon cleverness, looking almost foolish and crude in its simplicity. Yet this very quality embodies the most profound De (Virtue/Power). Where does it originate? It follows only itself. The Dao is indistinct and elusive—when it seems vague, faint traces become visible; when it appears clear, it retreats into obscurity. The "images" it manifests (the visible forms of Dao) appear concrete yet lack substance. The "Jing" (essence) it contains is the pure embodiment of Dao, untainted by impurities.

Among all things under heaven, only the Dao is truly real and unchanging. Though eras pass from ancient to modern, the Dao never departs. Precisely because of this, it witnesses the origins of all things and serves as the mother that nurtures creation. The reason sages can perceive the source of all phenomena is their profound realization of this great Dao.

Chapter 22 speaks of worldly wisdom: Only by bending can one be preserved (sages act according to cosmic principles—what seems circuitous is actually direct); only by enduring apparent injustice can true justice prevail (following natural law may seem humiliating, yet constitutes ultimate integrity); low-lying places naturally accumulate fullness (humility gathers all streams like a valley); what appears worn-out gives birth to renewal (excessive cleverness opposes Dao—simple honesty seems outdated yet becomes the wellspring of vitality); taking less ultimately gains more, while greed brings confusion (the supreme Dao is profoundly simple—grasping the root encompasses all, whereas excessive learning loses coherence).

Therefore, sages uphold the Dao as their guiding principle ("one" represents the Dao—maintaining "oneness" means perpetual unity with the Way). Not displaying oneself brings true clarity (observing through collective vision—non-attachment to personal views yields discernment); not asserting oneself makes one stand out (aligning with communal judgment—not forcing prominence makes one truly prominent); not boasting brings genuine achievement (crediting others—not claiming merit actually secures it); not exalting oneself ensures endurance (precisely because they contend with none, none in the world can contend with them). The ancient saying "yielding achieves preservation" expresses this truth—these are indeed words of ultimate wisdom!

Here we explore the Daoist wisdom of "non-contention." The truly wise (sages) understand how to follow natural patterns without self-promotion or competing with the myriad things. Precisely because they do not contend, no one can contend with them. The ancients said "bending leads to preservation" — this isn't empty talk. Inner preservation maintains one's essential nature, while outer preservation maintains all things; true preservation means achieving harmony between self and world.

Understanding this principle allows one to hold fast to the root (embracing the One), to bend and stretch as needed, to occupy low positions, and to accept imperfection. Things never remain bent forever — thus bending ultimately preserves. They never stay crooked forever — thus crookedness naturally straightens. Low places eventually fill, the worn-out becomes renewed, taking less brings more, while greed breeds confusion. These are the natural patterns. Sages become models for all things precisely because they hold fast to the root and walk with the Dao. They don't flaunt themselves but see through others' eyes; they don't assert themselves but follow things' natural course; they don't claim credit but accomplish through others; they don't boast of strengths but develop everyone's potential.

Chapter 23 discusses how "few words accord with the Dao." Heaven and earth operate naturally without need for excessive explanation. Violent winds don't last all morning, torrential rains don't continue all day — even heaven and earth's actions aren't prolonged, let alone human contrivances. From dawn to dusk makes one complete cycle; abnormal winds and rains cannot endure. Therefore, those who follow the Dao unite with it; those who cultivate De (Virtue) unite with it; those who are lost unite with loss. Practicing the Dao means embodying it; cultivating De means attaining it. True Dao cultivators reach the state of "no-self": acting without resistance when action is needed, accepting without refusal when receiving is proper, letting go without attachment when loss occurs. "Union" means accord without opposition. Those united with the Dao find the Dao gladly receives them; those united with De find De gladly receives them.

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle of "natural non-action" (ziran wuwei). Through vivid metaphors, Laozi demonstrates how forced striving often produces the opposite effect.

Those who stand on tiptoe to appear taller (qi) actually lose their balance; those who take oversized strides to walk faster (kua) cannot maintain their pace. Similarly, those who self-display (zixian) obscure true perception, those who self-justify (zishi) gain no recognition, those who self-promote (zifa) achieve no merit, and those who self-congratulate (zijin) cannot endure. To Daoist practitioners, such behaviors resemble leftover food (yushi) or bodily tumors (zhuixing) - even ordinary people detest them, so those who have attained the Dao (dedao zhiren) avoid such conduct.

Laozi reveals that the movement of heaven and earth follows natural spontaneity. True Dao cultivators (zhidao zhi shi) understand this principle, maintaining equanimity through gain and loss. They neither forcibly pursue nor avoid, accepting fortune and misfortune with equal serenity, preserving inner peace. Those with insufficient faith in the Dao, however, waver when encountering setbacks.

Violent storms cannot last, nor can artificial striving. The sage (referring to Dao-realized beings) refrains from contention precisely because they perceive the harm in forced action. Just as standing and walking are natural human capacities that become unbalanced through tiptoeing and overstriding, the essence of Dao cultivation lies in preserving natural authenticity - avoiding forced display, self-righteousness, and arrogant self-satisfaction.

This passage elucidates the inherent nature and operational principles of the Dao (the Way). That primordial chaos which existed before heaven and earth—silent and soundless, vast and formless—stands alone unchanging, circulating endlessly without exhaustion. It may be called the source of all things under heaven. Not knowing its true name, we reluctantly term it "Dao."

The characteristics of the Dao are: boundlessly vast (da), ceaseless in motion (shi), extending infinitely far (yuan), yet ultimately returning to its origin (fan). Thus, there are four great powers in the universe: the Dao, heaven, earth, and the sovereign (referring to the ruler who embodies the Dao). Humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates the Dao, and the Dao emulates ziran (natural spontaneity).

A crucial point is made here: the Dao cannot be attained through deliberate pursuit. Affected behaviors (zhui xing) that strive for novelty and excessive indulgences (yu shi) in material pleasures should be avoided by those cultivating the Dao. Those who truly embody the Dao remain unattached to such worldly pursuits.

The entire chapter emphasizes the boundless vastness and spontaneous nature of the Dao, illustrating how the true sovereign (one who has realized the Dao) achieves harmony with it. The Dao is neither aloof nor vulgar—it exists as an undifferentiated whole, manifesting in humans as their essential nature.

This passage elucidates the fundamental nature of the Dao and the governing principles for rulers. It first establishes that the Dao is the eternal noumenon from which heaven, earth, and all things originate. The Dao itself has no specific name—sages observe that all phenomena follow its patterns, hence provisionally calling it the "Great Dao." This Great Dao is boundless (extending far), all-encompassing (reaching distant), yet fully manifest in a single thought (returning). Thus, the universe contains Four Greats: Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the Sovereign. Rulers should emulate Earth's inclusiveness, Heaven's all-covering nature, and the Dao's generative power when governing the world.

Chapter 26 focuses on statecraft principles. Steadiness serves as the root of haste; tranquility masters agitation. Ancient sages always traveled with heavy supply wagons (symbolizing governance requiring gravitas), remaining detached even when encountering dazzling spectacles (representing worldly temptations). The rhetorical question challenges rulers commanding ten thousand chariots: why handle state affairs lightly? Rashness forfeits one's foundation; restlessness loses its master. This section emphasizes that governors must maintain composed stillness, undisturbed by external phenomena, to grasp governance's fundamental principles.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "tranquility" and "gravity," as well as the way sages conduct themselves in the world.

First, it explains that when one can maintain inner stillness, tranquility naturally governs restlessness. Thus, the sage's daily conduct remains simple and unadorned, yet never departs from essential provisions, for frivolity is to be avoided. Even when surrounded by dazzling spectacles of luxury, they maintain transcendent detachment, recognizing that restlessness cannot exist without its counterpart of stillness. How much more should rulers governing the world embody this composed tranquility! True action arises only when unavoidable, thereby manifesting gravity; maintaining Wuwei (non-action) constitutes stillness. Otherwise, entangled in trivialities, even minor matters can control one—how then could they govern the world?

Chapter 27 reveals the supreme art of living: those skilled in walking leave no traces (for they follow natural laws); those skilled in speech make no mistakes (for their words accord with timeliness); those skilled in calculation need no counting rods (having internalized the patterns of all things); those skilled at closing need no bolts yet none can open; those skilled at binding need no cords yet none can untie. Therefore, sages excel at rescuing people, leaving none abandoned; they excel at utilizing all things, leaving nothing wasted. This constitutes inner wisdom.

The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous serve as mirrors for the virtuous. Yet sages neither deliberately exalt teachers nor favor mirrors. Though appearing enlightened, they maintain primordial simplicity—this is the most sublime state. The meaning is that the virtuous may model conduct for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous may catalyze growth in the virtuous, yet sages approach all this with the natural attitude of Wuwei (non-action).

This scripture primarily discusses the worldly wisdom of sages (those who have attained the Dao). Though sages may appear calm and steady, their state of being transcends verbal description. They excel in action, speech, strategizing, mastery, and maintenance, always preserving "constant goodness" (chang shan). This goodness remains unchanged regardless of fluctuations in human affairs or material conditions.

Ordinary people often lose touch with the authentic "constant Dao" (chang dao), so sages employ this eternal truth to save all beings. By using the true and constant Dao to save people, no one is abandoned; by using it to save things, nothing is discarded. Because both humans and objects share the same luminous nature, sages apply their wisdom—rooted in understanding the constant Dao—to teach based on this shared essence. This profound wisdom remains hidden within, referred to as "inherited brightness" (xi ming, the inner radiance).

Good people serve as teachers for the not-good, while the not-good serve as mirrors for the good. Sages transcend the duality of good and bad, neither esteeming teachers as superior nor cherishing mirrors as precious, fully merging into the great Dao. This state is so profound that even the wise find it difficult to comprehend—only those who return to the source and embody the mystery of the Dao can truly understand it.

Chapter 28 elaborates on the principles of worldly conduct:

One who understands the principle of strength (xiong, the masculine) yet remains in a state of softness (ci, the feminine) becomes like the valleys of the world. In this way, one preserves "constant virtue" (chang de) without losing it, returning to the purity of an infant.

One who knows the principle of brightness (bai) yet remains in a state of obscurity (hei) becomes a model for the world. In this way, one preserves constant virtue without error, returning to the boundless (wuji, the origin of the Dao).

One who comprehends the principle of glory (rong) yet remains in a state of humility (ru) becomes like the great ravines of the world. In this way, one ensures that constant virtue is complete and abundant, returning to the simplicity (pu, the genuine nature of the Dao).

All of this teaches people to understand the unity of opposites, maintaining an attitude of humility and gentleness in worldly conduct, ultimately returning to the source of the Dao.

This scripture primarily elucidates the sage's principles for governing the world. The concept of "pu" (referring to the most primal and pure state) disperses to form all things, and the sage employs this original purity to guide all officials. The truly enlightened method of governance does not forcibly divide the myriad things (just as whole wood may be carved into utensils, the sage always preserves the wood's integral nature).

Laozi points out that all things in the world possess their own unique characteristics: some are suited to lead, others to follow; some require warmth and care, others need stern discipline; some are strong, others weak; some are stable, others prone to change. The key to the sage's governance lies in harmonizing with the natural tendencies of all things, rather than forcefully interfering.

Chapter 29 further clarifies: Those who seek to seize the world by force and govern according to their own will are, in my view, destined to fail. For the world is a sacred existence (referring to the profound workings of the Dao)—it cannot be forcibly altered by human will. Those who act aggressively are bound to fail; those who stubbornly cling will ultimately lose. Just as all things have their innate nature: some advance, others follow; some need gentle warmth, others require strong winds; some are firm, others yielding; some are secure, others precarious. The sage understands these differences and thus adopts an inclusive approach to governance.

(Note: The term "pu" in the text is a crucial Daoist concept, referring to the most authentic, unadulterated, and original state of things; "sacred vessel" metaphorically represents the world as embodying the mystical and sacred laws of cosmic operation.)

This scripture primarily discusses the sage's wisdom in governing the world and the art of warfare.

Laozi observes that all things in the world possess their inherent characteristics: some follow behind, some are warm like exhaled breath, some cold like a chilling gust, some strong, some weak, some in constant motion, and some perfectly still. Recognizing these complementary opposites in nature's laws, the sage governs by eliminating extremes, extravagance, and excess. Specifically: eliminating extremes means preserving compassion, eliminating extravagance means maintaining frugality, and eliminating excess means not striving to be first in the world.

The sage governs through the simplicity of the Dao (the Way), ensuring that perfect institutions never disrupt nature. They attain the world through Wuwei (non-action) and govern through non-interference. Since the world is a sacred existence, only by following the divine way of nature can one truly master it. This divine way means governing without forced thought or action—any deliberate effort would instead lead to its loss.

The text then addresses the art of warfare: those who assist rulers through the Dao never rely on military might to dominate the world. Warfare easily invites retaliation; lands where armies camp become desolate, and great battles inevitably lead to years of famine. Those skilled in warfare stop once their objective is achieved, never daring to use it for domination. After achieving their aim, they neither boast, show off, nor grow arrogant, understanding it was a last resort—this embodies the principle of "achieving the goal without domination."

Finally, it points out: when things reach their peak, they begin to decline, which contradicts the law of the Dao. Whatever does not accord with the Dao will perish prematurely.

This scripture passage discusses the Daoist perspective on warfare. Laozi considers military force to be an inauspicious instrument, and those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) would not resort to it lightly.

The text first explains the principle of using military force: rulers should follow the doctrine of "governing through wuwei (non-action)." When the Dao is employed to govern the world, people will submit naturally; relying on military coercion, by contrast, invites resistance. Even those skilled in warfare use it solely to overcome enemies, never to flaunt their strength. The true Great Dao lies in maintaining softness and pliancy, for what is rigid breaks easily, while what is yielding endures.

Chapter 31 specifically addresses the inauspicious nature of weapons: though fine weapons may be effective, they remain ill-omened objects that even inanimate things detest, so those who possess the Dao refrain from using them casually. Gentlemen normally honor the left (representing yang, associated with growth), but in warfare they honor the right (representing yin, associated with execution). Weapons are not instruments for gentlemen—they are employed only as a last resort, and even then with a detached mindset. To take delight in military victory is to find joy in killing, and such people can never achieve true fulfillment under heaven.

Regarding ceremonial protocol: auspicious affairs honor the left, inauspicious affairs honor the right. In military formations, lieutenant generals stand on the left while senior generals stand on the right, signifying that warfare belongs to the category of inauspicious affairs and should follow funeral rites. When many have been killed, one should grieve in heart; after victory, the matter should be treated as a funeral. All this shows that resorting to arms is a ruler's last resort—those who delight in warfare will ultimately bring disaster upon themselves.

(Note: The directional symbolism of left/right and their yin-yang attributes mentioned here are key concepts in ancient ritual systems and Daoist thought, where yang governs life and yin governs death—this correspondence runs throughout the entire Daoist system.)

This scripture conveys two main teachings: one concerning the attitude toward warfare, and the other about the nature of Dao (the Way).

First, it explains the Dao of warfare. Ancient sages considered weapons inauspicious objects, and noble individuals (those with De, Virtue) inherently disliked military engagement, resorting to it only when absolutely necessary. When waging war, one must maintain a detached and tranquil state of mind, as inner stillness is the foundation of victory. Even after winning, the noble person does not revel in triumph—those who delight in victory are essentially those who take pleasure in killing. Such individuals can never truly gain the allegiance of all under heaven. In ritual protocol, auspicious events honor the left side, while inauspicious ones honor the right. Thus, in battle, the lieutenant general (secondary commander) stands on the left, while the supreme general (primary commander) stands on the right, treating warfare with the solemnity of a funeral rite. When casualties are heavy, one must grieve and weep; even in victory, the aftermath should be handled with funeral rites. All this underscores that warfare is a matter of last resort.

Next, it discusses the nature of Dao. Dao is eternal yet cannot be named ("nameless"). It is as simple and unadorned as uncarved wood ("pu," simplicity). Though it may seem insignificant, nothing in the world dares to disregard it. If a ruler upholds this Dao, all things will naturally submit and follow. Just as the Yin-Yang energies of heaven and earth harmonize to produce evenly distributed sweet dew without human intervention, so too does Dao operate effortlessly. When Dao begins to manifest and create the myriad things ("beginning to create, there are names"), names and forms emerge. Yet one must know when to stop ("knowing when to halt"), not becoming ensnared by appearances but returning to the original simplicity. Understanding this limit prevents danger, just as all streams under heaven inevitably return to rivers and seas—Dao is the ultimate destination of all things.

Through the analogy of warfare and natural principles, this passage illustrates that true wisdom lies in preserving one's innate simplicity and following the natural order without forceful interference. Whether in governing a state or waging war, one must adhere to the principles of Dao—acting only when compelled by necessity and knowing when to stop.

In these two chapters of the Daode Jing, Laozi elucidates the core wisdom for Daoist practitioners.

Chapter 33 presents eight realms of inner cultivation: Understanding others is mere cleverness, while knowing oneself constitutes true wisdom; conquering others relies on brute force, but mastering oneself demonstrates real strength; those content with sufficiency are truly wealthy, and those persistent in practice possess genuine resolve; preserving one's foundation ensures longevity, and though the physical form perishes, the spirit that remains undying achieves true immortality. This reveals a crucial principle—the sage's cultivation focuses on inward reflection, seeking fulfillment within. For instance, comparing oneself to others breeds perpetual dissatisfaction, while contentment brings everlasting abundance; chasing external objects invites distraction, whereas dedicated cultivation fosters unwavering resolve. Transcending life and death hinges on maintaining the eternal indestructibility of one's authentic nature (humanity's most fundamental spiritual essence).

Chapter 34 employs the metaphor of rivers and oceans to illustrate the characteristics of the Dao: The great Dao resembles overflowing rivers, omnipresent yet never claiming credit for nourishing all things. It possesses three remarkable qualities—though it generates all beings, it never forcibly controls them (just as oceans receive countless streams without dominating them); appearing insubstantial and insignificant yet encompassing everything; precisely because it never considers itself great, it achieves true greatness. This unveils the profound wisdom of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)": Genuine greatness requires no deliberate display, just as the Dao, though silent and nameless, remains the root of all existence.

(Note: The term "pu" (樸) refers to the Dao's primordial state of simplicity; "zhanran" (湛然) describes a mind clear and tranquil like still water; "zhenxing" (真性) denotes humanity's innate luminous nature.)

The Dao as cosmic origin has no fixed form, flowing everywhere like water—it may turn left or right, permeating all things. Precisely because it encompasses everything, all beings are born from the Dao, which never declines its creative responsibility. Though it generates the myriad things, it never claims credit. The Dao nurtures all yet harbors no desire to dominate. Because it is empty and formless, unattached and desireless, it may be called "small"; yet since all things return to it, it may also be called "great"—though these terms are ultimately fluid concepts. Only by maintaining its capacity for smallness can it achieve true greatness. Thus the sage never considers himself great, and thereby genuinely attains greatness.

Chapter 35

Hold fast to the "Great Image" (formless Dao), and all under heaven will come to you. This coming brings no harm, allowing all to dwell in peace and prosperity. Music and fine food may detain passing travelers temporarily, yet the Dao when spoken seems bland and flavorless—invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear—yet its application is inexhaustible. All things depend on the Dao for existence, thus when the sage upholds this principle, the world naturally aligns with him. Such alignment causes no injury, bringing universal peace and harmony. Compared to attracting guests with sensory pleasures, the Dao's discourse may appear insipid, yet its unseen, unheard nature penetrates past and present, providing endless sustenance. This demonstrates how serenity and wuwei (non-action) truly embody the Dao's supreme state.

Chapter 36

To contract something, first allow it to expand; to weaken something, first let it strengthen; to abolish something, first make it flourish; to take something, first give it—this is the principle of "subtle illumination" (apparently obscure yet profoundly clear). The soft and weak overcome the hard and strong, just as fish cannot leave deep waters, and a state's sharp weapons (governing methods) should not be lightly displayed. This reveals the inevitable law of reversal when things reach their extremes—true wisdom lies in discerning the subtle signs of transformation.

This passage elucidates the cyclical patterns of growth and decline, and how sages skillfully master their inner state. When speaking of "what is about to occur," it refers to future possibilities, while "what has inevitably manifested" points to already visible signs. Just as observing expansion allows one to foresee eventual contraction, witnessing strength suggests impending weakness, seeing rise anticipates decline, and perceiving giving implies future taking. Like the sun inevitably setting or the moon waxing and waning, these are immutable laws—subtle yet profoundly evident.

Those who see only surface phenomena believe the strong conquer the weak, but those who understand the Dao know gentleness ultimately prevails over force. Humans cannot abandon their gentle nature, just as fish cannot leave deep waters. A fish hidden in deep pools survives through natural softness; leaping ashore to flail means certain death. The sage remains humble and yielding yet moves heaven and earth—why would they need to brandish sharpness to inspire fear? Since the disasters brought by force surpass sword wounds, the text uses "sharp weapons" as metaphor.

Chapter 37

The Dao eternally abides in wuwei (non-action), yet accomplishes all things. Should rulers uphold this principle, all beings will transform spontaneously. When desires and restlessness arise during this transformation, they are stabilized through "nameless simplicity" ("restlessness" refers to agitation, "stabilize" means to pacify). This nameless simplicity requires even the intention to use it be relinquished. Only desirelessness returns one to stillness, and thus the world naturally finds its proper course.

This chapter reveals the Dao's essence as wuwei (non-action) and its function as accomplishing all, ultimately arriving at the state where self and objects are both forgotten. To practice wuwei while achieving all means maintaining non-active awareness within action. If rulers preserve this wuwei approach—without deliberate instruction—all things will transform naturally. Though transformation begins through wuwei, desires gradually emerge. Understanding this pattern, sages apply primordial simplicity to calm desires at their inception. Yet consciously intending to use simplicity would lose true simplicity—thus even this intention must be released to reach perfect stillness. The world's turbulence stems from desire; without desire comes natural tranquility and wuwei—how then could the world not return to its rightful path?

The truly virtuous person does not consciously display virtue—this is authentic De (Virtue/Power). Those who constantly emphasize their adherence to virtue have, in fact, lost its true essence. (Here, "not displaying virtue" refers to a state of natural harmony with the Dao; "not losing virtue" implies forced adherence to superficial forms.)

The highest form of De flows naturally without deliberate action (Wuwei), while lesser virtue involves purposeful striving. Acts of compassion that arise spontaneously from one's innate nature are not contrived, whereas righteousness often carries clear intent. As for rituals and etiquette, when people enforce them rigidly yet receive no response, they resort to forcibly dragging others into compliance. (This illustrates how rulers, when imposing rituals without popular acceptance, end up coercing obedience like pulling someone by the arm.)

Thus, society first loses the realm of the Dao, after which virtue must be emphasized. When virtue declines, humaneness is promoted; when humaneness fades, righteousness is upheld; and when righteousness deteriorates, only rituals remain. Rituals are, in fact, the product of weakened sincerity and trust—the very beginning of disorder. Those who pride themselves on foresight and cleverness merely grasp at superficial ornaments of the Dao, marking the onset of folly. (The "so-called foresighted" refers to petty cleverness.)

Therefore, the truly noble person establishes themselves by choosing substance over superficiality—embracing the profound and genuine while rejecting the shallow and ostentatious. They dwell in the essence rather than indulging in empty displays. Hence, one should discard hollow formalities and hold fast to the fundamental truth. (Substance points to inner cultivation, while superficiality refers to external trappings. This emphasizes pursuing the Dao itself rather than settling for lesser constructs like rituals and righteousness.)

In this chapter, Laozi first clarifies: Superior De is not virtue divorced from the Dao. What permeates all is called the "Dao"; what an individual embodies is called "De." Superior De belongs to those truly aligned with the Dao, while inferior De arises when one loses the Dao and clings to diminished substitutes. Those with superior De need not deliberate or strain—they naturally merge with the Dao. Those with inferior De labor to maintain mere outward forms. As for humaneness and righteousness, both involve artificial effort, though humaneness leans closer to natural non-action, while righteousness carries obvious purpose. Rituals, however, are the most contrived; when imposed without resonance, they devolve into coercion.

This passage explains how forcibly imposing rules through military means leads one further away from the true Dao. From the original purity of the Dao, it gradually degrades into De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, righteousness, and finally superficial rituals. Rituals were originally meant to uphold loyalty and trust while preventing chaos, but if enforced without genuine response, punishments and force become necessary—turning rituals into the very source of weakened loyalty and disorder. It’s like using cleverness to guide ignorance: too much cleverness confuses the heart-mind, making it hollow and insubstantial. Thus, the truly great person stands firm in simplicity and sincerity, not chasing shallow appearances. They transcend the forms of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety, directly pursuing the complete state of the Dao.

Chapter 39 speaks of the importance of "the One" ("the One" being another name for the Dao). When Heaven attains the One, it becomes clear; when Earth attains the One, it becomes stable; when the spirits (Shen) attain the One, they become efficacious; when valleys attain the One, they become full; when the myriad things attain the One, they flourish; and when rulers attain the One, they bring peace to the world. The underlying principle behind all these phenomena is the same. If Heaven loses its clarity, it may collapse; if Earth loses its stability, it may quake; if the spirits lose their efficacy, they may vanish; if valleys lose their fullness, they may dry up; if the myriad things lose their vitality, they may perish; and if rulers lose the Dao while clinging to high status, they may fall. Therefore, nobility must take humility as its root, and high position must rely on the foundation of the low. This is why rulers refer to themselves as "the orphan," "the solitary," and "the unworthy"—expressions of taking lowliness as their foundation. Just as counting the parts of a chariot—wheels, axle, and carriage—makes the whole chariot disappear, those who truly attain the Dao do not deliberately seek to shine like jade, nor do they purposely act coarse like a rough stone. This chapter reveals the profound mystery of attaining the Dao: the Dao is that singular "One," the root cause behind Heaven’s clarity, Earth’s stability, the spirits’ efficacy, valleys’ fullness, and the flourishing of all things.

This scripture primarily discusses how the fundamental principle of rulership lies in attaining the Dao (the Way), along with the operational patterns of the Dao.

First, it explains that the ability of rulers to govern the world and maintain their position stems entirely from their connection to the Dao. If they lose the Dao, calamities will arise: the heavens may collapse, the earth may split, spirits may vanish, crops may fail, and all things may wither. In such cases, rulers will also lose their noble status. For true rulers to preserve their position long-term, they must attain the Dao. Though the Dao is invisible and intangible, seemingly insignificant, it is in fact the most manifest. Just as nobility is rooted in humility, and height is built upon a low foundation, rulers who refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy" embody this principle of self-effacement—the true root of nobility.

Chapter 40 describes the movement of the Dao: its motion is cyclical and returning ("returning" means reverting to the origin), and its function is soft and non-contentious. All things in the world arise from "being" (you), yet "being" itself emerges from "non-being" (wu). Earlier, it was stated that nobility is rooted in humility; here, the text further illustrates the operation of the Dao through movement and stillness, strength and weakness. Returning to one's original nature is stillness, yet in response to the myriad things, movement arises. The Dao may appear weak and formless, yet it governs heaven and earth—the most potent force of all. All things are born from the tangible world, yet heaven and earth themselves emerge from the formless Great Void (the cosmic origin). This is the principle that "being arises from non-being."

Chapter 41 describes different attitudes toward the Dao: those of superior capacity hear the Dao and diligently practice it; those of middling capacity are half-convinced and doubtful; those of inferior capacity hear it and laugh. Yet it is precisely because it invites ridicule that it proves to be the true Dao (as the Dao often contradicts worldly understanding). Those who practice diligently are deeply convinced, while those who waver remain uncertain.

The ancients left us many profound discourses on the Dao (the Way). The truly bright and great path appears dim and obscure; when advancing forward, it seems like retreating; the smoothest road appears rugged and uneven. The highest virtue (De) resembles an empty valley (referring to a mind as spacious and accommodating as a mountain gorge), while the purest whiteness appears as if stained.

Abundant virtue always seems insufficient, while firm virtue appears gentle and yielding. Genuine simplicity seems changeable, and the most square object has no sharp corners. The most precious vessel takes the longest time to complete, the greatest sound is inaudible, and the grandest form has no concrete shape. Thus is the Dao—subtle and beyond naming. Yet only the Dao excels in providing what all things need and assisting them in fulfilling their nature.

This scripture passage, through the wisdom of the ancients, illustrates the difficulty ordinary people have in comprehending the Dao. Those of superior capacity perceive both the subtle and the manifest, so upon hearing of the great Dao, they diligently practice it. Those of middling capacity waver between understanding and confusion, thus harboring half-belief and half-doubt toward the Dao. Those of inferior capacity see only surface appearances—when they hear of the great Dao, they laugh at it. Indeed, the laughter of the most foolish people proves the Dao's loftiness—were it not laughed at, it could not be considered the true Dao.

(Note: The phrase "harmonizing the light and blending with the dust" refers to coexisting harmoniously with the mundane world without losing one's true nature; "great vessels take long to complete" metaphorically describes how truly great achievements require prolonged cultivation; "the greatest sound is barely audible" means the highest realm of sound transcends audible perception)

This scripture primarily explains how the Dao generates all things and the importance of emptiness (xu). The Dao first produces "One" (the undifferentiated state of chaos), from which emerges the two energies of Yin and Yang ("Two"). The interaction of Yin and Yang then gives rise to harmonious Qi ("Three"), thereby transforming and generating all things. All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects (the back represents Yin's stillness, the front Yang's movement), with the dynamic energy of emptiness (formless and immaterial) flowing between them to maintain balance.

Though people generally dislike terms like "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy," rulers and nobles adopt these as self-referential titles, emulating the Dao's humility. Worldly affairs often appear as loss but turn to gain, or seem like gain but result in loss (as in the principle "pride invites calamity, humility receives benefit").

Laozi states he follows ancient teachings: those who act violently and domineeringly ("strong beams" representing rigid, unyielding force) meet untimely ends. He takes this as the foundational teaching ("teaching's father" meaning the root principle of instruction). The passage emphasizes the Dao's nature of emptiness and stillness, warning against complacency and urging cultivation of a humble, receptive mind.

(Chapter 43 – Note: The original text content was not provided.)

The softest things in the world can overcome the hardest; the formless can penetrate where there are no gaps. Through this principle, I understand the benefits of wuwei (non-action). The teaching without words, the benefits of non-action—few in the world can attain this.

(Those who cultivate the Dao understand that forcefulness invites disaster, so the most profound principle in the world lies in employing softness. Hard things break easily, while soft things endure. Just as the softest water can wear through stone, the power of softness is unstoppable. Using "being" to enter "being" creates resistance, but using "non-being" can merge with all things, like qi permeating the entire body—this "non-being" is irresistible. Thus, what appears as non-action accomplishes everything; this is the most profound truth. Teaching without words naturally achieves its purpose, and non-action naturally yields results—who in the world can compare to this?)

Chapter 44

Which is closer—fame or life? Which is more important—life or wealth? Which is more harmful—gain or loss? Excessive love inevitably leads to great waste; hoarding too much inevitably brings severe loss. Knowing contentment avoids disgrace; understanding when to stop prevents danger—this is how one endures.

(This chapter teaches that cultivating the Dao requires turning inward and being self-sufficient, not chasing external things. Pursuing fame and wealth often harms oneself. Know that life is closer than fame and more important than wealth. Gaining reputation and riches at the cost of losing one's true nature—which is more harmful, gain or loss? Thus, excessive love leads to great waste, and hoarding too much brings severe loss. Only contentment leads to desirelessness; without desire, there is no disgrace. Knowing when to stop prevents recklessness, and without recklessness, there is no danger. This is the key to preserving oneself and enduring.)

Chapter 45

The most perfect seems incomplete, yet its function is never exhausted; the fullest seems empty, yet its function never fails.

This passage expounds the core Daoist principles of "tranquil non-action (Wuwei)" and "contentment brings happiness."

It begins with several paradoxes illustrating great wisdom: the straightest appears bent (as it follows natural laws), the most skillful seems clumsy (as it conforms to all things' inherent nature), the most eloquent appears inarticulate (as truth requires few words). Restlessness overcomes cold (through vigorous Qi and blood circulation), while stillness overcomes heat (through restrained breathing), yet only tranquil non-action constitutes the proper way to govern the world.

The text then explains the underlying principle: the wonder of maintaining emptiness and stillness lies in how all things reverse upon reaching their extremes. Thus, the truly accomplished often appear deficient, and the most substantial often seem empty—only thus can they remain inexhaustible. Just as cold and heat are natural phenomena, humans may temporarily overcome cold through activity and dispel heat through stillness, but these aren't lasting solutions. Only maintaining tranquility constitutes the fundamental method for stabilizing the world.

Chapter 46 uses warhorses' different functions to illustrate principles of governance: in peaceful times, warhorses plow fields; in chaotic times, even open country becomes battlegrounds. The greatest sin is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is discontent, the gravest fault is insatiable greed. Therefore, those who understand contentment remain forever fulfilled within. This chapter profoundly reveals desire's dangers, warning people to be content. When the Dao prevails, people live peacefully—even fine horses merely pull dung carts; when the Dao is absent, warfare erupts everywhere, turning wilderness into battlefields.

The reason wars erupt, with warhorses galloping across the borderlands and people losing their peaceful lives, ultimately stems from human greed. The gravest offense lies in indulging desires, for with desire comes insatiability. The greatest calamity is never feeling content, as discontent breeds forced acquisition, bringing resentment and fault in its wake. Thus the worst transgression is insatiable greed. Those who know no contentment feel impoverished even when possessing much, while those who understand sufficiency truly experience lasting fulfillment.

Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) can comprehend the world's affairs without leaving their homes (meaning they understand human affairs while sitting peacefully within), and perceive the operations of celestial principles without gazing out windows (meaning they grasp cosmic patterns without observing celestial phenomena). Paradoxically, those who travel farthest understand least (for the myriad things of heaven and earth cannot be fully seen - wherever footsteps reach, only partial scenes are visible; how much can one truly comprehend by going farther?). Therefore sages know all without traveling (because their minds unite with the Dao, allowing understanding of even distant matters), perceive essence without seeing (when the spirit becomes penetrating, any object reveals its truth), and accomplish without forced action (upon reaching this state, success comes naturally without deliberate striving).

This chapter expounds the principle of inherent completeness. Though vast, the world consists of nothing beyond human affairs and natural principles; though subtle, celestial patterns are merely transformations of yin and yang. Thus one can understand without going out, perceive without looking. If one insists on seeking knowledge externally, the reach of footsteps remains limited - hence the farther one goes, the less one knows. Sages know without traveling because they stand firm in the Dao; they understand without seeing because they stand firm in the heart-mind. Therefore all worldly affairs can be known, all celestial mysteries grasped. Through this knowing and grasping, there's no need for forced action - following nature brings accomplishment.

Those pursuing scholarship daily accumulate knowledge (to broaden understanding), while those cultivating the Dao daily reduce delusions (to eliminate falsehood). Through continuous reduction upon reduction, one reaches the state of wuwei (non-action) (when delusions vanish, true nature appears, achieving non-action). Achieving wuwei paradoxically enables doing all things (for non-action maintains stillness, and stillness is precisely the source from which all things operate).

The best way to govern the world is to maintain a state of Wuwei (non-action). When rulers attempt to seize control through forceful means, they invariably lose the people's hearts. To truly attain the world, one should approach it as naturally as interacting with an old friend—why strain after it with artificial effort?

Chapter 49 describes the mindset of sages (those who have attained the Dao). Sages possess no fixed personal biases, instead taking the people's will as their own. To the kind, I respond with kindness; to the unkind, I also respond with kindness—this constitutes true "De-shan" (universal benevolence transcending personal preferences). To the trustworthy, I extend trust; to the untrustworthy, I also extend trust—this constitutes true "De-xin" (universal trust transcending personal judgments).

When governing the world, sages remain reverently cautious, merging their hearts completely with the people (eliminating all distinctions). While the populace watches the sage's every word and deed, the sage nurtures all as tenderly as caring for infants. Like a mirror that holds no fixed image but simply reflects reality as it is, the sage embraces all people without prejudice.

The Imperially Approved Commentary on the Dao De Jing explains the principles of life and death and the generation of all things in these two chapters.

Regarding life and death, the scripture points out that human life can be divided into three states: roughly thirty percent belong to the "followers of life," who are full of vitality; another thirty percent belong to the "followers of death," who are in decline; and the remaining thirty percent are those who, though alive, constantly deplete their life energy and hasten their own demise—the "movers toward the land of death." This predicament arises from excessive attachment to nurturing life, which paradoxically drains its very essence. Those who truly understand life cultivation (shesheng) can traverse mountains and forests without encountering rhinos or tigers and stand on battlefields without being harmed by weapons. This is not because they possess supernatural powers, but because their minds make no distinction between life and death, leaving no opening for external harm—just as a rhino finds no place to gore, a tiger no spot to claw, and a weapon no gap to strike. This is the state of "having no land of death."

Chapter 51 discusses the principle of how all things are generated: the Dao (the cosmic origin) gives birth to all things, while De (the manifestation of the Dao) nourishes them, enabling them to take on specific forms. It is as if subtle transformations arise from the void (xu wu yao ming), where Yin and Yang energies intermingle (taihe yinyun), eventually coalescing into concrete things (ju er cheng wu). This reveals the Daoist cosmological view of "the Dao generating and De nourishing," emphasizing that all things are manifestations of the Dao at different levels.

All things in existence take form and manifest through the natural course of development (their growth and maturation follow nature's inherent tendencies). Thus all beings honor the Dao and cherish De (Virtue/Power). The reason Dao is honored and De is cherished lies in their never issuing commands, always following nature's way (all things honor Dao because it enables their birth; they cherish De because it nurtures their growth).

To elaborate: Dao gives birth to all things (bestowing their essence, called "generation"), while De nourishes them (containing their Qi mechanism, called "nurturance"). It makes beings grow (perfecting their forms, called "development"), cultivates them (maturing their substance, called "fostering"), regulates their maturation (balancing their achievements, called "ripening"), tests their functions (assessing their usefulness, called "tempering"), protects them (maintaining their harmony, called "preserving"), and shelters them (preventing their harm, called "shielding"). These seven aspects fully demonstrate Dao's complete virtue in accomplishing all things.

Yet though Dao generates all beings, it never claims possession; though it acts, it never boasts of ability; though it guides all growth, it never asserts dominance—this constitutes the profoundest "Mysterious Virtue" (Dao gives birth without claiming credit, accomplishes without self-importance, guides while allowing natural development, never enforcing control—this virtue's depth transcends human measurement).

Chapter 52

Heaven and earth and all things have their origin—this origin is the mother that births all under heaven (in its unmanifest state called "Non-being," it is the beginning of heaven and earth; when manifest as "Being," it becomes the mother of all things). Having recognized this mother of all generation (Dao), one can understand the myriad things it manifests; yet after truly comprehending these manifestations, one should return to hold fast to this fundamental source.

This passage elucidates how practitioners of the Dao attain lasting peace through inner cultivation. The "Mother" refers to the Dao (the cosmic origin), while the "child" represents all phenomena in the world. The key to cultivating the Dao lies in: blocking the apertures of desire (the "orifices" or dui) and closing the gates to external disturbances (men). Those who achieve this will never exhaust themselves in life's pursuits; conversely, those who open the gates of desire to chase external things will fall into irretrievable peril.

True wisdom manifests in perceiving subtle details (jian xiao yue ming - "seeing the small is called illumination"), while genuine strength lies in maintaining softness (shou rou yue qiang - "guarding tenderness is called strength"). When applying the light of wisdom (guang), one must ultimately return to the innate clarity of the heart-mind (ming). This prevents self-inflicted calamity and constitutes following the eternal principle (xi chang - "inheriting the constant"). Here, guang represents the active function of wisdom, while ming is its fundamental substance. By withdrawing outwardly projected wisdom and returning it to the heart-mind, we regain a state of undisturbed stillness.

The chapter's essence reveals the Dao as the source of all things under heaven. Sages comprehend and master phenomena through embodying the Dao. They understand the patterns of all things (zhi qi zi - "knowing its children") while firmly holding to the fundamental Dao (shou qi mu - "guarding its mother"). The concrete method for preserving the Dao is: promptly blocking emerging desires (sai qi dui - "plugging its openings") and resolutely rejecting external temptations (bi qi men - "closing its gates"). Thus undisturbed both internally and externally, practitioners maintain inner serenity amidst worldly transformations, remaining free from peril throughout their lives.

This passage emphasizes that practitioners of the Dao should hold fast to the fundamental principles and not be deluded by external temptations. It begins by stating that if one becomes obsessed with chasing material things, indulges desires without restraint, and busies oneself with worldly affairs without knowing when to withdraw, one will remain trapped in this state for life without hope of liberation.

Those who truly attain the Dao can perceive subtleties that ordinary people cannot see (this is called "seeing the small is called clarity"), and they can hold fast to the way of gentleness that most cannot grasp (this is called "holding to gentleness is called strength"). Though they use the light of wisdom to discern the finest details, they ultimately return to the state of stillness and natural simplicity. In this way, they avoid bringing calamity upon themselves through indulgence in desires and pursuit of external things—this is true wisdom, profound and beyond words.

Chapter 53 continues: When I gain even a slight awakening and begin to practice the great Dao, what I fear most is deliberate action. The Dao is inherently smooth and even, yet people always prefer shortcuts. The court becomes excessively adorned (obsessed with construction projects), the fields lie fallow (neglecting the seasons of farming), the granaries stand empty (abandoning essential duties), people wear extravagant clothing (pursuing luxury), carry sharp swords (glorifying force), indulge in excessive eating and drinking (seeking pleasure), and hoard wealth (obsessed with accumulation). These behaviors are like the lead singer in a band of thieves (the "thieves’ flute"), leading the masses astray, completely deviating from the Dao.

Those who truly understand the Dao remain unmoved in heart even amid countless changes. If one attempts to practice the infinite Dao with limited knowledge, one will tremble in fear of inadequacy, finding danger at every turn. The Dao is naturally smooth and even, yet people insist on taking shortcuts—this mentality of "seeking shortcuts" is the greatest misfortune. When the court pursues extravagant appearances, it invites flatterers; when fields lie fallow and granaries empty, it breeds laziness.

Those who dazzle others with flashy appearances, intimidate crowds with sharp swords, or hoard useless food and possessions are merely ringleaders of bandits—how could they ever be called true cultivators of the Dao?

Those who are truly skilled at establishing never waver; those who excel at preserving never lose. Such people will be eternally honored by their descendants (meaning their Daoist lineage remains unbroken). The foundation cultivators establish is the "eternal emptiness" (changwu, the realm of perpetual void), making it unshakable; what they preserve is the stillness of inner spirit (shen), ensuring it never slips away.

Cultivating virtue (de) begins with the self:

• Cultivate it in yourself, and your virtue becomes genuine.
• Cultivate it in your family, and your virtue overflows.
• Cultivate it in your community, and your virtue endures.
• Cultivate it in your nation, and your virtue flourishes.
• Cultivate it in the world, and your virtue becomes universal.

"Genuine" means free from falsehood, "overflowing" means blessings multiply, "enduring" means influence deepens, "flourishing" means more people benefit, and "universal" means coverage expands.

Thus, observe individuals through the lens of self-cultivation, families through household principles, and extend this to communities, nations, and the world. My understanding of the world's principles comes precisely from this "observing all things through the Dao" method.

This chapter reveals the true essence of virtue cultivation:

What ordinary people build will collapse; what they cling to will be lost. Only sages preserve their innate purity, seeing through worldly illusions. By discarding external distractions and focusing on self-cultivation, their virtue naturally fills to abundance. Seemingly establishing nothing, yet remaining unshakable; appearing unattached, yet never losing hold—thus their legacy spans generations.

People often err in two ways when cultivating virtue: either neglecting self-cultivation while pursuing grand national ideals, or focusing solely on themselves without extending to family and society. In truth, virtue must expand progressively from self to family, nation, and world to become truly universal. The sage's method is simple: using the Dao within to observe oneself. What does "observing oneself through oneself" mean? It means contemplating the natural principles governing our bodily existence.

This passage discusses the highest state of moral cultivation, which resembles the pure and natural state of an infant.

It begins by explaining the method of observing both oneself and the external world: by examining oneself, one comes to understand their origin, and this same principle extends to the family, community, nation, and even the world. The Dao (the Way) is all-encompassing in its essence and universally effective in its function.

Chapter 55 uses the metaphor of an infant: a person deeply cultivated in Dao and De (Virtue/Power) is like a newborn—utterly pure and natural. Poisonous insects do not sting them, fierce beasts do not attack them, and birds of prey do not strike them. Though their bones and sinews are soft, their tiny fists clench tightly; though they know nothing of sexual relations, their genitals naturally become erect—both signs of abundant Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). They may cry all day without growing hoarse, demonstrating the perfection of harmonious Qi.

One who understands the principle of harmony can maintain constancy, and recognizing this constancy constitutes true wisdom. Excessive pursuit of longevity invites misfortune, and forcibly controlling Qi through willpower is mere brute force. Just as things weaken after reaching their peak, such forceful methods are contrary to the Dao. What goes against the Dao will soon perish.

The passage concludes by noting that a noble person who cultivates Dao and De naturally preserves their virtue. At birth, human virtue is at its purest and most abundant, but as one grows and is influenced by the world, this purity gradually diminishes.

(Note: The term "握固" (wò gù) refers to a Daoist health-preservation technique—the natural fist-clenching posture of an infant; "䘒" (zuī) denotes a male infant’s genitals; "嗄" (shà) means a hoarse voice.)

The Daoist practitioner must continually reduce their desires and attachments. When virtue (De) reaches its ultimate state, one returns to the primal innocence of an infant. Like a newborn child, free from cunning intentions, external things cannot harm them. Poisonous insects will not sting them, fierce beasts will not attack them, and birds of prey will not seize them.

Though infants do not understand grasping, they naturally clench their fists; though they know nothing of sexual matters, they naturally experience arousal—this is due to the abundance of essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi), not deliberate effort. If an infant develops thoughts of gain and loss, this purity vanishes. Precisely because they lack emotions of joy and anger, they can cry all day without becoming hoarse—this is the result of a tranquil spirit (Shen) and harmonious breath.

One who comprehends this state of ultimate harmony may be called "constant" (the eternal Dao); one who understands this eternal Dao may be called "illumined" (great wisdom). Those who grasp the "constant" follow nature spontaneously, neither forcing longevity nor acting recklessly—their every movement is effortless. Life cannot be forcibly prolonged; attempting to interfere invites calamity. Breath (Qi) must never be agitated, and to try controlling it with the mind is excessive. Maintaining emptiness and stillness, holding to softness and weakness—this is the great Dao. Only by following this path can one preserve oneself long. To seek fullness and hardness is the way of the mundane; worldly things grow strong only to decay—how could this be the Dao? Thus, one should always remain soft and weak, never forcing anything.

The truly wise do not speak much, while those who speak much do not truly understand the Dao. One must block the sensory openings (preventing the spirit from scattering outward) and shut the gates of desire (preventing external things from intruding). Smooth the sharp edges (cultivating the inner self) and untangle the knotted thoughts (ordering the external). Dim the glare (not flaunting oneself) and blend with the dust (conforming to the world). This is the highest state of "mysterious unity" (Xuantong)—where distinctions between inner and outer, self and other, dissolve.

Having reached this state, one neither favors closeness nor distances oneself; neither covets profit nor fears loss; neither seeks nobility nor despises lowliness. For one has transcended the worldly divisions of intimacy and estrangement, advantage and harm, honor and disgrace.

This passage elucidates why the Dao is revered by all under heaven. Those who truly comprehend the Dao attain the highest level of understanding (knowing the constant), naturally aligning with the Great Way without needing words. If one still relies on speech to explain it, they haven't yet achieved genuine realization.

Practitioners of the Dao must shut the gates of sensory desires (blocking the openings and closing the doors), as mentioned in chapters 5 and 52. However, the emphasis here isn't on forcibly suppressing desires, but rather the natural state achieved when the mind becomes one with the Dao. The Dao has no concrete form—it cannot be seen with eyes or conveyed with words—only those who awaken to it can perceive its profundity through inner experience.

Those enlightened to the Dao can blunt their sharp edges (dulling the sharp), resolve conflicts (untying tangles), and harmonize with all things (blending their light and merging with the dust), as described in chapter 4. They share the same heart-mind with all beings under heaven, free from discriminatory thoughts, thus transcending notions of closeness or distance, benefit or harm, nobility or baseness. Precisely because they remain unmoved by external things, they become the most revered existence in the world.

Chapter 57 discusses the Dao of governing states and employing military force. Sages govern nations with uprightness (using correctness to govern the state), resorting to unconventional strategies only in warfare (using surprise to employ troops). Truly wise rulers don't deliberately seek to control the world (not trying to seize the world), yet through serene non-action (wuwei), the world naturally submits to them.

How do we know this approach can win the world? Observe the opposite examples: when rulers establish too many prohibitions (taboos), the people grow increasingly impoverished; when cunning stratagems (sharp weapons) prevail among the populace, the nation falls into chaos.

This scripture expounds the art of governance. When a sage ruler (shengren) holds power, the people should be allowed to remain in their simple, natural state. If the people become overly clever and crafty, they will employ all manner of scheming tactics, which in turn will dazzle and confuse the ruler.

When people pursue extravagant skills and frivolous crafts, society becomes flooded with flashy but insubstantial goods. When everyone abandons their proper occupations to chase after these useless arts, many harmful things emerge. Establishing too many laws and regulations ironically breeds more thieves, because when rulers use harsh decrees to guard against the people's deceit, the people become bewildered and are ultimately forced into thievery.

Therefore, the sage says: "Through non-action (wuwei), the people transform themselves naturally; through my preference for stillness, they become upright of their own accord; through my avoidance of meddlesome policies, they prosper spontaneously; through my lack of desire, they return to simplicity." This demonstrates how one can govern the world effectively without deliberate effort.

Governing a state requires constancy—it must be done through proper principles rather than clever tricks. Proper principles establish the enduring framework for all generations, whereas military force is only a last resort. Governing without cunning artifice is a nation's blessing; when rulers refrain from petty cleverness, they naturally attain the state of wuwei governance. How do we know wuwei can govern the world? Precisely because we observe how deliberate action fails to govern well.

Once rulers abandon the principle of wuwei and begin acting deliberately, the world becomes filled with prohibitions and taboos. As people lose their livelihoods avoiding what they detest, they grow increasingly destitute. When people chase after profit and tools of advantage, the lower classes become ungovernable, and the state falls into chaos. Impoverished people resort to opportunism, and a chaotic state breeds strange occurrences—this is why laws multiply endlessly. Yet laws can only restrain what they are designed to restrain, and thus thieves proliferate all the more. All of this stems from the ruler's deliberate action.

Therefore, the sage reiterates: "Through non-action, the people transform themselves; through stillness, they become upright; through non-interference, they grow prosperous; through desirelessness, they return to simplicity."

This scripture discusses the dialectical relationship between governance and human fortune.

When rulers adopt relaxed policies of non-action (Wuwei, 无为) — described here as "keeping a dull appearance" (闷闷, meaning not deliberately displaying cleverness) — the people naturally maintain their simple and joyful nature (淳淳). Conversely, when governance becomes overly strict and meticulous (察察, referring to cumbersome laws), the people turn cunning and discontent (缺缺, indicating moral deficiency).

Fortune and misfortune are interdependent. Within calamity may lie hidden blessings, and within good fortune may lurk potential disaster. This transformation follows no fixed pattern (无正, meaning indeterminable). Just as righteousness may turn into deviance (正复为奇), and kindness may transform into strangeness (善复为妖), people have long been bewildered by these shifting appearances.

Therefore, the sage adheres to four principles in life: being square-edged yet not cutting (方而不割), being pure yet not injurious (廉而不刿), being upright yet not unrestrained (直而不肆), and being luminous yet not dazzling (光而不耀). This embodies the essence of "governing through non-action" — administering the state with proper principles while avoiding disturbance to the people. Policies may appear plain, yet they preserve the people's simple nature. Conversely, governing through clever artifice makes the people hypocritical and insincere. All worldly phenomena undergo constant transformation — seemingly unfavorable situations may contain opportunities, while seemingly smooth circumstances may conceal crises. This is the eternal and unchanging truth.

The distinctions between right and wrong, good and evil in the world often transform into one another. What is considered righteous today may become heretical tomorrow, and acts of kindness may be viewed as sinister. Thus, under heaven, fortune and misfortune, orthodoxy and heresy, good and evil have no absolute standards. Since the common people first developed awareness, they have long been trapped in such confusion and attachment—how can we further burden them with harsh and cumbersome decrees, making it even harder for them to return to their innate simplicity? Therefore, the sage conducts themselves with integrity yet does not harm others, never imposing their personal will to forcibly judge the world. They are pure yet not severe, thus able to guide all things without causing harm. They are upright yet not unrestrained, able to yield when necessary while ultimately upholding righteousness. They are luminous yet not glaring, so their wisdom ultimately returns to clarity. There is no secret to this other than preserving profound simplicity and abandoning rigid, trivial methods.

In governing the people and serving the Dao of heaven, nothing is more essential than "restraint" (referring to internal and external moderation). Whether externally governing the people or internally cultivating the self, one must ensure the mind does not act recklessly and outward conduct does not overstep boundaries. To achieve "restraint" is to grasp the root early—this is called valuing the accumulation of De (Virtue). Continuous accumulation of De leads to unimpeded success, and unimpeded success leads to unfathomable depth. Reaching this unfathomable state allows one to hold the foundation of the nation. By mastering this foundational principle (the great Dao), lasting peace and stability can be achieved. This is the principle of deep roots and firm foundations, of long life and enduring vision (the roots symbolize a person's primordial Qi—deep roots remain unshaken, firm foundations do not break away, naturally enabling lasting existence).

This chapter discusses the shared principles of governance and spiritual cultivation. If the people are not governed in accordance with their innate nature, governance will fail. If heaven's Dao is not served by following its natural patterns, service will falter. The human Shen (spirit) connects to all directions, reaching everywhere, capable of nurturing all things—this is fundamentally the same as the creative power of the Celestial Emperor. It is the very root of what makes us human.

This scripture primarily discusses the principle of "restraint" (conserving and nurturing) one's spirit and governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The key to humans emulating the Dao of heaven lies in maintaining a state of pure and simple spiritual awareness. If one can preserve their Shen (spirit) without dissipation and unite with the Dao, then governing human affairs and aligning with heavenly principles becomes effortlessly achievable. This is why we advocate "restraint"—cherishing one's spiritual energy without squandering it. Those who understand early the importance of nurturing their Shen will find their De (Virtue) growing daily; conversely, waiting until one's spirit is exhausted before attempting recovery is far too late.

When one's accumulated De becomes profound, external things cannot harm them, and all endeavors will succeed. Those who attain the Dao are like masters of the root (mother) of all things—they comprehend the principles of specific phenomena (offspring) while firmly holding to the fundamental source, thus remaining free from peril throughout their lives. Therefore, "restraint" is the essential method for achieving longevity and enduring vision—Shen is the foundation of life, and nurturing it well creates deep roots; life is the basis of vision, and protecting it ensures lasting clarity.

Chapter 60 uses the metaphor of "cooking small fish" to illustrate governance: ruling a large state is like frying tiny fish—excessive flipping will break them (symbolizing how harsh policies disrupt a nation). When governing the world with the Dao, even ghosts and spirits cannot cause mischief. This doesn't mean supernatural beings don't exist, but rather that the sage's Wuwei governance leaves them no opportunity to harm people. The sage doesn't harm others, and neither do the spirits—this mutual non-aggression allows De to naturally return to the sage.

The fundamental principle of governing a state lies in grasping the root principle of the Dao (cosmic law). Just as small fish should not be turned too often when cooking, a great nation should not excessively interfere with its people. Excessive intervention exhausts the people, just as turning fish too much causes them to fall apart—this is an inevitable truth.

The sage governs the world with the Dao, adopting the approach of Wuwei (non-action), ensuring the people remain undisturbed externally and fearless internally. In this way, nothing can harm them—not even spirits and deities can manifest their influence. This does not mean the spirits are ineffective, but rather that Yin-Yang is harmonized, the six qi (wind, cold, summer heat, dampness, dryness, fire) are balanced, all things find their proper place, and life remains unharmed, so spirits and deities have no reason to act malevolently.

The reason the sage can achieve this state is that he preserves the people's innate simplicity, does not disrupt their De (Virtue/Power), and prevents excessive emotions from disturbing the harmony of Yin-Yang. If the sage fails to safeguard the people's purity, leading to the loss of human nature, the disruption of the seasons, and the imbalance of heat and cold, harm will multiply—how could spirits and deities refrain from harming people then? Only when governance is clear and the divine remains distant, with neither interfering in the other, will the people sincerely submit.

Chapter 61 teaches that a great nation should be humble and inclusive like the lower reaches of a river. A great nation ought to be as tranquil and yielding as the female (the "feminine principle"), for stillness overcomes the restlessness of the male (the "masculine principle"). If a great nation humbly accommodates smaller states, it will win their allegiance; if a smaller state humbly approaches a great nation, it will gain acceptance. Whether great or small, humility is the key to mutual relations. The great nation seeks only to embrace and nurture more people, while the smaller state seeks only to be accepted and coexist.

This passage uses the relationship between large and small states as a metaphor for how those who comprehend the Dao should maintain humility and tranquility. If a large state can remain humble and lowly, it will establish good relations with all under heaven, just as the female (the receptive yin principle) through softness and stillness ultimately overcomes the male (the active yang principle). The Dao follows natural law—thus when a large state shows humility toward smaller ones, it will gain their allegiance, while small states showing deference to larger ones will receive protection. Both thereby attain their proper place. Whether a large state seeks to lead others or a small state wishes to align with greater powers, maintaining humble deference allows both to achieve their aims. Therefore, those who truly understand the great Dao should take humility as their foundation.

Chapter 62 points out that the great Dao is the most profound refuge for all things (like the innermost chamber of a house)—it is the treasure of virtuous people and the safeguard for those lacking virtue. Noble words can win hearts, while elevated conduct commands respect. Even those without virtue will not be abandoned by the Dao. Thus, even if one were to install a Son of Heaven (emperor) and appoint the Three Dukes (highest ancient offices), presenting precious jade disks and fine steeds, none would compare to sincerely practicing the Dao. The ancients valued the Dao precisely because following it allows fulfillment of desires (the virtuous regard it as treasure) while those who err still find redemption (the unvirtuous gain its protection)—making the Dao the most precious thing in the world.

This section emphasizes the Dao's all-encompassing nature that makes no distinction between good and evil, like a profound inner chamber containing everything. Virtuous people regard the Dao as the ultimate treasure for cultivation, while the unvirtuous still receive its shelter. True nobility lies not in worldly power or wealth, but in comprehending and practicing the Dao.

All under heaven praise fine words and deeds, which may win worldly approval, but those who embody the Dao (the Way) go far beyond this. They need not deliberately display themselves, yet naturally maintain the realm of the Dao—how could they ever be rejected by the world? The establishment of the Son of Heaven and the appointment of the Three Dukes (highest ancient officials) were originally meant to guide the people with the Dao. Even presenting precious jade discs or fine steeds cannot compare to offering this "Dao." The ancients valued the Dao because the virtuous perfect themselves through it, while the unvirtuous can also be transformed and reformed by it. Thus, the Dao is the most precious treasure in all under heaven.

Chapter 63 teaches: Act with the attitude of "Wuwei" (non-action)—by not forcing things, all can be accomplished. Handle affairs with the method of "no unnecessary actions"—by not creating complications, one can focus on what truly matters. Savor the true flavor within "flavorlessness"—by transcending appearances, one grasps the essence. Whether matters are great or small, many or few (referring to all things in the world), resolve resentment with De (Virtue/Power)—only by letting go of resentment can one recognize kindness. Approach difficult tasks by starting with what is easy (preparing before things become hard). Achieve great undertakings by beginning with the subtle (laying a solid foundation while the scale is still small). All difficult matters under heaven arise from simplicity, and all great affairs accumulate from small beginnings. Thus, the sage never seeks greatness, yet accomplishes great things (precisely because they start small, without striving for greatness, the final achievement becomes vast). Promises made too lightly are rarely kept (what is casually agreed to is often unfulfilled). Taking things too lightly inevitably leads to greater difficulties (underestimating problems often makes them impossible to resolve). Therefore, the sage always treats difficulties with caution beforehand (handling them carefully before they arise), and in the end, faces no truly insurmountable obstacles (because thorough preparation prevents crises).

The core of this chapter is: The true essence of the Dao lies in "Wuwei," yet it is by no means careless or perfunctory. To act through seeming inaction, to handle vital matters as if they were nothing, to savor profound meaning in apparent blandness—this is how the world naturally becomes tranquil and orderly. Faced with the complexities of life, whether great or small, many or few (including the common tendency of people to repay resentment with resentment), the sage always responds to resentment with De (Virtue/Power). Such inclusiveness dissolves opposition, and resentment naturally dissipates. With this attitude toward life, what difficulty cannot be overcome? Yet it must be noted: the world indeed contains difficult and great matters, but the wisdom of the sage lies in preparing early—before things become difficult—and laying a solid foundation while the scale is still small.

This scripture elucidates the laws governing the transformation of all things, emphasizing the importance of addressing matters at their subtle beginnings to prevent future troubles. When circumstances remain stable, they are easiest to maintain (what is tranquil is easily preserved); when signs have not yet manifested, they are easiest to manage (what has not yet formed is easily handled). Fragile things are easily dissolved (what is brittle is easily shattered), and subtle things are easily dispersed (what is faint is easily scattered).

The truly wise deal with problems before they arise (acting before things occur) and bring order before chaos emerges (governing through wuwei [non-action]). Just as a massive tree grows from a tender sprout (great trees begin as tiny shoots), a nine-story tower rises from baskets of earth (height begins from the lowest point), and a thousand-mile journey starts with the first step beneath one's feet (the distant begins with what is near).

Forcing matters only leads to failure (acting with deliberate effort invites defeat), and clutching too tightly only causes loss (grasping forcefully makes things slip away). Therefore, the sage follows the natural course and thus does not fail; by not clinging, nothing is lost. Ordinary people often fail when success seems within reach (ruining things on the verge of completion), but if they remained as cautious as at the beginning, failure would never occur.

Thus, the sage's approach differs from the ordinary: they take "non-desire" as their desire (regarding absence of craving as true wanting) and do not prize rare treasures (not pursuing hard-to-attain objects). Here we see the core Daoist principle of "governing through wuwei"—aligning with natural laws and addressing matters at their embryonic stage, rather than resorting to forceful intervention when problems escalate.

The ancient sages who truly understood the art of governance did not teach the people to become clever and cunning, but rather encouraged them to maintain simplicity. The difficulty in governing people arises precisely because they have too many thoughts and calculations. Thus, using clever tactics to govern a state will ultimately harm it, while governing without such cunning is the true blessing for a nation.

Understanding the difference between these two approaches to governance reveals the fundamental principle. Those who can embody this principle possess "profound virtue" (Xuande). This virtue is deep and vast, appearing contrary to worldly methods yet ultimately aligning perfectly with the Dao (the Way).

Here lies the wisdom of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei): the great tree that fills one's embrace grows from a tiny sprout, the nine-tiered tower is built from its foundation, and the thousand-mile journey begins with a single step. Governing a state is like treating an illness—it requires adjustment before symptoms appear. Ordinary people often insist on forceful action, only to fail when success seems imminent. The sages, however, act through "non-action," hold through "non-grasping," and always follow the natural progression of all things.

The key is to discern the subtle signs (ji) of development. Just as people often fail when success is near because they force outcomes, the sage treats "desirelessness" as desire and "non-learning" as learning. With a mind clear and empty, completely attuned to nature, one can achieve true accomplishment.

Chapter 66 explains how rivers and seas become the gathering place for all streams precisely because they excel at maintaining a low position. The sage who wishes to stand above the people must use humble words; to lead others, one must place oneself behind them. Thus even when occupying an elevated position, people feel no oppression; when standing at the forefront, none feel harmed. It is precisely through non-contention that no one in the world can contend with them.

Chapter 67 observes how all people under heaven say the Dao (the Way) is vast, yet it seems unlike any concrete thing. The Dao transcends physical form, which is why it appears unlike anything specific. If the Dao resembled any particular object, it would have long since become insignificant.

This scripture elucidates the Three Treasures through which the Dao manifests in the world. It begins by noting that the true Great Dao cannot be likened to any concrete object (xiao), just as nothing can fully represent heaven. Any attempt to forcibly compare the Dao to a specific form would only diminish its vastness.

Laozi proposes that Dao cultivators should uphold three fundamental treasures: first, compassion (ci, loving all beings); second, frugality (jian, moderation and restraint); and third, "daring not to be at the forefront of the world" (not contending for superiority). Though these principles may appear simple, they contain profound wisdom:

Because one embraces compassion, true courage naturally arises (softness overcomes hardness); because one practices frugality, abundance is attained (non-waste ensures sufficiency); because one does not contend, one becomes the honored guide of all things (by not competing, none in the world can contend with you).

To abandon these root principles in favor of forced displays of bravery, extravagance, or relentless striving is to court disaster. Particularly, the quality of compassion—when applied in warfare ensures victory, and in defense ensures stability. When heaven seeks to aid a person, it protects them through compassion.

The core teaching here is that worldly people often value superficial displays of courage, opulence, and competition, unaware that true power arises from inner compassion, frugality, and non-contention. Dao cultivators should hold fast to these three treasures—seemingly ordinary yet profoundly precious.

A truly skilled warrior does not rely on brute force (here "士" refers to martial artists; avoiding aggression implies prudent action). Those adept in combat never act in anger (rage leads to impulsive military decisions). Genuine victory over adversaries often comes without direct confrontation (not contending for precedence). Those skilled in employing others always maintain humility (only through humility can one win allegiance)—this embodies the virtue of non-contention (Wuwei) and the method of harnessing others' strength (achieving natural obedience without coercion, thus mobilizing collective power). Such virtue may be considered the highest state of alignment with the Dao (the Way)—nothing more sublime has existed since ancient times.

Chapter 69 discusses the principles of warfare: Ancient military strategists declared, "I dare not initiate hostilities but prefer to respond defensively" ("主" denotes provocation, "客" denotes reactive defense). "I dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot" (advancing represents contentiousness, retreating embodies non-contention). This is acting without acting (the first "行" is a verb, the second refers to battle formations), raising arms without raising, facing enemies as if none existed, holding weapons as if unarmed. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating opponents—doing so nearly costs us our most precious treasure (victory through non-contention is the true treasure). Thus when armies clash, victory often goes to the compassionate side ("抗" signifies raising arms; those with compassion never delight in warfare).

Both passages emphasize the wisdom of "non-contention": True strength avoids brute force; those skilled in leadership remain humble; the essence of military strategy lies in caution and restraint. This seemingly yielding yet profoundly effective approach to life is regarded as the highest wisdom since antiquity, perfectly aligned with the Dao's natural order.

This scripture employs military metaphors to illustrate the application of the Dao (the Way). In warfare, one who dares not take the offensive but prefers defense, who dares not advance rashly but chooses to retreat, thereby harbors no contentious heart. Without a contentious heart, even marching through battle formations feels like moving through empty space—raising arms as if having none to raise, luring enemies as if none exist to lure, wielding weapons as if holding nothing. Though appearing to practice Wuwei (non-action), victory is naturally achieved.

Arrogance and underestimating opponents inevitably lead to defeat. Losing this treasure of "non-contention" brings the greatest calamity. Thus, when two armies clash, victory belongs to the side that holds compassion in its heart.

Chapter 70

Laozi says: My teachings are easy to understand and simple to practice, yet none in the world comprehend or follow them. Speech must have its guiding principle (the core that unites the clan), action must have its foundation (the key that governs the people). Precisely because people fail to grasp this principle, they do not understand me. Those who truly know me are few—this is my true value. Therefore, the sage is like one clothed in coarse garments yet carrying precious jade within (outwardly ordinary, but inwardly extraordinary).

This passage emphasizes how few truly understand the Dao. Laozi points out that his Way is present in the daily cycles of sun and moon, in eating and resting—utterly simple to grasp and practice, yet people fail to do so. Speech and action each have their essential principles, but people pursue only surface appearances, missing the root, and thus cannot truly comprehend. The sage appears no different from others externally, yet within holds the precious Dao—this is what sets him apart.

Chapter 71

To know that you do not know is the highest wisdom (understanding the Dao yet not presuming to know it—this is best). Not knowing yet pretending to know—this is a flaw (a flaw is harmful; feigning knowledge where there is none damages one’s understanding of the Dao).

Those who truly understand the root of problems do not become entangled in them. The reason sages remain free from such entanglements is precisely because they perceive the essence of difficulties, thus avoiding predicaments.

When common people cease to fear the awe of Heaven, greater calamities will befall them. Do not confine yourself within narrow dwellings (where "dwelling" refers not just to physical abodes but also to states of mind), nor obstruct your vital life force ("life" here signifies the principle of longevity and enduring vision). Only by not despising your own life can you truly avoid being despised.

Therefore, the sages possess self-awareness yet do not deliberately display it (containing virtue within, cultivating wisdom inwardly); they cherish themselves yet do not hold themselves in arrogant esteem (following the Dao, free from selfish desires). Thus they relinquish superficiality and embrace fundamental truth.

This chapter uses the stubborn behaviors of common people to guide them back to the Dao. Many march toward death because they lack reverence. Whether through warfare, punishment, or daily indulgence, all actions that harm life are profoundly dreadful. Without this awareness, chaos and disaster inevitably follow. Common people often struggle to remain content, relentlessly pursuing advancement until their circumstances become increasingly constrained. Therefore, do not bind yourself, nor be deluded by illusions—instead, seek the true Way of life.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." Laozi illustrates this principle by contrasting two types of courage: the courage that manifests as aggressive competitiveness (being "bold in daring"), which often leads to fatal consequences, and the courage that knows when to yield (being "bold in not daring"), whose pliancy ultimately preserves life. These two choices yield diametrically opposed outcomes—the former harmful, the latter beneficial.

The heavens despise those who insist on aggressive contention, yet worldly people often fail to comprehend this truth. Even sages find it profoundly difficult to truly refrain from forceful striving. The movement of the Dao follows its own patterns: it prevails naturally without contention (like the seamless rotation of seasons requiring no struggle); it resonates without words (as all beings grow without being commanded); it arrives without being summoned (as yin and yang, cold and heat alternate of themselves). Though the Dao's workings appear unhurried, its arrangements are exquisitely precise. Like the vast celestial net (tianwang), seemingly coarse yet letting nothing slip through.

The entire chapter reveals through the Dao's operations this revelation: aggressive competitiveness may appear valiant, but in truth leads down the path to death; understanding softness and yielding constitutes the true way to preserve life. The sage emulates the Dao's way—contending with nothing, yet accomplishing all things naturally.

These two chapters from the "Imperial Commentary on the Dao De Jing" discuss the relationship between governance and natural law.

Chapter 74 explains that the use of punishment must align with the Dao (the Way). Ordinary people do not always fear death, so using it as a deterrent has limited effect. If rulers truly want people to respect the law, they must first ensure their well-being and prosperity—then they will naturally value life. Only when the majority are content can punishment for the few wrongdoers be truly convincing. The true authority over life and death belongs to the Dao (the "executioner" of the natural order). If rulers recklessly take this role upon themselves, it is like an amateur trying to cut wood in place of a master carpenter—they are likely to injure themselves. This warns rulers to apply punishment with restraint, avoiding excess.

Chapter 75 analyzes the root causes of social problems. People starve because rulers impose excessive taxes; they become difficult to govern because rulers rely too much on manipulative methods (youwei, or "forced action"), teaching them to exploit loopholes; and they grow fearless of death because life’s burdens are so heavy that survival loses its value. These three statements reveal that social instability ultimately stems from the ruling class—oppressive taxation, misguided governance, and the hardships of daily life.

Chapter 76 expounds the Dao of life and death and the principle of strength versus weakness. When alive, the human body remains soft (as pliant as an infant), but becomes stiff after death (rigid like an old corpse). Similarly, plants grow with tender, fragile branches and leaves when flourishing, but turn dry and brittle when withered. Thus, what is hard and unyielding tends toward death, while what is soft and supple brims with vitality.

In warfare, those who become arrogant relying on military strength often meet defeat—just as trees growing excessively tall and sturdy become prime targets for felling. What appears strong and coarse usually occupies inferior positions (easily suppressed), while what seems delicate and subtle often holds superior status (more valued). Through this principle, Laozi teaches that true knowers of the Dao regard apparent strength as disadvantage and perceive softness as advantage.

Chapter 77 employs the metaphor of drawing a bow to illustrate the balancing law of heavenly Dao. When bending a bow, one adjusts its height: if the string sits too high, press it downward; if too low, raise it upward (just as heavenly Dao automatically rectifies imbalances). This mirrors the fundamental pattern governing both nature and human society—an eternal movement toward equilibrium and harmony.

This scripture primarily discusses the distinction between the Dao of Heaven (Tian Dao) and the Dao of humanity, as well as the principle that softness overcomes hardness.

It begins with the metaphor of drawing a bow to illustrate the Dao of Heaven: if the bowstring is too high, lower it; if too low, raise it. Take from what has surplus to supplement what is lacking. The Dao of Heaven reduces excess to compensate for deficiency, yet human society does the opposite—often exploiting the poor to enrich the wealthy. Only those who have attained the Dao (De) can offer their surplus to the world. Thus, the sage (Shengren) performs good deeds without claiming merit and achieves great things without showing off, never seeking to appear more virtuous than others.

Chapter 78 focuses specifically on the nature of water: nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard. Water's softness is irreplaceable. Though the principle that "the soft overcomes the hard" is known to all, few can truly embody it. Therefore, the sage declares: "Only those who can bear the disgrace of a nation are fit to be its ruler; only those who can shoulder its misfortunes are worthy to be its sovereign." These seemingly paradoxical words contain the deepest truth.

(Note: Here, "altars of soil and grain" (Sheji) symbolize the state; "disgrace" (gou) refers to humiliation and defilement; "misfortunes" (buxiang) denote calamities. These concepts emphasize that rulers, like water, should embody humility and包容 (包容,包容), overcoming strength through softness.)

This scripture primarily expounds the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." Using water as a metaphor, though water appears supremely soft and yielding, it can penetrate mountain valleys and erode the hardest substances—nothing in the world surpasses water in overcoming solidity. The key lies in water's unwavering adherence to its soft nature, thus demonstrating how gentleness conquers rigidity.

While everyone recognizes water's ability to overcome hardness through softness, few truly embody this principle in their conduct. Therefore, the sage declares: Only those who can bear a nation's humiliation are fit to be lords of the altars of soil and grain; only those who shoulder a country's misfortunes can become kings of the world. For no state exists solely with goodness and no evil, and no empire is free from calamity. The true ruler embraces these adversities with the softness of the Dao (the Way), just as rivers naturally absorb and dissolve impurities.

While ordinary people detest humiliation and misfortune, the king willingly accepts them. This seemingly paradoxical truth reveals the profound mystery of the Dao.

Chapter 79 discusses the resolution of resentment. Forcibly reconciling deep grievances inevitably leaves residual bitterness—this cannot be considered genuine goodness. Thus, the sage acts like one holding the left half of a contract (ancient agreements were split into left and right portions, with creditors keeping the left half) without actively demanding repayment. Those with De (Virtue/Power) preserve agreements with natural ease, while the virtueless insist on forced compromises. The Dao of heaven shows no favoritism, yet it aids the virtuous.

The great Dao itself harbors no selfishness—only by forgetting grievances can one comprehend its supreme principle. When others bear deep resentment toward me, forcibly reconciling may erase outward hostility but leaves inner bitterness intact—this is not true goodness. The sage acts without claiming merit, always offering surplus to the world. Like holding the left contract while awaiting others to claim their due, this approach neither harbors resentment nor imposes demands. The contract-keeper simply lets events unfold naturally—this is the virtue of non-interference. Forcing reconciliation, however, reveals the absence of true virtue.

This passage describes Laozi's vision of an ideal society. He believed governing small states with sparse populations makes it easier to maintain simple, honest customs. Even when advanced tools ("implements for ten or a hundred men's work") are available, they need not be used, encouraging people to value life over distant travels and migrations. Though boats and carriages exist, there's no need to ride them; though weapons and armor exist, there's no reason to display them.

Laozi advocates returning to the simplicity of ancient knot-tying record-keeping. People would be content with their own food, clothing, and dwellings, taking pleasure in local customs. Neighboring states would be within sight of each other, able to hear each other's roosters crow and dogs bark, yet people would live and die without visiting one another. This reflects Laozi's critique of the excessive development of ritual-music civilization (the "excess of ornamentation") in his time, advocating instead a return to the pristine governance of antiquity.

The text continues: Truthful words are often not ornate ("trustworthy speech isn't embellished"), while ornate words often lack truth ("embellished speech isn't trustworthy"). The truly wise (zhi zhe) don't pursue extensive knowledge—those who seek breadth struggle to grasp true wisdom. The sage (referring to one who has attained the Dao) doesn't hoard possessions. The more one helps others, the richer one becomes; the more one gives, the more one gains. This describes the Dao's mode of operation—the natural way always benefits all things without harm, just as the sage's conduct gives without contention.

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "non-contention" (bu zheng). Laozi observes that the more one gives to others, the more abundant one becomes—like an empty valley that appears void yet contains all things. The Dao (Way) of heaven (natural law) nourishes all beings without harming them, while the sage's way of being involves acting without striving.

Three key principles emerge: First, truthful words need no embellishment ("trustworthy speech isn't ornate")—excessive ornamentation erodes sincerity. Second, reasonable discourse requires no debate ("skillful speech isn't argumentative")—forced arguments deviate from the true path. Third, those who truly understand the Dao don't pursue breadth ("the knowing aren't erudite")—scattered learning may obscure the fundamental.

The sage (one who has realized the Dao) transcends worldly cleverness, maintaining a mind like an open chamber with unobstructed views in all directions. Precisely because they don't hoard, they can endlessly provide for all needs—the more they assist others, the more fulfilled they become; the more they give, the more abundant they grow. This resembles the inexhaustible void that generates new phenomena through perpetual motion.

Though the heavenly Dao contains all benefits, it never boasts—thus people perceive only its advantages, never its harm. The sage's actions appear as non-action (wuwei) yet accomplish all things without claiming credit, thereby avoiding contention with all beings. Consequently, none under heaven can contend with them. This non-contending way that harmonizes with the Dao constitutes the sage's most precious treasure.