《老子說略》

This passage presents Qing Dynasty scholar Zhang Erqi's commentary on the first chapter of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), here interpreted in modern language:

The "Dao" (Way) that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the "name" that can be designated is not the constant, enduring name. "Non-being" (wu) represents the primordial state of heaven and earth, while "being" (you) constitutes the origin of all things. Therefore, sages constantly maintain a state of desirelessness to observe the mysteries of the Dao, while also examining the boundaries of the Dao through states of desire. Though "being" and "non-being" differ in name, they share the same source—both are called "xuan" (the profound and unfathomable ultimate truth). This mysterious state that transcends even mystery itself represents the source of all wonders.

The eternal Dao cannot be fully expressed through language—what we describe are merely its manifestations. Before the formation of heaven and earth, the Dao existed in a "nameless" state; only after creation emerged could things be named. Sages comprehend the Dao by: experiencing the profundity of "non-being" while simultaneously observing the boundaries of "being." These two aspects are like opposite sides of a coin—identical in essence though distinct in name. While "non-being" is indeed profound, "being" is equally mysterious, both collectively termed "xuan." This layered profundity contains infinite truth, truly constituting the gateway to all mysteries.

Regarding punctuation debates: Some argue for breaks after "constant desirelessness" and "constant desire," interpreting "desire" (yu) as thoughts and emotions—meaning observing the Dao's mysteries when free from thought, and examining its boundaries when engaged in thought. Critics counter that desire and desirelessness cannot coexist, thus advocating breaks after "being" and "non-being" as more appropriate.

"Boundary" (jiao) resembles territorial borders—Zhu Xi likened it to points where things intersect. Just as the next chapter discusses the dialectical relationship between beauty/ugliness and good/evil, one must pay attention to these dividing lines to handle affairs properly. Su Shi added: All things of ultimate profundity manifest as the color "xuan" (dark/mysterious), hence Laozi frequently uses "xuan" to denote ultimate truth.

Zhu Xi stated that the character "xuan" (mysterious/profound) refers to that ultimate place of unfathomable darkness where all mysteries originate.

This passage serves as the programmatic content of the entire text. When discussing the noumenon of the Dao (cosmic origin) later, we are observing the mysterious aspects of the Dao—this is the "constant Dao" (eternal, unchanging Way), which cannot be described in words. When discussing concrete phenomena, we are observing the manifestations of the Dao—this is the "non-constant Dao" (ever-changing Way), which can be articulated through language.

When all people under heaven recognize what is beautiful, the concept of ugliness arises; when they recognize what is good, the concept of bad emerges. Thus being and non-being give birth to each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low support each other, sound and echo respond to each other, front and back follow each other. Therefore, the sage handles affairs through wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordless example, allowing all things to develop naturally without interference, nurturing creation without claiming possession, acting without self-importance, and accomplishing without dwelling on achievements. Precisely because they don't dwell on achievements, their merits never fade.

If all people under heaven recognize what is beautiful, they will compete to flaunt beauty—thus beauty becomes ugliness. If all recognize what is good, they will compete to flaunt goodness—thus goodness becomes bad. Originally beautiful things turn ugly; originally good actions become bad. Only by understanding why beauty isn't truly beautiful and goodness isn't truly good—and handling this wisely—can beauty remain beautiful and goodness remain good. Beauty and ugliness, good and bad revolve in this endless cycle. Thus being and non-being generate each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low support each other, sound and echo respond to each other, front and back follow each other—all follow this same principle.

Therefore, the sage understands this truth and handles affairs through wuwei, teaching without words. All things grow before them, with beauty and ugliness mingling freely, yet they never pass judgment. They nurture creation without claiming possession, govern affairs without self-importance, accomplish without dwelling on achievements. Precisely because they don't dwell on achievements, the merits ultimately return to them without being lost. This is why true beauty needs no proclamation of being beautiful, and true goodness needs no proclamation of being good—only thus can beauty and goodness be preserved intact.

The first half of this passage discusses observing the manifestations of the Dao ("observing its manifestations"). The extreme of beauty becomes ugliness, and the extreme of ugliness again gives rise to beauty—all such opposites follow this pattern. Therefore, by observing these concrete phenomena (manifestations), we ultimately comprehend the mystery (mystery) of the Dao.

This passage from Laozi Shuo Lüe expounds the wisdom of governing a state and cultivating the self. The core idea states: When rulers refrain from deliberately exalting the worthy, people will not compete for fame and profit; when they do not prize rare treasures, people will not steal; when they avoid flaunting tempting objects, people's minds will not be disturbed. Therefore, the sage governs the world by keeping people's minds simple ("emptying their hearts"), ensuring they are well-fed and clothed ("filling their bellies"), reducing their ambitions ("weakening their wills"), and strengthening their constitutions ("fortifying their bones"). In this way, the people will not resort to cunning or greed, and those with clever intellects will not dare to disrupt governance with schemes. By acting in accordance with natural spontaneity (Wuwei, non-action), there is nothing in the world that cannot be well-governed.

The terms "heart, belly, will, and bones" are metaphorical: the heart represents thought, the belly signifies basic survival needs, the will denotes desires and ambitions, and the bones refer to fundamental vitality. It is like blunting a sharp blade ("dulling its sharpness"), untying tangled knots ("unraveling its complications"), dimming its radiance ("harmonizing its light"), and blending with the dust ("mixing with the mundane"). It seems nonexistent yet is omnipresent ("profound, it seems to barely exist"). This state is indescribable and ineffable ("I do not know whose child it is"), as if it existed even before Heaven and Earth ("appearing before the Lord of All").

Shao Bian explains: The first two instances of "its" ("dulling its sharpness," "unraveling its complications") refer to self-cultivation, while the latter two ("harmonizing its light," "mixing with the mundane") pertain to interacting with others. The Dao itself is empty (Chong, the Void), yet its function is inexhaustible ("used, it is never exhausted"), like an abyss that embraces all things ("deep, it seems the ancestor of the myriad beings"). Practitioners of the Dao must dull their own sharp edges, resolve external disturbances, conceal their brilliance, and blend with the ordinary world—appearing nonexistent yet truly present. This state cannot be articulated; one cannot even say where it comes from, as if it existed before the Divine Sovereign.

This passage from Laozi Shuo Lue elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." The text employs the metaphor of "straw dogs" (ritual grass effigies used in ancient sacrifices): Heaven and Earth treat all things as humans treat sacrificial straw dogs—adorning them not out of affection, nor discarding them post-ritual out of disdain, but simply following natural processes. Similarly, sages should refrain from imposing personal preferences, allowing people to develop according to their inherent nature.

The workings of Heaven and Earth resemble a bellows (tuoyue): though hollow inside, it never exhausts itself—the more it's pumped, the more air it generates. Likewise, the procreation of all things by Heaven and Earth follows natural processes without deliberate benefaction. The highest form of governance lies in maintaining a state of "central emptiness"—an inner stillness free from stubborn opinions, where fewer commands paradoxically prevent predicaments.

The later reference to "the valley spirit never dying" (an eternally receptive mind like an empty valley) is termed the "mysterious feminine" (xuanpin, the profound generative source). This mysterious gate of life constitutes the root of Heaven and Earth—it seems continuous yet intangible, yet its application remains inexhaustible. Practitioners of Dao must comprehend this "great utility of apparent uselessness": what appears void can nurture all things; what seems inactive can respond to everything.

Commentator Jiao explains "valley" as symbolizing the receptive quality of emptiness, while "mysterious feminine" represents the unfathomable creative power, akin to the earlier-mentioned "mother of all things." Xue Juncai notes from a phonetic perspective that "pin" should be read as "bi" for rhyming purposes, with the phrase "gate of the mysterious feminine" emphasizing its ceaseless generative nature.

This passage elucidates several core concepts from the Daode Jing, using the characteristics of water to illustrate how the Dao (the Way) operates.

Regarding the "Valley Spirit" (referring to the Dao's mysterious emptiness) and the "Mysterious Feminine" (denoting the Dao's generative function), these describe the De (Virtue/Power) and functions of the Dao. The Dao gives birth to all things without leaving traces of creation, much like the profound gateway of maternal reproduction—the root of heaven, earth, and all beings. This generative capacity is ceaseless yet imperceptible, embodying the nature of the "Eternal Dao."

Heaven and earth endure precisely because they do not seek life for themselves but selflessly nurture all things. If heaven and earth were selfish, they would be no different from ordinary objects. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) emulates this principle: by yielding, one actually takes the lead; by not clinging to life, one truly preserves it. This isn't because they lack self-interest, but precisely through selflessness, they achieve the genuine "self" (referring to the lasting preservation of life).

Perfect goodness resembles water: water nourishes all things without contention, willingly occupying the low places people disdain, thus coming closest to the Dao's essence. Those seeking perfection should emulate water's nature: dwelling like water that settles in low-lying areas, content with one's station; maintaining a mind as still as deep pools; treating others with water-like benevolence that moistens all; speaking with the reliability of flowing currents; governing like water management that follows natural channels; acting with water's adaptability to any circumstance; moving with the timeliness of tides. Precisely because it contends with nothing, water remains free from blame.

Water flows according to the terrain's contours, becomes unfathomably deep when still, nurtures without demanding repayment, breaks through obstacles without breaking its nature, cleanses impurities while restoring purity—these are all qualities practitioners of the Dao should cultivate.

The nature of water is all-pervasive, its movements always timely and adaptable. It avoids heights and flows to low places, never stagnating in its course. Possessing these virtues yet never contending with other things, precisely because it does not contend, it merges with the world without incurring resentment. This is why the highest form of goodness resembles water.

Forcing fullness is inferior to knowing when to stop; over-sharpening an edge makes it difficult to endure. Though halls may be filled with gold and jade, none can keep them forever; arrogance amid wealth and honor only invites misfortune. Withdrawing after achieving merit—this accords with the Dao of heaven. People cling to fullness, unaware that moderation brings stability; they pursue sharpness, not realizing that extreme hardness breaks easily. What meaning has a hall full of treasures when they must scatter? What value in arrogance that invites calamity? Only by emulating heaven's Dao—achieving then withdrawing—can one truly possess without ownership, avoiding fullness; acting in accordance with principle eliminates the need for sharpness.

(Explanation of "yingpo": Daoist cosmology holds that the human body consists of hun (ethereal soul, yang, governing spirit) and po (corporeal soul, yin, governing form) When the spirit becomes enslaved by external things, hun and po separate. Can those who harmonize these souls to maintain unity of body and mind sustain this state long-term? When the mind forcibly drives qi (vital energy), the breath becomes disordered. Can those who regulate breath to achieve infant-like softness preserve this purity? Without eliminating selfish thoughts, consciousness becomes obscured. Can those who cleanse their minds to attain clarity remain truly unclouded? After perfecting self-cultivation to govern people, can one rule through Wuwei (non-action)? Facing worldly changes ("heaven's gate" signifies sensory portals to the external world), can one maintain gentle stillness without forceful assertion? Even knowing all things' patterns, can one appear profoundly simple? Those who accomplish this nurture all things without claiming ownership, complete works without taking credit, guide development without imposing control—this constitutes the deepest "mysterious De (Virtue/Power)."

Zhu Xi explains: Hun belongs to yang and governs movement; po belongs to yin and governs stillness. Hun resembles fire's activity (the number two representing change), while po resembles water's tranquility (the number one representing constancy), hence "carrying yingpo" (bearing yin and yang energies).

This scripture expounds the core principles of Daoist cultivation and worldly conduct.

It begins with the practice of "embracing the One with soul and body" (yingpo baoyi), where the ethereal soul (shen) and corporeal body (po) unite harmoniously. This resembles using fire (yang) to temper water's yin softness, balancing movement and stillness. Like a rider in a chariot, the soul remains tranquil while the body stays clear-minded—the fire doesn't scorch, the water doesn't flood. This constitutes the essential secret of immortality.

"Profound observation" (xuanlan) refers to the skill of perceiving subtle transformations in phenomena, comprehending celestial mechanisms through the opening and closing of the heart-mind. The text then employs three metaphors: a wheel's thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub—precisely this "emptiness" (wu) makes the wheel functional; the empty space within pottery vessels constitutes their true utility; the vacant doors and windows render a house habitable. This demonstrates how "being" (you) provides convenience, while "non-being" (wu) serves as the fundamental source of functionality.

The scripture then critiques the dangers of sensory indulgence: dazzling colors blind the eyes, cacophonous music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, excessive hunting deranges the spirit, and rare treasures corrupt conduct. Therefore, the sage seeks only basic sustenance, avoiding sensory pleasures, understanding the Dao of discernment.

Finally, it discusses the principles of favor and disgrace: both receiving honors and suffering humiliation startle the heart, because we overvalue gain and loss. Why say we should regard great calamities as we regard our bodies? Precisely because our attachment to self creates these calamities. By achieving selflessness (wuwo), what remains to worry about?

These teachings all point to the Daoist core principles of "guarding the center" (shouzhong) and "non-action" (wuwei), emphasizing that inner cultivation surpasses external pursuits, and highlighting the dialectical relationship between "being" and "non-being."

The greatest affliction of humans lies in attachment to the self. If one can transcend the self, what remains to worry about? Therefore, only those who regard governing the world as more important than themselves are worthy of being entrusted with the world; only those willing to dedicate themselves to the world deserve such responsibility.

The ancients who comprehended the profound principles maintained vigilance toward both honor and disgrace. They regarded honor and disgrace as equal, and major afflictions as inseparable from the self. Why is it said "to be honored or disgraced is equally alarming"? Ordinary people consider honor good and disgrace bad. But if one understands that disgrace often stems from honor, and that honor may become the beginning of disgrace, then honor itself is also undesirable. Thus when honored, one feels trepidation, fearing the approach of disgrace; when honor is lost, one remains cautious, relieved to avoid disgrace.

Why say "great affliction is as serious as the self"? Our major sufferings arise precisely from excessive concern with the self. Over-attachment to oneself leads to undue preoccupation with worldly gains and losses. If one can lighten and transcend the self, regarding life and death, honor and disgrace as one, what remains to worry about? Furthermore, those unattached to self will not become arrogant upon gaining the world - such people are truly fit to govern it; those free from self-attachment can live selflessly for others' benefit - such individuals deserve the world's trust.

"Yi" (the invisible), "Xi" (the inaudible), and "Wei" (the intangible) - these three cannot be concretely described, hence they merge into one. Above it is not bright, below not dark, continuous yet nameless, ultimately returning to formless formlessness. This is form without form, image without substance, which may be called "vague and indistinct." Facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end. By holding fast to the Dao that has existed since antiquity to address present matters, one can comprehend the origin of the universe - this is the guiding principle of the Dao.

It is called "Yi" because unseen, "Xi" because unheard, "Wei" because untouchable. These three names are forced designations, as they cannot be truly described, hence their merging into one. All formed things have brightness and darkness, but this Dao is neither bright above nor dark below, having no discernible form. It operates continuously, coming and going through everyday existence.

This passage describes the profound nature of the Dao (the cosmic origin and governing principle). Though the Dao truly exists, it cannot be defined by concrete names—it is neither wholly form nor complete formlessness. When you seek its origin, you find no beginning; when you trace its end, you discover no conclusion. Since ancient times, people have called it the Dao. Those who grasp the ancient Dao's essence can apply its timeless wisdom to contemporary matters—though dwelling in the present, they comprehend the mysteries of all things' origins. This is the essential transmission of the Dao.

The truly realized adepts of antiquity attained a state so subtle, profound, and far-reaching that ordinary people could scarcely fathom it. Precisely because it defies description, we can only approximate it through metaphor: They moved cautiously as if crossing a winter river, remained vigilant as if wary of neighbors, carried themselves solemnly like honored guests, yet flowed freely like melting ice. They were as substantial as uncarved wood, as open as mountain valleys, as turbid as muddy water. Who can become clear like stilled muddy water that gradually settles? Who can maintain stillness yet act with perfect timing, allowing natural spontaneity to arise? Those who uphold this Dao never seek perfection—precisely by not pursuing completion, they preserve primordial simplicity without striving for novelty.

The secret of these adepts' attainment lies in their understanding of awaiting clarity within chaos and acting naturally from stillness. Modern people rush to display their clarity, unaware that only through settling in turbidity can natural clarification occur; they compete to demonstrate vitality, ignorant that maintaining stillness allows timely action to emerge spontaneously. Those who uphold this Dao avoid self-satisfaction, for complacency loses the Dao's true essence. Only by not seeking perfection can one rest in simplicity; only by not forcing novelty can one attain the wondrous state where stillness brings natural clarity and movement yields perfectly timed action.

This passage elucidates the profound mysteries of the "emptiness and stillness" (虚静) state in Daoist cultivation and its wisdom for governance.

Regarding the practice of emptiness and stillness: When cultivation reaches the ultimate state of emptiness and stillness, though the myriad things undergo endless transformations, one remains detached, observing their cyclical patterns of return. Though the world appears complex, all things ultimately revert to their source. This return to the source is stillness; stillness is the return to one's innate nature, and returning to one's nature aligns with the constant Dao (常道). Understanding this constancy is wisdom, while ignorance leads to reckless action and misfortune. Those who comprehend the constant Dao embody inclusiveness; inclusiveness leads to impartiality, impartiality to governing the world, governing to harmony with the Dao of Heaven, and harmony with the Dao ensures enduring peace, free from peril throughout life.

In practice: When one attains the ultimate state of emptiness and stillness, facing the ceaseless transformations of life and death, one does not intervene but observes the cyclical nature of existence. Seeing through this essence dispels the illusions of appearances, allowing one to return to the source alongside all things. Once returned, external phenomena no longer disturb the mind—this is true stillness, the return to the original state of life. Reaching this state transcends the duality of movement and stillness, embodying the constant Dao. Only those of supreme insight can grasp this, hence the saying, "To know the constant is called enlightenment" (知常曰明).

On governance: The highest ruler (太上, the Supreme) governs so subtly that the people barely sense their presence. The next best is beloved and praised; the lesser is feared; the worst is despised. The decline occurs when rulers lack sincerity, eroding the people's trust. Without trust, words lose their power. The finest rulers act with ease, issuing few commands, yet affairs naturally succeed, and the people believe they achieved it all themselves.

The method of "observing the return" (观复) here aligns with the "observation of subtleties" (观徼) in Chapter 1. By contemplating the cyclical patterns of all things, one perceives the eternal, unchanging Dao.

This passage expounds on Laozi's wisdom regarding governance and self-cultivation.

A truly wise ruler does not issue commands arbitrarily but benefits the people without their awareness. When affairs are accomplished, the people attribute it to natural processes, unaware of whose merit it is—they merely know such a ruler exists.

When the Dao (the natural order) is abandoned, only then do benevolence and righteousness become emphasized. When cleverness emerges, hypocrisy follows. When families fall into discord, filial piety and parental love are extolled. When the state falls into chaos, loyal ministers stand out. In an age where the Dao prevails, people are entirely unaware of the need for benevolence and righteousness. Only when people lose their innate simplicity and the clever begin flaunting their intellect do comparisons arise, and hypocrisy takes root.

Laozi proposes discarding three things: discard sagely wisdom (excessive pursuit of cleverness), and the people will gain a hundredfold benefit; discard benevolence and righteousness (artificial displays of virtue), and the people will return to their natural filial piety and kindness; discard cunning and profit-seeking (scheming and greed), and thieves will vanish. These three are superficial and not worth preserving. One should return to innate simplicity, diminish selfishness and desires, and thus approach the ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The latter part describes the state of a Daoist practitioner. Ordinary people indulge in pleasures, as excited as if attending a grand feast or climbing heights in spring. But those who have attained the Dao are as innocent and desireless as infants, appearing dull and indistinct. While worldly people are sharp and calculating, the Daoist seems muddled and dim. This seemingly foolish state, in truth, contains great wisdom.

This passage describes the contrasting states between Daoist practitioners and ordinary people, as well as the mysterious nature of the Dao (the Way).

The mind of a Daoist cultivator remains pure and desireless like an infant, standing in sharp contrast to common folk. While ordinary people indulge in worldly pleasures (such as grand sacrificial ceremonies or spring outings), practitioners maintain serenity, untouched by emotional disturbances. Where others pursue knowledge and dwell on distinctions between good and evil, the cultivator transcends such dualistic thinking, recognizing that the difference between virtue and vice is ultimately minor. They may appear dull and muddled (dùn dùn), but this is because they do not cling to worldly cleverness (zhāo zhāo). While the masses bustle with purposeful action, the Daoist abides in wuwei (non-action), returning to the pristine state of all things to nourish the self.

Regarding the essence of the Dao: Though the Great Way seems indistinct and elusive, within this hazy state lies true form and subtle substance (therein are images, therein are things). In the depths of its profound obscurity (yǎo xī míng xī) resides the purest essence of jing (vital essence), utterly authentic and trustworthy. From ancient times to the present, the name of the Dao has never faded—through it, one recognizes the origin of all things (zhòng fǔ). Those of great De (Virtue) outwardly manifest complete alignment with the patterns of the Dao.

The term "shí mǔ" (nourished by the mother) refers to returning to the source of life; "tài láo" denotes the highest-grade sacrificial feast of antiquity; and "kǒng dé" (great Virtue) signifies the noblest moral character. These descriptions embody the Daoist pursuit of returning to primordial simplicity and transcending dualistic oppositions.

This passage from Laozi Shuo Lue elucidates the nature of the Dao (the Way) and the wisdom for navigating life.

First, it discusses the essence of the Dao: Though the Dao may seem intangible and elusive (described as "vague and obscure"), it contains reliable and enduring principles. From ancient times to the present, the Dao has always existed, while all things (the myriad beings) undergo change and decay—only the Dao remains unchanging. It is like a doorway through which people come and go in endless succession, yet the door itself remains constant.

Next, it offers wisdom for living: To bend is to preserve; to yield is to straighten; to be low is to become full; to be worn is to be renewed; to take less is to gain more; to grasp too much is to become confused. Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) holds fast to the fundamental principle of "oneness" as the standard for all under heaven. By not displaying oneself, one becomes manifest; by not asserting oneself, one becomes discerning; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not exalting oneself, one endures. Precisely because one does not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancient saying, "To bend is to be whole," is no empty phrase—it truly leads to fulfillment.

Finally, it speaks of the natural way of the Dao: Speaking little accords with nature. A fierce wind does not last all morning; a sudden downpour does not last all day. Even heaven and earth cannot sustain such intensity—how much less can humans? Therefore, those who seek the Dao must unite with it; those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) must unite with it. What you pursue is what you will attain, and those who lack sincerity will invite distrust from others. One should speak little, follow the natural course, and avoid forcing things. Just as violent winds and heavy rains cannot endure, actions driven by excessive striving will not last.

Through natural phenomena and life principles, this passage illustrates the wisdom of embracing softness, humility, and non-contention in life, as well as the importance of aligning with the natural order of the Dao.

This passage from Laozi Shuo Lue elucidates the principle of following nature's course. Violent storms do not last all day—such is the way of Heaven and Earth. If even Heaven and Earth cannot make tempests endure, why should humans force arguments upon others through cleverness?

Those who truly cultivate the Dao (the Way) do not act this way. Those in harmony with the Dao forget its presence when dwelling in it; those aligned with De (Virtue) forget its existence when embodying it; those who interact with the flawed overlook their faults. The key lies in speaking sparingly and flowing with spontaneity. The Dao joyfully embraces those who align with it; De gladly accepts those who embody it; even shortcomings welcome those who meet them without judgment. Whether wise or foolish, all may coexist peacefully through mutual trust. Without trust, no amount of argument will convince. Thus, reticence and naturalness are most precious.

Standing on tiptoe to appear taller only brings instability; striding forcefully to move faster shortens one’s journey. Those who self-display fail to shine; those who self-assert go unrecognized; those who boast accomplish nothing; the arrogant cannot endure. To the Dao, such conduct resembles leftover food or bodily tumors—detested even by spirits. Hence, those who embody the Dao abstain from these.

There exists a primal unity, formless and undivided, present before Heaven and Earth. Silent and void, it stands alone, unchanging, cycling endlessly—the source of all things. I know not its name, but call it "Dao," and reluctantly describe it as boundless. Boundlessness begets perpetual motion; perpetual motion reaches infinite depth; infinite depth returns to the origin. Thus, the Dao is vast, Heaven is vast, Earth is vast, and humanity is vast. The cosmos holds four greatnesses, and humanity is one. Humanity follows Earth; Earth follows Heaven; Heaven follows the Dao; the Dao follows nature (ziran).

This undifferentiated whole—unknowable in origin, existing before Heaven and Earth—has no beginning. Silent and empty, unique and eternal, it flows through all without cease. All things arise from it, yet none know its name. I reluctantly call it "Dao."

This scripture elucidates the essence of Dao (the Way) and the sage's approach to life. Dao is the fundamental source that gives birth to all things. Though its true name remains unknowable, we tentatively call it "Dao" or "the Great." Vast and boundless, it generates all beings without claiming possession; it operates universally without boundaries, appearing distant yet attainable through a single moment of realization. Dao, Heaven, Earth, and the King are the four great existences in the cosmos. The ruler must emulate Earth's inclusiveness, Heaven's all-encompassing nature, and Dao's creative power, ultimately returning to natural authenticity.

The text employs the metaphor: "The heavy is the root of the light; stillness is the master of agitation." Just as substantial objects support lighter ones and tranquility governs restlessness, the sage navigates the world like an army never abandoning its supply wagons (symbolizing essential provisions). Though dwelling amidst splendor and wealth, the sage remains transcendent. Sadly, some rulers of great states frivolously pursue trivial worldly matters, thereby losing their foundation—like lightness forfeiting its root and agitation losing its anchor.

Five instances of "skillfulness" illustrate the sage's attainment: walking without leaving traces, speaking without faults, calculating without tools, closing without bolts yet making openings impossible, binding without cords yet making release unfeasible. The sage consistently excels in saving both people and things, leaving nothing and no one abandoned. This is called "inheriting illumination" (carrying forward luminous wisdom)—thus the virtuous become teachers for those lacking virtue.

The text specifically explains that "supply wagons" symbolize never abandoning the root, while "splendid views" represent noble status. The entire passage emphasizes guarding the fundamental, maintaining emptiness and stillness, and emulating the natural Dao to achieve a state of perfect harmony.

This scripture primarily expounds on the wisdom of human conduct and governance.

Regarding the relationship between virtuous and non-virtuous people: The virtuous can serve as teachers for the non-virtuous, while the non-virtuous can become mirrors for the virtuous. Those who understand this principle respect their teachers and value these mirrors, thereby properly managing the relationship between virtue and non-virtue, ensuring each person fulfills their potential. Those who neither respect teachers nor value mirrors remain confused despite considering themselves wise.

On the wisdom of conduct: Those truly skilled at walking leave no traces (acting with perfect appropriateness), those skilled at speaking make no mistakes (speaking with perfect measure), those skilled at calculating need no counting tools (understanding principles), those skilled at closing need no bolts yet none can open (grasping the essentials), those skilled at binding need no ropes yet none can untie (aligning with collective will). The sages possess these skillful means, thus they can employ people to govern people, allowing each to find their proper place; they can follow the nature of all things, allowing everything to flourish according to its kind.

Regarding the meaning of "xi ming" (袭明): There are two interpretations—first, applying one's wisdom to people and things; second, subtly employing wisdom.

On the cultivation of "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine" (知雄守雌): While understanding the principle of strength, one maintains a posture of gentleness, humble like the valley streams of the world. This preserves one's pure De (Virtue) and returns to the innocence of an infant's state. Similarly, while comprehending brightness, one maintains a posture of obscurity; while knowing glory, one maintains a posture of humility. This preserves complete De and returns to the original state of pristine simplicity. When this simplicity disperses, it becomes various implements (concrete things). Sages employ this simple Dao in governance, thus their perfect systems never violate the natural essence of things.

These principles embody the Daoist concepts of "the soft overcoming the hard" and "returning to original simplicity," emphasizing humility, gentleness, and simplicity as the path to better conduct and governance.

Here Laozi employs vivid metaphors to illustrate the sage's way of being in the world. First, he describes the sage as resembling the crossbar of an ancient chariot—though occupying an elevated position, they maintain humility. Thus they preserve eternal De (Virtue) without error, ultimately returning to the formless Dao that has neither beginning nor end. Though aware of glory, they never grow arrogant, willingly abiding in lowly places like a valley receiving muddy waters. Paradoxically, this receptivity maintains their fullness, allowing return to the original state of pristine simplicity.

This state of primal simplicity cannot be described by concrete objects. When dispersed, it manifests as myriad phenomena, yet the sage in applying it can return all things to their unadorned essence. Therefore, those who govern the world through the Great Dao never cling to petty methods of division.

Laozi further observes that those who seek to forcibly control the world are doomed to fail. The world is a sacred vessel that cannot be altered by personal will. All things possess their inherent nature: some lead while others follow; some are warm as exhaled breath while others cold as a chilling gust; some are strong while others yielding; some build while others dismantle. Understanding this, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance and excess, following nature's course without coercion.

Finally, he emphasizes that those who assist rulers through the Dao never rely on military force, for violence begets retribution. Where armies march, briars grow; after great battles, famine follows. Truly skilled commanders seek only righteous ends, never presuming upon strength to bully the weak.

This passage discusses the proper attitude toward military strategy, with its core philosophy opposing the misuse of force. The scripture first points out that even when achieving success, one should not become arrogant or boastful, for when things reach their zenith, they inevitably decline toward decay. Actions that violate the natural order (Dao) are doomed to an early demise. Forcibly seizing the world through military might is fundamentally contrary to the great Dao.

Those truly skilled in the use of arms employ force only when absolutely necessary, maintaining humility and restraint throughout. The scripture outlines five correct attitudes: achieving results without pride, without boasting, without arrogance, recognizing that force is used only out of necessity, and without seeking dominance through brute strength. The author emphasizes that military force is an inauspicious instrument—even heaven, earth, and all things despise it—and thus, those who embody the Dao never resort to it lightly.

In ancient ritual practices, auspicious matters honored the left, while inauspicious matters honored the right. When deploying troops, generals positioned themselves on the right, treating warfare as a funeral rite. Even in victory, one must maintain a mourning heart, for war signifies the loss of countless lives. The scripture repeatedly warns: those who delight in killing will never truly attain mastery under heaven.

Commentator Jiao particularly notes that the phrase "only when absolutely necessary" (不得已) captures the grave difficulty of resorting to arms. The five instances of "果而" (guǒ ér, "achieving yet") should be read with "而" (ér) interpreted as "于" (yú), meaning that while others may stubbornly cling to one approach, the wise adhere to a higher, more enlightened attitude. This passage embodies the Daoist opposition to war and reverence for natural harmony, viewing military force as a last resort to be wielded only with profound compassion.

This scripture conveys two main themes: reflections on warfare and an exposition on the fundamental nature of the Dao (the Way).

First regarding warfare. When armies march to battle, the commander-in-chief positions himself on the left (the position of honor in ancient times) while the general stands on the right—an arrangement that follows funeral rites. Treating warfare with funeral rituals indicates that weapons are truly inauspicious objects. When battles result in heavy casualties, one should mourn with grief; even in victorious returns, the occasion should be marked with funeral ceremonies. This profoundly illustrates that victory is no glorious matter, and killing is nothing to celebrate. The highest attainment lies in maintaining a serene and tranquil state of mind.

Then comes the exposition on the essence of the Dao. The Dao typically has no name, like unworked raw wood ("Pu" or simplicity). Though seemingly insignificant, nothing in the world dares belittle it. If rulers can preserve this "simplicity," all things will naturally submit to them. When the Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth's Yin-Yang harmoniously interacts, sweet dew descends (symbolizing auspiciousness), distributing itself evenly without human intervention—this is the effect of preserving simplicity.

When names and institutions were first established, one must know where to stop after creating them. Knowing when to stop prevents danger. Just as all rivers ultimately flow to the sea, all things return to the Dao. Sadly, many rulers fail to understand the importance of preserving this simplicity.

The text then turns to personal cultivation: Understanding others is wisdom, but knowing oneself is true clarity; conquering others demonstrates strength, but mastering oneself is true power; knowing contentment is real wealth, and persevering in practice shows true resolve; not losing one's foundation ensures longevity, and the spirit enduring beyond death constitutes genuine immortality. Here, it distinguishes between external "wisdom" and internal "clarity," emphasizing that self-restraint surpasses conquering others, that contentment is true wealth, and that steadfast practice of the Dao demonstrates real resolve. Understanding the fundamental laws of change without losing one's grounding ensures lastingness; when the physical body perishes but the spirit endures, that is true longevity.

This passage elucidates the characteristics of the Great Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe). That which is truly eternal does not change despite external transformations. While life and death may appear as dramatic transitions, what seems to perish yet never truly vanishes represents genuine longevity.

Wisdom and clarity arise from both internal and external cultivation; true wealth with purpose manifests through both action and knowing when to stop; permanence and longevity are achieved through remaining unchanged despite transformations of life forms and never perishing even in death. These are all effects of steadfastly adhering to the constant Dao.

The Great Dao is vast and boundless, flowing freely in all directions. All beings rely on it for growth, yet it never declines responsibility; it accomplishes all things without claiming credit; it nurtures all creation without asserting dominion. Because it remains eternally desireless, it may be called subtle; though all things return to it without knowing their master, it may be called great. Therefore, sages never consider themselves great, yet thereby achieve true greatness.

As the fundamental reality, the Dao can manifest as left or right, yet cannot be grasped through deliberate pursuit. All things depend on it for growth, yet it never refuses them. It creates without claiming, nourishes without controlling. From its eternal desirelessness, it appears intangible and elusive—this is its subtlety. From how all things return without recognizing their source, it appears all-encompassing and boundless—this is its greatness. The Dao's nature being so profound, those who embody it never presume greatness, thereby attaining true greatness.

When governing the world by holding fast to this "Great Image" (supreme principle), all people under heaven will return to it. Though multitudes come, if one neither acts deliberately nor harms them, all who come will find peace, harmony and wellbeing. This is the Dao's true function. As for attracting people with music and delicacies—this is like entertaining passing guests who depart when the music ends and food is consumed. The Dao's flavor seems bland when spoken, invisible when looked at, inaudible when listened for, yet its application is inexhaustible—how can music and delicacies compare?

Lu Xisheng comments that the "Great Image" refers precisely to the Dao. Su Zhe explains that the Dao transcends concrete existence and non-existence, hence being called the "Great Image." Music and delicacies merely symbolize superficial methods of pleasing people through petty favors.

This passage expounds the Daoist dialectical principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." To contract something, one must first allow it to expand; to weaken something, one must first let it grow strong; to abolish something, one must first permit it to flourish; to take something away, one must first give it. This seemingly paradoxical yet profoundly wise truth is called "weiming" (subtle illumination)—a delicate yet evident principle.

Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, a state's strategies of power should not be lightly revealed. The movement of heavenly Dao (the Way) and the transformations of human affairs follow inevitable patterns: when things reach their extreme, they reverse course. Understanding this principle allows one to use softness to overcome hardness. This truth can be applied both to self-cultivation (nurturing one's nature) and to concealing one's strength (self-preservation), much like fish require the protection of deep waters. It can both ward off calamities and potentially become a source of them, just as a state's stratagems carry dual possibilities.

The Dao (the cosmic origin and universal law) appears to do nothing, yet accomplishes everything. If rulers can adhere to the principle of "wuwei" (non-action) in governance, all things will naturally flourish. When people develop excessive desires, they should be settled with the "nameless simplicity" (the pristine state of Dao). Even this method of settling should ultimately be relinquished, achieving true desirelessness, and the world will naturally return to its proper course.

Here, the emphasis lies on rulers emulating the natural "non-action" of Dao, avoiding excessive interference and allowing people to spontaneously follow their innate nature. When cunning and opportunism arise in society, rather than employing coercive measures, one should guide by returning to fundamental simplicity. Ultimately, this leads to a state where one neither deliberately acts nor deliberately refrains from acting, achieving perfect governance of the world.

This passage presents Qing Dynasty scholar Zhang Erqi's commentary on the second part of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), elucidating the different levels of De (Virtue/Power) and their relationship with the Dao, humaneness, righteousness, and ritual propriety.

The highest level of De (shangde, superior Virtue) does not deliberately flaunt virtuous conduct, and thus truly embodies De; the lower level of De (xiade, inferior Virtue) clings to outward displays of virtue, thereby losing its true essence. Those with superior Virtue follow natural spontaneity without forced action (wuwei), while those with inferior Virtue must strive and act with effort to achieve it. Similarly, humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), and ritual propriety (li) also exist in hierarchical forms: superior humaneness arises from the heart without coercion, superior righteousness acts in accordance with what is fitting, and superior ritual expresses emotion through elaborate ceremonies.

When society loses the great Dao, people emphasize De; when De is lost, they speak of humaneness; when humaneness is lost, they uphold righteousness; and when righteousness is lost, they turn to ritual. Ritual is, in fact, the product of waning sincerity and trust, and thus marks the beginning of disorder. Those who consider themselves foresighted grasp only the surface of the Dao—this is actually the onset of folly. Therefore, a true gentleman should cultivate a deep and unadorned character, abandoning superficiality and shallowness.

To elaborate: superior humaneness is rooted in genuine compassion—though it requires action, it arises naturally from the heart. Superior righteousness is based on appropriateness, requiring discernment of what should or should not be done. Superior ritual employs elaborate ceremonies to express emotion, but when ritual propriety goes unreciprocated, people resort to forcing others to comply, which is no longer mere "action" but outright coercion. From the Dao to De, then to humaneness, righteousness, and ritual, there is a gradual decline. The essence of ritual is ornamentation—when excessive emphasis is placed on form, true sentiment withers. Ritual should embody humility and deference, but when deference is not returned, it leads to contention. Thus, ritual is a sign of fading sincerity and trust, as well as the origin of chaos.

(Note: The phrase "rolling up one's sleeves and dragging others" describes the act of forcibly compelling others to observe ritual; "those who claim foresight" refers to people who believe themselves to be prescient; "five descending levels" denotes the progressive decline from Dao to De, humaneness, righteousness, and ritual.)

Those who consider themselves prescient merely exhaust their intelligence on superficial matters. Excessive pursuit of external things leads to the loss of inner authenticity. Overthinking and excessive mental exertion only breed confusion. Is this so-called foresight not but a flashy facade of the Dao (the Way), and indeed the beginning of folly? Shallowness brings disorder, and ostentation invites ignorance.

Thus, the true noble person in conduct always chooses solidity and depth over superficiality, abiding in simplicity and genuineness rather than chasing after empty appearances. Therefore, one must discard cleverness and artificial propriety to return to the root of Dao and De (Virtue/Power).

Since ancient times, all things attain their proper place by obtaining the "One" (referring to the Dao): Heaven obtains the "One" and becomes clear, Earth obtains the "One" and becomes tranquil, the Shen (spirit) obtains the "One" and becomes efficacious, valleys obtain the "One" and become full, all things obtain the "One" and flourish, and rulers obtain the "One" and bring stability to the world. This fundamental principle is universal. If Heaven were to lose its clarity, it might collapse; if Earth were to lose its tranquility, it might quake; if the Shen were to lose its efficacy, it might dissipate; if valleys were to lose their fullness, they might dry up; if all things were to lose their vitality, they might perish; and if rulers, abandoning humility, were to pursue only nobility, they might topple.

Thus, nobility must take humility as its foundation, and loftiness must be grounded in lowliness. Hence, rulers refer to themselves as "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy"—is this not taking humility as their root? Just as in crafting a carriage, if one seeks only to accumulate numerous parts, the whole cannot be completed. Do not shine like polished jade, but remain unadorned like a rough stone.

If rulers wish to maintain stability in the world, they must avoid self-aggrandizement and arrogance. For nobility is built upon humility, and loftiness is rooted in lowliness—how can one exalt oneself? Thus, when rulers call themselves "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy," using humble titles for themselves, is this not taking humility as their foundation?

The governance of the world is like crafting a carriage: it requires assembling many ordinary parts to achieve a noble whole. Without humility, there can be no nobility. If one fixates on individual parts, the carriage cannot be completed. Only by forgetting their lofty status and lowering themselves can rulers truly bring stability to the world. Do not aspire to dazzle like jade, but remain as plain and steadfast as a stone.

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and the varying levels of comprehending it. The core message conveys that the Dao operates through cyclical movement ("reversal is the movement of the Dao"), while its function manifests through gentleness and non-contention ("weakness is the function of the Dao"). All things in the world arise from "being" (you), yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (wu) — this "non-being" represents the original state of the Dao. Practitioners of the Dao must relinquish "being" to return to "non-being," and this process of returning to the source mirrors the Dao's operation; when united with the Dao, even the distinction between movement and stillness ceases to exist.

The text classifies people into three levels of Dao realization: Those of superior capacity diligently practice upon hearing the great Dao; those of average capacity remain half-convinced and doubtful; while those of inferior capacity respond with loud ridicule — what isn't mocked by fools cannot be considered the true Dao. Ancient sages left these adages: Those who truly understand the Dao appear dull-witted ("the enlightened Dao seems obscure"); those advancing in cultivation appear to regress ("progress in the Dao seems like retreat"); the smooth great Dao appears rugged and uneven ("the level Dao seems rough"). The highest virtue (De) resembles a valley's emptiness ("superior virtue seems like a hollow"); the purest whiteness willingly bears stains ("the whitest seems sullied"); abundant virtue always appears insufficient ("expansive virtue seems deficient"); vigorous virtue appears indolent ("firm virtue seems slack"); genuine simplicity seems changeable and inconsistent ("true substance seems changeable"). The greatest squareness has no corners ("the great square has no corners"); the most valuable vessel requires prolonged formation ("the great vessel is late in completion"); the loudest sound becomes inaudible ("the great sound is soundless"); the grandest form appears formless ("the great image has no shape"). Thus the Dao remains subtle and nameless, yet perfectly nourishes all things and brings them to fulfillment.

These seemingly paradoxical descriptions reveal the transcendent nature of the Dao: The authentic Dao often contradicts worldly understanding, and the external manifestations of Dao practitioners frequently form contrasts with their inner reality.

This passage describes the characteristics of the Great Dao (the fundamental law of the universe): The most precious vessels take long to form, making their efficacy difficult for ordinary people to perceive immediately; the grandest sounds appear faint, eluding common hearing; the most complete forms lack fixed shapes, making their contours hard to grasp. How could those of mediocre or lesser aptitude comprehend such profound truths? No wonder they harbor doubts.

The essence of the Dao is subtle and elusive, beyond verbal description. Yet when manifested in concrete phenomena, it reveals its nature of nurturing all things and facilitating their growth. Though all beings receive the Dao's grace, few truly recognize it—hence the common people's skepticism is understandable.

The text then explains the cosmogonic process: The Great Dao first generates undifferentiated primordial Qi (One); this Qi divides into Yin and Yang energies (Two); their interaction produces harmonizing Qi (Three), from which all things emerge. All beings contain both Yin and Yang aspects, achieving harmony through this balancing Qi. What people detest—terms like "orphaned," "widowed," or "incomplete" (ancient descriptors of helpless, deficient states)—are paradoxically used by nobility as self-deprecating titles. This illustrates how apparent loss may bring gain, and apparent gain may conceal loss. As the ancients taught: "The violent and tyrannical meet untimely ends"—a principle I uphold as foundational for educating humanity.

Commentary notes: The "harmonizing Qi" mentioned here connects with the earlier concept of the Dao's "skillful nurturing and perfecting." Regarding the generative sequence "Dao begets One, One begets Two," Daoist and Confucian interpretations differ. Only Li Xizhai's (Song Dynasty Daoist) commentary provides particularly clear and valuable insights.

The passage concludes by emphasizing the triumph of softness over hardness: The world's softest penetrates the hardest; formless forces enter seamless spaces. Thus I recognize the teaching of "non-speaking" and the benefits of Wuwei (non-action)—a state few attain.

Laozi here expounds the profound principle of Wuwei (non-action). The softest things can overcome the hardest, just as formless forces penetrate even the most seamless spaces. Thus I understand the benefits of non-action—it resembles the ultimate softness that reaches everywhere. Alas, few in this world comprehend this wisdom of teaching without words and benefiting through non-action.

The discourse then turns to life's choices: Which is more precious, fame or life? Which matters more, wealth or vitality? Which brings greater pain, gain or loss? Excessive pursuit of fame inevitably exacts heavy costs, while hoarding wealth ultimately invites greater loss. Only those who know contentment avoid disgrace; only those who understand moderation endure.

Those chasing fame fixate on empty reputation while neglecting their bodies; those coveting wealth obsess over money while disregarding life itself. Only after paying a steep price do they realize: fame burdens the body, wealth steals from life, and the pain of gain outweighs that of loss. Only the noble person who knows contentment and limits can abide in lasting peace.

The highest achievement appears flawed ("Great perfection seems defective"), yet its function never wanes; the fullest state seems empty ("Great fullness seems hollow"), yet its utility remains inexhaustible. The straightest righteousness appears to yield ("Great straightness seems bent"); the most skillful movements appear clumsy ("Great skill seems awkward"); the most eloquent speech seems inarticulate ("Great eloquence seems halting"). Just as movement dispels cold and stillness counters heat, serene non-action constitutes the world's true path.

Those who truly attain the Dao never consider themselves complete—they always sense inadequacy, thus continuously progress. The most capable never feel fulfilled—maintaining emptiness like valleys, they remain endlessly receptive. The most upright follow heavenly principles without contention, thus appearing yielding. The wisest act naturally without artifice, thus seeming clumsy. The most eloquent grasp truth without debate, thus appearing tongue-tied. Such is the virtue of serene non-action—like heat and cold being inevitable bodily sensations, yet movement overcomes chill while silence withstands heat.

This scripture primarily expounds the principles of serene non-action (Wuwei) and the contentment found in knowing sufficiency.

It begins by stating that when inner tranquility overcomes external desires ("the inner heat conquering the outer"), maintaining the virtue (De) of serenity naturally makes one a model for all under heaven. In times of peace, warhorses are used for plowing fields; in chaotic times, warhorses can only give birth in wilderness. The greatest transgression is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, and the gravest fault is unbridled greed. Thus, those who understand sufficiency will always feel content.

The text then explains that in peaceful times, contention becomes unnecessary and warhorses turn to farming; in turbulent times, endless conflicts force warhorses to foal on battlefields. Why does this occur? Because indulging desires is like inviting thieves, insatiability breeds chaos, and boundless greed invites great misfortune. Common people suffer calamities from this, while feudal lords provoke wars. Therefore, one must recognize that what one rightfully possesses is already sufficient—this natural contentment eliminates contention.

Next, it discusses the way of understanding: One can comprehend worldly affairs without stepping outdoors, and perceive the Dao (the natural order of heaven) without gazing through windows. The farther one travels outwardly, the less one truly knows. Thus, sages understand without personal travel, perceive without direct sight, and accomplish without forced action (Wuwei). The essential nature of heaven and the Dao requires neither venturing out nor window-gazing to comprehend. Those who insist on external seeking paradoxically understand less the farther they go. Sages perceive the world not through outward seeking, but through embodying the Dao's essence.

Finally, it describes the cultivated state of Dao practice: Pursuing scholarly knowledge means daily accumulating information, while pursuing the Dao means daily diminishing desires. Through continuous reduction, one ultimately attains the state of non-action (Wuwei). It is precisely through non-action that all things are accomplished. This represents the sage's highest realization of the Dao.

(Note: Here "Dao" refers to the cosmic origin and natural laws, "Wuwei" means acting through natural spontaneity without forcing, and "sage" denotes one who has realized the Dao.)

The Laozi Shuolue passage expounds the principles of governing through non-action (Wuwei) and the realm of sages.

To govern the world, one must follow natural spontaneity without deliberate interference. Forced intervention will instead lead to losing the world. Just as Dao practitioners must continuously reduce desires to ultimately achieve the state of Wuwei and unite with the Dao (the Way), ancient sages always maintained this attitude of non-action in governance—any forced action would result in failure.

"Having no affairs" means Wuwei, as explained in the Kaiyuan era commentaries—it refers to transforming the people by following natural spontaneity.

Sages hold no fixed preconceptions but completely align with the people's will. They treat the virtuous with kindness, and also treat the non-virtuous with kindness—this is true Virtue (De). They trust the trustworthy, and also trust the untrustworthy—this is true sincerity. When sages govern, they remain reverently cautious, regarding all people's hearts as one. While common folk scrutinize each other's words and deeds, sages view everyone as infants—neither overjoyed by what's right nor angered by what's wrong. "Trembling caution" describes this attitude of careful vigilance.

Regarding the Dao of life and death: Three-tenths of people naturally live long lives, three-tenths naturally die young, and another three-tenths could have lived longer but die prematurely due to excessive pursuit of longevity. Why does this happen? Because they cling too desperately to life. I've heard that those who truly understand nurturing life encounter no rhinos or tigers when traveling on land, and suffer no weapon wounds on battlefields. Since they don't cling to survival, such dangers cannot harm them.

This passage expounds the profound wisdom in the Daode Jing regarding "skillfully nurturing life" (shan she sheng). Laozi employs vivid metaphors to illustrate that those who truly understand life cultivation neither encounter rhinos or tigers when traveling on land, nor suffer weapon injuries when entering battlefields. This isn't because they possess supernatural powers, but because they "have no realm of death" (wu si di) — they never place themselves in dangerous situations.

People in the world can be roughly divided into three categories: one-third die when they should have lived, one-third live when they should have died, and the remaining third believe they're pursuing life while actually heading toward death. Why is this so? Because they excessively pursue material comforts ("thickening life with life") — the more they crave pleasures, the closer they approach death.

True masters of life cultivation understand that the "realm of death" lies in excessive attachment to the physical body. They regard life as a temporary vessel, neither clinging to life nor fearing death, thus external things cannot harm them. Like rhinos finding no place to thrust their horns, tigers finding no place to sink their claws, and weapons finding no target to strike.

The text further explains the relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power): Dao is the origin of all things ("standing before the formless"), while De is the manifestation of Dao ("Dao in motion becomes De"). The Yin-Yang energies embody De, and all things rely on De for nourishment. When Qi (vital energy) condenses into form, things acquire concrete shapes; the interaction between different forms creates various potential energies, enabling complete functionality in all phenomena.

Finally, it emphasizes the greatness of Dao: It gives birth to all things yet claims no possession, accomplishes all yet claims no merit, governs all yet asserts no dominion — this constitutes the most profound "Mysterious Virtue" (xuan de).

All forms between heaven and earth are generated by the Dao (the cosmic origin) and nourished by De (the manifestation of Dao). The formation and development of all things are the natural operation of Dao and De. Thus, nothing in the world fails to revere the Dao and cherish De. The nobility of Dao and the importance of De are not bestowed by anyone—they exist naturally and eternally as they are.

The Dao's way with all things is thus: it creates them, nourishes them, makes them grow and develop, regulates their balance, and protects them. Though the Dao's contribution to all things is immense, all this occurs naturally. The Dao creates without possessing, accomplishes without claiming credit, guides without dominating. How can such a state be described or fathomed in words?

The universe has an original source, which may be called the "Mother of All Under Heaven" (the root of all things). Understanding this root enables one to know all things; knowing all things, one must still return to guard this root—then one will be free from peril throughout life. Blocking sensory desires ("plugging its openings") and closing the doors of external seeking ("shutting its gates") allows one to remain free from toil throughout life. Conversely, indulging desires ("opening its openings") and busying oneself with worldly affairs ("attending to its affairs") makes liberation difficult in this lifetime.

Perceiving the subtle is called "clarity"; maintaining gentleness is called "strength." After employing external radiance, one must return to inner clarity, not letting oneself fall into calamity—this is following the eternal principle ("inheriting the constant"). This fundamental Dao should be realized by all. Understanding the root enables one to see through all and accomplish all, yet one must not become engrossed in branches while forgetting the root. After knowing all things, one must return to the root to remain safe throughout life.

The method of guarding the root is this: restrain sensory desires and close the mind's doors of external grasping—thus one can naturally achieve merit. Conversely, indulging desires and chasing external objects will trap one in lifelong danger without hope of rescue. Seeing what ordinary people cannot perceive in the subtle is "clarity"; maintaining what ordinary people cannot sustain in gentleness is "strength." After shining with external wisdom, one must withdraw and return to the clarity of original mind, not losing oneself in external objects—this is truly following the constant way and uniting with the Dao.

All this speaks to the essentials of realizing the great Dao. "Beginning" and "Mother" both refer to the Dao, while "offspring" refers to all things. Understanding how to observe the subtle and maintain gentleness is the method of guarding the root. "Small" and "gentle" are akin to the earlier mentioned "rare, invisible, subtle" (describing the Dao's unfathomable mystery), all characterizing the Dao's profundity. The character "inherit" (袭) in "inheriting the constant" carries the sense of natural harmony, like water and earth nourishing all things.

This passage conveys two main teachings:

The first layer critiques the social ills of the time. Laozi states that while he understands the principles of the Dao (the Way), what he fears most is people straying from the right path. The Dao is naturally smooth and easy to follow, yet people constantly seek shortcuts. Observe how the court imposes harsh punishments while fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty. Yet the powerful wear ornate clothes, carry fine swords, gorge on delicacies, and hoard wealth—like a master thief leading a band of robbers in wicked deeds, completely deviating from the Dao.

The second layer expounds the principle of "skillful establishment and skillful embrace." Those truly adept at building achievements create accomplishments that cannot be shaken; those skilled at preservation maintain their integrity without slackness. Such cultivation can be passed down through generations. Specifically:

• Cultivating oneself yields genuine De (Virtue/Power)
• Cultivating one's family creates abundant De
• Cultivating one's community makes De enduring
• Cultivating the nation brings flourishing De
• Cultivating the world spreads De universally

To understand a person's De, observe his condition in these five spheres: self, family, community, nation, and world.

The passage concludes by describing how those deeply rooted in Dao-De become as innocent as infants—so pure that even poisonous insects and fierce beasts cannot harm them (the character "bone" here may be a textual error). This illustrates the supreme state of Daoist cultivation, where all things cease to bring harm.

A person with profound cultivation of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) possesses the purity of a newborn infant. Observe how an infant's tender bones and muscles can form tight fists; though unaware of sexual matters, their reproductive organs naturally become erect—this demonstrates the pinnacle of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) in abundance. Their constant crying never leads to hoarseness, proof of perfect harmony between body and mind.

Understanding this state of harmony is called "the constant Dao," and comprehending the constant Dao represents supreme wisdom. Forced attempts at nurturing life invite misfortune, while coercively driving Qi constitutes brute force. When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline—such forceful striving contradicts the Dao, and what contradicts the Dao meets an early end.

Those deeply rooted in Dao and De resemble infants: venomous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't pounce, and predatory birds won't strike—all responding to the resonance of profound Virtue. Those who fail to recognize life's natural flow yet forcibly enhance it are like farmers recklessly fertilizing crops, inviting disease instead of growth. Competing for dominance while indulging mental impulses to manipulate Qi means abandoning softness for superficial strength.

True knowers of Dao don't engage in empty talk—those who expound grandly remain ignorant. One must block the openings of desire, shut the gates of temptation, dull sharp edges, resolve conflicts, conceal brilliance, and blend with worldly dust—thus achieving mystical unity with Dao. Those who reach this state can neither be deliberately approached nor distanced, neither motivated by gain nor deterred by loss, neither elevated by flattery nor diminished by scorn, thereby becoming the world's most revered beings.

Practitioners should seal internal outlets of desire, close external entrances of temptation, polish away personal sharpness, untangle external entanglements, inwardly withdraw intellectual radiance, and outwardly merge with mundane dust. This represents the wondrous state transcending distinctions between self and other, inner and outer—what need is there for words? Those who fail to reach this state embrace one thing only to reject another, beginning in harmony but inevitably ending in discord. But those truly mystically united with Dao recognize no division between sameness and difference—thus they neither deliberately draw near nor intentionally withdraw, remaining unmoved by either benefit or harm.

The passage expounds the Daoist political wisdom of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), conveying that true rulers understand the principle of "not disturbing the natural order."

What is truly valuable neither gains nobility through acquisition nor loses worth through deprivation, thus becoming the most precious existence under heaven. Governing a state requires following the upright Dao, military strategy may employ extraordinary tactics, but winning the world depends on "non-action" (refraining from forceful interference). How do I know non-action can win the world? Observe reality: the more prohibitions imposed, the poorer the people become; the more cunning strategies among citizens, the more chaotic the state grows; when people chase clever tricks, bizarre crafts proliferate; the harsher the laws, the more thieves emerge. All these stem from excessive governance.

Therefore the sages say: When I refrain from forceful interference, people naturally transform; when I maintain stillness, people naturally correct themselves; when I don't disrupt livelihoods, people naturally prosper; when I harbor no greed, people naturally return to simplicity. This is why non-action can win the world.

When governance is tolerant and inclusive, people remain honest and kind; when policies are harsh and petty, people become cunning and cold. Seemingly lenient policies appear ineffective yet cultivate simple folkways; seemingly strict policies appear controlling yet produce opposite results. What the world sees as misfortune may conceal blessings, while apparent good fortune may hide disaster—such transformations are profoundly mysterious. People have been deluded by appearances for too long. Thus the sage remains square-cornered without wounding others, incorruptible without being harsh, upright without being overbearing, luminous without being dazzling.

(Note: "Sharp tools" refers to cunning strategies; "muddled" describes tolerant policies; "scrutinizing" describes harsh policies; "mellow" describes simple folkways; "deficient" describes shallow folkways)

This passage expounds Laozi's profound insights on the interdependence of misfortune and fortune, as well as the principles of governance. Misfortune often lurks within seemingly fortunate circumstances, yet people find it difficult to perceive its true nature. Those who enforce harsh policies may appear upright at first, but over time, their righteousness turns into perversity, and their goodness transforms into strangeness. People are often drawn to immediate gains while overlooking long-term disasters—such shortsightedness has existed since ancient times.

Thus, the sage remains square-edged yet does not harm others, pure yet not harsh, upright yet not unrestrained, bright yet not glaring. They reject severe policies in favor of tolerance and magnanimity, maintaining integrity without descending into perversity, and practicing goodness without becoming bizarre. This is the true mastery of the Dao (the Way).

In governing the people and serving heaven, the most essential principle is "restraint" (frugality, moderation). To practice "restraint" is to align early with the Dao of heaven—this is called accumulating abundant De (Virtue/Power). With abundant De, one becomes invincible; invincibility leads to unfathomable depth, and only then can one preserve the state. Mastering the fundamental principles of governance ensures enduring stability. This is the path of deep-rootedness and long-lasting vision.

In governing the people, one must avoid unnecessary disturbances; in serving heaven, one must avoid wastefulness—both require the spirit of "restraint." "Restraint" means withdrawal, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). By practicing "restraint," one aligns with the Dao of heaven before misfortune takes shape—this is accumulating abundant De. With profound De, one becomes invincible, reaching unfathomable depths and thus preserving the state. Mastering the root of governance ensures lasting peace. Applied to nurturing life, this principle becomes the path of longevity and enduring vision.

Han Feizi remarked: Ordinary people expend their Shen (spirit) recklessly; recklessness leads to waste, and waste is extravagance. The sage uses their Shen with stillness; stillness reduces waste, and reduced waste is "restraint." He also said: Those who understand governance have tranquil thoughts, and those who understand serving heaven have unobstructed senses. Tranquil thoughts prevent the loss of De, while unobstructed senses allow harmonious Qi (vital energy) to accumulate daily.

Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish (it should not be stirred excessively). When the Dao is used to govern the world, even the spirits do not manifest. This is not because the spirits lack efficacy...

This scripture expounds two core principles: the art of governance and the proper relationship between great and small states.

Regarding governance, the true way to rule lies in avoiding excessive interference with the people, just as one shouldn't stir small fish while cooking them. When a ruler governs the world according to the Dao (the principle of natural non-action or Wuwei), even spirits and deities remain tranquil without manifesting their powers. This doesn't mean supernatural beings don't exist, but rather that though they exist, they cause no harm. Similarly, the sage ruler never harms the people - governing through harmony naturally evokes harmonious responses, thus even spirits refrain from causing injury. When both sages and spirits refrain from harming others, the resulting virtue ultimately returns to the sage ruler.

An important clarification: "neither harming the other" refers specifically to both sages and spirits not harming people, not to mutual non-harm between humans and spirits.

The second part discusses international relations. A great state should position itself humbly like the lower reaches of a river where all waters converge. Just as the female (Yin) often overcomes the male (Yang) through stillness, understanding this principle of quiet receptivity reveals the true way of governance. When a great state humbles itself before smaller states, it naturally attracts their allegiance; when small states adopt humility toward greater powers, they gain acceptance. The great state seeks only to guide smaller states, while small states seek only inclusion - thus both achieve their aims. However, the text particularly emphasizes: the greater state bears greater responsibility to take the lower position. If even great states must practice humility, how much more should small ones?

Using the metaphor of gendered dynamics - where the female (Yin) often overcomes the male through stillness - the text illustrates the wisdom of quiet receptivity. Whether in governance or international relations, maintaining the principle of "assuming the lower position" aligns with the profound way of the Dao.

The Dao is the most profound essence of all things, serving as the treasure of the virtuous and the refuge of the unvirtuous. Noble words can win people's hearts, and lofty conduct can influence others. Even the unvirtuous, if willing to repent and seek the Dao, how could they ever be forsaken? Thus when the Son of Heaven established the Three Dukes (highest ancient offices), rather than presenting precious jade discs and teams of four steeds as ceremonial gifts, it would be better to quietly cultivate this Dao. Did not the ancients value this Dao precisely because it could fulfill seekers' aspirations while redeeming the guilty? Therefore the Dao is revered throughout the world.

The Dao embraces all things—it is the virtuous person's instrument for self-cultivation and governing the world, and the unvirtuous person's sanctuary. Why can the unvirtuous also receive the Dao's protection? Because even an unvirtuous person, by speaking one kind word, can influence others; by performing one good deed, can surpass ordinary people. If the unvirtuous repent and seek the Dao, they will not be abandoned. The Son of Heaven's ability to establish a nation and the Three Dukes' ability to hold office all stem from the Dao's power to attract allegiance. Rather than offering jade and steeds as gifts, it would be better to quietly cultivate this Dao. The ancients treasured the Dao precisely because it fulfills aspirations while absolving faults, thus becoming the world's most precious possession.

Sages act through wuwei (non-action), handle affairs by keeping them wushi (free from complication), and savor life's wuwei (flavorless essence). They regard great matters as small, abundance as scarcity, and repay resentment with virtue. Difficult problems are approached at their easiest points, great undertakings begin with the subtlest beginnings. All difficulties under heaven arise from what was once easy; all great things emerge from what was once small. Therefore sages never covet grand achievements, yet thereby accomplish greatness. Those who make promises lightly will struggle to fulfill them; those who consider things easy will encounter greater difficulties. Thus sages always anticipate difficulty, and consequently meet with none.

This passage from Laozi speaks to the wisdom of understanding timing in action. Those who perceive things as too easy often encounter greater difficulties in the end. The sage approaches all matters with the same caution as if facing a challenge, thus ultimately succeeding without ever feeling hardship.

Several key principles are highlighted here: things are easiest to control while still stable, easiest to plan before signs appear, easiest to dissolve while still fragile, and easiest to disperse while still minute. Therefore, one should address matters before they take shape and govern disorder before it arises. Just as a massive tree grows from a tender sprout, a nine-story tower is built from baskets of earth, and a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step beneath one’s feet.

Those who force intervention often fail; those who cling to their own views frequently lose. Thus, the sage does not insist on action (Wuwei) and therefore does not fail, does not stubbornly hold to opinions and therefore does not lose. Ordinary people often fail when they are on the verge of success—if they could maintain the same caution from beginning to end, there would be no failures.

The wisdom of the sage lies in this: regarding "non-desire" as true fulfillment, they do not value rare treasures; regarding "non-deliberate learning" as true knowledge, they correct the faults of the masses. All of this is to follow the natural tendencies of all things without daring to impose arbitrary interference.

The true sages of antiquity who understood the art of governance did not teach the people to become clever and cunning, but guided them back to simplicity. The reason people become difficult to govern lies precisely in their excessive cleverness. If rulers employ cunning methods to govern, the people will respond with even deeper cunning, leading only to greater chaos—this is the bane of a nation. Conversely, when governance is conducted with serene non-action (Wuwei) and without cunning, the people will follow obediently in simple ignorance, and this becomes the nation's blessing.

To understand the distinction between these two approaches to governance is to grasp the law of statecraft—this is what we call profound Virtue (Xuande, the deep and mysterious De). Such Virtue is immeasurably profound and runs entirely counter to the worldly pursuit of cleverness. Though it may seem contrary to conventional wisdom, only through this way can the great harmony of universal peace be achieved.

The reason rivers and seas can become kings of all streams is that they excel at staying in low positions. By the same principle, if sages wish to stand above others, they must speak with humility; if they wish to lead the multitude, they must place themselves behind. Precisely because of this, when sages occupy high positions, the people do not feel burdened, and when they stand at the forefront, the people do not feel obstructed. All under heaven gladly support them without weariness, for they contend with nothing in the world, and thus no one in the world can contend with them.

(Note: The text mentions how Laozi's views were later misunderstood. Su Zhe once pointed out that the sage's desire to stand above others was not the original intent—rather, it was the natural result of their humble and yielding attitude that earned them reverence. Later scholars, when interpreting Daoist and Buddhist classics, often embellished the texts in this manner, deviating from their original meaning.)

All under heaven say my teaching of the Dao is vast, yet it appears as if nothing special. Precisely because of its vastness, it seems ordinary. If it appeared remarkable, that would indicate it lacks depth and subtlety. I hold three treasures that I cherish and maintain: first is compassion, second is frugality, and third is daring not to be at the forefront.

Compassion makes one truly courageous; frugality allows resources to be widely sufficient; daring not to contend enables one to become the leader of others. Now, if one discards compassion to seek mere boldness, abandons frugality to pursue extravagance, and refuses to yield while striving to be first—this leads only to ruin. Using compassion in battle brings victory; employing it in defense ensures stability. When heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them with compassion.

Truly skilled generals do not rely on brute force; those adept at warfare do not give in to anger; masters of overcoming enemies do not engage in contention; those skilled at employing others always remain humble. This is the virtue of non-contention, the method of harnessing others' strength, and the highest principle that accords with the Dao of heaven, honored since ancient times.

This passage contrasts the "three treasures" with worldly behavior, revealing Daoist wisdom for navigating life: compassion appears gentle yet holds the greatest power; frugality seems stingy yet creates true abundance; humility looks like falling behind yet ultimately leads. Those who harm the people to satisfy selfish desires are precisely whom heaven abandons. The truly strong need not prove themselves through force—the highest victories often come through non-contention.

The one who excels in employing others always positions themselves beneath others (indicating humility and taking the lower position). This virtuous skill (De) embodies the quality of non-contention, the ability to harness the strength of others, and conduct that aligns with the Dao of heaven. This has been the supreme principle since ancient times.

Military strategy states: "I dare not initiate war but prefer to respond passively; I dare not advance an inch to seize advantage but would rather retreat a foot to preserve my fundamental duty." This is marching without apparent formation, striking without raising arms, confronting without visible enemies, and engaging without visible weapons. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating the opponent—doing so nearly causes us to lose what is most precious. Thus, when two armies face each other, the side that holds compassion and reluctance to kill often prevails.

My teaching is actually easy to understand and simple to practice, yet few in the world truly comprehend or follow it. For words have their root purpose, and actions their core principle. Precisely because people do not grasp this foundation, they fail to truly understand me. Those who comprehend me are rare—this is precisely what makes me valuable. Thus, the sage is like one clothed in coarse cloth yet carrying priceless jade within. How could ordinary people discern his worth?

Why is my teaching easy to grasp and simple to practice yet scarcely known? Because words have their guiding purpose, and actions their fundamental principle. Only by understanding this purpose and principle can one attain true knowledge and put it into practice. Since people do not recognize this root, even when they hear my words, they cannot truly comprehend them. Those who understand me are few—this is precisely what makes me precious. The sage appears ordinary yet conceals treasures within—how could the common eye perceive this?

To know that there are things one does not know—this is supreme wisdom. To not know yet believe one knows—this is a flaw. Only by recognizing this flaw as a flaw can one avoid truly committing it. The reason sages are free from the flaw of presuming omniscience is precisely because they deeply understand its harm, thus enabling them to avoid error.

When the people no longer fear the severity of punishments, greater calamities will befall the land. Do not constrict their living space, nor deprive them of life's necessities. Only by refraining from oppression will the people harbor no thoughts of rebellion.

The sages understood this principle well: they possessed self-awareness yet avoided self-display, valued self-respect but never held themselves superior. Therefore, they rejected oppressive governance and chose instead the way of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The people's lack of reverence for authority often stems from resentment caused by constricted living conditions and excessive demands created by deprivation of basic resources. Driven to desperation, they may risk life itself. Each person has their proper place—rulers must be prudent in safeguarding the people's living space and necessities. The inclination of popular sentiment depends on the guidance from above; only when rulers first refrain from oppression can the people live in peace. If rulers pursue luxury and indulgence, how can the people remain content?

Regarding the two types of conduct—"boldness in daring" versus "boldness in restraint": the former often invites fatal consequences, while the latter preserves life. Of these two choices, one brings benefit and the other harm, yet people often fail to understand why recklessness invites heaven's retribution. Even sages find this principle difficult to fully comprehend.

The operation of the Dao follows this pattern: it contends with none yet prevails over all, speaks not yet responds to human affairs, requires no summoning yet manifests spontaneously, appears unhurried yet perfectly arranges all things. Heaven's net seems wide-meshed, yet nothing escapes it. So awe-inspiring is celestial might—once one violates heaven's will, how could escape from punishment be possible?

(Note: The phrase "heaven's net is vast" illustrates the Daoist view of cosmic justice as all-encompassing; "unhurried" conveys the natural ease of cosmic operations; "response" refers to the principle of cosmic resonance. These concepts embody the Daoist reverence for natural law and the political philosophy of "governing through non-interference.")

The people have never truly feared death—why then should rulers try to intimidate them with it? If the people could indeed be made to fear death, then by executing those who cause disorder, who would dare to act recklessly? Yet in reality, even executions fail to stop crime, proving that the people do not truly fear death. Those who rely on harsh punishments to govern should awaken to this truth.

When the people commit crimes, the law (the "executioner" here refers to the legal system) will naturally punish them. The sage establishes laws based on the principles of Heaven and justice, never arbitrarily passing judgment according to personal whims. This passage serves as a warning to those who undermine the law and wield punishment capriciously.

The people starve because their rulers overtax them; they become difficult to govern because their rulers meddle excessively; they risk their lives lightly because they chase pleasure to extremes. Only those who do not cling too tightly to life surpass those who fear death. If rulers taxed less and interfered less, the people would not be driven to desperate acts for survival.

In life, the body is soft and supple; in death, it stiffens. When plants grow, they are tender; when they wither, they become brittle. Thus, hardness belongs to the realm of death, while softness belongs to the realm of life. That is why an army that relies on brute strength seldom wins, and trees that grow too tall are felled. What is strong will eventually decline, while what is soft and yielding will rise above.

(Note: The "executioner" here refers to the law or the natural order of the Dao; the "great carpenter" symbolizes the workings of nature; "to hew" means to cut down. Laozi uses everyday observations to illustrate how the soft overcomes the hard, urging rulers to govern with minimal interference, in harmony with the natural way.)

Laozi here employs vivid metaphors to illustrate the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." When a person dies, their body becomes dry and rigid, showing that hardness belongs to the category of death, while softness embodies vitality. Just as military force used aggressively often fails to achieve victory, and trees that grow too tall are cut down by people. In this world, what appears strong often finds itself at a disadvantage, while the soft and weak can rise above. This profound truth invites deep reflection on our choices.

The Dao of Heaven (natural law) operates like drawing a bow to shoot an arrow: if the bowstring is too high, it is lowered; if too low, it is raised. Where there is excess, it is reduced; where there is deficiency, it is supplemented. But human laws do the opposite, always taking from those who lack to give to those who have in abundance. Only those who have attained the Dao understand how to use surplus to compensate for the world's deficiencies. Thus, the sage acts without claiming merit and avoids flaunting their wisdom, thereby achieving the balance of "reducing excess to supplement deficiency."

Jiao's commentary explains that a relaxed bow has its back facing downward, while drawing the bow turns it upward. This transformation mirrors how the Dao of Heaven adjusts all things: lowering what is high and raising what is low. Water, the softest and weakest substance in the world, can overcome the hardest things because its nature remains unchanging. Though everyone knows the principle that the soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong, few can truly embody it. Therefore, the sage says: "Only those who can endure a nation's humiliation are fit to be its ruler; only those who can bear its calamities are worthy to be its sovereign." These seemingly paradoxical words contain profound truth.

(Note: In the text, "fu" refers to the central handgrip of the bow, while "shao" denotes the bow's ends; "sheji" signifies the state's political authority.)

Laozi here expounds principles of governance and personal conduct. He states that truly wise rulers are those who can bear the disgrace of the nation (meaning accepting criticism and blame from the people) - only such rulers are worthy to govern a state. Those who can shoulder the misfortunes of the nation may become true kings of the world. These words actually embody the profound truth of the Dao (the Way), yet ordinary people consider them paradoxical because they view disgrace as shame and misfortune as tragedy, failing to understand how softness can overcome hardness.

Regarding the resolution of grievances, Laozi observes: Forcibly settling major resentments will inevitably leave residual bitterness - how can this be considered true goodness? Therefore, the sage holds the left half of a debt contract (ancient contracts were divided into left and right portions, with creditors keeping the left half) yet never demands repayment. Virtuous (De) people treat others with the same generosity as one who safeguards contracts, while the unvirtuous behave like tax collectors who haggle over every detail. The Dao of heaven shows no partiality, yet consistently favors good people - because the virtuous have themselves chosen the path of goodness.

Laozi also depicts an ideal social vision: states should be small and populations sparse. Even when advanced tools exist, they should not be used, encouraging people to value life over distant migrations. Though boats and carriages may exist, none would ride them; though weapons may exist, none would display them. People would return to the simple life of knotting ropes to keep records, content with their food, clothing, dwellings and customs. Neighboring states might be within sight of each other, with crowing cocks and barking dogs audible across borders, yet people would grow old and die without ever visiting one another. Laozi hoped the feudal lords of his time could be satisfied with these small, sparsely populated states, free from expansionist ambitions.

(Note: The "left contract" refers to the creditor's portion of ancient bilateral agreements, while the "tax distributor" refers to officials responsible for allocating taxes - both serving as metaphors for contrasting attitudes in human relationships.)

Here Laozi depicts an ideal state of society. He advocates letting people remain content in their simple lives, where even those with exceptional talents do not actively pursue recognition. He encourages people to cherish life without venturing far for profit, where boats and carriages exist but remain unused, and armor and weapons have no occasion for display. People would abandon cunning artifice and return to the simplicity of knot-tying record-keeping (an ancient mnemonic method).

In such a society, people find satisfaction in their food, clothing, dwellings and customs, their hearts so full that they feel no envy of others. Neighboring states would leave each other undisturbed—close enough to hear each other's roosters and dogs, yet never visiting across their lifetimes. If even nearby neighbors don't interact, how much less would contact occur with more distant places? Without interaction, contention naturally disappears. This is the realm of governance through Wuwei (non-action).

True words aren't ornate; ornate speech isn't true. Good words aren't artful; artful words aren't good. The truly wise don't chase erudition; those chasing erudition lack true knowledge. The sage accumulates nothing for himself—the more he helps others, the richer he becomes; the more he gives, the more abundant he grows. The Dao of heaven benefits all things without harm; the way of sages is to act without contention.

Laozi emphasizes that the sage's way is profoundly simple: they never hoard for personal gain, thus they can continually help others. The more they assist others, the more they prosper; the more they give, the more they receive. Heaven's Dao benefits without harming; the sage's way acts without contending. Ultimately, the sage's path simply mirrors the Dao of heaven.