《老子翼》Vol. 1

The Laozi Yi discusses the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way). The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging "Constant Dao"; the name that can be named is not the enduring, immutable "Name." "Namelessness" represents the primordial state from which heaven and earth emerged, while "named" signifies the origin from which all things arise. Thus, maintaining a state of desirelessness allows one to observe the profound mystery of the Dao, whereas observing with specific intentions reveals its concrete manifestations. These two modes of observation stem from the same source, differing only in name—both may be called "Xuan" (the profound). This depth upon depth constitutes the gateway to all mysteries.

The passage clarifies several key concepts: "Speakable" (可道) resembles ritual norms, not empty words; "Constant" (常) refers to eternal permanence; "Mother" (母) indicates the source from which all things originate; "Desire" (欲) denotes human innate cravings or emotional impulses; and "Jiao" (徼) refers both to the apertures through which objects emerge and to boundaries or orientations. Chen Jingyuan, a Daoist master of the Song dynasty, explains that the small paths branching from the Great Dao are called "Jiao."

There is debate over punctuation: some read "Nameless" (无名) and "Named" (有名) as continuous phrases, while others separate "Wu" (无, non-being) and "You" (有, being). Later in the Laozi, the statement "The Dao is eternally nameless, yet it begins to establish names" seems to support the latter reading. Similarly, interpretations diverge on whether to punctuate "Constantly without desire" (常无欲) and "Constantly with desire" (常有欲). The Zhuangzi mentions "establishing it with constant non-being and being," seemingly endorsing breaks at "Constant Non-being" (常无) and "Constant Being" (常有). However, the Laozi also states, "Constant non-desire may be called the small," indicating that one cannot rely solely on the Zhuangzi for judgment—the original text of the Laozi should take precedence.

Su Zhe (author of the Su Commentary) elaborates further: All phenomena are manifestations of the Dao, yet the Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal Dao. For example, principles like humaneness (仁), righteousness (义), ritual propriety (礼), and wisdom (智) can be articulated—humaneness cannot replace righteousness, nor can ritual propriety substitute wisdom—demonstrating that speakable truths are inherently limited. Only the ineffable Dao can manifest as humaneness in contexts requiring humaneness, as righteousness where righteousness is needed, and similarly for ritual and wisdom. These specific norms may change, but the Dao remains unchanging. If the Dao cannot be spoken of, how can it be named? All names belong to the realm of the speakable; once a name is established, distinctions like square and round, straight and bent arise, and permanence is lost. From the nameless state, heaven and earth took form; only after their positions were fixed did names emerge. From the named state, the myriad things were nourished, and their proliferation made names inexhaustible.

This passage explores the essential nature and operational principles of the Dao (the Way). The Dao itself has no name (wuming), representing its fundamental substance; while its manifested functions (youming) constitute its practical applications. The sage governs the world by comprehending the Dao's substance—though dwelling in the realm of manifold phenomena (zhongyou), they maintain a state of serene non-action (wuwei) and constant emptiness (changwu), thereby perceiving the Dao's profound subtleties.

To remain solely at the level of phenomena (jiao) without understanding their essence (miao) reflects superficiality; conversely, discussing only metaphysical profundities while neglecting concrete manifestations leads to abstract rigidity. Superficially, "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) appear as opposing concepts, yet they mutually transform: being emerges from non-being, and being returns to non-being—ultimately they are one. Realizing this unity constitutes the "mysterious" (xuan) state. Originally denoting the profound darkness of distant depths, Laozi employs "xuan" as a metaphor for the Dao's ultimate condition. While "xuan" itself represents profound depth, there exists an even more transcendent state—"the mystery beyond mystery" (xuan zhi you xuan)—the source of all wonders.

"Jiao" refers to the boundaries or endpoints of things, akin to Yanzi's "the return of virtue" or Liezi's "death as virtue's ultimate boundary." When clinging to "being," one inevitably reaches its limit and returns to "non-being." This return ultimately differs not from the realm of "miao"—hence both are called "xuan." Laozi emphasizes that true "non-being" isn't an artificial rejection of "being" to pursue emptiness, but rather realizing the essential void-nature within "being" itself—form is emptiness, phenomena are emptiness. To conceptualize "non-being" and "being" as opposites deviates from eternal truth.

The text further observes: When all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness arises as its counterpart; when all recognize goodness as goodness, the standard of not-good emerges. Being and non-being generate each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, length and shortness manifest each other, height and depth depend on each other, notes and tones harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Therefore, the sage acts through non-action (wuwei) and teaches through wordless example.

This passage elucidates Laozi's concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The sage acts without deliberate effort, teaches without words, and allows all things to flourish without interference. They create without possessing, accomplish without claiming credit, and achieve without dwelling on achievements. Precisely because they do not dwell on accomplishments, their merits endure.

Su Zhe's commentary observes that people judge beauty and ugliness, good and evil by fixed standards, yet these standards are all relative. Those who consider themselves excellent appear inferior when encountering greater excellence; those who believe they lead seem to lag behind when meeting true pioneers. Clinging to such relative standards leads to disorientation. The genuine sage acts with a mind of non-action and teaches through wordless example, thereby transcending comparisons of superiority or precedence, reaching a state beyond beauty and ugliness, good and evil.

All things operate naturally without the sage's intervention. Creating without possessing, acting without self-importance, achieving without dwelling on success—these are the fruits of non-action and wordless teaching. The sage dwells in poverty without its anxieties, resides in wealth without its burdens—this is the realm of "non-dwelling." Because they cling to no particular state, no condition can disturb them.

Laozi further advocates: by not exalting the worthy, people cease competing; by not valuing rare goods, theft disappears; by not displaying temptations, hearts remain unconfused. In governing, the sage purifies people's minds, satisfies their basic needs, pacifies their ambitions, and strengthens their bodies, maintaining their original simplicity and desirelessness. Thus even the clever dare not act recklessly. Through this governance by non-action, peace prevails naturally.

Wang Bi's supplementary commentary notes: maintain mental emptiness (free from cunning) and physical fullness (content with essentials). Bones remain strong through ignorance; willpower requires weakening through detachment. These all emphasize the Dao of governance through returning to simplicity and natural non-action.

This passage primarily discusses two key aspects:

The first part explores the art of governance. If we excessively exalt the worthy and capable, people will compete and quarrel out of their inability to match such excellence. If we overvalue rare objects, people will steal what they cannot obtain. If we conspicuously display desirable things, people will create disorder in their unfulfilled pursuit. The sage governs not by rejecting talent, but by avoiding deliberate glorification; not by discarding precious items, but by refraining from special admiration; not by eliminating desires, but by not actively displaying temptations. Thus, the worthy naturally fulfill their roles without people contending, and treasures exist without inciting theft or chaos.

The second part elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way). The Dao appears empty (chong) yet contains boundless efficacy; unfathomably deep (yuan), it serves as the source of all things. It blunts sharp edges (cuo rui), resolves conflicts (jie fen), harmonizes radiance (he guang), and merges with worldly dust (tong chen). Though formless and intangible, the Dao truly exists (zhan xi si huo cun) and predates the formation of heaven and earth (xiang di zhi xian). As Su Zhe's commentary adds, though seemingly void, the Dao embraces all things precisely because of its formlessness that prevents it from ever being filled. The sage preserves the Dao's essential nature, avoiding entanglement in illusions and material desires.

The term "chong" originally refers to the hollow of a vessel, metaphorically representing the Dao's open-minded emptiness. "Di" denotes the creator, emphasizing the Dao's existence prior to all creation. This wisdom of governance and spiritual cultivation centers on maintaining natural balance—neither forcibly pursuing nor prohibiting, but allowing all things to develop according to their inherent nature.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way) and its approach to existence. Laozi posits that while the Dao is formless and intangible, it undeniably exists—much like the bellows (tuoyue) that appear empty yet generate ever more wind the more they move. This perfectly embodies the fundamental nature of the Dao.

Heaven and Earth treat all beings like straw dogs used in sacrificial rituals—discarded after use without favor or disdain. Similarly, sages govern people without forced interference, allowing natural development to unfold. This is the meaning behind "Heaven and Earth are not benevolent, treating all things as straw dogs; sages are not benevolent, treating people as straw dogs."

The text mentions "the valley spirit never dies—this is called the mysterious female (xuanpin)." Here, "valley spirit" refers to the Dao's empty, receptive quality, while "mysterious female" metaphorically depicts the Dao as the womb that births all creation—the source of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. Though seemingly void, the Dao's generative power never exhausts itself.

The conclusion emphasizes that "much talk leads to exhaustion—better to embrace the center (shouzhong)." Excessive speech creates predicaments, whereas maintaining serene emptiness and centered equilibrium proves wiser. This reflects the Daoist philosophy of tranquil non-action (wuwei) and harmonious alignment with nature's flow.

This passage explains the concepts of "Valley Spirit" (谷神) and "Mysterious Feminine" (玄牝) in the Laozi. The "Valley Spirit" uses the metaphor of a valley to illustrate the Dao's empty yet all-encompassing nature—though void, it contains all things without possessing them, a characteristic that is profound and unfathomable. The "Mysterious Feminine" (referring to the maternal source that gives birth to all things), like the "Mother" mentioned in the previous chapter, is called "Mysterious Feminine" to emphasize its deep and inscrutable quality.

Nan Juncai points out that Laozi often varies his wording for the sake of rhyme, rather than adhering rigidly to the literal meaning of individual characters. For instance, the character "牝" (pìn) in "Mysterious Feminine" is pronounced "bǐ" to rhyme with the preceding line, while the phrase "Gate of the Mysterious Feminine" is expanded to rhyme with the following line. To insist on interpreting each character literally—first identifying "Mysterious Feminine" and then specifying a particular place as its "Gate"—would be a misunderstanding.

Su Zhe's commentary states: Though a valley is empty, it still has form, whereas the "Valley Spirit" is empty and formless. That which is empty and formless neither lives nor dies. Calling it "Valley Spirit" refers to its virtue (De), while calling it "Mysterious Feminine" refers to its function. The "Feminine" gives birth to all things, and the addition of "Mysterious" means we can observe its generative power but not how it operates. The "Gate of the Mysterious Feminine" signifies that all things emerge from it, and the "Root of Heaven and Earth" indicates that the cosmos originates here. "Continuous and unbroken" describes its subtlety and ceaselessness, while "seeming to exist" suggests its presence yet invisibility. When one can embody this, even using it all day will not exhaust it.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not exist for themselves; thus, they are everlasting. Therefore, the sage places himself last yet ends up ahead, disregards himself yet is preserved. Is this not because he is selfless? Thus, he achieves his own fulfillment.

Su Zhe further elaborates: Though vast, Heaven and Earth are still bound by form, and their longevity has limits. When Laozi speaks of enduring longevity, he uses Heaven and Earth as the ultimate example from a human perspective. As for true eternity, it lies in what is called the "Beginning of Heaven and Earth." Heaven and Earth give birth to all things without giving birth to themselves, standing aloof from all things—hence their immortality. The sage puts himself behind others yet ends up leading, remains detached yet is preserved. If Heaven and Earth competed with all things for existence, or the sage vied with ordinary people for gain, then Heaven and Earth would be merely one thing among many, and the sage merely one person—how could they surpass the ordinary? Even so, their selflessness is not for the sake of fulfilling selfish desires, yet selfish desires are thereby realized. This is the natural law of the Dao.

The highest virtue is like water. Water excels at nourishing all things without contending with them, willingly settling in low places that people disdain. Thus, water's nature comes closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe). Those who embody supreme virtue: choose dwelling places like water flowing downward (excellent placement), maintain minds as still as deep pools (excellent depth), interact with others through selfless kindness (excellent benevolence), speak with honesty and trustworthiness (excellent integrity), govern with clarity and order (excellent administration), handle affairs with adaptable appropriateness (excellent capability), and act in accordance with proper timing (excellent timing). Precisely because they do not contend, they remain free from blame.

Su Zhe's commentary elaborates: The Book of Changes states that the alternation of Yin and Yang constitutes the Dao, and inheriting this Dao manifests as virtue. Just as heaven and earth's movement produces water, the Dao's operation produces virtue. Both water and virtue emerge from formlessness into form, sharing the Dao's fundamental principle. The Dao permeates all things and benefits all existence—qualities water likewise possesses. However, since water and virtue have assumed tangible forms, they differ slightly from the pure Dao, hence the description "approaching the Dao." Among all named virtues, none surpasses water's perfection, thus it's called "supreme virtue." Water avoids heights to flow downward (excellent placement), remains silent and profound beyond measurement (excellent depth), nurtures all without seeking return (excellent benevolence), rotates when encountering roundness and turns at square edges, stops when blocked and flows when released (excellent integrity), cleanses filth and balances unevenness (excellent administration), adapts its form to any container without rigidity (excellent capability), freezes in winter and melts in spring, drying and swelling seasonally (excellent timing). Other virtues may invite criticism, but water's non-contention allows it to embody seven excellences without fault.

To maintain overflowing fullness, restraint proves superior; over-sharpening a blade prevents lasting keenness. When halls overflow with gold and jade, none can preserve them forever; wealth coupled with arrogance only invites disaster. Withdrawing when achievements peak and fame shines brightest—this accords with heaven's way.

Su Zhe explains: Knowing fullness yet forcibly maintaining it proves inferior to measured restraint; recognizing sharpness's fragility and preemptively guarding against breakage still falls short of perfect wisdom. As for sages, they possess as if possessing nothing—how could the anxiety of excess ever trouble them?

(Note: "揣" denotes preemptive protection, "持" indicates forced maintenance, and "遗" pronounced wèi means "to incur.")

This passage elucidates the essential Daoist practice of "embracing unity and maintaining softness," which can be interpreted in two parts:

The first part discusses natural laws: Only by following the Dao (the Way) can one attain stability. Excessive sharpness cannot endure, just as the sun begins to decline after reaching its zenith, and the moon wanes after becoming full. The four seasons cycle, receding once their purpose is fulfilled. If even heaven and earth follow this principle, how much more should humans?

The second part outlines the key to self-cultivation:

"Carrying the restless spirit (yingpo) and embracing unity" refers to calming the agitated mind to achieve a state of body-mind harmony. One should be as focused and gentle as an infant, purifying the heart by removing distracting thoughts (dichu xuanlan). Governing a state requires aligning with nature (wuwei, non-action), while the gateway of the mind (tianmen) should remain softly tranquil in its opening and closing. Though one may comprehend all things (mingbai sida), they must maintain a state of no-knowledge and no-desire. Nurturing all beings without claiming possession, acting without self-importance, and guiding without domination—this is the profoundest De (Virtue/Power, xuande).

Annotations clarify:

"Yingpo" denotes a restless mental state, not a separation of hun and po (spiritual and corporeal souls). "Tianmen" refers to the gateway of the mind, with "opening and closing" describing mental activity. The crux of practice lies in stabilizing the spirit (xing ding shen ning) without external disturbances. Ordinary people often become enslaved by material desires, leading to mental confusion where sensory cravings (po) dominate them. This contrasts sharply with realized adepts who master their senses (shen zai po).

Through natural metaphors, this text expounds the core Daoist philosophy of "following nature and maintaining serene non-action." It emphasizes achieving body-mind unity through purification of thoughts and the cultivation of concentrated qi (vital energy) in softness.

When human desires (the corporeal soul) seek to act, if the spirit (Shen) follows them indiscriminately, then pathogenic Qi (evil energies) will gain prolonged control over one's vitality. Therefore, the teaching is to embrace the spirit and restrain wayward energies, ensuring they never separate—this constitutes the essence of sagehood in self-cultivation. The method by which ancient realized beings (Zhenren) fortified their foundations followed the same principle: when spirit fails to govern, Qi becomes chaotic—the strong tend toward conflict, the weak toward constant fear, all while remaining unaware of these patterns. But when spirit governs properly, Qi ceases its reckless movements; both joy and anger then align with natural principle—this is called "concentrating the Qi."

When spirit reaches the pinnacle of emptiness and stillness, that very moment marks the beginning of Qi's full flourishing. Ultimate emptiness manifests as pliant softness, while ultimate fullness expresses as resilient strength. Preserving pure original nature while dissolving turbid energies allows one to attain the supreme softness of an infant—infants lack distinctions of preference, thus their nature remains whole; wholeness of nature brings harmonious Qi, and harmonious Qi yields bodily suppleness. "Concentrating Qi to achieve infant-like softness" represents the highest attainment. Sages remain unaffected by external pathogenic influences nor driven by internal Qi fluctuations, thereby completely purging the dust of defilements from body and mind. At this stage, their spirit becomes translucent, perceiving all things' origin in Dao-nature while viewing purity and impurity with equanimity.

Having perfected self-cultivation, they extend surplus virtue to benefit others. Even when loving the people or governing states, they maintain Wuwei (non-action) mentality—for deliberate intention in "loving" may harm, and calculated "governing" may disrupt. The "Heavenly Gate" (natural law) governs cycles of order and chaos. When sages bear the world's burdens, they act at pivotal moments of transformation: where ordinary people anxiously chase fortune, sages follow celestial principles, knowing destiny's flow like harmonizing with a song. The Yijing states "preceding celestial timing without opposing Heaven's Dao" doesn't mean literally outpacing Heaven; "following celestial timing in accordance with cosmic sequence" doesn't imply lagging—it signifies matching destiny's rhythm regardless of sequence. Missing this rhythm, whether early or late, brings error. What's called "holding to the feminine" fundamentally means seizing the timely moment.

This cultivation serves both self-governance and statecraft, providing responses to all changes. How could this be possible without penetrating understanding? "Comprehensive illumination" refers to the original mind—this mind inherently knows all yet never claims knowledge. Original nature is unity; creating a separate "knowing mind" establishes duality. The division from one to two marks the very root of delusion and ignorance.

When a mirror reflects objects, it does so passively without any awareness of its reflection. To impose subjective consciousness upon this natural phenomenon is the root of delusion. The Dao (the Way, the cosmic origin) nourishes all things yet claims no possession, dependence, or dominion. Though endowed with great De (Virtue/Power), its presence remains imperceptible to all beings—hence it is called "profound De" (mysterious and unfathomable Virtue).

Ancient discussions of "hun and po" (ethereal and corporeal souls) sometimes treated them as a unity (e.g., the Zuo Commentary states the essence of the heart is hun-po) and sometimes as separate (e.g., the Zuo Commentary describes the spirit at birth as po, while the vital force is called hun). In essence, when the mind is pure and tranquil, po transforms into hun; when attached to external objects, hun degenerates into po. Just as water freezes into solid ice or melts back to liquid, its fundamental nature remains unchanged. People are often driven by po (material desires) to chase external things, yet they must realize that the seven emotions and six desires lack true substance, and the four elements (earth, water, fire, wind) of the body are inherently empty. Like riding a cart or sailing a boat—seemingly supported yet ultimately rootless—understanding this truth allows one to transform the substantial into the insubstantial, purifying desires to return to one's original nature. Ordinary people split body and mind into two, while Daoist practitioners maintain their unity—this is the key to entering the Dao.

Regarding "concentrating Qi to attain softness" (zhuanqi zhirou), Laozi warns that controlling Qi with the mind makes it rigid, while Zhuangzi advises against judging with subjective consciousness, instead advocating alignment with natural Qi. The mind discriminates between right and wrong, whereas Qi is pure and undifferentiated. Deliberately regulating Qi with the mind hardens it, while simply focusing on Qi without mental interference yields softness. Only those with childlike purity can master this art of undistracted Qi-preservation.

The flaws in "mysterious observation" (xuanlan) are obvious and easily corrected in ordinary people, yet subtle and stubborn in scholars. Scholars often mistake minor realizations on the path for unique insights—like gold dust: precious yet obstructive when it enters the eye. To treat enlightenment as bondage or understanding as shackles—is this not sickness? Thus, such attachments must be cleared. Laozi’s message is clear: the wise eliminate delusions without withdrawing from the world, while fools seek escape without refining the mind. To misinterpret Laozi by equating passive withdrawal with cultivation is a grave error. Hence, "settling the hun-po" does not mean sitting idly but practicing Wuwei (non-action) in governing and caring for the people—this is the true meaning of "acting through non-action" (wei wuwei).

This passage elucidates the profound meanings of "Wuwei" (non-action) and "emptiness" in Laozi's philosophy.

Regarding "attaining softness through Qi," it does not mean closing oneself off, but rather maintaining a feminine receptivity while allowing the "heavenly gates" (human senses) to open and close freely—this embodies the principle of "guarding the feminine with the masculine." "Cleansing the mysterious mirror" (removing distractions to perceive one's true mind) doesn't imply sinking into obscurity, but maintaining a state of no-knowledge and no-desire while understanding all things—this is the wisdom of "knowing without knowing."

In governing a state, one must be open and perceptive while maintaining an attitude of Wuwei, softness, and no-knowledge. Only then can one nurture all things without claiming possession, act without self-importance, and guide without domination—this constitutes the most profound "Xuan De" (supreme virtue). Both Guan Yinzi and Zhuangzi noted that Laozi advocated embracing all things through emptiness, which represents true substantiality. Those who criticize Laozi for abandoning reality to speak only of emptiness have not seriously studied his writings.

Three metaphors illustrate the function of "nothingness": Thirty spokes converge at the empty hub of a wheel to make it functional; clay is kneaded into vessels where the empty space creates utility; doors and windows are cut into walls where the emptiness makes a house livable. Thus while "substantiality" provides form, "emptiness" constitutes true functionality. Su Zhe's commentary explains: Though we exhaust our wisdom to create objects, their utility lies precisely in their emptiness. Without substance we cannot create function, yet without emptiness we cannot manifest substance's value. The sage observes the mysteries of Dao through "nothingness" and perceives Dao's manifestations through "somethingness."

Finally, the text warns against excessive sensory indulgence: dazzling colors blind the eyes, clamorous music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, reckless hunting deranges the mind, and rare treasures corrupt conduct. Therefore, the sage seeks only basic sustenance, rejecting sensory pleasures in favor of fundamental needs. Kumarajiva added: Those who fail to understand "form is emptiness" and cling to sensory pleasures differ little from the truly blind and deaf.

This passage explores two core Daoist concepts: the cultivation principle of "nourishing the belly, not the eyes," and the wisdom of "remaining undisturbed by favor or disgrace."

Regarding "nourishing the belly, not the eyes," it describes how sages focus on inner cultivation ("nourishing the belly")—much like the Gen hexagram in the Yijing speaks of stillness in the back (concentrating inward)—rather than being distracted by external sensory desires ("the eyes"). While eyes constantly crave external stimuli without satisfaction, the belly (symbolizing inner being) can contain without greed. Su Zhe's commentary explains that while sensory pleasures like beautiful sights and flavors originate from human nature, the pursuit of external gratification leads to losing one's true nature. Though sages interact with the external world like ordinary people, they maintain their fundamental nature without confusion—this embodies the wisdom of "nourishing the belly."

The discussion of "remaining undisturbed by favor or disgrace" observes how people often become agitated by gains, losses, honor, or humiliation—rooted in excessive self-concern. Ancient sages understood that receiving favor might invite disgrace, and overvaluing the physical body brings worry. Thus, they regarded favor and disgrace as one, neither particularly valuing praise (thereby avoiding humiliation) nor clinging to the body (thus remaining free from anxiety). The text concludes by emphasizing that only those who care for the world as they care for themselves are worthy of governing it.

The phrase "valuing the body as a great trouble" uses classical inverted syntax, meaning "treating the body as cautiously as one would treat a great calamity." Su Zhe explains this seemingly paradoxical statement reveals profound truth: excessive self-regard ultimately invites misfortune.

People in the world often think facing great calamities isn't difficult—what's truly hard is preserving oneself. Therefore, the sage, understanding people's fear of losing their "self," teaches them: the real difficulty lies not in dealing with calamities, but in recognizing the illusory nature of the "self." When one realizes that attachment to the "self" is the true predicament, great calamities naturally vanish.

Human nature (innate true nature) neither increases with life nor decreases with death. It is vast enough to fill heaven and earth, yet subtle enough to penetrate water, fire, metal, and stone—no external thing can harm it. Yet people often lose sight of their true nature, fixating only on the physical body. The more they cling to this body, the more external things can harm them. Thus, the suffering of birth, aging, sickness, and death assails from within, while entanglements of honor, disgrace, gain, and loss disturb from without—there is nothing that does not become a calamity.

Only those who are enlightened understand: true nature is never damaged, and the physical body is not real. When one suddenly lets go of attachment to the body, all calamities in the world disappear. Only then can one roam freely in the world without burden. People chase fame and wealth, indulge in luxury, and even take reckless risks without regret—all to satisfy the desires of this body. But if one were to offer them the entire world as their reward, they would instead value the world more than their body. This is the true letting go of attachment to the physical form. Those who reach this state will not be troubled by calamities, even if faced with the entire world.

The Bi Cheng further explains: People usually think honor is above and disgrace below, not realizing that disgrace does not exist independently—it arises precisely from attachment to honor. Thus, honor is truly the "lower grade." Precisely because honor is lowly, whether gained or lost, it causes panic—this panic is rootless, like encountering external things, and vanishes once it passes. The very word "precious" implies something difficult to attain.

People think they fear calamities because they have a body, not realizing that calamities stem from attachment to the body's existence. Without attachment to the body, there are no calamities. From this perspective, people's pursuit of honor is actually a pursuit of disgrace. If one regards honor and disgrace as equal, where is the disgrace? Those who cling to the body are precisely those with great calamities. If one regards the body and calamities as equal, where are the calamities? Not seeing the body merely as the body, but viewing it from the perspective of calamity—this is the state of "no-self," where one is naturally free from calamity. This is the principle Laozi speaks of: "By placing oneself behind, one is put ahead; by disregarding oneself, one is preserved."

For example: those who do not value their body more than the world can be entrusted with the world; those who excessively cherish their bodies cannot be entrusted with it. Thus, those who do not cling to the body actually preserve it best. Zhuangzi's saying, "The people of Yue killed three generations of their rulers," illustrates this—excessive attachment to the self invites calamity.

Prince Sou of Yue fled to the Danxue mountain caves, dreading the burdens of rulership. The people of Yue smoked him out with mugwort fumes and compelled him onto the royal carriage. As he grasped the reins to ascend, the prince cried to heaven: "O sovereign's throne! Why must you pursue me so relentlessly?" It wasn't rulership he despised, but the calamities it brings. Herein lay the very reason the Yue people insisted on his kingship—their very persistence in coercing this reluctant prince proved his virtue of non-attachment to power. Only one who doesn't prioritize personal gain truly deserves the throne—what hesitation could remain?

(Expounding the mysterious qualities of Dao in the Daode Jing) What the eye gazes upon but cannot see is called "Yi" (formless); what the ear strains to hear but cannot detect is called "Xi" (soundless); what the hand reaches for but cannot grasp is called "Wei" (intangible). These three qualities defy verbal interrogation, thus collectively termed the undifferentiated Dao. Above, it doesn't blaze brightly; below, it doesn't darken—continuous yet nameless, it ultimately returns to emptiness. This is form without form, image without substance, what we call "the ineffable." Meeting it, you see no beginning; following it, you find no end. By holding fast to the Dao that has existed since antiquity, one may govern present affairs. To comprehend the cosmic origin—this constitutes grasping Dao's essential principles.

(Su Zhe's commentary) What we perceive are specific colors, but the fundamental capacity enabling vision remains unseen; what we hear are particular sounds, but the root faculty permitting audition remains unheard; what we touch are concrete objects, but the essential ability allowing tactility remains untouched. Even sages cannot fully articulate these three (seeing, hearing, touching), requiring their unification under the primal "Xing" (essential nature). Xing constitutes the substance, while the three perceptions represent its functions. Originally, humans possess pure Xing, which differentiates into visual, auditory, and tactile capacities through worldly engagement. If one employs these senses daily without returning to essential nature, one drifts ever farther from Dao. Extending this principle, Buddhism's "six roots" (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, mind) follow the same pattern—the Shurangama Sutra's injunction to "reverse the flow to return to authenticity, rendering the six roots inactive" expresses this truth. Concrete phenomena all possess yin-yang attributes, making the inevitability of brightness above and darkness below inescapable. Yet Dao neither dazzles above nor darkens below, defying measurement by form. "Unceasing" describes its perpetual motion. Observing its endless movement, people mistake it for concrete existence, unaware it ultimately returns to emptiness. "Zhuang" denotes manifest appearance, while "Xiang" implies subtle intimations.

This passage expounds on the subtle characteristics of the Dao (the core concept of Daoism representing the origin of the universe and its operating principles) and the state of those who have attained it.

Though the Dao is extremely refined and appears formless without image, it doesn't mean complete nonexistence. Precisely because it defies verbal description, it's called "huhuang" (a state of indistinct vagueness). Being omnipresent, it has no distinction between front and back. Ancient things emerged from "you" (concrete existence), while the present "wu" (formless origin) serves as the root of ancient things. By grasping this origin, one can effortlessly control advancement and retreat, speed and slowness.

Ancient true cultivators (shi) possessed such subtle and profound understanding of the Dao that ordinary people couldn't fathom it. Because this state is indescribable, we can only approximate their condition with strained analogies: They act as cautiously as crossing a winter river, as alertly as guarding against surrounding neighbors, as solemnly as visiting guests, as relaxed as melting ice, as simple as uncarved wood, as open as mountain valleys, as turbid as muddy water. Who can calm the turbid to gradually become clear? Who can maintain prolonged stillness to slowly generate vitality? Those who preserve this Dao don't pursue perfection. Precisely by not seeking perfection, they maintain their original state without forced renewal.

Several metaphors are explained: "Yu" and "You" are animal names symbolizing hesitation and caution; "Yan" denotes solemn demeanor; "Huan" means dissipation; uncarved wood is called "pu"; "Kuang" means spacious emptiness. Crossing winter rivers is always difficult, guarding against neighbors shows self-restraint, behaving like guests prevents overstepping, melting ice carries concern about collapse, uncarved wood has no artificial patterns, valleys contain nothing within their emptiness, muddy water appears obscure—all these are inadequate attempts to describe the state of Dao attainment.

Finally, Su Zhe's commentary states: The extremity of coarseness becomes refinement, refinement develops into mystery, and the ultimate mystery becomes all-pervading yet unfathomable. Acting after caution is called "yu", wanting to act but feeling constrained is called "you". Those who attain the Dao hesitate like winter river-crossers, pause like those fearing neighbors' gaze, respect like guests without negligence, and understand like melting ice that all things emerge from emptiness.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist heart-mind cultivation through vivid analogies:

Just as uncarved wood (pu) maintains its natural simplicity, one should shed all artificiality and return to innate authenticity. Like a vast valley that embraces all things or turbid water that blends with everything, a true Dao-realized person does not forcibly oppose worldly conventions.

Ordinary people, deluded by external phenomena, become like murky water that cannot clarify itself. Meanwhile, ascetics who harshly suppress their nature resemble stagnant water that loses vitality. Two crucial insights emerge: understanding that desires disturb the heart-mind leads to tranquil cultivation, gradually restoring clarity; recognizing that repression violates the Dao (the Way) allows natural harmony, slowly reviving vitality.

The Yijing (Book of Changes) states: "In profound stillness unmoved, yet responsive to all stimuli." True "movement" isn't forced action but this spontaneous resonance. When things reach extremes, they reverse—turbidity pushed too far cannot clarify, stillness overdone loses vitality. Thus maintaining balance is essential. Only by not pursuing absolute perfection can one avoid decline.

Reaching ultimate emptiness (xu) and preserving deep tranquility enables observation of cyclical cosmic patterns. All phenomena eventually return to their origin (gen). This return is called "stillness" (jing), whose perfection leads to reuniting with heavenly mandate (fuming). Understanding this eternal principle (chang) constitutes wisdom. Ignorance of this law invites misfortune through reckless action.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: Incomplete emptiness leaves residual thoughts; unstable tranquility remains vulnerable to disturbance. Removing a mountain but leaving dust particles still falls short of perfection. Forced emptiness clings to "presence," while strained tranquility remains trapped in "movement." Applying these states prematurely proves difficult.

Only through perfected emptiness and tranquility can one observe transformations without confusion. Recognize all movement ultimately returns to its source—like leaves growing from roots and falling back, or waves rising from water and subsiding. Immersed in chaotic changes ourselves, we cannot perceive this pattern clearly.

This passage explores the core Daoist concept of "returning to one's fundamental nature and destiny (复性归命)." The essential meaning is:

Seeking stillness through forced inactivity or suppressed thoughts is not true stillness. Only by returning to the root of one's nature constitutes genuine stillness. "Destiny (命)" is the profound manifestation of "nature (性)"—while we can discuss "nature," "destiny" transcends language. As the Book of Changes states: "Exhausting principle and fulfilling nature to reach destiny." The cultivation of sages necessarily begins with investigating principles, fully manifests one's nature, and ultimately returns to heavenly destiny.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are the sage's methods for interacting with others. However, practicing these without understanding their fundamental principles makes one merely a worldly person. Practicing after comprehending the principles constitutes the way of noble persons—this is "exhausting principle." Yet one must investigate with sincere focus to realize the truth. If constantly distracted by external things and reacting passively, effort will be great but achievement small. Sages remain unobscured by externals—their nature is clear and luminous, responding naturally without contrivance—this is "fulfilling nature."

But if distinctions between "self and objects" persist, one approaches delusion. "Destiny" refers both to personal fate and heavenly mandate. Responding to things through one's nature without clinging to self constitutes "returning to destiny." All worldly phenomena change and perish—only by returning to one's nature can one attain permanence. Without understanding this principle of returning to nature, even those considering themselves wise remain worldly. Failing to return to one's nature makes one sway with external things—what appears as temporary gain ultimately brings long-term loss.

When lost in delusion, one rejects external things; realizing all is illusory, even enemies evoke compassion—this is true tolerance. Boundless tolerance dissolves selfishness, and all people under heaven will submit. This state surpasses even heaven, for while heaven has form, the Dao (道) is ultimate. Yet even the Dao cannot exceed this.

The conclusion observes: Those pursuing emptiness while unaware that reality itself is emptiness haven't penetrated the truth; those clinging to stillness without recognizing movement contains stillness haven't perfected stillness cultivation. Genuine practice transcends such dualities.

This passage explores the philosophical relationship between "movement and stillness" and the different levels of state governance.

Regarding the Dao of movement and stillness: People often fail to recognize that movement itself is an expression of stillness, which indicates an incomplete understanding of "stillness." When observing the growth of all things, there appears to be movement, yet in reality, there is no true movement or substantial existence. To observe in this manner is to practice "observing the return" (guanfu) — perceiving things in their state of returning to the source. If one cannot achieve this and forcibly stops movement to pursue stillness, it will only generate more agitation. When all things return to their root, distracting thoughts naturally cease; without deliberate effort to seek stillness, true stillness is attained. This is called "returning to life's origin" (fuming). Here, the text speaks of "life" (ming) rather than "nature" (xing) because "nature" can be described while "life" is ineffable. The Book of Changes states that only by exhaustively investigating principles and fully manifesting one's nature can one comprehend the Mandate of Heaven. Yet even when rational understanding is exhausted, there remain more subtle realms of realization. When one truly reaches the state of "ultimate life" (zhi ming), it becomes apparent that life and nature are distinct.

Regarding state governance: The highest ruler (taishang) governs the world through the Dao without leaving traces, and the people remain unaware of being ruled; the next level employs benevolent governance through De (Virtue), earning the people's affection and praise; the third level uses strict laws and punishments, making the people fearful; the lowest rulers are met with the people's contempt. If the ruler lacks genuine sincerity, the people naturally withhold trust. The most skillful governance operates like the movement of nature itself — when achievements are made, the people consider them entirely natural.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: The highest ruler embraces the world through the Dao without deliberate governance, and the people only vaguely sense the ruler's presence; the next level governs through benevolence and righteousness, where virtuous influence touches the people and visible accomplishments earn their affection and praise; the third level restrains the people through decrees — though they fear such rule, when powerless to resist, they respond with contempt. A truly self-assured ruler needs only to govern through the Dao, while those lacking confidence pile on benevolence and righteousness or intensify punishments, resulting in the people's distrust.

The true sage who has attained the Dao (one who comprehends the Great Way) maintains inner fulfillment and self-sufficiency, thus speaking with caution and restraint. Yet when such a person does speak, the people naturally trust their words. When their work reaches completion, the people unconsciously turn toward goodness and distance themselves from evil.

When the natural and effortless Dao is abandoned, people begin to extol benevolence and righteousness; when cleverness prevails, hypocrisy emerges; when family harmony breaks down, filial piety and parental love must be emphasized; when the state falls into chaos, loyal ministers become conspicuous. (Wang Bi's commentary notes: "The six family relations" refer to father-son, elder-younger brothers, and husband-wife; "filial piety and parental love" denote dutiful children and caring elders.)

Su Zhe's supplementary commentary explains: In eras when the Dao flourishes, benevolence and righteousness are naturally embedded within it, unnoticed by people. Only when the Dao declines do these virtues become consciously promoted. When people fail to recognize that the Dao inherently nourishes all things and instead impose artificial cleverness upon it, the common folk respond with hypocrisy. In harmonious families, who isn't a filial child or loving parent? In stable nations, who isn't a loyal minister? Emperor Yao was by no means unfilial, yet only Shun's filial piety became legendary because he served his difficult father Gusou; Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal, yet only Long Feng and Bi Gan's loyalty became renowned because they faced tyrants like Jie and Zhou. Like fish in a dried-up pond moistening each other with spit—how inferior this is to swimming freely in rivers and lakes, forgetting one another in natural abundance.

Reject artificial sagely wisdom, and the people benefit a hundredfold; discard superficial benevolence and righteousness, and the people naturally return to filial piety and parental love; eliminate cunning and profit-seeking, and thieves and robbers disappear. These three (sagely wisdom, benevolence-righteousness, and clever-profit) are all human artifice—therefore we must guide people back to their roots: preserving simple authenticity while reducing selfish desires.

Su Zhe further elaborates: It's not that sagely wisdom is insufficient for understanding the Dao, but when used to govern the world, some will inevitably act contrary to the Way. People often fail to grasp the essence of sagely wisdom, seeing only its superficial techniques and believing cleverness can prevail. Thus they compete to imitate these peripheral skills, ultimately harming the populace. Only by abandoning artificial sagely wisdom can the people truly benefit. The genuinely benevolent never abandon their kin; the truly righteous never neglect their ruler—these virtues naturally foster filial piety and parental love. But when the age declines, some appropriate the names of benevolence and righteousness for personal gain, causing fathers and sons to oppose each other. Therefore we must discard superficial virtue and return to natural familial love. Cleverness was meant for convenience, profit for aiding the world—yet thieves exploit them for evil. Thus by eliminating cunning and profit-seeking, robbers naturally vanish.

Many in the world advocate three methods of governance (sagely wisdom, humaneness-righteousness, and clever advantage), believing the world's instability stems from insufficient ritual and moral education. Some propose ruling through sage-like wisdom, others through humaneness and righteousness, still others through clever advantage—all attempting to govern through external ritual systems. Yet the world grows increasingly disordered. Why not return to the root?

Preserve innate simplicity, reduce selfish desires, and let all people recover their natural dispositions. Then even if methods like sagely wisdom, humaneness-righteousness, and clever advantage exist, they become unnecessary. Thus it is said: When I practice non-action (wuwei), the people transform spontaneously; when I maintain stillness, the people correct themselves; when I refrain from disturbances, the people prosper naturally; when I am free from desire, the people remain simple. This constitutes the highest sagely wisdom, the purest humaneness-righteousness, and the most sublime clever advantage.

Confucius governed the world through humaneness, righteousness, and ritual music, while Laozi advocated abandoning these. Some see them as fundamentally different. The Yijing states: "What is above form is called the Dao; what is within form is called concrete implements." Confucius, considering long-term consequences, taught concrete rituals (implements) while concealing the Dao, enabling those of average or lower capacity to maintain ritual norms without being confused by the Dao's profundity—at least becoming gentlemen. Those of higher capacity naturally comprehend deeper truths.

Laozi differed fundamentally—his aim was elucidating the Dao, urgently awakening human minds. Thus he directly revealed the Dao while downplaying concrete rituals, knowing that if learners only grasp specific norms, the Dao becomes obscured. Hence he rejected humaneness-righteousness and discarded ritual music to illuminate the Dao. The true Dao cannot be spoken; what can be spoken merely approximates it. The enlightened perceive the true Dao through approximations, while the foolish cling to approximations and fall into falsity.

Later generations have used Laozi's words to disrupt the world, yet Confucian learners rarely commit grave errors. Many have comprehended the Dao through Laozi's teachings, while those attempting entry through Confucianism often struggle to find the path. Both sages acted out of necessity—being comprehensive in one aspect inevitably meant being concise in another.