《老子翼》Vol. 2

This passage elucidates Laozi's hierarchical distinction of De (Virtue/Power) and its evolutionary process, along with the resulting transformations in social norms.

The truly noble De (superior De) manifests spontaneously without deliberate display - this constitutes genuine De. Conversely, those who consciously maintain virtuous conduct (inferior De) actually lose the essence of true De. The highest form of De follows nature's course through wuwei (non-action), while lesser forms involve intentional effort.

Benevolence arises from active yet innate intention, while righteousness involves purposeful action with specific aims. When reaching the level of ritual propriety, enforcement becomes necessary when people fail to respond. This reveals the degeneration process: first the loss of Dao, then De, followed by benevolence, then righteousness, until only ritual remains. Ritual propriety emerges precisely when loyalty and trust have weakened, ironically becoming the seed of disorder. Those who consider themselves prescient merely grasp superficial aspects of Dao - the very beginning of folly.

Therefore, noble individuals should choose substantial simplicity over shallow ornamentation. Sages (those who have attained Dao) follow their heart's desire without transgressing natural principles. They don't strive for De consciously, yet De naturally abounds within them. Ordinary people straining after De can only manage not to be deficient. Both benevolence and righteousness inevitably involve deliberate action, differing only in that benevolence arises unconsciously while righteousness stems from conscious intent.

From De to benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety - these represent the sages' progressive methods for guiding common people. When ritual fails to function, coercive force is employed, marking complete loss of proper order. Loyalty and trust struggle to manifest without ritual framework, yet excessive emphasis on ritual makes people focus solely on superficial forms. Like a mirror reflecting objects, sages perceive the essential nature of all things, discerning right and wrong with perfect clarity.

This passage primarily discusses how people are often constrained by sensory perceptions and superficial understanding, while emphasizing the fundamental role of the Dao (the cosmic principle) in all existence.

Ordinary people typically rely solely on what they see with their eyes, hear with their ears, and comprehend with their limited intellect in their pursuit of knowledge. When they occasionally gain some insight, they consider themselves wise—yet this very attitude marks the beginning of ignorance. Worldly individuals become content with superficial attainments while forgetting the root, preferring ornate appearances over substantial essence. Only the truly noble person can relinquish empty embellishments and grasp the fundamental truth.

Zhuangzi quotes Laozi's teaching: once people become entangled in material pursuits, returning to the source becomes exceedingly difficult. However, sages transcend such dualities, harmonizing seemingly contradictory concepts (such as benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and virtue) within the unity of the Dao. The wisdom of sages dissolves all distinctions and oppositions.

The scripture then elaborates on the importance of "the One" (the Dao): when heaven attains the Dao, it becomes clear and luminous; when earth attains the Dao, it finds peace and stability; when spirits attain the Dao, they manifest efficacy; when valleys attain the Dao, they brim with abundance; when all things attain the Dao, they flourish; when rulers attain the Dao, the world achieves harmony. Without this foundation, heaven would crack, earth would quake, spirits would vanish, valleys would dry up, all beings would perish, and rulers would fall. Thus, nobility must take humility as its root, and elevation must be founded upon what is low—just as rulers refer to themselves as "the solitary one," "the unworthy one," or "the undeserving" (self-deprecating titles). Seeking excessive praise leads to losing one's foundation; it is better to maintain one's original simplicity.

Annotations explain: "crack" means to split apart, "quake" means to tremble, "vanish" means to disappear, "dry up" means to become exhausted, and "fall" means to collapse.

Su Shi's commentary observes: the reason all things can exist as they do originates from the Dao. Yet people only see concrete phenomena while forgetting the fundamental Dao—heaven merely knows its own clarity, earth merely knows its own stability.

This scripture elucidates the primordial nature and fundamental function of the Dao. It reveals that tranquility manifests the divine (Shen), emptiness contains fullness, all things grow naturally, and rulers become models for the world—all because of the Dao's presence.

Though invisible and intangible, the "One" (representing Dao's essence) sustains heaven, earth, and the myriad beings. Without it, heaven wouldn't collapse immediately, earth wouldn't quake at once, spirits (Shen) wouldn't cease functioning, creatures wouldn't perish instantly, nor would rulers lose power abruptly—yet all would inevitably decline. The vastness of heaven and earth, the nobility of rulers, all stem from the "One's" operation.

The "One" is the subtlest existence between heaven and earth—appearing humble yet constituting the root of all things. Ancient kings called themselves "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy," precisely because they grasped the root while discarding superficialities. Like wheels, spokes, and canopy combining to form a carriage—though each component is countable, the concept of "carriage" transcends enumeration—this demonstrates the wondrous function of "non-being" (Wu).

Heaven and earth aren't vast because of their expanse, nor are rulers noble due to status—they embody the fundamental "One." Thus the "One" remains noble without claiming nobility, humble without considering baseness—unlike jade that must be precious or stone that must be lowly.

The latter section explains: cyclical return constitutes the Dao's movement, while softness embodies its application. All beings emerge from "being" (you), which itself originates from "non-being" (Wu). This cyclical motion manifests the Dao—returning to one's original nature is stillness (Jing), yet ultimate stillness resonates with all creation, initiating movement.

Though formless and soundless, seemingly soft and weak, the Dao is the mightiest force governing existence. Most people fail to understand how stillness generates motion or weakness overcomes strength. Just as all things have their origin (mother), no child can rule its mother—this illustrates the Dao's fundamental and sovereign nature.

All things under heaven arise from "being" (concrete existence), which we call the mother of all things. Yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (formless source), which we call the beginning of heaven and earth. "Non-being" necessarily gives birth to "being," thus practitioners emphasize returning to the source—this "return" means reverting to the state of "non-being." Since "being" emerges from "non-being," we must value the state of softness and weakness, for it most closely resembles the essence of "non-being."

When people of different capacities hear the Dao, their responses vary greatly: those of superior capacity hear the Dao and diligently practice it; those of average capacity hear it with half-belief and half-doubt; those of inferior capacity hear it and burst into laughter—yet if the foolish do not laugh at it, the teaching cannot be considered profound. Thus the ancients said: Those who truly understand the Dao appear dull-witted; those who make progress in cultivation seem to regress; the smooth path of the Dao appears rugged. The highest virtue resembles a valley in its emptiness; the purest white seems stained; abundant virtue always appears insufficient; robust virtue seems indolent; the most genuine essence appears changeable.

The greatest square has no corners; the most precious vessel takes the longest to complete; the loudest sound is nearly inaudible; the grandest form has no shape. The Dao always conceals itself and reveals no name. Only the Dao excels in giving to all things and aiding their fulfillment ("lending" refers to temporary provision rather than permanent bestowal, and "provisional fulfillment" indicates temporary achievement rather than eternal fixation, with the purpose being the eventual return of all things to the Dao).

Su Zhe's commentary explains: The Dao has no form and thus cannot be seen, produces no sound and thus cannot be heard. Unless one first sees through the illusory nature of all phenomena, completely dispels delusions, and attains true knowledge, doubt is inevitable. Therefore, those of inferior capacity hear the Dao and mock its apparent absurdity; those of average capacity waver between belief and skepticism; only those who truly understand practice diligently, keeping it in their hearts without slackening. Confucius said, "Was it not Hui who could hear the teaching and practice it unremittingly?"—this describes those of superior capacity. The subsequent paradoxical descriptions (such as "the bright Dao seems dark") are all sayings of ancient sages, which Laozi quotes to illustrate how the Dao transcends ordinary understanding.

This passage elucidates the manifestation of Dao (the Way) and its wisdom for navigating life in Daoist thought.

The person of superior virtue (shangshi) may appear imperfect, yet this is precisely because their De (Virtue/Power) has reached its utmost refinement. Those who have truly achieved merit (jiande) may seem idle, but in reality, they are aligning with the natural flow. Those of pure essence may appear to drift with the current, yet inwardly they remain steadfast in the true path. The most square object has no sharp corners; the most precious vessel takes the longest to complete; the loudest sound cannot be heard; the grandest form cannot be seen. These twelve phenomena all reflect the operating principles of Dao, yet Dao itself remains formless and nameless.

Those who cultivate the Dao (shangshi) pursue stillness and Wuwei (non-action). Though they may seem diligent in practice, they are actually following the natural course. Ordinary people (zhongshi, xiashi) cannot comprehend this state and often mock the truly profound teachings. Just as rulers refer to themselves with seemingly self-deprecating titles like "the solitary one" or "the bereft," these very terms highlight their noble status.

All things embrace both Yin and Yang (负阴抱阳), and the harmonious blending of these two Qi (vital energies) creates balance. The ancients taught: "The violent and domineering do not meet a natural end" (强梁者不得其死). Laozi particularly valued this principle, calling it the "father of teachings" (教父)—a fundamental instruction akin to the mother of all things. Just as the main beam (强梁) of a house may be sturdy, excessive rigidity makes it prone to breakage.

This passage from Laozi Yi elucidates several core Daoist perspectives on the nature of the Dao and worldly wisdom:

On the generative principle of the Dao: The Dao itself is neither singular nor dualistic. When relating to the myriad things, we call it "the One." Yet this "One" undergoes differentiation—one plus one becomes two, two plus one becomes three, thus generating all phenomena. Though the ten thousand things differ, each contains the two Qi (阴 Yin representing receptivity and softness, 阳 Yang representing activity and strength), achieving harmony through harmonizing Qi. All things originate from "three," and "three" derives from "One"—this is the natural order.

On the principle of softness overcoming hardness: The softest things in the world (like water) can master the hardest substances; formless forces (like air) can penetrate seamless objects. This demonstrates how the benefits of 无为 Wuwei (non-interference) and "wordless teaching" are unparalleled. Just as water wears through stone and spirits influence human affairs unseen, the sage understands Wuwei and thereby wields great power.

On the wisdom of knowing contentment and limits: Which is more precious—fame or life? Which more vital—possessions or vitality? Which more harmful—gain or loss? Excessive pursuit inevitably leads to great depletion; excessive accumulation ultimately brings severe loss. Knowing contentment prevents disgrace; understanding moderation avoids danger—thus one endures.

On the paradox of supreme wisdom appearing foolish: The most perfect thing (大成 great perfection) seems flawed yet functions inexhaustibly; the most full (大盈 great fullness) appears empty yet serves boundlessly. True straightness seems crooked; true skill seems clumsy; true eloquence seems inarticulate. Movement overcomes cold; stillness overcomes heat. All this illustrates how things often manifest through complementary opposites.

This passage elucidates two core principles: serenity through non-action (Wuwei) and contentment as constant joy.

The first part explains the meaning of "serenity makes right the world." When worldly affairs pursue perfection (nothing lacking), they instead hasten decline; when they chase fullness, they instead approach exhaustion. The truly wise seek great accomplishment without obsessing over flaws, yearn for completion while embracing emptiness. Like how straight objects snap easily, following nature's course may appear circuitous yet embodies true integrity; forced cleverness brings exhaustion while natural compliance seems clumsy yet contains profound skill; relentless argument leads to verbal depletion while speaking according to principle seems inarticulate yet proves most eloquent. Restlessness wards off cold but cannot dispel heat, while serenity dispels heat but cannot ward off cold—both represent partial extremes. Only by maintaining detached serenity, free from attachment to any extreme—neither forcing achievement nor flaw, fullness nor emptiness, straightness nor curvature, cleverness nor clumsiness, eloquence nor reticence—can one become invincible and embody the world's true path.

The second part discusses contentment as constant joy. In peaceful times, warhorses plow fields; in chaotic times, even broodmares foal on battlefields. The greatest crime is indulging desire, the greatest calamity is insatiability, the gravest fault is unbridled greed. Human nature is originally complete—abiding in one's innate fulfillment brings contentment everywhere. When rulers flaunt luxuries before the people, they already commit crime; if still unsatisfied, the disaster grows greater; if forcibly seizing possessions, it becomes the gravest fault. Ordinary people inviting misfortune through such errors is bad enough—how much worse when rulers do so? Such greed causes warfare. Only the contented find fulfillment in any circumstance.

Note: "Broodmares foaling on battlefields" signifies prolonged war forcing birth amidst conflict; "retiring warhorses to manure fields" denotes peacetime repurposing of military steeds for farming. These metaphors illustrate the vital importance of serene non-action and knowing contentment within one's bounds.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer discusses the importance of "inner realization." Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) need not travel far—they can perceive celestial principles right by their window. The farther one journeys outwardly, the less one actually knows. The sages attain understanding without direct experience, perceive essence without visual confirmation, and accomplish without deliberate action.

Su Zhe explains that human nature is intrinsically connected to the cosmos, transcending time and space. Ancient sages could know all without leaving their homes precisely because they preserved their innate nature in its wholeness. Ordinary people, obscured by external objects, with minds disturbed by distractions and vision blocked by mountains and rivers, confine their understanding to narrow confines. Unaware that sages attain fulfillment simply by restoring their original nature, they seek outwardly instead—thus the farther they go, the less they truly comprehend. Where innate nature reaches, one not only perceives and names, but also aligns with the natural patterns of all things, accomplishing effortlessly.

The second layer distinguishes between "pursuing learning" and "pursuing the Dao." The pursuit of learning means daily accumulation of knowledge, while pursuing the Dao means daily reduction of attachments. Through continuous reduction, one ultimately attains the state of wuwei (non-action). Only through wuwei can the world be properly governed—forced action leads instead to failure.

Su Zhe clarifies that those who misunderstand the Dao while obsessively pursuing learning find their growing knowledge increasingly fragmented, becoming a burden instead. Confucius' saying "learn widely and select the excellent to follow" represents only secondary understanding. Once the Dao is realized, all phenomena are seen as illusory. Eliminating illusions to return to one's original nature constitutes the practice of "reduction." Yet even the notion of "eliminating illusions" must eventually be released, completely restoring pure innate nature to achieve the state where wuwei accomplishes all. Ordinary people constantly seek to control the world through forceful action, which breeds resistance; sages practice wuwei, thus avoiding artificial interference while all things naturally align.

(Note: The phrase "governing the world" here refers not to seizing political power, but to transforming and harmonizing the world through virtuous influence.)

This scripture primarily expounds on the way of the sage in dealing with worldly affairs and their attitude toward the common people.

The sage maintains no fixed subjective prejudices, instead taking the people's hearts as their own. Toward the virtuous, the sage acts virtuously; toward the non-virtuous, the sage equally extends virtue—this constitutes "De Shan" (true virtuous goodness). Toward the trustworthy, the sage shows trust; toward the untrustworthy, the sage equally extends trust—this constitutes "De Xin" (true trustworthy virtue). The sage moves cautiously through the world, returning all hearts to simplicity. While the people attentively observe the sage's every action, the sage cherishes them all as one would infants.

Here, "having no constant heart" (wuchangxin) means maintaining a mind free from stubborn opinions. "Cautious and careful" (diedie) describes a state of prudent vigilance, while "returning hearts to simplicity" (hunqixin) signifies guiding people back to their original, unadorned nature.

Su Zhe's commentary further explains: The sage resembles emptiness, having no fixed form yet adapting to all forms. Without personal bias, the sage completely identifies with the people's hearts. Whether facing virtue or vice, trustworthiness or deceit, the sage treats all equally. The key lies in the sage's unchanging attitude—never altering their virtuous intention or trust based on others' goodness or wickedness. If one only treated the virtuous well while abandoning the non-virtuous, or only trusted the trustworthy while rejecting the untrustworthy, this would violate the principle that "constant virtue saves people, therefore none are abandoned."

People often quarrel and fight due to differing standards of virtue/vice and truth/falsehood. Troubled by this, the sage cautiously returns all hearts to purity, treating everyone equally regardless of these distinctions. While the people watch the sage's words and deeds closely, the sage treats all as infants—neither specially delighting in good deeds nor specially despising evil ones. Thus, the virtuous grow no arrogance, the wicked harbor no resentment, and all may ultimately be transformed, bringing peace to the world.

The latter section discusses the principle of life and death: From birth to death, roughly three-tenths belong to long life, three-tenths to short life, and another three-tenths comprise those who could have lived long but died prematurely through excessive pursuit of longevity. The truly skilled in nourishing life encounter no rhinoceros or tiger when traveling on land, nor suffer weapon wounds on the battlefield. The rhinoceros finds no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to extend its claws, weapons no place to deploy their blades. Why is this? Because such a person never enters death's domain.

Here, "emergence" (chu) signifies moving from formlessness to form, while "return" (ru) means moving from form back to formlessness. Quoting Zhuangzi: All things emerge from the mechanism of creation and return to it.

This passage primarily discusses the Dao of life and death, with its core insight being that excessive attachment to life paradoxically hastens death—those who truly understand life cultivation do not claim life as their personal possession.

The text mentions three types of people: "followers of life" (those pursuing longevity), "followers of death" (those indulging desires), and "those moving toward death's domain" (those deliberately extinguishing their innate nature). Each group constitutes three-tenths of humanity, collectively making nine-tenths. All three types overemphasize life, thereby becoming trapped in the cycle of birth and death. Those who have attained the Dao understand that life is fundamentally a state beyond both birth and death—akin to the "tranquil and unmoving" realm described in the Yijing.

Laozi employs the metaphor of the si (a rhinoceros-like mythical beast): those skilled in life cultivation are like the si whose horns find nothing to gore, the tiger whose claws find nothing to tear, or weapons that find no place to pierce—because they have transcended the duality of life and death. The sage neither deliberately pursues longevity nor intentionally disregards life, but rather comprehends life's inherent illusoriness.

The text further criticizes three erroneous attitudes: knowing only labor without rest, knowing only speech without silence, and knowing only thought without forgetting. These all represent manifestations of "moving toward death's domain." True great wisdom lies in maintaining a state of thoughtless non-action (wuwei), neither coveting life nor fearing death—only thus can one transcend life and death.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concepts of "Dao" (the Way) and "De" (Virtue/Power), and how understanding these principles enables transcendence beyond worldly attachments.

The text begins by illustrating how excessive attachments lead to suffering: those obsessed with cleanliness become vulnerable to defilement, those craving prestige become susceptible to humiliation, perfectionists invite destruction. Yet these fixations are fundamentally illusory—without the concept of "birth," how could "death" exist? Without standards of "purity," what meaning would "defilement" hold? Those who grasp this truth transcend life and death, wandering freely with the transformations of nature.

The relationship between Dao and De is then explained: Dao serves as the generative source of all things (Dao gives them birth), while De represents the nurturing force (De rears them). All beings naturally honor Dao and cherish De—this nobility isn't conferred by external titles. Dao produces yet claims no possession, accomplishes yet takes no credit—this profound virtue is called "Mysterious De" (Xuande).

Su Zhe's commentary further clarifies: Dao acts as mother to all things, De as their shepherd. Though Dao and De have no concrete form, they manifest through the operations of existence. Like revered fathers and elder brothers, or treasured kings and lords, this honor springs from inner worth rather than external status.

The concluding section presents cultivation methods: one must locate the source of all things (the mother), understand phenomena through their origin (the children), then return to safeguard the source. Practical techniques include closing sensory gates (blocking the openings, shutting the doors), maintaining inner clarity (seeing the subtle is called illumination), and overcoming hardness through softness (guarding tenderness is called strength). By employing inner wisdom (using its light) and returning to original clarity (reverting to its brightness), one avoids self-inflicted calamity. This is termed "inheriting the constant"—following the eternal Dao while preserving inner mysteries unmanifested.

In the primordial beginning of heaven and earth, the Dao (the Way) was nameless. When the myriad things came into being, the Dao became known as the mother of all. In its nameless state, the Dao is the source from which all things arise; once named, it becomes the nurturing mother of creation. All beings are children of the Dao.

The sage (one who has realized the Dao) comprehends the myriad things through embodying the Dao, just as a mother knows her children with perfect clarity. Though the sage's wisdom penetrates all phenomena, they never become entangled in external things and forget the Dao, thus always preserving their original root. All things under heaven contain the Dao, yet people often make the mistake of abandoning the Dao to chase after externals: eyes coveting beautiful forms, ears indulging in music, giving free rein to desires and acting to satisfy them, until they become hopelessly mired in these pursuits for life.

What allows sages to remain untroubled throughout their lives is their practice of closing the gates of desire and not chasing outward. The harm of desire begins small but gradually expands. Those who can foresee how small desires lead to great calamities and stop them in time are truly wise. People who pursue desires recklessly may appear strong but are not; only those who recognize temptation and remain vigilant are truly powerful.

Ordinary people indulge their desires, using their bodies to chase external things, never to return. When sages close the gates of desire, they don't completely cut off engagement with the world—they meet phenomena with spirit (Shen), employing sensory functions without letting the body become addicted. Ears that hear, eyes that see, a nose that smells, a mouth that tastes, a body that feels, and a mind that thinks—these are all aspects of "light" (sensory functions). When this "light" interacts with phenomena, things may come and go without damaging the inherent radiance of one's nature. Thus one can respond to endless changes without exhaustion, and misfortune cannot touch them. Therefore, the sage's nature remains eternally clear and luminous, transmitted through generations without interruption.

"Having slight awareness" (介然有知) means possessing a modicum of wisdom. "Extravagance" (施) is the opposite of "restraint" (啬), referring to indulgence. "Level" (夷) describes what is even and broad, while "bypath" (径) denotes a narrow shortcut. "To put in order" (除) means to repair, like cleaning an ancestral home. Interwoven blue and red threads are called "patterns" (文), while colored silk threads are called "embroidery" (采) (Fu Yi notes that 采 is the ancient character for 绣). Some versions write "resources" (资货) as "wealth" (财货). "Chief of robbers" (盗竽) was mistakenly written as "robber's boast" (盗夸) but has been corrected following Han Fei's version.

(Su Zhe comments:) The great Dao is fundamentally level and broad, yet people prefer narrow bypaths. While the court is well maintained, the fields lie neglected and granaries stand empty. People dress in ornate robes, gird themselves with sharp swords, glut themselves with food and drink, and possess surplus wealth—this is truly the behavior of robber chiefs (盗竽). How could it accord with the Dao?

Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) do not deliberately pursue knowledge or action, nor do they impose artificial interventions—the myriad things naturally flourish of their own accord. If one stubbornly believes they have mastered knowledge and deliberately strives to act upon the Dao, such artificial effort violates the natural order and instead becomes cause for vigilance. The Dao is inherently smooth and simple, without obstacles or hindrances, yet worldly people fail to understand this principle. They always perceive the Dao as distant and circuitous, preferring shortcuts for quick results. Those who abandon their natural disposition in favor of deliberate action are invariably driven by haste and self-interest.

Worldly people always appear sharp and calculating, while I seem muddled and indistinct. The masses haggle over every detail, while I remain blissfully unaware. Why would I embellish trivialities, discard the fundamental Dao, treat artificial striving as important, and even boast of such things to teach others wrongdoing?

Those who are truly skilled at establishing cannot be uprooted; those skilled at embracing cannot have their hold broken. Such virtue (De) ensures that descendants will offer sacrifices without end. Cultivating the Dao in oneself makes virtue genuine; cultivating it in the family makes virtue abundant; cultivating it in the community makes virtue enduring; cultivating it in the nation makes virtue flourishing; cultivating it in the world makes virtue universal. Therefore, observe oneself through oneself, the family through the family, the community through the community, the nation through the nation, and the world through the world. How do I know the world is like this? Precisely through this method.

(Note: The original text used the character "邦" (state) to avoid the taboo of Emperor Gaozu of Han's personal name "邦," but this disrupted the rhyme. Following Han Feizi's version, it has been restored to "国" (nation).)

Is there anything in the world that, once established, cannot be overturned, or once embraced, cannot slip away? Only the sage understands the truth of innate nature, sees through the illusion of external things, and discards externals to cultivate the self. When virtue is fully accumulated, it appears as though nothing has been established—yet this establishment cannot be shaken. It seems as though nothing is being held—yet this embrace cannot be broken. Thus, even descendants for generations continue sacrifices without cease. Once the self is cultivated, the surplus virtue extends outward, even to governing the world. What lies beyond heaven and earth remains unseen by worldly people, yet its principles can be inferred. At the pinnacle of cultivation, one observes oneself through oneself, the family through the family, the community through the community, and the nation through the nation—these are all within our grasp of understanding. But how do we know the sage observes the world through the world, just as we observe ourselves through ourselves? Can the self observe itself, yet the world not observe itself through itself? Hence the saying, "How do I know the world is like this? Precisely through this method"—meaning this too is known through the self.

Those whose virtue is profound are like newborn infants—venomous insects do not sting them, and fierce beasts do not seize them.

Laozi uses the state of an infant to symbolize the essence of the Dao. Though an infant's muscles and bones are soft, its grip is surprisingly firm; though unaware of sexual matters, it exhibits natural physiological reactions—this stems from the absolute plenitude of its vital essence (Jing). Its cries last all day without becoming hoarse, demonstrating perfect harmony of internal Qi (vital energy). Understanding this harmonious state is called comprehending the "Constant" (eternal principle), and recognizing this principle constitutes true wisdom. Artificially prolonging life invites misfortune, while forcibly manipulating Qi amounts to brute force. When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline—this contradicts the Dao's nature, and whatever contradicts the Dao meets premature demise.

(Note: "Firm grip" refers to a Daoist meditation hand gesture where four fingers clasp the thumb; the infant's physiological reaction symbolizes natural vitality; "hoarseness" indicates energy depletion)

Laozi's infant metaphor reveals the Dao's pristine ontological state. Desireless yet physically complete, infants represent pure potential—they cannot manifest the Dao's functional aspects precisely because they haven't engaged with external phenomena. The formless Dao remains invisible to all creatures, making it invulnerable to harm. Human form emerges from consciousness; having form creates opposition, and opposition invites injury. An infant's immunity to harm stems precisely from its absence of conscious attachments.

An infant's spontaneous grip and natural reactions demonstrate abundant Jing-Qi rather than deliberate intention. Conscious activity damages Qi, and damaged Qi manifests as hoarse crying. An infant's enduring cries prove its mind remains undisturbed while Qi maintains harmony. True harmony means external phenomena cannot injure internal essence. Returning to the origin constitutes the "Constant"; facing situations while abiding in the root. Understanding harmony means grasping the "Constant"—responding to all things from this fundamental stance. These are ultimately one Dao, hence all termed "Constant."

Life cannot be artificially enhanced—forced enhancement deviates from the true path. Qi most abhors forced manipulation; imposing conscious control constitutes extreme violence. Both deliberate life-extension and Qi manipulation violate natural spontaneity.

(This passage elucidates the Dao's principle of Wuwei (non-action) through the infant metaphor, demonstrating that true harmony lies in returning to primordial simplicity while rejecting artificial manipulation. The "firm grip" represents a key Daoist cultivation technique, while the "Constant" denotes the eternal, unchanging pattern of Dao's essence.)

The Wings of Laozi presents two main layers of meaning:

The first layer explains that true wisdom does not indulge in empty rhetoric, while those fond of lecturing often lack genuine understanding. Authentic Dao cultivators close the gates of sensory desire ("block the passages, shut the doors"), temper their sharp edges ("blunt the sharp"), resolve conflicts ("untangle the knots"), and neither flaunt nor conceal their light ("harmonize the light, merge with the dust"). This leads to the state of "mysterious unity" (xuantong) with the Dao. Transcending worldly distinctions of kinship, profit-loss, and nobility-baseness, this becomes the most precious attainment under heaven.

Su Zhe's commentary notes that the Dao itself cannot be fully expressed through language. Those who truly embody it regard all things equally, rising above conventional notions of honor and disgrace—a realm incomprehensible to ordinary people.

The second layer addresses governance. While orthodox methods (zheng) should rule the state and unorthodox strategies (qi) guide warfare, truly winning the world requires Wuwei (non-action). Su Zhe explains that ancient sages only resorted to military action when absolutely necessary. Governing cannot be forced—excessive intervention leads to failure. A ruler who embodies the great Dao appears to do nothing, yet the world naturally submits.

When rulers establish too many prohibitions (taboos), the people grow impoverished; when weapons proliferate among the populace, the nation descends into chaos; when people pursue clever contrivances (extraordinary crafts), strange phenomena multiply; when laws become overly intricate, banditry increases. Thus the sage declares: "Through my Wuwei, the people transform themselves; through my tranquility, they correct themselves; through my non-interference, they prosper naturally; through my desirelessness, they return to simplicity."

Su Zhe adds that enlightened rulers preserve the people's innate simplicity, allowing their Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) to remain naturally intact. Yet once things develop complex forms, distinguishing truth from falsehood and good from evil becomes difficult.

This passage explores the essence of the Dao (the Way) and methods for its realization. The core idea conveys that while the Dao itself has no concrete form (Dao wu xingrong), it can be comprehended through De (Virtue/Power). Just as we cannot see wind but know its presence through swaying leaves, the Dao manifests through its operations in the world.

When beginners first study the Dao, they often seek tangible graspable things, yet the true Dao exists in a state of hazy indeterminacy (huanghu yaoming) - seemingly present yet absent, elusive yet pervasive. This paradoxical state, far from being a shortcoming, reveals the Dao's fundamental nature: not a concrete entity yet present within all things. Like the Buddhist sutra's insight that "forms are not forms," those who truly perceive the Dao do not cling to specific appearances.

The text mentions "observing the origins of all things" (yue zhong fu), suggesting that when tracing existence to its primordial state, we discover all concrete phenomena (zhong you) ultimately arise from the same mysterious source (zhong miao). This approach resonates with Buddhism's "contemplation of emptiness" - observing the arising and ceasing of phenomena to realize their essential void-nature.

For Daoist practitioners, the crucial task lies in cultivating this observational capacity. By examining how things emerge (emptiness of origin), transform (emptiness of duration), and return to source (emptiness of location), one gradually relinquishes attachments to ultimately realize the eternal Dao (zhi chang). This practice doesn't seek specific attainments, but rather develops a contemplative wisdom that transcends all particular forms.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "overcoming hardness with softness." What bends is preserved, what yields becomes straight, low-lying areas naturally accumulate water, the worn-out becomes renewed, taking less leads to gaining more, while greed causes confusion. Therefore, the sage holds fast to the fundamental principle of the Dao as the standard for all under heaven.

Not displaying oneself makes one shine forth; not asserting oneself makes one distinguished; not boasting brings achievement; not exalting oneself ensures endurance. Precisely because they contend with none, none under heaven can contend with them. Were the ancient saying "Bending leads to preservation" mere empty words? This is absolute truth that all things ultimately return to.

Su Zhe's commentary explains: Sages invariably follow heavenly principle (天理). Where heavenly principle resides, sometimes directness is required, sometimes circuitousness—the key lies in penetrating understanding. Such understanding brings harmony with all things, and harmony ensures preservation. Surface-level straightforwardness that violates heavenly principle isn't genuine uprightness. Following heavenly principle, even when appearing curved, constitutes the truest straightness in the world.

All people return to those who humble themselves—such individuals cannot help but become full. Excessive cleverness isn't the Great Dao; what seems muddled generates daily renewal. The Great Dao has but one root—grasping this root enables gaining everything. Studying much without unifying it to the root brings confusion. "Embracing the One" means returning to original nature. All phenomena like "bending leads to preservation" manifest this embrace.

Just as eyes see external things by not staring at themselves, and mirrors reflect others by not reflecting themselves, these principles of not displaying, asserting, boasting or exalting oneself all exemplify "non-contention." Ordinary people consider directness correct and indirectness wrong, yet following heavenly principle sometimes requires indirectness. Thus the text re-emphasizes: Are these empty words? Truly this is the truth that preserves all and returns to original nature. "Preservation" means not just preserving oneself but all things, achieving complete preservation of both self and world while returning to original nature—this constitutes supreme uprightness.

The Bi Cheng supplement adds: All phenomena like "bending leads to preservation" illustrate how "taking less leads to gaining more." "One" represents the ultimate in "less"—holding this root enables gaining much. Like a state with three rulers leaves subjects confused, or ten sheep with nine shepherds cannot be herded. Life is lost through too many methods; the way is missed through too many paths.

This passage from Laozi Yi elucidates the principle of "sparse words follow nature." Laozi employs natural phenomena as metaphors: fierce winds never last a whole morning, nor torrential rains persist all day—these are but manifestations of heaven and earth's cyclical movements. If even the cosmos cannot sustain extreme states indefinitely, how much less can human artifice endure?

Practitioners of the Dao traverse three realms: those in harmony with the Dao (Dao) find the Dao joyfully embraces them; those aligned with Virtue (De) find Virtue readily accepts them; while those deviating from Dao and Virtue find their aberrations becoming their enduring condition. Here, "Dao" refers to the fundamental patterns of the cosmos, and "Virtue" (De) constitutes its tangible expression. When human faith in the Dao wavers, doubt inevitably arises.

Su Zhe's commentary (Su Zhu) explains that speech conforming to natural principles remains concise and potent, whereas forced, unnatural expressions grow convoluted and unconvincing. Just as balanced yin-yang yields temperate wind and rain, their imbalance creates storms—yet such extremes inevitably subside. Ancient sages' words and deeds followed nature's rhythms, hence their enduring legacy. Some dismiss this natural Way (Dao) as less dazzling than sophistry or less startling than eccentric deeds, unaware that deliberate affectations cannot perdure.

Bi Cheng further observes that nature itself embodies the Dao's highest realization. People seldom discuss the natural Way precisely because they crave artificial contrivances. Yet all forced human actions inevitably cease—how could they persist? Like morning gales and daytime downpours that cannot rage unceasingly. True knowers of the Dao never doubt its essence due to transient gains or losses. Even when Dao cultivators occasionally stumble, so long as their hearts incline toward Dao and Virtue, they remain fundamentally aligned with their pursuit.

This passage discusses how practitioners should follow the natural essence of the Dao, avoiding forced pursuit of gain or loss. True Dao cultivators don't cling to attainment or loss because the Dao itself follows spontaneity. Forced grasping leads to loss; deliberate avoidance of loss prevents attainment. Like standing on tiptoe to appear taller only makes one unsteady, or taking oversized strides to move faster actually slows progress.

The text introduces the concept of "naturalness" (自然 ziran) - the original state of things free from artificiality. Laozi's (Lao Dan) "naturalness" shares the same essence as the Buddhist Śūraṅgama Sūtra's "neither causation nor spontaneity," both pointing to the primordial reality beyond human contrivance. True naturalness transcends even the notion of "self," as suggested by "the nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth" - when there's no "self," how can there be "naturalness"?

Several metaphors illustrate the harm of forced striving: tiptoeing makes standing unstable (跂者不立), overstriding hinders progress (跨者不行), self-display clouds perception (自见者不明), self-righteousness obscures clarity (自是者不彰), self-promotion nullifies merit (自伐者无功), and arrogance prevents endurance (自矜者不長). Such behaviors resemble leftover food (余食) or bodily tumors (赘行) that provoke disgust. Thus, genuine Dao knowers avoid these tendencies.

Quoting Zhuangzi and Zuo Zhuan, the text explains how superfluous growths like skin tags (附疣县赘) become repulsive, just as no one desires spoiled food. These all represent deviations from naturalness. Practitioners should maintain original authenticity, abstaining from such unnecessary actions.

Before heaven and earth took form, there existed an undifferentiated wholeness (referring to the Dao). Silent and soundless, formless and empty, it stands alone without changing, cycles endlessly without exhausting itself—it may be regarded as the mother of all things. We do not know its name, so we reluctantly call it "Dao," and further reluctantly describe it as "great." This "greatness" implies ceaseless movement ("passing away"), and ceaseless movement means boundlessness ("far-reaching"), yet ultimately it returns to its origin ("returning").

Thus it is said: The Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is also great. In the cosmos there are these four greats, and the king occupies one among them. Humans model themselves on earth, earth models itself on heaven, heaven models itself on the Dao, and the Dao models itself on what is so of itself (ziran, the natural state of spontaneity).

Su Zhe's commentary explains: The Dao is neither clear nor turbid, neither high nor low, neither coming nor going, neither good nor evil—it is an undifferentiated wholeness that constitutes its essence. For humans, this is our original nature. The phrase "there was something undifferentiated and complete" means no one knows how it came to be; it has always existed eternally, while heaven, earth, and the myriad things are all born from it. Silent and soundless, formless and empty, it is unique yet unchanging, pervading all yet never exhausted. Bending down to nurture the myriad things, it becomes their mother.

The Dao originally has no name. When sages observed that all things follow it to exist, they called it "Dao"; when they saw that nothing can surpass it, they reluctantly called it "great." Yet in truth, no designation can truly describe it. If we pursue it from the perspective of "greatness," it slips away into the distance; if we pursue it from the perspective of "far-reaching," it remains beyond reach. Though it seems to vanish into the distance, by turning inward to contemplation, one can fully comprehend it. From the Dao's perspective, even heaven, earth, and kings are not truly great. But since people only recognize the greatness of these three and not the Dao's greatness, they must be told plainly: humans are inferior to earth, earth is inferior to heaven, heaven is inferior to the Dao, and the Dao is inferior to what is so of itself (ziran). Yet if humans can recover their original nature, then the mysteries of these three (heaven, earth, and kings) can all be fully understood.

The steady is the root of the frivolous; the tranquil is the master of the agitated. Thus the sage conducts affairs all day without leaving the root ("heavy baggage," referring to military provisions—a metaphor for the fundamental). Even amidst splendid sights, he remains detached. Alas that the lords of ten thousand chariots should treat All-under-Heaven so lightly! Frivolity loses the root; agitation loses mastery.

This passage elucidates the concepts of returning to simplicity and embracing quietude through Wuwei (non-action) as presented in the Daode Jing. It begins by explaining that "restlessness" refers to excessive activity that brings disturbance, much like how a ruler (metaphor for the mind-spirit/Shen) should maintain composure. Han Feizi remarked: "The ability to exercise self-control is called 'gravity' (steadiness), and not departing from one's fundamental nature is called 'tranquility.'" Maintaining this steadiness allows people to return to their authentic state.

"Embracing simplicity" (Baopu) means reducing selfishness and desires, through which peace naturally prevails in the world. "Unadorned silk" (Su) symbolizes purity before dyeing, while "uncarved wood" (Pu) represents the original, unprocessed state—both metaphors for humanity's innate, untainted nature, which is most precious. Those who can return to this primordial condition, though possessing a body, seem as if they have none (unbound by physical desires), and thus selfishness naturally diminishes. Though they have a mind, it is as if they have none (untroubled by distracting thoughts), and desires naturally fade. Hence, "seeing purity and embracing simplicity" (Jiansu Baopu) encapsulates the essence of sage wisdom.

Laozi opposed superficial ritual norms precisely to guide people back to authenticity. Some scholars fail to grasp this deeper meaning, seeing only Laozi's critique of ritual and hastily dismissing his teachings as lawless indulgence. This reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of Laozi's implicit message.

Later, Daode Jing Chapter 20 describes the contrast between those who embody the Dao and ordinary people: The latter bustle about as if attending a feast or climbing heights in spring, while the former remain serene like an infant who has yet to smile, content wherever they are, free from attachment. Ordinary people always feel they possess much, while Dao-embodiers seem lacking; the former are sharp and alert, the latter appear muddled; the former discriminate meticulously, the latter seem oblivious. This is because Dao-embodiers are unlike others—they cherish the nourishing root of all things, the fundamental Dao ("feeding from the mother" refers to the Dao's life-sustaining nature). The text questions the distinctions between "deference" and "neglect" (in social responses), "good" and "evil," suggesting these differences are ultimately trivial. It emphasizes transcending such superficial dualities to return to the primordial state of undifferentiated unity.

The Book of Rites·Neize chapter mentions that an infant nursing at its mother's breast is a natural expression of innate nature.

When annotating this passage, Su Zhe pointed out: Those who pursue scholarship accumulate knowledge daily, while those who cultivate the Dao diminish distracting thoughts each day. Without understanding the essence of life, blindly chasing intellectual growth—hoarding information yet failing to synthesize it—is like using a compass to destroy squares or a straightedge to distort curves. The mind becomes chaotic and burdened with anxiety. Precisely because of this concern for scholars falling into such predicaments, the Laozi states, "Abandon learning, and there will be no sorrow." Yet the sage is not opposed to learning; rather, they take the Dao as their foundation. Whether they learn or not, nothing is lacking; whether they learn much or little, there is no confusion. Their mind is expansive and free from worry—why would they need to deliberately "abandon learning"?

If scholars become mired in partial views without seeing the whole, they may mistake sycophancy for reverence or flattery for pride—let alone distinguishing between entirely opposing concepts like good and evil. Only the sage understands that all things originate from the same nature and are illusory manifestations, like painted horses and oxen or carved tigers and pigs—none of which are real animals. Seeing through this, one can dissolve the discriminating mind that clings to dualities and realize that all things are fundamentally without distinction. Understanding this principle, one comprehends that all beings grow together without obstructing one another, and different truths coexist without contradiction—this is nothing strange.

The sage eliminates distinctions between self and other, equalizing differences without retaining attachments. Yet this does not mean they disdain worldly norms or violate ethical principles. What people fear, they also fear; what people ought to do, they also do. Though they abide in relationships of ruler and subject, parent and child, and conform to the frameworks of ritual, music, punishment, and governance, the world cannot perceive their uniqueness. Their freedom from external entanglements stems solely from their transcendent state of mind. Ordinary people cling stubbornly to their own perceptions, confined like crops within field boundaries, afraid to cross the lines. The sage, however, transcends the boundaries of both "having" and "nothingness," roaming freely without limits, vast and boundless.

People indulge in their preferences, finding them as delightful as a grand feast or as joyful as ascending a tower in spring—clamoring in pursuit, unaware of their illusory nature. Only the sage sees through these illusions, remaining unmoved and serene when encountering them, pure as an infant who has yet to smile. They follow the patterns of all things without selfish intent, thus appearing to have no fixed abode. The multitude cling to limited knowledge, believing themselves fulfilled, while the sage embraces all things without partiality, standing aloof as if forgetting everything. Seemingly muddled like a fool, they embody great wisdom disguised as simplicity. The world considers discrimination and analysis as wisdom, but the sage knows that such illusions are not worth distinguishing.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way) and the distinction between sages and ordinary people. Outwardly appearing dull and unremarkable, the sage's inner depth is boundless like the ocean—elusive and impossible to anchor. While ordinary people each possess their particular abilities that the world exploits, the sage, though endowed with both De (Virtue/Power) and talent, appears to practice Wuwei (non-action), often mistaken for foolishness.

The Dao is the origin (mother) of all things. Ordinary people chase external phenomena while forgetting the Great Dao, whereas sages transcend all phenomena to take the Dao as their foundation. Like an infant who consumes nothing but mother's milk, the sage remains pure and undivided. People in their pursuit of learning constantly worry about failing to attain goodness, yet if they realized their original nature is beyond distinctions of good and evil, such concerns would vanish. Those who chase knowledge, though different from evildoers, similarly deviate from their original nature. The sage does not abandon goodness only to accommodate the worldly fear of moral distinctions, sharing the people's anxieties.

When the sage's mind returns to the primordial state of original nature, it resembles wandering in an infinite wilderness—how could goodness, with its measurable boundaries, compare? The world delights in performing good deeds as if feasting at a banquet or ascending a spring terrace, while I (the sage) remain indifferent like an infant who has not yet learned to smile, showing no outward signs. People act virtuously with purpose, while I seem to have forgotten everything, appearing foolish and chaotic. The world appears sharp-eyed and discerning, as if possessing clear standards, while I remain muddled and obscure. Does this mean the sage is truly foolish? It is simply because everyone chases after the "offspring" (superficial phenomena) while I cherish the "mother" (original source), making me naturally different.

Original nature is inherently beyond good and evil, yet all phenomena including moral distinctions arise from it—hence the metaphor of "sucking at the mother's breast" (taking the Dao as fundamental nourishment). The highest manifestation of De (the Sublime Virtue) follows the Dao completely. This Dao appears indistinct and elusive, yet within its haziness there is form; profoundly dark and mysterious, yet containing the most genuine essence. From ancient times to the present, the Dao's name never perishes, through which we may observe the beginnings of all things. How do I know the origins of all phenomena? Precisely through this Dao.

(Note: "Haziness" and "profound darkness" describe the Dao's elusive nature; "sucking at the mother's breast" metaphorically represents taking the Dao as fundamental nourishment; "Sublime Virtue" refers to the highest form of ethical conduct)

This passage explores the essence of the Dao (the Way) and its manifestations. The Dao itself has no fixed form (formless form) and cannot be described by concrete objects (imageless image), a state termed "huanghu"—a nebulous condition between existence and non-existence. Both Zhang Pingshu (a Song Dynasty Daoist) and Wang Fusi (a Wei-Jin metaphysical philosopher) maintained that within this profound and unfathomable "yaoming" state lies the purest subtle energy (zhenjing, true essence).

The text employs the metaphor of a "gate" for the Dao: just as all things pass through gates, so does everything originate from the Dao. Another analogy uses a relay station (chuanshe): like ceaseless flowing water forming rivers and successive generations constituting history, the Dao remains constant amidst the transformations of all things. Here, the character "yue" (to observe) implies both experience and examination.

Su Shi's commentary notes: while the Dao itself is formless, it manifests through De (Virtue/Power). The appearances of all things are expressions of the Dao in different forms. The Dao transcends the dichotomy of "being" and "non-being," hence described as "huanghu." When things hover at the threshold between existence and non-existence (the intersection of you and wu), though not yet formed, they already contain pure essence (jing). Once formed, truth and falsehood become intermixed.

The Bijcheng section emphasizes: though the Dao cannot be directly described, we may indirectly comprehend it by observing the manifestations of De. Practitioners often cling to concrete cultivation methods (youzuo, deliberate action), yet struggle to grasp the abstract realm of "huanghu yaoming." In truth, this seemingly void state is the genuine embodiment of the Dao—as Buddhist scriptures state, "all phenomena are illusory," while the true noumenon (Tathagata) lies concealed behind appearances. All specific phenomena are but temporary illusions (zan wei jia), while only the Dao remains the eternal truth.

This passage elucidates profound Daoist insights into the nature of the Dao and essential cultivation principles.

"The indistinct and mysterious" describes the state of Dao—neither absolute being nor non-being. Transcending such dualities, it exists eternally. Some mistakenly believe this state contains concrete existence, yet in reality it is without center or boundary—how could it adhere to any particular form?

Understanding the origin of all things (observing the beginnings) is crucial. "Beginnings" here signifies the primal source. People cling to concrete phenomena because they fail to comprehend subtle mysteries, having not perceived existence's origin. Recognizing how all things emerge reveals their fundamentally wondrous nature, united with the indistinct Dao. Buddhist contemplation methods share this approach—through observing the arising and ceasing of phenomena, one realizes the emptiness of present moments and returns to the root, transcending temporal limitations.

The text then presents wisdom for worldly conduct: bending leads to preservation, yielding brings straightening, hollows become filled, the worn renews itself, less gain brings more abundance, while greed breeds confusion. Thus the sage holds to the "One" (Dao's foundation) as life's guiding principle. Not self-displaying yet becoming evident, not self-asserting yet shining forth, not boasting yet achieving merit, not self-aggrandizing yet enduring—precisely through non-contention, none under heaven can contend with them. When ancients spoke of "bending leads to wholeness," was this empty words? Truly it preserves and returns one to Dao.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: The sage's actions all follow Dao's principles. Where principle resides—whether in straightness or curvature—the key lies in thorough penetration. Penetration enables harmony with all things. Surface rectitude without principle isn't true straightness; following principle even through apparent bends constitutes the straightest path under heaven. People naturally follow the humble—how could they remain unsatisfied? Excessive cleverness isn't Dao; what seems muddled contains the wellspring of daily renewal. Dao is the "One"—grasping it, nothing remains unattained. Learning much without returning to the "One" brings confusion. "Embracing the One" means returning to original nature.

(Note: The character "洼" is annotated with ancient pronunciation "wū guā fǎn," equivalent to modern "wā"; "夫" here functions as a modal particle, pronounced "fú")

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." What is bent may be preserved, what is crooked may become straight, what is hollow may be filled, what is worn may be renewed, and taking less may result in gaining more—all because these follow the principle of "embracing the One" (holding fast to the fundamental Dao).

The eyes do not look at themselves, thus they can see external things; a mirror does not reflect itself, thus it can reflect other objects. If one constantly seeks self-display, self-praise, and self-aggrandizement, one will have no energy left to care for others. Not showing off, not being opinionated, not boasting, and not being arrogant—these are all manifestations of "non-contention." Ordinary people always assume that being straightforward is right and being curved is wrong, but acting entirely according to conventional logic can sometimes lead to loss. This is why Laozi repeatedly emphasizes these principles—they are not empty talk.

True "wholeness" is not just about self-preservation but involves balancing internal and external aspects. When both people and things are preserved and return to their original nature, this kind of "straightness" is the greatest straightness. Just as when a country has multiple rulers, the people do not know whom to follow; when ten sheep have nine shepherds, the flock will scatter. Such chaos arises from too many directions and too many diverging paths.

A fierce wind does not last all morning, a downpour does not last all day. These natural phenomena are the work of Heaven and Earth—even Heaven and Earth cannot sustain extreme states for long, let alone humans. Those who follow the Dao become one with the Dao, those who follow De (Virtue) become one with De, and those who are lost become one with loss. What you believe in is what you will attain; if sincerity is lacking, trust will naturally be absent.

The Huangdi Neijing states, "Exuberance brings harm, while harmony restrains," just as excessively loud sounds become harsh to the ear. Words that flow naturally are concise and to the point, while forced preaching becomes tedious and unconvincing. Thus, the true "Dao," when spoken, seems bland and flavorless; it cannot be fully seen, fully heard, or fully exhausted in use. When Yin and Yang are in harmony, wind and rain come in perfect measure—neither too sudden nor too slow—moving in accordance with nature's rhythm. When Yang Qi becomes excessive...

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "the Dao follows what is natural" (Dao fa ziran). When yin energy accumulates above and yang energy stagnates below, violent storms arise—fierce in appearance but short-lived. Ancient sages spoke sparingly and acted with simplicity, aligning with the natural way of the Dao, thus achieving enduring constancy. Ordinary people, however, find such naturalness too plain, preferring clever rhetoric and eccentric behavior, unaware these cannot last.

Confucius said: "Those devoted to benevolence rarely do wrong." Even when benevolent people err, their mistakes are easily corrected—how much more so for those pursuing the Great Dao! By concentrating on Dao cultivation, one who acts in accordance with the Dao attains the Dao; one who aligns with De (Virtue) attains De. Even occasional missteps will yield moral progress. Those ignorant of the Dao lack firm conviction—at the first setback they doubt the Way, growing increasingly skeptical. Only true Dao-comprehenders remain unshaken by gain or loss.

The Dao takes naturalness as its highest state, yet people seldom discuss ziran (naturalness), preferring artificial effort. Where there is artificiality, there must be cessation—how can this endure? Like transient storms, it cannot last. Dao cultivators differ—they follow nature, fundamentally beyond gain or loss. Being unattached to either, they harmonize with worldly fluctuations, accepting both Virtue and error with equanimity. Thus they commune with all things in unimpeded joy.

Those who seek De (Virtue) by abandoning the Great Dao cannot embrace imperfection; those who err by forsaking De cannot maintain integrity. Unable to accommodate either Virtue or fault, how could they unite with the Dao? This illustrates how "insufficient sincerity breeds distrust"—like storms, such states are fleeting.

Someone asked: "The Śūraṅgama Sūtra states 'neither causation nor naturalness,' while Laozi takes ziran as essential—are these contradictory?" The answer: No contradiction exists. The naturalness we speak of isn't deliberate naturalness nor causally-produced naturalness. True ziran transcends particular phenomena—precisely the profound meaning behind the Buddhist teaching of "neither causation nor naturalness."

Laozi (also known as Lao Dan), while emphasizing the natural Dao, did not neglect discussing the concept of "namelessness." This "namelessness" is precisely the origin of all things in heaven and earth. Understanding the true meaning of "namelessness" allows one to realize that things inherently lack fixed, unchanging essences. Since there is no fixed self, there can be no fixed state of being. This realm transcends both self and state, unbound by any causal constraints.

Thus, true awakened wisdom (jingjue miaoming) neither arises from causes and conditions nor exists as pure natural being; it is neither natural nor unnatural. It surpasses all appearances while encompassing all principles. This is the eternal Dao (changdao) that cannot be described in words.

Those who stand on tiptoe to appear taller cannot remain steady; those who take giant strides to move faster cannot go far. Those who display themselves fail to shine; those who assert their righteousness fail to illuminate; those who boast accomplish nothing; those who are prideful cannot endure. To the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food or bodily tumors—even spirits detest them. Thus, those who embody the Dao do not act this way.

(Note: The character 跂 (qi) here means "standing on tiptoe"; 跨 (kua) refers to taking oversized steps. 赘行 (zhuixing) means superfluous growths—all such behaviors represent unnatural, forced actions.)

There exists a perfectly integrated being that predates heaven and earth. Silent and formless, it stands alone unchanging, cycles endlessly without exhaustion—it may be called the source of all things. I know not its name, but reluctantly call it "Dao," and further reluctantly describe it as "great." In its greatness it moves; moving, it travels far; traveling far, it returns. Thus the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is great. The cosmos contains these four greatnesses, and the king is one among them. Humans follow earth, earth follows heaven, heaven follows the Dao, and the Dao follows ziran (self-so-ness).

(Note: 混成 (huncheng) describes the Dao's undivided wholeness; 寂寥 (jiliao) depicts its soundless, formless nature; 独立不改 (duli bugai) denotes its eternal constancy; 周行不殆 (zhouxing budai) refers to its universal operation. The four greatnesses are Dao, heaven, earth, and king. The final "Dao follows ziran" does not mean the Dao obeys some higher "Nature," but that the Dao's essence is spontaneous self-nature.)

This scripture elucidates the fundamental nature and function of the Dao, while emphasizing the importance of "weightiness" (zhong) and "stillness" (jing).

First, it clarifies that the Dao is formless and nameless, nurturing all things without manifesting itself. The sages observed that all beings follow this principle, hence naming it "Dao"; recognizing nothing transcends it, they provisionally termed it "Great." Yet in truth, the Dao cannot be fully captured in words. Viewed cosmically, it operates ceaselessly; examined operationally, it extends beyond comprehension. However, by returning to one's original mind, the true essence of the Dao can be realized. Compared to heaven-earth or sovereigns—things commonly deemed great—the Dao is vaster still, though ordinary people often fail to perceive this. Those who return to their innate nature may comprehend how all three are encompassed within the Dao.

Next, it stresses that "weightiness" serves as the root of "lightness," and "stillness" governs "agitation." The sage maintains steadfastness in all actions, remaining detached even amidst dazzling spectacles. The text employs the metaphor of ancient military supply wagons (zizhongche) to illustrate the importance of grounded action. It critiques rulers of great states who act rashly, warning that frivolity forfeits one's foundation while restlessness surrenders mastery.

Finally, Su Zhe's commentary is cited to further clarify: light things require weighty foundations, just as small things need larger stabilizers. As stillness naturally restrains motion, lightness must be rooted in weightiness, and agitation governed by stillness. Though action requires flexibility, it must never abandon its foundation; though one may enjoy worldly splendor, transcendent detachment remains essential.

This passage elucidates the dual principles of self-cultivation for governance and the sage's way of being in the world. The first half reveals the essential method for rulers governing the empire: if a ruler behaves with frivolous impatience, they will lose the trust of their ministers. Just as swallows must maintain quiet stability when building nests, a ruler cannot govern the empire recklessly. When a ruler neglects self-cultivation, ministers recognize their unreliability; when ministers act with impulsive aggression, the ruler understands they prioritize private gain. Thus, recklessness loses ministers, while impatience loses rulers.

The latter half employs five instances of "shan" (skill/mastery) to depict the sage's realm: The truly wise leave no traces in action, speak without flaws, calculate without tallies, shut gates without bolts yet none can open them, and bind without ropes yet none can loosen. Sages always excel at rescuing people, thus leaving none useless; they master utilizing all things, thus leaving nothing wasted. This is called "inherited illumination" (carrying forward luminous wisdom). The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous become mirrors for the virtuous. But without honoring teachers or cherishing mirrors, even intelligence leads to profound delusion. Herein lies the most subtle truth.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: Sages follow heavenly principles in action, thus leaving no traces; they speak at proper moments, thus committing no faults. Confronting complex affairs, they comprehend without calculation—like mothers with children, granting freedom yet never losing them. Ordinary people use tallies for counting, bolts for gates, and ropes for binding, but their control remains limited. Sages don't merely tolerate people—they skillfully rescue them: "If I don't abandon others, how could they not return?" Saving people from peril isn't the highest rescue; when beings are blinded by material desires in the cycle of life and death, illuminating them with wisdom's light so successive lives emerge from darkness—this constitutes true salvation. Sages don't deliberately teach, thus needing no students; the world doesn't deliberately study, thus esteeming no teachers. The sage's state of mutual forgetting with all things embodies the deepest wisdom.

This passage from Laozi Yi elucidates the wisdom of sages (those who have attained the Dao) in navigating worldly affairs and self-cultivation. At its core lies the dialectical principle of "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine," illustrated through three contrasting pairs that reveal the path of returning to primordial simplicity.

The first pair addresses "masculine and feminine": understanding the principles of strength yet abiding in soft tranquility, like a mountain stream (xi). Flowing from valleys to rivers and seas, it receives all things without hoarding. Thus, one preserves the innate Virtue (Chang De) from dissipation, returning to the purity of an infant's state.

The second pair discusses "white and black": recognizing the qualities of brightness yet willingly dwelling in obscurity, embodying water's nature. Water yields yet persists, hollows out yet conceals, thereby becoming the pattern (shi) for all under heaven. Maintaining this state ensures the innate Virtue remains unperturbed, ultimately returning to the boundless realm of Wuji (the Ultimate Non-Polarity).

The third pair explores "glory and disgrace": appreciating honor's worth yet resting content in humility, like an empty valley. Only thus can innate Virtue be fulfilled, returning to the original unhewn simplicity (pu). This primordial simplicity, when differentiated, gives rise to the myriad things. Sages who employ it become true administrators, so perfected systems never forcibly sever natural harmony.

Annotator Lüzu (Lü Dongbin) adds: The masculine represents movement, strength, and initiation; the feminine signifies stillness, gentleness, and receptivity. Like the stream that receives without accumulation, one preserves intrinsic nature. The infant state maintains innate harmony, while the Wuji realm reaches even deeper. Just as plants flourish (glory) and wither (disgrace), human experiences of honor and dishonor should be similarly embraced.

Using natural metaphors—streams, valleys—the passage teaches Dao practitioners to comprehend the unity of opposites. By guarding softness, obscurity, and humility, one safeguards intrinsic nature, ultimately returning to the most authentic state of being.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below." Knowing what is glorious yet content with humility; abandoning superficiality to return to original simplicity. Even when subjected to what the world most despises, one remains unburdened, like the valleys of the world. The valley's nature is emptiness that can contain all, responding to all things yet retaining nothing—even the sources of rivers and seas originate here. To emulate the valley is to return to the origin.

When eternal De (virtue/power, the manifestation of Dao) is abundant, not only does one avoid mistakes, but one also returns to the state of pristine simplicity. This simplicity is the complete and authentic state—the primordial condition where all things are undifferentiated. Precisely because it remains uncarved, it can be great or small, bent or straight, short or long, round or square, adapting to all circumstances—even "wuji" (the limitless) cannot fully describe it. Therefore, maintaining softness, obscurity, and humility is sufficient—why pursue strength, brightness, or glory? Maintaining these is like the mother; knowing these is like the child. Maintenance is the root; knowledge is the transformation.

Once pristine simplicity disperses, it becomes specific objects. Objects can only have fixed forms and cannot change freely. Thus, sages use them only to manage affairs, not to encompass everything. True encompassing belongs to the way of kings. Those who govern the world by preserving original simplicity perceive the principles of the world like a butcher carving an ox—seeing not the whole ox but following its natural patterns, moving with effortless skill, never needing deliberate division. Thus, the highest governance does not divide.

Those who seek to forcefully govern the world—I observe they cannot achieve their aim. The world is a sacred vessel that cannot be forcibly altered. Those who force will fail; those who cling will lose. Among all things, some lead while others follow; some are warm while others cold; some strong while others weak; some sustain while others destroy. Therefore, the sage eliminates extremes, extravagance, and excess.

Here, "qu" (to take) carries the meaning seen in the Zuozhuan's "taking my fields to govern them" or the Shiji's "altering Gaozu's regulations"—it signifies governance. Sima Wengong remarked: Forced action harms nature; stubbornness violates adaptability. "Xu" can be read as xu or xu; "lei" means weakness; "zai" means beginning or sustaining; "hui" means destruction. Eliminating extremes is benevolence; eliminating extravagance is frugality; eliminating excess is daring not to be ahead of the world. These three are the sage's methods for governing the world.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) possesses the world not through deliberate seizure, but because all things naturally submit and he cannot but accept. They govern the world not through forceful action, but by following the natural patterns of all things, merely removing what is harmful. If one deliberately seizes or forcefully interferes, they will ultimately fail.

All things cannot be forcibly altered. Even among a small group of a hundred people, if one disregards natural principles and arbitrarily interferes, conflicts will inevitably arise—how much more so in governing the world? While in minor matters or with a few individuals, one might temporarily seize by force or impose through cunning, for the vast world, there are spiritual forces (Shen) presiding over it. If things are not allowed to submit naturally, they will rebel; if not governed according to their nature, chaos will ensue.

Yin and Yang interact and stir each other; high and low depend on one another; great and small restrain each other. Some lead from the front, while others follow behind; some exhale warmth, while others breathe cold; some strengthen to make things flourish, while others weaken to reduce excess; some support to bring success, while others destroy to cause failure. These are the natural patterns of how things develop—inevitable tendencies of existence.

Foolish people in the world, selfish and greedy, always seek to resist and defy these principles, only to meet with ruin or setback. Only the sage understands that these patterns cannot be violated, so he follows them accordingly, removing what is excessive, extravagant, or extreme, ensuring things do not go too far and harm all beings. Thus, the world remains free from calamity. This is the highest realization of Wuwei (non-action). When Yao and Tang faced floods and droughts, though they could not entirely avoid them, they ultimately did not meet with collapse—precisely because of this principle.

The Tai hexagram in the Yi Jing states: "The ruler should establish policies in accordance with the patterns of heaven and earth, assisting their natural operations to govern the people." When the three yang lines are within and the three yin lines without, things reach their zenith. The sage, fearing that such flourishing may bring harm, adjusts and assists, preventing excess. This is what is meant by "removing what is excessive, extravagant, or extreme."

Those who use the Dao to assist rulers do not rely on military force to dominate the world. For warfare brings retribution: where armies camp, thorns grow; after great battles, years of famine follow. Those skilled in warfare seek only to achieve their aim, not to flaunt strength. When the aim is achieved, they do not grow arrogant, boast, or assert dominance, recognizing it as a last resort. When things reach their peak, they begin to decline—this is called "not conforming to the Dao." What does not conform to the Dao perishes prematurely.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) resorts to arms only when absolutely compelled. Those who attempt to conquer the world through military force without true necessity—even if temporarily victorious—will inevitably face retribution. Historical figures like King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Han either met untimely deaths or brought calamities upon their descendants. Such actions, detested by both humanity and spirits, never escape karmic consequences.

Where armies march, people's livelihoods are ruined and fields lie fallow. After battles, the lingering aura of violence makes harvests scarce. This holds true for all warfare, let alone attempts to dominate the world through force. The term "resolute action" (果) implies using arms only as a last resort—when virtue (De) fails to transform and governance cannot pacify. The four admonitions—"no boasting" (勿矜), "no glorification" (勿伐), "no arrogance" (勿骄), and "acting only when compelled" (不得已)—all warn against forceful domination. Things at their zenith inevitably decline—this is the Dao's natural principle. Only Dao-attained sages achieve fullness while appearing deficient, possess abundance while seeming empty—for they never pursue extremes, thus avoiding decline. Military domination represents excessive "strength"—how could it avoid collapse?

Fine weapons are inauspicious objects, detested even by other tools—thus Dao-holders never wield them lightly. Gentlemen normally honor the left (symbolizing Yang and life), but in warfare honor the right (symbolizing Yin and death). Weapons, being inauspicious, aren't proper for gentlemen's use. When absolutely compelled, they maintain detachment. Victories deserve no praise—to glorify them is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing can never fulfill the aspiration to govern the world. Auspicious events honor the left; inauspicious ones honor the right—hence lieutenant generals stand left while supreme generals stand right, indicating military authority should be treated as mourning rites. Mass killings require grief; victories demand funeral observances.

(Note: "Fine weapons" (佳兵) refers to superior arms; "detachment" (恬澹) implies serene indifference. Sima Guang remarked that finer weapons kill more people. Ancient tradition associates left with Yang/life and right with Yin/death. The latter portion may incorporate ancient commentary merged into the main text.)

This passage elucidates the essential nature and function of the Dao as presented in the Daode Jing, drawing upon commentaries by scholars Su Zhe (Su's Commentary) and Jiao Hong (Notes from the Brush).

The essence of the Dao (道) is eternally nameless and embodies pristine simplicity ("The Dao is eternally nameless and uncarved"). Though seemingly subtle, nothing in the world dares disregard it. Should rulers (侯王) uphold this great Dao, all things would naturally return to it. The harmonious interplay of heaven and earth's yin-yang qi (阴阳气) brings forth sweet dew to nourish all beings, achieving perfect equilibrium without artificial intervention.

Su Zhe explains that this unadorned nature (朴性) manifests the Dao—ubiquitous yet imperceptibly subtle. Ordinary people maintaining this Dao can achieve sagehood even in humble circumstances, while rulers losing it forfeit the allegiance of all things. When the harmonizing qi (冲气) of yin and yang interacts, it forms sweet dew. Sages emulate the Dao's way of responding to all existence, just as dew nourishes universally without omission.

Jiao Hong further observes that although sages materialize the uncarved Dao into various vessels (散朴为器) and establish names accordingly (因器制名), they never become obsessed with nomenclature at the expense of fundamentals. Like rivers returning to the sea, all things ultimately revert to the Dao's origin. Only by knowing when to stop (知止) can one maintain stability amidst transformations.

The concept of "chong qi" (冲气) mentioned here is crucial in Daoism, denoting the primordial state where yin and yang energies intermingle; "sweet dew" symbolizes the Dao's nourishing function; while "pu" (朴) metaphorically represents the Dao's undifferentiated authenticity. Both scholars emphasize grasping the Dao's root rather than being misled by appearances, thereby attaining universal harmony and enduring peace.

This passage integrates the original text of the Laozi with later commentaries, primarily expounding the Daoist profound understanding of cosmic principles and life wisdom.

All things in the universe originate from the division of "One" (the Dao), progressing from One to Two and then to Three—a transformation so subtle that even the most precise calculations cannot exhaust its mystery. People often mistake names and concepts for true existence, clinging to superficial appearances, and through myriad generations fail to comprehend the peril inherent in the transformations of Yin-Yang. This is what the Laozi refers to as "not knowing the constant leads to reckless actions with disastrous consequences"—disregarding fundamental laws invites calamity.

Those who truly understand how "non-being" (wu) transforms into "being" (you) also realize that "being" ultimately returns to "non-being." The key lies in "stopping"—abiding in the "nameless simplicity" (the authentic state of the Dao). Those who know when to stop remain unshaken by external things, their hearts serene and content, thus naturally avoiding misfortune. All things arise and perish through the Dao, eventually returning to it, just as rivers flow into the sea—countless tributaries ultimately merge into the ocean.

Regarding life wisdom: understanding others is intelligence, but knowing oneself is true wisdom; conquering others demonstrates strength, but mastering oneself is genuine power. Contentment is true wealth, and persistent action reflects true ambition. Only by not losing one's root can one endure; physical death with an undying spirit (shen) constitutes true longevity.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: fixating on distinctions between right and wrong is mere cleverness, while dissolving all obscurations is real wisdom. The contented feel abundant in any circumstance; even possessing the world, the insatiable remain forever poor. Not contending with external things yet ceaselessly strengthening oneself, preserving the unchanging heart-mind ensures eternity. Though life and death are immense transformations, the nature of those who attain the Dao remains eternally clear and indestructible—this is how the ancient Perfected Ones (zhenren) achieved the state of neither birth nor death.

Finally, the characteristics of the Great Dao (cosmic origin) are described: it is omnipresent, nourishing all things without claiming merit; accomplishing everything without possessing; nurturing all beings without dominating. Because it is desireless and unassuming, it may be called "small"; yet because all things return to it, it may also be called "great." This reveals the core Daoist principle of "the Dao follows what is natural" (dao fa ziran).

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) never considers themselves great, and thus achieves true greatness. This state resembles water flowing freely without constraints.

Su Zhe's commentary explains: The sage is like water that can adapt to all situations, moving left or right as needed. Ordinary people often fall into two extremes: some greedily claim all things as their own, while others flee from all things in avoidance. Only the Dao can create all things without possessing them, accomplish all without claiming credit. The moment one thinks "I want to be great," they actually become small.

The Bi Cheng further elaborates: The Dao cannot be simply called small nor defined as large. Precisely because it can move left or right and transform endlessly, it transcends distinctions of size. This transcendence constitutes its true greatness.

Those who grasp the "Great Image" (the formless Dao) can traverse the world without harm, maintaining peace and tranquility. Music and fine food may temporarily attract passersby, but ultimately fade away. The Dao seems bland when spoken, invisible when looked at, and inaudible when listened to, yet its application is inexhaustible. Lin Xiyi explains: The "Great Image" refers to the formless manifestation of the Dao. By holding to this principle, one can journey unimpeded through the world.

Su Zhe adds: The Dao transcends distinctions between existence and non-existence, hence called the "Great Image." If it had concrete form, it would provoke preferences—people would approach what they like and avoid what they dislike, preventing universal harmony. Eliminating such distinctions allows peaceful coexistence with all things. Though music and food may temporarily detain travelers, they eventually cause weariness. Those who uphold the great Dao neither deliberately please nor provoke dislike—seemingly plain yet infinitely useful.

To contract something, one must first expand it; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish something, one must first make it flourish; to take something, one must first give it. This is subtle and profound wisdom. The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong. Just as fish cannot leave deep waters, vital methods of governance should not be lightly revealed. (Note: "Xi" means to contract, while "Zhang" means to expand. Following Han Feizi's version, "state" is rendered as "domain" here.)

This passage elucidates the essence of the Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Su Zhe (in his commentary) reveals the profound philosophy that "the soft overcomes the hard" by contrasting the ways of the sage with those of ordinary people.

Though the sage and worldly people may appear similar in outward behavior, their fundamental approaches differ completely. The sage follows natural principles (acting according to reason), like a skilled physician prescribing the right remedy, while worldly people rely on cunning intelligence (using cleverness), akin to merchants seeking opportunistic gains. Understanding that strength proves unreliable, the sage maintains a posture of softness. When the strong of the world contend with each other, the sage refrains from struggle yet ultimately prevails. This isn't achieved through forced effort but through alignment with natural tendencies.

The author employs the metaphor of fish: when swimming in deep waters, even the strongest person cannot catch them; once removed from water, they become utterly defenseless. By perpetually maintaining this soft state, the sage not only remains unharmed by forceful approaches but ultimately overcomes strength itself—this represents the sharpest weapon under heaven.

The second part explains the principle that "the Dao (Way) eternally does nothing yet leaves nothing undone": The great Dao always abides in non-action yet accomplishes all things. If rulers can uphold this principle of non-action, the myriad things will transform naturally. When desires begin to stir, they should be subdued with the "nameless simplicity" (referring to the authentic state of Dao). Maintaining this desireless tranquility allows the world to naturally return to proper order.

Su Zhe further elaborates: The constant state of Dao appears as non-doing yet achieves all-doing. The sage uses non-action to transform all beings. Initially, things respond to non-action and transform spontaneously, but gradually human artifice emerges—just as an infant's innate nature becomes tainted by worldly influences as it grows, and as evidenced by the historical evolution of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties.

As human desires and emotional fluctuations grow increasingly complex and intense, the Daoist approach suggests restraining them at their first emergence. Yet both individuals and society as a whole have become deeply immersed in these disturbances, allowing such transformations to develop beyond description. If one could remain unmoved when desires initially arise, consistently using the most authentic "nameless simplicity" (referring to the Dao's primordial pure state) to stabilize them, perhaps this endless transformation could be halted.

The true sage (one who has attained the Dao) maintains no conscious thought of preserving simplicity within, nor displays any outward affectation of simplicity. Thus they completely preserve the integral nature of simplicity and allow it to function at its fullest capacity. If one still harbors the thought "I must maintain simplicity" in their mind, they have already strayed far from genuine simplicity.

(Note: This passage expounds the Daoist concept of "Wuwei" or non-action, advocating naturalness without deliberate pursuit or artificiality. True simplicity emerges spontaneously. Conscious striving for simplicity paradoxically leads to losing one's authentic nature. The "nameless simplicity" is Laozi's description of the Dao, representing the original state prior to human artifice.)