《老子翼》Vol. 3

The Laozi Yi here discusses the hierarchical differences in moral cultivation. The truly noble virtue (Shang De, Superior Virtue) does not consciously flaunt its virtuousness—this is authentic virtue. Conversely, those who deliberately maintain virtue (Xia De, Inferior Virtue) lose the essence of De (Virtue/Power). The highest level of virtue is natural Wuwei (non-action), requiring no deliberate effort; the next level still demands conscious exertion.

The text then examines the hierarchy of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual: Benevolence arises spontaneously from the heart without expectation of return; righteousness involves deliberate action seeking results; while ritual represents the most superficial norms. When society loses the Dao (the Way), virtue must be emphasized; when virtue is lost, benevolence is stressed; when benevolence fades, righteousness is promoted; and when righteousness declines, ritual becomes the focus. Ritual is actually the product of waning loyalty and sincerity—the very beginning of chaos. Those who pride themselves on foresight merely grasp the surface of the Dao, embodying instead the dawn of ignorance.

Thus, the truly great person stands firm in substantial simplicity rather than pursuing shallow superficiality. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) follows their heart's desire without transgressing boundaries, not by deliberately pursuing virtue, yet their virtue remains naturally abundant. Those who recognize virtue's value and strive to maintain it can only barely preserve it through effort.

From virtue to ritual—these are the sage's last resorts for governing the people. When even ritual fails to elicit response, one can only roll up their sleeves and enforce it; when enforcement proves ineffective, punishments and military force are employed, marking a complete loss of order. Loyalty and trust without ritual norms struggle to manifest, yet excessive emphasis on ritual transforms the beauty of loyalty and trust into mere formality. Relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, or friends may appear polished on the surface but remain hollow within. Following this principle brings peace to the world; violating it leads to chaos. The difference between order and disorder is as fine as a hair—thus ritual is said to be the origin of chaos.

The sage perceives all things clearly—right and wrong, gain and loss are laid bare before them as distinctly as objects reflected in a mirror.

People can only see what is before their eyes, yet fail to discern cause and effect. Ordinary understanding is confined to what the eyes perceive, what the ears hear, and what the mind conceives - blindly moving among the myriad things, using cleverness to pursue knowledge. When they occasionally make some discovery, they consider themselves wise, unaware this marks the beginning of foolishness. Worldly people become content with minor gains while forgetting more fundamental truths, thus favoring the superficial while neglecting the profound, chasing ornamentation while abandoning substance. If not a true person of great virtue, who could relinquish appearances to grasp the essence?

(Supplementary Commentary) This passage profoundly reveals the pitfalls of excessive pursuit of ritual propriety and intellectual cleverness. When Zhuangzi quoted this passage from Laozi, he commented: Once entangled in material desires, returning to the fundamental root becomes extremely difficult - only the "great person" who has awakened to the Dao can accomplish this effortlessly. Yet even when returning to the root, how can we strictly distinguish what is "thing" from "non-thing"? Therefore it is also said: What seems avoidable yet must be done are worldly affairs; what seems distanceable yet must be upheld is moral principle; what seems reducible yet must be expanded is humaneness; what seems simplifiable yet must be accumulated is ritual propriety; what seems ordinary yet must be revered is virtue (De); what seems singular yet must adapt is the great Dao. Though these aspects have relative priorities, the sage applies them all in accordance with the Dao. Because sages achieve thorough comprehension and dissolve dualities, why would they need deliberate acceptance or rejection?

(On "The Ancient Attainment of the One") In ancient times when things attained the Dao (the "One" refers to the Dao): Heaven attained it and became clear, Earth attained it and became tranquil, spirits attained it and became numinous, valleys attained it and became full, the myriad things attained it and flourished, lords and kings attained it and the world became properly ordered. Tracing to their roots: If Heaven lost its clarity it might rupture; if Earth lost its tranquility it might quake; if spirits lost their numinosity they might vanish; if valleys lost their fullness they might dry up; if the myriad things lost their vitality they might perish; if lords and kings lost their proper way while pursuing noble status they might topple. Therefore nobility takes humility as its root; the exalted takes the lowly as its foundation. Hence lords and kings call themselves "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" - is this not taking humility as fundamental? Thus seeking excessive honor brings no honor. They would not be polished jade, but prefer to remain unhewn stone.

(Annotations: "Rupture" means breakage and destruction; "quake" means shaking and release; "vanish" means dissipation and extinction; "dry up" means exhaustion and desiccation; "topple" [pronounced "jué"] means stumbling and overturning; numerical characters should be read with rising tone.)

(Su Shi's Commentary) The Dao is unified. The reason the myriad things can become the myriad things is all due to the Dao. People only see concrete things yet forget the Dao: Heaven merely knows to maintain clarity, Earth merely knows to maintain tranquility...

This passage elucidates the fundamental characteristics of the Dao (the cosmic source principle). All things manifest their divine mystery when maintaining tranquility; valleys remain full by staying empty; all beings grow by preserving their vitality; and rulers who comprehend this principle become models for the world. Their ability to attain such states stems entirely from following the Dao.

Though invisible and intangible, the Dao is the essential thread sustaining all existence: Heaven would not immediately collapse without it, Earth would not instantly quake, spirits (Shen) would not abruptly vanish, all creatures would not perish at once, nor would rulers immediately fall from power. Yet complete deviation from the Dao inevitably leads to destruction. The grandeur of Heaven and Earth, the nobility of rulers—all derive from adhering to the "One" (another name for the Dao).

The Dao represents the most refined existence, appearing humble and lowly yet constituting the fundamental root. Like ancient kings referring to themselves as "the solitary one," "the unworthy," or "the inept" (self-deprecating terms), they grasped the essence while relinquishing superficialities. Just as individual components assemble to form a wheeled carriage, the carriage itself transcends the sum of its parts—this exemplifies the practical function of "non-being" (the formless Dao).

Heaven and Earth become what they are not through sheer magnitude, nor rulers through mere nobility—the key lies in their embodiment of the Dao. The true Dao transcends distinctions of value, unlike jade that signifies nobility or common stones that suggest baseness.

"Returning" (cyclical reversal) constitutes the Dao's mode of movement, while "softness" (pliancy) characterizes its operational quality. All things emerge from "being," yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (the Dao's state of emptiness). This cyclical movement manifests the Dao's nature—what appears as a return to origin actually represents the ultimate expression of dynamic activity.

The commentary by Su Zhe adds: Returning to one's original nature leads to stillness, yet this stillness is not lifeless inertia but the root capable of sensing all transformations. The Dao appears supremely gentle yet contains incomparable strength. People often fail to recognize that stillness harbors kinetic potential and softness conceals tremendous power. Like the relationship between mother and child, influence always flows from mother to offspring, never the reverse.

All things in the world originate from "being" (concrete existence), which is called "the mother of all things." Yet this "being" itself arises from "non-being" (formless origin), which is called "the beginning of heaven and earth." Since "non-being" necessarily gives birth to "being," Dao cultivators emphasize returning to the source—this "return" means reverting to the state of "non-being." Because "being" is born from "non-being," Dao practitioners value softness and pliancy, as these qualities most closely resemble the nature of "non-being."

People of different capacities respond differently upon hearing the Dao: Those of superior disposition diligently practice it upon hearing; those of average disposition listen with hesitant belief; while those of inferior disposition laugh heartily at it—yet if the Dao weren't laughed at, it wouldn't be the true Dao. The ancient sages declared: The brightest Dao appears dim; the advancing Dao seems to retreat; the smoothest Dao feels rugged. Supreme De (Virtue) resembles a valley in its emptiness, the purest white appears sullied, abundant De always seems insufficient, vigorous De appears indolent, and unadorned genuineness seems changeable. The most square lacks sharp corners, the most precious vessel is completed last, the loudest sound is inaudible, and the greatest form is shapeless. The Dao always remains subtle and nameless, yet it alone excels in giving to all things and helping them achieve completion.

(Note: The term "lend" in Daoism refers to temporary provision rather than permanent bestowal, and "temporary completion" indicates provisional achievement rather than fixed permanence—this reminds recipients to swiftly return to the Dao.)

Su Zhe's commentary adds: The Dao has no form and thus cannot be seen, no sound and thus cannot be heard. Unless one first sees through the illusory nature of all things, even profound clarity and exceptional insight will still harbor doubts. Therefore, those of inferior disposition laugh scornfully at the Dao as absurd; those of average disposition waver between belief and skepticism; only those who truly awaken practice it diligently and retain it in their hearts without slackening. Confucius said, "Was it not Yan Hui who never slackened upon hearing the Dao?"—this describes those of superior disposition. The ancient saying "The bright Dao appears dim" and similar expressions were quoted by Laozi. True wisdom illuminates all without deliberate observation, seems to halt yet arrives before any swift movement, appears rugged yet maintains perfect balance. Supreme De doesn't flaunt its virtue, remaining empty as a valley. "The purest white appears sullied" means true purity can embrace defilement without being tainted.

This passage elucidates several key Daoist concepts from the Daode Jing:

The truly virtuous person appears imperfect ("广德若不足" - abundant De seems deficient), for supreme virtue manifests as ordinary. Cultivating virtue requires alignment with nature ("建德若偷" - establishing De appears as laziness), where outward nonchalance conceals inner steadfastness. Those preserving their authentic nature ("质真若渝" - genuine substance seems flawed) adapt to external changes without losing their essence.

The Dao manifests through these characteristics: The most square lacks corners ("大方无隅"), the most precious vessel takes longest to complete ("大器晚成"), the loudest sound transcends hearing ("大音希声"), and the grandest form transcends visibility ("大象无形"). These twelve attributes represent the Dao's phenomenal expressions, though the Dao itself transcends all forms and names.

Superior practitioners (上士) pursue the realm of clarity and Wuwei (non-action). Intermediate practitioners (中士) possess incomplete understanding, while inferior practitioners (下士) often mock true wisdom.

All phenomena emerge from the Dao's unfolding ("道生一，一生二，二生三，三生万物" - the Dao begets the One, the One begets Yin-Yang, which begets the Three, which begets the myriad things), each containing complementary Yin-Yang aspects balanced through Qi harmonization. When ancient rulers called themselves "孤寡不谷" (solitary, bereft, unworthy), this illustrates how apparent loss may bring gain, and apparent gain may bring loss.

"强梁" originally meant roof beams supporting structures, metaphorically representing domineering personalities. Ancient wisdom warns that "the violent die unnatural deaths," a teaching Laozi particularly emphasizes as the "教父" (teaching father - where 'mother' represents nurturing, 'father' represents instruction). All creatures manifest Yin-Yang qualities: animals' static backs belong to Yin while active fronts belong to Yang; plants grow toward warmth while roots anchor in cold, with Qi circulating through their stems.

This passage from Laozi Yi explores the essence of the Dao and wisdom for navigating life, with key insights that can be understood as follows:

The Dao is neither singular nor dualistic. When the Dao corresponds to concrete things, we call it "One," yet the Dao itself transcends this concept. Like numbers, it begins as One; One added to One becomes Two, and Two added to One becomes Three—from which the myriad things arise. Though all things differ, each contains the two Qi (vital energies) of Yin (passive, yielding) and Yang (active, firm), achieving harmony through their intermingling. While things appear to emerge from Three, they originate from One—this is nature's principle.

Ordinary people often belittle the small and revere the grand, but those truly attuned to the Dao understand the opposite wisdom. Just as kings and nobles refer to themselves as "the solitary one" or "the unworthy" (humble titles like "gu," "gua," and "bugu"), they embody this insight. The softest things in the world can master the hardest; formless forces penetrate even seamless objects. This demonstrates the benefit of Wuwei (non-action, or acting in accordance with nature) and the profundity of wordless teaching.

When hardness confronts hardness, one side breaks or shatters; when softness meets hardness, neither is harmed—like water wearing away stone without injuring itself. Solid forms entering solid forms encounter obstruction, yet formless forces (such as Shen/spirit) pass through freely. Thus, the sage understands Wuwei and thereby masters all formidable powers.

Which is more precious: reputation or life? Which matters more: life or wealth? Which brings greater pain: gain or loss? Excessive desire inevitably leads to great loss; hoarding too much invites ruin. Those who know contentment avoid self-inflicted disgrace; those who understand moderation avert danger—this is how one endures.

The greatest perfection seems flawed yet never decays; the fullest abundance appears empty yet is inexhaustible. The straightest seems bent, the most skillful seems clumsy, the most eloquent seems inarticulate. Movement dispels cold; stillness overcomes heat. These seemingly contradictory phenomena reveal the dialectical nature of reality.

Laozi here expounds the core concept of "tranquility and wuwei (non-action)." He observes that when all things under heaven strive for perfection (nothing lacking), they inevitably decline; when they pursue fullness, they become exhausted. The truly wise sage seeks great accomplishment without obsessing over flaws, pursues wholeness without rejecting emptiness. Only thus can lasting preservation be achieved.

Excessive rigidity leads to breaking—by following natural patterns, what appears circuitous actually moves directly; excessive cleverness creates useless toil—by conforming to things' inherent nature, what seems clumsy proves most skillful; excessive eloquence results in speechlessness—by speaking according to principle, what appears inarticulate becomes most persuasive. Just as agitation can ward off cold but cannot dispel heat, while stillness can dispel heat but cannot ward off cold—both represent one-sided extremes. Only by maintaining serene detachment, free from attachment to any extreme—not deliberately pursuing accomplishment or flaw, fullness or emptiness, straightness or curvature, cleverness or clumsiness, eloquence or reticence—can one become unimpeded and embody the world's true Dao.

The second section discusses governance. In times of peace, warhorses retire to plow fields; in chaotic times, even broodmares give birth on battlefields. The greatest crime is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, the gravest fault is unbridled acquisitiveness. Only those who understand contentment attain true fulfillment.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: When all people abide by their proper roles, natural harmony prevails. If rulers display luxurious indulgences (objects of desire) to the populace, this itself constitutes wrongdoing; if people consequently develop dissatisfaction, the disaster grows graver; if one insists on obtaining the unobtainable, it becomes the ultimate fault. Ordinary people inviting misfortune need commit only one such error, but rulers committing these faults provoke warfare. Only the contented person finds fulfillment in any circumstance.

(Note: "retiring warhorses to manure fields" refers to peacetime demobilization; "broodmares birthing in borderlands" illustrates prolonged warfare; "the contentment of knowing sufficiency" emphasizes the importance of inner fulfillment.)

The Wings of Laozi passage discusses the cognitive approach and worldly wisdom of Daoist practitioners.

The first part explains that true wisdom does not require traveling afar to understand the world, nor peering through windows to comprehend the Dao (the Way). Those who chase after distant knowledge often grasp less. Thus, sages attain understanding without direct experience, perceive truth without visual confirmation, and accomplish great things without deliberate action (Wuwei). Su Zhe comments that human nature inherently connects with the cosmos, transcending time and space. Ancient sages knew all without leaving their homes because they preserved their innate wholeness. Ordinary people, however, become obscured by external distractions—their nature fragmented by sensory attachments, their minds disturbed by scattered thoughts, their perception blocked by worldly barriers. Limited to narrow sensory experience, they fail to realize that sages need only restore their original nature. Seeking outwardly, they understand less the farther they go. A nature in harmony not only perceives and names things but also aligns with the natural order, achieving effortlessly.

The second part distinguishes between conventional learning and Daoist cultivation: the pursuit of knowledge leads to accumulation, while practicing the Dao requires continual reduction. Reduce until nothing remains, reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action). In this state, all things are accomplished. Governing the world also demands Wuwei—forced interference only invites failure. Su Zhe elaborates: those ignorant of the great Dao drown in learning, their fragmented knowledge becoming a burden. Confucius once said, "Hear much and select the good to follow," yet this remains secondary wisdom. Upon realizing the Dao, one sees all phenomena as illusory; discarding delusions to return to one’s nature is "reduction." When Confucius told Zigong, "My Way is bound together by one thread," he pointed to this shedding of falsehoods. Even the intention to "discard delusions" must eventually be forgotten, fully restoring pure innate nature to attain Wuwei’s boundless efficacy. Ordinary rulers try to control the world through force, breeding resistance; sages, by contrast, act without acting, and all things align spontaneously.

This passage expounds on the Daoist sage's way of interacting with the world and perspective on life and death. The sage doesn't cling to fixed opinions but instead adopts the people's thoughts as their own. They treat both kind and unkind people with kindness—this constitutes true De (Virtue) of goodness. They trust both trustworthy and untrustworthy individuals—this represents genuine De of trustworthiness.

Moving cautiously through the world, the sage perceives all people's minds as an undivided whole. While the populace watches the sage's every move attentively, the sage treats everyone with childlike impartiality. Here, "having no constant mind" means maintaining mental flexibility, while "blending all minds together" refers to embracing diverse thoughts as one unified whole.

Su Zhe's commentary further clarifies: Just as emptiness has no fixed form but adapts to all shapes, the sage holds no rigid ideas but follows the people's thinking. Treating both good and bad, trustworthy and untrustworthy equally—this alone constitutes true De of goodness and trustworthiness. Selective kindness shown only to the virtuous or trust extended solely to the honest would fail to embody true inclusiveness.

People often quarrel and fight due to differing standards of good/evil and true/false. Troubled by this, the sage dissolves such discriminations and treats all equally. While the people anxiously await the sage's judgments, the sage treats them like infants—neither overjoyed by goodness nor repelled by wickedness. Only through this equanimity can both sides coexist peacefully and the world find stability.

Regarding life and death: From birth to death, three in ten people live naturally, three in ten die naturally, while another three in ten who might have lived instead rush toward death. Why? Because they excessively pursue life-preservation. Those truly skilled at nurturing life encounter no rhinoceroses or tigers when walking, nor suffer weapon wounds in battle. Rhinos find no place to gore, tigers no place to claw, weapons no place to strike. Why? Because such practitioners maintain no vulnerable spots. "Emerging into life and entering death" describes birth as movement from non-being to being, and death as return from being to non-being—like Zhuangzi's teaching that all things emerge from nature's workings and return to nature's mechanisms.

This passage explores the Dao of life and death, with its core insight being that excessive attachment to life paradoxically hastens death. It mentions that "followers of life" (those pursuing longevity) and "followers of death" (those indulging in desires) each constitute three-tenths of people, while another three-tenths are "those who move toward death" (deliberately cutting off life). These nine types all overvalue life in some way. Only one-tenth truly understand life's essence—they neither deliberately pursue life nor fear death.

The text employs the metaphors of the si (a rhinoceros-like mythical beast) and tigers: those skilled in nurturing life are like a si with no place to thrust its horn or a tiger with no place to sink its claws, because there fundamentally exists no "life" that can be harmed. Sages dwell in a state of "neither born nor dead"—not deliberately despising life, but realizing its inherent emptiness.

Drawing from Laozi's philosophy, the author notes that excessive craving for life (whether through sensory pleasures or forced longevity practices) ironically invites death. True wisdom transcends the concepts of life and death to reach the realm of "serene stillness." Laozi intentionally leaves the mystery of that final tenth unexplained, hoping readers will personally realize the marvel of thoughtless non-action (wuwei).

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

It begins by observing that those obsessed with purity are easily sullied, those chasing glory readily humiliated, and perfection-seekers ultimately meet destruction. Fundamentally, life knows no birth or death, purity no defilement, glory no disgrace, nor perfection any flaw. Those who truly grasp this truth transcend life and death, wandering freely in harmony with creation.

The Dao generates all things, while De nourishes them. Things take form through Dao and achieve completion through circumstance. Thus all beings revere Dao and value De. This reverence isn't conferred by titles but arises naturally. Dao begets, nourishes, matures, cultivates, perfects, protects, and embraces all things. It creates without possessing, acts without claiming, guides without controlling—this constitutes the most profound De.

Su Zhe's commentary explains: Dao as mother generates all things, while De represents the nurturing force. Yet Dao and De themselves have no form—they manifest only through phenomena. All things require interacting conditions to form patterns of rise and decline. Though phenomena emerge from specific conditions, without Dao's generative power and De's nourishment, nothing could exist. Thus people honor Dao as they would fathers and elder brothers, valuing De as they would kings and lords. True nobility isn't granted by titles.

The text continues: All things under heaven have their origin (mother). Knowing this origin enables understanding of phenomena (offspring), and understanding phenomena leads back to the origin—thus one remains free from peril throughout life. Blocking sensory outlets (ears, mouth) and closing desire's gates brings lifelong freedom from toil. Conversely, indulging senses in worldly pursuits makes one incurably lost. Perceiving subtlety is true wisdom; maintaining softness constitutes strength. Using wisdom's light to return to inner clarity while avoiding self-inflicted harm—this constitutes following the constant Dao.

Here "mouth" and "gates" metaphorically represent phenomena's exits. Blocking them means storing "being" within "non-being" to preserve the origin. The Can Tong Qi states ears and eyes are personal treasures to be sealed and guarded—this conveys the same meaning. Not peering with eyes is called "smallness"; not forcing with strength is called "softness." Following the constant Dao means maintaining hiddenness without display.

At the beginning of heaven and earth, the Dao was nameless—it was the origin of all things. When the Dao acquired a name, it became the mother that nurtures all existence. In its nameless state, the Dao is the root from which all beings arise; with a name, it becomes the support for their growth. Thus we call it both the "beginning" and the "mother," while all things are its children.

The sage (one who has realized the Dao) comprehends all things through embodying the great Dao, just as a mother understands her children with perfect clarity. Though the sage's wisdom penetrates all phenomena, they never forget the Dao in pursuit of external objects, thus eternally preserving the root. All things under heaven contain this Dao, yet people often abandon it to chase after externals—eyes coveting beautiful forms, ears indulging in music, desires running wild and endlessly gratified, until they become hopelessly entangled.

The reason sages remain unburdened by worldly things throughout their lives is that they close the gates of desire, never indulging in reckless pursuit. The harm of desire begins small but grows steadily. Those who foresee how minor cravings lead to great calamities and restrain them accordingly possess true wisdom. People who chase desires without regard for consequences may appear strong but are not; only those who remain vigilant when facing temptation demonstrate real strength. Ordinary people indulge their desires, chasing externals with their physical forms until there's no return; sages shut desire's gates not to isolate themselves completely, but to perceive all things with spirit, employing only their inner light of awareness without physical involvement.

The ears' capacity to hear, eyes to see, nose to smell, mouth to taste, body to touch, and mind to think—these all constitute the inner light of awareness. When this luminous awareness interacts with phenomena, external things come and go while the awareness itself remains undiminished. Thus it responds to infinite changes without exhaustion, and calamities cannot touch it. Therefore, the sage's essential nature remains eternally clear and bright, transmitted without interruption through the ages.

If I have even slight understanding of this principle while walking the great Dao, my greatest fear is indulging desire. The Dao's path is inherently level, yet people always prefer narrow shortcuts. While court halls gleam with ornamentation, fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty. People dress in embroidered silks, gird themselves with sharp swords, feast extravagantly, and hoard more wealth than they could ever use—this is what's called being a "chief of robbers" (referring to behavior that violates the Dao). How could this be the right path?

"Jieran you zhi" means having just a sliver of wisdom. "Shi" is the opposite of "se" (restraint), indicating indulgence. "Yi" denotes levelness. "Jing" refers to cramped shortcuts. "Chu" means to put in order, like the ancient saying "sweeping clean our ancestors' humble dwelling." "Wencai" indicates blue-red patterns and colored silks (Fu Yi notes that "cai" is the ancient character for "embroidery"). Some versions write "zihuo" as "caihuo" (material goods). "Daoyu" appears erroneously in some editions as "daokua"; here we follow Han Feizi's version.

Su Zhe (in his commentary) explains: People always abandon the Dao's broad highway for dangerous bypaths, as if refusing the main road to scale mountains and ridges. Sages understand how desires grow from small to great, hence they close desire's gates at the outset. Yet closing doesn't mean complete isolation—it's like using a mirror: the mirror reflects objects without retaining their traces. This is the wisdom of "using its light."

The true knower of Dao does not deliberately pursue knowledge, action, or artificial striving—the ten thousand things transform and nurture themselves naturally. Those who stubbornly cling to their own understanding and forcibly intervene in the Dao's workings engage in artificial effort that violates the natural way—this is truly something to beware. The Great Dao is originally level and simple, without obstacles, yet worldly people fail to comprehend this principle. They always consider the Dao circuitous and distant, forever seeking shortcuts. Therefore, those who abandon their natural disposition for deliberate action are all people chasing quick gains and instant benefits.

Worldly people all appear clever and discerning—only I seem muddled and confused. The masses are calculating and meticulous—only I appear dull and simple. How could I possibly embellish trivial details while abandoning the fundamental Dao, treating artificial striving as proper business, or using ostentation to attract thieves?

What is truly well-established cannot be uprooted; what is truly well-embraced cannot slip away—such virtue enables descendants to maintain ancestral sacrifices without end. Cultivating oneself with Dao makes virtue authentic; cultivating a household makes virtue abundant; cultivating a village makes virtue enduring; cultivating a state makes virtue flourishing; cultivating the world makes virtue universal. Therefore, observe others through oneself, observe other households through one's own, observe other villages through one's own, observe other states through one's own. How do I know the condition of the world? Precisely through this method.

(Note: The original text used "state" [邦] where later editions substituted "country" [国] to avoid naming taboo for Emperor Gaozu of Han, but this disrupted the rhyme. Following Han Feizi's version, we restore the original.)

Su Zhe's Commentary:

In this world, what is ever established without falling, or embraced without slipping away? Only the sage understands the authenticity of innate nature and sees through the illusory nature of external things, abandoning externals to cultivate the self. His virtue accumulates in fullness—seemingly establishing nothing, yet this establishment cannot be shaken; seemingly grasping nothing, yet this embrace cannot be lost. Thus even descendants maintain unbroken ancestral sacrifices. Having perfected self-cultivation, he extends surplus virtue outward—even governing the world becomes possible. What lies beyond heaven and earth remains unseen by worldly people, yet its principle can be inferred and known.

The highest cultivator observes others through oneself, households through one's own, villages through one's own, states through one's own—all this we can comprehend. But how do we know the sage observes the world through the world, just as we observe others through ourselves? If the self can be observed this way, why not the world? Therefore it is said: How do I know the world's condition? Precisely through this method—by inferring from oneself.

One whose Dao and virtue are profoundly cultivated resembles a newborn infant: poisonous insects don't sting him, fierce beasts don't pounce upon him.

Laozi uses the state of an infant to symbolize the essence of the Dao. Though an infant's tendons and bones are soft, it can clench its fists tightly; though unaware of sexual matters, its genitalia naturally become erect—both signs of abundant Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). It can cry all day without becoming hoarse, demonstrating the harmony of its primordial Qi. To understand this harmony is to grasp the eternal principle (常, chang), and to comprehend this principle is true wisdom. Forcing longevity through deliberate effort invites misfortune, while coercively controlling Qi with willpower constitutes brute force. When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline, for this violates the Dao—and to violate the Dao leads to premature demise.

(Note: The term "䘒" refers to male infant genitalia; "握固" (wò gù) is a hand gesture used in Daoist cultivation; "祥" here denotes omens of fortune or misfortune.)

When Laozi discusses Dao and De (Virtue/Power), he often employs the infant as a metaphor—not to illustrate function but to reveal the Dao's fundamental nature. Infants embody serenity and desirelessness; their primal state is perfection itself. Yet they lack the capacity to engage with external things, so functional application cannot yet be discussed. The Dao has no form; all things cannot perceive it, much less harm it. Human physical forms arise from consciousness (心, xin). With consciousness comes form; with form comes opposition; and with opposition comes harm. What enemy would a thing without consciousness have? How could it suffer harm?

An infant achieves this state precisely through wuxin (no-mind). Without intention, it naturally clenches its fists; without desire, its body spontaneously responds. This reveals the abundance of its Jing and Qi, not the workings of deliberate effort. Conscious activity injures primordial Qi, and when Qi is injured, crying leads to hoarseness. An infant cries ceaselessly yet remains unharmed—proof that its consciousness remains undisturbed and its Qi harmonized. This harmony means not allowing external things to damage inner nature. Returning to the origin is called "chang"—meeting phenomena yet always reverting to the root. Understanding harmony is also "chang"—grasping the root to respond to the myriad things. Both are manifestations of the same Dao, hence both are termed "chang."

Life cannot be artificially enhanced; forced enhancement violates its natural course. Primordial Qi abhors reckless agitation, let alone being driven by conscious will—this represents extreme arrogance. Deliberate life-nurturing and forced Qi circulation both defy natural spontaneity.

When a person gradually becomes rigid and stubborn by following their natural tendencies, they lose the innocent nature of an infant. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) do not indulge in empty talk, while those who love to lecture often lack genuine comprehension. One must block the openings of desire (referring to sensory cravings), close the gates of temptation, smooth out sharp edges, resolve conflicts, temper brilliance, and blend with the mundane world—this is the attainment of "profound unity" (the highest state of oneness with the Dao). Upon reaching this state, one will neither be deliberately embraced nor alienated by others, unaffected by the lure of profit or the sting of harm, unswayed by praise or blame, and thus becomes the most revered existence in the world.

Su Zhe's commentary: The great Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, yet it is not entirely divorced from them. Those who grasp the Dao may not be eloquent, and those who are articulate may not truly understand it. Only those who block the openings of desire and close the gates of temptation to shut out external disturbances, while internally cultivating their nature, resolving conflicts, tempering their brilliance, and blending with the mundane, can achieve unity with the Dao in silence. If one can be embraced, they can equally be alienated; if they can gain profit, they can also suffer loss; if they can be exalted, they can be demeaned. Those who truly embody the Dao treat all things equally, without distinction between closeness and distance; they remain indifferent to fortune and misfortune, unconcerned with gain or loss; they transcend notions of honor and disgrace, unbothered by status. This state surpasses worldly calculations, making them the most revered existence in the world.

Govern the state with upright principles, command battles with ingenious strategies, and win the world through Wuwei (non-action, letting things take their natural course). How do I know this is the way? Because: the more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more weapons among the populace, the greater the chaos in the state; the more cleverness people possess, the more bizarre occurrences arise; the more intricate the laws, the more thieves and bandits proliferate. Thus, the sage says: "Through my non-action, the people transform themselves; through my love of stillness, they become upright; through my avoidance of meddling, they prosper naturally; through my lack of desire, they return to simplicity."

Su Zhe's commentary: The ancient sages employed a policy of gentle persuasion for both near and far, resorting to arms only when absolutely necessary. Hence, governing the state requires upright principles, while warfare demands ingenious strategies. Yet even this is insufficient to win the world, for the world is a sacred entity—it cannot be seized by force, as forceful attempts lead to failure, and grasping leads to loss. Only those who embody the Dao with an expansive mind, though they do not strive for it, will find the world naturally drawn to them. When rulers impose excessive prohibitions, the grievances of the people cannot reach the top, leaving them impoverished and helpless. "Sharp tools" refer to cunning tactics. When a wise ruler is in power, they keep the people simple and honest; if the people become obsessed with scheming, the ruler grows confused and unseeing. When people neglect their fundamental duties of farming and sericulture, social upheaval ensues.

This scripture expounds principles of governance and self-cultivation. When rulers excessively pursue detailed laws and regulations, they ironically create more problems. Overly harsh decrees leave the common people disoriented, ultimately leading to social disorder.

Laozi reveals the interdependence of fortune and misfortune: what appears as blessing may conceal calamity, while apparent disaster might bring unexpected grace. This transformation follows no fixed pattern, often eluding ordinary comprehension. Just as kindness may turn to wickedness and integrity to strangeness, humanity's confusion about such matters has persisted since ancient times.

True sages (those who have attained the Dao) conduct themselves with square-cornered integrity that doesn't wound others, with purity that isn't harsh, with straightforwardness that never oversteps, and with radiance that doesn't dazzle. They transcend appearances to grasp the holistic patterns of existence—appearing muddled yet profoundly perceptive, preserving the people's innate simplicity. Ordinary folk, by contrast, fixate on immediate gains; when they presume to have secured blessings, misfortune may already be taking root unseen.

In both statecraft and spiritual cultivation, the supreme principle is "restraint" (frugality and reverence). Practicing this means following the Dao early and accumulating De (Virtue/Power) continuously. Thus one becomes invincible, reaching unfathomable depths to master governance's essence and achieve enduring stability. This constitutes the deeply rooted, long-lasting Way of perpetual vision.

Su Zhe's commentary particularly emphasizes how celestial patterns often transcend worldly understanding. Sages rise above particulars to apprehend wholeness, while ordinary people clinging to fragmented observation unknowingly damage reality's fabric. True wisdom lies in possessing capability without abuse, avoiding rigid fixation. This seemingly muddled state paradoxically represents governance's highest art.

All things in the world that have sharp edges tend to harm others, pointed objects easily cut hands, straightforwardness can become presumptuous, and dazzling brilliance often stings the eyes. Only the sage can be square without wounding, sharp without cutting, direct without overstepping, and luminous without blinding. This is what we call the Dao of "restraint" (frugality and inward cultivation). Those who understand restraint possess capability yet refrain from casual use.

People often struggle with gaining others' trust. If one truly possesses genuine talent while maintaining humility, even without competing for superiority, others will recognize one's competence and naturally come to respect them early on. When public trust is already established, yet one continues to restrain their abilities—never flaunting them throughout life—virtue (De) accumulates continuously. When virtue becomes profoundly deep, even the most unyielding things in the world can be transformed, making one's depths utterly unfathomable to others. Only upon reaching this state is one fit to govern a nation.

Petty individuals in the world wield whatever minor power they obtain recklessly. When their attempts to command respect fail, the world sees through their limitations and challenges them accordingly. Such people can never preserve a state. Thus I understand that the Dao of restraint can govern a country—mastering this means grasping the root of statecraft. Mencius said, "Preserve the heart and nurture nature to serve Heaven." Governing people through restraint is statecraft; serving Heaven through restraint creates "deep roots and firm foundations." Ancient sages preserved life's essence, preventing external things from depleting internal vitality (Jing-Qi), thus making their roots unshakable and foundations unbreakable—thereby achieving longevity. Though governing people and serving Heaven differ as internal and external practices, their supreme method is identical: restraint.

Governing a great state is like cooking small fish (don't stir excessively). When the Dao governs the world, even spirits lose their efficacy—not that spirits cease functioning, but their functioning no longer harms; not only do spirits not harm, the sage also refrains from harming. When neither harms the other, their virtues merge and interpenetrate.

Su Zhe's commentary: Small fish disintegrate with excessive stirring; great states suffer from excessive governance. More governance wearies the people, more stirring ruins the fish. The sage governs through non-action (Wuwei), letting people settle naturally. With no external disturbances and no internal fears, nothing can violate them. At this point, even spirits cannot exercise their powers. It's not that spirits lose efficacy, but their efficacy ceases to harm; not only do spirits not harm—the sage fundamentally refrains from harming.

(Herein lies the wisdom of interaction between great and small nations) The reason malevolent spirits cannot wreak havoc is because sagely rulers govern the human realm, their De (Virtue) harmonizing Yin-Yang forces. A great nation should position itself like the lower reaches of a river—humbly receptive, becoming the convergence point of all under heaven. Just as the female (the receptive principle) often overcomes the male (the active principle) through stillness, quiet humility constitutes the fundamental approach.

If a great nation treats smaller states with modesty, it will naturally attract their allegiance. Conversely, if a small state serves a greater power with humility, it will be embraced by the larger entity. Thus, sometimes taking the initiative in humility builds trust, while at other times, humility secures protection. The great nation seeks only to nurture and encompass the smaller, while the small state desires merely to serve and rely upon the greater. Both parties find their proper place—though the greater power bears greater responsibility to demonstrate humility first.

(Su Zhe's commentary adds:) The allegiance of all under heaven to a great nation resembles how all rivers flow toward low ground. All beings gravitate toward stillness, just as water inevitably moves from high to low. When a great nation humbles itself, smaller states naturally submit; when a small state demonstrates humility, the greater power naturally accepts it. The great nation gains hearts through humility, while the small state gains protection through deference.