《老子翼》Vol. 4

The Dao (the fundamental source and principle of the universe) is the most profound mystery of all things. Virtuous people cherish it as treasure, while even those lacking virtue rely on it for self-preservation. Noble words can earn worldly respect, and elevated conduct can influence others. How then can we abandon those who lack virtue?

Thus in ancient times when establishing the Son of Heaven (the supreme ruler) and the Three Dukes (high ministers), although precious jade disks and chariots drawn by four horses were used in ceremonial rites, none surpassed using the Dao to educate the people. Why has the Dao been valued since antiquity? Is it not because following it brings fulfillment of desires and even absolution from faults? This is why the Dao is treasured by all under heaven.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: The external manifestations of all things are merely appearances. The Dao within all things is like the innermost chamber of a house—present yet unseen. Only the wise can comprehend the Dao, hence it is called "the treasure of virtuous people." Though fools cannot grasp it, they cannot find security apart from it, hence it is "what preserves those lacking virtue." The Dao has never distanced itself from humanity; people distance themselves from the Dao. One who speaks noble words can earn worldly respect; one who practices the Great Dao can transform others. Even someone doing wrong in the morning, upon hearing the Great Dao in the evening, may have delusions dispelled and original nature restored—finding no fault left to censure. How then can we abandon them?

The establishment of the Son of Heaven and Three Dukes was fundamentally to educate the people through the Dao. Presenting the most valuable jade disks or finest horse-drawn chariots cannot compare to presenting this Dao. The Dao originally resides in our hearts—only people fail to seek it; sincere seeking will surely find it. The Dao itself makes no distinction between merit and fault—only people fail to understand it; once awakened, no transgression can defile the mind.

The text continues with the wisdom of Wuwei (non-action): Act through non-action, handle affairs through non-interference, savor through flavorless appreciation. Whether great or small, much or little, repay resentment with virtue. Approach difficulties at their easiest points; accomplish great deeds through small beginnings. All difficult matters under heaven necessarily begin with simplicity; all great undertakings under heaven necessarily accumulate from details. Therefore the sage never covets grand achievements, yet accomplishes great works. Easy promises seldom prove trustworthy; taking things too lightly invites greater difficulties. Thus the sage always treats challenges seriously, and ultimately encounters no true difficulties.

Su Zhe explains: Ordinary people engage in deliberate action—how could sages, being human, do nothing? The difference lies in ordinary people pursuing contrived action while sages practice the "Way of non-action" that follows nature. What we call "affairs" are the conditions for action, "flavor" the interest in action, and "initiation" the beginning of action. Through non-action, the sage can accomplish all actions; through non-interference, the sage can complete all undertakings.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), revealing how enlightened beings perceive reality beyond worldly appearances.

Ordinary people often become confused by superficial distinctions of size and quantity—fearing what seems large while belittling the small, viewing abundance as difficult and scarcity as easy. But sages (those who have realized the Dao) penetrate these illusions, understanding all measurements as relative. Through the lens of the Dao, they neither dread the massive nor disregard the minute, thus accomplishing all endeavors with natural ease.

Resentment typically stems from calculating gains and losses. The sage, however, transcends such dualistic attachments, treating hostility with the same equanimity as gratitude. They engage the world through "non-action" (deliberate non-interference), live by "non-intervention" (creating no unnecessary complications), and savor existence through "flavorless simplicity" (unadorned naturalness). This liberation from worldly fixations allows return to original purity.

Opportunities are most manageable when stable, situations most malleable before forming. Consider how giant trees grow from tender sprouts, nine-tiered towers rise from piled earth, and thousand-mile journeys begin with a single step. Yet forced efforts invite failure, and desperate clinging leads to loss. The sage, by never forcing, never fails.

Practitioners should recognize: what appears simple often proves most elusive, what seems trivial frequently holds greatest significance. Worldly "grand affairs" scatter the spirit—only by steadfastly abiding in Wuwei's stillness can one truly comprehend the Dao. This attainment isn't for the common person, but requires the resolve of "great determination" (true spiritual warriors). Those who make rash promises or perceive profundities as simplistic will never grasp these mysteries.

This passage expounds on Laozi's wisdom of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." The core teaching is that by not forcing control, one never loses it. People often fail when their endeavors are near completion—if one maintains the same caution at the end as at the beginning, failure can be avoided.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) desires not to desire, neither valuing rare treasures. Their learning is not deliberate study but rectifying others' errors. They follow the natural patterns of all things, never daring to interfere recklessly.

Su Zhe (commentator of the Su annotations) explains: Preparing before events occur is optimal; governing before chaos forms is secondary. Like farming—deep plowing and careful tending naturally yield autumn harvests. Or encountering thieves—remaining calm and observant makes them retreat voluntarily. Ordinary people, ignorant of the Dao's natural ways, always force action. They end up contending with calamities and struggling for blessings, making disasters irreparable and blessings unattainable.

Sages understand the harm of human interference. They never use human effort to alter natural laws, consistently following spontaneity—thus they never fail. Ordinary people obsess over gains and losses, neglecting early signs yet fearing loss near completion, often failing thereby. Hence the saying: "Treat the end as cautiously as the beginning" prevents failure.

People indulge desires that harm external things and cling to views violating heavenly principles. Sages aren't desireless—their desire is "desiring not to desire"; they aren't unlearned—their learning is "learning not to learn." Only thus can the mind become lucid, governing through Wuwei (non-action), assisting all things' natural development while awaiting their spontaneous fulfillment.

[Notes: "Disperse" (泮) means scattering; "bountiful harvest" (穰) indicates abundance; "retreat" (郤, synonymous with 隙) implies withdrawal; "indulge" (狥, synonymous with 徇) denotes unrestrained following. These concepts embody Daoism's core philosophy of following nature and governing through Wuwei (non-action).]

The ancient masters of the Dao did not teach people to become clever and cunning, but to preserve their natural simplicity. The reason people are difficult to govern is precisely because they have too much cleverness. Governing through cunning brings disaster to the state, while governing without it brings blessings. Understanding this distinction means grasping the principle, and comprehending this principle is called "profound virtue" (Xuande, the deep and mysterious power of De). Profound virtue is unfathomably deep and reaches beyond ordinary limits—it runs counter to worldly values yet ultimately aligns completely with the great Dao. The "model" here refers to the standard and measure: downward penetration is called "depth," outward expansion is called "far-reaching." Though seemingly contrary to common sense, it perfectly follows the Dao. Sima Guang explains: The world universally praises cleverness, yet those with profound virtue disdain it. Though this defies worldly conventions, it accords with the Dao.

Su Zhe's commentary adds: The wisdom spoken of by the ancients was true knowledge that perceived the whole of the Dao and understood the beginning and end of all things—hence its value. Ordinary people cannot reach this state but instead indulge in petty cleverness, mistaking sharp-eyed scrutiny for wisdom. The harm of this kind of cunning is immense. Thus, the sage governs people with the great Dao, not making them shrewd but returning them to simplicity, so they have no cunning hearts or greedy desires. Following the guidance of those above, even their mistakes remain minor. If one rules others with cleverness, people will respond with cleverness in turn, and ruler and subject will scheme against each other. What we value is virtue; what the world values is cleverness. Virtue and cleverness are fundamentally opposed—cleverness can only conform to small gains, while virtue aligns with the great Dao.

The reason rivers and seas can become kings to which all streams flow is that they excel at staying low. Therefore, if the sage wishes to stand above the people, he must humble his words; if he wishes to lead them, he must place his own interests last. Thus, though he stands above, people feel no oppression; though he leads, they feel no harm. That is why all under heaven gladly support him without resentment—precisely because he does not contend, no one in the world can contend with him. "King" here means the object of the world's heartfelt devotion.

Su Zhe further explains: The sage does not deliberately seek to stand above others or lead the crowd. Only by humbly staying behind and following the Dao does he naturally attain the position of leadership.

All under heaven say my Dao is vast, seeming unlike any particular thing. Precisely because it is vast, it resembles nothing. If it resembled something, it would long have appeared insignificant. I hold three treasures: the first is compassion, the second is frugality, and the third is daring not to be ahead of the world. Because of compassion, one can be courageous; because of frugality, one can be expansive; because one dares not take the lead, one can become the elder of all things.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist wisdom in navigating life. Laozi posits that if one abandons compassion to pursue ferocity, discards frugality for extravagance, and neglects yielding to rush ahead, such a person approaches certain demise.

True wisdom manifests thus: victory comes to those who wage war with compassion, and stability to those who defend with benevolence. When heaven intends to save a person, it protects them through compassion. Here, "compassion" refers to an attitude of tolerance and gentleness in conduct.

The Dao (cosmic origin) is vast and formless, permeating all things yet resembling no concrete object. Precisely because it resembles nothing specific, it may be called "great." When the Dao manifests as De (Virtue), it appears dull yet proves sharp, yields yet ultimately advances—directly contrary to worldly notions.

Conventional values glorify bravery, pursue grandiosity, and boast of aggression, while Daoism treasures three seemingly "useless" qualities: compassion, frugality, and humility. People fail to realize: ferocity invites defeat while compassion remains unconquerable; extravagance exhausts itself while frugality brings contentment; aggression breeds resentment while humility earns respect.

The truly adept commander doesn't flaunt military might, the skilled warrior remains unprovoked, the master of victory avoids contention, and the wise leader of men maintains humility. This constitutes the De of non-contention, the method of harnessing others' strength, and the most ancient principle in accord with heavenly Dao.

In ancient chariot warfare, three armored warriors each had specialized roles (left archer, right spearman, central charioteer holding the banner), all requiring physical prowess. Yet Laozi reveals that true leadership wisdom lies not in superficial martial power, but in the cultivation of inner De.

This passage uses the art of warfare as a metaphor to illustrate the cultivation state of "non-contention" (bu zheng), with its core idea expounding the Daoist wisdom of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" in navigating worldly affairs.

Regarding military strategy, the ancients said: I do not initiate conflicts (taking the role of host), but respond to situations (as guest); I would rather retreat a foot than rashly advance an inch. This attitude is like having no battle formation to break, no arm to grasp, no enemy to target, and no weapon to seize. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating one's opponent, for such underestimation nearly causes me to lose the most precious treasure—"compassion" (ci). When two armies confront each other, the side harboring compassionate sorrow ultimately prevails.

Su Zhe's commentary explains: The one who initiates conflict is the "host," while the responsive party is the "guest." Deliberate advancement stems from contentious intent, whereas voluntary yielding arises from non-contentious mind. Without contentious intent, even in military affairs one becomes like having no arm to raise, no enemy to face, no weapon to wield—how could this invite the disasters of warfare? The sage treasures compassion above all. Underestimating opponents leads to reckless battle, and reckless battle results in indiscriminate slaughter—this is to lose the root of compassion. When forced into unavoidable conflict, those who maintain compassionate sorrow receive heaven's assistance, making victory inevitable.

The passage concludes: My Dao is actually easy to understand and simple to practice, yet the world cannot comprehend or implement it. Speech must have its guiding principle, action must have its foundation. Precisely because people don't understand this Dao, they cannot understand me. The fewer who comprehend me, the more precious this Dao becomes. Therefore, the sage is like one wearing coarse cloth while concealing jade within—outwardly plain yet inwardly treasuring the jewel.

(Note: The term "compassion" (ci) is a core Daoist concept referring to maternal-like benevolence toward all things; "wearing coarse cloth while concealing jade" (bei he huai yu) symbolizes the realized person's ordinary appearance concealing profound wisdom.)

Here we explore the relationship between the Dao (the fundamental principle of the cosmos) and ordinary human understanding. The Dao resembles the ancestral root of a family lineage—the overarching principle underlying all phenomena. Su Zhe's commentary observes that the grandeur of the Dao lies in returning to one's original nature, which is inherently complete, while the profundity of this nature manifests in mundane activities like eating and sleeping. The sages use these ordinary affairs to guide people, making the Dao's principles easily comprehensible; if people could grasp these principles to navigate life, putting them into practice wouldn't be difficult. Yet most people unknowingly employ the Dao daily without recognizing it—they fail to understand it, let alone embody it.

Words are merely tools to apprehend the Dao, and specific affairs are but its traces. If the Dao could be fully expressed through language, listening to explanations would suffice; if it could be completely revealed through concrete matters, examining events would be enough. Precisely because language cannot exhaust it nor affairs fully manifest it, we cannot rely solely on words to seek its essence, nor become fixated on particulars while neglecting their sovereign principle. The ancient sages appeared to act without deliberate thought, yet possessed a natural state of being unattainable through ordinary thinking—this is why ordinary people ultimately cannot truly comprehend them. If sages' realm could be understood by common folk, it wouldn't be precious. Like wearing coarse cloth while holding priceless jade, sages appear ordinary externally but are fundamentally different within.

Recognizing one's ignorance represents supreme wisdom, while pretending to know constitutes a flaw. Only by vigilantly regarding "pretending to know" as a defect can one avoid actually committing it. The reason sages don't make this mistake lies precisely in their vigilance against such faults.

Su Zhe further explains: The Dao cannot be completely grasped through intellectual understanding, hence one shouldn't presume to know it. Yet before realization, we must use cognition as an entry point; after realization, clinging to that cognition becomes an obstacle instead. Therefore, realizing without presuming to know is superior, while not knowing yet pretending to know is defective. We cannot abandon cognition, yet mustn't cling to it—only by persistently regarding "presuming to know" as a flaw to guard against can the defect gradually dissolve.

The Bi Cheng analogy illustrates: Cognition serves as the gateway to the Dao, but transcending cognition achieves unity with it. "Knowing" corresponds to Buddhism's "knowing emptiness," while "not knowing" parallels "non-discriminatory wisdom." First use "knowing emptiness" to dismantle attachment to substantiality, then employ "non-discrimination" to surpass cognition itself—ultimately even abandoning the concept of "emptiness" represents the supreme state. Forcing insights in emptiness or suddenly perceiving mountains and rivers within stillness resembles eye-rubbing hallucinations or mistaking one's shadow—this constitutes illness. All cognition is illusory; all illusion is pathological. If scholars still cling to such cognition as profound insight, how can their malady heal? Though sages cannot abolish cognition any more than ordinary people, their cognition doesn't become obstructive because they understand that "cognition itself must be transcended."

This passage discusses the relationship between "knowing" and "affliction." Recognizing the root of one's problems without deliberate intervention allows natural resolution. Supreme wisdom understands the principle of "living without attachment," maintaining the purity of original nature. What we call knowing while remaining ignorant constitutes true affliction. Only by acknowledging problems as problems can they be truly resolved—just as recognizing illusions naturally dispels them, requiring no forced methods.

It then explores the principle of "majestic power" (威). When people cease fearing appropriate authority, greater威慑 will emerge. Do not confine your dwelling (referring to spiritual realm), nor resent your existence. Precisely through non-aversion, one remains unresented. The sage understands this—possessing self-awareness without self-display, practicing self-love without self-exaltation—thus relinquishing superficialities to embrace what truly matters.

Su Zhe's commentary elaborates: Human nature inherently contains majestic power—vast and luminous, surpassing all things. People often become entangled in delusions, fearing life-death and gain-loss, trapped by worldly威慑 in perpetual anxiety. Yet realizing the equality of all existence and facing it fearlessly reveals nature's great威严. Our fundamental nature embraces heaven-earth; those who misunderstand confine themselves to their physical forms, limited by sensory perception in pitiful narrowness. Hence we teach people not to restrict their spiritual dwelling.

Those who recognize nature's vastness become unsettled by life's constraints, yearning for liberation yet unable to attain it—because aversion and desire still bind them to externals. Therefore we teach non-aversion toward existence. Only sages achieve neither confinement nor aversion, coexisting with the multitude while abiding in the Dao, undistinguished by breadth or narrowness, purity or defilement. Not resenting life reveals its inherent non-aversion. Though sages possess self-knowledge, they refrain from self-display; though practicing self-love, they avoid self-exaltation—lest others generate aversion or envy. Only by eliminating these can fear dissolve, allowing nature's great威严 to manifest.

Finally, two types of courage: daring to assert strength leads to ruin; daring to refrain preserves life. These two courages—one beneficial, one harmful—are fundamentally distinct.

The Dao (Way) abhors acts that harm others, yet who can truly comprehend the reasons behind this? Even sages find it difficult to grasp fully. The movement of the Dao follows this principle: it does not contend yet always prevails, speaks not yet receives response naturally, summons not yet arrives spontaneously, appears unhurried yet excels in planning. The Dao is like a vast, boundless net—seemingly sparse yet never lets anything slip through.

(Note: "Slaying" refers to death, "benefit" to life, and "harm" to killing. "Chǎn" is pronounced like "expound," meaning leisurely and unhurried. Wang Bi's version uses "tranquil," Yan Fu's "silent," but neither fits as well as "chǎn." For "silent" overemphasizes non-speech, while "tranquil" leans toward non-contention.)

Su Dongpo comments:

Those who rely on brute strength often perish, while the cautious and restrained tend to survive—this is the norm. Yet sometimes the brave live while the timid meet misfortune, leading people to gamble on exceptions and ignore the rule. The Dao's ways are lofty and inscrutable; who can fully understand its standards of favor and disfavor? Thus, sages always adhere to the norm, treating acts of courage with consistent prudence. As Liezi said: Rather than speculate on heaven's intent or calculate gains and losses, follow spontaneity.

Though the Dao does not contend with the myriad things at any given moment, it ultimately prevails. It speaks not, yet the seasons turn and all things grow; it asks not, yet nothing goes unanswered. The arrival of spiritual forces cannot be fathomed—how much less can they be anticipated? The Dao appears unhurried, as if doing nothing, yet its planning far surpasses human capability.

Observing the Dao with limited vision, people see fragments, not the whole. Witnessing good deeds met with misfortune or evil rewarded, they doubt the Dao's net has gaps. Only those who see beginnings and ends, who understand transformation, know the Dao's net is vast—seemingly sparse yet never fails.

If the people constantly lack fear of death, what use is threatening them with it? If all cherished life, then for evildoers I could seize and execute them—who would dare rebel? But note: Slaying properly belongs to the Dao's designated executors. For humans to slay in the Dao's place is like cutting wood for a carpenter—rarely does one avoid injuring one's own hand.

Su Dongpo further explains:

When governance is tangled and punishments harsh, leaving people no recourse, they grow unafraid of death—then threats of death are useless. Only under clear governance, where people dwell in peace, do they cherish life and fear death.

Here we discuss the principles of governing society. Those who behave strangely and disrupt the community should be executed, so others dare not disobey. The authority over life and death belongs to Heaven. When society is well-ordered yet troublemakers act with impunity, they are people abandoned by Heaven. In executing them, we merely carry out Heaven's judgment—it is not that we ourselves desire to kill. Those who execute without Heaven's mandate overstep their authority, just as a man who tries to chop wood for a carpenter will injure his hand—those who presume to act as Heaven's executioners invite calamity.

When people starve, it's because their rulers impose excessive taxes. When people become ungovernable, it's due to excessive interference. When people treat death lightly, it's because they excessively pursue luxurious living. Only those who don't deliberately seek to nurture life are wiser than those who overvalue it. This resembles the state of "no-self"—when even one's own existence isn't clung to, what remains to worry about? This passage moves from obvious truths to subtle principles, ultimately arriving at the realm of clarity and wuwei (non-action).

Su Zhe's commentary adds: When rulers act arbitrarily, the people respond with complexity, making governance difficult. When rulers chase profit, the people struggle desperately for livelihood, risking death for gain without satisfaction. Overvaluing life paradoxically leads to treating death lightly—only by not forcing longevity can life be naturally preserved.

Living beings are soft in life but stiffen in death; plants are tender when growing but become brittle when withered. Thus rigidity belongs to the category of death, while pliability belongs to life. Hence armies that rely on brute force fail, and sturdy trees become targets for axes. What seems strong often occupies lower positions, while the gentle rise above.

Su Zhe further explains: When the body maintains balanced qi (vital energy), it avoids stiffness; when actions accord with heavenly principle, one avoids the troubles of force. An army victorious through righteousness isn't being forceful—unrighteous strength hastens defeat. Trees thick enough to embrace invite cutting—such is nature's law. The subtle resides above, the coarse below; the subtle must be yielding, the coarse inevitably strong.

The Dao of Heaven operates like drawing a bow: what's high gets lowered, what's low gets raised.

This passage primarily discusses the distinction between the Way of Heaven (Tiandao) and the way of humans, as well as the conduct of sages. The Way of Heaven operates like adjusting a bowstring—lowering what is excessively high and raising what is insufficiently low, thereby maintaining balance among all things. Human behavior, however, tends to do the opposite, often taking from those who lack to give to those who already have abundance.

Those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) dedicate their surplus to the world, just as sages perform virtuous deeds without claiming credit or deliberately displaying their worthiness. The act of drawing a bow serves as a metaphor here: when relaxed, the bow's upper limb (fu) is raised while the lower tip (shao) hangs low; when drawn tight, the upper limb presses down while the lower tip rises. The Way of Heaven functions similarly, suppressing excess and elevating deficiency.

Su Zhe’s commentary adds that the Way of Heaven, being impartial, acts without selfishness, whereas humans create inequality due to their self-interest. Those who truly follow the Dao fulfill the needs of all things without reluctance—the more they give, the richer they become. Conversely, those who boast of their good deeds and cling to high positions are merely using surplus resources to indulge themselves.

The passage then uses water as another metaphor: nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hardness. Although everyone knows the principle that gentleness overcomes strength, few can actually practice it. Thus, the sages say: "Only those who can endure a nation’s humiliation are fit to be its rulers; only those who bear its misfortunes deserve to be kings of the world." These seemingly paradoxical statements align most closely with the Way of Heaven.

Su Zhe explains that these truths appear contrary precisely because worldly views regard suffering humiliation as shameful and bearing misfortune as unlucky. To truly resolve deep-seated grievances, superficial reconciliation is insufficient. Therefore, the sage acts like someone who holds an IOU but does not demand repayment—those with De (Virtue) oversee the contract, while those without it merely collect taxes. The Way of Heaven shows no partiality, yet it always aids the virtuous.

Here, "contract" (qi) refers to agreements, while "taxation" (che) denotes fiscal policies. Resentment arises from illusion, and illusion stems from human nature. Without understanding how to eliminate grievances at their root, even superficial reconciliation will leave inner conflicts unresolved. Just as a contract is divided into left and right halves, only by grasping the fundamental principle can true resolution be achieved.

This passage elucidates two core concepts: resolving conflicts through returning to one's inherent nature, and depicting an ideal society of small states with sparse populations.

Regarding conflict resolution, it explains that both sages and ordinary people possess pure inherent nature, yet worldly people often mistake illusions for reality, becoming mired in strife without realizing their fundamental nature remains intact. The sage demonstrates this inherent nature to guide others in shedding illusions and returning to authenticity. When delusions dissolve and original nature is restored, it's like matching the left and right halves of a tally—agreement comes naturally without coercion. Even deep-seated grievances melt away like ice, as one realizes resentment was never substantial. Forced reconciliation proves futile, for the Dao (the Way) operates with impartial justice, naturally aligning only with those who embody goodness.

The second part describes Laozi's vision of an ideal society: small states with few inhabitants. Though various tools exist, they remain unused, as people value their lives and avoid distant migrations. Though boats, carts, and weapons exist, they serve no purpose, with society reverting to the simplicity of knot-record keeping. People find contentment in food, clothing, and familiar dwellings and customs. Neighboring states remain within sight, their roosters and dogs audible to one another, yet the people live and die without visiting each other. Han Dynasty commentaries explain that "communal tools" were shared among five or ten people, and their disuse eliminates the need for storage and labor. Boats, carts, and weapons symbolize essential resources—when each possesses abundance, mutual dependence vanishes.

Su Shi's annotation adds that Laozi, witnessing the Zhou Dynasty's decline amid hollow ritualism, advocated Wuwei (non-action) as remedy. While the utopia described may seem unattainable, if people abide in their authentic roles, the talented need not pursue worldly employment. With affairs simplified, knot-records suffice; with inner fulfillment, external temptations hold no allure. When all things flourish without mutual demands, natural sufficiency arises for each.

Genuine words are seldom adorned, while ornate rhetoric often lacks truth. Truly virtuous speech requires no clever argumentation, and eloquent words may not stem from good intentions. Those who are truly wise do not flaunt their knowledge, and those who parade their erudition may not truly comprehend the Dao (the Way).

Sages who have attained the Dao (those who have realized the Way) do not deliberately accumulate anything. The more they help others, the more they find themselves enriched; the more they give to others, the more they discover their own abundance. This reflects the law of heavenly Dao—benefiting all things without causing harm, and the principle of the sage's conduct—acting without contention.

Su Shi noted in his commentary: Truth needs no ornamentation, for elaborate appearances often obscure reality. When goodness is fundamental, argument becomes unnecessary; persistent contention actually deviates from goodness. Those who grasp the essential principles require no extensive knowledge, while those constantly pursuing erudition may have missed the true path. Sages simply hold fast to the source of the Dao, accumulating nothing else. They dedicate their abilities to help others and share what they have. Ordinary resources may be exhausted, but the source of Dao never runs dry—this reveals the preciousness of the "One" (Dao). Those capable of benefiting others may equally harm them; those capable of action may equally contend with others. Yet while heaven's Dao and the sages possess these capacities, they consistently benefit all things without harm and act without contention—precisely what elevates them above ordinary people and makes them the root of all things. These constitute the core ideas of Laozi's teachings.

The Ming scholar Bi Cheng supplemented this understanding: Some question whether the elegant, thought-provoking language of the Dao De Jing violates its own principle that "genuine words are unadorned"; whether its exhaustive exploration of natural laws contradicts "virtuous speech needs no argument"; or whether its comprehensive coverage of universal changes defies "the wise are not learned." In truth, the five thousand words all expound the "Way of Non-Accumulation"—a state of mind unattached to anything. Those who reach this state speak as if not speaking. They help others without depleting themselves, give without diminishing what they have. How could such wisdom reject eloquence or learning? But when one clings to personal views and contends with the world, they fall into the predicament where "much speech leads inevitably to failure," contrary to heavenly Dao. The Dao of heaven benefits without harming; the way of sages acts without contending. If scholars can purify their hearts (a Daoist term meaning to clear distracting thoughts and refine the spirit) to realize this, they will truly comprehend the essence of the Dao De Jing.

(Note: The "Way of Non-Accumulation" refers to the cultivation state of non-attachment and non-hoarding; "purifying the heart" is a Daoist term meaning to eliminate distracting thoughts and refine the spirit)

This passage discusses the method of studying the Daode Jing. The author suggests that rather than mechanically instructing others or forcing oneself to memorize every word ("teaching without true teaching"), it is better to maintain silence ("sealing the lips"), like the layman Vimalakirti ("Piyé" refers to Vimalakirti) who transcended the limitations of language. The true key to understanding Laozi's thought ("Zhuxia" refers to Laozi, who served as the Archivist of Zhou) lies in intuitive comprehension, not in clinging to the literal meaning of words.

The concluding phrase "strive earnestly thus" encourages readers to practice diligently in this manner. The entire passage emphasizes that cultivating the Dao (Way) prioritizes personal realization over being constrained by words and texts—a philosophy perfectly aligned with Laozi's teaching that "the Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao."