Chapter 5

Original Text

天地不仁，以萬物為芻狗。
聖人不仁，以百姓為芻狗。
天地之間，其猶橐籥乎？
虛而不屈，動而愈出。
多言數窮，不如守中。

Translation

Heaven and Earth are not benevolent; they treat the myriad beings as straw dogs.
The Sage is not benevolent; he treats the common people as straw dogs.
Between Heaven and Earth—is it not like a bellows?
Empty yet not pressed down; when it moves, all the more issues forth.
Many words—often they end in exhaustion; better to keep to the center.

Word Notes

• 芻狗 — “straw dogs”: dogs plaited from straw for sacrifice; after use, they are trampled underfoot.

• 橐籥 — “bellows”: 橐 is the smith’s airbag (hollow, without a bottom); 籥 is its mouth/nozzle.

• 屈 — “to be pressed/bent”: to be forced down or contorted; here, “not pressed down/exhausted.”

• 不仁 — “not benevolent”: not partial or sentimental; letting life-and-death follow nature.

• 守中 — “keep to the center”: hold to the mean; abide in the middle way.

Chapter Explanation

Heaven and Earth are not benevolent: at times they give life and at times they kill, letting beings follow their own nature, treating them like straw dogs. The Sage is not benevolent: at times he gives and at times he takes away, listening to the people’s nature. What lies between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows: within it is empty yet not pressed down; the more it moves, the more qi issues forth. Saying many things only leads to running out of ways; it is better to keep to the middle way.

Discourse

In this chapter Laozi observes the people and all beings across eras and lands: there is no one who does not live and die, die and live, tossing back and forth, suffering beyond measure—like a mote of dust spinning in space, unable to master itself. Now whirling upward to a height, now dipping down below—up and down without rest. Tracing the root of such suffering, one cannot help returning it to Heaven and Earth. People and beings are born of Heaven and Earth: what is born cannot fail to die. That Heaven and Earth give life to beings is their benevolence; that Heaven and Earth kill beings is precisely their not-benevolence. Moreover, when it is time to give life, even bad things are brought to life—as if cherished to the utmost; when it is time to kill, even good things are cut down—as if despised to the utmost. Hence “they treat beings as straw dogs.” The Sage, following Heaven-and-Earth’s naturalness, is likewise so.

But Heaven and Earth do not intend to give life or to kill. The principle between Heaven and Earth is a going and a coming, cycling without end. Heaven-and-Earth work without a heart; giving life is not loving beings, and killing is not hating them. One only cultivates the standing ones and overturns the toppled ones, letting beings follow their own nature. If Heaven and Earth had hearts that loved beings, so that there were birth but no death, the transformation of qi would reach an end. Therefore a person must break through all names and sayings, empty the heart and keep to the center, transcend Heaven and Earth, and only then avoid being knocked about by fate’s cycles, dragged along with the round of comings and goings.

Laozi foresaw that later students would often misread the scriptures and be bound by them: splitting into sects and schools; burrowing into phrases; getting stuck on principles or methods; doing only mouth-work and bookish Dao-and-De—stodgy and useless. Worse, some fall into superstition, unable to be self-reliant and self-mastering: relying on Heaven and Earth, leaning on gods and spirits. They do not know that though Heaven and Earth delight in life, they cannot protect a person; though the holy and the buddhas are compassionate, they cannot save a person. Even the teachings of sages, immortals, and buddhas—anything that can be spoken or named—is but one-sided speech, set within opposition: where there is an advantage, there is a disadvantage. Hence the Buddha says “inconceivable, unsayable”; hence Confucius’s “I would wish not to speak,” and his teachings on six sayings and six obstructions—all the same intent.

Therefore Laozi must reason from the root: he directly calls Heaven and Earth—and even the Sage—“not benevolent,” in order to break people’s superstitious dependence. He says “many words often end in exhaustion” to break people’s attachment to doctrines and methods. He says “keep to the center” to point people to their home. High indeed! Lofty indeed! Divine and wondrous indeed!

Formerly Śākyamuni preached as teacher of men and gods, and it was called a lion’s roar. Laozi, by laying bare the workings of Heaven and Earth and the Sage, lifts people beyond men-and-gods—how is this not a dragon’s song? Yet a lion’s roar startles the mountains and easily moves people; a dragon’s rumble is subtle and hard to gauge—without an attuned ear, one hears little savor. Thus students of the sutras still prefer to study them; Laozi is not even counted alongside Confucius, the Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad. His book is treated like poison, looked at with worldly eyes that presume to peer at a great sage whose transformations are beyond measure.