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 ren; they treat the ten thousand beings like straw dogs.
The sage is not ren; he treats the hundred clans like straw dogs.

Between Heaven and Earth—is it not like a bellows?
Hollow yet unexhausted; the more it moves, the more it issues forth.

Many words—soon impoverished; better to hold to the center.

Word Notes

芻狗: straw-dog effigies used in sacrifice—handled with ceremony and then trampled; a figure for Nature’s impersonal process.
橐: the leather bag of a smith’s bellows—hollow, bottomless. 籥: the bellows’ mouth.
屈: to bend/collapse; here “not collapse, not run down.”

Chapter Explanation

Heaven and Earth are not “benevolent” in the sense of partial kindness: sometimes they give life, sometimes they cut it off—letting beings follow their own course—treating them like straw dogs.

The sage is likewise “not benevolent,” sometimes giving, sometimes taking away—letting the people follow their nature.

Between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows: its inside is empty yet not collapsed; the more it is set in motion, the more it sends forth.

Much talk runs to a dead end; it is better to keep to the center.

Discourse

In every era and land, people and creatures, without exception, alternate between life and death, turning and overturning, suffering without measure—as though a speck of dust whirling in space, unable to master itself: tossed high, cast low, up and down without rest.

If we trace the root of this suffering, we cannot avoid returning to Heaven and Earth. People and things are born from Heaven and Earth. Where there is birth there must be death. The very ren by which Heaven and Earth give life is also the “not-ren” by which they cut life off.

Moreover, when they give life, even what is base is produced—as though greatly cherished; when they take life, even what is fine is destroyed—as though greatly despised. Hence, “straw dogs.”

The sage follows the naturalness of Heaven and Earth in just this way. Yet Heaven and Earth do not intend to give life or to kill: the principle between Heaven and Earth goes out and returns, cycling without end. Heaven and Earth operate without intention: giving life is not loving beings; killing is not hating them. It is only that what is planted is supported, what is overturned is overthrown—each according to its own nature. If Heaven and Earth had a heart of partial love for beings, and only gave life without ever cutting off, then the transformations of qi would reach an end.

Therefore one must break through all names and sayings, empty the heart and keep to the center, and stand beyond Heaven and Earth—only then are you not tossed about by fate nor swept along in the comings and goings of the cycle.

Laozi foresaw that later students would easily misunderstand the scriptures and become bound by them—splitting into sects, burrowing into phrases, trapped by “principle” or by “method,” doing only mouth-work and book-learning, fusty and useless. Worse still, the lower sort lapse into superstition: unable to be strong in themselves, they depend on Heaven and lean on spirits and sages. They do not realize that although Heaven loves life, it cannot “protect” people; although gods and buddhas are compassionate, they cannot “save” people. Even when saints and buddhas teach, whatever can be spoken and whatever can be named is one-sided—paired with an opposite. Where there is “good,” there will be “not-good.” Thus the Buddha said “inconceivable, unsayable”; Confucius said “I wish to be without words,” and spoke of the six sayings and six obscurations—the same intent.

Hence Laozi must take his stand in the source, frankly calling Heaven and Earth “not ren,” calling the sage “not ren,” to break people of dependence and idolatry; he says “many words—soon impoverished” to smash people’s fixation on doctrine; and “keep to the center” to show where to abide. Lofty indeed; subtle indeed; spirit-like and wondrous indeed.

In the Buddhist dispensation, Śākyamuni is teacher of humans and gods—his preaching is the lion’s roar. Laozi lays bare Heaven and Earth and the sage, leading people beyond humans and gods—this is the dragon’s song. A lion’s roar makes mountains tremble and easily moves people; a dragon’s song is delicate and unfathomable—without the right ear, it seems dull. Thus people still like studying the sutras; Laozi is not even counted among Confucius, the Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad, and his book is treated like poison—judged by the world’s eyes, which cannot plumb a saint whose transformation is beyond measure.