Natural but not ziran: knowing enough and mastering cessation in the Laozi

1 Introduction

This article begins with the question: if ziran 自然 (self-emanation) represents what is natural in the Laozi, and a wuwei 無為 (non-coercive) attitude is required to align with this, then do the conceptual pair of zhizu 知足 (knowing enough; mastering satisfaction) and zhizhi 知止 (knowing when to stop; mastering cessation), which imply restraint and curtailment, go against what is natural from a Laozian perspective?^[1] The response provided is that there is indeed a tension between “self-emanation” and its accompanying “non-coercive” attitude on the one hand and “recognizing what is enough” and “mastering cessation” on the other. However, this tension is in keeping with the opposite and complementary patterns that underscore the worldview presented in the Laozi.^[2] While the sage should practice non-coercion and allow the self-emanation of the ten thousand things (including, in a political context, the people) to unfold, the sage should also practice the complementary curtailment involved in zhizu and zhizhi.

From a semiotic perspective, translation of philosophical concepts across spatially and temporally distant cultural contexts depends not on relationships between individual concepts in source and target systems but on mapping interrelations of signs in the source system onto interrelations in the target system (Kourdis 2015). “Nature” and “natural” began to be used as modern Chinese translations for ziran around the end of the nineteenth century (Lin 2009). While it is generally acknowledged that contemporary notions of “nature” and “natural” do not correspond neatly to connotations of ziran in the Laozi, an equivalence between them is still often maintained, either explicitly or implicitly, and often by the same scholars who ostensibly seek to oppose their conflation.^[3] This is, in a sense, understandable given that certain connotations of the modern terms “nature” and “natural” indeed map onto connotations of ziran in the Laozi. The term “natural” has a range of meanings, for instance, (1) the process that occurs when things are left unimpeded, (2) a primitive original state, and (3) the most general patterns observed in the world. This article holds that when the “natural” is understood in the third sense, and not narrowly as Laozian ziran, then attitudes like zhizu and zhizhi, which are in opposition to ziran yet complementary to it, still align with a broad conception of the natural from a Laozian perspective.

Ziran certainly does connote something of the first meaning of nature stated above – it is that which emanates (ran 然) from nothing other than that process of emanation, and it can thus be observed when such a process is unimpeded by external forces. In his commentary on the Laozi, Wang Bi (王弼; 226–249 CE) uses the term ziran as something to be returned to (Shie 2014), and in this understanding, it connotes something of the second sense of an original nature. In the Laozi itself, without Wang Bi’s elaboration, we do not find this sense of ziran as an original unadorned state but rather as a process that emanates uninhibitedly. As stated above, insofar as this self-emanation is a general pattern that can be observed in the world, it also connotes something of the third meaning. However, in this third sense of “nature,” it should be noted that ziran is not exhaustive of the patterns of the world that are observed in the Laozi. Wang Zhongjiang (王中江) (2010) notes, for instance, that ziran is a process characteristic of the ten thousand things (and, in a political context, the people). He argues that the movement of the dao 道 itself (and, in a political context, the sage) is wuwei (non-coercive) and not ziran (see also Gao 2021: 145–175). According to this argument, there are aspects of the third sense of the “natural” – the general patterns that can be observed in the world – that are not covered by the term ziran. Here I make a similar argument, focusing not on wuwei but on a pair of concepts that receive less attention: zhizu and zhizhi. I argue that these are congruent with an overarching pattern in the Laozian worldview: not ziran nor indeed wuwei, but “returning” or “reversal” (fan 反), which as Laozi 40 states is “the movement of the dao.” Therefore, while zhizu and zhizhi are in line with what is natural within the philosophy of the Laozi – that is, they are in line with the broadest observable patterns of the world – they align with patterns that are distinct from what is spontaneously self-emanating.

Before examining how notions of “self-emanation,” “reversal,” “knowing enough,” and “mastering cessation” feature and interact in the Laozi, let us consider how the equivocation of ziran with “nature” or the “natural” in the Laozi can potentially give rise to difficulties in interpreting a Laozian worldview. One area of application where conflicting interpretations of natural courses in the Laozi tend to arise is in the realm of political economy. There have been, for instance, understandings of Laozian thought as an early Chinese form of non-interventionist, and thus free-market, political economic policy (see, e.g., Dorn 1998; McCormick 1999). These read the Laozi as advising against intervening in the lives of the people and hence that the people will (naturally) become wealthy of themselves. There are objections to these views (e.g., Behuniak 2015) which point to the more “primitivist” aspects of the Laozi. Indeed, the notion of “wealth” in the Laozi is not simply geared toward increasing material wealth, and the “market Taoism” readings fail to recognize the inherent connection between increase and diminishment in the Laozi. If one employs an understanding of the “natural” as that which lacks human intervention, expressed in the first aspect of “nature” described above, there is a tension in explaining how zhizu and zhizhi fit into a politico-ethical vision grounded in a view of natural patterns that include curtailment, cessation, and restraint.

How can notions of curtailment, cessation, and restraint cohere with a conception of the “natural” as uninhibited self-unfolding? The answer to this question lies in the fact that while this particular conception of the natural might map onto a notion of a Laozian ziran, a Laozian view of nature goes beyond this. A Laozian view of how the patterns of the world function includes a notion of unbridled, spontaneous development, but it also includes an aspect of reversal. In keeping with the interplay of opposites that pervade Laozian thought, the spontaneous self-emanation of the ten thousand things is complemented by a returning in the opposite direction. In addition to the non-coercive activity of the sage, they must also align with this returning.

2 Self-emanation (ziran 自然)

The tentative translation used for ziran here is “self-emanation.” Zi 自 is a reflexive particle meaning “of the self,” or “auto.” This “self” is not necessarily a human self but simply denotes a point from which some process, action, or phenomenon emanates in a mode that lacks external impetus. Ran 然 indicates the process of unfolding or emanation. Let us observe how the term appears in the Laozi.

Of the best of all rulers, people will only know that he exists. The next best, they will praise with affection. The next best, they will fear. The worst will be ridiculed. If trustworthiness does not suffice, there will be untrustworthiness. How cautious he is! How he esteems words! The works are completed. The tasks are followed through. And the people declare: “It happens to us ‘self-so’ (ziran).” (Laozi 2007: 45, ch. 17, modified)

In Laozi 17, we see that the people unfold of themselves. This instance supports arguments that see ziran as principally characteristic of the people, as opposed to the sage, and of the ten thousand things, as opposed to the dao (Gao 2021: 145–175; Wang 2010). The series of descriptions at the beginning of this passage suggest that the most superior mode of governance is one that approximates wuwei. When this non-interventionist approach to governance is taken – where the people are not aware of what the ruler is doing but merely aware that there is a ruler – then the lives of the people unfold of their own accord, that is, in a manner that is “self-emanating” (ziran). The following passage indicates something similar although in a less specifically political domain.

The dao generates it; de 德 nourishes it; things give form to it; circumstances complete it. Through this, the ten thousand things honor the dao and cherish de. Through honoring the dao and cherishing de, without being ordered there is constant self-emanation (ziran). (Laozi 2007: 121, ch. 51 extract, modified)

Similar to Laozi 17, chapter 51 describes a self-emanation of things (which may include the lives of the people) that arises from a mode of respecting the dao and de (virtue; efficacy). By respecting these and not domineering, things are allowed to flourish.

In conjunction with the understanding of ziran as representative of the activity of the people, it is sometimes argued that the corresponding characteristic of the sage’s activity is represented by wuwei (Gao 2021: 174; Wang 2010). Such an understanding offers a means to understand ziran in the following context.

When speech is sparse, self-emanation (ziran) ensues. A whirlwind does not last a morning. A downpour does not last a day. What is the cause of this? Heaven and earth – but even these can’t make them last. How, then, should humans be able to? (Laozi 2007: 59, ch. 23, extract, modified)

If we adopt a political understanding of this passage, the “sparse words” might be understood as those of the sage ruler – sparse words indicate a sparsity of orders or interventions, and this is thus a sign of non-coercive (wuwei) activity. In this understanding, the self-emanation of the people arises from this. When paired with the metaphor of extreme weather not lasting very long, the implication is that sudden bursts of words, such as erratic orders, would not lead to a stable state of affairs over a sustained period. We may note here that natural metaphors are used, involving wind and rain, but there is no suggestion that what is “natural” is by default good. In fact, the chapter warns precisely against emulating erratic weather patterns, given that erratic weather comes to an end. These natural patterns include both unbridled emanation of wind and rain as well as their demise. The activity of the sage is not to blindly mimic all patterns of nature, but to cultivate their activity to come in line with certain patterns that are more conducive to longevity. In this case, it is the exercise of restraint and, in a political context, the delivery of few orders, comparable to a state of mild weather. There is, we see, no sharp distinction between human effort and what is natural. An effort of restraint is required to bring one in line with more persistent natural states.

The following is one of the most frequently discussed instances of ziran in the Laozi and one that gives rise to a wide range of interpretations.

The dao is great. The heavens are great. The earth is great. The king is also great. In the land there are four greats, and the king takes his place as one of them. The human takes form from (fa 法) the earth. The earth takes form from the heavens. The heavens take form from the dao. The dao takes form from its self-emanation (ziran). (Laozi 2007: 63, ch. 25, extract, modified)

There are roughly three main lines of interpretation of the final sentence in this chapter. One of these is rarely adopted in contemporary scholarship, and even the earliest commentaries object to this reading, but it is still worthy of consideration given that it is the most immediately obvious based on the grammar of the four statements. This reading is that ziran, like the earth, the heavens, and the dao, is an entity to be emulated. As Feng Youlan 馮友蘭 (1894–1990) made clear, and as is also suggested in several earlier commentaries, this is not a valid reading.^[4] Nowhere else in the Laozi do we find ziran as an entity in this way. The most common reading, which is in contrast with this, is that three elements of the world can serve as models of emulation for the human: the dao, the heavens, and the earth. The dao itself is modeled on nothing but its own self-emanation. Within this reading there are different understandings of the final character fa (model, emulate, take form from). One is that self-emanation is itself the model of the dao. Alternatively, as in the commentaries attributed to He Shanggong 河上公 (c. 200–c. 150 bce), there is no model at all. The remark on this passage suggests that the dao emanates of itself and does not take anything at all as its model (quoted in Chen 2003: 173). In this reading, there is some inconsistency in the usage of fa between the first three sentences and the last – the fa of the final line would serve only to maintain the parallel structure of this sequence but would not contain any semantic content. A third reading is held by Wang Zhongjiang (2010), namely that what are “self-emanating” here are the ten thousand things and not the dao. The dao facilitates the ziran of the ten thousand things non-coercively (wuwei). Insofar as the human is involved in this chain of emulation, the passage seems to advise a wuwei approach, either emulating the ziran of the dao (according to, e.g., Feng Youlan) or aligning with the ziran of the people (as in Wang 2010).

We might refer to this non-coercive approach as the cultivation of a negative virtue on the part of the sage, insofar as it is the cultivation of doing less rather than more. However, it brings about the positive emanation of the ten thousand things, or the people – their unbridled self-emanation. In the philosophy of balance promoted in the Laozi, adhering to the interplay of opposites observed in the world, the emanation should be complemented by a corresponding reversal. In the following chapter, we begin to see the restrictive form that this reversal takes by contrast to unbridled emanation.

A tree that you embrace with both arms emerges from a tiny sprout. A tower that is nine stories high emerges from a basket of earth. Climbing a height of hundreds or thousands of steps begins under your feet. Those who act on things will be defeated by them. Those who grasp things will lose them. Therefore the sage will not act and thus not be defeated, will not hold on and thus not lose. When the people follow their tasks they are continuously defeated at the completion. Therefore it is said: Be as careful with respect to the end as with respect to the beginning, then you will not suffer defeat in your undertakings. Therefore the sage desires not desiring and does not esteem goods that are hard to obtain; learns not learning and returns to that which the masses of people have passed by. He is able to support the own course (ziran) of the ten thousand things and does not dare to act on them. (Laozi 2007: 147–149, ch. 64, extract, modified)

Again here, ziran describes the self-emanation of the ten thousand things that is left undisturbed by the sage. The first part of the passage quoted above describes the large emanating from the small – a large tree from a seed, a journey from a step, and so on. All of these indicate a positive mode of unimpeded emanation. This lack of impediment is indicated by the absence of acting or grasping. In directional terms, this indicates an outward, non-returning course. However, the passage does not only encourage the cultivation of these seeds, as it says, “Be as careful with respect to the end as with respect to the beginning.” In addition to the unimpeded ziran mode of emanation is a movement that happens in the opposite direction. It is a “desiring not to desire” (yu bu yu 欲不欲) and a “learning not to learn” (xue bu xue 學不學). Here, small desires do not lead to greater desires. Instead, there is an impulse toward less desiring and less learning. The sage “returns to that which the masses of people have passed by.” It is the restraint of the sage – who returns to the origin rather than emanating forth like the people, who practices wuwei (“absence of action”), “not desiring,” and “not learning” – that allows the ten thousand things to unfold.

If the reading can be accepted that understands the ten thousand things, including the people, acting in an unimpeded self-emanating manner and the sage complementing this emanation with the exercise of restraint, then is it the case that the ten thousand things are on a natural path while the sage acts artificially? I argue that this is not the case, because the general patterns of the world are such that the impulse to desire and the impulse to curtail desire are both conducive to the prolonging of life. There is thus no reason why one should be deemed more “natural” than the other. The sage provides the negative non-learning and non-desiring component, “returning to that which the masses of people have passed by,” thus allowing the people, or the ten thousand things, to fulfill the positively emanating component. To reveal that aspect of nature embodied by the sage, let us examine the notion of “returning” (fan) in the Laozi.

3 Reversal (fan 反)

As we saw above in the context of the weather metaphors of Laozi 23, the Laozi does not prescribe an emulation of all that is “natural.” Furthermore, the natural self-emanation of the people is not contrasted with an “artificial” mode of action on the part of the sage. Rather, both emanation and return are parts of Laozian nature. That the sage’s activity is contrastive to the emanation of the people does not make it unnatural, as it is in coherence with the broadest patterns of nature, which include more than merely an emanative mode.

The notion of reversal is closely linked in the Laozi with the notion of return. The character fan 反 translated here as “reversal” implies both reversal between opposites and the movement of “returning” (fan 返) (Huang 2014; Liu 2017). The moment of return with which the sage aligns is characterized in the Laozi as a “returning to a state of no things” (復歸於無物; Laozi 14), “each returning to their root” (各復歸其根; Laozi 16), “returning to infancy” (復歸於嬰兒; Laozi 28), or “returning to the unhewn wood” (復歸於樸; Laozi 28). The Laozi admires the potency of the infant – their unrestricted desires and immediate bodily responses resemble something of the sage (see Laozi 10 and 20). We see also from the Laozi, however, that restraint in the form of “desiring not to desire” is also a quality of the sage. Within the context of the Laozi, there is no reason to think that the original immediacy of the infant is natural and the cultivated restraint of the sage artificial. To make this interpretation would be to impose a nature/nurture and concomitant nature/artifice distinction into the text.

The most significant appearance of “reversal” (fan) comes in the following chapter.

Reversal (fan) is how the dao moves; weakness is how the dao is used. The things of the world are generated from presence (you 有). Presence is generated from nonpresence (wu 無). (Laozi 2007: 97, ch. 40, modified)

The correspondence between “reversal” and the Laozian interplay of opposites is clear in this chapter with the discussion of reversal in conjunction with the most general and abstract pair of opposites: you 有 (presence; substantiveness) and wu 無 (nonpresence; nothingness). The idea that reversal is the movement of the dao is paired with a parallel statement that the dao is used through softness or weakness (ruo 弱). As we can see from the chapter below, this weakness also contains an element of reversal: the reversal of the conventional notion that strength and rigidity are qualities of that which overcomes or defeats.

Nothing in the world is smoother and softer than water; but nothing surpasses it in overcoming the rigid and the hard, because it is not to be changed. That water defeats the solid, that the soft defeats the hard: There is no one in the world who does not know this, but still no one is able to practice it. Therefore the words of the sage are: To take on the shameful in the state, this is to be lord of the altars of earth and grain. To take on the unfavorable in the state, this is to be king of the world. Correct words are like the reverse (fan). (Laozi 2007: 181, ch. 78, extract, modified).

Along with the subversion of the tendency to favor the strong and rigid is the subversion of the honorific – the sage takes on the shameful position. Even the notion of the favorable is itself subverted in the second last sentence. From this inversion of what “favorable” means follows an even more general pronouncement about the inherent inversion that is endemic in the use of language.

These instances of subversion should be considered alongside other instances of the interplay of opposites. These include, for instance, chapter 39 which states that “the noble has the base as its root” and “the high has the low as its foundation” (Laozi 2007: 95, ch. 39, modified). Chapter 2 states that “presence and non-presence generate each other” and “difficult and easy give rise to each other” (Laozi 2007: 7, ch. 2, modified). What precisely is implied by these statements remains somewhat elusive until we inspect more concrete instances of how these relationships between opposites arise. The statements in chapter 2, for instance, are preceded by the lines “Everybody in the world knows the beautiful as being beautiful. Thus, there is already ugliness. Everybody knows what is good. Thus, there is that which is not good” (Laozi 2007: 7, ch. 2, punctuation modified). We see here that it is from judgements of the “beautiful” and the “good” that the “ugly” and the “not good” arise. These observations of the interconnectedness of opposites are not, however, mere recognitions of the relativity of judgements. The Laozi also recommends bringing states that have become extreme toward their opposite. For instance, chapter 4 recommends “blunting the sharp,” “unravelling the tangled,” “dimming the bright,” and “unifying the dispersed.”

The following chapter illustrates clearly that these recommendations involving patterns of inversion are in line with the general patterns of the world identified in the Laozi:

The dao generates one. One generates two. Two generates three. Three generates the ten thousand things. The ten thousand things; carrying yin 陰, embracing yang 陽, blending qi 氣 to create harmony […]. Things (wu 物) are added to by diminishment, and diminished by addition […]. (Laozi 2007: 103, ch. 42, modified)

We can see a process of emanation from the dao which might be described as ziran – where something emanates from the dao, and more unfolding subsequently ensues spontaneously. But the patterns of the world observed in the Laozi are not only of this ever-increasing kind. While the emanation of the people and the ten thousand things is allowed by the sage through non-coerciveness, the sage also enacts the moment of returning in order to bring about the stability inherent in the interplay of opposites. This is akin to the interplay of yin and yang and the tendency of addition to bring about diminishment and vice versa laid out in chapter 42.

Chapter 25 was examined above in the context of ziran. Let us now observe the entire chapter and consider how “returning” complements the notion of “emanation”:

The presence of things arising from turbidity, prior to the birth of the sky and earth; What stillness! What emptiness! Standing independently and not changing, traversing our surroundings without danger, one may think of it as mother to the sky and earth. I do not know its name; it is represented by the character dao and if one had to put a name to it, it would be “large.” Large and thus proceeding; proceeding and thus at a distance; at a distance and thus returning (fan). The dao is great […] [remainder of the chapter quoted above]. (Laozi 2007: 63, ch. 25, modified)

The connection between largeness and proceeding here is explained by Wang Bi as that something so great cannot be contained in one place and therefore must proceed (Wang 2011: 66). It is so large that it comes to pervade all space. If we observe the directionality of the processes described in this chapter, however, we notice that there are two primary directions. One is the outward emanation from the dao toward all things (or, in the interpretation of Wang Zhongjiang, the emanation of the ten thousand things supported by the dao). The other is the reversal toward the dao. In the political philosophy of the Laozi, the people embody the outward emanation. The sage, on the other hand, engages in reversal and moves back toward the dao.

Similar to how the dao is described in Laozi 25 as great, thus proceeding, thus distant, and thus returning, “dark efficacy” (xuan de 玄德) is described below as consisting of depth, of distance, and thus as returning. These three elements of dark efficacy are conducive to aligning with what is great, as we see below:

Those who in antiquity excelled at being attentive to the dao did not illuminate the people, but kept them simple (yu 愚). The difficulty in governing the people comes from their excessive cleverness (zhi 智). Thus, to master the state through cleverness is to harm the state. Not to master the state by cleverness is to bring fortune to the state. Knowledge of these two principles is an enduring pattern. Constantly knowing an enduring pattern is known as dark efficacy. Dark efficacy is profound; it is far-reaching; it engages with things and returns; from this may be achieved alignment with what is great. (Laozi 2007: 151, ch. 65, modified)

Connecting the latter part of the chapter – which discusses the process of returning and aligning with what is great – with the former part, we see one way in which the notion of return is substantiated in governance. The process of illuminating the people and of the people gaining more wisdom or “cleverness” (zhi) is a positively developing process. Just like the dao becoming great and expanding to fill all space, the movement toward knowing is a movement toward a multitude. In order to establish the balance inherent in the interplay of opposites, this movement toward what is great or multitudinous should be complemented by a returning to sparsity – in this case, a kind of unenlightened simplicity (yu), similar to the notion of pu 樸 (“unhewn wood”), which refers elsewhere in the Laozi to a simple, unadorned state toward which the sage returns (Moeller 2006: 8–9).

Interesting in chapter 65 is that although the statement that “not to master the state by cleverness is to bring fortune to the state” seems to be the inverse of “to master the state through cleverness is to harm the state,” the chapter nonetheless considers these to be two principles of which one should constantly be aware, rather than merely direct and inverse formulations of one principle. Their separateness reflects how the movement toward more cleverness, both on the part of the ruler and the part of the people, does not cease to exist by virtue of the movement toward lack of cleverness. Rather, these two movements, toward what is more and the complementary return toward what is less, exist as a pair.

4 Zhizu and zhizhi: natural but not ziran

The preceding examinations of the opposite and complementary modes of self-emanation (ziran) and reversal (fan) in the Laozi are intended to preface the principal argument of this article, that zhizu and zhizhi are aligned with reversal and not self-emanation. Scholars often place the Laozian notions of zhizu and zhizhi in close connection with ziran (D’Ambrosio 2023; Zhu 2024). While I agree they are closely related, I argue that their relationship is complementary and indeed opposing. They belong to distinct aspects of the natural patterns observed in the Laozian worldview. While ziran is the course that unfolds in the absence of intervention, curtailment, or constraint, zhizu and zhizhi are in alignment with the “reversal” (fan) and return to where emanation began – the “return to the root” (fugui 復歸).

“Mastering cessation” contains both an epistemic and a practical element. It is emblematic of the tendency in Chinese philosophy to focus on the “this worldly” rather than the transcendent (Yang 2019). It is indicative of the tendency to recognize the inherent limitations of human knowledge and results in a tendency for epistemic activity to be geared toward a certain purpose rather than deriving pure ideas for their own sake (Wang 2022). Furthermore, “knowing enough” is interconnected with the tendency in the Laozi to avoid extremes (D’Ambrosio 2023). Just because the Laozi admires the spontaneity of the infant, and indeed recognizes that it resembles something of the sage’s attitude, this does not mean that the state of infancy should be idealized as the only natural and hence admirable mode of engagement with the world. Observation of the world is not geared toward deriving a pure, abstract notion of “the natural”; it is rather geared toward prolonging one’s existence in the world or, in a political context, prolonging the endurance of the state.

Despite the frequent association of the Laozi with a philosophy of contentment, how this contentment fits with the overall philosophy of the Laozi tends to be overlooked (Cao 2017). This is perhaps due to the fact that the conceptual pair of zhizu and zhizhi tend not to be at the forefront of scholarly interpretations of Laozian philosophy when compared with more commonly examined concepts such as ziran and wuwei. The nuances of how they connect with the broader philosophy of the Laozi thus remain underexamined. Zhizu and zhizhi seem to provide an attractive inroad to grasping the ethical outlook of the Laozi, as they correspond with a mode of reasoning familiar to us in the modern West about the natural consequences of unbridled pursuit of benefit. As noted by Duperon (2017), however, these notions should not be too readily translated into calculative reasoning divorced from the philosophical context of the Laozi. Another pernicious barrier to their proper understanding is ziran being understood as an unadulterated state of nature, and zhizu and zhizhi hence simply being placed in alignment with this resistance to the corruption of a primitive natural state. As should be clear from the preceding sections, this is not the understanding of ziran put forward in the present article. This section aims to show how zhizu and zhizhi align with a complementary and opposing notion of “reversal” or “return.”

That zhizu and zhizhi are representative of curtailing or tempering, products of reversal rather than emanation, is clear from the following chapter, which presents these as a movement of returning to one’s self.

To know others is to be clever; to know oneself is to have clarity. To overcome others is to have force; to overcome oneself is to be strong. To know what is enough (zhizu) is to be rich. To act out of strength is to be determined. The one who does not lose his place is long-lasting. The one who dies but is not forgotten has longevity. (Laozi 2007: 81, ch. 33, modified)

This chapter begins with a comparison of “cleverness” – which we saw to be pernicious from a Laozian perspective in chapter 65 above – with a superior notion of “clarity.” The superior means of knowing that leads to this clarity is knowledge of the “self” (zi). This comparison between cleverness and clarity is set with a parallel comparison of the superior “strength” derived from overcoming oneself relative to the “force” used in overcoming others. There is thus a reflexive focus on that point, the “self” (zi) from which the emanation began, as opposed to an expanding emanation outward from this point. It is the returning, or reversal, of one’s attention and effort toward the point from which the emanation arose. From this inward direction results knowing what is “enough” (zu 足) rather than attempting to know the uncontainable multitude represented by the opposite direction of outward emanation. Through this returning, the chapter states, one achieves a kind of wealth. When one strives forward, on the other hand, one only has determination. Through this mode of returning to one’s self, one does not “lose one’s place.”

In the following passage, we also see a preference for attending to what is close to the source of emanation rather than what is distant.

Reputation or body – which is closer? Body or property – which is more? To get or to lose – which is more distressing? Where there is deep sympathy, there is great expenditure. Where there is much stored, there will be heavy loss. Thus, to know enough (zhizu) is to be without disgrace. To master cessation (zhizhi) is to be without peril. And long duration becomes possible. (Laozi 2007: 107, ch. 44, modified)

The body (shen 身), which is close, is juxtaposed with what is distant – social names and external goods which one might attempt to attach to oneself or to store (cang 藏). Also advised against is an excessive care (ai 愛) for others, as this again implies a focus on what is dispersed outwardly. If one is to attain longevity, then one must become aligned with natural patterns not only by facilitating this emanation, or unfolding, but also by “stopping” (zhi 止) at the point at which “enough” (zu 足) is reached.

The following chapter mentions zhizu in association with movement toward the center as opposed to emanation in outward directions:

When the world has the dao, saddle-horses are returned to fertilize the fields. When the world does not have the dao, war horses are bred in the outskirts. Of crimes, none is greater than to allow desires. Of disasters, none is greater than not to master satisfaction (bu zhizu 不知足). Of calamities, none is sadder than the desire to acquire. Thus, the satisfaction accompanied by the mastery of satisfaction (zhizu) is constant satisfaction. (Laozi 2007: 111, ch. 46, modified)

We see quite clearly here that the Laozi does not merely recommend unbridled development. It juxtaposes an ordered state of affairs with a disordered one. In the former, the world is in accordance with a proper path or dao, and here the horses are brought back to the fields in the center of the kingdom rather than sent out to the borders. This movement of returning is paired with the idea that the “knowing of what is enough” results in robust satisfaction, while wanting more is likely to result in calamity. As Duperon (2017) points out, zhizu should not be understood only in terms of abstract rational judgement, but is connected with embodied practices. While Duperon links zhizu with specific breath cultivation practices, it seems from passages such as chapter 46 that more general practices under the theme of reversal or returning, such as the returning of the horses to the fields, are representative of a zhizu attitude.

In line with the notion of returning to what is small or simple, Laozi 32 discusses zhizhi in the context of the simple state of unadorned wood (pu 樸), stating that although the unadorned wood is “small” – it hasn’t developed into something great or grand – none under the sky can treat it as their subordinate (chen 臣). The chapter then states that if the marquises and kings can hold to this simple unadorned state, then the “ten thousand things,” including the people, will submit to them of themselves. The dao is constantly without a name, the chapter begins, and the “wood” being carved signifies political names or titles being assigned. In this context it states:

When the carving is begun, then there are names. When there are names then one must also master cessation (zhizhi). The mastery of cessation is that by which one remains without danger. (Laozi 2007: 79, ch. 32, extract, modified)

Once the wood has been carved – that is, political titles are given – then it is important that one should be sensitive to the dangers inherent in this “carving of the wood.” One must ensure they have a mastery of cessation in order to ensure their safety. This mastery of cessation is a returning toward the state of the unhewn wood. While one cannot return to an idealistically pure situation in which titles are not assigned, their having been assigned can be complemented by a constant returning toward the unhewn state.

Along with those chapters containing zhizu and zhizhi discussed above, this investigation also warrants an examination of chapter 12, which combines the tendency to abstain from engaging in more – that is, knowing what is enough – with the directional preference of returning to the center rather than proceeding toward what is external.

The five colors make one’s eyes blind. Galloping horses and hunting in the fields make one’s heart mad. Goods that are difficult to obtain obstruct one’s ways. The five tastes make one’s palate obtuse. The five tones make one’s ears deaf. Therefore the sage orders like this: He cares for the stomach, not for the eyes. Thus he gets rid of that and chooses this. (Laozi 2007: 29, ch. 12, modified)

This chapter exemplifies the attitude of not engaging in more than is necessary. We see this through the sage’s preference for focusing on the stomach – the part of the body that processes consumption and is most directly connected with our survival – over a focus on the senses. The dangers of undue attachment to what is received by sensory organs are warned against in the series of references to the eyes, ears, and mouth. A directional contrast between the inward and outward is thus established in the comparison between the stomach and the eyes. The sensory organs, and particularly the eyes, are capable of engaging with what is far from the body. A preference for “this” over “that” is expressed – in other words, a preference for what is close at hand over what is distant, and for what is sufficient over striving for more. The stomach, and the inward direction represented by “this,” stand for a mode of returning and staying close to the point from which one’s existence emanates.

Returning to the concepts of zhizu and zhizhi, these are elucidated in the Laozi as a focus on the self rather than on overcoming other people or attaining goods or titles, as returning one’s attention to the inner affairs of the state rather than focusing on the borders, and as returning toward the unadorned state of the uncarved wood. In the language of Laozi 12, they represent a focus on “this,” or the stomach, over “that,” or the eyes. In each case, they represent a return to the inward direction rather than outward emanation. Attention to these aspects of Laozian philosophy can provide a caution for political readings that focus only on the Laozi’s emanative aspect and hence consider the Laozi to be aligned with growth-oriented non-interventionist economics (Moeller 2006: 91–92).

5 Conclusions

This article has reexamined the relationship between Laozian ziran and “nature” or “the natural” by considering the role the former plays in the context of Laozian philosophy. In particular, it is observed that while the notion of “restraint” might be in tension with certain conceptions of what is “natural” in certain systems, such as a classical economic model, there is no such identifiable conflict in the Laozian worldview. In semiotic terms, this illustrates the difficulty of translating philosophical concepts from one semiotic system to another. In this process, we cannot consider the terms in isolation but rather in their functioning within the semiotic systems to which they belong. Translation is thus a mapping of systems rather than terms.

In a Laozian context, the natural mode of returning manifests at the human level in activities of restraint such as “knowing enough” (zhizu) and “mastering cessation” (zhizhi). These activities complement the (also natural) spontaneous self-emanation signified by ziran. The Laozian view of natural patterns thus cannot be limited to emanation alone, as there is a tendency for things to unfold but also for things to return toward the state from which they unfolded. To align with the patterns of the world requires, from a Laozian perspective, knowing the appropriate point of cessation and returning toward the point from which emanation began. Only with this interplay of opposite directions can the stability conducive to the longevity of the person and the polity be established.

Readings of a Laozian approach to governance as simply allowing things to develop unimpeded have been used to support a market-essentialist approach to political economy, which holds that if markets are unimpeded then indefinite growth will naturally ensue. From a Laozian perspective, however, the patterns of the world do not only bear this emanative characteristic; they also contain a tendency toward the reverse – toward diminishment and demise. Often in the Laozi, it is the masses who embody spontaneous self-emanation (ziran), and the sage who must know the point of cessation and returning to the root. The sage, therefore, does not only non-coercively allow the emanation of all things but also provides an opposite and complementary counteraction.