Great perfection seems chipped,
yet use will not wear it out.
Great fullness seems empty,
yet use will not drain it.
Great straightness seems bent,
great skill seems awkward,
great eloquence seems tongue-tied.
Restlessness overcomes cold, stillness overcomes heat.
Limpid and still,
one can be a leader in the empire.
The Tao does not have ideals, for ideals exist outside of life—in the mind’s imagining of what life never is—and all the Tao cares for is life. In life, even sunsets get tedious after 15 minutes. What the people are impressed by—what they call great skill or eloquence—is usually that which affirms their vanities. True eloquence, perfection, skill—they stumble like water over the rough rocks of ideals.
So greatness never comes from a straightforward walk in the sunshine, but through circuitous routes in manifold terrains and conditions. And if one is truly great, one doubts whether one has arrived anywhere. One probably doesn’t care.
And should greatness be achieved, emptiness is the reward. Greatness’ chief attribute is emptiness—whether the greatness is achieved through art, war, love, money, or sacrifice. And when emptiness comes, what then?
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