Tao Te Ching — Chapter 5

Heaven and earth are not partial; they treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs. The sage is not partial; he treats the people as straw dogs. The space between heaven and earth — is it not like a bellows? Empty, yet it never collapses; the more it moves, the more it pours out. Many words exhaust themselves quickly; better to hold to the center.

James Legge (1891)

Heaven and earth do not act from (the impulse of) any wish to be benevolent; they deal with all things as the dogs of grass are dealt with. The sages do not act from (any wish to be) benevolent; they deal with the people as the dogs of grass are dealt with. May not the space between heaven and earth be compared to a bellows? 'Tis emptied, yet it loses not its power; 'Tis moved again, and sends forth air the more. Much speech to swift exhaustion lead we see; Your inner being guard, and keep it free.

Dwight Goddard (1919)

Heaven and earth are not like humans, they are impartial. They regard all things as insignificant, as though they were playthings made of straw. The wise man is also impartial. To him all men are alike and unimportant. The space between heaven and earth is like a bellows, it is empty but does not collapse; it moves and more and more issues. A gossip is soon empty, it is doubtful if he can be impartial.

The phrase bù rén — literally "not benevolent," "not humane" — has shocked readers, since rén is the supreme Confucian virtue. But the meaning is not cruelty; it is impartiality. The "straw dogs" (chú gǒu) were ritual figures, treated with great honor during the ceremony and then discarded without sentiment afterward. Heaven and earth, Laozi says, do not play favorites; they neither cherish nor despise. Sun and rain fall on all alike. The sage who follows the Tao adopts the same even-handedness toward all people rather than partial affection toward a chosen few.

The bellows image is among the most beautiful in the book. The empty leather sack of a forge bellows seems like nothing, yet the more it is worked the more wind it gives — emptiness as inexhaustible source again, now with motion added. The closing line turns inward: duō yán shuò qióng, too many words run dry; better to shǒu zhōng, hold to the center, the still middle. Goddard's free rendering of that line as a comment on the gossip captures the spirit if not the letter — speech that pours out empties; the center holds.

The impartiality of heaven recalls the Gospel image of a Father "who makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust" — divine generosity that does not discriminate by merit. The Stoic conception of Nature as utterly even-handed, dealing the same fate to emperor and slave, is a close philosophical cousin.

"Hold to the center" anticipates the contemplative counsel found across traditions — the Buddhist middle way, the Hesychast guarding of the heart, the Quaker centering down — all of which treat the still inward point as more reliable than the outward flood of words and reactions.

Genuine fairness can feel cold because it refuses favoritism — but it is this very impartiality that lets life be reliable rather than capricious. And when words multiply, they tend to lose force and exhaust the speaker; holding to a quiet center conserves both clarity and strength.

The bellows is a fine image for sustainable energy: it is the returning to emptiness — the rest, the pause, the not-speaking — that lets the next exhalation carry force. In a culture of constant output and commentary, "many words exhaust themselves quickly" is a sharp observation; the people who keep their power over time are usually the ones who say less and stay anchored, rather than pouring themselves out into every passing reaction.