The Ancient Masters Were Subtle and Mysterious
Portrays early practitioners of the Tao as so cautious and undefinable that the chapter can only describe them through a string of comparisons rather than a direct definition.
Chapter 15 opens by praising figures from an idealized past: "the ancient masters who were well versed in the Tao were subtle, mysterious, profound, penetrating — too deep to be understood." Because they resist direct description, the chapter resorts to simile after simile: cautious as someone crossing a winter stream, hesitant as someone wary of neighbors on every side, courteous as a guest, yielding as ice about to melt, simple as uncarved wood, murky as muddied water, expansive as a valley. That murkiness is deliberate rather than a failure of clarity — the chapter asks who can make the muddy clear by stilling it gradually, who can bring the still to life by gradually stirring it, describing a patience that lets clarity settle on its own timetable rather than being forced. The chapter closes by saying such masters "did not seek fullness," which is exactly why, being incomplete on purpose, they were able to be renewed rather than worn out — a portrait of wisdom that looks, from the outside, indecisive or hard to read, presented here as the mark of depth, not weakness.
The ancient masters who were well versed in the Tao were subtle, mysterious, profound, penetrating.
Tao Te Ching