The Tao Is Bland and Without Flavor, Yet Inexhaustible
This chapter contrasts the Tao's lack of any sensory appeal with the way music and fine food stop passersby in their tracks, arguing that the least exciting thing is also the only one that never runs out.
The chapter opens by promising that whoever holds the great image (大象, the Tao's formless form) draws the whole world to them, and that people can go there and come to no harm, finding safety and tranquility. Laozi then contrasts this with music and fine food (樂與餌), which make a passing traveler stop — an immediate, sensory pull the Tao conspicuously lacks. When the Tao is put into words, he says, it comes out bland and without flavor (淡乎其無味); looked at, it isn't sufficient to be seen; listened to, it isn't sufficient to be heard. The chapter's final claim is the payoff for this apparent deficiency: used, it cannot be exhausted, meaning the very blandness that fails to grab the senses is what allows it to be drawn on endlessly, unlike stimulating things that satisfy briefly and are then used up.
The Tao, expressed in words, is bland and without flavor.
Tao Te Ching