《玄珠录》

My late master's surname was Wang. In the secular world the master was called Wang Hui, and the Dharma name was Xuanlan. The family's ancestors migrated at the end of the Western Jin from Taiyuan in Bingzhou, and the family is now from Purun in Mianzhu, Guanghan. I, Taixiao, inherited the master's lineage and entered the Daoist gate through the master's kindness. How would I dare conceal the virtue (De) of my predecessor, and how could I possibly fathom the depths of such a nature?

I once heard the elders of the village say that at fifteen the master suddenly became extraordinary, staying alone in a quiet chamber and speaking little. From then on the master repeatedly foretold the deaths of Daoist priests and the lifespans of children, and every prediction came true, so people said the master could discern what is hidden and subtle. In the master's thirties, the master also practiced divination, but after several years found the results hard to rely on, gave it up, and turned to studying the mystery of one's nature and the methods of returning to the root and the true origin. The master was keen and quick-witted, with a nimble mind, and read widely in Mahayana Buddhism, so that on encountering any matter the master could argue it from first principles. The master wrote a commentary on Master Yan's Zhigui, annotated the Laozi in two fascicles, and studied the arts of the immortals together with the methods of refining elixirs and taking medicines, thinking carefully about everything and testing it in person.

Having grasped the essentials, the master set out for Mount Mao with two or three friends from the village. Halfway there, the master judged that the companions lacked the aptitude for immortal cultivation and turned back, sighing that no one could be found to practice the way of long life together. Since this person differed from others, the master reasoned, the proof must be sought within. From then on, whether sitting, rising, walking, or resting, the master made the cultivation of the Dao (Way) the one essential task. The master read the scriptures and treatises of the Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist teachings broadly, investigating their fundamental meanings. Wisdom unfolded of its own accord, thought grew deep, and eloquence flowed like a river, endless and unbroken.

The master was also skilled at reading faces, judging the quality of silkworm eggs, and foretelling whether a harvest would be abundant or lean. The master could distinguish the advantages and drawbacks of a house site, observe the atmosphere of a burial ground, and even perceive the forms of ghosts and spirits, so everyone believed in the master. One family wanted to build a house and had gathered the timber, and asked whether it was a suitable time to begin. The master said it was not. The next year they asked again, and the answer was the same; a year later, the answer was still the same. A few months after that, the family became entangled in a lawsuit and had to sell their property to cope with it, so they could never build, and only then did they remember the master's words. In another family a child had a disease of the eyes; after the family made offerings to a rotten hollow in the mulberry tree by their gate, the child recovered. When people came to ask about illness, the master prescribed and compounded medicines for them, and these later proved effective, which struck people as quite marvelous. Someone who regularly came to ask about misfortune was told that things would not improve until the first day of the fourth month of the following year, but that person died on the night of the thirtieth, just before that month. Whenever local families met with difficulty, near or far, they came to ask the master, who pointed out good and ill fortune to their faces; people believed it, and afterward events often matched what the master had said. There was also a wealthy family who brought their children and relatives to have their features read, and the master explained to each one their wealth or poverty and length of life, judging in advance what had not yet happened. Most of the master's extraordinary deeds were like these examples. The master also taught the Nine Palaces, the Six Jia, and the arts of Yin-Yang numerology, and drew a simple and practical four-part Dunjia diagram.

When the master was forty-seven, Li Xiaoyi, Chief Administrator of Yizhou, summoned the master and treated the master with great respect, inviting the master to tour the temples together and to debate the Buddhist doctrine of emptiness with the eminent monks. The master's words united the principle of the four propositions and made plain the doctrine of the One Vehicle. The assembly pressed question after question, yet no one could refute the master, and Li Xiaoyi was delighted. At that time the court granted permission for the master to leave home as a Daoist priest, with registration at the Zhizhen Abbey. I was then only two years old.

After the master settled in Chengdu, people came from near and far to pay their respects, and people from every quarter revered the master's bearing. High officials and noble persons often visited to discuss the scriptures and ask about the Dao, and at parting they would often ask the master to write a book. For this reason the master composed the Gateway of Contemplation of the Perfected and Bodhisattvas in two fascicles and gave it to those who sincerely sought the Dao. Once the master was walking on the road between two prefectural cities. The road was quiet and travelers were few, and a worthy man was following several dozen paces behind. An old man who looked like a hermit came walking toward them and stared at the master for a long time. Then he said to the worthy man, "This person is a Perfected One." The worthy man asked why he said so. The old man replied, "The pupils of this person's eyes are golden." With that he departed. From this we see that the master's virtue also matched the honorific title "Perfected One."

After the master passed sixty, the master gradually stopped speaking of fortune and misfortune, and often sat in stillness, forgetting the self and gathering in the mind's thoughts. At one point the master was imprisoned for a year over some other matter, and in prison, deep in contemplation, composed the Diagram of the Profound Repository of Primal Chaos. In later years the master also wrote the Verses on the Nine Perfected and Their Attested Realization and the Gateways of Practice in the Dao and De in two fascicles. Dharma Master Xie of Yizhou, Venerable Du of Pengzhou, Refining Master Li of Hanzhou, and others, together with the master's disciples, often consulted the master on profound principles and the teachings of the scriptures, and recorded separately what they heard, calling these records the Private Records. After the master expounded the meaning of "Hongyuan" (Vast Origin), later disciples called the master "Master Hongyuan," and the master did not refuse the title. At people's request the master also lectured on the Laozi, speaking extemporaneously while it was written down on the spot, and this was compiled as the Oral Instructions on the Laozi Classic in two fascicles, which circulates in the world.

The master lived to the age of seventy-two. In the first year of Shengong under Empress Wu Zetian of the Tang (the year wuxu), the imperial envoy Zhang Changqi, bearing an edict, came to the master's home to extend an invitation. The master rode the post-station carriages to the capital, and on the ninth day of the intercalary tenth month passed away at the Sanxiang Post Station in Luozhou, "feathered transformation" (the Daoist term for a Daoist's passing). Alas, once a person is gone, where is the Dao? If no scriptures and writings were passed down, who would know the master's teachings a thousand years from now?

Su You's Record of Numinous Verifications gives a brief account of the master's deeds, but I, Taixiao, am shallow in talent and learning and have not been able to bring out fully the master's compassionate instruction; and although I have heard and seen some things myself, my understanding is not deep. I have therefore carefully gathered the disciples' Private Records and compiled them into two fascicles, to which I have added a prefatory biography, and titled the whole Mysterious Pearl. I took the name "pearl" because the contents are clear, bright, and perfectly rounded, and are transmitted without ceasing; those who love the mysterious Dao may treasure it in their hearts as a jewel. The master once called it the Dharma Treasure as well. Hence the Preface to the Dharma Treasure says: the sacred scriptures of the sages show shallow meanings to shallow readers and reveal profound principles to deep thinkers; shallow and deep are both penetrated, and the true and the false each have their uses. I privately hold that, from ancient times to the present, writings that discuss the mysterious principle, empty arguments, and the floating phrases and clever turns of "pure conversation" cannot be counted as shortcuts to the great Dao. Without the mysterious pearl found at the Red River, by what could one illuminate these principles?

All principles of the ten directions can be expressed in language; yet any principle that can be spoken is empty and false. A principle that is not spoken merely stands in opposition to these empty and false sayings. Since the principles that are spoken are empty and false, those left unspoken are equally empty and false. If all of these are entirely empty and false, what then is real? In fact, all these principles that seem empty and false are also true. If they are all true, why were they earlier called empty and false? Because once they are put into words, they are called “false.” Why, then, are they also called true? Again, it is only because they are expressed in language that they are called “true.” Why open one’s mouth and speak of these things? It is so that people may grasp that principle. Why do people listen? It is in order to penetrate the inner mind. Why penetrate the inner mind? It is so that people may attain the Dao (the Way).

The myriad things receive the Dao and are thereby born; the myriad things undergo change, yet the Dao itself does not change. This is what is meant by “moving without departing from stillness”: although the myriad things are changing, the root of the Dao remains quiescent and unchanging. Just as with the original seal inscription, the myriad things manifest because they receive the Dao; that the myriad things each differ is so that people may penetrate the inner mind. Why penetrate the inner mind? It is so that people may attain the Dao.

The myriad things receive the Dao and are thereby born; the myriad things undergo change, yet the Dao itself does not change. This is “moving without departing from stillness,” like the original seal inscription, because the myriad things are born by receiving the Dao. The myriad things each differ from one another, and the Dao likewise manifests in accordance with their differences; this is the way in which the Dao responds to and accords with the myriad things. It is like impressing characters in clay: when the seal is pressed upon the clay, the clay originally contains none of these characters, yet the characters on the seal are not diminished on that account. This shows that although the Dao turns along with the myriad things, it does not depart from its still and unchanging foundation. The characters on the seal are not reduced, and many impressions can still be made; the characters on the many pieces of clay are all identical with the original seal. This shows that although the myriad things are changing, the Dao manifests along with them. Hence it is said: “Having already given to others, one is oneself all the more abundant.”

The Dao (the Way) is present everywhere, and all things manifest the working of the Dao. If one takes a responsive place to be the Dao, then an unresponsive place ought not to have the Dao; in that case, once the Dao appears, the Dao elsewhere seems to disappear. If one takes an unresponsive place to be the Dao, then once the Dao manifests, the unresponsive place seems in turn to have lost the Dao. Where, then, is the Dao?

If one can recognize the Dao at its root, then both the admissible and the inadmissible may be called the Dao; if one insists that certain things are not the Dao, then neither the admissible nor the inadmissible can count as the Dao. One should examine the Dao within the realm of things and within cognition, and also examine the Dao within knowing and not-knowing. By observing and inquiring with care, one can attain a correct understanding. The true nature of correct understanding accords with the aspect of emptiness; precisely because of emptiness, the Dao can arise and perish, and yet neither arise nor perish.

The Dao pervades the myriad things, and the myriad things are the Dao. Since the myriad things arise and perish, the Dao accordingly appears as arising and perishing. If one says that the myriad things are all things that may be called the “Dao,” then the Dao becomes one among the myriad things; if one says that only the Dao is constant, are all other things then inconstant?

The Jing (scripture/classic) says: “What is false of itself does not discern the true.” May I ask: how is the true Dao to be cultivated?

Answer: To exhaust the realm under contemplation and to extend cultivation to all things—this is called the correct Dao. Unfold the mind so that it pervades the realm; the cognition that arises thereby depends upon other things. If that on which it depends extends to everything, it becomes a whole. Once the whole is accomplished, it can encompass minute individuals. One then contemplates together the individual and the parts within the realm: throughout, mind and the Dao are taken as the side that contemplates the realm, and the body as the side that is contemplated. Contemplator and contemplated act upon each other, and the dharma-realm—the whole constituted jointly by all things—is thereby brought to fulfillment; when both contemplator and contemplated come to rest, the true substance abides in constant stillness.

Question: The Jing says that the body of the Dao accords with the parts within the realm; that throughout, mind and the Dao are taken as the contemplating side and the body as the contemplated side; that contemplator and contemplated act upon each other, the dharma-realm is fulfilled, and after both come to rest the true substance is constantly still. What does this mean?

Question: The Jing says that the Dao and sentient beings are mutually connected. Are they ultimately the same or different?

Answer: The Dao and sentient beings are both the same and different, both constant and inconstant. Why say this? The Dao and sentient beings arise in dependence upon each other, and so they are called the same; sentient beings arise and perish, while the Dao does not arise or perish, and so they are called different. Since the two are distinct and cannot be classed together as one kind, one also cannot say that they depend upon each other.

Question: If names cannot correspond to one another, why may one still freely say that they are the same or different, constant or inconstant?

Answer: Because these dharmas each have no object with which they can be compared, and they have no fixed cause.

Question: Then how do these names arise? If one admits that there are names, that amounts to saying that one and the same dharma has two names; if one says that there are no names, that amounts to saying that there is not even a single name.

Answer: I am only using words provisionally in order to express it, and only for that reason do these names arise. When one speaks provisionally, it may for the moment be called the same, and it may also be called different; it may be called constant, and it may also be called impermanent (changing and unfixed). When all these ways of speaking are forgotten, it is neither the same nor different, and neither constant nor impermanent. The true nature of the dharma can neither be said to be provisional nor said not to be provisional; it can neither be said to be constant nor said not to be constant.

Question: If it is originally nameless, why still provisionally establish names?

Answer: This is using “silence” to explain this dharma. If one determines it to be silence, then there should be no provisional speech at all in the world; if provisional speech still remains, then this silence is not true silence. A further answer: It is precisely because one sees “silence” that one relies on it to comprehend this dharma and to see what is called the “provisional.” In fact, “silence” originally does not exist either, and from this one knows that the “provisional” likewise has no fixed reality.

The treatise says: The nature of the Dao (the Way) and the nature of sentient beings are both the same as ziran (the spontaneous). Sentient beings come into being by receiving the Dao—are sentient beings then the Dao?

Answer: Although sentient beings come into being by receiving the Dao, they are not identical with the Dao. Precisely because sentient beings are not the Dao itself, cultivation is still required.

Question: If sentient beings are not originally the Dao (the Way), and attain the Dao only after cultivation, is what they attain merely a Dao outside the body? If sentient beings originally lack the Dao, why is it still said that one can attain the Dao through cultivation?

Answer: The nature of sentient beings is not constant and unchanging, so they can attain the Dao through cultivation; the Dao, too, is not fixed and immutable, so it can respond to the cultivation of sentient beings. Sentient beings do not originally call themselves the “Dao”; it is through the Dao that they come to be revealed. Nor does the Dao name itself alone; it is through sentient beings that the designation “Dao” arises. Since each is named by means of the other, one can see that within the Dao there are sentient beings, and within sentient beings there is also the Dao. Although sentient beings are not the Dao, they can cultivate and thereby attain the Dao; although the Dao is not sentient beings, it can answer their cultivation. Therefore the Dao is sentient beings, and sentient beings are the Dao. The two arise together and also pass away together.

The original reality of the Dao is neither arising nor passing away; yet one cannot say that it is wholly unrelated to arising and passing away. Those who practice ru deng cun (entering equality and holding the mind in contemplative abiding—the cultivation of moving toward equality and sustaining the mind in contemplative presence), when they themselves realize the principle, abide in it. While abiding, they also maintain a contemplation that forgets discrimination; when, within that contemplation, they reach a penetrating understanding, they return once more to abiding.

The Dao and sentient beings depend upon each other: if sentient beings are present, there is the mutual identity of the Dao and sentient beings; if discrimination is forgotten, they are forgotten together. The original reality of the Dao is neither arising nor passing away, nor can one say that it is wholly unrelated to arising and passing away. Those who practice ru deng cun, upon realizing the principle, abide in it; within that abiding they carry a contemplation that forgets discrimination, and when in the contemplation they reach a penetrating understanding, they abide once more.

The Dao (the Way) and sentient beings depend on each other: where there are sentient beings, there is the Dao; where there are no sentient beings, there is no Dao to speak of. Sentient beings and the Dao accompany one another, each according with the other. If this is so, why still establish a teaching and specially urge sentient beings to cultivate the Dao?

The answer is this: if sentient beings truly attain the Dao, they have already gone beyond the very matter of “cultivating the Dao”; if the Dao responds to sentient beings, it is no longer bound by any particular manner of practice. Since the scriptural teachings (Jing) do not permit attachment, how can practice be treated as something fixed and unchanging? What is called practice is only a name provisionally set up in response to deluded thoughts. Since a falsely established teaching is not real, and the words of the doctrine are merely instruments for guiding people, why still cling to the teaching and suppose that there is some cultivation one can obtain? Thus the Dao, sentient beings, and the teaching—these three—cannot be clung to as truly existent. Yet this does not mean that everything is empty. The Dao and sentient beings neither merge nor separate; this is precisely reality as it truly is.

Sentient beings and the Dao are not apart. When sentient beings appear, the Dao is hidden and does not show itself; when the Dao is attained, the Dao appears and sentient beings recede. This is only a difference between manifestation and concealment, not a difference between existence and nonexistence. When the Dao has not yet appeared, practice is undertaken in order to bring it forth; when sentient beings have not yet receded, letting go of the three attachments—to the Dao, to sentient beings, and to the teaching—serves to remove what obscures. If the appearance of sentient beings can be made to recede, the great Dao becomes perfectly open and unobstructed; and once it is perfectly open and unobstructed, peace and joy can be gained.

When the Dao is hidden and has not yet appeared, sentient beings are full of afflictions, and afflictions bring suffering. In order to avoid suffering and seek joy, people are taught to let go of attachment and to practice. When practice is complete, the Dao can be realized. One then lets go of practice and the teaching as well, and liberation is found in every circumstance. This is called mingzhen: a hidden, quiet accord with the true Dao.

The Dao always accompanies sentient beings through birth and death, following along with life and death. Although sentient beings are born, the Dao is not born on that account; although sentient beings die, the Dao does not die on that account. When sentient beings die, the Dao follows with death; when sentient beings are born, the Dao likewise follows with birth. Passing through birth and death, one remains in the company of the Dao throughout. The Dao can be said neither to lie certainly within birth and death nor to lie certainly outside it. If one says it is present only at death, then at birth there would be no Dao; if one says it is present only at birth, then at death there would be no Dao. Of the Dao there is neither a “can” nor a “cannot.” Thus the Dao constantly follows birth and death, yet is not identical with birth and death. Apart from birth and death there is no other Dao, and apart from the Dao there is no other birth and death.

Birth and death and the Dao have never abandoned one another, yet they have never fully become one. Birth and death are always taking place, so one cannot say that they are wholly the same as the Dao; the Dao does not depart from birth and death, so one also cannot say that they stand apart.

In cultivating contemplation—coming to understand principle through meditative observation—one should enter observation from the principle of equality, and from observation arrive at inner preservation and nourishment. If the felt sense of that preservation disappears, one returns to observation. Observation does not hinder preservation, and preservation does not hinder observation. Observation lies within preservation, and preservation lies within observation. Observation and preservation are neither absolutely the same nor absolutely different; they may be spoken of as one, and they may also be spoken of as distinct. One should continue to preserve and nourish within an observation grounded in equality.

If all things undergo change, then there is nothing that does not change; yet change arises from the discriminations and attachments of sentient beings—when has the substance of the Dao (the Way), that is, the fundamental reality of the Dao, ever changed? If all things are forgotten, then there is nothing that is not forgotten; yet forgetting arises from sentient beings—when has the substance of the Dao ever been forgotten? The true nature of the Dao is neither arising nor forgetting. If one says that true nature neither arises nor is forgotten, then from where do arising and forgetting come? If the Dao does not pervade both arising and forgetting, on what basis is it called the Dao, and on what basis are they called arising and forgetting? We come to know true nature by means of arising and forgetting, and we also discern arising and forgetting by means of true nature.

Things come into being all at the same moment, and things cease all at the same moment. For example, although manifestation (what appears and can be seen) has arising and ceasing, it has never departed from empty space; and although empty space abides constantly, it has never departed from manifestation. Manifestation arises and ceases, while empty space neither arises nor ceases; within empty space there is manifestation, yet manifestation is not the same as empty space. Manifestation is itself empty, and emptiness also appears as manifestation. Manifestation and emptiness can never be said to be wholly the same, nor wholly different; they may be spoken of as one, and they may also be spoken of as two. When manifestation and emptiness are discussed in these four ways, the conclusion is that the Dao is neither one nor two, and that it also cannot simply be said to be one or to be two.

Those who have entered this stage (the practitioners cited in the scripture) still cling to something. They habitually take what is known as their own body and the knowing mind as their own inner mind, and so they take phenomena such as knowing and seeing as a “Dao” that can be spoken of, while taking the empty stillness of the nature of knowing and seeing as the true Dao. When knowing and seeing are boundless, this is called the great body; when it seems that one can see all things, this is called the great eye; when it seems that one can hear all things, this is called the great ear; and when one can cognize what is known, this is called the great mind. If one understands that the nature of the great mind is empty and still, that is liberation. Liberation means that the afflictive habitual tendencies in the mind are utterly exhausted, and the utter exhaustion of afflictive habitual tendencies in the mind is also the utter exhaustion of afflictive habitual tendencies in the body. Even when the afflictive habitual tendencies in the body have been utterly exhausted, this does not mean that these phenomena do not exist at all, but rather that their fundamental nature has always been empty and still.

The mind that contemplates and the object that is contemplated both belong alike to mind, and both belong alike to the object-realm (the object of cognition). Mind and object-realm each remain in their own place and in fact do not pass back and forth; this being so, from where do they arise? If one can realize that arising and non-arising are originally without distinction, the mind can thereby be brought to rest.

Sentient beings who wish to seek the Dao (the Way) should eliminate discriminative knowing (the mind that clings to all manner of distinctions and cognitions). Only when discriminative knowing is utterly exhausted can one attain the Dao. Someone may ask: after sentient beings die, discriminative knowing disappears of itself, so why go to such trouble urging people to cultivate and forcibly eliminate discriminative knowing? This is because the death of an ordinary person is not under that person’s own control. At the moment of death one is left entirely to external forces; although discriminative knowing ceases after death, this is not something one has actively brought about. When one is born into the next life, that birth is likewise determined by external forces, and discriminative knowing arises again together with life. One therefore remains bound by the body and cannot attain the Dao.

If, while the body has not yet died, one can eliminate discriminative knowing of one’s own accord, then when the body dies, discriminative knowing will already have been exhausted beforehand. Thereafter one will not be reborn, will no longer have a life, and will not give rise to discriminative knowing again, and thus one attains liberation.

The verse of praise says:

At death one cannot be one’s own master; after death, rebirth is still arranged by external forces.

When discriminative knowing is eliminated by myself, I shall not be reborn again.

While the body is still present, one must first see through this: once everything that exists within the body has become empty and still, even “emptiness” itself is not to be clung to. When the mind and Shen (spirit) roam in freedom, neither emptiness nor existence remains an object of clinging, and there is no attachment within the mind.

If one measures a person by “xun,” there will be a beginning and an end in accordance with that person’s birth and death; if one measures a ring by “xun,” there will be neither beginning nor end, in accordance with the ring. Why? Because the person and the ring arise together within “xun.” The condition in which xun finds itself comprises three or four marks (the different stages or states in which things present themselves), which change along with the person or the ring, change also along with themselves, and in the end follow emptiness and return to emptiness.

Someone asks: Where is this “xun”? The person and the ring originally neither increase nor decrease, so how can there be a “xun”? The reply is: Observe carefully—this “xun” does not lie among the four marks of the person or the ring. It appears along with the person and along with the ring, changes along with itself, and in the end follows emptiness and returns to emptiness.

It is asked again: Where is this “xun”? The person and the ring originally neither increase nor decrease, so how can there be a “xun”? The reply is: Observe carefully—“xun” is neither within the scope of the person nor outside the scope of the ring, and yet one may still say that this “xun” exists. “Xun,” moreover, is neither sound nor form and color; ultimately, all is empty. The practitioner should examine “xun” by means of awareness. Since “xun” is empty, awareness is equally empty. Awareness, being empty, is the same as non-knowing. Within non-knowing there is neither “xun” nor “emptiness.” Without “emptiness,” there is likewise no awareness; and if there is no awareness, who is there that can comprehend anything? At this point, one can neither say that there is knowing nor say that there is non-knowing.

When there is perception, it appears on the surface to be a matter of “having knowing,” yet in fact there is only the name “knowing.” The source of perception is not something that truly exists, nor is there an “absence of knowing” that can be grasped. The mind originally has no perception; perception arises only when it encounters external objects. Yet the mind is not wholly without perception—it is simply that, when it does not face external objects, perception does not appear. What people call the Dao (the Way), as well as such things as wood and fire, is likewise so. Thus what exists only for a time can become nonexistent, and what is constantly regarded as existing can also become nonexistent.

It is only because of the distinction between facing external objects and not facing them that there is perception and non-perception. If one does not cling to this distinction, there is no so-called knowing or not-knowing. There is knowing, and there is also not-knowing: where there is grasping, there is something not known; where there is no grasping, there is no so-called not-knowing. When a person sees the old capital of his native land, gazing upon it from afar brings a feeling of openness and ease; how much more, upon returning to that source-realm of non-knowing, ultimate nature, and ultimate substance, does one become suddenly clear and thoroughly open.

When the mind faces external objects, mind and object draw upon each other. If external objects have not stirred the mind, and yet the mind delusively gives rise to thoughts, such thoughts are not produced by the mind alone, but arise on account of objects. Without the mind, objects do not appear by themselves; without objects, the mind does not arise by itself.

The Dao that can be spoken and described is only the Dao spoken of as an expedient; the constant, unchanging Dao is the true Dao. If one clings to what is called “constancy,” it too becomes an object that can be spoken of and pointed out. Why? Because once “constancy” is set apart by itself, it can no longer pervade all things, and it becomes a concept set over against other things. Thus to speak both of “leaving the world” and of “constancy” still falls, in the end, within speech and discrimination. If one no longer gives rise to speech, there is neither constancy nor anything that can be said; yet since “constancy” and “the sayable” originally have no real substance, one cannot speak of there being, in addition, an “inconstancy and unsayability.” To remain among various discourses is to be a person of desire seeking to see through the Dao; to realize that all such discourses are originally empty is to be able, without desire, to experience the subtle mystery of the Dao.

Substance and function are not one and the same: substance is not function, and function is not substance. Yet if one looks closely, when substance is set in motion and becomes function, function is itself substance; when function ceases and returns to substance, substance is then manifest within function. To cling to distinctions is to have four kinds of division; to forget distinctions is to return to non-duality.

All things under Heaven are likewise so.

Among the endless principles under Heaven, none is more fundamental than “being” and “non-being.” Within being and non-being one cannot be separated from arising and ceasing, and the condition of sentient beings cannot be separated from the two views of permanence and annihilation. The kinds of life do not go beyond the four modes of birth (womb-born, egg-born, moisture-born, and transformation-born), and the realms in which sentient beings dwell do not go beyond the six paths (heaven, human, asura, animal, hungry ghost, and hell).

Not only is the “Dao that can be spoken” (the Dao [the Way] that can be put into words) like this; the “constant Dao” (the Dao that is eternal and unchanging) is also like this. Not only is the constant Dao constant; the speakable Dao is equally constant. All things arise in dependence on their relations to one another, yet their arising has no independent and unchanging source. They also cease in dependence on their relations to one another, and when they cease there is no fixed substance that is extinguished.

The “view of emptiness” and the “view of existence” (the view that all is empty, and the view that all truly exists) both reside within a single mind. If this mind itself does not exist, where are the views of emptiness and existence? The true principle of the various thoughts and mental factors (psychological activities that arise along with the mind) is likewise so. Thus, when thoughts arise, the discriminations of all manner of things arise with them; when thoughts come to rest, those discriminations come to rest with them. If one can realize the “samadhi of no-mind” (the meditative state in which thoughts do not arise and discrimination ceases), one can then experience neither arising nor ceasing.

The Dao constantly manifests four kinds of “is”: it is being, it is non-being, it is both being and non-being, and being and non-being are not a settled conclusion. All of these lie within a single mind. If the mind does not exist, from where do the views of emptiness and existence come? The true principle of the various thoughts is the same: when the mind arises, all phenomena arise; when the mind ceases, all phenomena cease. Once the samadhi of no-mind is realized, there is no arising or ceasing to speak of.

The great Dao constantly presents four kinds of “is”: it is being, it is non-being, it is both being and non-being, and neither being nor non-being can be clung to as fixed. If one seeks only equality, one falls into attachment to “the one”; if one does not seek equality, one fails to see “the one.” The Dao embraces both equality and inequality. What is called “abandon sageliness and discard wisdom” means that, after one has cultivated from an ordinary person to the realm of the sage, one must still lay down the status of “sage,” because the sage is established only in relation to the ordinary. Even while one occupies the ordinary station, one has already taken leave of attachment to the ordinary. Since attachment to the ordinary has been removed, attachment to the sage should also be removed, so that neither the ordinary nor the sage is clung to any longer. Clinging neither to wisdom nor to humaneness, and reducing desire, one may return to the Dao.

Question: Even one who has already reached the realm of the sage must still let go of attachment to “the sage.” How, then, should one who has not yet reached the realm of the sage let go of this attachment?

Answer: Here we speak only of those who have already reached the realm of the sage, not of those who have not yet reached it. One who has not yet reached the realm of the sage never possessed the status of “sage” to begin with—what, then, is there to keep in mind or cling to?

When the great Dao responds and thereby manifests the sage, how should one let go of attachment to “the sage”?

Answer: Here we speak only of those who have already reached the realm of the sage, not of those who have not yet reached it. One who has not yet reached the realm of the sage never possessed the status of “sage” to begin with—what, then, is there to keep in mind or cling to?

The Great Dao (the Way) stands in mutual resonance with the myriad things, yet its intrinsic nature cannot be seen. The intrinsic nature of sentient beings, whether dull or intelligent, likewise cannot be seen. Neither the nature of the Dao nor the nature of sentient beings can be perceived; precisely because they cannot be perceived, they can be the same as the most mysterious Dao. Through countless kalpas—spans of time of extreme length—there is no divergence, and so this is called “sameness.”

It is further said that this account is not entirely adequate. The fundamental substance of the Great Dao is real, and there has never been a time when it was not the Dao; the fundamental substance of sentient beings is illusory, yet it never ceases to change. Through countless kalpas the circumstances differ in each case, and so this is called “difference.”

The Great Person—one who has realized the Great Dao—grasps the mysterious root, meets the myriad things without a selfish mind, and penetrates without obstruction. One who recognizes and fully understands the Six Paths—the six realms through which sentient beings transmigrate—is called a Great Person. Although the Six Paths differ from one another, none of them lies beyond the vast reach of the Great Dao; therefore the Great Dao is called the “mysterious root.”

The Great Dao takes mysterious stillness as its teacher. If the thoughts of the mind can be brought to rest, this state is called “stillness”; if the thoughts of the mind do not cease, it is called “non-stillness.” From this one may know that, within one and the same situation, there is both stillness and non-stillness. When a thought arises, one may say that it is stillness and also that it is not stillness; when no thought arises, there is neither what may be called stillness nor what may be called non-stillness. In all four of these formulations, the Great Dao is contained.

It is further said: to act is movement, and to refrain from action is stillness. Only when something is stirred does it move; when it is not stirred, it is naturally at rest. Within movement there may be stillness, and within stillness there may also be movement. One may use movement to disturb stillness, and one may use stillness to quiet agitation. Although movement and stillness are distinct, their true nature—their fundamental nature—is only one. Yet although the true nature is one, it is not confined by movement and stillness. Although movement and stillness are two states, the true nature attaches itself to neither of them, just as clay accords with a seal-mold: the imprint appears in keeping with the form, yet it is not identical with the mold itself.

If one enters movement with a still mind, then although one is situated amid movement, the mind remains ever still; if one enters stillness with an agitated mind, then although one is situated amid stillness, the mind remains ever in motion. If one always holds that there is a fixed and unchanging state of concentration, one thereby breaks the former attachment to “movement”; if one always holds that there is a pre-existing root, one in turn breaks the attachment to “concentration.” When they stand opposed, movement and stillness conceal one another and also reveal one another; when they come into accord, concentration and wisdom—meditative absorption and insight—are fully present at the same time.

Within a single mind and a single thought, past and present are both contained. Therefore a single thought and a single kalpa—a vast duration of time—can be called neither short nor long; a single mote of dust and an entire world may likewise be confirmed from this.

Within a single mind and a single thought all things are contained, and past and present alike are found therein. Thus a single thought and a single kalpa—an extremely long span of time—cannot simply be called short or long, nor can a single mote of dust and an entire world simply be called large or small. The sage, though situated in the present, can speak of the affairs of antiquity. This is done by tracing documents and investigating calendrical systems, and thereby grasping the facts. Hence the writings of today can recount ancient events: what already existed in antiquity may be carried out just as before, and what did not exist in antiquity is not necessarily impossible to carry out. It is therefore said that the Jade Calendar (Yuli), a classic that calculates the times of heaven and records calendrical numbers, circulates in the world, containing the norms of all affairs and all principles.

Someone asks: Why can the mind of today recall the affairs of antiquity? Why is it said that ancient affairs exist within the thoughts of today? If ancient affairs exist in the present, then the past is not truly past; if the mind of today exists in antiquity, then the future seems already to have arrived. If the future is fixed and unchanging, why can one know ancient affairs today? If the past is fixed and unchanging, why can ancient affairs indeed appear in the present?

The mind of today thinks of ancient affairs, and ancient affairs are in turn bound to the mind of today. From this one knows that a single mind and a single thought contain both the ancient and the present. Since present and past are distinguished, the one mind cannot be clung to as fixed; yet since it is one mind, one cannot say that there are two minds. Therefore it is neither one nor two; it can be one and it can also be two. It is both being and non-being; one can neither say that it is wholly nothing nor that it substantially exists.

Because it is “being,” one may investigate and inquire by means of “being”; because it is “non-being,” one may likewise investigate and inquire by means of “non-being.” Letting go of attachment to “non-being” and entering the Dao (the Way), one may inquire from “being”; letting go of attachment to “being,” one goes beyond the mundane world. Worldly phenomena arise, cease, and change; only by departing from the mundane can one enter the Dao. The nature of the Dao has neither arising nor ceasing. The manifestations of the present, of antiquity, and of the immediate moment cannot be clung to as substantially real. Yet because there is “being” within them, one may inquire from “being”; because there is “non-being” within them, one may also inquire from “non-being.” The manifestations of past and present are therefore without end.

Therefore it is said: All defilements are suddenly purified, and the realm becomes clear and penetrating, reaching Great Clarity (Taiqing, the state of pure stillness without stain). The world is not an eternal dwelling; the Mysterious Capital (Xuandu, the immortal realm of Daoist legend) is the homeland of former days.

Question: Are the five tones present within the silk of a string?

Answer: Within the silk of the string there is the latent nature of the five tones. Before the silk has been made into a string, the five tones do not appear in it, this nature cannot be seen, and still less is there any mutual connection between sound and nature. Once the silk has been made into a string, a form of sound appears when it is played; when it is not played, the nature of sound remains latent. At that point the manifestation of sound and its latent nature are linked to each other. From this one may know that in a single strand of silk there is both “being” and “non-being,” yet the nature within it can be called neither being nor non-being. If one tries to negate it by means of “being,” the nature of sound in the silk is not a substantial being; if one then tries to negate it by means of “non-being,” sound appears when the string is played, and when it is not played the nature of sound is still there, the two being mutually connected. From this one may further know that the silk contains both being and non-being, while the nature within it is neither being nor non-being. To say that the nature of sound is being is inappropriate; to say that it is non-being is equally inappropriate. Precisely because it cannot be assigned to being or non-being, it cannot be thoroughly negated, and so it is able to endure constantly.

Question: Originally there is no sound in the silk, yet when it is played it can produce sound; there is no ox in a carriage, yet once an ox is harnessed to draw it, the carriage can move forward. Why are these two kinds of “non-being” the same? There is a nature of sound in the silk, and that nature is always present; there is sound in the silk, yet sound appears or disappears. Why are these two kinds of “being” the same?

Answer: Each of them comprises two kinds of being and two kinds of non-being, dependent on one another and mutually connected, and so one says that being and non-being are the same in this respect. When afflicted beings cultivate and realize the Dao (the Way) of the sage, careful observation reveals that within affliction there is no ready-made “Dao”; and when the Dao is attained, one likewise sees no trace left behind by affliction. Then, when the Dao is attained, where has affliction gone? And from whom is the Dao obtained?

To speak further: if one observes carefully, one finds that affliction has no fixed place in which to hide; going a step further, there is no substantial affliction at all. One can therefore understand that affliction has already dispersed. The Dao is not handed to a person from somewhere else. Then, when the Dao is attained, where has affliction gone? And from whom is the Dao obtained?

It is further stated: careful observation shows that affliction has nowhere to hide, and so there is no real affliction; one should understand that affliction has already ceased. The Dao (the Way) has no other substance, nor need it be obtained from anywhere else; one should understand that the Dao manifests in just this way. If one grants that all things are truly so, then the myriad things all lie within arising and ceasing. The Dao is not higher than affliction, nor is affliction lower than the Dao. This being so, why strive so painfully to extinguish affliction and seek to enter the place of the Dao (the realm of cultivating the Way)? In the final analysis, neither the Dao nor affliction leaves any real remainder.

It is further replied: what is called the “Dao” means only that its substance is like this from root to tip; even down to the present, the Dao has never given rise to affliction. It is further replied: ultimate reality is just like this, and even down to the present there has never been any cessation. Why, then, say that the “Dao” and “affliction” arise and cease? This is merely to falsely attribute arising and ceasing to them.

Why is this said? If these four statements are examined carefully, none of them can be contravened at the ultimate level; therefore, within this body of reasoning there is neither excess nor lack. If one says that these four exist constantly, the reasoning cannot be made complete; if one says that any one of them can encompass innumerable things, it plainly cannot extend to all. If one holds that it truly can extend to all, then these four are not real. How, in the end, should this be answered? These four contradict one another: arising and ceasing cannot occur at the same time; once one position is occupied, the other three do not hold; and when one is situated in the second, the four cannot stand together either. Extending from any one of them through the various cases, why can it not reach everything? It is precisely because there is the one and also the many, existence and also nonexistence, that distinctions arise between annihilation and permanence, and between higher and lower, superior and inferior.

Within the correct nature of the great Dao (its true and authentic fundamental nature), there is neither superior nor inferior, neither existence nor nonexistence; and who could say that it has arising and ceasing? Since nothing truly arises or ceases, the place of the Dao and affliction are said, in the end, to leave no real remainder. When those who cultivate the Way practice it, they should hold fast to a correct mind and not depart from the correct nature.

Question: Whose nature is the “nature” that is restored? And whose mind is the “mind” that is restored?

Answer: It is still the “mind of the four statements” (the mind that expresses the principle through four modes of formulation), and what is restored is the original nature of all phenomena. If there were no four statements, there would be no such mind; if there were no phenomena, there would be no such nature. At times it manifests all at once, pervading the entire realm of phenomena (the shared field in which the myriad things exist together), with no fixed place; at other times it is wholly absent all at once, and even the finest trace is extinguished along with it. Of this, strictly speaking, nothing can be said; one can only reluctantly call it the “Great Dao” (the Way).

The supreme Dao (the highest Dao) is always dark, mysterious, and still. The moment it is explained in words, it is no longer as it truly is. Only in order to instruct living beings must one resort to formulations of every kind. The Dao responds to living beings by means of the “four statements,” yet the moment there is a response, one falls into four kinds of one-sidedness. The four formulations do not appear at the same time: when one of them is spoken, the other three are for the time being left unsaid. Sometimes the first is spoken while the other three have not yet been spoken; sometimes the last is spoken after the other three have already been spoken. Yet the first formulation is established only by relying on the other three; since the other three do not hold, the first cannot stand on its own. Just as one of them is being spoken, the remaining three have already been forgotten; and since the remaining three have been forgotten, this one too ought to be forgotten.

Question: Why must the Dao manifest itself? And why must speech, in turn, be abandoned?

Answer: Because living beings distinguish between arising and ceasing, one uses a formulation on the point of ceasing to dispel arising, and a formulation on the point of arising to dispel ceasing. Within the true nature of the Great Dao there is neither arising nor ceasing. At this level, spoken of in terms of the “four statements,” it is called the “mind of the four statements.” But once one arrives here, there were never any four statements to begin with; and since the four statements are absent, the mind is absent as well. Only this is called the “great mind of the four statements,” which is the true aspect of the true nature of the Great Dao.

Question: It was said earlier that one “dwells within the one, yet sets aside the other three statements; beginning from the four statements, one again sets aside three of them.” Why not speak only of the one? If this one statement has both merits and faults, why not choose what is concise and essential and say that? If there is no distinction of better and worse, why speak the other three statements at all? If a single statement were enough, there would be no need to add three more; if four statements were required, one should not discard three of them. Why speak four statements and then discard three, and, after having spoken the three, leave only one?

Answer: There is no ranking of superior and inferior among the four statements. Sentient beings have not yet awakened to the Dao (the Way), so speaking only one statement is not enough; the four statements must be used to explain it. The four cannot be uttered at the same time, so whenever one statement is spoken, the other three are for the moment set aside. Yet once those three are set aside, this one statement must be set aside as well. One cannot cling to any single statement among them.

Question: These four statements all belong to the phenomena of arising, ceasing, and change. Why, then, should the true Dao be found among them?

Answer: The Dao is nowhere absent; it is constantly present within the four statements. Yet within them it leaves no trace by which it might be found, and so the four statements themselves are not the Dao.

Further question: Since “being” is already among the four statements, why still use “being” to give rise to “being”? Since “non-being” is already among the four statements, why still place “non-being” within them?

Answer: The Dao is nowhere absent; it is constantly present within the four statements. Yet within them it leaves no trace by which it might be found, and so the four statements themselves are not the Dao.

Further question: Since “being” is already among the four statements, why still use “being” to produce “being”? Since “non-being” is already among the four statements, why still use “non-being” to extinguish “non-being”?

Answer: Although the four statements speak of “being,” one cannot fixedly hold that there is something which has been brought into being. Although the four statements speak of “non-being,” one likewise cannot fixedly hold that there is something which has been extinguished. This appears of itself, spontaneously. It is not that some agent of arising causes it to arise, nor that some agent of cessation causes it to perish. What is called “is” is only what presents itself in the present moment as “is.” It neither arises nor ceases, nor can it be described as neither arising nor ceasing. These four statements have already been spoken of before, so even if one lays them down, that is not the same as negating them; this differs from the situation before they have been mentioned at all. One who has awakened to the Dao, though still situated in the mundane world, has already realized awakening; therefore, even upon returning to ordinary life, such a person is not the same as one who has not awakened. Once one obtains true nature (the nature manifested by the true Dao), one is no longer stained by the mundane, and this is called “the one nature that does not change,” that is, original nature no longer alters.

All things may each be spoken of from four aspects, and within every aspect there is again its own mind. These minds do not differ from one another; when they interpenetrate, they form a single whole, and this is therefore called the “Great One” (Dayi). One may also say that the original mind is sought by mysteriously uniting the four aspects as one: what is external is stripped away layer upon layer, until nothing further can be stripped away and no mind remains to be sought—and this is called the Great One. It is like peeling the sheaths of a plantain in the hope of finding an inner heart amid the successive layers; when the peeling reaches its end, even sheath and heart can no longer be distinguished, and this is called Zhengyi (Orthodox Unity). The scripture again uses the same plantain image to explain that, when the search for the mind is carried to its end and one arrives where there is no mind, this is called the Great One, and for this reason it is also called Zhengyi.

Hence it is said that the more one clings to drawing near some object, the farther one in fact departs from what is real. Only when one can reach a state in which there is neither a so-called “near” nor a so-called “that,” and in which one does not cling to substantial existence, may it be called the “True One” (Zhenyi). To have seen that wherein nothing is to be seen is to see what is without form and without color; because there is no visible appearance, there is no seeing in the ordinary sense. The recognition of thoughts is likewise so: only by guarding the “One” while also breaking attachment to the “One” is there knowing. If one merely clings and holds fast, the end is still no different from heavy slumber.

Take concentrated reflection as an example. While the eyes are closed one visualizes within the mind, and after the eyes are opened one can still keep the thought present in the mind; only then can the workings of both the inner and the outer be brought into play. The Dao (the Way) has never been four, because its nature is one; nor has the Dao ever been merely one, because it pervades the four directions and the myriad things. The Dao is therefore both one and four, and is neither one nor four. To grasp or to relinquish the two extremes within this gives rise to four discriminations; only by taking one’s stand fittingly in their midst, and from there letting the principle of the real arise, is it called the True One.

What is called the “True One” is only expressed by borrowing language. The principle itself cannot be spoken, and for that reason “words” are used to indicate it: since the dharma-principle is without speech, speech must be borrowed to make it plain; yet if one takes that principle to be something that can be spoken, one must also see the side of it that cannot be spoken. Near and far, mutual dependence, and the like are bound together and bring one another into appearance; the hidden, subtle changes within them are shown by corroborating signs that answer from what comes before to what follows after. From ancient times to the present, some matters are manifest and can be seen, some are obscure and hard to fathom, and some, being manifest and visible, suffice for inference. From this one may know that being and non-being stand mutually apart, and that the present and antiquity belong to different ages. Only the Zhengyi in which the tallies match can bring the Four Images (Sixiang) back into one place. True nature exists of itself and spontaneously, while the transformations of the myriad things arise in dependence on conditions. Grasses and trees, though without awareness, still come to fruit and also pass through birth and death; the true Dao, though without awareness, is nonetheless real and ever-abiding.

Although there is no specific object of cognition here, there remains a kind of “knowing of non-knowing.” Without relying on the mind’s discrimination, one cannot know; without relying on the eyes, one cannot see. Since this knowing is not the discriminating activity of the mind, it is knowing without clinging to what is known; since this seeing is not what the eyes see, there is knowing and seeing, yet no fixed object that is seen. Thus, the ability to know without clinging to what is known is the key to the Dao (the Way).

One should understand that the three times—past, present, and future—are all empty. The past has already vanished, and the future has not yet arrived; between past and future there is likewise no fixed, unchanging present, and so the three times are all empty.

This is like a lamp on the point of going out: before the lamp is extinguished, one can see it; after it is extinguished, one can no longer see it. In the process of the lamp’s extinction, what fixed existence is there, after all? Between past and future there is only a name and no real substance, and thus one can know that the three times are entirely empty.

Emptiness has no fixed form; and without a fixed form, what is there to crave? Since there is nothing that is loved, it is the same as the Dao. Being one with the Dao in emptiness, it is called “loving the Dao”; emptiness being the same as the body, it is called “the Dao’s love.”

The substance of the Dao is indeed empty, yet it is not the same as emptiness in the ordinary sense. Ordinary emptiness can only be vacant nothingness and cannot respond to the myriad things; although the substance of the Dao is empty, it is able to resonate with and respond to the myriad things.

Question: If the Dao can respond to the myriad things, can the myriad things then obtain the Dao? If the myriad things obtain the Dao, then after obtaining it they ought to abide in the Dao—why do they continue to undergo rebirth? If the myriad things are not the Dao, then the substance of the Dao that is cultivated…

Question: The Dao (the Way) can respond to the myriad things—can the myriad things, then, attain the Dao? If the myriad things have attained the Dao, then, having already attained it, they ought to abide in the Dao; why must they receive birth once more? If the myriad things are not originally the Dao, then what is gained through cultivation is only a Dao outside the body, and the myriad things can never in the end attain the Dao—so why should one practice cultivation?

Answer: Sentient beings change and are impermanent, and so they must rely on cultivation; the Dao likewise manifests in accordance with impermanence, and so when sentient beings cultivate they can attain the Dao. Sentient beings cannot attain the Dao by themselves alone; they attain the Dao only by means of the Dao. The name of the Dao does not arise of itself either; it becomes manifest only by means of sentient beings. The Dao arises together with the myriad things, and there is nothing that has not arisen; the Dao passes away together with the myriad things, and there is nothing that has not passed away. The high and the low, the superior and the inferior, exist at the same time—why, then, must the Dao and the myriad things be divided into two kinds? When sentient beings are born, the Dao is not born on that account; when sentient beings perish, the Dao does not perish on that account. [Here the original has the words “绿私,” which are suspected to be a textual corruption; in light of the context they are left unexplained.]

If one grants that the Dao has no private possession, then when Yuanshi (the primordial deity revered in Daoism as the god of the beginning) attains the Dao, I too attain the Dao. If one holds that the Dao does have a private possession, then when Yuanshi attains the Dao, I cannot attain the Dao. Before sentient beings have yet been born, the Dao already exists; but the Dao of that time is not yet “my Dao”—it is only the Dao of remote antiquity. The Dao I have now attained is in fact the original substance of that ancient Dao. From this one may know that the ancient Dao is the present Dao, and the present Dao is the Dao I have come to realize. Why? Because through the succession of kalpas there has always been only one Dao. This is how the universal Dao responds to and accords with sentient beings. What sentient beings attain is called each one’s own “private Dao”; in truth it is still the universal Dao, and it is called a private Dao only because it accords with each person.

What is called “breaking names” means identifying bamboo as water, and identifying empty space as bamboo: if one identifies them in this way, one may say in the present moment that it is so; if one does not identify them in this way, one may say in the present moment that it is not so.

“Breaking the substance” (poti) means that the consciousness of sentient beings—their mind-consciousness and cognition—changes according to the discriminations each of them makes, so that what appears is not the same in every case: some see existence within emptiness, and some see emptiness within existence. This way of contemplating is called “contemplating existence through phenomena” (faguan you).

There is also a situation in which one sees only that things change, and does not hold that the original things have disappeared. For example, when one says “the ox has become a horse,” one calls it a horse and no longer calls it an ox. This is not assigning the ox another name, nor is it destroying its original substance. Suppose a person looks by means of pure consciousness and finds all phenomena pure, while the multitude, lacking this cognition, find all phenomena defiled. From this it can be known that the matter is still a dispute over defiled phenomena: what is called pure may also be called defiled; what is called existent may also be seen as nonexistent; and what is called nonexistent may also appear as existent.

The original substance of consciousness is constant and pure. The function of consciousness changes; it belongs to the phenomena of sentient beings and therefore appears defiled. From this it can be known that the matter is still a dispute over defiled phenomena: the pure may also be called defiled, and existence and nonexistence transform into one another.

The original substance of consciousness is constantly pure, while the function of consciousness changes along with sentient beings. Sentient beings cultivate changing phenomena in order to seek what does not change, and they cultivate the function of consciousness in order to return to the original substance. In doing so, one merely brings the changing function and the characteristics of consciousness to rest; one does not cause the pure and true original substance to cease to exist.

Abide in the original substance, preserve its reality, and do not accept false names and characteristics. If false names and characteristics come to be imposed upon oneself, let each of them return to falsity. To grasp the self through what is real is to accept the first of these; to grasp the self through what is false is to accept the second. It is like someone who does not speak, yet comes seeking the reality of abiding: such a person can obtain only one of them.

End of Scroll One of the Xuanzhu lu (Record of the Mysterious Pearl).

Scroll Two of the Xuanzhu lu.

Oral instructions of Master Wang Xuanlan of Hongyuan.

Before anything has yet appeared, one can neither say that it belongs to the Dao (the Way) nor that it belongs to the mundane world; once anything has appeared, one may say both that it belongs to the Dao and that it belongs to the mundane world. When things appear, there is nothing that does not appear along with them, and so all things stand relative to one another. When things do not appear, there is likewise nothing that can appear, and again all things stand relative to one another.

When the myriad things of the world come forth, they arise through mutual dependence; when the myriad things of the world vanish, they perish through mutual opposition. When a thing appears, one need not call it “birth”; when a thing recedes from view, one need not call it “death.” If, before things have arisen, everything is empty and void, then what is there that could appear? After things have already dispersed, if everything has been utterly extinguished, then what is there that could return?

When the eye meets color, seeing arises; where, then, does this “seeing” actually reside? When one sees, it seems to be born through change; when one does not see, it seems to perish through change. If the sentient beings involved in this are also empty and void before they appear, then what is there that could come forth? After they have already dispersed, if everything has been utterly extinguished, then what is there that could return?

When the eye meets color, seeing arises; where, then, does this “seeing” actually reside? When one sees, it seems to be born through change; when one does not see, it seems to perish through change. The life of sentient beings is the same: it does not arise from the two states of “being” and “non-being,” nor does it arise from absolute formlessness. If life arose from the two states of “being” and “non-being,” those two states would produce two views—why, then, is there in fact said to be only one seeing? If life arose from formlessness, formlessness ought to involve no seeing—how, then, could there be seeing?

Of such seeing, one cannot say that its substance does not exist, for seeing is genuinely present; nor can one say that it truly exists, for it has no fixed form. Sought for, it cannot be found, yet its appearance is perfectly clear, as though it enters and abides within contemplative awareness.

When the eyes meet color and the body meets the various sensations, the mind arises within and seeing appears without. Mind and seeing are joined to each other, yet they are not one and the same thing. Between the human mind and the Dao there is likewise a joining, and yet a difference.

When the teaching is expounded, the mind uses the mouth to utter words; the one who hears the teaching listens with the ears and then grasps it with the mind. The mind returns to the Dao, while the ears receive sound. As for “seeing,” mind and seeing are joined to each other, yet they are not one and the same thing. Between the human mind and the Dao there is likewise a joining, and yet a difference.

The expounding of the teaching comes from the Dao, while speech becomes the dusty realm (the objects contacted by the senses) that confronts the listener. Consider these four—the mind and mouth of the one who expounds, and the ear and mind of the one who listens—together they form a single appearance through change. Where, after all, do the arising and perishing, the being and non-being, of this appearance rest? Although one may say that it rests on nothing, one cannot on that account deny the appearance itself; it ought to be observed with care.

The constant Dao (the eternally unchanging Way) cannot, in its very nature, be made clear in words; once it is spoken, what is spoken is no longer the constant Dao. The constant Dao that cannot be put into words gives rise to Heaven and Earth, while the “Dao” that can be spoken gives rise to the myriad things. Whatever is born must die, and so the Dao that can be named and described is only the impermanent Dao. The impermanent Dao produces the forms of things, while the principle of the constant Dao brings their true essence to completion. Within the constant Dao there are both impermanent forms and a constant true essence.

Once a Dao of this kind becomes something that can be named, it is a mixed and impure Dao; once Shen (spirit—here referring to the mysterious functioning of the Dao) can be named, it too becomes a mixed and impure Shen. To take this admixture for the true Shen and the true Dao is impermanence; the true Dao and the true Shen are not like this. The myriad things come into being because form arises in dependence on form; what is called “dissipated Shen” is the mysterious functioning caught and constrained within form. To establish a name for Shen is itself already an admixture; yet if, within that admixture, one clings to no desire and can realize the true and constant for oneself, then the mixed is no different from the unmixed, and arising is no different from non-arising. If one says that there is a “non-arising” that can be grasped, that too becomes something that can be named.

Therefore, if the method of purity is taken as an object that can be grasped, it is no longer the purity that truly cannot be seized; once it is fixed as a set method, purity is lost. If the mind can illuminate the mysterious and wondrous, it enters the wondrous gate of desirelessness. To pass from a mixed mysterious principle into a still deeper mysterious principle—this is the gate of all wonders. What the wondrous gate speaks of is realizing “non-arising” from within “arising”: on the surface there seems to be generation, yet in fact there is no genuine arising. The Dao is only provisionally called “nameable”; in truth there is nothing that can be named.

The practitioner should contemplate, reflect upon, and hold to this principle, and thereby attain liberation. Such liberation, too, is only provisionally called “liberation”; in fact there is no liberation that can be grasped. Since there is nothing that can be named, who could know this “unnameable”? If, with a contentious mind, one asserts the “unnameable,” discrimination still remains in the mind; only by not clinging to this assertion can one constantly preserve purity. Being pure, one does not cling to knowledge and views. To realize this state of non-clinging is the purity of non-discriminating knowledge, which is what is called “knowing with a pure mind.” It is like a mirror reflecting colors: though the mirror displays every hue and visible form, its nature does not on that account lose its clarity. This clarity seems also to fall within speech, yet in truth it is not bound by birth and death.

If one uses language to speak of things, the things themselves remain one; a single utterance cannot exhaust the diversity of things. The words that describe things are many, yet things do not thereby become more numerous. If this is truly so, language would seem unable to reach things; yet language can in fact describe them. If all that is said follows from the things themselves, why are there so many kinds of language? It has not yet been made clear: of language and of things, which one, after all, is the cause of birth and death?

When language is used to account for things, a thing, though only one, may be spoken of as two or more; however many the words become, the thing itself does not increase on that account. If this were truly so, language would seem unfit to account for things; yet language does in fact account for things. If what is said accords with the thing, how can one say that language is many and things are few? It is still uncertain whether the illusoriness lies in language or in things. Things and language may each make the other appear illusory, and they may each make the other appear real.

Observe language itself and regard it according to the manner of language; observe things themselves and regard them according to the form of things. In this way, language and things are both real at one and the same moment. If one judges language by reference to things, and judges things by reference to language, then language and things are both illusory at one and the same moment. From this it can be known that the fundamental nature of language and of things is neither real nor illusory, and is both real and illusory. If one can set aside this confused discrimination, where would the real and the illusory still remain? Once the distinction between truth and illusion subsides, one enters the “center of the ring” (huanzhong; a metaphor for a middle state unbound by the opposition of two extremes). Situated within it, one sees no boundary; when even the notion of “the middle” is let go, the mind becomes open and vast, with nothing to cling to, and one may ride upon this and wander freely.

In using language to account for things, language and things stand over against each other, yet a thing is not language. Language and things stand in relation: though they differ from one another, they always depend on one another. Whether opposed or distinct, language is in the end not the thing. Therefore language should not be conflated with things, nor things with language. The true principle in this belongs neither to language nor to things.

All things in the ten directions (shifang; in Buddhist and Daoist scriptures, the four cardinal directions, the four intermediate directions, and above and below—broadly, every orientation) are known by one and the same cognitive mind (shixin; the mind that cognizes and perceives). Thus cognition of the ten directions is contained within a single cognitive mind. If this cognitive mind leaves the body, there is no longer cognition within the body; if it does not leave the body, the ten directions seem to have no other awareness. What is being asked here is whether the mind that cognizes the myriad things of the ten directions lies inside the body or outside it.

The ten directions reflect my body, and my body thereby presents various differing forms; these forms exist within the ten directions and also between heaven and earth. All visible forms and phenomena lie within the ten directions; if I realize the body of the ten directions, the Dharma-body (fashen; the body that transcends the individual physical form and pervades all) is present everywhere.

All things appear in dependence on the ten directions, and the ten directions in turn return to one and the same whole. All things within the ten directions are known by one cognitive mind, a single mind. When cognition of the ten directions is gathered back into one cognitive mind, one comes to understand that the one contains the many, and that the many likewise contain the one.

All things have no fixed, unchanging ground of existence. When causes and conditions come together, things arise; they have no eternally unchanging state of life, and when causes and conditions scatter, things perish. True nature is originally pure, with neither birth nor extinction. Birth and extinction are only phenomena that can be spoken of; nature alone is truly constant. Birth-and-extinction and true constancy cycle into one another. If one asks where they first begin and where they finally end, there is no other path to be found.

The Dao (the Way) runs through beginning and end, and also, following the changes of beginning and end, penetrates change. One therefore cannot call the Dao fixed and unchanging, nor can one call beginning and end cut off from each other; this is called “entering equality.” The Dao constantly accords with life and death, yet is not life and death itself. Emptiness constantly accords with brightness and darkness, yet is not brightness and darkness itself. Beyond brightness and darkness there is no other emptiness, and beyond emptiness there is no other brightness and darkness. The two can be called neither wholly the same nor wholly different; they constantly stand in a relation of mutual identity and yet distinction. This too is called “entering equality.”

Knowing is one side of the mind, and the object is what the mind faces; thus there are the two aspects of mind and object. Mind and object together constitute a knowing. To understand this knowing is to know that it is neither mind nor object, and yet does not leave mind and object. As for knowing, mind, and object, their nature is originally capable of natural liberation; one can say neither that it exists nor that it does not exist. This principle has never been two separate matters, because it is one knowing; nor can one say that it is only one matter, because it appears in dependence on mind and object.

Between mind and object, the mind always takes the leading role. The myriad phenomena appear because of the human mind, and so one says that they have causes and conditions; if there were no human mind, there would be no object on which to rely—this is spontaneity. To insist on disputing right and wrong is to fall into delusive thought; to realize this point is to enter the realm of the true. The object under dispute itself neither perceives nor knows. What is called “it is being disputed” is only the disputant saying so; it is not that the object itself knows that it is being disputed.

If, because there is a “beginning,” one calls it “non-being,” then “being” falls within “non-being.” If being is within non-being, being will obstruct non-being, and thus non-being loses the ground on which it can be established. If one says that being lies outside non-being, then being cannot be named by means of non-being. Should being have to rely on non-being in order to receive its name, then non-being likewise relies on being in order to be called non-being. In this way, being and non-being seem to exist at the same time; yet since being and non-being are opposed to each other, they cannot be established at the same time in one and the same place.

In the void there are originally no things at all. Where there are no things, there is nothing that could be called seeing; and since the void contains nothing, one cannot even speak of “seeing” or “not seeing.” Why, then, should one still labor to break down the notion of “seeing,” or strive after “not seeing”?

When things exist, “seeing” and “not seeing” both have something to refer to; when things do not exist, neither “seeing” nor “not seeing” can be established. What is called “seeing” is the capacity to perceive and cognize, and therefore it belongs among phenomena that arise and perish. Yet since non-being is emptiness, without external objects no cognition can arise, so it cannot be called “being”; once external objects are present, thoughts arise, so it cannot be called “non-being” either.

Those who cultivate should not let the mind rest on “being,” nor rest on “emptiness”; they should not let the mind depart from “being,” nor depart from “emptiness.” Do not cling to the four states, nor cling to a single state; do not cling to “non-abiding,” nor cling to “no-mind.” Amid these states one need not suppress or control the movements of mind; let them follow their natural course and remain at ease. This is correct practice.

Those who give rise to views by following words should nourish cognition with tranquility; those who let go of views as form disappears should nourish tranquility with cognition. Where there is no form, there is no speech: cognition is still, and tranquility is likewise still, and both should be forgotten. Where there is speech, there is form: tranquility arises, and cognition arises along with it, and both should be retained. Arising originates in stillness, and stillness in turn appears out of arising. This principle cannot be divided into two; since it is not dual, there is no distinction to be drawn between stillness and arising. Nor can this principle be clung to as one single thing; therefore, in holding it, one should neither let it flow outward nor draw it inward, neither adhere to external things nor deliberately disperse it.

When the eye faces colors and forms, a kind of seeing arises. It is still unclear to which side this “seeing” belongs: if it belongs to the realm of form, the eye is unnecessary; if it belongs to the eye, why depend on the realm of form? If it belongs to both at once, there would be two seeings, yet in fact “seeing” is not two. If “seeing” were something existing independently, then neither the realm of form nor the eye would be needed; but from what, then, does it arise? It is in fact the result of contact between the eye and external things. Looking further, one finds that this explanation keeps circling back upon itself, forming a cycle, and thus has no end.

When the eye turns, one feels that the things seen are turning as well. This still raises the same question: if “seeing” existed independently, neither the realm of form nor the eye would be needed; but from what, then, does it arise? It remains the result of contact between the eye and external things. If one continues to observe, one falls into a cycle, and once the cycle goes on there is no end.

When the eyes move, the things one sees seem to move as well; in fact the things themselves have not moved. When the eyes are settled, the things one sees seem to be at rest as well; in fact the things themselves have not come to rest. Only because there are two eyes does one see things as having movement and stillness; once the two eyes are both absent, movement and stillness can no longer be established.

All things have two opposing aspects, because their self-nature—their original nature—is empty and quiescent. The aspect that bears “emptiness” is called fa (dharma); the aspect that bears “being” is called wu (a thing).

Do not direct the mind toward “being,” nor toward “non-being”; do not direct the mind toward “being and non-being,” nor toward “non-being and being.”

The Dao (the Way) of emptiness, stillness, and void harmony pervades the myriad things, yet is neither filled nor limited by any one of them. Although the myriad things all receive the pervasion of the Dao, the Dao is not filled up by the myriad things. The Dao and the myriad things depend upon one another, forming a relation in which one is empty and the other substantial.

Heaven and Earth model themselves on the Dao and operate toward the myriad things with equal regard for all. The sage models himself on Heaven and Earth, and the common people do likewise. Within this impartial operation, some suffer harm, yet one does not on that account change the manner of operation in order to restrain the harm; some obtain profit and advantage, and the same holds for them. Empty and still, yet not exhausted, once it operates it is instead endlessly life-giving. Heaven and Earth are vacant, and therefore the proper Dao runs its course without end.

The Valley Spirit (gushen)—symbolizing the Dao that is empty and still yet endlessly generative—does not perish. Cultivation of the Valley Spirit follows two paths, a higher and a lower. One is “cultivation by sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang yang), cultivating through sitting in forgetfulness; the other is “cultivation in accord with form” (suixing yang), cultivating by following the bodily form. One who cultivates in accord with form may in time become a formed immortal; one who cultivates by sitting in forgetfulness abandons the bodily form and enters the true Dao. Cultivation in accord with form is like producing fire from wood; cultivation by sitting in forgetfulness is like producing fire from earth. Among practitioners, some cultivate from the “child” (zi) up to the “mother” (mu), some cultivate the “mother” directly, and some cultivate only the “child” without reaching the “mother.” Those who cultivate only the “child” and do not reach the “mother” may become divine immortals; those who reach the “mother,” or who cultivate the “mother” directly, can be freed from the bodily form and attain the great Dao.

Heaven and Earth are not produced by themselves alone; they wait until the myriad things gather together before they can take form. Thus “Heaven and Earth” is a collective name for the myriad things; “person” is a collective name for the six faculties (liugen: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind); “cart” is a collective name for many pieces of wood joined together. What constitutes the whole has not been nonexistent from the outset, and therefore it can endure. Thus Heaven and Earth place themselves after the myriad things, the person places himself after the six faculties, and the cart places itself after its many pieces of wood. Once a name has taken shape, people speak only of the whole and do not name, one by one, the parts that compose it; they speak only of the result after it has formed, and not of the complex causes and conditions within it. Precisely because the various causes and conditions precede the whole, the whole can be established; once the self has been brought to completion, one no longer clings to a private ego.

The highest good is like water. The nature of water is humble and gentle; it does not contend with the myriad things for supremacy. The practitioner should take water as a model, meeting others and handling affairs in accord with the pattern of things and never going against the myriad things. Within this accord one carries out every kind of good deed, carefully observes the circumstances one encounters, and acts as the occasion requires, so that whatever one does accords with the way of goodness. Wisdom takes truth as its standard, wealth takes sufficiency as its limit, and action takes doing one’s utmost without excess as its measure. Only then can things nourish and fulfill one another, free of selfish intent.

The highest good is like water. The nature of water is humble and gentle; it does not contend with the myriad things for supremacy. The practitioner models himself on water, meeting others and handling affairs in accord with the pattern of things and never going against the myriad things. Within this he carries out every kind of good deed, carefully discerns the matters he encounters, and acts in keeping with the situation, so that whatever he does accords with the way of goodness. Wisdom takes truth as its standard, wealth takes sufficiency as its limit, and action takes doing one’s utmost without excess as its measure. Only then can things nourish one another and each be preserved. To go beyond the limit is to expend and injure: in severe cases it harms one’s nature and life, and even in slight cases it invites misfortune. This is because one has contravened the Way of Heaven and departed from the great Dao (Dao); the rule does not permit it, and in the end one only brings harm upon oneself. To reach just the right measure is enough. This is the exercise of the De (Virtue/Power) of the Way of Heaven.

One looks at it yet does not see it: this is called “Yi.” Here “seeing” refers to what lies within a given range, and “not seeing” to what lies beyond that range. Vision confined to what is within the range cannot see what lies outside it. If one tries to measure what is within the range by what lies beyond it, and further tries to explain what is seen by means of what cannot be seen, then even what is seen comes to seem unseen. The principle within the range cannot be seen directly; it can be observed only through the forms and colors in which it appears. What lies beyond the range likewise cannot be seen directly; it can be known only through its principle. Within the range there are forms and colors, so principle may be discerned by means of form and color. Beyond the range there is principle, so form and color may be understood by means of principle.

Moreover, looking is the means of knowing form and color, while not looking is the means of discerning principle. What is visible belongs within the range; what is invisible belongs beyond it. Thus one may understand the principle beyond the range from the forms and colors within it, and one may also know the forms and colors beyond the range from the principle within it. The principle within the range shows itself by relying on form and color, and the principle beyond the range is likewise grasped with the aid of form and color. Invisible principle is without end, and visible form and color are likewise without end. Since form and color are distinguished as inner and outer, they also differ as higher and lower. Principle itself has neither higher nor lower, and so it is called “Yi.”

One sees only that within concentration—the state in which the mind is settled and focused—there is no boundary, yet fails to see that within wisdom—the capacity for insight and realization—there is likewise no boundary; one sees only that within concentration there is a boundary, yet fails to see that within wisdom there is likewise a boundary. It is precisely because some regard one side as “being” and the other as “non-being” that concentration and wisdom are able to interpenetrate. If one pursues names, names too reach a point at which they cannot be exhaustively spoken; if one pursues the forms and colors of the myriad things, forms and colors are likewise endless. Concentration is the root of names; wisdom is the source of concentration.

If one observes the world through concentration, both the admissible and the inadmissible are contained within it; if one observes the world through wisdom, both the concentrated and the unconcentrated are contained within the infinite. Concentration is the root of names; wisdom is the source of concentration. If one observes the world through concentration, both the admissible and the inadmissible are contained within it; if one observes the world through wisdom, both the concentrated and the unconcentrated are likewise contained within it.

The body may be compared to a tree and the mind to empty space: the tree, for its part, symbolizes birth and death, while empty space, for its part, symbolizes being and non-being. Birth is like a tree growing; death is like branches withering. “Being” can respond and communicate; “non-being” remains forever still and extinguished. Between living beings and the Dao (the Way)—the fundamental principle of the cosmos—there may be either distance or intimacy. Soil can disperse, yet cannot join in intimate union; the pure whiteness of jade can join in intimate union, yet cannot disperse. The relation of the body to the Dao is the sense of distance; the empty, still communion of the Dao with consciousness—awareness and cognition—is the sense of intimacy. “Jade” and “white” are two names for one thing; “mud” and “water and soil” are two names for two things. A person is the sum of body and consciousness; mud is the sum of water and soil.

The original substance of the myriad dharmas is inherently vast and still. Within that vastness there is no substantial entity, nor is there anyone who can see “emptiness.” When one sees forms and colors, one should not cling to the eyes; facing external conditions, the mind should not be stirred.

When the outward mind grows still, within that stillness there is nothing left to inquire after; when inner thoughts cease, after they cease there is likewise nothing to inquire after. Where there is mind, there is defilement; where there is no mind, there is no defilement. Practitioners differ in their advance and retreat, their increase and decrease, and should gradually receive and verify the teaching according to their own degree of attainment.

When one goes forth in comprehensive contemplation, all dharmas unfold broadly; when one returns inward, not even a thread or a hair may be grasped.

By holding to a single “empty talisman”—a visualization or method of cultivation that takes emptiness and stillness as its seal—one causes the mind to grow still. Within that stillness there is nothing to inquire after, and after the inner mind ceases there is likewise nothing to inquire after. Where there is mind, there is defilement; where there is no mind, there is no defilement. Practitioners differ in advance and retreat, increase and decrease, and should receive and verify according to their respective degrees.

When one goes forth in comprehensive contemplation, all dharmas unfold broadly; when one returns inward, not even a thread or a hair may be grasped.

Holding to this one empty talisman, one uses it to verify all that exists: when things come, one responds accordingly; when things depart, one lets them disperse. If things no longer come, one returns into emptiness and stillness. Within emptiness distinctions still remain, and distinctions too return to emptiness; within emptiness there are no distinctions, and the absence of distinctions likewise returns to emptiness.

Non-being can dissolve being, and being can dissolve non-being. Although being and non-being stand opposite each other, both take non-being as their root; although brightness and interval—brightness, and the gap or empty space between—stand opposite each other, both take the interval as their root.

When one sees, there is nevertheless nothing that is seen. Since there is nothing seen, what is there to see? When one sees things that have form and color, the mind has a place to settle; without form and color, upon what can it settle?

To go outward is to give rise to distinctions; to enter inward is to return to the One. Neither entering nor going out is true reality—the original state that is genuinely real and not illusory.

The conditioned—things deliberately made and arisen through causes and conditions—has four kinds of “is” and four kinds of “is not.” Wuwei (non-action), the state not produced by deliberate making, when in motion has neither the four kinds of “is” nor the four kinds of “is not.” Quiet emptiness has two kinds of “is” and two kinds of “is not”; emptiness itself has neither two kinds of “is” nor two kinds of “is not.” What arises is only the arising of all phenomena, and emptiness has four kinds; what ceases is only the ceasing of all phenomena, and emptiness itself neither increases nor decreases.

Calm serenity is an empty mind; longing for the great Dao (the Way) is original authenticity. When the resolve to return to the great Dao does not change, the mind that guards the One neither wavers nor scatters.

There is no present and no past, no going out and no entering, no before and no after, no inner and no outer, and no being and no emptiness. Equality without distinction is called “Supreme Stillness” (great concentration); the opening of wisdom is called “Heavenly Light.” One-sided attachment to Supreme Stillness is called the “withered seed”; one-sided attachment to the myriad things of the world is called “dry wisdom.” To cling only to words is to lack the wondrous teaching of sweet dew; to forget words is for the mind to have no illumination. Forgetting words is called Supreme Stillness; giving rise to speech is called Heavenly Light.

Although the present and the past are not the same moment, both lie within a single thought; therefore what comes before and what comes after are not matters cut off from each other. The body of this life and the body of a former life belong to one and the same dharmic substance. The view of emptiness and the view of existence both reside in a single mind. If this mind does not cling even to emptiness or existence, where can the various views be established? Every thought of the mind is likewise so. Thus, when the mind arises, all phenomena arise with it; when the mind comes to rest, all phenomena come to rest with it. If one can realize the concentration of no-mind, there is neither arising nor ceasing.

Holding various opposed formulations is meant to bring their affirmative function into play; setting them forth in an equal and concise way is to explain what they mean. This is the sense of the four propositions (observing the principle of things through four kinds of formulation).

Things originally have no names, yet people forcibly assign them names. Once named, people take things to be substantially real; this “existence” is a name that people have posited, not a name that things themselves possess. Looking deeply into things themselves, one finds that they in fact have no fixed name. Why? Language is used to designate things, but things themselves have no language; and when things are designated in language, no fixed and unchanging thing can be found at the place to which the words point.

“Dharmas that exist” and “dharmas that do not exist” arise in dependence on each other; “existence” and “non-existence,” set side by side, form one set of formulations. “Not an existent dharma” and “not a non-existent dharma” are names established by reversal; “neither existent nor non-existent” is a further name established by combining the first two formulations.

Returning to true nature (the real nature of things), there is in fact nothing fixedly and substantially real; both within and without are empty. This does not mean, however, that nothing whatsoever exists. If there is no “non-existence,” from where does the paired formulation “existence and non-existence” come? If at times there is no “non-existence,” from where does “existence” arise? If the two formulations do not occupy the same place, how can they be joined? Only on the premise that both “existence” and “non-existence” really obtain can one say that “neither existence nor non-existence” is thereby established. Yet once “existence and non-existence” have been refuted, “neither existence nor non-existence” likewise has no ground on which to stand; and once both formulations have been refuted, how can one say that they are joined? Leaving names and concepts behind, one enters true emptiness (the emptiness that does not cling to fixed existence). True emptiness itself is not to be clung to, but this is not the same as sheer nothingness.

A dharma said to be “empty” should not be clung to as really empty, and a dharma said to be “not empty” should not be clung to as really existent. A dharma said to be “existent” should not be clung to as really existent, and a dharma said to be “not existent” should not be clung to as really non-existent. The realm of emptiness opens out all at once, yet it cannot be stated as a fixed “emptiness”; the moment one calls it empty, one turns it into a characteristic. If one says it is “not empty, and therefore existent,” that “existence” becomes an obstruction.

To say that the two come together is not to cling to a real union; to say that the two do not come together is not to cling to a fixed non-union. If the two in question were originally one, there is no sense in which they were ever united; if they were originally two different things, how can one say that they are truly united?

Going from “one” to “two” is arising through mutual dependence; returning from “two” to “one” is likewise ceasing through mutual dependence.

A single thing can give rise to all dharmas (phenomena), without having to depend on many factors coming together to form them. If one says that many things jointly give rise to the dharmas, then, on that account, the dharmas ought likewise to be jointly produced by many factors.

When one speaks of “emptiness,” if one holds that “existence” is still present within it, then that “existence” cannot be called emptiness. If one says that in emptiness there is no “existence” at all, then neither “existence” nor “non-existence” can be established—so how can it be called “emptiness”? When one speaks of “existence,” the case is the same.

“Existence” and “non-existence” depend on each other: only where there is “existence” is there a “non-existence” by which a distinction can be made; this is called discriminative emptiness. “Existence” and “non-existence” also stand contrary to each other: if there is no emptiness and yet “existence” remains, that “existence” cannot be called emptiness; if one says that in emptiness there is no “existence,” then neither “existence” nor “non-existence” is established—so how can it be called emptiness? When one speaks of “existence,” it is likewise so.

“Existence” and “non-existence” depend on each other, and they also contradict each other. When there is no “existence,” neither “existence” nor “non-existence” is present, and so there is no “non-existence” by which emptiness can be distinguished. What comes before and what comes after also follow one another: the former speaks of distinction, the latter of non-distinction; when non-distinction is reached, the earlier distinction has already disappeared. Thus, when the former disappears, the latter disappears with it—and only this is true emptiness.

“Existence” and “non-existence” arise in mutual dependence: where there is “existence” there is “non-existence,” and even where there is no “existence” the very designation “existence” still remains; this is called horizontal mutual dependence. For each statement of existence or non-existence, one further judges whether it is “existence” or “not existence,” and whether it is “non-existence” or “not non-existence”; this is called vertical mutual dependence. The three statements above make up three matters, and all three involve distinction. Apart from these three matters is emptiness; emptiness is the absence of distinction.

When one instructs and guides sentient beings and expounds the dharmas, one may draw on four relations of mutual opposition and mutual dependence, so that people come to understand how the dharmas arise. In leading people back to what is real, one may draw on four mutually contrary relations, in order to explain how the dharmas cease.

First one observes and reflects, contemplating such things as threads of silk; this belongs to one class. Afterward one settles and holds the mind, contemplating “no place” and the like; this belongs to the other class.

There is a kind of existence that differs from the world yet does not leave the world; there is a kind of cessation that differs from emptiness, and the emptiness of the world also differs from it. Emptiness is capable of resonant response.

Because there is seeing, one does not depart from the world; because one cannot see, one is not in the world.

There is seeing, and yet one cannot see; therefore one cannot say that they occupy the same place, and so on.

There is a kind of existence that differs from the world yet does not leave the world; there is a kind of cessation that differs from emptiness, and the emptiness of the world also differs from it. Emptiness is capable of resonant response.

Because there is seeing, one does not depart from the world; because one cannot see, one is not in the world.

Sometimes it can be seen, and sometimes it cannot; therefore it cannot be called “one.” If “seeing” itself is also taken as “not seeing,” then it cannot be called “two” either. What I speak of is neither one nor two. Because it does not fall into the distinction between one and two, it is called yi (evenness, without distinction). If one sets up a “one” and also sets up a “two,” distinctions of more and less, of higher and lower, arise, and it is no longer even. If I remain always on the side of yi, I lose the distinction of higher and lower; if I remain within the distinction of higher and lower, I also lose yi. Truly to comprehend the proper nature of the Dao (the Way) is to cling neither to higher and lower nor to yi.

Although the mind can mark off the ten directions (the four quarters, the four corners, above and below, and the other orientations), there is no awakening to the ten directions that corresponds to them. If one supposes that one has already attained an awakening to the ten directions, that is to regard oneself as higher than the Celestial Worthy (Tianzun).

To speak both of a “beginning” and of “non-being” is to treat being and non-being as coming one before the other. If one says that being and non-being exist at the same time, that is to place being within non-being.

When the mind is not drawn along by the roots (the senses and the basis of what they take as their object), Heaven is free of turbid, disordered Qi (vital energy). When the roots do not cling to objects (what the senses come into contact with), Earth is free of deviant dust. When the mind does not linger within, this is called ming (deep and silent stillness); when the body does not cling to what is outside, this is called hui (lucid understanding).

Form (material shape and body) is not a fixed and truly real “form”; a name is only borrowed for the moment, and it is treated as “form.” When one understands that form is not sheer non-being, one may also call it “emptiness.” Where there is no name, a name is set up only provisionally; what is called “form” may also be called “emptiness.” If one does not rely on names, there is neither so-called form nor so-called emptiness, nor anything set over against emptiness and named “formlessness.” Form is established only by provisionally borrowing a name. When one understands that form is not sheer non-being, one may also call it “emptiness.” Where there is no name, a name is set up only provisionally; what is called form may also be called emptiness. If one does not rely on names, there is no form, no formlessness, and no emptiness. If one clings to “formless emptiness,” there is still “feeling” (sensation and receptive apprehension) within it. Even when a name is set up only provisionally, receptive apprehension still arises; when there is a name and one forcibly calls it nameless, receptive apprehension still arises as well. Since there is receptive apprehension, there is arising and ceasing; therefore among all phenomena there is no fixed, unchanging “one who feels.” “Conception, formation, and consciousness” (imaginative discrimination, constructive activity, and discriminating awareness) are all likewise.

Form and mind are not the same, so one may say that the mind contemplates form. Form and mind are also not two things cut off from each other, and therefore in fact there is no fixed contemplator and no fixed object of contemplation. The absence of contemplation is precisely contemplation; contemplation is contemplation without clinging. Within concentration (settled stability) there is agitation, and within agitation there is also concentration. The two are neither wholly the same nor sharply different.

When the mind attains liberation, the mind no longer clings to distinctions; without clinging to distinctions, there is likewise no activity of perception. Who, then, is it that knows the mind has already been liberated? The mind is able to cognize the principles of Dao (the Way), yet within the principles of Dao there is no mind; when the principles of Dao are cognized by the mind, the mind likewise contains no fixed and unchanging principle of Dao. Since neither mind nor principle exists in any fixed way, there is nothing that can be added or taken away. Therefore, once this is known, one no longer clings to observing some particular object or to seeking some particular principle.

When the mind does not cling to principles, delusive thoughts do not arise; once one knows that the mind originally has no fixed substance, the various false discriminations likewise do not arise. All things each rest securely in themselves and no longer depend upon one another. Yet any thought that arises through mutual dependence is such that, when the preceding thought ceases, the following thought does not arise; and even if the preceding thought has not ceased, the following thought still does not arise on that account. Since thoughts do not arise, there is no so-called thought. Without thought, there is no mind and no consciousness, nor is there one who is deluded or one who is awakened. Therefore, one who cultivates ought to recognize the nature of the mind: when thoughts do not arise, there is no fixed thought; without thought, there is likewise no mind-consciousness, nor any distinction between the deluded and the awakened.

Principles (doctrines and laws) originally arise on account of persons and also cease on account of persons; the arising and ceasing of principles depend upon persons, while the nature of principles originally has neither arising nor ceasing.

To establish doctrinal meaning on the basis of “emptiness” is to manifest being from within emptiness; to establish doctrinal meaning on the basis of “being” is to manifest emptiness from within being.

The myriad things are generated by “obtaining the One”; after the myriad things have come into being, although they are no longer “the One,” they ever remain within the root of “the One.”

The eyes originally reside upon the body, and a person wishes to use the eyes to look at colors. If color were already present within the eyes, then the eyes would be unable to see the eyes themselves.

The mind is constantly able to be aware of impermanent things, and the eyes constantly see impermanent sights. Why, within these two constant functions, do two kinds of impermanent objects arise? Are the two objects faced by mind and eye ultimately one, or different? The answer is that they are neither one nor different: they fall neither into the distinction between one and different, nor into the two extremes of permanence and annihilation. All such distinctions are to be regarded as dharmas of birth and death, and cannot be taken as a constant and true principle.

When eye, form, mouth, and other conditions come together, seeing, hearing, awareness, and knowing arise; when the conditions of eye, form, and the rest separate, seeing, hearing, awareness, and knowing disperse with them. What is called “arising” is only the manifestation of change; what is called “ceasing” is only the withdrawal of an illusion. If one speaks of arising and ceasing, how can the real be realized from this? In fact this is not true arising, but only appearing; nor is it true diminution, but only concealing. Because there is originally neither birth nor cessation, the real can be realized.

If phenomena such as “entry” are also taken as illusions, then both the real and the illusory become illusions; if they are taken as real, then both what changes and the real are treated as real. In the true aspect of all dharmas there is neither illusion nor reality.

The Dao (the Way) and the myriad things arise together; only at the first arising of the myriad things do people begin to see the Dao. If one seeks the Dao and the myriad things by means of what is seen, then the Dao and the myriad things seem to arise along with that seeing. In truth there is originally no independent “seeing”—how, then, could the Dao and the myriad things ever have truly arisen?

If the dharmas originally exist, they ought not to come into being merely because they are seen; if the dharmas originally do not exist, they ought not to disappear merely because what is seen is abandoned.

Seen from the side of manifestation, there is a division into two; seen from the side of return and entry, all returns to there being no one. In manifestation one may speak of both being and non-being; in return one does not fall into the one. What is called “not being” means the absence of substantial existence; what is called “not non-being” is not the empty nothing of annihilation. Neither the statement of being nor that of non-being can be clung to as fixed—how, then, can one say that there is a “one”?

If one wishes to explain in words the fundamental substance of the dharma, one should grasp the substance itself and not cling to language; one should take only the reality of the dharma’s own body, and not the falsity that lies in a multitude of words.

One need only grasp the principle to which they commonly return; there is no need to force each individual principle into mutual inference with the others. To speak of one dharma (a thing or a principle) is false; to speak of two dharmas is also false; and even the immeasurable dharmas of the ten directions (all directions, the entire world) are entirely false. If one seeks the true within false dharmas, it cannot be found; if one looks for the true apart from false dharmas, it cannot be found either. Throughout the immeasurable dharmas of the ten directions, not a single independently existing truth can be found. To understand that all is false is to understand that all is also true. If one opens one’s mouth to speak, one will say “false” and also say “true”; if one gives rise to no distinctions and adds no words, then there is neither a so-called true nor a so-called false.

When they exist together, it is not that they are in motion; when they do not exist together with one another, it is not that they are at rest. Motion and stillness do not have two different appearances, yet one cannot say that they are one and the same thing. Originally there is no independent “self”; only through conjunction with karma (action and its causal consequences) does a “self” come to be. I originally have no mind; only through conjunction with sentient beings does talk of mind arise. If one opens one’s mouth to speak, one will say “false” and also say “true”; if one gives rise to no distinctions and adds no words, then there is neither a so-called true nor a so-called false.

When they exist together, it is not that they are in motion; when they do not exist together with one another, it is not that they are at rest. Motion and stillness do not have two different appearances, yet one cannot say that they are one and the same thing. Originally there is no independent “self”; only through conjunction with karma does a “self” come to be. I originally have no mind; only through conjunction with sentient beings is there mind. Mind originally has no awareness; only through conjunction with external objects is there “knowing.” Since, when they come together, no external thing enters in, all that is said to exist is likewise empty. Emptiness means there is no self, no sentient beings, no mind, and no consciousness (the capacity to discriminate and to cognize). Since there is nothing at all, who, in the end, undergoes arising and ceasing?

The formless realm (the heavenly realm without material form) is called empty because form (material form) has already been exhausted. The spirit that arises within emptiness is called consciousness; the fundamental substance of consciousness is empty, and this is called concentration; concentration is not the mind, and this is called conception. The sage originally does not fall among these four, yet returns to all things, and there is nothing to which to return. Why is this? If one does not conjoin with things, there is no “self,” and so one is said to have left the dwelling; because one conjoins with things and thereby knows that there is a “self,” this is called return. Although the “self” returns to the myriad things, it does not bring the myriad things back into the “self.” Therefore the myriad things arise and cease, while the “self” neither arises nor ceases; this “self” is truly constant, whereas the myriad things are not truly constant.

Contemplative insight and deliberation are both cases in which the mind holds to something; awakening and clear understanding, by contrast, regard everything as empty. All dharmas amount to nothing other than seeing and knowing. If beyond seeing and knowing there is no further dharma, then, since there is seeing and knowing, what, in the end, is known, and what is seen? One uses only one’s own awareness to cognize what one sees, and then uses what one sees to behold one’s own awareness. If a dharma has a place to which it belongs, that place of belonging does not itself belong to it; if a dharma has no belonging, there is likewise no place to which it could belong.

If one places the body outside the mind, all manner of views and cognitions arise delusively; apart from this, is there any other dharma? Since there is seeing and there is knowing, on the basis of what dharma do seeing and knowing come to be? It is only that one uses one’s knowing to recognize one’s seeing, and uses one’s seeing to look at one’s knowing. If one says that a dharma has a place to which it belongs, it belongs somewhere, yet does not truly belong there; if one says that a dharma belongs nowhere, then although it belongs nowhere, it is not wholly nonexistent.

To regard the body as something outside the mind is like sinking into drowsy sleep; to forget all mental dharmas within the mind is like dying beforehand.

If one clings to form (things that have shape and appearance), there is no emptiness that can stand opposed to it; if one clings to emptiness (voidness and formlessness), there is no form that can stand opposed to it. Since the place in which one abides admits of no opposition, one cannot arbitrarily call it emptiness, nor arbitrarily call it form. If one may freely designate it in this way, then it can be called emptiness and can also be called form; if such designation is not permitted, then neither emptiness nor form can be established.

Manifestation is the same as arising, and concealment is the same as perishing.

What is called non-arising does not mean that nothing exists at all; nor is existence forever annihilated. This is to say that the meaning of the body lies in impermanent change. Nonexistence, too, is not forever annihilated; this is to say that the meaning of the mind lies in continuous existence. That neither nonexistence nor existence is forever annihilated shows that both body and mind have prior causes and conditions, and are not produced out of nothing, without a cause.

All dharmas lack an independent and unchanging self-nature; rather, as causes and conditions gather or disperse, they change into different appearances and qualities. When one observes these appearances and qualities, there is no controller among them, nor any fixed “I,” still less any substantial entity that undergoes birth and death. Although there is no controller and no fixed self, things continue nonetheless to present all manner of appearances and qualities.

It is like making gold into a bracelet, which may also be made into a bell. Gold has no fixed and unchanging self-nature, and so it can be made into a bracelet and can also be made into a bell; the bracelet and the bell themselves likewise have no fixed self-nature, and may further be made into the shape of a flower or a human figure. Flower shapes and human figures also have no fixed self-nature, and after being melted down can be restored to gold. Whether one says that it has been restored or that it has not, it has never departed from gold—where, then, is there truly a “return”? The forms of the bracelet, the bell, and the like each differ, and only thus is there the transformation of birth and death; yet they never leave gold, and therefore the essence of gold may be said to be truly constant and unchanging.

Earth has no fixed, unchanging nature, yet it can be fashioned into countless vessels. Once a vessel has been made, it can no longer be made into a vessel. The nature of earth can give rise to every kind of vessel; although the vessels differ in shape, their nature never departs from earth.

The void has no fixed, unchanging nature, yet it can give rise to countless cognitions. Once the various cognitions have arisen, they can no longer give rise to cognitions. The nature of the void can produce every cognition; although these cognitions differ from one another, none of them departs from the void.

Within foolishness, the form of foolishness is originally empty; within wisdom, the form of wisdom is likewise originally empty. Seen from this standpoint, the empty nature of folly and of wisdom is the same, so there is neither absolute folly nor absolute wisdom. If one says that within folly there is an emptiness of folly, and within wisdom an emptiness of wisdom, then these two “emptinesses” differ in name, and the essential natures to which they refer also differ. Distinctions of superiority and inferiority are of the same kind.

When a person is foolish, it seems that wisdom is something that can be sought; once wisdom is attained, the former foolishness disappears. Once foolishness has disappeared, wisdom is not an independent, unchanging thing either. Why? The names “folly” and “wisdom” are established only in relation to each other. When one side disappears, the distinction on which the other depends disappears with it, and so neither folly nor wisdom can be established. If one says that things are empty before they have arisen, then what is it that arises? If one says that after things are demolished they return to extinction, then what is there that can return?

No single thing can endure by itself. Only when it is regarded from the standpoint of the whole can it be said to abide permanently. The whole both abides permanently and undergoes change that does not permanently abide, whereas a single thing cannot be eternal on its own.

Consider a person polishing a mirror: the mirror that results may be bright, yet what is bright is the mirror, not the person. When one realizes the truth by means of the classics, it is the person who awakens to the Dao (the Way); it is not the classics themselves that awaken. Substance (the root, the fundamental reality) and function (activity, manifestation) are not the same thing: substance is not function, and function is not substance. Yet on closer inspection, when substance sets function in motion, function does not leave substance; when function ceases and returns to substance, substance in turn manifests as function. If one clings to substance and function, four distinctions arise; if one can forget these distinctions, they return to a single unity.

To realize that this “not-knowing” is the same as original not-knowing is to see that such “not-knowing” and the not-knowing of one who has not yet awakened are alike in form. In a state where there is cognitive knowing, names arise along with that knowing: where what is known is abundant, names are many; where what is known is slight, names are few. Where there is no cognitive knowing, there is neither form nor appearance, nor any name—not even the expression “nameless” exists.

To call a certain realm the gate of the Dao (the Way) is only because the people here see it so and name it so. If one says that it truly is the gate of the Dao, people elsewhere may not call it that. Since the names differ from place to place, which account should one rely on? The reply is: “For the time being, follow one of them.” Yet if one follows only one among them, the Dao becomes two; and if the Dao is two, there will be a third, and so on without end. If the dharma is endless and inexhaustible, it belongs to arising, ceasing, and change; and what arises, ceases, and changes is not the Dao. Therefore none of these accounts can serve as a basis.

People give rise to views according to wherever they happen to be: the more places there are, the more names there are. Looking carefully at its fundamental substance, there are in fact not many different Daos. If one says that it is not many, then it ought forever to be only one; yet if it is forever only one, it cannot respond everywhere to the differing names of different places. The reply is this: this dharma is neither one nor many, and yet it can accord with both the one and the many; this is only because people’s views differ. Its fundamental substance never comes to rest fixedly in any one thing, nor is it wholly absent from any thing. Because the views of those who observe differ, what is seen is sometimes many and sometimes one. Its nature is liberated and free, so one can say neither that it is many nor that it is one.

If one says that “seeing” belongs to the eye, then where there is no visible form the eye cannot see. If one says that “seeing” belongs to visible form, then even without an eye one ought to be able to see. If one holds that seeing belongs both to form and to the eye, then when the two come together there ought to be two seeings. If, in actual seeing, there are not two seeings, one can know that neither the eye nor visible form can of itself independently give rise to seeing. If seeing lies within these two, the eye and form, there ought to be two seeings; if one leaves these two, there ought to be no seeing at all—how, then, could there still be one seeing?

Only when visible form is seen is it called an eye; only when there is perception is it called mind. Then, when there is neither perception nor visible form, can it still be called mind?

Anger and joy have no fixed, unchanging nature. When the corresponding causes and conditions are met, they arise; once the emotion has arisen and those causes and conditions disperse, they cease. Anger and joy are therefore like illusions. When one understands that they are illusory and empty of any fixed substance, anger and joy naturally subside.

Someone asks: Are anger and joy inside the body, or outside it? If they were inside the body, the body would always be angry or joyful; if they were outside the body, they would from the outset have nothing to do with the body. It is clear, then, that anger and joy can be said neither to lie only within the body nor only outside it. They arise in a place subtle and hard to discern. They belong neither to that subtle place nor solely to inside or outside, but come into being as causes and conditions meet. They are not apart from causes and conditions, yet they have no fixed root. Anger and joy are like magical transformations: though like magical transformations, they still appear as anger or as joy.

Anger and joy of this kind communicate with heaven and earth. Heaven and earth together constitute a vast body, and this is called the “intention-born body” (a body manifested by thought). Since all that thought produces is like a magical transformation, it is the “nature-born body” (a body manifested from inherent nature). Its nature being like empty space, it is the “unborn body” (a body that does not arise from any fixed substance). The unborn body has no fixed bodily form, and so there is no fixed anger or joy. Reaching this level, the myriad things and the Dao (the Way) are no longer taken as fixed substances, yet magical transformations still appear. This is called ziran (the spontaneous): it is so of itself, yet one does not know why it is so.

No single dharma (a thing or phenomenon) has a fixed nature; its appearing depends on inner and outer causes and conditions, and what appears likewise has no fixed nature. It arises in dependence on the thing itself and on inner and outer causes and conditions, and these causes and conditions also have no fixed nature. It can be reduced neither to a single cause nor to inside or outside. In this way the myriad things are transformed into being and vanish as illusions, occurring of themselves.

A person’s mind-nature is originally correct and settled. It can respond to all kinds of things, give rise to various cognitions, and perform various functions, yet its inherent nature neither increases nor diminishes on that account. For example, when facing different circumstances, the mind-nature gives rise to joy and anger; but however those circumstances may come and go, the mind-nature itself neither comes nor goes.

If this inherent nature were absent, anger would not arise. Although anger arises because of the inherent nature, it is not identical with that nature; therefore, when anger subsides, the inherent nature has not disappeared, and joy can still arise afterward. Likewise, without the inherent nature, joy would not arise. Although joy is produced by the inherent nature, it is not identical with that nature; thus, when joy subsides, the inherent nature still remains.

If one were to say that the earlier anger disappears on its own and the later joy arises on its own, then joy and anger would be two minds unrelated to each other, and what comes before could not be aware of what comes after. Yet when a person feels joy, they can still remember the anger that preceded it. Since they can remember it, joy and anger both issue from one and the same mind-nature. Therefore, the moment joy arises is precisely the moment anger subsides, and the subsiding of anger is precisely the arising of joy.

When the mind is active, stillness is also contained within that activity; when it abides in stillness, activity can likewise occur. Activity manifests a wondrous power: it is the correct nature—which cannot be identified with other phenomena—as it transforms and functions freely amid differing situations.

In the mind there is originally neither joy nor anger, and in external objects there is originally neither joy nor anger. When mind and external objects stand over against each other, joy and anger arise within that encounter. Since neither the mind nor external objects possesses joy or anger on its own, when the two come together, from where does joy or anger arise?

When joy and anger arise delusively of themselves, neither the mind nor external objects is increased in any way. Since the two sides have not increased, how could joy and anger be born of their conjunction? If joy and anger do indeed appear there, then this arising is like a dream or an illusion: it comes into being through illusory transformation and vanishes as an illusion. The two parties to the arising do not know each other. Since joy and anger are originally absent in each place, how can their conjunction produce joy and anger? When delusive thoughts arise, the two sides have not increased; since they have not increased, how can conjunction cause them to arise? If one says that something arises there, this arising is like dream and illusion—born through illusory transformation and likewise extinguished through illusory transformation. The two parties to the arising do not know each other. Since arising still occurs even when neither knows the other, who, in the end, is it that arises?

If one sets these dharmas (things and phenomena) aside, there is then no so-called sage or ordinary person. Since these dharmas are like illusions, the ordinary and the sage are equally like illusions. Illusory dharmas have not been cut off and annihilated, and so one says they are not utterly empty and nonexistent; yet they have never been substantially real, and so one says they do not truly exist.

First, things depend upon one another, and from this the various dharmas arise. Next, they contradict one another, causing the various dharmas to perish. Finally, these two opposed states are dissolved, and one enters true emptiness (the realm in which one does not cling to the distinction between being and nonbeing).

As for mutual dependence: it is through nonbeing that being is made manifest; once being is present, nonbeing appears along with it; if nonbeing is present, being appears along with it. As for mutual contradiction: when there is being, nonbeing does not exist at the same time as being; when there is nonbeing, being does not exist at the same time as nonbeing. If one speaks only from the side of nonbeing, then a single nonbeing means that both are nonexistent—how could there still be room for being? If one speaks only from the side of being, then a single being means that both may be said to exist—how, then, could they contradict each other?

These faults are raised in order to clarify what is observed: in the two states each established on its own, they contradict each other. What is observed is further used to explain the coming and going of things: when one side departs in opposition, one side ceases, and the other side ceases along with it.

Afflictions are originally empty and quiescent, and so cannot be grasped; the supreme Dao (the Way) is likewise originally empty and quiescent, and equally cannot be grasped. The essence of both is emptiness, and emptiness itself admits of no distinction. When things are regarded through delusion, they are called afflictions; when things are regarded through awakening, they are called the supreme Dao. That afflictions cannot be grasped comes down, in the end, to the emptiness of the nature of afflictions; that the supreme Dao cannot be grasped comes down, in the end, to the emptiness of the nature of the supreme Dao. Although the emptiness of afflictions and the emptiness of the supreme Dao differ in name, it is wrong to say that their essences also differ, or that one is higher and the other lower. What is called a difference between the two arises only because, when they are discussed separately, two ways of speaking appear; if the two are united as one, this “one” is neither an independent supreme Dao nor an independent affliction.

The two matters of truth and delusion can be explained by means of the four propositions, and thereby the true nature (the real nature) is made manifest. Yet the four propositions themselves belong to delusive dharmas; it is the Dharma-nature (the real nature of all dharmas) that is true. One relies on words to manifest nature, but if one says that nature arises from words, then what the words speak of is not nature itself; yet apart from words there is also no other path by which nature can be made manifest. Nature is not words, yet it is not apart from words; delusion is not itself truth, but apart from delusion there is likewise no way to know truth. Because truth is manifested through delusion, truth is not separate from delusion, and truth and delusion are established at the same time.

Since truth and delusion are established at the same time, the ordinary person is in that very moment also the sage—why, then, still need to cultivate? If one says that truth and delusion are not simultaneous, then truth lies outside delusion; and if truth lies outside delusion, an ordinary person who cultivates cannot become a sage—so why cultivate at all? Cultivation is precisely for the sake of removing deluded views and manifesting what is real; therefore truth and delusion are not separate from each other. The Jing (scripture) repeatedly explains this point, and then indicates that it is only in order to break the view that takes truth and delusion as two substantial entities that there come to be such designations as “truth” and “delusion.” In the real nature of dharmas there is originally no division between truth and delusion; therefore one cannot say that truth and delusion are simultaneous, nor can one say that they differ as earlier and later. To go beyond the two-sided distinction of “at the same time” and “at different times” is to depart from the various clinging views. Within the Dharma-nature it is not that there is nothing at all; although there are dharmas that can be spoken of, one does not fall into any one side, and therefore liberation can be attained.

The substance of the Dao (the fundamental body of the Dao) is like a mirror: it clearly illuminates the myriad things, yet it neither selects among the forms and colors it illuminates nor clings to forms and colors. Forms and colors continually change, coming and going, while the substance of the mirror itself does not waver.

Sentient beings give rise to thoughts in accordance with their various cognitions and judgments, and through doing good or doing evil they form karmic force (the causal influence left by actions). When one no longer fabricates, karmic force recedes; when knowledge and views no longer arise, mental activity likewise comes to rest. Once mental activity has ceased, subsequent thoughts no longer arise; once karmic force is exhausted, cause and effect are thereby brought to an end.

Xuanzhu lu, lower volume.