《玄珠录》

The Xuanzhu lu (Record of the Mysterious Pearl) says that the various principles throughout the worlds of the ten directions can all be expressed in language, yet principles put into words are in the end illusory. Those principles left unspoken serve only as a contrast to speech, and are likewise not the real. Since both speaking and not speaking belong to illusion, where, after all, is the real? Everything that speech and silence touch upon may also be called real. Why were they earlier called illusory? Because the moment one opens one’s mouth to speak, it is termed illusion. Why, then, call them real? For the same reason—because one opens one’s mouth to speak. Why open one’s mouth? So that others may comprehend. Why does the listener attend? In order to reach the inner mind. Why reach the inner mind? So that a person may attain the Dao (the Way).

The myriad things receive their vital impulse from the Dao and so come into being. The myriad things undergo change, yet the Dao itself does not change. This shows that although the Dao is still and unmoving, it can turn along with the myriad things without departing from stillness. Since the myriad things receive their vitality from the Dao, and since they each differ from one another, the Dao seems likewise to display difference along with them. This is the Dao responding to and according with the myriad things.

It is like pressing a seal into clay: the clay originally bears no inscription, yet the characters on the original seal are not diminished. Because that original text is not reduced, one can go on making many impressions, and the characters in the clay are all identical with those of the seal. Hence it is said that in giving the Dao to others, one oneself becomes all the more abundant.

The Dao is nowhere absent; the myriad things all belong to its functioning as it manifests according to conditions. If one holds that the Dao exists only where it responds and accords, then any place where it has not appeared would not count as the Dao; yet the moment the Dao appears there, the place that formerly showed no manifestation seems once more not to count as the Dao. Where, then, is the Dao? If one holds that the Dao lies in manifestation, then both what appears and what does not appear can be the Dao; if one holds that neither is the Dao, then both appearance and non-appearance may equally be said not to be the Dao. The Dao lies between outer circumstances and the mind, and also between knowing and not knowing. By tracing the inquiry through the finest patterns, one arrives at a correct understanding. The true nature of the upright Dao accords with emptiness; precisely because it is empty, it can arise and can cease, and can also transcend arising and ceasing.

The Dao pervades the myriad things; that is to say, the myriad things are the Dao. If the myriad things arise and cease, then the Dao likewise arises and ceases; if one takes the myriad things as real, then the Dao too becomes entirely the myriad things; if one holds that the Dao is constant and unchanging, then none of the myriad things is constant.

The scripture says: If one does not distinguish the false from the true, how is one to cultivate the true Dao (the Way)?

In answer: When all realms interpenetrate freely and without obstruction, and cultivation is likewise full and complete, this is called the correct Dao. Let the mind unfold until it reaches every realm; wisdom is thereby made manifest, and it arises in dependence on external objects. When this interpenetration extends everywhere, the “great body” (the vast, perfectly interfused whole) is realized. Once the great body has been realized, one no longer clings to the narrow body of the individual; at the same time, one regards this small body as belonging to one and the same whole as all realms. One should always speak of the “subject” from the side of mind and the Dao, and of the “object” from the side of realms and the body; subject and object act upon each other. When the myriad phenomena and the myriad realms have all been perfectly realized in mutual fusion, subject and object come to rest together, and the true substance (the real, unchanging fundamental reality) remains forever still.

It is asked: The scripture speaks of the forms of the Dao and of sentient beings… After the great body is realized, one no longer clings to the narrow body of the individual and regards the small body as belonging to one and the same whole as all realms; one always speaks of the “subject” from the side of mind and the Dao and of the “object” from the side of realms and the body, subject and object acting upon each other; once the myriad phenomena and the myriad realms are perfectly realized, subject and object come to rest together, while the true substance remains forever still. What does this passage mean?

Question: The scripture says that the Dao (the Way) and sentient beings are mutually connected. Are they, in the end, the same or different?

Answer: The Dao and sentient beings are at once the same and different, and at once permanent and impermanent. Why is this so? The Dao and sentient beings appear through mutual dependence, and so they are said to be the same. Sentient beings have arising and perishing, while the Dao has neither arising nor perishing, and so they are said to be different. Since the two are each distinct and cannot rely upon one another, their names likewise ought not to depend upon each other.

Someone objects: If the names do not depend upon one another, how can one still say that they are the same or different, or permanent or impermanent?

Answer: Within each one’s own nature there is nothing that can serve as an object of comparison, nor any cause upon which either might rely. From where, then, do these names come? If one grants that names exist, one grants that one and the same thing may bear two names; if one grants that there are no names, one grants that one and the same thing does not have even a single name.

Answer: I am only forcing language to name it, and that is why these names exist. When one names it by force, it may be at once the same and different, and one may also call it permanent and impermanent. When one sets these ways of speaking aside, it is neither the same nor different, neither permanent nor impermanent. The true nature of things lies neither in forced naming nor in the refusal to name; it falls neither into permanence nor into impermanence. If this is so, why still force a name into being out of the nameless?

Answer: Entering into silence is not easy. If that nature could truly be fixed by silence, no one in the world would still speak of it by force. Since people still speak, it is clear that silence is not the true nature either. A further answer: It is precisely because one sees silence that one sees within it all manner of forced speech. In fact, silence is originally empty as well, and from this one knows that forced speech likewise has no fixed reality.

The treatise says: The nature of the Dao and the nature of sentient beings are both the same as the self-so (ziran). Sentient beings come into being by receiving the Dao; are sentient beings, then, the Dao?

Answer: The silence of sentient beings is not the true nature either. It is precisely because one clings to silence that one sees within it all manner of forced speech. In fact, silence is originally empty, and from this one knows that forced speech has no fixed reality either.

(“Receiving the Dao” means coming into being by receiving and relying upon the Dao. Here “speech” and “silence” are used to show that the true nature of the Dao and of sentient beings cannot be fixedly defined by concepts such as “sameness and difference” or “permanence and impermanence.”)

The nature of the Dao (the Way) and the nature of sentient beings are both the same as the natural (ziran). Sentient beings receive the Dao and are thereby born—are sentient beings then the Dao? The reply is: although sentient beings are born from the Dao, one cannot say that sentient beings are the Dao. Why is this? Precisely because sentient beings are not yet the Dao, they must engage in cultivation.

Someone raises an objection: if sentient beings are not originally the Dao and only obtain the Dao after cultivation, then is what they obtain not a Dao outside themselves? Sentient beings never originally said that they themselves were the Dao—why then say that they can obtain the Dao through cultivation?

The reply is: the nature of sentient beings is not eternally fixed and unchanging, and so they are able to obtain the Dao through cultivation. The Dao, likewise, does not manifest in a fixed and unchanging way, and so it can respond to the cultivation of sentient beings. Sentient beings do not name themselves on their own; it is because of the Dao that the name “sentient beings” comes to be. The Dao, for its part, does not name itself; it receives its name by virtue of sentient beings. The two depend upon each other, and only thus do they have names.

From this we may know that the Dao contains sentient beings within it, and sentient beings likewise contain the Dao. Therefore, one cannot simply say that sentient beings are the Dao; yet because sentient beings can obtain the Dao through cultivation, one also cannot simply say that the Dao is sentient beings. The Dao is able to respond to the cultivation of sentient beings; therefore one may say that the Dao is sentient beings, and that sentient beings are the Dao.

When a thought arises, it is simply a thought arising; when a thought is forgotten, it is simply a thought forgotten. The method spoken of here concerns the principle of what is real: it is neither clinging to “arising,” nor clinging to “forgetting,” nor treating “neither arising nor forgetting” as yet another state. Abiding in equality, the practitioner can understand it.

Once the principle has been grasped, one abides in it; while abiding, if one does not cling, one is able to contemplate; when contemplation brings a measure of penetration, one abides in it once more. What is here called “preserving” means abiding and keeping it in mind; “forgetting” means letting go of attachment; “contemplating” means observing and examining.

The Dao (the Way) and sentient beings depend on each other: where there are sentient beings, there is the Dao; if one says that sentient beings have no Dao, then there is no Dao to speak of. Sentient beings and the Dao are originally present together and accord with one another. This being so, why still establish methods of instruction and separately urge sentient beings to cultivate? If sentient beings truly attain the Dao, that attainment goes beyond the methods they have practiced; if the Dao accords with sentient beings, it is not limited by any established manner of practice. Since the scriptures do not permit clinging, how can practice itself be treated as something to cling to?

What is called practice is a name temporarily set up because of deluded thoughts. A teaching established through deluded thoughts is not real, and the words of instruction are only expedient sayings meant to guide people. Why, then, cling so hard to those words and suppose that one has a practice of one’s own? Thus the Dao, sentient beings, and the teaching—these three—cannot be clung to as truly existent. Yet that the three cannot be obtained does not amount to everything being empty. They neither coincide nor stand apart; this is the true “suchness.”

Sentient beings and the Dao are not separate. When sentient beings appear, the Dao is hidden and does not manifest; when the Dao is attained, the Dao appears, and the discriminating attachments of sentient beings recede. This is only a difference between concealment and manifestation, not a difference in the existence or nonexistence of the Dao and of sentient beings. Therefore, while the Dao has not yet appeared, cultivation is undertaken so that the Dao may appear; while sentient beings have not yet receded, letting go of grasping at sentient beings, the Dao, and the teaching is so that sentient beings may recede. If the discriminating attachments of sentient beings fade away, the great Dao can be perfectly penetrated; with that perfect penetration, peace and joy can be attained.

When the Dao is hidden and not yet manifest, sentient beings are troubled by afflictions, and affliction is suffering. People wish to avoid suffering and seek happiness, and so the teaching urges them to cultivate. After cultivation has at last been realized, one should set aside the methods of cultivation and also set aside the teaching; then, wherever one may be, one can be liberated. This state may provisionally be called “mingzhen,” that is, obscure union with the true Dao.

The Dao (the Way) always accompanies the birth and death of all beings and exists together with birth and death. Although beings are born, the Dao is not born on that account; although beings die, the Dao does not die on that account. When beings die, the Dao accords with death; when beings are born, the Dao accords with birth. Through life after life, even after one has left death behind, there is still accord with the Dao, yet one cannot simply say that they are the same, nor that they are wholly different. If one holds that the Dao can restore the dead to life, the Dao is confined within birth and death; if one holds that the Dao can cause the living to die, the Dao is likewise confined. In itself the Dao admits of no so-called “can” or “cannot.” Therefore the Dao is constant, while birth and death are not constant. Beyond birth and death there is no other Dao, and beyond the Dao there is no other birth and death.

Birth and death have never separated from the Dao, yet they have never fully become one with it. Birth and death are always changing, so one cannot say that they are entirely the same as the Dao; the Dao does not abandon birth and death, so one also cannot say that they are entirely apart from the Dao. The practitioner enters equal contemplative observation (observation that does not cling to distinctions) and, from contemplative observation, enters abiding preservation; if the mind of abiding preservation is forgotten and lost, one returns to contemplative observation. Contemplative observation does not obstruct abiding preservation, and abiding preservation does not obstruct contemplative observation. Within contemplative observation there is abiding preservation, and within abiding preservation there is also contemplative observation. Observation and preservation are neither wholly the same nor wholly different; one may say they are one, and one may also say they are two. After entering equal contemplative observation, one then, by means of contemplative observation, abides in and preserves this state.

If all phenomena arise, there is nothing that does not arise along with them. Yet arising is spoken of only from the standpoint of beings; when has the body of the Dao ever truly arisen? If all phenomena return to forgetting and loss, there is likewise nothing that is not forgotten and lost along with them. Yet forgetting and loss are only the condition of beings; when has the body of the Dao ever truly been forgotten or lost? The true nature of the Dao belongs neither to arising nor to forgetting and loss; from where, then, do arising and forgetting and loss come? If the Dao did not pervade arising and forgetting and loss, on what grounds would one call it the Dao? And on what grounds would one call them arising and forgetting and loss? It is precisely by means of arising and forgetting and loss that true nature can be known, and it is also by means of true nature that arising and forgetting and loss can be discerned. When there is fulfillment, all is fulfilled at once; when there is cessation, all ceases at once.

Entering equal contemplative observation, one may illustrate it by light and darkness: although light and darkness arise and cease, they have never left empty space; although empty space constantly abides, it has never left light and darkness. Light and darkness arise and cease, while empty space itself neither arises nor ceases; within empty space there are light and darkness, yet light and darkness are not identical with empty space. One may speak of light and darkness together with empty space, and one may also speak of the light and darkness within empty space. Light and darkness and empty space have never been wholly the same, nor wholly different; one may say they are one, one may say they are two, and one may say they are neither one nor two. Entering equal contemplative observation, one can then abide in and preserve this state.

One always takes what is perceived and discerned as one’s own body, and takes the mind that is able to perceive as one’s own mind. Brightness and darkness, emptiness and non-emptiness, have never truly been divided into two, nor can they be said to be wholly one. They may be called one, they may be called two, and they may also be called neither one nor two. Only upon entering the realm of equality can one say that they have any standing.

One always takes what is perceived and discerned as one’s own body, and takes the mind that is able to perceive as one’s own mind. To treat the various dharmas of knowing and seeing—phenomena and cognition—as things that can be spoken of and pointed out is the “Dao that can be spoken”; only when one understands that the nature of knowing and seeing is empty is it the true Dao (the Way). Knowing and seeing without bounds is called the “great body”; seeming to see something is called the “great eye”; seeming to hear something is called the “great ear.” To recognize the realm of what is known is the “great mind”; when the nature of the great mind is empty, that is liberation.

Liberation means that the afflictions and attachments in the mind are utterly cut off; when the afflictions in the mind are utterly cut off, the bonds of affliction upon the body are likewise cut off. When the bonds upon the body are cut off, it is not that nothing at all remains. From this one realizes that the fundamental nature of the myriad things is empty from beginning to end. The mind that contemplates and the objects contemplated both belong alike to mind, and both belong alike to the objective realm. Mind and realm each rest in their own place and in fact do not traffic with one another; from where, then, do they arise? If one can comprehend that “arising” and “not arising” are originally the same, the mind can be brought to rest.

All sentient beings who wish to seek the Dao should extinguish knowing and seeing; only when knowing and seeing are thoroughly extinguished can the Dao be attained. Someone may ask: after sentient beings die, knowing and seeing disappear of themselves—why go to such trouble to urge people to cultivate and force them to extinguish knowing and seeing? The commentary says: a person cannot choose death by his own will; at death he merely dies in dependence on external conditions, and the disappearance of knowing and seeing after death is likewise brought about by external conditions. When he is later reborn, birth is equally occasioned by external conditions, and knowing and seeing arise along with it, so the body is bound once more and the Dao cannot be attained. If, before the body has yet perished, one first brings knowing and seeing to rest, then thereafter one will not take birth again; no longer taking birth, there is also no knowing and seeing, and thus one attains liberation. The verse of praise says: death is not something one can master oneself; after death one is still reborn through external conditions. If one oneself brings knowing and seeing to an end, thereafter one will not be born again.

One should first come to a thorough understanding of the body. Once the various modes of existence within the body are already empty, even this “emptiness” must be let go; then the mind can wander in freedom. When one clings neither to emptiness nor to existence, the mind is without any entanglement.

Regard “xun” (巡) as a kind of function within the human circle—the interdependent whole of a person and the things around that person. It arises and comes to an end along with the human circle. Why say this? Because the human circle, taken together, constitutes “xun.”

Someone asks: Where is “xun”? The human circle itself has not increased; how, then, can there be “xun”? The reply is: Look carefully. Xun does not lie outside the human circle, and yet one may still say that there is xun. Xun, however, is not an independently real thing. Why? Because the human circle jointly constitutes xun.

Someone asks again: Where is “xun”? The human circle itself has not increased; how can there be “xun”? The reply is the same: Look carefully. Xun does not lie outside the human circle, and yet one may say that there is xun. Nor is xun sound, or form and color. In the end, everything is empty.

A practitioner should understand this. If one says that one possesses knowing, that knowing communicates with non-knowing; and once there is non-knowing, who is there to stand over against it? Seen in this light, these principles can be called neither knowing nor non-knowing. Going further, if one clings to “knowing,” one falls into a concept named “non-knowing.” Yet knowing was never substantially real to begin with, and so there is no substantial “non-knowing” either.

The mind originally holds no fixed knowing; knowing arises only when external objects are encountered. Yet one cannot say that the mind is wholly without knowing, for when external objects are not encountered, non-knowing is still present. What is true of human beings is equally true of wood, fire, and other things.

Thus it is said that what changes without constancy may for a time appear as being, while what seems constant may also appear as non-being. Where there is an object confronted, and where there is none, there is knowing and not-knowing. If one does not distinguish according to whether or not an object is confronted, there is neither knowing nor non-knowing. Both knowing and not-knowing still each depend on something, and so each leaves something unknown. Non-knowing, and there being nothing unknown, does not depend on any particular object, and thus there is nothing it cannot reach through.

And so it is said: the old domain and the old capital, as the body sees them, when gazed upon from afar, set the heart at ease. How much more so when one returns to the capital of that original nature of non-knowing, of fundamental reality itself? Then one is suddenly and completely illumined, and a subtle realm appears.

When the mind is placed upon external conditions and observed there, mind and conditions arouse one another. If external conditions do not disturb the mind, then the mind has of itself groundlessly given rise to thoughts. The mind does not originally produce thoughts on its own; they arise because of external conditions. A realm apart from the mind does not manifest of itself, nor does a mind apart from the realm manifest of itself.

The Dao (the Way) that can be spoken is a provisionally posited, speakable Dao; only the constant and unchanging Dao is the true Dao. If one clings to either side, the so-called constant Dao also falls within the range of what can be spoken. Why is this? If the constant Dao existed only by itself, it could not extend to everything that can be spoken; precisely because it stands in contrast to the speakable Dao, its “constancy” becomes an object that can be spoken of. Once words leave the mouth, they already fall into worldly discrimination; to speak of “constancy” is at the same time to speak of “what can be spoken.” Yet “constancy” and “what can be spoken” originally have no fixed self-nature, and so neither an independent “non-constancy” nor an “unspeakable” can be established. To remain among the many forms of speech is to observe the margins of things through words and images; to realize that the many forms of speech are all empty is to discern the subtle principle with a mind free of desire. The expressions “observing the subtle” and “observing the margins” here borrow the language of the Daodejing (Classic of the Way and Its Virtue), referring respectively to discerning what is profound and subtle and to observing the visible margins.

Substance and function are not sharply separated. Why is this? Substance is not the same as function, nor is function the same as substance. Yet on careful observation, when active substance is exerting its function, function is precisely substance; when function ceases and returns to substance, substance is precisely manifested within function. At the level of “preserving” there are four distinctions, while “forgetting” returns to there being not even one; the original text does not further explain what these “four” specifically refer to.

The countless principles under heaven do not go beyond “being” and “non-being”; all distinctions concerning being and non-being in turn do not go beyond “permanence” and “annihilation.” The ways in which sentient beings are born do not go beyond the four births (womb-born, egg-born, moisture-born, and transformation-born), and the realms of existence in which sentient beings dwell are never apart from the great Dao.

It is not only the speakable Dao that possesses the aspect of “being speakable”; the constant Dao can also be spoken of. It is not only the constant Dao that possesses the aspect of “constancy”; the speakable Dao also has a constant aspect. The two manifest in mutual dependence. Their arising does not go beyond being and non-being; the distinction between being and non-being does not go beyond permanence and annihilation. The ways in which sentient beings are born do not go beyond the four births, and the realms in which they dwell are never apart from the great Dao.

They arise in mutual dependence, yet there is no fixed “arising” to be grasped; they also cease in mutual dependence, yet there is no fixed “ceasing” to be grasped.

The view of “emptiness” and the view of “being” both reside in one and the same mind. If this mind itself does not exist, then where are the views concerning emptiness and being? The same holds for the principles of the various thoughts and forms of consciousness. Thus, when the mind arises, all phenomena manifest along with it; when the mind becomes still and ceases, all phenomena likewise become still and cease. If one realizes the state of no-mind, one understands that within it there is neither arising nor ceasing.

It is commonly said that there are four situations: the first is “the constant” (chang), and the second is “negation” (fei). When the two are in balance, they come to rest in “the One” (yi); if they are not in balance, the One cannot appear. The Dao (the Way), however, includes both balance and imbalance.

“Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom” means transcending the distinction of sagely wisdom and cultivating from an ordinary person to a sage. Yet the “sage” here is still spoken of in relation to the “ordinary.” While a person is still in the ordinary condition, if that person has already set himself apart from the ordinary, then once the ordinary has been relinquished, the identity of the sage must likewise be relinquished. One clings neither to the ordinary nor to the sage, neither to wisdom nor to humaneness, lessens desire, and returns to the Dao.

Someone asks: “Once a person has become a sage, the identity of the sage can of course be relinquished. But how is someone who has not yet become a sage to relinquish ‘sageliness’?” The reply is: “Here we speak only of those who have already reached the state of the sage, not of those who have not. One who has not yet reached that state has, from the outset, no ‘sageliness’ to speak of—how, then, could there be any question of relinquishing it?”

The Great Dao manifests its working in response to stimulus, yet its nature cannot be seen. Whether sentient beings are foolish or intelligent, their nature likewise cannot be seen. Precisely because it cannot be seen, the Great Dao and sentient beings can be the same at the most profound level. Through countless kalpas this sameness has not changed, and so it is called “sameness” (tong).

It is also said: “To call it ‘sameness’ is not quite right.” 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, and they remain always in the midst of change. Through countless kalpas the Great Dao and sentient beings each appear differently, and so this is called “difference” (yi).

The great person grasps the profound root and does not act from a selfish mind, yet can penetrate the myriad things and respond to affairs. One who can recognize and thoroughly comprehend the Great Dao is called a “great person” (daren). Although the manifestations of the Great Dao differ from one another, there is not one that is not vast; the Great Dao is therefore called the “mysterious root” (xuanben), that is, the profound and subtle foundation.

The fundamental reality of the Great Dao (the Way) is profound and still. When thoughts cease, this state is called “stillness”; when thoughts do not cease, it is called “non-stillness.” One should understand that, in one and the same situation, it is possible to say both that there is stillness and that there is no stillness: when a thought arises, is it stillness or non-stillness? When no thought arises, one can say neither that there is stillness nor that there is non-stillness. Observed through these four formulations, the Great Dao is found within them.

It is also said: “youwei” (purposeful action) is activity, and Wuwei (non-action) is stillness; something must be stirred before it moves, and if it is not stirred it is naturally at rest. One may maintain stillness within activity, and activity may also arise within stillness; one may let movement operate within stillness. Only when no thought arises is there neither what may be called stillness nor what may be called non-stillness. Observed through these four formulations, the Great Dao is found within them.

It is also said: “youwei” is activity, and Wuwei is stillness; something must be stirred before it moves, and if it is not stirred it is naturally at rest. One may maintain stillness within activity, and activity may also arise within stillness; one may let movement act upon stillness, and one may also let stillness appear as activity. Although movement and stillness differ, their nature issues from one and the same source. This nature, though a single whole, is not bound by the two states of movement and stillness. Although movement and stillness are two states, nature does not depend upon them. This is like a clay seal-mold and the impression it produces: they are distinct, yet they correspond to each other.

If one meets activity with a still mind, then even if the mind is stirred, stillness can be constantly preserved; if one approaches stillness with an active mind, then even while one dwells in stillness, the mind still has activity. Constantly holding a fixed notion will undo one’s earlier settled views; constantly clinging to the order of before and after will in turn disturb the mind’s stability. If one goes against these principles, movement and stillness conceal and reveal themselves by turns; if one accords with these principles, both concentration (ding) and wisdom (hui) can be possessed together.

Within a single mind and a single thought, past and present can all meet. Therefore, a single thought or a single movement cannot simply be called short or long, and a single mote of dust or a single world cannot simply be called large or small. Thus a sage, while situated in the present, can also speak of the affairs of antiquity. This is done by tracing writings backward and working back through the course of events, so as to grasp the true principle within them. From this, the writings of today can recount ancient affairs; principles that truly existed in antiquity can all be practiced today, and things that never existed in antiquity are not for that reason impossible to practice. Hence it is said: the “Jade Calendar” (Yuli)—symbolizing a calendar that records heaven and earth and links past and present—comes forth and gathers all principles under its sway.

Someone asked: “Why can the mind of today think of the affairs of antiquity? And why is it said that the affairs of antiquity exist within the thoughts of today? If ancient affairs truly exist, then the writings of today can recount them; principles that truly existed in antiquity can all be practiced today, and things that never existed in antiquity are not for that reason impossible to practice. Hence it is said: the Jade Calendar comes forth and gathers all principles under its sway.”

Someone asks: Why can the mind of today think of things that belong to the past? Why is it said that past events exist within today’s thoughts? If past events exist in the present, then the past has not passed away; if the present mind exists in the past, then the future seems already to have arrived. If the future is fixed, why can the present know the past? If the past is fixed, why do past events still truly appear in the present?

The present mind thinks of past events, and past events in turn are bound up with the present mind. Thus, within a single mind and a single thought, both the past and the present are contained. Precisely because past and present are distinguished, the mind cannot be fixed as one unchanging thing; and precisely because the mind is one whole, it also cannot be divided into two minds. The mind, therefore, is neither one nor two: it can be united as one, and it can also be divided into two. It is being, and it may also be called non-being; yet “non-being” is not absolute non-being, and “being” is not fixed being.

Because it may be called being, it can be contemplated from the standpoint of “being”; because it may also be called non-being, it can likewise be contemplated from the standpoint of “non-being.” Letting go of attachment to “non-being” and entering the Dao (the Way), one may continue to contemplate from the standpoint of “being”; letting go of attachment to “being,” one passes beyond the mundane world. All phenomena of the world arise, perish, and change. Letting go of the mundane and entering the Dao, the nature of the Dao has neither arising nor perishing, and the realms of past and present are then endless. Hence it is said: “All defilement is suddenly and utterly cleared away; the realm becomes thoroughly transparent and reaches Taiqing (Great Clarity). The world is not an eternal dwelling; Xuandu (the immortal realm spoken of in Daoism) is the capital of former days.”

Someone asks: Are the five tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—originally present in the silk? The reply is: Silk possesses the possibility of producing the five tones. Before the silk has been made into zither strings, there are in it no actual five tones and no manifested nature of sound, nor the various distinctions of mutual connection and the like; the state of mind is pure and transparent, reaching Taiqing. The world is not an eternal dwelling; Xuandu is the capital of former days.

Someone asks again: Are the five tones originally present in the silk? The reply is: Silk possesses the possibility of producing the five tones. Before the silk has been made into zither strings, there are in it no actual five tones, no manifested nature of sound, and still less any tones linked to one another. After the silk has been made into zither strings, the phenomenal form of sound appears when they are played; when they are not played, they still possess the possibility of producing sound. The sound actually produced and the latent nature of sound are mutually connected.

From this it can be seen that, in a single strand of silk, one may speak of being and may also speak of non-being; yet the nature of sound within it can be called neither being nor non-being. If one would refute the view of “being,” the nature of sound in the silk is not truly existent; if one would further refute the view of “non-being,” the nature of sound in the silk is not absolute non-being either. It is neither being nor non-being, and therefore it cannot be utterly negated by means of “being” or “non-being.”

Question: The strings of a qin have no sound in themselves; only after they are played do they produce sound. A carriage has no ox in itself; only after the whip is brandished does the ox appear. Since both of these things are lacking, why say that they are the same? The strings inherently possess a nature of their own, and this nature is always present; yet the sound they give forth sometimes appears and sometimes disappears. One abides in existence, while the other arises and ceases—how can they be called the same?

Answer: Whether one speaks of existence or of non-existence, each depends upon the other and is linked through their mutual relation. Thus both existence and non-existence are bound up with affliction. Sentient beings cultivate the practice and in the end realize the Dao (the Way) of the sage; they also see that, at the moment the Dao is realized, afflictions have already vanished. Yet where, precisely, are the afflictions when the Dao is realized? And from where is the Dao obtained? Careful observation shows that afflictions have no fixed place in which to hide, and therefore there is no independently existing affliction. Once it is understood that afflictions have ceased, the Dao is not something conferred from elsewhere either; what is called attaining the Dao is coming to understand the manifestation of the Dao.

If one insists that matters must be so, then both the Dao and afflictions are governed by arising and ceasing. The Dao is not superior to affliction, nor is affliction inferior to the Dao—why, then, strive so hard to extinguish afflictions and seek the Daochang (the realm of accomplishment in cultivating the Way)? At root, no residual distinction remains between the Dao and afflictions.

It may further be answered: what is called “the Dao,” what is called “the self,” and the root and the branches of the substance of the Dao are all like this; down to the present, not a single affliction has ever truly arisen.

It may further be answered: from the standpoint of ultimate principle, things are originally so, and down to the present they have never truly ceased. Why, then, say that “the Dao” and “afflictions” arise and cease? Because careful observation of these four formulations—the Dao, the self, and the root and branches of the substance of the Dao—shows that, in the ultimate sense, none of them can be fixed upon. Within this principle there is nothing in excess and nothing lacking.

If one says that these four exist forever as fixed realities, then the account of the myriad things is incomplete. If one says that any one of them can stand for the immeasurable myriad things, it still cannot extend to all. Conversely, if it truly can extend to all, then these four cannot each be counted as truly fixed existences. How, then, is this to be understood?

Answer: These four stand in mutual opposition, and their arising and disappearance are not simultaneous. When one of them is manifest, the other three are not. As for the case of being situated among two of them, one need not be perplexed on that account. If the various situations are examined by means of a single one, how could there be principles too numerous to set forth clearly? Because there is the one, there is also the many; thus one may say that there is one, and also that there is the immeasurable; one may say that there is existence, and also that there is non-existence. It is in this way that there comes to be an “existence” that seems constant.

Annihilation and permanence, the high and the low, are likewise established only relative to one another. In the correct nature—the original correct Way—of the Great Dao, there is neither high nor low, nor can one speak of existence or non-existence; of arising and ceasing, then, to whom could one speak? Since no independent thing truly arises or ceases, the Daochang and afflictions, spoken of from the ultimate standpoint, have no real distinction. Those who cultivate the Way, in practicing it, should hold to an upright intention and not depart from this original correct nature.

“Whose nature, again, is this nature, and whose mind, again, is this mind?” This means pressing the question still further: whose nature, after all, is original nature, and whose mind, after all, is the mind? The reply is that one must still rely on the “four phrases” (expressing the principle through four modes of statement). Mind is the original nature of all dharmas (all phenomena); apart from the four phrases, there is no mind that can be grasped on its own; apart from all dharmas, there is no original nature that can be grasped on its own. Sometimes one says “existence,” and that is, for the moment, total existence, filling the dharma-realm (the whole universe) with no fixed place; to say “nonexistence” is, for the moment, total nonexistence, in which even the most minute things are entirely extinguished. At this point nothing more can be said, and one can only provisionally call it the “Great Dao” (Dadao, the Great Way).

The supreme Dao (the highest Dao) is always profound, hidden, and still. Once it is explained in words, those words can no longer count as its original true appearance. Yet in order to teach sentient beings, one can only force oneself to speak. Speech has four phrases, and the Dao makes a corresponding response; once these responses are taken as fixed formulations, four kinds of one-sided attachment arise. The four phrases arise in sequence and are not established all at once: when one of them is spoken, the other three are for the moment left unsaid; sometimes the first phrase is spoken first, while the other three have not yet appeared; sometimes one comes to the last phrase, and the other three have already passed. Yet a single phrase can be established only because the other three serve as its reference; once those three are set aside, this one phrase cannot stand on its own either. At the very moment one is speaking of the “one,” the other three phrases have already been forgotten; and once the three are forgotten, the “one” is forgotten along with them.

One may ask: Why does the Dao first open its mouth to speak, and then abolish what has been said? The answer is that, because the thoughts of sentient beings arise and then subside, one uses “abolishing” to break attachment to “bringing forth,” and uses “bringing forth” to break attachment to “abolishing.” In the true nature of the Great Dao there is originally no fixed nature or phenomenal mark, nor any bringing forth or abolishing. Only because the principle is here explained by means of the four phrases are they called the “four phrases.” When the mind is in this state, there are originally no four phrases; and since the four phrases are absent, the mind too cannot be clung to as something truly existent. Only then is this called the “great four phrases.” Mind, the Great Dao, true nature, and reality all refer to this same state.

One may ask: It was said earlier that when one abides in the “one,” the other three phrases are set aside. Once the four phrases have already arisen, why must three of them still be set aside? Why not simply speak of the “one”?

The answer is that the “one” itself depends on the other three phrases in order to be established; once those three have been set aside, the “one” cannot exist independently either. None of the four phrases may be clung to, and the mind too may not be clung to as truly existent; only then is this called the “great four phrases.” Mind, the Great Dao, true nature, and reality all speak of this same principle.

Question: It was said earlier that when one statement is set up, the other three are discarded, and that when a fourth statement is then put forward, the previous three are discarded once more. Why not put forward only one? If one statement is better or worse than another, why not choose the most concise? If they are neither better nor worse, why still utter three of them in turn? Moreover, if a single sentence is enough to make the matter clear, there is no need to put forward another three; if all four sentences are enough to make the matter clear, the first three ought not to be discarded. Why, after the fourth sentence is put forward, are the first three discarded? Why, after three sentences have been spoken, is only one left at the end?

Answer: There is no distinction of better and worse among the four sentences. Sentient beings have not yet awakened, so one sentence is not enough to make them understand; the explanation must be given by means of four sentences. The four cannot be spoken all at once; they can only be put forward one after another. Each time one sentence is spoken, the other three are for the moment set aside. Once the first three have been set aside, the last sentence must be set aside in just the same way. How could it be only the first three that are set aside?

Question: These four sentences speak of the true teaching of arising and ceasing. Why is the Dao (the Way) still present within them?

Answer: The Dao is nowhere absent; from beginning to end it is within the four sentences. If one were to say that the place where it resides does not exist at all, then these four sentences would not be the Dao.

It is further asked: Within the four sentences there is “being.” Why must one still rely on “being” to give rise to “being”? The four sentences also speak of the true teaching of arising and ceasing. Why is the Dao still within them?

Answer: The Dao is nowhere absent; from beginning to end it is within the four sentences. If one were to say that the place where it resides does not exist at all, then these four sentences would not be the Dao.

It is further asked: Within the four sentences there is “being.” Why must one still use “being” to give rise to “being”? Within the four sentences there is “non-being.” Why must one still use “non-being” to extinguish “non-being”?

Answer: The “being” within the four sentences cannot truly give rise to anything, and the “non-being” within them cannot truly extinguish anything. This is arising of itself and ceasing of itself. It is not brought forth by some agent that generates it, nor brought to an end by some agent that extinguishes it. What is spoken of here is simply “is” itself. It neither arises nor ceases, nor is it the case that it neither arises nor ceases. Yet these four sentences have already been spoken, so even when they are set aside, this is not the same as before they were uttered. In the same way, although a person who has awakened returns to ordinary life, that person has nonetheless once awakened; even after returning to the ordinary world, such a person is not the same as one who has not yet awakened. Once correct nature—the true inherent nature—is attained, one is never defiled by the ordinary world. Hence it is said, “The one nature does not change.”

All things can be observed from four aspects, and each of these four aspects has its own core. The cores do not differ from one another; when they are connected through, they form a single whole, and this is therefore called the “Great One” (Dayi; all things return to one). One may also say that if the four aspects are brought together in search of their core, the core finally obtained is still only a surface; continue the search until there is no surface and no core that can be grasped, and this is called the “Great One.”

This is like peeling open a banana plant to look for its center: the so-called center one finds is still only another layer of skin. Peel on without cease until there is no skin and no center left to seek, and this is called Zhengyi (Orthodox Unity; the One that returns to the correct Way). Thus it is said that the more one feels close to that reality, the farther, on the contrary, one is from it. Only if one can reach a state in which there is no end, and in which one does not cling to any so-called “reality,” is this called the “True One” (Zhenyi; the true One). One sees, yet there is nothing visible; what is seen has no form or color. Because there is no form or color, there is no object that can be seen, and thoughts are likewise so.

Guarding the “One” while breaking attachment to the “One” does have its true significance; yet if one merely holds fast to it, this may also turn into dull torpor, as if one were asleep. Take concentrated reflection as an example: close the eyes and conceive of what is seen, and when the eyes are opened still let the mind’s intention continue—only then can the function of the mutual action of the inner and the outer be brought into play.

The Dao (the Way) has never been merely “four,” because its nature is one; nor has the Dao ever been merely “one,” because it pervades the four directions and runs through all things. It is both one and four, yet one cannot say that it simply is one or simply is four. Only when the true principle within this is properly grasped is it called the “True One.” What is called the “True One” is merely a name given by borrowing speech. The principle is originally beyond words, and people borrow speech only to make it manifest; if one says that the principle can be spoken, this in turn reveals the side of it that cannot be spoken. Speaking and not speaking depend on each other and bring each other to light; within this there is of itself a subtle sequence, and what comes before and what comes after mutually confirm one another.

From ancient times to the present, some teachings have not been like this, and have lacked this subtle level; from ancient times to the present, there have also been teachings that accord with this principle and that possess their subtle level. From this one can know that being and non-being stand opposed to each other, and that the present and the past belong to different ages. Only through mutual confirmation can one grasp the various transformations of the one and the four and return to true nature. All of this is so of itself. What external thing would change have to wait for in order to be set in motion? Grasses and trees, although without perception, in the end undergo growth and withering; the true Dao, although without perception, is truly constant and unchanging.

Here, although one speaks of “non-knowing,” there is still a recognition concerning non-knowing. Without the mind, one could not recognize this. Grasses and trees, although without perception, in the end undergo growth and withering; the true Dao, although without perception, is truly constant and unchanging.

Although there is no concrete perception here, there remains a kind of “knowing of non-knowing.” Without the mind, there is no way to know; without the eyes, there is no way to see. Yet this knowing does not come by relying on the mind, and so it is “knowing while nothing is known”; this seeing does not come by relying on the eyes, and so it is “seeing while nothing is seen.” Therefore, one who can realize this knowing of nothing and seeing of nothing has grasped the key to the Dao (the Way).

It should be understood that the three times—past, present, and future—are all empty. What is meant by the three times is that one part has already passed and another part has not yet arrived; between the two there is no “present” that can exist independently, and so the three times are all empty. This may be illustrated by a lamp: when the lamp is about to go out, can one see it in the act of going out? If one can still see it, the going-out still lies in the future; if one can no longer see it, the lamp has already passed. Then, between “going out” and “not yet going out,” where is there an independent entity that can be established? The intermediate stage between past and future has only a name and no substance. Hence it is said that the three times are all empty. Since they are empty, there is no fixed and unchanging body; and without such a body, what is there to cling to or crave? Since there is nothing loved or clung to, one can unite with the Dao and, together with the Dao, return to emptiness; this is called “loving the Dao.” When the Dao and the body alike return to emptiness, this is called “the Dao’s love.”

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

Question: The Dao (the Way) can respond to the myriad things, but can the myriad things attain the Dao? If the myriad things have attained the Dao, then after attaining it they ought to abide without change—why do they continue to undergo birth? If the myriad things are not the Dao, then what cultivation obtains is merely a Dao outside oneself. Since the myriad things can never in the end attain the Dao, why practice at all?

Answer: Sentient beings are subject to change, and so they must rely on cultivation; the Dao, too, is not fixed and unchanging, and so through cultivation sentient beings can attain the Dao. Sentient beings cannot attain the Dao by themselves; they must rely on the Dao in order to attain it. The name “Dao” does not arise of itself either, but exists because of sentient beings. The moment sentient beings appear, the Dao manifests together with them, and there is nothing that is not within it; the moment sentient beings forget the Dao, the Dao is forgotten together with them, and there is nothing that is not forgotten. The superior and the inferior exist at the same time—where, then, is there any distinction between the Dao and the myriad things?

Although sentient beings are born, the Dao is not born along with them; although sentient beings perish, the Dao does not perish along with them. Yet, viewed from the time when sentient beings arise, the Dao only then begins to appear; viewed from the time when sentient beings perish, the Dao disappears along with them.

If one grants that the Dao is without partiality, then Yuanshi (the primordial deity revered in Daoism) has already attained the Dao, while I have not yet attained it; if one holds that the Dao is partial, then when Yuanshi attains the Dao, I cannot attain it. Before sentient beings are born, the Dao already exists; but the Dao of that time is not “my Dao”—it is only the Dao that has existed since antiquity. The Dao I now attain is precisely the Dao of one substance with the ancient Dao: the ancient Dao is the present Dao, and the present Dao is the Dao that I have attained. Why is this so? Through countless kalpas (spans of time of extreme length), there has been only one Dao of wisdom. What sentient beings attain may be called the Dao of each sentient being; yet it is also the universal Dao, and so, according to each one’s circumstances, it is called a “private Dao.”

The text from “the breaker of names” onward is repeated in the original. To break attachment to names is like pointing at bamboo and calling it water, and pointing at the sky and calling it bamboo: if one says that such a designation holds, then it holds at the same time; if one says that it does not hold, then it does not hold at the same time.

What is called “broken form” (poti) means that, as the cognition of sentient beings changes, one and the same thing manifests differently as existent or non-existent: at times an empty place is taken to be existent, and at times an existent place is taken to be empty. This is what is called “broken form.”

From the standpoint of knowing things, some things, though they change their form, do not become empty nothingness. For example, when one sees an ox turn into a horse, one says “this is a horse” and no longer says “this is an ox”; this is not a matter of giving the original ox another name. Again, when a person regards things with a pure mind-consciousness (xinshi), the myriad dharmas appear pure to that person; if the multitude lacks this cognition, the myriad dharmas appear turbid and defiled to them. Even when one understands that things remain turbid and defiled, one may still say that they are pure with respect to dharma. The turbidity of dharma is still “existence,” and the emptiness of dharma is still a way of speaking about “non-dharma.”

The fundamental substance of mind-consciousness is constant and pure; the functioning of mind-consciousness undergoes change, and this change belongs to sentient beings. Sentient beings cultivate change in order to seek what does not change, and they cultivate the functioning of mind-consciousness in order to return to the fundamental substance. What this does is bring to rest the shifting appearances of mind-consciousness; it does not make the pure, true fundamental substance disappear. In the original text, the meaning of this passage appears twice.

One abides in the originally true state and does not accept false designations. When false designations come, one lets them return once more to falsity. If someone grasps by means of the true, I accept the true portion within it; if someone grasps by means of the false, I accept the false portion within it. If, as some people do, one does not grasp by means of words and abides in the true, then one obtains only that single truth.