《老子道德经憨山注》Vol. 1

The Hanshan Commentary on the Laozi Daodejing is an annotated work by the Ming dynasty Daoist Hanshan Deqing of Jianye. The book first discusses the origins and development of the teachings, methods for cultivating the mind, principles of choice, and the relationship between learning and practice. It also explains the Daodejing’s central aim, meaning, methods of cultivation, and the relationship between substance and function. The work then divides into two parts, with chapter-by-chapter commentary on the Daodejing: the first part covers chapters one through thirty-seven, and the second covers chapters thirty-eight through forty-four.

The second part of Laozi’s Commentary on the Dao De Jing contains chapters 38 through 81 of the Dao De Jing and concludes with a section titled “Explication of the Text’s Meaning.”

The founders of traditions in the Western Regions—a term used in ancient times for India and other lands—wrote treatises to refute the mistaken views of non-Buddhist schools. They therefore had to understand both their own teachings and those of other traditions. Since ancient times, Chinese masters who explained the scriptures and treatises have likewise been well versed in the teachings of various schools. Yet later students in our own tradition are content with limited learning and shallow understanding. They fail to see that all phenomena share one substance, and instead regard other teachings as alien. In this way, they cannot bring doctrine and practice together, nor can they readily guide ordinary people.

Some who have only recently begun to believe in Buddhism cannot study the scriptures and teachings in depth. They struggle with the many scattered technical terms and find the principles hard to grasp. They are especially fond of Laozi and Zhuangzi, whose works they regard as a treasury of literary learning; yet when they come to the purpose behind those works, they often feel out of their depth. When they read commentaries by different schools, they find that each author clings to a particular view, leaving them unsure what to accept or how to find a middle course. Later, they encounter annotations such as Kouyi and Fumo, which cite Buddhist scriptures extensively. Many of their claims do make sense, and they even assert that the entire Buddhist canon derives from the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Those who are confused take this claim to be unquestionably true. This deeply troubles me.

While sitting in quiet meditation by the sea, I was reading the Śūraṅgama Sūtra and the Lotus Sūtra when someone asked me about the meaning of Laozi and Zhuangzi. I therefore expanded my discussion to clarify my own understanding. I do not seek the approval of realized adepts, nor do I dare claim that my argument must be correct.

I have also long lamented that writings which use the principles of their own tradition to refute opposing views have, since ancient times, mostly treated only the symptoms. Few have truly identified the deep-rooted cause of the illness. Their remedies are not ineffective; they simply have not yet diagnosed the source. I therefore take “contemplation through mind-consciousness alone”—observing all phenomena through mind and consciousness—as my standard of judgment. It is like a wish-fulfilling jewel that reflects every color in full, each hue clear and distinct; it is also like a voice in an empty valley, where many sounds answer in turn. When phenomena are viewed through contemplation of mind-consciousness alone, all appearances naturally fall within the scope of reflections and echoes. For this reason, this treatise is titled “On the Sources of Teachings.”

I often observe that, when any craft or skill reaches a high degree of refinement, it cannot be taught through words alone. Imitation alone may not be enough to grasp its secrets, either. How much more so with the mysteries of the Great Dao: how could they be fully conveyed by word of mouth or explained in writing? The key lies in inward realization. Thus it is not only meditation on the Chan school that values subtle insight. No form of worldly wisdom and eloquence, skill in managing affairs, or art of making a living can reach refinement without realization. True refinement is difficult to put into words.

When the Buddhist sage taught the Lotus Sutra, he chiefly clarified the true aspect of all things. Yet when it came to the most subtle principles of the Dharma, he did not explain them in specific terms. He simply said, “It is thus”—just as it is. Those who realize the subtle Dharma are also able to speak well about the principles of governing worldly affairs and making a living. Such matters can all accord with the true Dharma. The fifth-stage bodhisattvas described in the Flower Garland Sutra are said to understand every kind of worldly learning. They are familiar with Yin-Yang arts and numerology, charts, books, and seals, medicine and healing techniques, rhetoric, and literary composition; only then can they enter the world to help others.

Thus, great beings who have reached the stage of equal enlightenment—bodhisattvas close to Buddhahood—manifest forms in ten kinds of worlds. They take on whatever identity and means are needed to liberate sentient beings. In light of this, could Buddhist Dharma really exclude all worldly principles? And could worldly principles really have nothing to do with Buddhist Dharma? It is only because people have not realized the mysteries of the Great Dao that they draw boundaries in their minds between the inner and the outer. Is the Dao itself truly like that?

In my private observations, people throughout the ages who draw boundaries everywhere and defend their own teachings call the other side an outside path, while those on the other side call this one a heresy. Seen from a broad perspective, this is as absurd as assigning rank to puppets, marking borders in the vast emptiness, or deciding whether the light of the sun and moon is right or wrong. Such disputes arise because people have not realized the subtlety of their own minds, and instead add needless arguments.

The sages of antiquity had no special distinction beyond having realized the mysteries within. All the teachings they spoke flowed from this subtle realization, and they offered principles of varying depth according to people’s different capacities and circumstances. Thus it is said that everything flows from the Dharma realm, the common source of all things, and returns to it. For this reason, without realizing one’s own mind, one cannot understand the mind of a sage. To imitate a sage’s words without understanding the sage’s mind is like an actor performing joy and sorrow on a stage: the performance may look happy or sad, though the actor may not actually feel either. These emotions do not arise from the actor’s own heart, yet the actor treats them as genuine feelings of their own. I have seen the same thing among those who explain the words of Buddhist sages.

When I was young, I studied under Confucius, yet I did not truly understand him. Later I studied under Laozi, but still did not truly understand him. As an adult, I also studied Buddhism, yet I still did not understand the Buddha’s teaching. Afterward, I withdrew to the mountains and marshlands, sat in stillness, and observed my own mind. Through this, I came to understand that everything in the Three Realms appears through the mind, and all things are manifestations of consciousness.

When we contemplate through mind and consciousness, every form is an image of the mind, and every sound is its echo. Among these images, the sages are the most upright; among these echoes, their teachings accord most closely with the right Way. Since all things appear through the mind, everyday speech and conduct—including governing public affairs and working to earn a living—can also accord with the true teaching.

Because there is no independent teaching outside the mind, every thing is inherently true and subtle. It is only those who are deluded, clinging to things, who cannot grasp their subtlety. When we awaken to our own mind, no teaching is beyond subtlety. Only the sages can reveal the subtle principle in both mind and teaching.

Buddhist scriptures all originated in the Western Regions and entered China later through translation. They began arriving in the Han dynasty and flourished on a much greater scale by the Western Jin. Among the translators of the Jin dynasty, the most renowned was Kumārajīva (often called Luoshi). Four of his disciples—Sengzhao, Daosheng, Daorong, and Sengrui—were outstanding monks. Kumārajīva also had them assist with the work of translating scriptures.

Kumārajīva once said to Sengzhao, “Your understanding of doctrine is no better than mine; when it comes to literary expression, though, you and I can learn from each other.” This was because Sengzhao was especially well versed in the thought of Laozi and Zhuangzi.

Buddhist scriptures were originally spoken by the Buddha himself, but after reaching China they often came to differ in their wording. Sometimes the same scripture was translated several times, leading people of limited understanding to doubt it. In truth, the doctrine itself did not differ; the quality of the wording depended only on the translator’s literary skill and ability. Thus, the translations in the Buddhist canon produced by Kumārajīva are mostly elegant in style, thanks in part to the help of the four worthy scholars around him.

The Lotus Sutra is profound in doctrine and precise in its wording, conveying its subtleties in full; it cannot be understood from the literal wording alone. The Vimalakīrti Sutra proceeds with composed elegance, and its doctrine is made clear as a matter of course. As for the four essays of Sengzhao’s Treatise of Sengzhao, their arguments form a unified whole, tightly reasoned and without gaps. Without a truly penetrating understanding of Buddhism, they are indeed difficult to grasp. That is why the confused criticize them, claiming that the emptiness school—a Buddhist tradition centered on “emptiness” as its core doctrine—merely indulges in the kind of idle speculation found in Zhuangzi and Laozi.

The eminent Huayan master Chengguan, known as the National Teacher of Qingliang, devoted himself to studying the Avataṃsaka Sutra. In his commentary on the sutra, he often cited Sengzhao’s arguments and respectfully called him “Master Zhao.” I have privately reasoned as follows: If Sengzhao’s views were unsound, why would Kumārajīva have allowed him to assist with the translations? If Kumārajīva lacked discernment, why would his translations be so highly esteemed? If the Treatise of Sengzhao were contrary to right principle, why would Chengguan cite it? Many people, past and present, have raised doubts about this, yet most have failed to address the point. Why is that?

Consider Chengguan’s Commentary on the Avataṃsaka Sutra: it quotes Laozi and Zhuangzi extensively, yet says that it borrows only their words, not their ideas. Guifeng Zongmi, meanwhile, held that the two schools outside Buddhism could not probe the fundamental question of where human beings come from. The Record of the Mirror of the Mind offers a forceful rebuttal on this point as well.

The eminent monks mentioned earlier were all manifestations of the Buddha, appearing in transformed bodies to teach and guide living beings, and they spread the Great Dharma. Why, then, did they differ so greatly in what they accepted or rejected and in their views? Let us tentatively consider the matter: perhaps each had a different emphasis.

The language of India is plain and direct, its literary style not especially refined, and it often contains repetition. If a translator is not sufficiently proficient in both Chinese and Sanskrit, the translation can easily become coarse and inelegant, even obscuring the meaning. Among the writings of China’s sages, apart from the Five Classics, which chiefly served to teach people in worldly affairs, only the Laozi is devoted specifically to explaining the Way. Yet its language is ancient and spare, and its meaning profound and subtle, so it is not easy to understand. Zhuangzi alone fully expounded the Way of Laozi. A record says, “Laozi had Zhuangzi, just as Confucius had Mencius.” This is indeed a sound comparison. Yet Confucius described Laozi as unfathomable, like a dragon. If we use Mencius to measure Zhuangzi, would Mencius not have to approach Zhuangzi as a disciple?

I have privately believed that, from ancient times onward, the only Chinese thinkers with vision that transcended the ordinary, apart from Laozi, were Zhuangzi. Among the writings of the various schools, only Zhuangzi, aside from the Buddhist scriptures, ranges freely and broadly in its exposition of the Great Dao and explores the Way of Heaven and humanity with such transcendent vision. Had China had no Zhuangzi, later generations could not have known the true perfected person; without the book Zhuangzi, they could not have learned of such subtle discourse.

The Buddhist Dharma is vast and subtle, and translators often have to weigh their choice of words to express it. As a result, its meaning may become obscure. The Laṅkāvatāra Sutra is one example. The scriptures translated by Kumārajīva, the renowned translator of Buddhist texts, are therefore held in the highest regard because four outstanding scholars assisted him. Master Guan, a commentator, said, “What is taken from it is its wording, not its original meaning.” There is a reason for this. If China had discourse more excellent than that of Laozi and Zhuangzi, Sengzhao would surely have set it aside and paid it no attention. It follows that Sengzhao drew on the language of Laozi and Zhuangzi in his explanations of the scriptures and treatises because he upheld the teaching of the Lotus Sutra: those skilled in expounding the Dharma may use worldly language, matters of livelihood, and all manner of other things, so long as everything accords with the true Dharma. This is the approach taken by those who deeply understand and penetrate reality.

Could the youthful Guifeng (another name for Zongmi) and the later years of Zongjing (another name for Yongming Yanshou) be understood in the same way? Confucius composed the Spring and Autumn Annals, making judgments of praise and blame, reward and punishment, in the name of the Son of Heaven. Perhaps these two great masters likewise exercised the authority of the Dharma King within Buddhism to judge matters of principle and circumstance.

Master Qingliang (Chengguan, a Tang dynasty monk of the Huayan school) held that the Dharma-realm is originally an undivided, perfectly interpenetrating whole, and that nothing in the world is absolutely something one must do or must not do. Master Guifeng (Zongmi, a monk of the Huayan school) began teaching the Buddha’s Dharma in his youth and exerted far-reaching influence. Confucius compiled the Spring and Autumn Annals, using the authority of the Zhou Son of Heaven to confer praise and blame. Did Qingliang and Guifeng, too, invoke the authority of Buddhist teachings to praise or criticize doctrines?

If Qingliang held that the Dharma-realm is perfectly interpenetrating, with nothing that must or must not be done, why did he sometimes still make distinctions? Because each took a different standpoint. When I read the Lotus Sutra, I saw that the Bodhisattva Guanyin can teach sentient beings in response to their needs by appearing in thirty-two forms. The sutra says that if someone can be saved through the form of a Brahmin, Guanyin appears as a Brahmin and teaches that person the Dharma. Yet when the sutra speaks of the two sons of King Wonderful Adornment, it says: “Your father believes in heretical teachings and is deeply attached to Brahmin practices.” The two sons also regretted being born into a family with such wrong views.

The reason is that the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi, as understood in this land, corresponded in the Western Regions to thought of the Brahmin kind. But why does Guanyin appear and teach in the Brahmin form, only to turn around and condemn Brahmin teachings as heretical and wrong views? The key is whether one is attached. Guanyin understands perfect interpenetration and acts with freedom, so can appear as a Brahmin and teach the Dharma. King Wonderful Adornment is trapped in attachment, and is therefore described as believing in heretical teachings and wrong views. What sages seek to dispel when they teach people is attachment, not any particular teaching in itself. Those who cling to sounds, words, and appearances cannot be said to hold right views.

On Learning

I often see scholars reading scriptures and commentaries, then suddenly coming upon a passage that quotes the Hundred Schools of Thought or a history book. They react as if they had unexpectedly encountered a tiger on the road, and are overcome with alarm.

Those who cling to sounds, words, and appearances cannot be said to hold right views.

On Learning

I often see certain scholars reading scriptures and commentaries who, whenever they come across a quotation from one of the classical schools or from a history book, are frightened off as if they had met a tiger blocking the road. They dare not read any further. If urged to study these works for themselves, they say they are teachings outside Buddhism, then turn away and ignore them.

I also often see scholars discussing Zhuangzi and insisting on using passages from Buddhist scriptures as proof. When a line happens to agree, they say, “The principles throughout the entire Buddhist canon all come from Zhuangzi.” Alas, can this really be called understanding? Consider these two views closely: to study Buddhism without knowing the classical schools is to understand neither worldly learning nor the Dharma. To read Zhuangzi and then claim that all Buddhist scriptures come from him is to understand neither the Buddha’s original intent nor Zhuangzi’s. This is why so many principles are difficult to understand.

Thus it is said: “View the small from the perspective of the large, and you cannot see every detail of the small; view the large from the perspective of the small, and you cannot see the whole of the large.” I have encouraged myself with three reflections: without understanding the Spring and Autumn Annals, one cannot understand the affairs of the world; without understanding Laozi and Zhuangzi, one cannot transcend the worldly; without practicing Chan meditation, one cannot go beyond the world. Only after grasping these principles can one discuss learning.

On Buddhist teachings and paths of practice: A discussion of Buddhist teachings and methods of cultivation.

Someone asked: Do the sages of the three teachings—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—originally teach the same principle?

The answer is: From the perspective that “the three realms are only mind, and all things are only consciousness,” not only do the three teachings ultimately arise from one principle, but all events and things in the world also appear and take form through this mind. From the perspective of the equal Dharma realm, not only are the sages of the three teachings fundamentally one, but all people and things are also manifestations of Vairocana (the Buddha of the Dharma Body), brought forth through the awesome power of the ocean-seal Samadhi (the state in which the Buddha-mind reflects all phenomena). Thus, the forms of all things and their arising through causes and conditions do not disappear; distinctions between defilement and purity remain. Yet, without departing from arising and ceasing through causes and conditions, true suchness can manifest in the very present. In this fundamental sense, sages and ordinary beings are equal.

However, teachings are arranged in different ways, with distinctions such as interpenetration and ordered stages, persons and teachings, expedient means and truth. “Interpenetration” means that all dharmas return to one mind, with defilement and purity mutually interpenetrating without obstruction. “Ordered stages” means that the Ten Realms, the Five Vehicles, and the Five Teachings differ in principle, phenomena, cause and effect, and depth of practice. The Ten Realms comprise the Four Sagely Realms and the Six Ordinary Realms. The Five Teachings are the Lesser Vehicle, the Initial Teaching, the Final Teaching, the Sudden Teaching, and the Perfect Teaching. The Five Vehicles are the human, heavenly, śrāvaka, pratyekabuddha, and bodhisattva vehicles; the Buddha belongs to the supreme One Vehicle. Each of the Five Vehicles has its own distinct stages of practice and levels of cause and effect. Their ranks are clearly ordered and do not become confused.

“Human” refers to people in the world: those who live between heaven and earth, within the four seas, and are governed by rulers. The foundation of human practice is the Five Precepts. “Heaven” refers to the heavens of the Desire Realm, governed by Indra; the heavens of the Form Realm, governed by Brahmā; and the heavens of the Formless Realm, which rest on meditative absorption in emptiness. Practice of the heavenly path is grounded in the higher levels of the Ten Good Deeds, together with conditioned meditative absorption and the nine successive stages of meditation. These belong to cause and effect within the Three Realms.

Śrāvakas cultivate the Four Noble Truths, pratyekabuddhas cultivate the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination, and bodhisattvas cultivate the Six Perfections. Their cultivation of cause and effect goes beyond the Three Realms and is called cause and effect outside the realms. The Buddha, meanwhile, fully awakens to the One Mind, taking accord with the wondrous principle as the foundation.

Pratyekabuddhas—those who cultivate by observing the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination—take these twelve links as the foundation of their practice. Bodhisattvas take the Six Perfections—giving, keeping the precepts, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom—as the foundation of theirs. The causes and effects associated with these three kinds of practice all extend beyond the worldly level.

The Buddha, however, fully awakens to the single mind and deeply realizes the Three Virtues: the Dharma Body, Prajna, and liberation. To gather these principles into one is called “interfusion”; to explain them separately, each in its own stage and order, is called “sequential arrangement.” These teachings are recorded in many scriptures. From this perspective, the teachings of the Five Vehicles—the human, heavenly, Śrāvaka, Pratyekabuddha, and Bodhisattva vehicles—all belong to the Buddha’s teaching, and the practices of all five vehicles are practices of the Buddha. This is because beings differ in their capacities, so the sages establish teachings of varying depth. Their instruction is adapted to each person’s capacity and proceeds step by step, without skipping stages.

Thus Confucius may be called a sage of the human vehicle, governing the human world in accord with the Way of Heaven. Laozi may be called a sage of the heavenly vehicle, pure and free of desire, transcending the human world and moving toward the heavenly realms. Śrāvakas and Pratyekabuddhas are sages who go beyond both the human and heavenly realms. They therefore transcend the Three Realms—desire, form, and formlessness—and leave behind the Four Modes of Birth: womb-born, egg-born, moisture-born, and transformation-born. They no longer remain within the human and heavenly spheres. Bodhisattvas, in turn, go beyond the two vehicles of Śrāvakas and Pratyekabuddhas: though they leave the human and heavenly spheres, they return among them. Thus they travel through the Three Realms to save beings of the Four Modes of Birth, leaving the realm of truth to enter the world of convention.

The Buddha transcends the distinction between sages and ordinary beings and can manifest as either. In heaven, the Buddha appears as a heavenly being; in the human world, as a human. The Buddha can even transform the body and become beings of different kinds, entering every place without exception. Yet how could the sages or ordinary beings themselves bring about such manifestations? In truth, nothing is outside the Buddha’s teaching, and each of the Three Teachings—here meaning Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism—has its own sages. All beings and teachings are gathered within the single mind; all phenomena and principles interpenetrate without obstruction. This is what is called Buddhahood.

“Interfusion” therefore does not hinder “sequential arrangement”: the Ten Realms, the ten states in which beings exist, appear distinctly. Nor does “sequential arrangement” hinder “interfusion”: all ultimately return to equality, without distinction. Why cling to divisions between one and another, or argue over right and wrong? A scripture says that in some places the Four Truths—suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path—are taught in the language of frontier lands, while elsewhere they are taught in keeping with local customs. The teachings of the human and heavenly vehicles are precisely teachings expressed in accord with worldly convention. Looking back at Confucius and Laozi, these two sages, were they not perhaps two emissaries whom the Buddha secretly sent to teach the people?

For this reason, some people taught the Four Truths—the Buddhist truths of suffering, its arising, its cessation, and the path—in the languages of frontier regions, while others taught them in ways suited to local customs. Those who explained the Four Truths in accordance with worldly conventions were probably teachers who guided living beings in the human and heavenly realms. Were those two sages not secretly sent by our Buddha to prepare the way for the Dharma? This shows that both the people and the teachings were merely expedient means.

This is because guiding living beings does not undermine the principle of cause and effect. The teachings of the Three Traditions were all intended to discipline and guide learners’ minds, leading them from the shallow to the deep, and from what is near to what is far.

Confucius hoped people would not behave like tigers, wolves, and other beasts. He therefore taught them benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom, so they might set aside wrongdoing for a time, turn toward good, free themselves from material desires, and become truly human. He promoted the teachings of the ancient kings and governed society through rewards and punishments. In the Spring and Autumn Annals, he clarified the events behind order and disorder, rise and decline; he set people’s hearts right, established the order between those above and below, defined the roles of ruler and subject, parent and child, and regulated the rites of human relationships. His laws were strict and his instruction earnest, close to human nature and easy to put into practice. Yet when human desires ran rampant, even Confucius’s earnest teaching could scarcely be effective. I believe that without the ethical rules Confucius established in China, hardly anyone would have avoided becoming like a beast.

But these are only the deeds and methods of teaching that Confucius left behind. Could his inner understanding have stopped there? Confucius himself said, “Do not speculate, insist, cling, or place yourself at the center.” Was his wish to save the world not in keeping with the Bodhisattva Vehicle, the Mahayana path devoted to liberating all living beings, as he taught methods for governing the world? The scriptures call Confucius a “Confucian youth” for good reason.

Later scholars who failed to see the sages’ original intent assumed that their teachings contained only these outward practices. They clung to the ways of the ancient kings, turning them into tools for seeking fame and office. They held fast to their own prejudices and indulged their greed, becoming ensnared by desire. Some even used the name of benevolence and righteousness to commit theft, bringing conflict and calamity in their wake. Laozi therefore took pity on the people, saying these were the evils produced by venerating sages and employing cleverness. If people could let go of their attachment to the names of sages and worthies, and to cleverness and wisdom, the people would benefit more. If they could put aside calculations driven by the struggle for gain, they would no longer fight. The harm caused by greed is truly grave.

If the measuring vessels were destroyed and the balance beams broken, the people would no longer compete for gain. The harm caused by greed is truly great. Thus it is said, “When nothing is displayed that can stir desire, people’s minds will not be thrown into confusion.” Laozi’s teaching therefore calls people to leave desire behind and remain tranquil, to guard their original nature through stillness and calm, and not to wear themselves out over external things. A life of simplicity and Wuwei (non-action) accords with the Way of Heaven. Teaching people these principles frees them from worldly entanglements and brings them back to the natural Dao (the Way).

Laozi’s words are profound and subtle, and scholars find them difficult to understand. So, after Zhuangzi arose, he elaborated on them at length. Because people cling so firmly to their own views, Zhuangzi’s language can seem sharp. His mockery of Yao and Shun and his scorn for King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou were not deliberate provocations; they clarified the meaning of “rejecting sagehood and abandoning cleverness”—that is, not claiming distinction through the names of sage or wisdom. His praise of the government of antiquity, and his claim that the Dao stood higher than the ancient sage-kings Fuxi and Shennong, were not casual remarks either. They served to expose the harm of government based on deliberate action. Zhuangzi’s criticisms of Confucius were not meant to slander him, but to challenge those who clung to the outward forms of Confucius’s teachings. These words were not meant literally; they were used to break through attachment.

Zhuangzi therefore said that much of his writing took the form of “allegorical words,” which convey principles through stories, and “weighty words,” which express views through the voices of the ancients or other authorities. He also urged people to free themselves from constraint by criticizing dogma, dissolve their fixation on bodily form, and do away with distinctions made through cleverness. His purpose was to lead people away from worldly bonds and back to nature, freeing them from the burden of greed. Zhuangzi observed worldly affairs and human feelings with great subtlety. He could shatter attachment to the self and relieve the heavy burdens of life. He developed his arguments through allegory, using events to illustrate his points. His language is precise and penetrating, subtle and profound, and difficult to fathom. In discussing the human way and the Way of Heaven, he showed a rhetoric that flowed without obstruction, as if appearing in the form of a Brahmin—a spiritual practitioner of ancient India—to expound the teachings. How free and expansive his speech was!

He regarded the dusty world as dregs and life and death as transformations. Free of entanglement in external things, he wandered at ease. His transcendence of worldly concerns was truly extraordinary. The author once said that after the Five Hegemons usurped royal authority, recluses each advanced their own arguments, and the Way of benevolence and righteousness was obstructed. The author believed that if Mencius had not arisen to sweep away these ills, the principles of the world would have been hard to explain to later generations. How much more so at a time when rival powers were at war, people everywhere were benighted and lost, driven by material desires, and many rushed forward like a blazing fire, unwilling to turn back. If Laozi had not stepped forward and acted boldly amid these circumstances…

Even among later generations, people of noble character did not necessarily understand that rank and wealth are, in truth, forms of bondage. If all were judged by their achievements in helping the world and saving its people, what difference in worth would there be between them? His cultivation, however, began with calming the mind and entering stillness. His writings were first set in motion by this Laozi, and later emerged from profound insight gained through meditation.

People of later generations have approached him with one-sided views and read his books with minds clouded by confusion, so they remain bewildered and miss their meaning. If they do not attend to what was in his heart and look only at his words, it is no wonder they are startled and fail to understand. He also said that if, after ten thousand generations, he were to meet a great sage who understood his thought, it would be as though they had met just this morning or evening. If this great sage was not the Buddha, who could it have been? I believe his words anticipated the Buddha’s breaking through attachment, and this judgment is indeed credible. If people of the world cannot even understand his thought, how could they understand the Buddha’s teaching?

On the work of cultivation

In our teaching tradition, practice is divided into five vehicles, or five levels and paths. Although the methods differ from one vehicle to another, all cultivation of the mind takes stillness and insight as its foundation. Stillness means quieting scattered thoughts and settling the mind; insight means observing how things are and discerning one’s nature. The practices of stillness and insight in our tradition include those of the Great Vehicle, the Lesser Vehicle, and the Human-and-Heavenly Vehicle, as well as the Four Meditations and Eight Concentrations, the Nine Penetrations and Luminosities, and other methods.

Confucius also said, “When you know where you should stop, your mind can become settled.” He also said, “Through sincerity, one reaches clear understanding.” These teachings belong to the stillness and insight of the Human Vehicle. Laozi said, “Always be without desire, in order to observe the wonders of things; always have desire, in order to observe their subtle distinctions.” He also said, “All things arise together; from this I observe how they return.” Zhuangzi said, “It is better to observe with a clear mind.” He also said, “The sage does not act according to fixed opinions, but follows nature in observing the myriad things.” He further said, “People do not look at their reflections in flowing water, but in still water; only stillness can settle everyone.” Zhuangzi also said, “Abide in great stillness.” Speaking of the human body, he said that all the bones and the nine apertures—the body’s bones and openings—are present within it: which one, then, should we hold dear? He also said, “Everything is brought upon oneself.” So who, exactly, is the one who gets angry?

The Yellow Emperor withdrawing into quiet seclusion, Yan Hui practicing the fasting of the mind, a man of letters catching cicadas in a parable of single-minded concentration, and Confucius speaking of dreams and waking—all these accounts describe the work of calming the mind and entering concentration. In general, they call for letting go of attachment to the body and cleverness, turning away from desire, and purifying the mind. To “grow weary of what is low, painful, coarse, and obstructive, and aspire to what is elevated, pure, subtle, and liberating” means seeking to leave the human realm and enter the heavenly realm.

According to the teaching, this means relinquishing the state of existence in the Desire Realm and being reborn in the First Meditation Heaven. The phrase “When the universe is settled in stillness, heavenly radiance emerges” describes the stillness and insight of the Heavenly Vehicle.

The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says that if people in the world who cultivate the mind no longer give rise to craving and attachment, and no longer yearn for the Desire Realm, then at death they can become companions of the Brahmā heavens. The sutra also says that once the habits of desire have been removed and a mind free from desire has emerged, a person can immediately cultivate the virtues of Brahmā and is called a Brahmā attendant. If that person also upholds pure precepts and possesses clear understanding, they can lead the assembly of Brahmā beings and become the Great Brahmā King.

It is also said that these three excellent stages of cultivation are beyond the reach of every kind of affliction. Though they are not yet the true practice of samadhi (meditative concentration), afflictions and karmic forces no longer stir within the purified mind. This is called the first dhyana. As the mind grows calm and still, quiet clarity gives rise to light, and the state deepens layer by layer through the second, third, and fourth dhyanas. When “the subtle perception manifests, and all things are shaped without obstruction,” and one probes the hidden transformations of all things, investigates the roots of material nature, and enters a realm without bounds, this is called the Heaven of the End of Form, the highest heaven in the Form Realm. These are the corresponding attainments in cultivation.

From this, it appears that Laozi’s teaching holds that the greatest calamity is having a body, and so one should dispel attachment to the body and return to nonbeing. Nothing exhausts the body and mind more than the use of cleverness, so one should abandon cleverness and return to emptiness and stillness. These ideas resemble those of the Two Vehicles: the Hearers and the Solitary Realizers. Moreover, Laozi lived in an age when the Buddhadharma had not yet spread. He observed the transformations of things and awakened to their impermanence, which also resembles the Solitary Realizer. But if we examine his central teaching, which takes emptiness and naturalness as its foundation, he belongs to an outside path—that is, a path practiced without recourse to the Buddhadharma.

Yet Laozi was also moved by compassion and a wish to aid the world, and was revered by both humans and gods. He could also contemplate “being” and “nonbeing” together, which resembles a bodhisattva. This is speaking from the standpoint of skillful means, like the claim that one may appear in the form of a Brahmin—the priestly class of ancient India—to teach the Dharma. Judged by the true meaning of the teaching, however, Laozi was a practitioner of the Human and Heavenly Vehicle: one who diligently cultivated the holy life and went on to enter the meditation on emptiness.

His ability to aid the world came from the belief that the Great Brahma King rules and governs the Saha World, our world, and proclaims the Ten Good Deeds—such as refraining from killing and stealing—to save sentient beings. The Flower Garland Sutra says that bodhisattvas who have entered the stages of the bodhisattva path can become Great Brahma Kings. The Great Brahma’s retinue, too, consists of gods who truly cultivate the Way: they progress from practicing good deeds in the human realm to cultivating the teachings of the heavenly realm. Laozi undoubtedly belonged to this group. That is why I say that Zhuangzi’s writings carefully investigate the relationship between the Way of Heaven and human affairs; they are not words spoken carelessly.

On Conduct and Practice.

From the one mind—the underlying nature of mind—arise the many forms of the ten Dharma realms: the Four Noble Realms of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and others, and the Six Ordinary Realms of gods, humans, and others. The Four Noble and Six Ordinary Realms are all images manifested by the one mind; this is not true only of the human and heavenly realms. When we examine the levels and distinctions of spiritual cultivation, however, the human realm is its starting point. Human life is therefore the foundation for the cultivation of both ordinary people and sages.

Pei Xiu once said, “Ghosts and spirits are sunk in the suffering of gloom and sorrow; birds and beasts are filled with fear and grief; Asuras—beings prone to strife—are constantly angry; and the gods are immersed in pleasure. Only in the human realm can one set the mind aright and turn toward Bodhi, the path to awakening.” From this we can see that without the human realm, there can be no foundation for Buddhism; and without Buddhism, the one mind cannot be fully realized. Buddhism takes human life as the basis of cultivation, while human life finds its ultimate destination in Buddhism. This is what is meant by the saying, “Bodhi takes suffering beings as its object.” In other words, Bodhi is directed toward beings who suffer; without beings, there would be no basis for speaking of Bodhi.

The human realm spoken of here refers to the relationships between ruler and minister, parent and child, and husband and wife, as well as the ordinary affairs of daily life. If people could each properly fulfill their duties as rulers and ministers, parents and children, without competing or grasping, and live at ease, they would be like people undisturbed by delusive thoughts. Such people are “all good people gathered together in one place”—they have turned this world into a place of peace and joy. What need, then, would there be to trouble the sages to teach and transform them?

Yet people are born through desire and die through desire. The five desires—wealth, sex, fame, food, and sleep—are what draw people into the cycle of birth and death and the grip of desire. They give rise to craving, which brings conflict and calamity, until rulers are no longer like rulers, ministers no longer like ministers, parents no longer like parents, and children no longer like children. Even when the sage kings of antiquity established rewards and punishments, these were not enough to restrain people’s greed. People focus only on satisfying their endless desires, thereby bringing upon themselves immeasurable suffering in the future. For this reason, the Buddha took pity on living beings and taught: “All suffering has craving as its root. If craving can be extinguished, suffering loses its support.”

Thus the Buddha manifested in the three realms—desire, form, and formlessness—to share in the suffering of living beings and teach the vital path of leaving desire behind and becoming free from distress. He was not born in heaven but descended into the human world to show that the causes and effects of the ten realms can all be established through the human realm. Since we live in the human realm, we cannot afford to remain ignorant of the principles that govern human life.

The Buddha was therefore not born from empty space. His father was King Śuddhodana and his mother Queen Māyā, showing that he too was bound by the relationships between ruler and subject, and between parents and children. He took Yaśodharā as his wife, showing that marriage exists in the world, and Rāhula as his son, showing that so does the relationship between father and son. When the Buddha left his parents to become a renunciant, he was not rejecting his ties of affection and duty to them, but letting go of his attachment to those ties. He relinquished his kingdom and its splendor to show that fame and profit can become burdens. He left his wife and child and traveled far away to explain the harm caused by desire. He entered the mountains to practice austerities and demonstrate the cultivation of freedom from desire.

The Buddha first studied the non-Buddhist practice known as the “four all-pervading absorptions,” a form of meditation, to show the path of leaving the human world and striving for the heavenly realms. Later, he abandoned these practices and attained perfect, complete awakening, showing that pursuing the blessings of human and heavenly life alone is not worthy of being prized. After becoming a Buddha, he returned to the palace to carry his father’s coffin and ascended to Trāyastriṃśa Heaven to teach his mother, showing that the Buddha’s path does not abandon filial devotion. By relying on the human world to teach the Dharma, he showed that people can attain awakening to Bodhi while living in the world. By accepting kings and ministers as supporters of the Dharma, he showed that spiritual cultivation and engagement with the world do not conflict with worldly principles.

This is the model set by our original teacher, Śākyamuni Buddha, in manifesting himself to guide living beings, and the extensive instruction he left for later generations. Sadly, though we are disciples of the Buddha, we do not understand his original intent; though we live among people, we do not understand the ordinary principles of human relationships. Speak to them about Buddhist teachings, and they vaguely invoke “suchness” and muddle their way through talk of “Buddha-nature.” Speak to them about the principles of worldly life, and they are at a loss when faced with practical matters, almost like people who are ignorant and unlearned. Speak to them about Buddhist doctrine and the stages of practice, and they say these are merely minor details, unworthy of attention. Speak to them about the Six Perfections, the six methods of bodhisattva practice, and they say these are the conduct of bodhisattvas and that they dare not undertake them. Speak to them about the Four Noble Truths—suffering, its arising, its cessation, and the path—and they say these are teachings of the Lesser Vehicle, unworthy of study and practice.

Some people bring up the Four Meditations and Eight Concentrations—the different levels of meditative practice in Buddhism—and they reply, “Those are merely practices of outsiders. What is there to mention?” Speak to them about the principles of human conduct, and they are at a loss: they do not understand the proper duties between ruler and subject or parent and child, nor how to put benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom into practice. Alas, what do these people think they are? They set their sights too high, readily holding forth on lofty matters, yet do not understand even the most basic principles of human conduct. They do not realize that the Buddha taught people to transcend the world by first cultivating conduct that frees them from desire. Thus it is said: “Freedom from desire and stillness are supreme.”

Born into the human world, I could follow no path of human conduct beyond the Human Vehicle, the path of practice grounded in virtuous conduct in this life. So, as a child, I took Confucius as my teacher. Knowing that human desire is the root of all suffering, I resolved to cultivate the path of freedom from desire, and in my youth took Laozi and Zhuangzi as my teachers. Then, having observed that the three realms are mind alone and all phenomena are consciousness alone—that the worlds we experience arise through mind and consciousness—and understanding that the Ten Realms, the ten states of existence described in Buddhism, are all manifestations of mind, I took refuge in the Buddha.

On the Main Aim of the Teaching

What Laozi revered was the Great Dao of emptiness and nonbeing. It is what the Śūraṅgama Sutra calls “dark obscurity becoming emptiness,” and it is also the essence of the clear and lucid nature of the eight consciousnesses. Yet we lose this subtle, luminous, pure One Mind, and it then appears as the eighth consciousness, the ālaya-vijñāna, the foundational consciousness that stores the seeds of karma and experience. From this arises the seventh consciousness, which becomes the source of the cycle of life and death.

The “void Great Dao” (Way) revered by Laozi is what the Śūraṅgama Sūtra describes as a dark, indistinct emptiness that appears as formlessness, and as the lucid, undeluded essence within the eight consciousnesses. Yet people lose this subtle, pure, single mind, and it becomes the eighth consciousness, the ālaya-vijñāna, which stores the seeds of karma. The seventh consciousness that arises from it is the root of birth and death; the sixth consciousness is the root of karmic action. From these emerge the body, the external world, and the many phenomena of birth and death. In the end, the sages and ordinary beings of the ten realms have all remained within these consciousnesses; they differ only in whether they cling or relinquish clinging, and whether they are defiled or pure.

Ordinary beings in the desire realm do not know that the six sense objects before them—form, sound, smell, taste, touch, and mental objects—and the realms of the five desires are all transformations manifested by consciousness alone. Discriminations made by the sixth consciousness give rise to craving. People cling stubbornly, creating all kinds of karma and undergoing all kinds of suffering. This is what is meant by private desires running rampant. Confucius therefore established benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom to teach and guide the world, like building embankments to keep people’s thoughts from going astray and to lead them away from evil toward good. Yet this teaching, which establishes social roles and sets relationships between higher and lower in order, still relies on distinctions. Examined through the principle of consciousness-only, the practice of calming and settling the mind means quieting the deluded thoughts that arise from discrimination by the first six consciousnesses, and eliminating the harms caused by conflict.

To return, however, to what is called the wondrous Dao, one must take the seventh consciousness as one’s point of return. It is regarded as the source that sets life in motion, the origin of the Dao. Hence the saying: “Giving birth again and again is called change.”

Laozi regarded the void as the wondrous Dao. He said, “The valley spirit never dies,” and also, “What dies yet does not perish has longevity,” and, “That which gives birth again and again is itself unborn.” His approach to cultivation was to cast aside sage wisdom, forget the body, and eliminate desire, taking Wuwei (non-action) as its highest principle. Compared with Confucius’s teaching, this goes a step further: it probes the deeper workings from which life arises, breaks through attachment to the distinctions made by the first six consciousnesses, and brings the seventh consciousness’s arising and ceasing under control.

The source of the wondrous Dao described by Laozi is the realization of the lucid essence of the eighth consciousness, which the Śūraṅgama Sūtra calls “the subtle, refined thought of elusive, empty unreality.” Thus he says, “Within the trance-like and indistinct there are forms; within the indistinct and trance-like there are things.” But because this consciousness remains, in itself, complete ignorance and is difficult to see through completely, he also says, “Within the darkness and depth, something subtle and refined exists.”

Because the “knowing mind” (the underlying nature of consciousness) is influenced in ways beyond comprehension and undergoes changes beyond comprehension, it is called “mystery within mystery” and also “the wondrous Dao.” All things between Heaven and Earth transform and appear from this source; hence it is called “the root of Heaven and Earth, the gateway to all wonders.” People do not know why it is so, yet they see that all things are naturally so. Zhuangzi therefore called it “natural spontaneity.”

Laozi was Chinese and had no contact with the Buddha’s teaching, yet he observed this principle so deeply that he may truly be called quick in understanding and endowed with excellent capacities. Had he met the Buddha, who then confirmed and resolved the matter for him, would he not have immediately realized the true principle of birthlessness? I believe the Buddha’s journey west beyond the flowing sands must have had its reasons.

The nature of consciousness is hidden in profound obscurity and beyond measure. Before the Buddha appeared, there were ninety-six schools in the Western Regions, led by six principal teachers, each advancing many doctrines. Quite a few of their followers attained supernatural powers. The texts they left behind were not limited to the writings of Laozi and Zhuangzi in China. When the Buddha appeared and held the assembly at Vulture Peak, many among the outstanding figures there had originally studied under those six teachers. On seeing the Buddha, they often understood without needing many words, like a fine horse that starts running at the sight of a whip’s shadow. This shows that they had already cultivated themselves in the past, but had not yet shed their mistaken views and attachments. So when they met the Buddha, he needed only to offer a brief indication to break through those attachments.

Thus, when the Buddha taught, he never spoke superfluously. He simply addressed and dispelled the particular attachments of each being, according to the time and the person. This was like using one wedge to remove another; the Buddha had no fixed, substantial teaching to hand to others.

In the assembly of the Shurangama Sutra, the Buddha analyzed the matter in detail and argued it through step by step, dispelling people’s attachments to “causation and conditions” and to “natural spontaneity,” and resolving the doubts of ordinary people, outsiders, and practitioners of the Two Vehicles. Readers of Buddhist scriptures who fail to understand this point may say only that people of the Western Regions and people of the Eastern Land are different. People may indeed differ by region, but could Buddha-nature itself be of two kinds? Besides, the Buddha is the teacher of the three realms and the compassionate father of beings born in all four ways.

Could these descriptions apply only to people far away, so that those a hundred thousand miles from here experience them while people here do not? All sentient beings undergo birth and death in dependence on the eighth consciousness, the fundamental consciousness that stores karmic seeds and sustains the cycle of birth and death. The mind’s attachment to “I” is so deeply rooted. Could only sentient beings far away have this attachment, while people here do not?

Non-Buddhist practitioners hold various mistaken views about the eighth consciousness: some identify it as the source of the underworld, some regard it as nature, some believe it arises from causes and conditions, and others cling to it as a divine self. Through meditation and cultivation of the mind, they are reborn in the Brahma heavens and mistake that state for the “five forms of present-life nirvana”—taking meditative states attained in this life for nirvana. Some investigate the void to its limits but do not turn back, and so enter the heavens of the Formless Realm. They bring the first seven consciousnesses—the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind, and manas consciousnesses—to a halt, then contemplate the nature of consciousness more deeply. They attain the spheres of infinite space, infinite consciousness, nothingness, and finally neither perception nor non-perception. These are all states of mental cultivation within the Three Realms; they have not yet escaped the nature of consciousness.

Thus it is said: “Those who study the Way do not know the real; they take the consciousness they have always known to be true. For measureless kalpas it has been the root of birth and death, yet fools mistake it for their original self.” This means that practitioners who do not recognize what is real have simply mistaken the consciousness they have always known for their true nature. This consciousness is the root of the cycle of birth and death through countless kalpas, yet foolish people take it to be their original face.

As for the Hearers beyond the Three Realms—practitioners of the Hearer Vehicle who seek liberation—although they have ended the delusions of view and thought within the Three Realms, escaped its suffering of birth and death, and realized the bliss of unconditioned cessation, they still do not know the name of the eighth consciousness. They take this state to be nirvana, believing it to be the ultimate and secure refuge. Though they personally received the Buddha’s teaching, the Buddha still spent forty years admonishing, correcting, and weeding out their views before they gradually relinquished their attachment to the Lesser Vehicle. Even at the assembly of the Lotus Sutra, they still doubted the Buddha’s purpose and thought they had been delivered by the Lesser Vehicle teachings alone.

Even Bodhisattvas on the grounds—the stages of the ten grounds of Bodhisattva practice—do not leave this consciousness until after the seventh ground, and even then karmic maturation has not been completely emptied. This shows that the eighth consciousness, as the root of birth and death, is not easy to understand or transcend.

From this we can see that the eight consciousnesses—the eight kinds of mental awareness described in Buddhism—are the root of the cycle of birth and death. This is no shallow matter. Those who practice in the world cannot attain supreme Bodhi, the highest awakening: some achieve only the states of the Hearers or the Solitary Realizers, paths aimed at personal liberation; others become heterodox practitioners, heavenly demon kings, or their followers. All of this stems from failing to understand the two roots.

The first is the root of the cycle of birth and death that has continued since beginningless time: you and all beings take the mind that reaches out toward external objects, continually discriminating and clinging to them, as your own nature. The second is the root of Nirvana, originally pure since beginningless time: your own subtle, originally clear consciousness, which can give rise to all manner of conditions but has been obscured and lost amid those conditions. This is precisely what is meant here.

Alas, Laozi lived in the human world, in an age when the Buddha’s teachings had not yet spread, yet he was able to investigate the source of the transformations of Heaven and Earth and observe it with such depth. His effort was truly extraordinary; he simply did not completely break through the fundamental bonds of birth and death. An ancient sage once said that Confucius helped people uphold the precepts because he rigorously cultivated himself, while Laozi helped people cultivate meditative concentration because he excelled at forgetting the self. There is good reason to say that the teachings of Confucius and Laozi complement the Buddha’s teachings.

At their root, however, attachment to Confucian learning can lead one to fall into the realm of conditioned causes, while attachment to Laozi’s learning can lead one to fall into a view of things as naturally so. Neither goes beyond the scope of mind and consciousness, and so neither can fully penetrate the One Mind. The Buddha’s teachings transcend mind, thought, and consciousness. They therefore teach that true nature is originally produced neither by causes and conditions nor by nature alone; only this allows one to investigate fully the source of the One Mind. This is the difference between worldly and transcendent teachings.

The Buddha’s critique does not stop there. Even the Three Vehicles of the transcendent path—the paths of the Hearers, Solitary Realizers, and Bodhisattvas—are included in the discussion. People are startled when they see that Zhuangzi mocked Yao and Shun, disparaged Tang and King Wu of Zhou, and criticized the Confucian school. What, then, would they think if they heard the World-Honored One condemn practitioners of the Two Vehicles as “withered sprouts and rotten seeds,” unable to become Buddhas, and lament that some among the Bodhisattvas were “Icchantikas of the Buddha Dharma,” having severed the roots of goodness that lead to Buddhahood?

Yet the Buddha’s criticism of the Two Vehicles does not reject those paths of practice themselves. It is directed at those who become attached to their methods and attainments, with the aim of leading them to set aside the Lesser Vehicle and pursue the Greater Vehicle.

Zhuangzi’s criticism of Confucius was not directed against Confucius himself, but against those who rigidly imitated his words and conduct. When the Buddha rebuked the Two Vehicles—the practitioners of the Śrāvaka and Pratyekabuddha paths—he was not rejecting them, but criticizing attachment to the practices of the Lesser Vehicle, with the aim of turning them away from the Lesser Vehicle and toward the Greater Vehicle. Zhuangzi’s criticism of Confucius likewise urged people to relinquish their attachment to the names of sages and to cleverness and talent. In general, such words are meant to dispel emotional attachments and break through fixed views.

Once emotional attachments have dissolved and fixed views have been set aside, people can travel together in the realm of the wondrous Dao. They would have more than enough joy and ease—what time would they have for such confusion and vexation? Bodhisattvas on the Huayan grounds, advanced practitioners who have reached the higher stages of the bodhisattva path, may even appear among non-Buddhist ascetics who smear themselves with ashes, tend sacred fires, lie on thorns, or test the Way with needles, and serve as their teachers and guides. If not through the Buddha’s teaching, how could they lead them into it? Thus, when faced with the views held by each of the Six Teachers, the six non-Buddhist teachers of the Buddha’s time, there is no way to refute them without the Buddha’s teaching. In my view, only the Buddha’s teaching can confirm the direction toward which the expansive words of Laozi and Zhuangzi point. From this we can see that even teachers and well-read scholars may not be able to free themselves from such empty disputation. Seen now through contemplation of mind-only—that all phenomena arise through consciousness—these are no more than echoes.

This treatise seems to have been prompted by a time when I was living by the sea. In the winter of the Wanzi year of the Wanli era, I went to the royal city to beg for food and spoke late into the night with the layman Dongguan. Our conversation touched on this matter; he was a deeply learned teacher. Even so, teachers and well-read scholars may not be able to free themselves from such empty disputation. Seen now through contemplation of mind-only, these are no more than echoes.

This text recounts the origins and circulation of A Discussion of the Influence of Laozi and Zhuangzi.

The author says that more than ten years earlier, while living by the sea, he went to Wangcheng in the winter of the Wanzi year of the Wanli reign to beg for food. That night, he spoke with the layman Dongguan about the idea for this essay. The layman greatly admired the idea. It was not until the summer of the Gengyin year that the author began writing and completed it. He put the essay away and kept it for a long time without showing it to anyone.

In the winter of the Jiawu year, the author came to Wangcheng by chance, hoping to seek advice from the historian Jiao Taishi, known as Ruohou, but he was unable to do so. In the spring of the following year, the Yuwei year, he suffered persecution for propagating Buddhism, and the draft was lost by the sea. Later, he sent an attendant to search among his surviving manuscripts, and only then was it recovered. That autumn, the author received an imperial pardon and was sent to Leiyang. Chan Master Daguan set out from Kuanglu (Mount Lu), leaning on his staff as he waited for the author by the river. In the eleventh month of winter, after crossing the river, the author met the master at Lübolu Hermitage. The master read the essay that night and exclaimed, “It is enough to dispel long-standing confusion.” He then instructed his disciple Ruqi to print it and spread the Dharma widely. At first, the author firmly refused to allow it to be published.

In the summer of the Wuxu year, while staying in Wuyang (Guangzhou), the author held a retreat with his disciples among the ramparts—a period when the monastic community lived together in concentrated practice and study—and explained the essential meaning of the Shurangama Sutra to them. His disciple Baogui saw the essay and greatly admired it. He was willing to do everything he could to arrange its printing, so the author let him carry it out.

The author reflected: “To understand the principle of Buddha-nature, one should observe the seasons and conditions.” These few lines alone cannot determine the importance of the Buddhist Dharma. The idea for the essay arose ten years earlier, and it was not completed until ten years later; written east of the Eastern Sea, it spread to the south of the Southern Sea. Could this be merely a chance convergence of circumstances? Principle and timing have their own arrangement; how could human effort compel them? This essay was written after reading the works of Laozi and Zhuangzi, and so it was titled A Discussion of the Influence of Laozi and Zhuangzi.

On New Year’s Eve in the Wuxu year of the Wanli reign, the Daoist Hanshan, Qing, wrote this account in the Lengjia Chamber.

After a long illness, and further burdened by worldly affairs, the author has only recently had the chance to read books such as the Comprehensive Gazetteer of Caoxi and A Discussion of the Influence of Laozi and Zhuangzi. He is deeply impressed and full of admiration. The quoted saying, “If one does not understand the Spring and Autumn Annals, one cannot comprehend worldly affairs; if one does not understand Laozi and Zhuangzi, one cannot…” is unfinished here.

After recovering from illness, I was burdened with many ordinary affairs. Only recently have I begun reading books such as Comprehensive Gazetteer of the Great System of Caoxi and A Treatise on the Influence of Laozi and Zhuangzi. After reading them, I was deeply impressed. The claims that “without understanding the Spring and Autumn Annals, one cannot grasp the affairs of the world; without understanding Laozi and Zhuangzi, one cannot leave the affairs of the world behind; without practicing Chan meditation, one cannot transcend the secular world,” and that “Confucius is a sage of the human vehicle, Laozi a sage of the heavenly vehicle, while the Buddha can be both sage and ordinary person, and can pass freely between the human and heavenly realms—such is his attainment”—are judgments that will remain unchanged through a hundred generations. Qiyuan bows once more in reverence.

Note: “Human vehicle” and “heavenly vehicle” are Buddhist terms for different levels of cultivation. Here they are used to describe the realms of Confucius, Laozi, and the Buddha.

When I was young, I enjoyed reading the Laozi and the Zhuangzi, but I often could not understand what they meant. Only where I had gained some insight of my own could I sense the thread of their thought, and so I came to understand a little of the meaning that words cannot express. Later, I gathered commentaries by various authors and found that many simply used their own ideas to explain the original text. If one took their claims too literally, the meaning of the text became even more obscure. After repeatedly studying the Zhuangzi, I returned to the Laozi and suddenly gained some insight into it as well. I therefore believe that what commentaries describe is really the Laozi and Zhuangzi in each commentator’s own heart; it is not necessarily what Laozi and Zhuangzi themselves meant.

The language of the Laozi is spare and archaic, its intent profound and mysterious. The Zhuangzi can, in effect, serve as its commentary—an explanation of the classic’s text. If you can set aside attachment to the literal wording and grasp its principles directly, you have already understood most of it. In the quiet of the mountains, I read and pondered it carefully in the intervals between meditation. Whenever I understood something, I wrote it down. In composing this commentary, I sought to grasp the principles without being bound by the wording, and then to make those principles clear through the wording. At times, it took me ten days or more to understand a single sentence; at others, I spent a year making sense of one chapter. From the Eastern Sea to Nan Yue, the Lingnan region, and from the year Renchen to the year Bingwu, fifteen years passed before I finally completed the work. This shows that it was no easy matter for the ancients to write and set forth their ideas. I have written very briefly, so I have had to bring together ideas from different passages. I did not intend to introduce irrelevant digressions.

I once said: Confucians honor Yao and Shun and teach through the social norms of ritual and moral distinctions, so they esteem benevolence and righteousness. Laozi honors Xuanyuan, the Yellow Emperor, and values Wuwei (non-action): he holds that benevolence and righteousness are spoken of only after the Dao and De have been lost. This is the fundamental difference between the two schools. Thus, the Zhuangzi’s mockery of conventional society is not meant merely to shock. It is simply that views which go beyond convention are startling to people, so its writing appears uninhibited and unrestrained. Confucius once asked Laozi about ritual; on his return, he praised Laozi as being like a dragon, profound and unfathomable. There is good reason why sages do not consider themselves sages. Laozi held that what is “useless” is of the greatest use. Apply this principle to the affairs of the world, and the instruction and governance of all under Heaven become as clear as the palm of your hand. Above all, he took Wuwei as his highest aim and regarded understanding one’s nature and preserving one’s life as the true practice. Turning away from worldly life and letting go of splendor are not attempts to be different for their own sake. Once you grasp the essential point, the difference between truth and delusion is as vast as the distance between heaven and earth. The saying that one cultivates oneself through the truth of the Dao, then uses what cultivation has made possible to govern the world and its states, is no empty claim.

Someone asked me, “Chan Buddhism teaches that words should be forgotten. Why, then, do you speak at such length about worldly texts? What is there in them to value?” I replied, “That is not so. The cawing of crows and chattering of magpies arise from nature’s workings; the gathering of ants and flight of bees, too, accord with an inner and wondrous principle. In that light, what words do not express Chan? What thing does not embody the Dao? Are not the Buddhist teachings on wisdom and letting go precisely the first steps into Chan? Chan teaches that attachment to the self obscures our original mind, so we must break through self-attachment to comprehend Chan. Laozi had already taken this path before it. Those who regard worldly affairs as light as mayflies and approach life in a playful spirit should all the more take this principle as their place of refuge.”

This commentary was first printed in Lingnan, and later reprinted in Wuyun, at Mount Heng, and in Jinling. Now it is being printed once more in Wumen, around Suzhou. Many people enjoy it, so there is no harm in circulating it widely.

According to the Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji), Laozi was from Qurenli, in Lixiang, Ku County, in the state of Chu. His surname was Li, his given name Er, and his courtesy name Boyang. His posthumous name was Dan. He once served as an archivist in charge of the Zhou dynasty’s royal library, and some also called him the “Historian Beneath the Pillar.”

When Confucius went to Zhou, he planned to ask Laozi about ritual. Laozi said to him, “The ancient people you speak of have long since rotted away, bones and all. Only their words remain. When a junzi encounters the right moment, he takes a carriage and enters public service; when the moment is wrong, he walks away as though wearing a rain hat woven from bamboo leaves.” The point is that people should follow the times and know when to advance or withdraw.

Laozi continued, “I have heard that skilled merchants hide their valuable goods away, so that they seem to have nothing at all. A junzi of deep De appears plain and even dull. You should cast off pride and excessive desire, and restrain affected mannerisms and overreaching ambitions. None of these will do you any good. That is all I can tell you.”

After leaving, Confucius said to his disciples, “I know that birds can fly, fish can swim, and beasts can run. Running animals can be caught in nets, creatures in the water with fishing lines, and birds in flight with arrows attached to cords. But as for the dragon, I do not know how it rides the wind and clouds up into the sky. Today I met Laozi. He must be like a dragon.”

Laozi cultivated the study of Dao and De, keeping his whereabouts hidden and seeking no fame. He lived in the Zhou realm for a long time. When he saw the dynasty growing ever weaker, he left. At Hangu Pass, the pass official Yin Xi said to him, “You are about to retire into seclusion. Please write something for me.” Laozi then composed two sections, setting out the principles of Dao and De in more than five thousand characters. Afterward he departed, and no one knew what became of him.

Laozi was born in the third year of King Ding of Zhou. According to legend, his mother carried him for eighty years before giving birth. His hair was already white when he was born, so he was called “Laozi,” or “Old Master.”

What Laozi esteemed was taking emptiness and naturalness as the subtle Dao. This is a state like the one described in the Śūraṅgama Sūtra as “entirely beyond discrimination, neither form nor emptiness.” Outsiders such as Gosali mistook it for an ultimate truth, dark and impossible to know. In fact, it is the empty, obscure, and profound ground of the eight consciousnesses. It is exceedingly subtle and profound, beyond ordinary understanding; only a Buddha can comprehend it fully. When transformed, it becomes the Great Perfect Mirror Wisdom, one of the Buddha’s wisdoms, which sees all things clearly, like a mirror. Bodhisattvas know this and use the practices of stillness and insight to break through it, yet can realize it only gradually. Hearers who do not understand it take it for nirvana; Indian Brahmanical outsiders who do not understand it cling to it as the dark, profound root truth; Laozi regards it as the wondrous Dao of emptiness and naturalness.

Thus the Śūraṅgama Sūtra says that practitioners fail to attain unsurpassed bodhi and instead fall into the states of hearers, solitary realizers, heavenly beings, outsiders, demon kings, and their followers because they do not recognize the two roots and their practice is misguided. This is like trying to make a delicious meal by boiling sand: even after countless eons, it will never succeed.

What are these two roots? The first is the root of the cycle of birth and death, which has continued since beginningless time: you and all beings take the mind that grasps at conditions—the mind that pursues external objects and forms thoughts in dependence on them—to be your own nature. The second is the originally pure ground of nirvana, also present since beginningless time: it is the subtle, originally clear awareness of consciousness in you right now. It can give rise to all manner of conditions, yet those conditions obscure it, causing it to be forgotten. This subtle, originally clear awareness is what Laozi calls the wondrous Dao.

Laozi therefore says, “Dim and obscure, yet within it there is essence; its essence is utterly real.” This ground is so vast and empty that it is not a thing with form. Yet it can give rise to all manner of conditions, so it is not a void of sheer nothingness. People who do not understand that heaven, earth, and all things appear through the transformation of this consciousness call it “natural.” Since it comes about through inconceivable conditioning and transformation, it is called “wondrous”; since it is pure and unmixed, it is called “real.” Heaven and earth may be destroyed, but this ground is not; the human body may perish, but this nature endures. It is therefore called “constant.” Since the transformations of all things arise from it, it is called “the root of heaven and earth” and “the gate of all wonders.”

Whenever a text speaks of “true constancy,” “the mysterious and wondrous,” or “the Great Dao of emptiness,” these explanations can be used to clarify its meaning and purpose. Without them, one will be at a loss to understand. The author therefore explains the matter here, so that related passages later on need not repeat it.

To study Laozi and Zhuangzi, one should first become thoroughly familiar with Buddhist scriptures and treatises, especially the Śūraṅgama Sūtra. One must understand deeply how it dispels attachment and absorb that teaching, so as not to be misled by their words. One should then carefully cultivate stillness and concentration, refining one’s practice and attention, in order to grasp the depth of Laozi’s cultivation.

Only when one truly sees that the body is a source of suffering and that intelligence can also become a burden can one let go of attachment to form and mind, and experience the genuine, profound joy Laozi describes. One must also see through worldly affairs one by one and understand human relationships layer by layer. Meeting life with humility and an open, unburdened mind, one should leave no obstacle before oneself. Only then can one experience Laozi’s state of ease and freedom, broadness of spirit, and seeming unconcern.

When circumstances make it necessary to deal with worldly affairs, one can still act with composure and without exertion, governing matters through Wuwei (non-action). Laozi’s teachings to Confucius make this clear. Zhuangzi’s book may be understood as an interpretation of Laozi’s thought. Thus I say that Laozi had Zhuangzi, just as Confucius had Mencius. From this we can see that both spoke with sincerity and substance, not in grandiose exaggerations.

That is why Laozi said, “My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under heaven truly understands them or puts them into practice.” People who discuss Laozi and Zhuangzi often do not draw insight from their own cultivation. They merely talk idly about the words and phrases, and so miss the point by a wide margin. Some imitate their uninhibited manner, but few seem to enter their realm through the cultivation of stillness and concentration. This is what is meant by “Those who understand me are few.” I hope that all who truly seek to draw near to Laozi and Zhuangzi will regard them in this way.

Illuminating the practice (clarifying the work of cultivation)

Commentators on the Laozi have long treated “emptiness and nothingness” as the text’s fundamental teaching. Yet when it comes to how one enters the Dao and practices cultivation, they often fail to explain where to begin. In the first chapter, therefore, I treated the word “contemplation” in “contemplating nonbeing” and “contemplating being” as the key to entering the Dao, helping learners find a practical starting point.

Contemplative practice has great power as a guide. Sages in all three traditions—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—have used it to lead people. Confucius said, “Only after knowing where to stop can one become settled,” and also spoke of “illuminating illustrious virtue.” The words “knowing” and “illuminating” both imply awakening and understanding. Buddhism teaches “stilling and contemplation”—stilling scattered thoughts and contemplating one’s nature—and offers methods suited to different levels of practice, from shallow to profound. Confucian teaching belongs to the human vehicle of stilling and contemplation; Daoist teaching belongs to the celestial vehicle. Though the three traditions’ practices of stilling and contemplation differ in level, they address the same fundamental cause of affliction: the first step in each is to break through attachment to self, no longer clinging to the self.

People in the world, whether clever or dull, virtuous or ordinary, all take the “I” as their foundation. They bustle about pursuing fame, profit, and position, and scheme to secure a future for their descendants for generations to come. However hard they strive, in the end they do it for their own benefit. Buddhism teaches that greed is the root of all suffering, and that greed arises from attachment to self. Laozi, too, says, “Regard great calamity as you regard your own body”: the more weight one gives to oneself, the more one invites great troubles.

Confucius’s aim was to uphold the norms of the Confucian moral order. So, when speaking to ordinary learners, he did not readily address the breaking of attachment to self directly. Only to Yan Hui did he say “overcome the self”—restrain selfish desires and discipline oneself. To others, Confucius chiefly taught them to set their hearts right, make their intentions sincere, and cultivate themselves. If one can put one’s heart right, make one’s intentions sincere, and cultivate oneself, then embody that sincerity in relationships such as those between ruler and subject, and parent and child, with each fulfilling their duties, that is the Dao as understood in the Confucian moral order.

As for “abandoning sagehood and discarding wisdom”—letting go of attachment to sagehood and wisdom—and the teaching of no-self, these are states that practitioners must personally realize and experience. Confucius, too, did not readily state them openly, but guided people indirectly. He said, “As for being a sage or a benevolent person, how could I presume to claim that?” He also said, “Do I possess knowledge? I have none. If a rustic asks me something, I am utterly empty.” Yet even while devoting himself to teaching others, Confucius still explicitly advocated “overcoming the self.”

That is to say, Confucius spoke of “having no preconceptions,” and also said, “Do I possess knowledge? In truth, I do not.” When someone asks me a question, my mind is simply empty, without any fixed opinions. When urging people to cultivate themselves, Confucius spoke of “overcoming oneself,” and also said one must achieve “having no preconceptions, no insistence, no rigidity, and no self-centeredness.” These four sayings lay out the essentials of self-cultivation in full.

“Self” refers to one’s personal, selfish concerns; “preconception” refers to an idea that arises in the mind beforehand; “insistence” means deciding that things must be a certain way; “rigidity” means being stubborn and unchanging; and “self” refers to thoughts centered on oneself. “Overcome” means to eliminate completely, while “have no” is a firm prohibition. Confucius taught people to eradicate these four afflictions of the mind: preconception, insistence, rigidity, and self-centeredness.

The sage responds to worldly affairs with a mind that is empty and still. Within, it remains silent and unmoving; when things arrive, the sage responds in accord with their course, becoming attuned through feeling. The sage’s mind is like a mirror: it neither pursues what has passed nor anticipates what is coming. When things arrive, it does not cling to them; after they depart, they leave no trace. Neither body nor mind remains attached to the self, and the sage does not contend with external things. This is the state of mind of a sage.

Ordinary people cannot be like sages because they suffer from these four afflictions: preconception, insistence, rigidity, and self-centeredness. As a result, they cannot be at ease, and every stir of thought brings suffering. Confucius saw that the root of people’s afflictions lay here, so he urged them to resolve firmly to eliminate them completely. This teaching expresses the same idea as the Buddhist and Daoist traditions’ fundamental aim of “no-self.”

The word “have no” expresses an absolute prohibition, a strict method of practice that leaves no room for compromise. It is like the Legalists’ injunction “must not,” which means that violation is absolutely forbidden; once violated, it is not to be pardoned. Those who study the teaching, however, may not understand its intent.

Though Buddhism’s methods are wide-ranging, ultimately they all aim to break beings’ attachments to “self” and to “phenomena,” including both coarse and subtle forms of attachment. Once both are broken, one can attain the state of a Buddha. The Buddhist Tripitaka is all intended to break these two kinds of attachment. The attachments to be broken here correspond to the four afflictions of the mind described by Confucius, though they are still only the coarser forms of attachment. People fail to understand this and imagine that the teaching conceals some other mystery.

Laozi went a step further than ordinary people, making the breaking of attachment the basis of his teaching. He advocated having people set aside cleverness, relinquish attachment to the body, turn away from desires, and remain pure and clear. The “cleverness” to be set aside here is self-serving cunning—that is, “preconception” and “insistence.” The “body” to be relinquished means clinging to oneself—that is, “rigidity” and “self-centeredness.” The “desires” to be left behind are personal, selfish desires.

When one reaches a state of purity and freedom from desire, the heart and mind open wide, unobstructed, like the vast empty sky. This is precisely what Confucius meant by “leaving desire behind and becoming pure.” Yet the “wisdom” that the commentary says must be relinquished is the cleverness born of selfish motives: preconceived notions and thoughts one stubbornly clings to. The “form” to be relinquished refers to fixed ideas of the self, and the “desire” to be left behind refers to selfish wants. To reach a state of purity and freedom from obstruction, like the empty sky, is also what Confucius meant by being wholly impartial and free of selfishness.

From this we can see that Confucius’ and Laozi’s approaches to the mind are not incompatible; the two traditions simply differ in how they guide people. Confucius focused on governing worldly affairs, Laozi on forgetting worldly concerns, and Buddhism on transcending the world. Though their ultimate aims differ, all three begin by breaking through attachment to the self. Their practice all starts with “stilling and observing”: stilling means settling the mind; observing means contemplating body and mind, as well as things and principles.

On substance and function

Someone asks: The sages of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism all teach people first to break through “attachment to the self.” It seems, then, that they agree about the selfless fundamental nature of reality. But why do their practical aims differ: engaging with worldly affairs, forgetting the world, and transcending the world?

The answer: Their fundamental nature and practical function are in fact the same; they differ only in depth and scope. If Confucius had truly been self-centered and concerned only with his own interests, how could he have taught people how to govern worldly affairs? If the Buddha and Laozi had truly withdrawn from the world and cared only for themselves, how could they have benefited living beings? We can see from this that only through selflessness can one govern worldly affairs; the ability to benefit living beings itself shows selflessness. At root, the principle is the same.

Confucius said, “In stillness, it does not move; when stirred, it connects with the causes of all things under Heaven.” This describes function. “When illuminated, it is sincere” describes fundamental nature; “when sincere, it takes form” describes function. Rightness of heart and sincerity of intent are fundamental nature; cultivating oneself, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to all under Heaven are function. What Laozi called “the nameless” is fundamental nature; “acting through non-action” is function.

Confucius also said, “Vast and boundless is Heaven alone; only Yao could model himself on it. His Virtue (De) was so immense that the people could not put it into words.” He also said, “The one who could govern through non-action was probably Shun.” Yet teachings on governing worldly affairs take Yao and Shun as their models. Did they govern by relying on their reputations and deliberate actions?

Only through selflessness can one regard everyone under Heaven as one with oneself. Thus, Yao and Shun, too, were like ordinary people. All people originally share one nature, but the private self becomes an obstacle. Human hearts are originally connected; when hearts are connected, there is no separation. That is why sages diligently teach the people and help them build their lives. This is how selflessness leads to governing worldly affairs.

Laozi said, “Always good at teaching people, so no one is cast aside.” If no one is cast aside, then everyone can become Yao or Shun. This shows that only through selflessness can one benefit living beings. As for the words in this book about “acting without taking charge” and “accomplishing the work without claiming credit”...

The sages all regarded Wuwei (non-action: not acting recklessly or forcing outcomes) as a powerful means of governing the world. How, then, could they have forgotten worldly affairs?

As for the Buddha, his essential nature pervades empty space, and his activity extends throughout the vast worlds. He can manifest different forms according to the needs of different beings. The Buddha said, “I attain supreme, perfect awakening within all sentient beings.” He also said, “Only after I have liberated every sentient being will I attain Buddhahood.” And he said, “If I can inspire even one being to bring forth the aspiration for bodhi—the wish to seek awakening and benefit all beings—I would not tire of enduring the sufferings of hell.” Are the beings the Buddha teaches not in the world? Since he enters the world to save them, is that not a way of governing the world? To endure the sufferings of hell without tiring for the sake of one person—is that not an earnest desire to save them? The Buddha can manifest different forms for beings of every kind; how, then, could he have only one fixed name and appearance?

Liezi once said, “In the West there is a great sage. He does not speak, yet people trust him; he does not act deliberately, yet all things are transformed by his teaching.” How could this mean that he consciously set out to accomplish something? From this we can see that Confucius, Laozi, and the Buddha, these three sages, did not differ in their selfless essential nature or in the way they benefited sentient beings. They differed only in the scale of their activity.

Confucius sought to uphold the social order, beginning with personal cultivation and extending from there to the family, the state, and ultimately the whole world. His teaching therefore focused on China. He hoped that everyone could become like Yao and Shun, whom he held up as models. Laozi saw that people’s dispositions were becoming increasingly shallow, and hoped to restore the simplicity of ancient times, taking as his models remote antiquity’s Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan and others. For this reason, many of his teachings differed from ordinary views. Believing that the Great Dao was difficult for people to accept, he journeyed far away to the land of shifting sands.

The Buddha’s teaching, by contrast, extends throughout the three thousand worlds, reaching far and wide without distinction. Zisi praised the sage, saying, “Among all who have blood and breath, there are none who do not respect and draw near to the sage.” From this we can see that Confucius’s essential nature and activity were also originally vast, but were constrained by the circumstances of his time. He used methods suited to the moment, so his teaching remained close to human concerns. This is how the three sages differed in their essential nature and activity.

Sadly, scholars of later generations were each constrained by the teachings they had studied. Those who studied Confucianism tended to become rigid; those who studied Laozi tended to become unrestrained; and those who studied Buddhism tended to have narrow horizons. These failings all stem from attachment to the self. If one can truly overcome this attachment, one can break through the boundaries between traditions and become a person of broad understanding who can bring them together.

Clarifying the Main Idea

I have sometimes thought privately that if Confucius had not understood Laozi, he too might have been constrained by attachment to the self. Overcoming this attachment makes it possible to break through the barriers between schools of thought and bring their teachings together.

“Attachment to the self” means regarding oneself and one’s own preconceptions as fixed and unchanging, making it difficult to accept other perspectives.

I privately believe that if Confucius had not understood Laozi, he would never have felt at ease; and if he had not understood the Buddha, he would have found it difficult to live peacefully in the world. If Laozi had not understood Confucius, he would not have repeatedly spoken of “governing through Wuwei (non-action).” If he had not understood the Buddha, he would not have regarded compassion as a treasure. If the Buddha had not understood worldly affairs, he would not have come into the world to teach and transform living beings. I believe that Confucius and Laozi were both manifestations of the Buddha.

If later generations of Buddhists do not understand Laozi, they will seek principles only in emptiness, treating every teaching before their eyes as an obstacle; when they encounter difficulties, they will be unable to find release. If they do not understand Confucius and use only Buddhist teachings to deal with worldly affairs, they will fail to understand human relationships and social conventions, and will explain abstruse doctrines to everyone they meet. This is like trying to sell a dead cat’s head: it is of no use at all. Thus the patriarchs also said, “When a teaching does not suit the listener, it is ultimately idle talk.” The Avatamsaka Sutra says that at times the Four Noble Truths—the Buddhist truths of suffering, its arising, its cessation, and the path—are taught in the languages of outlying regions. Clearly, the Buddha did not teach by making a show of abstruse ideas; he adapted to ordinary ways of life in order to transform living beings. Is this not the same concern Confucius had for ordering the world and benefiting the people?

The scripture also says that Bodhisattvas at the fifth stage, in order to enter the world and guide living beings, must become familiar with and practice a wide range of worldly learning: scriptures, crafts, medicine, assorted treatises, maps, books, and seals. Only then can they teach in accordance with the capacities of different people. Hence it is said, “Everyday speech and the means of making a living can all become ways of aligning with the true Dharma.” Confucianism takes benevolence as its foundation, while Buddhism takes the precepts as its foundation. Confucianism says that filial piety and respect for elders are the roots of benevolence; Buddhism, too, regards filial piety as a precept. In substance, the two are alike. In light of this, can Buddhism really have no way of ordering the world?

Confucius rejected the customs of the Yi and Di peoples so that Confucian teaching could flourish in China. The Buddha, by contrast, taught the Four Noble Truths in the languages of outlying regions so that the Yi and Di peoples could also receive his guidance. The difference lies only in the greater or lesser scope of their methods. From this we can see that the sages of Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism share the same inner heart, though their outward conduct differs. To seek the inner heart through outward conduct alone is like measuring the sea with a conch shell. To understand outward conduct through the inner heart is like a mustard seed containing all of space. When neither mind nor outward conduct is clung to as a distinction, the myriad streams return to a single source, and all rivers converge into one taste.

The Commentary on the Dao De Jing, Part One, was written by the Daoist adept Deqing of Hanshan, from Jianye in the Ming dynasty (in the area of present-day Nanjing).

Chapter One

If the Dao (the Way) can be explained in words, it is not the constant Dao. If a name can be fully defined in words, it is not a constant name. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source from which the myriad things arise. Thus, by observing constantly from the perspective of “nonbeing,” one can grasp the Dao’s subtle depths; by observing from the perspective of “being,” one can see the boundaries and appearances of things.

“Nonbeing” and “being” both emerge from the Dao; they differ only in name. Together they are called “mystery,” profound and unfathomable. Mystery upon mystery is the gateway to all wonders.

This chapter gives a general account of the Dao’s nature and function, and of how to embody the Dao. Ultimately, Laozi’s teachings are all contained here; the more than five thousand characters that follow simply elaborate on this chapter’s meaning.

The “Dao” spoken of here is the real, constant Dao. “Can be spoken of” means that it can be expressed in words. The real, constant Dao originally has no form or name, and cannot be described precisely in language. Whatever can be spoken of is therefore not the constant, unchanging Dao. Hence the saying, “It is not the constant Dao.” The Dao originally has no name; now we call it “Dao” only as a makeshift designation. Anything that can be named is likewise only a borrowed name. Hence the saying, “It is not the constant name.” These two lines describe the Dao’s nature.

The Dao, formless and nameless, is utterly empty and still in its nature; Heaven and Earth transform and emerge from it, so it is “the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” The Dao’s formless, nameless nature manifests as the formed and named Heaven and Earth. All things, in turn, arise through the transformations of Yin-Yang between Heaven and Earth. This is what is meant by “The One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three, and Three gives birth to the myriad things.” The Dao is therefore also “the mother of the myriad things.” These two lines describe the Dao’s function.

The next two lines describe the practice of embodying the Dao. “Constant” means ordinary, everyday life; “desire” means to want or seek. In ordinary life, I abide in “nonbeing” to perceive the Dao’s subtlety, and also abide in “being” to perceive its boundaries and manifestations. “Boundary” means an edge or limit.

The meaning is that since the empty Dao, in its nature, transforms into the myriad formed and named things, the Dao in its entirety is present in each thing: “Each thing is a Taiji.” We should therefore perceive where the Dao truly resides in the things we encounter in daily life. Whatever we meet, the Dao is present everywhere. Zhuangzi’s words, “The Dao is in the millet and weeds; the Dao is in excrement and urine,” express the same idea. Only by observing deeply in this way can we experience the Dao’s subtlety. The word “observe” is especially crucial here.

From “These two are the same” onward, the text addresses questions and reveals the underlying mystery.

Laozi has already spoken of observing “nonbeing” and “being” together. Concerned that learners might treat them as opposing poles, he explains: “These two are originally the same.” To observe “nonbeing” is not simply to see emptiness: within the substance of the void lies the wondrous power that gives rise to the myriad things. Nor is observing “being” simply seeing concrete things: within the forms of the myriad things, the subtle principle of the void is expressed. Thus being and nonbeing can be contemplated together; they are, in essence, one.

Although being and nonbeing arise from the same source, they have different names. Hence the saying, “When they appear, their names differ.” The Dao’s empty substance gives rise to the formed things of Heaven and Earth. Formed things cannot, by themselves, give rise to other formed things; they must arise from “nonbeing.” Nor does “nonbeing” appear in isolation: it becomes manifest through “being.” In this way, being and nonbeing depend on each other and give rise to each other, so their names naturally differ.

If one still wonders how being and nonbeing, though opposed, can be said to be one and to embody the wondrous Dao, Laozi says, “Together they are called the Mysterious.” In other words, Heaven and Earth come from one source, and the myriad things are originally one. Is it not wondrous to see this through to its depths?

Laozi also worries that even after reaching this stage, learners may not yet have cleansed the deepest ideas and attachments in their minds. So he goes further, saying, “Mysterious upon mysterious.” Although being and nonbeing can be contemplated together, as long as one remains attached to thoughts and outward appearances, one has not truly reached the wondrous realm, even if it seems mysterious. The substance of the Great Dao transcends not only the names “being” and “nonbeing,” but also the very idea of “mystery.” Hence it is called “Mysterious upon mysterious.” When practice reaches this point, one can let go of mental attachments and dissolve distinctions among the myriad things; then the subtle principle appears everywhere. This is “the gateway to all wonders.”

This is already the highest attainment in experiencing the Dao. How could such a level of cultivation be fully expressed through words like “zhi, hu, zhe, ye”? In my view, one must wait until the work of quiet cultivation has matured before one can appreciate its subtle mysteries.

Chapter Two

When people throughout the world recognize beauty as beauty, the idea of ugliness arises. When they recognize goodness as goodness, the idea of evil arises. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficulty and ease complete each other; long and short take shape through comparison; high and low depend on each other; notes and tones harmonize with each other; and front and back follow one another.

Therefore, the sage attends to affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words. The sage lets the myriad things grow naturally without turning them away, nurtures them without claiming ownership, acts without presuming upon those actions, and completes achievements without taking credit. Because the sage does not claim credit, those achievements do not disappear.

[Commentary] This passage explains the meaning of the previous chapter’s words: “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.” Ordinary people tend to focus on the outward traces of deliberate action and chase empty fame. The Sage, by contrast, responds to worldly affairs through the Dao of Wuwei (non-action)—a way of governing that follows the nature of things and avoids imposing unnecessary action. The Sage’s achievements endure, and true renown therefore lasts.

From the perspective of the Great Dao, things have no absolute beauty or ugliness, goodness or evil. Only because people do not understand the Great Dao do they develop distinctions, preferences, and admiration, and so names for beauty and ugliness come into being. People often assume that whatever pleases them is beautiful, without realizing that what looks beautiful to them may not seem beautiful to others. For example, Xishi was thought beautiful even when she furrowed her brow. Dongshi, a woman said to have imitated Xishi, admired this expression and copied it, but only made herself look uglier. This is what is meant by “once people know what is beautiful, ugliness arises.”

The loyal minister Bigan was regarded throughout the realm as virtuous, yet King Zhou seized and killed him. In later generations, some people imitated his upright loyalty and did not regret it even when it cost them their lives. This is what is meant by “once people know what is good, what is not good may also arise.” Such outcomes come from placing too much importance on names and labels.

Names for good and evil arise through comparison. Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy complete each other; long and short become apparent in relation to each other; high and low define each other; the sounds of speech answer one another; and actions follow one another, some coming before and some after. These are all necessary relations among things. For example, people call a chi a measure of length and a cun a shorter measure. But if many cun are joined together to exceed a chi, the cun can be called long, while the chi seems short. Most things are like this: they are traces left by distinctions people have made. Anything that can be named may change or disappear. This is the meaning of “the name that can be named is not the constant name.”

The Sage therefore knows that empty fame is not worth esteeming and responds to affairs through the Dao of Wuwei. Knowing that abundant words cannot solve problems, the Sage transforms the people through the “teaching without words”—teaching not through lengthy instruction, but through action and personal example. Heaven and Earth nurture all things without partiality, and all things receive nourishment from them; Heaven and Earth do not refuse to nurture them because they are numerous. Heaven and Earth bring forth all things but do not claim them as their own; they have the power to nourish all things but do not pride themselves on that power. The seasons turn, and all things grow and ripen. Though Heaven and Earth have brought all things to completion, they do not claim credit for this achievement. Because they do not claim credit, their work endures; because they do not esteem empty fame, true renown lasts. The Sage follows the Dao of Wuwei in the same way.

The words beginning with “the myriad things arise” describe the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth and use it as a metaphor for the Sage’s De. This passage carries two related meanings. Zhuangzi also explains its meaning in several places.

If those celebrated as worthy and capable are not held in high esteem, the people will not compete for fame. If rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not steal. If things that stir desire are not put on display, people’s minds will not be thrown into confusion. Therefore, the sage governs the people by keeping their minds calm and their food and clothing sufficient, weakening their drive to outdo one another and strengthening their bodies. The people are constantly kept free of clever schemes and excessive desire, so that even those who consider themselves cunning dare not act recklessly. Govern through Wuwei (non-action), and nothing under Heaven will be left poorly governed.

Hanshan explains: This chapter concerns the harms that arise when people become absorbed in deliberate action and pursue the fame, profit, and desires it brings, as well as how those who govern should respond. It describes the practical effects of “attending to affairs through non-action and teaching without words,” as stated in the preceding chapter.

To esteem the worthy and capable is to encourage the pursuit of fame. Fame is the beginning of contention, which is why an old saying goes, “They vie for fame at court.” If those in high positions do not covet fame, the people will naturally not compete for it. To prize rare and valuable goods is to encourage the pursuit of profit, and profit invites theft. If those in high positions do not covet profit, the people will naturally not steal. As the saying goes, “If the ruler has no desires, then even if the people are tempted with rewards, they will not steal.”

People pursue fame and profit because they believe these things are worth coveting. Their minds are stirred, and they contend with one another. If those in high positions do not treat fame and profit as desirable, the people can each be content in their place, and their minds will not be thrown into confusion. Hence the saying: “Do not display things that are desirable, and the people’s minds will not be confused.”

In truth, possessions, beauty, fame, and fine food are not inherently worth coveting. People regard the Marquis of Sui’s pearl as a treasure, yet when it is thrown at a bird, the bird flies away. People regard Xishi as a beauty, yet deer flee in fright at the sight of her. People prize lofty fame, yet Xu You turned away from it. People consider a sumptuous sacrificial banquet delicious, yet a seabird, when entertained with food and drink, is saddened. These examples show that what is called desirable often arises from the mind’s delusive thoughts and imaginings.

Therefore, when governing, the sage first teaches people to quiet delusive thoughts and excessive reflection, removing the source of desire at its root. This is called “emptying their minds.” The sage then ensures that the people have enough food and clothing, so they do not seek more from outside. This is called “filling their bellies.” People’s minds become stubborn and contentious because they are often enticed by external things, which gives rise to the urge to compete.

The petty person rises at daybreak and diligently pursues profit; the gentleman rises at daybreak and diligently pursues fame. Both deliberately rouse themselves and steel their resolve. If the people are already content with adequate food and clothing, and at ease with what they have, those in authority should remain tranquil and self-contained, without tempting the people with displays of pleasure or with the lure of wealth and profit. Then the people will naturally abandon greed and no longer harbor thoughts of contending for fame or pursuing profit. Their desires will also diminish. This is what is meant by “weaken their ambitions.”

When the people have few desires, let them dig wells for water and till fields for food, living by their own labor. This is what is meant by “strengthen their bones.” In this way, the people can be kept from constantly pursuing knowledge and desire. They will no longer regard sensual pleasures and material wealth as things worth coveting, and will naturally become free of desire. This is what is meant by “always keep the people free of knowledge and desire.” Even if one or two cunning people happen to know that fame and profit are worth pursuing, they will not dare to dream of seizing what belongs to others. This is what is meant by “make those who know not dare to act.”

All of this describes teaching without relying on words, and carrying out affairs without forced or reckless action. If a ruler can act in accordance with this and govern the world, then nothing in the world will be beyond good governance. Hence the concluding words: “Practice non-action, and nothing will remain ungoverned.”

Laozi’s grammar is exceedingly archaic. A close examination of its subtle meanings often reveals that it is recounting the deeds or words of the ancients. Phrases such as “this is called” sometimes cite an ancient saying to confirm the point at hand, and sometimes explain an ancient saying in the author’s own words.

The structure and key point of Laozi’s writing often lie in the concluding phrase. That phrase expresses the main idea of the whole passage and serves as its title. Once readers understand this, they have grasped more than half of what is needed to understand the text. Laozi’s syntax often contains phrases of one, two, or three characters. If readers do not recognize this and simply join the characters together as sentences, they will neither appreciate the precision of Laozi’s wording nor perceive the artistry of the writing itself.

Chapter Four

The Great Dao, the fundamental reality of the Dao, is empty and formless, yet its function seems inexhaustible. It is deep and subtle, as though it were the source of all things. It can blunt sharpness, untangle confusion, soften its radiance, and blend with the world. Clear and profound, it seems to exist, yet remains elusive. I do not know where it came from; I can only say that it seems older than the Heavenly Emperor.

The commentary says these words praise the subtlety and inexhaustibility of the Dao’s reality and function: it is deep as the source of all things, and can blunt sharpness, untangle confusion, temper radiance, and blend with the world. Clear and profound, it seems almost to be there and almost not. No one can know who gave rise to it; one can only say that it seems to have preceded the Heavenly Emperor.

This praises the subtle, unfathomable nature and workings of the Dao (the Way).

“Emptiness” means void, while “fullness” means being filled. The Dao’s essence is utterly still and empty, yet in reality it fills heaven, earth, and all things. It has no form and cannot be seen, so the text says, “In its use, it seems never to be exhausted.” This means that the Dao’s workings appear never to overflow or run out. “Abyssal” means deep and still; “source” means that to which things return. The Dao is profound and quiet, yet it can give life to and nurture all things, becoming their source. It nurtures them without claiming them as its own, and brings them to completion without ruling over them. That is why it is said to be “like the source of all things.”

The words “seems” and “like” both express uncertainty. Laozi feared that people might take words for reality and refuse to move beyond them to experience the Dao. He therefore used words with an air of uncertainty to loosen people’s attachment to language.

“Edge” refers to the forceful, bold, forward-driving will, energy, and intelligence that seem impossible to overcome. Only someone who has attained the Dao can dissolve these forces; hence the phrase “dull its edge.” Zhang Liang (styled Zifang), a strategist of the Western Han, showed his boldness when he tried to assassinate Qin Shi Huang at Bolangsha. The emperor’s extensive manhunt failed to find him, showing Zhang Liang’s sharpness and resourcefulness. At first, he seemed impossible to overcome, but in the end he was put to the test over a shoe by the old man he met on a bridge. Zhang Liang drew insight from this experience. Later, he assisted the Han dynasty and ultimately helped secure the realm through calm, effortless action. The author believes that, from the time of Zhuang Zhou onward, Zhang Liang alone among those who sought fame and position truly grasped the heart of Laozi’s teaching. By comparison, Zhuang Zhou was skilled at understanding the Dao, Wang Liang at putting it to use, and Dongfang Shuo, though he understood it, let his insight become eccentric. The others understood it even less.

“Confusion” refers to disputes over right and wrong—that is, the arguments among the various schools, each insisting on its own position. People each take themselves to be right and others wrong, and never stop arguing. Only one who has attained the Dao can dissolve such disputes without words. This is what is meant by “the greatest debater seems inarticulate”: someone truly skilled in argument may appear unskilled with words. The Dao is wordless by nature, and attachment to disputes over right and wrong therefore subsides. Hence the phrase “resolve their confusion.”

“Harmonize” means to blend and bring into accord; “light” refers to the brilliance of intelligence displayed outwardly. The point is to restrain one’s outward brilliance: not to flaunt cleverness and astonish people, nor to use self-cultivation to advertise oneself and put others down.

Only one who has attained the Dao knows how to draw in the radiance that shows outward and turn inward to observe himself. Though clear-sighted, he does not display his sharpness. This is what is meant by: “Everyone else seems discerning; I alone seem dull and ignorant. Everyone else is sharp and perceptive; I alone seem simple and easygoing.” Thus it is said, “Harmonize your radiance”: merge with the everyday world and live among people without seeming out of place. Some interpret this as cultivating oneself and discerning what is impure; that, too, is one interpretation.

Only one who has attained the Dao knows how to draw in the radiance that shows outward and turn inward to observe himself. Though clear-sighted, he does not display his sharpness. This is what is meant by: “Everyone else seems discerning; I alone seem dull and ignorant. Everyone else is sharp and perceptive; I alone seem simple and easygoing.” Thus it is said, “Harmonize your radiance”: merge with the everyday world without arguing with others. If people call me an ox, I answer like an ox; if they call me a horse, I answer like a horse. Thus it is said, “Become one with the dust of the world.”

The Dao’s workings are so mysterious that its transformations have no fixed pattern. Yet its essence is clear and still, unmoved by external things; even when it acts, it leaves no trace. Thus it is said, “Profound and still, it seems always to endure.” Its subtlety and depth are such that no one knows where it came from. Thus it is said, “I do not know whose descendant it is.” It is not something with form. Could it have existed before the Lord of Heaven? Here, “Lord” means the Lord of Heaven, and “seems” conveys the sense of “appears to be.”

Hanshan Deqing holds that this chapter praises the mystery of the Dao’s essence and its workings, while also explaining them through human cultivation. When Laozi speaks of the Dao’s mystery, he is describing states he has experienced within himself. His words can therefore also be understood in terms of human cultivation, allowing students to use them as a guide for understanding and practice, and to grasp Laozi’s deeper meaning. In this way, every word points to something, rather than seeming like empty, unfounded talk.

Chapter Five

Heaven and Earth show no partiality; they treat the myriad things as straw dogs used in ritual. The sage, too, shows no partiality, treating the people as straw dogs. Is not the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? Empty within, yet never exhausted in its function; the more it is worked, the more air it produces. Too many words often lead to trouble. Better to hold fast to inner emptiness, stillness, and balance. “Bellows” refers to the device used to produce air.

The Dao by which Heaven and Earth operate follows nature, bringing forth and nurturing the myriad things without intention. The sage likewise practices the Dao by letting go of words and personally experiencing its deep and mysterious principles.

“Benevolence” here means cherishing life and treating all things well. “Straw dogs” are figures made of straw and used as offerings in rituals. Heaven and Earth, and the sage, cherish life and nurture the myriad things. Yet when the scripture says they are “not benevolent,” it does not mean they are cold or uncaring. It means they do not deliberately hold any particular intention to give life or show care. The Qi of Heaven and Earth transforms and flows, and the myriad things come into being in their own time. The sage shares a single body with the people and so naturally cares for them. Straw dogs are treated with solemnity during the ritual, but have no further use once it is over. In the same way, Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad things without claiming them as their own, and the sage cares for the people without treating that care as a private intention.

A “bellows” is made of leather, while a “flute” is a tubular wind instrument. Both are empty within, yet they can serve their purpose without relying on clever contrivance or deliberate effort. When in use, they do not become self-satisfied; when idle, they remain calmly empty and still, without feeling aggrieved. This is why the text says, “Empty, yet never exhausted.” Once set in motion, they continue to function; hence, “In motion, it gives forth more and more.”

The Dao in Heaven and Earth appears as the ceaseless generation of life. In the sage, it appears as giving more to others and thereby becoming more fulfilled. This is the wondrous quality of the Great Dao. Yet those who talk about the Dao often argue without end, moving ever farther from it. That is why the text says, “Too many words lead to exhaustion.” It is better to forget words, embody the Dao, and keep the heart-mind empty and still. Keeping to the center is the practice of cultivating the Dao.

Chapter Six

The spirit of the deep valley never dies. This is what is called the “Mysterious Female,” the maternal Dao that is profound and gives life to the myriad things. The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth and all things. It continues without end, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive; when put to use, it is never depleted.

This commentary explains the previous chapter’s phrases “the Valley Spirit never dies” and “the gate of the Mysterious Female,” showing that the substance of the Dao is empty, still, and everlasting.

A “valley” is empty yet able to respond to all things. It serves as a metaphor for the substance of the Dao, which is utterly empty, wondrous, and unfathomable, and has endured from ancient times to the present. Hence the phrase “the Valley Spirit never dies.” The Dao can also generate Heaven and Earth, allowing all things to grow and change without end. Hence it is called the “Mysterious Female.” “Female” refers to the feminine; here, it is a metaphor for the Dao as the mother of all things.

A “gate” is a pivot for entering and leaving. The Dao is like such a pivot: all things emerge from it and return to it. Hence it is called “the gate of the Mysterious Female,” or “the root of Heaven and Earth.” “Continuous” suggests something subtle and unbroken. The substance of the Dao is deep and subtle, yet continues without end; thus it is said to “seem to exist.” The more it operates, the more its effects appear, and its use is inexhaustible; thus it is said to “labor not.” “Labor” means to act through deliberate effort. The substance of the Dao is utterly empty and still, and its effects arise naturally without intention, so it needs no deliberate effort.

Chapter Seven

Heaven and Earth endure for a long time. They can endure because they do not live for themselves; therefore, they live on. Thus the sage puts himself last, yet comes to the fore among all people; he holds himself apart from his own interests, yet preserves himself. Is this not because he has no self-interest? Because he has no self-interest, he is able to fulfill himself.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not make themselves the center. In the same way, the sage preserves himself by not putting himself first. People all scheme for their own private gain, thinking this will make them last, but they do not understand that attachment to self-interest cannot endure. What can last? Only Heaven and Earth.

Heaven and Earth endure because they do not selfishly strive for their own survival; for this reason, they live on. The sage, too, can endure. The sage models his De on that of Heaven and Earth, and does not place his own interests before those of the people. So people gladly choose him to lead them and do not grow weary of him. Thus it is said: “By putting himself last, he comes to the fore.” The sage does not abandon the Dao in order to preserve himself. So even when his physical body dies, the Dao continues to live on. The Dao endures, as though the sage were still alive centuries later; this, too, is a kind of enduring presence. Thus it is said: “By setting himself aside, he is able to preserve himself.”

Laozi then asks rhetorically: Is this not because the sage, by being selfless, ultimately fulfills himself? People busily scheme for their own sake, hoping to secure their fortunes for generations to come. Yet their bodies die, and their reputations fade. Though they plan for themselves at every turn, they cannot truly preserve themselves—so how can they speak of enduring?

Chapter Eight

The highest goodness is like water. Water is skilled at nourishing all things without contending with them. It dwells in low places that people despise, and so is closest to the Dao, the underlying principle by which all things operate.

For dwelling, choose a fitting place. For the heart, be still and spacious like deep water. In relating to others, be kind. In speaking, keep your word. In governing, bring order. In your work, use your strengths. In action, seize the right moment. Precisely because you do not contend, you incur no fault.

This passage discusses the virtue of not contending and why it is the highest good.

“Highest good” means the very best kind of goodness. It is like water: it nourishes all things without contending with them. Water flows with its surroundings, taking a square shape in a square vessel and a round shape in a round one. It is not choosy, does not strive for high places, and always stays low. People generally like high places and dislike low ones. Only the sage is willing to dwell where others do not wish to be, so he is said to be “close to the Dao.”

The sage makes humility and non-contention his virtues. Wherever he is, he acts appropriately and brings benefit. In choosing where to live, he seeks a stable and suitable place; this is “good ground.” His heart is deep and still; this is “a good depth.” In relating to people and all things, he is always kind and benevolent; this is “goodness in his dealings.” He speaks honestly and keeps his word; this is “good faith.” In governing, he does not force matters or strive to prevail, but handles them in accord with their natural course; this is “good governance.” He works without claiming credit or forcing an outcome, and so gets things done; this is “good ability.” In acting, he does not rush ahead but follows the right moment, acting only when necessary; this is “good timing.” The virtue of not contending leaves little cause for resentment and does not invite blame. Thus it is said: “Precisely because he does not contend, he has no faults.”

Chapter Nine

Holding something and still trying to fill it to the brim is not as good as stopping at the right point. Sharpen a blade too keenly, and it will not stay sharp for long. Fill a hall with gold, silver, and jade, and no one can guard it forever. Arrogance and self-satisfaction after becoming wealthy and honored invite disaster. To withdraw once one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has flourished is to accord with the Way of Heaven.

This commentary explains that someone who knows only how to press forward, but not how to yield or recognize when enough is enough, is likely to bring trouble upon themselves. We must therefore learn contentment and know when to stop.

“Better to stop than to hold a vessel filled to the brim” means that people assume they have the ability to preserve their abundance, so they cling to official rank and salary and keep striving without pause. Laozi holds that even if you are skilled at maintaining abundance, it is better to let go in time and stop at the right moment. If you wait until trouble befalls you before you regret your actions, it will be too late. As Li Si faced execution, he recalled wanting to walk with his son, holding a yellow dog, and chase rabbits outside the eastern gate of Shangcai. Now he could never do so. The commentator sees this as a lesson in relying on one’s ability to preserve wealth and status while failing to know when to stop. Thus, those who know contentment will never be disgraced in their lifetime; those who know when to stop will never be shamed in their lifetime.

“To hone a point until it is sharp cannot be maintained for long”: here, “hone” means to probe and refine, while “sharp” means making the mind subtle and incisive. The commentator cites Su Qin and Zhang Yi, famed in the Warring States period for their persuasive speeches and diplomatic strategies. Some people, confident in their intelligence, keep refining their cleverness and use schemes to pursue fame and rank, pressing forward without pause. But such cleverness cannot be preserved for long. The strategies used by Su Qin and Zhang Yi led people to deceive one another, and in the end neither death nor the ruin of their reputation could be avoided. This is what comes of trying only to sharpen the mind.

Those who do not know contentment or when to stop cannot keep their possessions after death, even if their houses are full of gold and jade. Even those who hold high office may bring disaster upon themselves through arrogance; their downfall is of their own making. These are the harms of knowing only how to advance and not how to yield. The commentator says that Heaven’s way abhors fullness and favors humility. Just as the seasons turn, things recede once they have come to fruition. When people withdraw after their achievements and reputation have reached their height, they are following Heaven’s way.

Chapter Ten

Can you unite spirit and body, and hold fast to the Dao without letting them part? Can you concentrate your Qi and reach a state of softness, like an infant? Can you cleanse the deep-seeing vision of your mind until it is free of blemish? Can you love the people and govern the state without imposing your will? Can you function like the opening and closing of Heaven’s Gate while remaining soft and still? Can you understand all things clearly without relying on clever knowledge?

Give life to all things and nurture them, yet do not claim them as your own. Act, yet do not take pride in your achievements. Guide all things as they grow, yet do not rule over them. This is called Mysterious De (profound and natural Virtue).

This chapter discusses how to cultivate the Dao (the Way): one must let go of discriminating knowledge and stop pursuing external things in order to accord with the subtle, profound quality of De (Virtue/Power). “Carrying” means bearing or relying upon; here, “stirring” describes the ceaseless activity of the hun soul and the disturbance of thought.

According to the commentators, people think and reflect through the hun and po souls. When the hun is active, it can lead to idle imaginings; when the po is still, one may lapse into dullness. Neither is a state of “embracing the One”—keeping the mind and spirit focused, with the hun and po undivided. When the hun and po are united, one can remain calm and free of restless thoughts while active, and stay alert rather than dull while still. If this can be sustained, movement and stillness no longer interfere with each other, and one remains consistent whether awake or asleep. Laozi is asking whether a practitioner can achieve this.

“Concentrate the Qi and make it supple” means to focus on regulating the breath until it becomes gentle. People live by Qi (vital energy). The commentators hold that deluded thoughts agitate the Qi, and agitated Qi in turn drives the mind, making it more disturbed. In practice, one should keep the Qi from moving erratically with deluded thoughts, and keep the mind from stirring without cause and disrupting the Qi. When the mind grows still, the Qi can become balanced and supple. At this point, even anger need not be allowed to get out of control—like an infant whose loud crying does not make its voice hoarse.

In “cleanse and clear the profound mirror,” the “profound mirror” refers to the deep, subtle state that arises naturally through cultivating the practice of embracing the One and regulating the Qi.

So Laozi asks: Can someone who cultivates the Dao achieve this? “Washing away the mysterious vision” refers to the subtle state reached when the practices described earlier—“embracing the One” and “concentrating Qi”—have become fully mastered. If one keeps this state in the mind and clings to it, it becomes an obstacle on the path to the Dao. One must therefore wash away that attachment too, until thoughts are forgotten and no trace remains. Only then has one reached the utmost in cultivating the Dao. Laozi is asking whether this can be achieved. These three statements describe the practice of entering the Dao and the Dao itself as realized through that practice.

Laozi holds that although the Dao is subtle and clear, one must also see how it manifests in practice. Its subtlety lies in acting without leaving a trace. So he turns next to asking about its function. Yet loving the people and governing the state are only secondary expressions of the Dao. As the saying goes, “The Dao’s true function lies in cultivating oneself; the lesser details, like soil and bits of grass, are what one uses to govern the world and the state.” Thus, though the sage possesses the world, he does not treat it as his private property. Loving the people and governing the state can be achieved through Wuwei (non-action). Laozi asks: Can one act without action? If one cannot practice Wuwei and still cannot let go of the traces left by one’s actions, then however mysterious one may seem, one has not reached true mystery.

The “Gate of Heaven” refers to the pivot of heavenly awareness: the mind’s still and open center, which is also lucid and responsive. “Opening and closing” describes its movement as it opens and shuts, goes out and comes in, and responds to things. “Female” ordinarily refers to what is Yin; here it suggests retaining and receiving. A gate allows passage in and out, and the human mind likewise responds to events and encounters external things through the activation of heavenly awareness. When ordinary people respond to external things, their minds are often not sufficiently still and open. They become obstructed when things happen, and over time the mind grows ever more closed. Zhuangzi says that when a house has no spare room, a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law will quarrel; when the mind has no room to roam freely, the senses and thoughts compete with one another. This describes a mind that is not still and open.

The sage’s mind is like a mirror: it does not actively welcome things or deliberately hold on to them. When things come, it does not cling to them; when they depart, they leave no trace. This is what it means to “respond without retaining.” The Gate of Heaven thus opens and closes without retaining anything. Laozi asks those who cultivate the Dao: Can you achieve this?

To be clear-sighted and far-reaching means that wisdom illuminates everything within its reach. But ordinary people often use their wisdom to focus on external things and show off what they have seen and heard. The Sage’s wisdom encompasses Heaven and Earth, yet the Sage does not claim it as personal wisdom. Able to keep its light concealed and turn its gaze inward, the Sage is “clear in all directions, yet seems to know nothing.”

Laozi asks whether one can attain this state. When the practice of the Dao reaches this point, both substance and function are complete, and body and spirit alike reach a refined state. One can then say that the cultivation of the Dao has reached its utmost. This De is exceedingly subtle and can accord with the De of Heaven and Earth. The De of Heaven and Earth brings all things to life and nurtures them: it gives life and nourishment without claiming ownership, acts without relying on its achievements, and nurtures without ruling. The Sage’s De is the same. This is the mysterious De.

Chapter Eleven

Thirty spokes meet at a single wheel hub. It is the empty space at the hub’s center that allows the wheel to turn. Clay is kneaded to make a vessel; it is the empty space inside that allows it to hold things. Doors and windows are cut out to make a house; it is the empty space within that makes it fit to live in.

Thus, what is present offers convenience, while what is empty and formless performs the actual function.

This commentary says that people know only how useful “things with form” are, and do not realize that “formlessness and emptiness” are useful too. Everyone knows a wheel can be used, for example, but does not understand that it works because of the empty hole at its center. A vessel can hold things because of the empty space within it, and a house can shelter people because of the empty space in its rooms.

Consider Heaven and Earth through these examples. People know that the formed world of Heaven and Earth acts, but do not understand that its activity has its source in the empty and formless Dao. The human body has form, and people know that a person can act, but do not understand that human activity has its source in the numinous, formless mind. We can thus see that although things with form are useful, the key to their function lies in “nonbeing.” Yet “nonbeing” cannot function by itself; it needs “being” to work with it. Hence the saying: “Being provides benefit; nonbeing provides use.” Formed things bring practical benefit, while what is empty and formless enables them to function. “Benefit” means support and fulfillment.

The essential point of Laozi’s thought is to perceive “nonbeing” through “being.” If we can understand the formless Dao through things that have form, we will not become attached to form itself. This is the mystery of the Dao and the central meaning of this commentary.

Chapter Twelve

A profusion of colors makes the eyes grow dull; a jumble of sounds makes the ears grow numb; strong flavors dull the palate. Racing horses and hunting in enclosed parks make the mind run wild; rare and precious goods hinder a person’s conduct. Therefore, the sage attends to inner fullness and the satisfaction of basic needs rather than pursuing sensory pleasures. The sage sets aside those enticements and chooses this course.

The human mind is originally empty, tranquil, and clear. External sights and sounds, food and drink, and material wealth have nothing inherently worth coveting. People make them objects of desire and become absorbed in them: the eyes chase beautiful sights and lose their proper way of seeing, becoming as if blind; the ears chase sounds and lose true hearing, becoming as if deaf; the tongue chases flavors and loses its sense of the food’s natural taste, as if its sense of taste were impaired; the mind chases external things and loses its calm, falling into confusion; actions chase wealth and profit and lose their integrity, bringing harm upon oneself. This is what is meant by “profit clouds judgment”: people’s minds are obscured by material desires, and their coveting never ceases.

The sage understands the harm caused by material desires. Even when surrounded by sights and sounds, food and drink, and material wealth, the sage practices a life of restraint, understanding moderation and contentment. It is like a mole drinking by a river: drinking enough to fill its belly is sufficient; it does not covet more or indulge its eyes and ears in the pursuit of pleasure. As the saying goes, a thousand chests full of silk and satin serve only to keep one warm; a table laden with sumptuous food a square zhang in size serves only to fill one’s belly. All the rest is merely outward display. Thus, even amid splendid sights, the sage remains at ease, detached and unmoved. The sage is content to nourish the body and does not let the eyes grow attached to external things. So the sage casts aside the harm of greed and chooses a life of restraint.

Chapter Thirteen

Favor and disgrace alike bring alarm; regard great calamity as you regard your own person.

What does it mean to say that favor and disgrace alike bring alarm? Favor itself places a person in a lowly position: when favored, one is as uneasy as if alarmed; when favor is lost, one is equally uneasy. This is what it means to say that favor and disgrace alike cause unease.

What does it mean to regard great calamity as you regard your own person? The reason I have great troubles is that I have this body. If I had no body, what calamity could befall me?

Therefore, if one can cherish the realm as one cherishes oneself, the realm can be entrusted to that person; if one can care for the realm as one cares for oneself, the realm can be placed in that person’s keeping.

This passage explains how fame and profit can bring great misfortune. It urges people to value the Dao and let go of attachment to their own glory, so that they may ease their troubles.

“Favor and disgrace are equally alarming” means that people call honors bestowed from outside “favor” and assume that being favored is a distinction. They do not realize that favor often comes with humiliation, leaving them unsettled. “Esteeming high rank is like a great affliction of the body” means that people regard a noble position as a source of happiness, without realizing that such a position, like the body itself, can be a source of grave worry. Here, the body serves as a metaphor for high rank: the body is the root of many pains, while high rank can become the root of misfortune.

Why is receiving favor like suffering humiliation? To receive favor is, in fact, to occupy a subordinate position. For example, a servant favored by a ruler must bow to receive even a cup of wine or a piece of meat, thereby showing that he has been favored. Someone who has received no favor can stand proudly instead. Seen this way, what is called favor may not be an honor at all; it may instead be humiliating. That is why the text says, “Favor places one below.”

Before a person receives favor, they worry that they will not get it. After receiving it, they worry that they will lose it. They spend all day calculating their gains and losses, with no moment’s peace of mind. How could this count as an honor? That is why they are alarmed both when favor is granted and when it is withdrawn. This is precisely why receiving favor is like suffering disgrace.

“Esteeming high rank is like a great affliction of the body” uses the body’s troubles as a metaphor for the troubles of an exalted position. The body is the source of many pains: once we have a body, we cannot escape hunger, cold, illness, pain, or the troubles of life and death. Hence the saying: “The reason I have great afflictions is that I have a body. If I had no body, what afflictions could I have?”

A position can also become the basis of disaster. High rank draws a person into disputes and rivalries, subjecting them to inner torment and public slander. It may damage one’s life and nature inwardly, and invite enemies and accusations from outside, thereby bringing misfortune.