《道德真經集義(二)》Vol. 4

Yu Qingzhong says: “‘The Dao that can be spoken’ through ‘the gateway’”—the Dao is the whole of the Taiji (the undivided whole before Heaven and Earth separated), the general name for the principles underlying all things. When the Hongmeng (primordial chaos) first began to divide and the Aoji (the foundation of Heaven and Earth) was established, people reluctantly gave it the name Dao. This does not mean the Dao cannot be spoken of; rather, its subtle essence and mystery are beyond the words of ordinary people.

Heaven and Earth, too, are only things within the Dao, and every thing must have a name. What is light and clear rises upward and is called Heaven; what is heavy and turbid sinks downward and is called Earth. What shines brightly and can be seen is the sun and moon; what gleams and takes visible form is the stars. People can name all these things, but what makes them light and clear, or heavy and turbid? Why do they shine on without ceasing? What is the principle behind it? How could ordinary people explain it clearly? When the Master spoke of human nature and the Way of Heaven, even Zigong, whose ability was to “hear one thing and understand two,” “could not manage to hear” it. How much less could those whose understanding fell short of Zigong’s? If even hearing of it was beyond reach, how much more so would it be to speculate recklessly about it? Alas! The Master was a sage; Zigong was only an ordinary person. Cheng Yichuan once pointed to a dining table and asked Shao Kangjie, “This table rests on the earth, but I wonder where Heaven and Earth themselves rest.” Kangjie expounded the principle at great length, extending his discussion to what lies beyond the Six Directions. Yichuan sighed and said that in his life he had seen only Zhou Maoshu discuss things to such a depth. Kangjie’s son, Bowen, recorded this, but only said that his father “expounded the principle at great length,” without saying what he had discussed. As a result, later students could not even learn the outline of it. Could this be something ordinary people can explain or name?

When the Taiji had not yet divided, and the vast stillness had not yet shown any sign, names had not yet been established. Hence the words, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth”—“beginning” refers to its earliest state. Once names were established, Yin and Yang had their names, and the myriad things had theirs. From this all the transformations and changes emerge, and from this all the countless branches and forms arise. Hence the words, “The named is the mother of the myriad things.” “Mother” refers to the source from which things are born, just as Kun is called the mother.

“Mother” refers to the root on which all things depend for their existence. The question of how to punctuate “constant nonbeing” and “constant being” should be understood as follows:

As the source of all things, the Dao has no form or appearance when still, but takes form and appearance when it moves. Without entering the state of “nonbeing,” one cannot perceive its subtlety; without entering the state of “being,” one cannot perceive its boundaries. “Subtlety” means profound mystery; “the boundary” means the edges and farthest reaches. At the edges of the Great Dao, small paths branch off; these are called boundaries, and they are places of return. Those who cultivate the Dao should understand it this way: those adept at learning the Dao abide in “nonbeing,” going to the furthest reaches of nonbeing in order to observe its utmost subtlety. They also abide in “being,” going to the furthest reaches of being in order to observe the boundaries that branch out from it.

Being and nonbeing are opposites, yet they emerge from the same source and bear different names. Both are called “the mysterious.” The mysterious is the utmost depth of subtlety, beyond the power of words to describe. It is not enough to call it mysterious: it is “mystery upon mystery,” running through past and present and reaching to the limits of Heaven and Earth. Its subtle manifestations are countless and varied: from it comes every emergence, and into it every return.

Lin of Yanzhai explains this chapter as follows: “The Dao cannot in itself be spoken of. Once words are involved, we are already dealing with a secondary meaning. ‘Constant’ means unchanging and unalterable. What can be spoken and named is subject to change; what cannot be spoken or named does not change. This is a profound interpretation. Yet on close reflection, if ‘the Dao that can be spoken of is not the enduring Dao,’ then ‘the name that can be named is not the enduring name’ does not make sense, and seems somewhat at odds with the later line, ‘The named is the mother of the myriad things.’ Perhaps the character ‘Dao’ in the first phrase is still and weighty, while the ‘Dao’ in ‘can be spoken of’ and ‘constant Dao’ is active and light; the character ‘name’ may work the same way. This chapter stands at the beginning of the scripture. Laozi’s central teaching, and the ultimate work of those who cultivate the Dao, rest upon it. Anyone explaining the scripture should interpret it with care.”

Xu Liuxu says: “‘The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao’—the moment the Dao is spoken of, a taboo has been broken. If you do not yet understand, then allow me to add legs to a snake. Originally, it was formless and nameless, a primal chaos. It has existed since the beginning of time, since Heaven and Earth were opened. The greatest wisdom cannot fathom it, and even the divine voice cannot describe it. The sages understood it in silence. Unable to bear the thought that later generations would know nothing of it, they reluctantly used the word ‘Dao’ as a placeholder for what is formless and nameless, so that later students could name it and thereby gain access to it. Thus it is called ‘Dao’ because the word conveys the sense of passage and access. Even so, this is only its written expression; it does not yet convey its true substance.”

The word “reality” must be grasped by each person through their own sincerity, insight, and verification. Only then does it truly serve the Dao (the Way), and only such a person can endure as long as Heaven and Earth and shine as brightly as the sun and moon. Otherwise, merely fussing over literary argument and empty talk is like describing fine silks to someone who is cold, or delicacies to someone who is hungry. It may sound pleasing, but it does nothing to advance the Dao. How, then, could the Dao endure? Thus the Jing (classic) says, “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao.” Since the Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao, each person must discover for themselves what the word “Dao” truly points to. It also says, “The name that can be named is not the constant name.” The “Dao” is originally the name within what is formless and nameless. If one does not cultivate its reality, but pursues only names that can be spoken, it is like a violent storm—how could it last without ceasing?

“The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth”: Heaven and Earth began in the “nameless.” “The named is the mother of the ten thousand things”: once Heaven and Earth had names, all things arose from this Dao; “mother” means that which gives birth, the source. These two lines convey the sage’s encouragement to investigate principle fully and realize one’s nature. Human life and Heaven and Earth are originally one body. What difference is there in the principle that gives birth to them? Why not investigate it? Hence: “Ever free of desire, one observes its subtlety; ever possessed of desire, one observes its limits.” These two lines are a gateway to awakening that the sage opened for later generations. Those who study should seek here, and they will surely make progress.

“Constant” refers to the eternal Dao. “Free of desire” and “possessed of desire” refer to the stillness and activity of the eternal Dao. “Observe” means to examine; “subtlety” means what is subtle; “limits” means the point at which something comes to rest. Yan Zi said, “The limits are where De (Virtue/Power) finds its return.” Quietly dwelling in stillness, without thought or worry, is the stillness of the constant Dao. In this state, one can discern the subtle essence of the constant Dao; hence, “Ever free of desire, one observes its subtlety.” When a response arises and one engages with circumstances and encounters, this is the activity of the constant Dao. In this state, one can discern where its adaptive function leads; hence, “Ever possessed of desire, one observes its limits.” To understand its essence, grasp its function, and know its return is to complete the sage’s learning.

One who does not know where things lead and forgets to return is an ordinary person. One who knows the essence but not the function is one-sided. One who has not awakened to the essence but merely adorns the function is a scholar of principle. Only one who understands both essence and function, and sees the Dao present through a thousand turns and transformations, has attained the highest learning. These two pairs—subtlety and limits, freedom from desire and possession of desire—“emerge from the same source but have different names.” Both point to the same constant Dao; they simply speak of it from two perspectives: observing its essence in stillness and observing where it leads in activity.

The Collected Meanings of the True Classic of the Dao and De: A Plain-Language Interpretation

1. “They emerge together but have different names”

“They emerge together but have different names” refers to the two pairs of concepts discussed earlier: “being” and “nonbeing,” and “the subtle” and “its manifestations.”

“Together” means that both share the constant Dao (the eternal Way). “Different names” means that each pair has its own distinct terms.

Before the constant Dao appears, there is no distinction between “being” and “nonbeing,” or between “the subtle” and “its manifestations.” This is their sameness. Once it appears, terms such as “being” and “nonbeing,” and “the subtle” and “its manifestations,” come into use. This is their difference. Hence the saying, “They emerge together but have different names.”

“To call them together mysterious” means that anyone who recognizes their oneness before they appear has attained profound understanding. “Mysterious” means profound and far-reaching. Hence the saying, “To call them together mysterious.”

2. The mysterious within the mysterious: the gateway to all wonders

Those who travel a long road must have a destination. The journey may be long, but until its endpoint is reached, it has not yet gone as far as it can.

To be “mysterious once more” is to have reached the utmost limit. That limit is called “the gateway to all wonders.”

The gateway to all wonders is the source from which the five thousand words of ultimate truth and the countless subtle meanings all emerge. The sage opens this gateway in the hope that later students may enter. Those who pass by without entering need not be discussed; yet there are often people who lean against the doorway and argue.

At this point, ha! One is so carried away with delight that one cannot help dancing, hands and feet alike.

3. Li Shicong’s commentary (Li’s interpretation)

“The Dao that can be spoken of … the gateway”: The Dao resides in the heart. It is present in ordinary daily life and adapts to circumstances; there is nowhere it is absent. Stillness and Wuwei (non-action) constitute the true, constant Dao. Seeking contrived action elsewhere, unsettling the heart, or becoming attached to other things is not the ordinary, constant Dao.

The Dao originally has no name. From the One Qi (vital energy), Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things arise; once named, it becomes the mother of the myriad things. Before anything stirs in the human heart, there is no knowledge, skill, or clumsiness. When the heart creates the many kinds of implements and gives them names, it becomes the mother of the myriad things.

“Ever without desire, observe its subtlety; ever with desire, observe its manifestations”:

• Ever without desire means not being driven by desire, but turning the light inward to observe the subtle truth of one’s original nature.
• Ever with desire means observing the ways one seeks to sustain life and follows its traces and boundaries.

“These two emerge together but have different names”: Without desire, one enters stillness; with desire, one moves into activity. The source of the pivot between movement and stillness is the same, though the terms differ.

“To call them together mysterious”: They are one in the heart’s original state, before it stirs or becomes manifest—a state that is difficult to predict.

“The mysterious within the mysterious”: The heart of an ordinary person is already difficult to fathom; how much more so the heart of a sage? Its workings are profound and hidden, beyond the reach of inquiry.

“The gateway to all wonders”: The gateway to all wonders is the source from which every subtle meaning emerges.

Key points

“The gateway to all wonders”: All responses to change and all affairs arise from this source; its wondrous workings are inexhaustible.

Su Jingjing said: “‘The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.’ Here, ‘Dao’ refers to the Way of Heaven, and ‘name’ refers to what the Dao is called. If the Way of Heaven could be identified and spoken of as people speak of things, it would not be the Way I follow constantly. If its name could be identified as people identify things, it would not be the name I use constantly. The Way of Heaven is originally one with nature, whereas the ways of people are divided into the ways of emperors, kings, and overlords. The name is originally clear and still, whereas people’s names are divided into benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness. Laozi’s understanding of the Dao as nature and of the name as stillness is fundamentally different from people’s understandings of the Dao and the name. Laozi lived in the declining Zhou dynasty. Seeing the royal way in decline and the way of the overlord about to arise, he wished to govern by the natural Way of Heaven. He also saw that ritual marked the decline of loyalty and trust and was the beginning of disorder; seeing benevolence, righteousness, wisdom, and trustworthiness in confusion, he wished to transform society through stillness and Wuwei (non-action). Hence his words, ‘not the constant Dao’ and ‘not the constant name.’ His teachings were put to use by Emperor Wen of Han and Cao Can, bringing about an effect of peace and quiet, celebrated in the ‘Song of Tranquility and Unity.’ In the Western Jin, they were put to poor use, leading to the calamity of empty talk. The results in each case depended on how they were applied.

From “the nameless” to “the mother of the myriad things”: Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) is an undivided whole; before Heaven and Earth had names, was this not their beginning? Although Heaven and Earth did not yet exist, they were already contained within Taiji; hence it is called the beginning of Heaven and Earth. When Heaven and Earth first separated, the myriad things came to have names. Was this not their mother? Once Heaven and Earth existed, the myriad things were born between them; hence Heaven and Earth are called the mother of the myriad things.

From “always without desire” to “to observe its wonders”: Taiji has endured through all ages. It has principle but no form; the formless is wondrous, so one wishes to observe its wonders through the nameless. Heaven and Earth have given birth to the myriad things through all ages, and are constantly present; what is present has limits, so one wishes to observe those limits through what is named. “Limits” means boundaries: when considering the birth of the myriad things, one should examine them to their furthest bounds, meaning that their birth extends everywhere. Being comes from nonbeing, and nonbeing can give rise to being. Laozi wrote his book by making the two words “being” and “nonbeing” its central themes. He saw that the Book of Changes, the Book of Documents, the Book of Odes, and the Spring and Autumn Annals all speak of being, while he alone speaks of nonbeing.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Some people say, “Being arises from Nonbeing, and Nonbeing can give rise to being.” It sounds lofty, but it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that everything is empty and unreal. Read the Laozi closely, and it becomes clear that it is not all about emptiness: “Do not display desirable things, and people’s hearts will not be stirred by reckless desire”; “Abandon cleverness and discard profit, and thieves will disappear on their own”; “Assist the ruler through the Dao, and do not use military force to dominate the world”; “Fine weapons are instruments of ill omen”; “Govern the state with uprightness and use unorthodox methods in warfare”; “The more prohibitions there are, the poorer the people become; the more sharp weapons there are, the more confused the state grows; the more skills people have, the more unusual things appear; the more laws and decrees are displayed, the more thieves there are”; and “Act before things come into being; bring order before disorder arises.” All these sayings strike at the heart of how things work.

The Laozi gives great weight to “Nonbeing,” but it does not deny “Being.” The Book of Changes, the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, and the Spring and Autumn Annals speak of “Being,” and sometimes give little attention to “Nonbeing.” One cannot reduce them all to “stillness and non-action.”

“Those two” means “Being” and “Nonbeing”; both can be called “mysterious.” They both emerge from the Dao. Their names differ, but their principle is the same. Nonbeing can give rise to being, and being arises from Nonbeing; both are profoundly mysterious, and should not be boxed in by the words “being” and “nonbeing.” The phrase “mysterious upon mysterious, the gateway to all wonders” has already gone beyond the opposition between being and nonbeing. It would be wrong to cling stubbornly even to the word “mysterious,” though it is fitting to say “mysterious upon mysterious.” Nonbeing can give rise to being, and being arises from Nonbeing; from this come all the world’s goodness and wonders. This is precisely what “mysterious upon mysterious” means.

Wu Huanzhong explains the chapter beginning “The Dao that can be spoken”: Is the Dao something that exists, or something that does not exist? Neither answer can be stated with certainty. The great source of the Dao comes from Heaven; Heaven itself is the Dao. Before people and things came into being, the Dao was already supreme. Only after people came into being did the name “Dao” arise. The Dao is inherently difficult to put into words. In the time of King Zhao of Zhou, Laozi wrote the five thousand words of the Laozi. Seeing that the Zhou dynasty was declining, the age was corrupt, and the Dao was in danger, he sought to restore the simple ways of antiquity. That is why the opening chapter first discusses the key to the Dao.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Phrases such as “the constant Dao,” “the constant name,” “being,” “nonbeing,” “the boundary,” “the subtle,” “mystery upon mystery,” and “the gateway to all wonders” conceal their meaning rather than displaying it plainly: their words seem familiar, while their principles run deep. From the Han dynasty to the present, hundreds of scholars have interpreted the Laozi. Each has offered a view, yet none has dared to make reckless claims or force evidence from the Classics and histories. Most have instead compared passages within the Laozi itself, hoping to avoid serious error.

The principles of benevolence and righteousness, ritual and music, government and punishment, military strategy, wealth and goods, the search for worthy people, governing the state, and bringing peace to the people have already been discussed in detail by various commentators. In broad terms, the Laozi teaches people to cultivate and observe what has no shape or shadow, and to attend to the moment a thought first arises—that is precisely the turning point between life and death. Yet this is not what people ordinarily mean by “desire.” One must bring “having no preconceived notions” and “having no self-interest” to their fullest extent. This is where the Dao described in the Laozi differs from the Dao spoken of in Confucianism.

Zhu Xi once put it aptly: the Laozi contains something of the Immortals’ teachings, but in the end it simply tells people to benefit themselves through quietude and Wuwei (non-action). That remark captures the whole aim of Laozi’s teaching.

The “Dao” Laozi speaks of is not the ordinary Dao people speak of in the world. He says, “There is something formed in confusion, born before Heaven and Earth”; he also says, “Meet it, and you do not see its head; follow it, and you do not see its end.” This is the “Dao” meant in Laozi’s phrase “the Dao that can be spoken,” not an ordinary way.

The “name” Laozi speaks of is likewise not an ordinary name. He says, “Not knowing its name, I forcibly give it a name”; he also says, “Look at it and it cannot be seen: it is called the indistinct. Listen for it and it cannot be heard: it is called the inaudible.” This is the “name” meant in “the name that can be named,” not an ordinary name.

He then continues: “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things.” Since this is neither the constant Dao nor an ordinary name, it is as though it both exists and does not exist, with being and nonbeing working together. What exists does not become stuck in existence; what does not exist does not become trapped in nonexistence. Nonbeing does not come first, nor does being come after. It gives birth without possessing: this is the mother of the Dao. Through nonbeing, one observes the Dao’s subtlety; through being, one observes its boundary. The subtle and the boundary, being and nonbeing, emerge from the same source but bear different names. Together they are called mystery. “Mystery” means profound and hidden; it does not refer to the color black. “Mystery upon mystery” means a depth that cannot be fathomed: it is the gateway through which all wonders emerge. A gateway is a passage through which being and nonbeing come and go.

Fewer people can enter this “gate.” The Dao is so great that nothing lies beyond it, and so small that nothing lies within it. Elusive and indistinct, yet images are present within it; indistinct and elusive, yet things are present within it. The Dao is the hidden depth of all things. Both nonbeing and being can enter into what has no gap—is this not the “Gate of All Wonders”?

Laozi opens by discussing the pivotal nature of the Dao. The two words “being” and “nonbeing” run throughout the “constant Dao,” also called the One. The whole book centers on the word “Dao,” yet never spells everything out; its meaning deepens again and again. Heaven gains the One and becomes clear; earth gains the One and becomes settled; spirits gain the One and become numinous; valleys gain the One and become full. How wondrous the One is—it is the foundation of the Dao. Gathered inward, it seems like nonbeing; spread outward, it becomes being. Zhuang Zhou said, “When a person attains the One, all affairs can be completed.” If this is true, then the Dao originally arises from the One. Those who can truly hold to this Dao reach the utmost in emptiness and firmly keep to stillness; they know the masculine yet hold to the feminine, know the white yet hold to the black, and focus their Qi until it becomes supple as an infant’s. They move in and out of life and death, enter water and fire, pass through metal and stone, and ride the wind through emptiness. People all say that my Dao is great, yet seems unlike anything; lesser people hear of it and laugh aloud. Wu Yun said, “Nothing surpasses the five thousand words in penetrating the Dao. How could this be empty talk?”

Chai Yuanfu says: The Dao is originally the limitless, and yet the Supreme Ultimate. Its substance is empty, while its function is real; inwardly it is concise, outwardly expansive. “The Dao that can be spoken” is not the constant Dao. The one reality that never changes through the ages is called the “constant Dao,” enduring and everlasting. The constant Dao cannot be spoken of—not because there is truly nothing to say, but because it is “speech without speaking.” Not speaking is its substance; the passing of the four seasons and the birth of the myriad things are its function. This ongoing process of generation is speech without speaking. To understand this principle, one must silently apprehend it in stillness: What is this lively, active presence? Only then can one realize the master that does not speak. In cultivating the Dao, nature is the substance and life is the function: nourishing Shen makes one’s nature numinous; nourishing Qi makes one’s life secure. Shen speaks silently within but cannot speak outwardly, so it must rely on Qi to express itself outside. Qi speaks aloud outside and also speaks secretly within; one must forget words in order to nourish Shen. This is “making practical use of what is empty.” It cannot be expressed in words, which is why the Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao. When one’s practice reaches completion, what can be spoken is then the true constant Dao.

The substance of “name” is empty and difficult to name: “A name that can be named is not a constant name.” Simply calling it “Dao” is already an expedient act of naming.

A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Scripture:

The Dao (the Way) that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be given as a name is not the eternal, unchanging name. To force a name upon it is already to depart from the subtle Dao. The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the source of the ten thousand things. Function arises from substance, and the source from which it arises is named through its function, which is inexhaustible. Therefore, only by constantly remaining free of desire can one observe the Dao’s mystery. This is the most numinous, beyond description, and is called “the subtle.” By turning one’s gaze inward, what has no object of desire is the spirit concealed within. Only by constantly remaining in a state of desire can one observe the Dao’s boundaries. Following a small path is called “the boundary.” Looking outward, what seeks to accomplish something is the exercise of function. These two are both profoundly mysterious and endlessly subtle. They arise from the same source, though they have different names. The source is mysterious, and its function is mysterious too: this is the “Gate of the Myriad Subtleties.” This gate is where Heaven and Earth open and close, where substance and function enter and depart. Only those who quietly observe without desire can understand it.

The Lay Daoist Benyian’an Says:

From “the Dao that can be spoken of” to “the Gate of the Myriad Subtleties,” the Dao is everywhere, yet seems to have no fixed location. If we say it is nothing, Heaven, Earth, and the ten thousand things arise from it. If we say it is something, it has no fixed form that can be described. All that can be seen is the “constant.” The constant has neither beginning nor end and is beyond distinctions between past and present. It is neither being nor nonbeing, yet encompasses both. It is not opening and closing, coming and going, yet it moves within opening and closing, coming and going. If we take what can be spoken of as the Dao, and what can be named as the name, how could these exhaust the “constant”? The text speaks of both the “Dao” and the “name” because the Dao is hidden while the name is manifest: the name serves to reveal the Dao. To call it nothing does not mean that it truly does not exist; it means only that it has no name. To call it something does not mean that it truly exists as a thing; it means only that it has a name. Hence the “nameless” is called the beginning of Heaven and Earth, and the “named” the source of the ten thousand things. When a person is born, the source of life comes from the father, while the body takes shape in the mother. Heaven, Earth, and the ten thousand things are the same: the nameless is the father, and the named is the mother. “Subtle” is like the “subtle” in “subtle being.” “Boundary” means returning. The Liezi says, “Death is the return of De (Virtue/Power),” and Zhang Zhan’s commentary explains that “return” means going back to the source. Before there is anything at all, the principles of the myriad forms are already present. Once the myriad things have divided and taken on different forms, all return to the One. Therefore, one who realizes the Dao constantly remains free of desire in order to observe its mystery. In this way, one can preserve the spirit and commune with the transformations of all things under Heaven, having already apprehended the state of stillness and immobility. One constantly remains in a state of desire in order to observe the Dao’s boundaries. In this way, one can observe the return of the myriad things and see the constant Dao of returning to the root and restoring one’s life, already revealed amid the profusion and flourishing of the myriad things.

A Collected Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue (II): A Plain-Language Reading

Commentary on the Main Text

From this we can understand: when one can recognize the subtle and the manifest, gather what is broad and return it to simplicity, and grasp what is essential in order to govern things, the Dao is within oneself. Essence and function share one source; the manifest and the subtle are inseparable. Hence the saying, “These two emerge together but have different names.” “Mysterious” refers to what is profound and far-reaching. Calling them both mysterious means that the sage and the Dao form an unbroken unity: they encompass both the coarse and the refined, and transcend both movement and stillness. Neither “being” nor “nonbeing” can name them, so they are provisionally called mysterious—as though they were so deep and distant that they could not be named. This is the realm of “great transformation.” “Mystery within mystery” is the numinous presence of the sage, beyond knowing. In coming and going, where is there no wonder? Thus it is said that the Gate of All Wonders is ever present.

What Buddhists call “true permanence” and “wondrous being”—permanence, nonbeing, being, and the permanence of nonbeing—expresses the meaning of emptiness as form and form as emptiness. Calling them both mysterious is what is meant by “belonging neither to being nor to nonbeing.”

Additional Notes

• Yan Junping: “Having a name is not the Dao; having no name is not the Dao. Acting is not the Dao; non-action is not the Dao. Without a name, nothing is left unnamed; without action, nothing is left undone.”

• Master Taipingguang: “Where there is opposition, names differ; beyond all opposition, they are mysteriously one. Forget the mystery within mystery, and it is called mystery upon mystery.”

• Bingwen: “This chapter clarifies the ultimate reach of the layered mystery. It is not only that ‘the Dao that can be spoken is not the Dao’; ‘the Dao that cannot be spoken’ is not the Dao either, as Zhuangzi says. Silence and speech alike are insufficient to exhaust the Dao. Nor can the sayings ‘the Dao is eternally nameless’ or ‘there is naming and namelessness’ exhaust it. Namelessness is only an image of the Dao. Since neither being nor nonbeing can exhaust the Dao, it is again provisionally described as layered mystery.”

Related Evidence from Other Masters

Guan Yinzi said: “It is not that there is a Dao that cannot be spoken of; what cannot be spoken of is itself the Dao. It is not that there is a Dao that cannot be contemplated; what cannot be contemplated is itself the Dao. The things of Heaven surge and flow fiercely; human affairs are tangled and confused. Yet they seem to turn back, to clash and contend, to be hastened along, seeming both like and unlike. People dispute them, set them apart, spit them out, censure them, cast them aside, and try to grasp their essentials. To speak of them is like blowing at a shadow; to think about them is like carving dust. Even what the sage and the wise attain leads to bewilderment; ghosts and spirits cannot know it. It is simply beyond making, attaining, measuring, and dividing. Thus it is called Heaven, called fate, called spirit, called mystery; taken together, these are called the Dao. There is nothing that is not Heaven, nothing that is not fate, nothing that is not spirit, nothing that is not mystery. Since things are so, how could human beings be different?”

Brief Notes on Terms

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Otherwise, everyone could call themselves a “heavenly being” or a “spiritual being,” and everyone could claim that their destiny reaches the mysterious. But if this were truly so, Heaven would no longer be Heaven, spirits would no longer be spirits, and each person would mean something different by destiny and the mysterious. They would no longer refer to the same things. Those who truly learn the Dao can see Heaven, fulfill the work of spirits, bring destiny to completion, and reach the mysterious within one and the same thing. Beginners often need to distinguish names from realities, sort out differences, and seek what is shared. Once they understand fully, they accord with the same reality and forget distinctions of name and appearance.

Chen Baoyi’s explanation:

“The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.” People in the world who study the Dao rarely read the Guan Yin Zi. Most explain Laozi through the conjectures of various philosophers, and the more they explain, the further they stray from Laozi’s original meaning.

Guan Yin Zi says: if you separate “the Dao” from “the Dao that can be spoken of,” then the Dao and speech become two different things. Only when you realize that what cannot be spoken is itself the Dao do speech and the Dao become one. At first glance, a student may take “there is no Dao that cannot be spoken of” to mean “there is a Dao that can be spoken of.” But if that were truly the meaning, the scripture would say, “There is a Dao that is not impossible to speak of,” rather than “There is no Dao that cannot be spoken of.” Saying “there is no Dao that cannot be spoken of; what cannot be spoken of is the Dao” turns the words around to reveal an insight beyond the literal wording of Laozi.

Turn the words around, and they become: “There is no Dao that cannot be followed; what cannot be followed is the Dao.” Once we say that what cannot be followed is the Dao, we see that “the Dao that can be followed” is not the Dao itself. This is what Laozi means by “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao.” If you still suspect that “can be spoken of” means a Dao expressed in words, turn the scripture’s meaning around again to make it clear. Consider the saying, “Emptiness that can be emptied is not true emptiness.” If emptiness can be emptied further or acted upon, it is not true emptiness. Understand that “emptiness that can be emptied is not true emptiness,” and you will understand that “the Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao.”

Someone else offers this comparison: the mind and one’s nature can both be cultivated through effort, but the Dao cannot be forced, so one cannot “make the Dao.” Without this reversal of meaning, I would never have understood Laozi’s scripture, even over a lifetime.

People are also often tripped up by the word “constant,” thinking Laozi is describing some other, “extraordinary Dao.” Laozi uses the word “constant” precisely to prevent people from imagining that the Dao he speaks of differs from the lesser ways of human society. In truth, it is the great constant Dao that runs through all under Heaven, merely given the name “Dao” as a matter of convenience. One might also call it “the constant Dao that runs through all under Heaven.”

A Plain-Language Interpretation

The word “name,” when used to refer to the Dao (the Way), points to something that pervades Heaven and Earth and has been present everywhere throughout time. The moment one begins to speak of it, one has already moved far from the Dao. That is why Laozi says that a “name” belongs to a secondary, relative level.

The instant we try to force the word “name” upon it, if we think it can truly be named, then it is not the real name. Precisely because it cannot be named, we borrow the expression “constant name” to refer to it as best we can. We also say that what has a name cannot be named, and that what cannot be named is itself the name. In other words, what cannot be spoken of is the Dao, and what cannot be named is the name. This is exactly what Laozi means by: “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.”

Laozi was a great sage, and his words were like Heaven itself: words that do not speak. Without a great sage like Guanyinzi, who could use words that do not speak to bring out the meaning beyond Laozi’s words?

After explaining the meaning of what cannot be named or spoken of, Guanyinzi worried that people might think that, since the Dao cannot be named or spoken of, it can only be attained through thought. So he added that this does not mean there is a Dao that cannot be thought about: “What cannot be thought about” is the Dao. This means the same thing as the passage above.

Alas, what can be spoken of and thought about belongs to “humanity”; what cannot be spoken of or thought about belongs to “Heaven.” But what, in truth, is the difference between humanity and Heaven? Can they be viewed in the same way? We may say that all human beings are born from Heaven, but can Heaven and humanity truly be “viewed as one”? The things of Heaven are manifold, and human affairs are tangled. Some things seem alike but are actually different; some seem the same yet are at odds; some seem unrelated but are almost alike. Some contend, their minds locked in struggle day after day; some stand apart and do not engage with things. Some scold and shout, some call and cry out; some depart, while others seek to meet and join together. With the things of Heaven and the affairs of humanity so uneven and diverse, how could they all be viewed in the same way?

To reach for it with human speech and thought is like blowing at a shadow or carving dust: it only wastes the mind and spirit.

This Dao confounds the wisdom and skill of sages, and even spirits and gods cannot fathom it. Because it cannot be made to happen, it is called Heaven; because it cannot be brought about, it is called destiny; because it cannot be fathomed, it is called spirit; because it cannot be divided, it is called the Mysterious. Taken together, these four are forced into the name Dao.

After discussing the Dao, Laozi continues: “Ever without desire, observe its mystery; ever with desire, observe its manifestations. These are both called the Mysterious. The Mysterious upon the Mysterious is the gate of all wonders.” Guanyinzi worried that students might cling to different names and divide what is one in substance, treating Heaven, destiny, spirit, and the Mysterious as separate things. So in this chapter he restates the point to bring it home.

Note: This passage comes from the Qing-dynasty Collected Interpretations of the True Scripture of the Way and Its Virtue, composed by Daoist Liu Yiming and others. It develops ideas from the first chapter of the Dao De Jing and the thought of Guanyinzi, emphasizing what cannot be named, spoken, or thought, and the four layers of meaning—Heaven, destiny, spirit, and the Mysterious. Its interpretation differs somewhat from the standard Wang Bi commentary. Specialized terms have been rendered according to established Daoist usage.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

On “Heaven, spirit, life, and the mysterious” being present throughout all things

Within a single thing, one can realize Heaven, fathom spirit, understand life, and fulfill the mysterious. This is true of every thing, and every person possesses these capacities from the start. One cannot say, “Heaven is there, so there is no Heaven here; spirit is there, so there is no spirit here; life is there, so there is no life here; the mysterious is there, so there is no mysterious here.” Thus these may be called the marvelous, the manifest, or the mysterious: each is present in every thing, and inherent in every person. Only those who have awakened can accord with the reality of “being the same while still existing,” and forget the distinctions between one thing and another. Only then can one properly speak of a name—that is, a name with a real referent. As for “the mysterious and yet more mysterious,” it allows one to enter the Dao (the Way).

A quotation from Zhuangzi

Zhuangzi said: Where there is a “beginning,” there is a “beginning” that has not yet begun. Where there is a “beginning” that has not yet begun, there is a “beginning” of what has not yet begun to be unbegun. Where there is “being,” there is “nonbeing.” Where there is “not yet nonbeing,” there is “not yet beginning to be not yet nonbeing.” Suddenly there was “nonbeing,” yet it was not known whether “being” or “nonbeing” truly existed.

Now that I have spoken, I do not know whether what I have said counts as something said or as nothing said. Regard the root as refined and the traces of things as coarse; regard what is stored up as insufficient, and remain calm and still, alone in the company of the divine.

Among the ancient arts of the Dao, there was one that taught this way. Guan Yin and Lao Dan heard of it and rejoiced. They established themselves in “constant nonbeing and being,” and took the Great One as their master. Their outward manner was gentle, yielding, and humble; their true substance was emptiness that neither harmed nor destroyed the myriad things.

A quotation from Wen Zi

Wen Zi said: Those who serve life should move in response to change; the key to change lies in timing. Since action has no fixed rule, “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.”

Books arise from words. Words come from the wise, but this does not mean that the constant Dao is preserved within books. In ancient times, people with unbound hair and no collars—an image of simplicity—governed the world. Their De (Virtue/Power) lay in giving life without killing, and giving without taking away. The people of the world were not empty-hearted; they were moved by this De. In those days, Yin and Yang were in harmony, and the myriad things flourished. One could bend down and reach into birds’ nests, and tame wild beasts by leading them with a cord.

When the ways of the age declined, birds, beasts, insects, and snakes all became harmful to people. Iron was therefore cast and blades forged to defend against danger. Driven by hardship, people sought convenience; faced with calamity, they prepared defenses. Each relied on ingenuity to avoid what could harm them and pursue what could benefit them. The constant cannot therefore be followed blindly, and implements cannot remain fixed and unchanging. The laws of the former kings, too, may be revised. Hence it is also said: “The name that can be named is not the constant name.”

A Plain-Language Interpretation

“Any Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao”—anything that can be given a name is not the unchanging name.

The Five Constant Virtues—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—each follow their own way, yet together can govern all under Heaven. The Three Kings—Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou—acted differently, yet each earned a lasting name through his deeds. Names change with the times. It is like when Shi Kuang, the famous musician of antiquity, tuned the five notes: pitches rise and fall without a fixed measure, yet not one note is out of tune. Those who understand musical principles can compose with a central note as their foundation. Those who understand the rules, compass, and inkline—that is, the standards of law—can govern people. The institutions of the former kings should not be discarded at a whim; even in a decadent age, there are things worth preserving and methods that can still be put into practice. The sages established rites and created music, but were not bound by old rules. Hence the saying: “Any Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao.”

When people are rescued from emergencies and danger, fame and gain follow. When every harm has been removed and every achievement accomplished, and the world faces no great calamities, sages have no opportunity to exercise their De. When those above and below live in harmony, worthy people find it difficult to distinguish themselves through great deeds. The rule of the perfected person, the highest kind of ruler, embodies De and holds fast to the Dao. He acts with sincerity and draws on wisdom without limit, yet prefers silence to excessive speech. People do not recognize its worth precisely because it lies in this silence. Thus: “Any Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; any name that can be named is not the constant name.” What is written on bamboo or silk, carved in bronze or stone, and passed down to others is only a rough trace. The Three Sovereigns, the Five Emperors, and the Three Kings acted in different ways, yet their hearts were one; they took different paths, yet arrived at the same destination. Scholars of a decadent age do not understand the Dao’s underlying reality or the essential meaning of De. They merely gather traces of past achievements and sit in solemn posture, discoursing at length. Though widely learned and well informed, they cannot avoid bringing disorder.

Shi Tan says: “The passage beginning ‘Any Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao’ has two interpretations. One holds that in the opening phrase, ‘Dao that can be spoken,’ the word ‘Dao’ means a way that can be put into words, while ‘constant Dao’ means a Dao that cannot be expressed. The other holds that the first ‘Dao’ refers to the Dao of Laozi, while ‘constant Dao’ refers to what ordinary people call the Dao.

“If the first ‘Dao’ means ‘a Dao that can be spoken,’ then Laozi would have placed the world’s understanding of the Dao at the very beginning of his text—and this ‘Dao’ would not be Laozi’s Dao. How could the first word of a text named after the Dao refer instead to the Dao of ordinary people? If the first ‘Dao’ is Laozi’s Dao, then reading the phrase as ‘The Dao I speak of is not the Dao of ordinary people’ seems plausible too. But in that case, ‘constant Dao’ would instead refer to what ordinary people call the Dao.”

This passage discusses how the opening lines of the Daodejing should be read and distinguished from Confucian usage. The author first cites Kong Anguo’s use of “constant Dao” in the preface to the Book of Documents, then compares it with “Knowing constancy is called clarity” later in the text and with the word “constant” in this chapter’s lines, “Constantly without desire, one observes its mysteries; constantly with desire, one observes its manifestations.” If “constant” meant what is ordinary or habitual in everyday life, the author feels that neither passage would make sense. After turning the matter over repeatedly, he concludes that both the opening word “Dao” and the later phrase “constant Dao” refer to the essential reality of the Dao. But the “Dao that can be spoken” in the first line means the Dao that people talk about and debate. Laozi’s point is that the Dao he speaks of cannot be pointed out or explained clearly by ordinary people. If a Dao can be pointed to and named, it is not the naturally existing, eternal and unchanging “constant Dao” he means.

Here, “constant” means a Dao that is everywhere and always present, unchanged from ancient times to the present. The Dao spoken of in ordinary usage is like the “lesser ways” mentioned by Confucius, or the one-sided ways in Mencius’s phrase “the Dao is twofold.” The Dao discussed by Confucians is mostly a way of living that can be practiced in everyday relationships and dealings with others; Laozi’s Dao refers specifically to the realm of emptiness and naturalness. Confucian usage of “Dao” should therefore not be conflated with Laozi’s.

The lines “A name that can be named is not the constant name” have also been interpreted in two ways: some take the first “name” to mean an ordinary name, while others take it to mean the name of the Dao. As in the preceding passage, the key question is what “name” refers to. Following the same reasoning, both the first “name” and the later “constant name” still refer to the name of the Dao. The Dao cannot truly be named; calling it “Dao” is only an imposed name. If names can be assigned freely to things, they divide into opposites. Beauty and ugliness, difficulty and ease, length and shortness, high and low, as mentioned in the next chapter, cannot be regarded as “constant names” that are eternal and beyond opposition. These two lines are therefore explaining the earlier statement, “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao”; they express the sense of the later words, “I reluctantly call it Dao.”

The passage “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things” can also be punctuated in two ways. Some divide it as “the nameless” and “the named”; others divide it as “nonbeing” and “being.” The latter may seem more sophisticated, but it is unclear whether it can be reconciled with the next chapter’s “The Dao is constantly nameless; when it first fashioned things, names came into being.” This suggests that the ancient punctuation into “the nameless” and “the named” is the sounder reading. The general meaning is this: before there were names and forms, the original source from which Heaven and Earth arose was “the nameless”; the basis through which the myriad things transform was “the named.” The former is the beginning of Heaven and Earth, the latter the mother of the myriad things. The whole passage continues to unfold the deeper point that the Dao cannot be named, yet must be given a name, by exploring the relationship between names, nonbeing, and being.

The substance of the Dao is open, still, and without form or trace, yet all the myriad things are already fully present within it. Because it is open, still, and without form or trace, it cannot be described in words; hence it is called “nameless.” Though called nameless, it is in truth the source of Heaven and Earth. Because all the myriad things are already fully present within it, its principle can be described; hence it is called “named.” Once it is called named, it is the mother of the myriad things. “Beginning” speaks of that from which things arise: being comes forth from nonbeing, and so it is called the beginning. “Mother” speaks of the signs already present within it, like an embryo that has already taken shape; hence it is called the mother. This “beginning” is like what the Book of Changes calls the Great Beginning, and the “mother” is like what it calls the formation of things. But the Book of Changes speaks chiefly in terms of Qian and Kun, whereas this passage speaks specifically in terms of the Dao.

Thus, “Ever without desire, one observes its mystery; ever with desire, one observes its manifestations.” This passage can also be punctuated in two ways: one places the break after “nonbeing and being,” the other after “desire.”

The punctuation that places the break after “nonbeing and being” derives from Zhuangzi. In the “Under Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the phrase “establishing it through constant nonbeing and being” refers precisely to the claims here about “constant nonbeing” and “constant being.” Yet a later chapter of the Laozi also uses the three characters “constant without desire” together. How, then, can one break the phrase after “without”? Breaking after “desire” conflicts with Zhuangzi; breaking after “without” conflicts with the later chapter. But Zhuangzi grasped the true meaning of the Laozi better than anyone. Could it be that the later chapter’s phrase “without desire” merely happens to match the wording of this chapter, and should not be taken as evidence?

Since both readings have grounds for them, neither can simply be discarded in favor of the other.

Breaking after “nonbeing” and “being” speaks of the substance of the Dao; speaking of “without desire” and “with desire” speaks of how people embody the Dao. The constant Dao is concealed in nonbeing, so its mystery can be observed in nonbeing; the constant Dao is manifest in being, so its manifestations can be observed in being. “Mystery” refers to what cannot be named; “manifestations” refers to what can be named.

If the phrase is instead broken after “desire,” then when people can remain without desire, they can perceive the mystery of constant nonbeing. This is like what the Great Changes calls “still and unmoving.” When one remains amid desire, one can perceive the manifestations of constant being. This is like what the Great Changes calls “responding and thereby connecting with all things.” In the absence of desire, one perceives the mystery of stillness and nonmovement; amid desire, one perceives the manifestations of response and connection.

This passage discusses the relationship between “being” and “nonbeing,” and between substance and function, in the Dao De Jing, using Confucianism and Zhuangzi as points of comparison.

Resonance and the substance and function of the Dao

When people are moved by something and can reach the subtle gateway, they can grasp both the substance of the Dao and its function.

“Both emerge from the same source but have different names” and the Confucian idea that “substance and function share one source”

The Dao De Jing’s statement that “these two emerge from the same source but have different names” refers to the Confucian idea that “substance and function share one source, with no gap between the manifest and the subtle.” “These two” means “being” and “nonbeing.” The Dao takes “nonbeing” as its substance and “being” as its function; since both emerge from the Dao, they are said to have “one source.” Yet “being” and “nonbeing” have different names: nonbeing corresponds to “the subtle,” and being to “the manifest.” Because they emerge from one source, there is no division between the manifest and the subtle. The phrase “both are called mysterious” means that if we look only from the side of “being,” we cannot simply say that it is “being”; if we look only from the side of “nonbeing,” we likewise cannot simply say that it is “nonbeing.” The side of substance seems like “nonbeing,” but if we insist on calling it “nonbeing,” the side of function seems like “being.” In a single word, this is called “mystery”: mystery means that being and nonbeing cannot be cleanly separated.

“Mystery upon mystery, the gateway to all wonders” and Zhuangzi

“Mystery upon mystery, the gateway to all wonders”—Zhuangzi once spoke of a level of “being,” a level of “nonbeing,” a level where being and nonbeing have not yet divided, and a further level where even that undivided state has not yet come about.

The Dao De Jing’s “the named” corresponds to Zhuangzi’s “being of being,” while “the nameless” corresponds to “being of nonbeing.” What is called “mystery” can be described as neither “being” alone nor “nonbeing” alone. Since it cannot be called “nonbeing,” there must also be a level where being and nonbeing have not yet divided. To go one level beyond mystery is to reach what Zhuangzi describes as the level where even the state of being and nonbeing not yet divided has not yet come about. Mystery cannot be described in terms of being or nonbeing; with mystery upon mystery, even the word “mystery” no longer suffices. Even so, this principle contains countless principles within it, and all manner of subtle truths emerge from it. That is why it is called a “gateway.”

How this differs from Confucianism

The idea that countless principles arise from one principle may appear much like Confucianism, but in the end they differ. Confucianism gives priority to concrete things, with the Dao entrusted to the use of things. Daoism, by contrast, gives priority to emptiness and nonbeing, treating the Dao itself as what is most subtle and going beyond the coarse, superficial aspect of things.