《道德真經集義(二)》Vol. 9

Chapter on the Way’s Depth (Variant Readings and Commentaries)

Variant titles

In the Heshanggong edition, this chapter is titled “Chapter on the Unfathomable Source”; in the Zhao Shian edition, it is titled “Chapter on Proclaiming Harmony and Transforming All Things.”

Commentary by Emperor Xuanzong of Tang

The previous chapter discusses honoring “not acting and Wuwei (non-action).” This chapter explains the workings of the wondrous root: even in its activity, it remains grounded in Wuwei. The opening words, “The Way is empty,” point to the fundamental nature of utmost emptiness. The lines “blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its radiance, and mingle with its dust” explain how emptiness and harmony dissolve sharp divisions. The chapter’s final phrase, “before the image of the emperor,” conveys its central aim and shows where all things ultimately turn.

Du Guangting says

The workings of the Great Way are inexhaustible. It is vast enough to envelop Heaven and cover Earth, yet fine enough to enter a single hair. Calmly at ease, it is neither diminished nor increased. When it moves through the body, radiance and dust merge; when it operates within, sharp divisions are softened and brought to peace. Before countless ages, it stood ahead of the image of the emperor. Among the myriad ways, only the Way is worthy of reverence; thus all things turn to it.

Zhang Chongying says

From the Son of Heaven down to the common people, whoever can follow this natural Way should understand that the Primordial Unity is boundless and without limit, beyond exhaustive inquiry. Hence it is called the Unfathomable Source.

Scripture (Chapter Four)

The Way is empty, yet in its use it may never be exhausted. Deep and profound, it seems the ancestor of all things. Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its radiance, and mingle with its dust. So deep, it seems almost to exist. I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have preceded the image of the emperor.

Variant readings in the scripture

“Yet in its use it may never be exhausted” is sometimes written “yet in its use it seems never to be exhausted”; “deep and profound, it seems” is sometimes written “seems never to be exhausted”; “it seems almost to exist” is sometimes written “it seems as though it exists”; “whose child” is sometimes written “its child.”

Heshanggong says

“The Way is empty, yet in its use…”

“Empty” means centered. The Way conceals its name and hides its reputation; its workings lie at the center.

“Yet it may never be exhausted”

“May” means “always.” The Way is always humble and never full.

“Deep and profound, it seems the ancestor of all things”

The Way is so deep that it cannot be known; it seems to be the ancestor of all things.

“Blunt its sharpness”

“Sharpness” means pressing forward. When people are eager to press ahead and pursue fame and achievement, they should use the Way to curb that impulse. The Way does not act for itself.

“Untangle its knots”

“Knots” are tangled roots. One should use the Way’s Wuwei to untangle them.

“Soften its radiance”

Use the Way to temper and harmonize its brightness.

“Mingle with its dust”

Use the Way to share in the company of the dusty and impure, without setting oneself apart.

(The Heshanggong edition may continue with commentary on “So deep, it seems as though it exists” and “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have preceded the image of the emperor.” The text recorded in this volume stops at “soften its radiance.”)

Plain-Language Interpretation

The general meaning of the scripture:

Though you may possess clear insight of your own, you should understand obscurity and not use your insight to disturb others. “Mixing with the dust” means sharing the dust and grime of ordinary people, rather than setting yourself apart as something special.

“Calm and still, it seems to exist”—remain calm and still, and so you can endure without perishing.

“I do not know whose child it is”—Laozi says: “I do not know what gave birth to it; it seems to precede the Emperor.” The Dao existed before the Heavenly Emperor. This means that the Dao was born before Heaven and Earth. It is still here today because it can remain calm and still, without being troubled by desires. This teaches people to cultivate themselves and follow the Dao.

Wang Bi’s commentary:

“The Dao is empty, yet when used, it is inexhaustible,” through to “it seems to precede the Emperor.”

Those who hold to the measure of a single family cannot preserve the whole family; those who hold to the measure of a single state cannot bring the state to completion. One who exhausts all strength to lift a heavy load cannot put that strength to use. Thus, even if people know how to bring order to the myriad things, they cannot sustain them unless they govern by the Dao of the Two Powers, Yin and Yang. Though the Earth has physical form and substance, it cannot maintain its stability unless it follows Heaven. Though Heaven has refined forms and appearances, it cannot preserve its essence unless it follows the Dao.

The Dao is empty, yet when used, it cannot be exhausted. If one fills something in order to make it solid, it will overflow once it is full. So the Dao is empty, yet when used, it never becomes full; its inexhaustibility is complete. Though its form is vast, it cannot burden its own substance; though its affairs are abundant, they cannot fill its capacity. If the myriad things set this aside and seek a master, where could that master be? Is this not “deep and still, it seems to be the source of the myriad things”?

Its sharpness is blunted without damage; its tangles are undone without effort. It blends with the light without wearing down its substance, and mixes with the dust without changing its true nature. Is this not “calm and still, it seems to exist”? The Earth holds fast to its form, yet its virtue cannot exceed the burden it bears. Heaven is content with its appearances, yet its virtue cannot extend beyond the covering it provides. Heaven and Earth cannot match it. Does it not seem to precede the Emperor? “Emperor” means the Heavenly Emperor.

Emperor Xuanzong of Tang’s commentary:

“The Dao is empty, yet when used, it may not be full”—This means that the Dao moves and gives rise to the Qi of harmony; through its use, it generates things and has the power to bring them into being, yet it never becomes full. The text says “it seems” because one does not dare speak of the Dao with absolute certainty.

“Deep and still, it seems to be the source of the myriad things”—“Deep” means profound and still. The Dao constantly gives birth to the myriad things without becoming full. Its wondrous root is profound and still, so it seems to be the source and master of the myriad things.

The commentary explains: “Empty” means void. It means that the Dao uses emptiness as its function. Harmonious Qi is empty, and therefore…

Plain-Language Interpretation

This chapter explains how the Dao (the Way) works and manifests: it acts through emptiness and harmony, giving life and nourishment to all things without claiming credit or showing off its brilliance.

The Dao is empty, yet in use; it has being, yet is never full

The Dao’s workings bring forth all things, and all things receive its beneficence. If we speak only of its beneficence, it may seem dazzlingly brilliant; if we speak of its emptiness, the Dao is often unfilled and never full. Its wondrous source is profound and still, and it is always the ancestor of all things. The word “seems” is used because the Dao has no fixed form or rigid way of acting. The scripture therefore avoids making categorical claims; elsewhere, too, it often uses words such as “perhaps” and “seems.”

Blunt its sharpness; untangle its knots

Through the Qi (vital energy) of emptiness and harmony, the Dao can blunt what is sharp and untangle what is confused. Conventional learning, when it single-mindedly seeks a “return” to some original state, often entangles things ever more tightly. The “Cultivating One’s Nature” chapter of the Zhuangzi says that conventional learning seeks to return to the beginning. Sharpness and confusion often arise from desire: contemplating the Dao blunts and untangles them, while clinging to conventional learning binds them more tightly.

Soften its brightness; mingle with its dust

The Dao is present everywhere: where there is brightness, it is one with the brightness; where there is dust, it is one with the dust. Brightness and dust are only metaphors; the Dao is not literally brightness or dust. In softening its brightness and mingling with the dust, the wondrous source remains clear and undisturbed. Thus the text says, “Profound— it seems perhaps to exist.”

I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Emperor

The Old Master says of himself: he sees the Supreme Dao working through emptiness to bring forth all things, but when he traces its origins, they cannot be fathomed. There is no “one who gave birth to the Dao,” so he does not know “whose child it is.” Since all things depend on the Dao for their birth, the Dao also seems to precede the “Emperor”—the ruler who governs the transformations that bring life. “Seem” refers to an omen or sign. The Book of Changes says, “The Emperor emerges from Zhen”; Wang Bi explains that the Emperor is the ruler who brings things to life. Another interpretation is that the ruler of the transformations who gives rise to the forms of things is called the “Emperor of manifestations.”

Du Guangting’s summary

The Dao is empty, yet in use, and thus becomes the ancestor of all things. The Dao is constant in its emptiness and harmony and does not contend; therefore all things rely on it without growing weary.

Humble and free from self-satisfaction, it rests within in a state of harmony and clarity, calm and unadorned. Profound, mysterious, and still, it is the ruler of all things.

If all things lose the Way of harmony, they will inevitably move toward ruin. If people lose it, they perish; if a ruler loses it, government falls into disorder and the people scatter; if a minister loses it, their standing is ruined and their reputation destroyed. We can see from this that the Way of harmony is the foundation on which all things depend for stability. It may be called the source of all things.

In its effects on all things, the Way is bright and far-reaching; in its subtle origin, it is deep, still, and ever empty. The Way cannot be described in fixed terms as though by a set rule: if we say it exists, all things each have their own Way. One may take it as a model, but dare not speak of it directly in ordinary words.

“Blunt the sharpness and untangle the knots” means to curb the impulse to outdo others and to undo disorder. When a country is governed through the Way of harmony, no sharp ambition to prevail harms others, and no burdensome disturbance harms the people. When others are not harmed, the many states come to pay court and the peoples beyond the borders are transformed; warfare does not arise, nor do grievances and conflicts. There is no glorification of expanding territory or bullying the weak and oppressing the few. When the people are not harmed, labor is demanded at appropriate times, taxes and service are light, and every household has enough to live on.

Those who cultivate themselves untangle knots and blunt sharpness. They seek no advantage over others, while inwardly holding to clarity and emptiness. Their spirit is at ease, their body secure, and they live peacefully, content with themselves.

“Guide people by the Way and clarify it” means using the Way to guide people: those who understand clearly must take the Way as their support. The “Cultivating Nature” chapter of the Zhuangzi says that those who use conventional learning to seek a return to the original basis of nature and life have already sunk into worldly reasoning. They then try to use conventional learning to restore their original nature and life, and so the more they seek, the farther they stray from the Way. Conventional learning binds people ever more tightly. If the sharp impulses and sources of turmoil are not blunted and untangled through the Way, people remain confined by conventional learning, their knots growing tighter and harder to undo. Conventional learning is learning that caters to custom; it is not the Way of “daily diminishing.”

“Soften its brightness and mingle with its dust” means that the Way of harmony extends broadly to all living beings. It is open and unassuming, present everywhere; this may be called softening its brightness and mingling with its dust. “Brightness” refers to clarity and purity; “dust” refers to mixture and disorder. Those who possess the Way do not set themselves apart by seeking novelty, but live among ordinary people. “Lack” means scarcity. Though the Way extends broadly to all living beings, its subtle source remains still and serene, balanced and empty, and is never depleted. Hence it is said to “endure forever.”

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the image of the Emperor”: “Emperor” refers to the ruler present at the beginning of all transformations, when forms first took shape. The Way governs all things, and is prior to the image of the Emperor.

When Laozi says “before the image of the Emperor,” he is explaining that the Great Dao is empty and yet functions; it can transform and bring forth the myriad changes, and so it stands before the “image of the Emperor.” How could Lord Lao, a great sage, not know the root of the highest Dao? He deliberately uses language that suggests both presence and absence to guide ordinary people who are lost in techniques and attached to names and forms. This is like what was said above: the Great Dao cannot be fully expressed in direct, fixed words.

“The Emperor emerges from Zhen” comes from the Appended Statements of the Yi Jing. Zhen is the trigram of the east and symbolizes the Qi of Lesser Yang, the source from which the myriad things come to life and develop. The ancients placed the crown prince in the Eastern Palace, in the position of Lesser Yang. On the day he ascended the throne, they took “emerging from Zhen” as an image of that moment, comparing it to the beginning of Heaven and Earth’s generation of the myriad things. What first appears as a faint sign is called an “image”; Qi without form, gathering into shape, is also called an “image.” It is the beginning of the generation of the myriad things. The myriad things take the image as their beginning, and the image of the Emperor stands before them all. The Great Dao, in turn, lies far earlier than the image of the Emperor: this describes its lofty and distant root. Yet the highest Dao has neither end nor beginning. Who can determine what it truly came before? This, too, is only an approximate description.

The Yi Jing says: The Emperor emerges from Zhen, and the myriad things are born from this; they are brought into order in Xun, where they are nourished and harmonized; they appear in Li, where the sage faces south toward the light and governs; they are given their tasks in Kun and receive nourishment; they rejoice in Dui, to which they gladly turn; they contend in Qian, as Yin and Yang press against and struggle with each other; they labor in Kan, where the myriad things return to storage and rest; and they reach completion in Gen, where all things end and begin again. The myriad things emerge from Zhen and end in Gen; ending and beginning anew, they circulate through endless transformation and nurture. The so-called “image of the Emperor” comes before this “emergence from Zhen,” while the Dao precedes the image of the Emperor. Thus it can serve as the ruler of generation and transformation, the origin of Heaven and Earth.

A ruler models himself on this Dao: he governs the myriad regions with a mind that is neither full nor hasty, deep and clear; he does not pursue sharp disputes with others, and puts an end to turmoil within; he shines upon things in harmony with Heaven’s light and, while holding the world’s dust and grime within himself, remains in a position of honor. Such transformation through Wuwei (non-action) can be brought into accord with the “image of the Emperor.”

(Notes by Emperor Huizong of the Song): “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” The Dao is trustworthy and constant, so its functioning is not empty; it is Wuwei and formless, so it is “not full.” The scripture also says: “The myriad things bear Yin and embrace Yang, and through blending Qi they achieve harmony.” In the nature of things, an excess of Yang makes them too hard, going too far; an excess of Yin makes them too soft, falling short. Being neither excessive nor deficient is called “blended Qi”—“blended” means centered. This is also what is called Great Harmony: what is high is lowered, what is low is raised; what is in excess is taken away, and what is insufficient is made whole.

This passage explains the substance and function of the Dao in the Daodejing, drawing extensively on texts such as the Zhuangzi to develop its meaning. Its main points are set out below in plain language.

The workings of the Dao: The Dao’s function is suited to everything; in every situation, it finds the “middle”—what is fitting and balanced.

Filled without overflowing, drawn from without depletion: Pour into it and it cannot be filled; scoop from it and it cannot be exhausted. This describes the boundless nature of the Dao in its function.

The more it gives, the more it has: Having helped others flourish, it becomes more complete itself; having given to others, it becomes richer itself. The Dao’s original nature is like the Great Void, encompassing the Six Directions—the heavens and earth and all things. How could it ever overflow?

A deep abyss, seeming the source of all things: “Deep indeed, as though it were the source of all things.” The Zhuangzi says that the ni-huan, an aquatic creature, takes the deep abyss as its home. Still water may be called an abyss, and flowing water may be called one too. The abyss is empty and still, unmixed with the confusion of external things—this is the nature of the Dao. Because it is empty, all that is substantial turns toward it; because it is still, all movement belongs to it. All things are bound to it, and every change depends on it to come about. Hence it is said to seem like the source of all things. In truth, the Dao belongs to nothing; all things themselves take the Dao as their source. That is why it can only be said to seem so.

Blunt the sharpness, untangle the knots, soften the light, mingle with the dust: “Blunt the sharpness, untangle the confusion, temper the brightness, and mingle with the dust.” A blade that shows too much of its edge harms others, while confusion leads to division. Blunt the edge and there is no contention; untangle the confusion and there is no disorder. “Soften the light” means what the Zhuangzi describes as having radiance without dazzling others. “Mingle with the dust” means going along with the current, adapting oneself to things and moving with their flow. If the heart is insincere and one’s outward bearing gives everything away, shining forth like a display of one’s own form, even good people will leave and keep their distance. How could that be “softening the light”? To startle the foolish with cleverness, or to flaunt one’s self-cultivation so as to expose others’ filth, is like walking with the sun and moon held aloft. How could that be “mingling with the dust”?

The sage’s practice: The sage blunts the sharp edge: in dealing with things, the sage does not harm them, and they cannot harm the sage. The sage untangles confusion, using neither schemes nor petty cleverness, and does not bind all things with sticky restraints; nothing can disturb the sage’s heart. In this way, there is no display of pride or arrogance. The sage is in harmony without falling into mere conformity, shares a great oneness with things, and thereby understands the aspirations of all under Heaven. Wherever the sage goes, the sage remains at ease.

Deep and still, as though present, as though absent: “Deep and still, as though it exists, yet as though it does not.” The heart is like dead ashes, the body like withered wood; in utter stillness, the light of Heaven shines of itself. In a dim and indistinct state, it seems to be there and not there; it flows forth, with spirit present but no outward trace. Perhaps this is the Dao. The Laozi also says: “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.”

Seeming to precede the Lord of Heaven: “Form” is the first trace of a thing’s appearance; the “Lord” is the numinous spirit responding to things and manifesting. Things come into being, and then forms appear; the Lord emerges, and then wondrous forms appear. Form and Lord mark the beginnings of the multitude of things, but the Dao is truly prior to them. This is the meaning of the Zhuangzi’s words: “It makes the spirits and ghosts numinous, gives birth to Heaven and Earth.” The Dao cannot be seen when looked at, heard when listened for, or grasped when touched. It seems to exist, yet its entrance cannot be found. Few can understand it. Hence the words, “I do not know whose child it is,” and, “It seems to precede the Lord of Heaven.”

The passage closely follows Chapter Four of the Daodejing and related lines, such as “The Dao is empty, yet in use it may never be filled,” “Deep indeed, as though the source of all things,” “Blunt its sharpness … mingle with its dust,” “Deep and still, as though it exists,” and “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord of Heaven.” It presents the Dao’s original nature as empty, still, profound, and prior to Heaven, Earth, and the spirits. The sage’s practice is described as avoiding contention and harm, softening the light, mingling with the dust, and remaining quietly grounded. This is characteristic of the collected commentary style of Daoist philosophical interpretation from around the Song dynasty.

A Plain-Language Reading of Collected Meanings of the True Scripture of the Dao and Its De

This text comments on Chapter Four of the Dao De Jing, the passage beginning “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” It presents the explanations of two commentators, Wang Anshi and Su Zhe, in accessible language.

Wang Anshi’s explanation

“The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.”

The Dao has a substance and a function. Its substance is primordial Qi, still and unmoving; its function is the unimpeded Qi that moves between Heaven and Earth. This unimpeded Qi is utterly empty and forms the One: in Heaven it appears as “Heaven’s Five,” and on Earth as “Earth’s Six.” It arises from “Qi that is not Qi.” Because it is utterly empty and forms the One, it can at times seem “not full”—neither filled up nor overflowing.

The character chong (“empty” or “unimpeded”) contains the water radical, because Heaven’s One, the beginning of water, is its basis. It also contains the element meaning “center,” because it refers to the center between Heaven and Earth. Water seeks a level, and the center seeks balance: neither is full, and both are level. This is the sense of chong.

“So deep—it seems like the source of the myriad things.”

“Deep” means profound. The Dao, as the ground of existence, is so profound that the myriad things cannot compel it to respond to them. Yet they arise of their own accord by relying on the Dao, and turn to it for what they need. That is why it is said to seem like the source of the myriad things. The word “seem” is used because one should not directly name the Dao as their source.

“Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its brightness, mingle with its dust.”

Sharpness is like a flame’s pointed tip; knots are like tangled threads. To blunt its sharpness is to round off what is pointed, so it cannot wound others. To untangle its knots is to return to stillness and unity. To soften its brightness is to avoid showing off from above; to mingle with its dust is to avoid sinking into dullness below.

“So still—it seems to exist, or perhaps to be there.”

“Still” means quiet. The Dao is tranquil and calm: though no form or trace of it can be seen, it seems as though it may be present—or may not be.

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.”

The Dao is a child whose parent is unknown, and it came before “form” and the “Lord of Heaven.” “Form” is the beginning of what has shape; the Lord of Heaven is the ancestor of the transformations that bring forth the myriad things. The Xici says, “When it becomes visible, it is called form.” The Lord emerges from Zhen—the trigram associated with thunder and the beginning of life—and the Dao precedes Heaven and Earth.

Su Zhe’s explanation

From “The Dao is empty, yet in use” to “it seems like the source of the myriad things”

The Dao is empty, almost like nothingness. Yet it responds to all that exists: however vast Heaven, Earth, mountains, and rivers may be, nothing lies outside it. Because it has no form, it seems “not full.” It is deep and immeasurable. Though we know it is the source of the myriad things, we still dare not name it directly, so we say that it “seems like the source of the myriad things.”

From “Blunt its sharpness” to “so still—it seems to exist, or perhaps to be there”

Everyone has the Dao, but the sage is able to preserve it. Blunting sharpness guards against becoming arrogant; untangling knots guards against becoming entangled with things. By avoiding recklessness and entanglement, one dispels troubles from outside, and “brightness” comes forth. Then one softens that brightness, lest one become separated from the world. When brightness arrives, one becomes pure. “So still—it seems to exist, or perhaps to be there”: it is quiet and profound, as though it were still present.

A plain, direct rendering of the original passage

The Dao is like an empty vessel: use it, and it is never filled. So deep—it seems like the source of the myriad things. Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its brightness, and mingle with the dust of the world. So clear—it seems to exist, or perhaps not to exist. I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord who brings forth all things, before the first forms appeared.

Note: “Heaven’s Five,” “Earth’s Six,” “Heaven’s One,” and “the Lord emerges from Zhen” come from the traditions of the Hetu and Luoshu diagrams, the Yijing, and Daoist number symbolism. The commentators use the cosmological and numerical language of their time to explain the Dao’s substance and function, and what came before or after what. This Qi does not refer to Qi in the modern physical sense. The main point is that the Dao is empty and unimpeded, profound and far-reaching, and never exhausted; the sage learns from it by blunting sharpness, untangling knots, softening brightness, and mingling with the dust of the world. The Dao precedes Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things.

A plain-language interpretation

(The preceding passage, following “Blend your light and become one with the dust”)

“Dust” is the most mixed and indistinct of things. Although different kinds of dust appear no different on the surface, if one simply becomes indistinguishable from the dust, one may lose sight of the distinctions among the myriad things. Only by acting this way while preserving one’s original nature can one remain clear and constant, never losing it. Though it is always present, no one recognizes it, so the text says, “It seems to exist” (“seems as if it were there”). I do not know whose child it is; I can only say that it seems to be the image that existed before the Celestial Emperor (“the image before the Emperor”). The Dao is always present, yet no name can pin it down. Still, we cannot say it does not exist. So is it not from before the Celestial Emperor? The Celestial Emperor is already ancient; if something came before him, nothing could be earlier than that.

Lü Huiqing says:

The Dao is empty and open. When used in keeping with that emptiness, it seems never to fill up. The Dao arises from emptiness, and its use remains within that emptiness. Emptiness is harmony. That is why the text says, “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” Words such as “perhaps” and “seems” express uncertainty rather than making a definite claim. The Dao, empty and open, nourishes the myriad things; hence it is “never exhausted.” The text says, “Deep and profound, it seems the ancestor of the myriad things.” Thus it is enough to keep the heart open and the ambitions modest, and to let the people remain without knowledge or desire. For this reason, it seems to be the deep and profound source to which the myriad things return. But if we ask who this source really is, there is no answer to be found; we can only say that it “seems” to be so.

How can one preserve the Dao one has attained while blunting its sharpness, blending with its light, and dwelling among the dust? The answer is to “blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its light, and become one with the dust.” When the heart chases after things, it becomes “sharp”; one must blunt that sharpness and refrain from acting recklessly. When things arrive and stir the heart, they create “knots”; one must untangle them and refrain from being stirred into action. Once sharpness is blunted and knots are untangled, the clarity that knows the constant emerges from the light of one’s nature. Light lies beyond the dust, yet it shines without dazzling; it can therefore blend with the dust without standing apart. Dust lies within the light, yet it does not darken it; thus one can become one with it without being different from it. “Clear and still, it seems to exist”: this is what it means for the source to be clear and still, seeming to exist without being something one can firmly pin down. “Deep and profound” describes its depth; “clear and still” describes its purity. “Perhaps never exhausted” does not mean that it is definitely empty, and “seems to exist” does not mean that its existence is definite.

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to be from before the Emperor.” I do not fix my mind on emptiness or fullness, existence or nonexistence, so how could I determine where it came from? I see only that it gives birth to the heavenly spirits and the Celestial Emperor. Thus the text says: I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Celestial Emperor. If one clings to “I possess,” “I know,” or “I am,” the Dao becomes hidden. Not knowing “whose” it is means not clinging to a fixed “I”—this is where the true Dao comes from. It gives birth to Heaven and comes before it; it appears as the source from which the divine Emperor begins. The Emperor is already ancient; if anything came before him, nothing could be earlier than that.

Lu Nongshi says: Laozi writes, “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” The Dao, the source and pattern of all things under Heaven, is like empty space; yet however much it is used, it can never be used up or filled. If people approach and put the Dao into practice through “emptiness”—without clinging or seeking fullness—then even though it is said to extend through every realm, one cannot see where it is “full.”

Laozi also writes, “Deep and unfathomable, it seems to be the ancestor of all things.” The Dao is beyond measure, as if it were the master and root of all things. The word “seems” is used because one cannot speak of it with absolute certainty. This is like what Liezi calls “the solitary in doubt”—something that abides alone amid uncertainty and cannot be described—and what Zhuangzi calls “the beginning in doubt,” whose origin cannot be grasped.

“Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its radiance, and become one with its dust.” It does not contend with things, so its sharpness is blunted. It is not bound by rules and regulations, so its knots are untangled. It is neither dazzling nor dim, so its radiance is softened. It neither leaves the world nor flees from it, so it becomes one with its dust.

“Deep and still, it seems to exist.” It is profound and quiet, seeming both to exist and not to exist: what appears to be there is not truly there, and what appears absent is not truly absent. We cannot say where it came from, yet it seems to have taken shape even before the Heavenly Emperor, the highest title for the power that governs transformation and generation. Hence the words, “I do not know whose offspring it is; it seems to precede the image of the Heavenly Emperor.” In the end, it cannot be given a fixed name. One can only say that it is unknown whose offspring it is, and that it seems to precede the Heavenly Emperor.

“Deep and still” is the outward expression of “deep and unfathomable.” “Form” refers to the underlying reality; “appearance” refers to what is revealed. Thus the passage begins with “deep and unfathomable” and ends with “deep and still.” “Emperor” refers to the power that generates and transforms all things.

Wang Yuanze says: “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted.” The Dao fills everything without limit and nourishes all things, yet it never considers itself “full”; hence the words “never exhausted.” It seems both empty and substantial; this is what is meant by “empty.” Emptiness is the center of Yin-Yang, with “empty” as its virtue. The Dao acts upon things by responding to events from the middle path and using emptiness. This section speaks specifically of its function, which is why it says “empty.”

(A Miscellaneous Discussion) All things turn their backs on Yin and embrace Yang, and attain harmony through the blending Qi of Yin and Yang. In this sense, emptiness is the harmony of Yin and Yang. In its underlying nature, the Dao is “empty”; in its function, it is “never exhausted.” Because its underlying nature is empty, both desire and freedom from desire may be called “mysterious”; in its function, it is never exhausted.

“Deep and unfathomable, it seems to be the ancestor of all things.” The Dao gives birth to all things, yet its underlying nature has never been apart from them. Seen from the perspective of the many things that have branched out and become distinct, it seems as if they all take the Dao as their ancestor. “Deep” means profound and beyond measure. People are already endowed with this Dao. To recognize it, they need not seek elsewhere; they should blunt their sharpness, untangle their knots, soften their radiance, and become one with the dust. Then the Dao will be present of itself.

(A Miscellaneous Discussion) Because it is profound, it constantly gives rise to …

This passage explains the relationship between the Dao (the core concept of Daoism referring to the origin and operating principle of the universe) and all things. Though formless and intangible, the Dao functions as the root of all existence, manifesting through four primary interactions:

First is "blunting sharp edges" (cuo qi rui), which means dissolving锋芒. Like rounding sharp objects to restore primal harmony, this process symbolizes tempering fiery agitation—the "sharpness" representing restless yang energy—to achieve equilibrium.

Second is "untangling knots" (jie qi fen), denoting non-interference that allows natural cycles to unfold. By calmly observing rather than engaging, one stabilizes inherent nature and resolves chaos—akin to combing tangled hair back into order.

Third is "harmonizing radiance" (he qi guang). When agitation settles and confusion dissolves, inner tranquility naturally fosters abundant spiritual light (shen). Yet this luminosity doesn't forcefully assert itself but coexists gently with all things.

Fourth is "merging with the dust" (tong qi chen). As eternal nature, the Dao requires no special veneration. Thus, those embodying it never consciously separate themselves from worldly existence. Like the Yijing's teaching of "emerging clarity from chaos," the Dao manifests spontaneously within mundanity.

The Dao transcends "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu), dwelling profoundly in ambiguity. Practicing these four principles makes the Dao self-revealing, but fixating on it as a fixed entity misses its true nature. The phrase "seemingly present" (si huo cun) underscores its ungraspable essence.

Regarding the Dao's origin, the text states: "I know not whose child it is—it seems to precede the Lord-on-High (xiang di zhi xian)." Here "xiang" signifies the harbinger of form, while "di" denotes the cosmic sovereign, yet the Dao predates both.

Scholar Liu Zhongping interprets "chong" in the phrase "the Dao is empty (chong), yet using it never fills it" as the Dao's perfectly balanced state—neither high nor low, deep nor shallow. This emptiness (chong) constitutes the Dao's substance, remaining perpetually receptive and inexhaustible precisely because it permeates all existence as the fundamental ground.

The Dao's function is omnipresent: dissolving锋芒 when encountering sharpness, resolving disorder amid chaos, tempering brilliance within radiance, and blending seamlessly with worldly dust. Thus it dwells ambiguously within all things—both preexisting creation and immanent within particulars.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

On “Nonbeing” and “Being”

Before “nonbeing,” there is another layer of “nonbeing”: what is called an image (a form or sign). Go back further, and even this layer of “nonbeing” has not yet come into existence.

The function of “nonbeing” is seen before “being.” Before it, there is another layer of “being”: what is called the Emperor (the ruler, or the fundamental source). Go back further, and there is the activity of Wuwei (non-action). Thus the text says, “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Emperor.”

Even so, only what has no “nonbeing” can be called its “child.” So what gives rise to “nonbeing” is its “father.” Go back beyond this father, who gives rise to “nonbeing,” and there is what is called “that which gives rise to nonbeing”—its “ancestor.” From there onward, it cannot be traced to an end.

The activity of Wuwei is called its “child” only when it is put to use. So what “makes it act” is its “father.” Go back beyond this father, who “makes it act,” and there is what is called “that which makes it act”—its “ancestor.” From there onward, it likewise cannot be traced to an end.

Liu Jiji says:

“Dao is empty, yet in use it is never exhausted”: Dao works through empty, harmonious Qi (vital energy). Empty, it can respond; harmonious, it can bring forth life. Hence the phrase “never exhausted.” “Perhaps” is a way of suggesting something exists without stating its existence directly.

“Deep, it seems to be the source of all things”: “Deep” describes the nature of Dao. Because it is empty, it can respond, receive, and reach great depths; all things arise from it. Once something issues from Dao, it cannot be fathomed all at once. That is why the text says “perhaps” when speaking of its function, and “seems” when speaking of its nature.

“Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its brightness, and mingle with its dust”:

• Sharpness means Dao’s edge and force; knots means the many tangled affairs of the world. Affairs become entangled through their “knots,” while Dao disperses them by “untangling.” How could worldly affairs overcome Dao? But without “blunting its sharpness,” the knots cannot be untangled: what is too sharp cannot get inside, just as one cannot undo a knot without using a pointed tool.
• Brightness means Dao’s radiance; dust means the dimness of worldly life. Ordinary people live in dimness, while Dao enables them to see clearly by “mingling” with them. If one simply sets oneself apart from the world and displays one’s superiority, why depend on Dao at all? Yet without “softening its brightness,” one cannot “mingle with the dust”: what is too bright cannot accommodate the murk of dust. Zhuangzi’s phrase “crossing over together with others” means the same thing.

“Calm and deep, it seems perhaps to be present”: Empty, it is deep; deep, it becomes still; still, its nature and function become one, so it seems to be present. “Calm and deep” describes a state of stillness. The disorder of the world comes entirely from the endlessness of worldly affairs and customs. Only Dao can untangle them and mingle with them, relieving the darkness of worldly affairs and customs; only then can one say that it is “present everywhere.” In truth, it does not really come or go. It only “seems perhaps” to be present, combining the two ideas expressed earlier by “perhaps” and “seems.”

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Emperor”: this likewise brings together the two ideas of “image” and “preceding the Emperor.”

General Meaning of the Scripture

First, consider the phrase “before the image of the Lord.” The Dao comes from “nonbeing,” so the Dao is the child of nonbeing. Laozi also says, “I do not know”—this marks the limit of the Dao, beyond which even Laozi dares not state directly that it “exists.”

“Image” is the precursor to physical form, while “Lord” is the power that governs the generation of all things. Though the Dao is the mother of all things, it does not personally govern their life and death. But if governing power is handed over to the “image of the Lord,” the sequence becomes this: the Dao comes from nonbeing, and the image of the Lord comes from the Dao. Nonbeing is like the father, the Dao like the child, and the image of the Lord like the grandchild. Zhuangzi speaks of what came “before the Supreme Ultimate.” The previous chapter discussed “governing,” so this chapter follows with “the Dao is empty.”

Liu Ji’s Commentary (in essence)

“The Dao is empty, yet use it, and it is never exhausted.” The phrase “before the image of the Lord” explains that the Dao is everywhere and does everything. Empty, yet used, its power never runs dry. Though it fills Heaven and Earth and all six directions, it never seems full.

It clothes and sustains all things without claiming to rule them. All things return to it, yet do not know it as their ruler; therefore, it is the ancestor of all things. “No one under Heaven can know or see it; it is deep and seems to be so”—“deep” means subtle, mysterious, and impossible to fathom. So how should someone who settles into this Dao conduct themselves? They need only blunt their sharpness and untangle confusion.

To blunt sharpness is to curb one’s edge and dwell in softness and weakness: to know the masculine yet keep to the feminine, to know the bright yet keep to the dark. To untangle confusion is to loosen its disorder and dwell in emptiness and stillness: to remove defilement, stop thoughts, quiet the mind, and hold to unity. Then, in great stillness, the light of Heaven shines of itself. They temper their radiance so it does not dazzle, and mingle with the dust so they are no different from other people. They refine the substance of emptiness and nothingness, realizing the truth of spontaneity. Clear and still, they remain in constant silence, seeming to vanish yet still present.

Thus, “clear and deep, it seems to exist.” Look for it and its form cannot be seen; listen for it and its sound cannot be heard. No one knows its beginning or end, and it cannot be given a name. Hence: “I do not know whose child it is; it comes before the image of the Lord.” “Image” is the beginning of what has form, and “Lord” is the progenitor of living things; these are used as metaphors because the Dao arose before Heaven and Earth and yet covers and sustains them. That is why the next chapter turns to “Heaven and Earth.”

Zhao Shian’s Commentary (in essence)

At first, I wondered about the phrase “alone, through the two and the one, harmony is put to use.” The Dao is empty, yet used; it acts through Wuwei (non-action), and so nothing remains ungoverned. The discussion then turns to “the Dao is empty, yet use it”: the Dao is not inactive; in truth, it acts. Though it acts… (the text continues with the original book’s arrangement of the chapters on “emptiness,” “use,” “Heaven and Earth,” and the like).

Those who can recognize the workings of Wuwei (non-action) do so by holding to the Center. The affairs of the world prize balance and harmony. If one acts from the Center, one will be neither too excessive above nor too lowly below. This is the way of the “Great Center” used by emperors. Thus one first makes manifest purposeful action to govern the world; when governance reaches balance and harmony, it is called great peace. What fixed form does great peace have? In the end, it must rest in Wuwei.

This chapter first discusses practical application, then subtlety. The subtlety cannot be explained directly, so the scripture often uses words such as “perhaps,” “seems,” and “uncertain”—“seems,” too, suggests an attempt to discern. The Dao is formless and has no fixed substance. For now, we grasp it through “acting from the Center”: this means the Dao also operates according to institutions and rules. If the Dao follows established systems and laws, it has something definite and unchanging. Once it is fixed in this way, it cannot respond freely to all affairs—so how could this be called “subtle”? The Dao moves with spiritual force and follows Heaven; therefore, all one can say is that it “perhaps seems” to be so.

The Imperial Commentary says: “Vastness” means the Center, and the Center is the Qi of balance and harmony. Its origin proceeds from One to Two, and from Two to Three: One is Heaven, Two is Earth, and Three is humanity. Qi divides from One into the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing); when it rises, it becomes Yang, and when it descends, Yin. Yin and Yang interact, and the Qi of the Center is born. Why does the scripture say “vastness” rather than directly saying “Center”? The number of Heaven begins with One, and One is below. One arises from Kan, which corresponds to Water. The fontanel lies at the crown of the head; the character for “fontanel” encloses Five, and Five is Earth. Among the Five Qis, Water and Earth are enclosed together; at the fontanel, this belongs to the Muddy Pellet Palace. For five times five makes ten, and ten is the mother of all things; One is Five. Where trust resides, it is enclosed within the head. Heaven’s Five is called the Center and comes from Water; it contains the principle of harmony. Thus “vastness” means the Center, and is called Great Harmony.

The scripture says, “Within it is essence”: essence is One. “Within it is trust”: trust is Five. To speak now of acting from the Center is to say that the Dao uses Qi in its operation; when Qi is within a thing, it is its trust. Qi can encompass the Six Directions. Today, the inner and outer realms of Heaven and Earth are all encompassed by a single Qi. Once it encompasses both inner and outer, it becomes full; when full, it exceeds its bounds. Therefore there is a governing principle that sets limits, framing the transformation and nurturing of Heaven and Earth so they do not go beyond measure. When they do go beyond, the vastness is put to work. This is what we can understand from it.

The Center is the great root of all that is under Heaven; harmony is the universal Way that runs through it. The Dao has two aspects and holds to the Center; it perhaps seems not to be full—meaning that the Dao is formless and truly has no fixed substance.

Taking “the fundamental substance” as one’s basis, yet unable to name it

Daoists often regard “substance” as the fundamental reality, yet substance itself is difficult to define through names and concepts. Whatever reaches a state of fullness cannot remain so for long.

“Using the Nine” and adapting to change

The Classic of Changes speaks of “using the Nine” to help people understand transformation. Once the foundation is stable, there will be no calamity. In the position of the “Pitfall” (danger), sometimes things are not yet full; at other times, fullness should not be sought at all. The key is whether one firmly and sincerely (“Dun”) keeps to one’s proper place. At the limit lies the depth below: be steadfast, and fathom the abyss. “Heaven One” is nature; “Heaven Five” is life. So should one remain centered and keep to the One, or stray too far from it? That is why Laozi says, “Deep, it seems to be the ancestor of the myriad things.” Those who try to speculate or define it cannot say for certain. Heaven, Earth, and humanity—the Three Powers—do not take charge; hence it is often said: deep as an abyss, it seems to be the ancestor of the myriad things.

Emptiness, darkness, abyss, and indistinctness: the face of the Dao

• Emptiness and nothingness: the Dao’s fundamental substance
• Obscurity and darkness: the Dao’s color
• Abyssal emptiness: the Dao’s source
• Trance-like indistinctness: the Dao’s functioning

It has no fixed form, yet gathers all forms into itself; forms both great and small are contained within its substance. It has no fixed color, yet encompasses both dark and yellow; all colors belong to it. It is stored in the abyssal emptiness and functions there, inexhaustibly. Thus it is said: it dwells in profound depths and takes steadfastness as its proper place. Ordinary people take for their substance what has no substance, and for their color what has no color. If they still seek to probe where it came from, they can only describe it as “seeming.” Hence it is said: the Dao cannot properly be named.

“Blunt the sharpness, untangle the knots, soften the glare, and mingle with the dust”

These four phrases explain the Dao’s subtle workings in human affairs: diminish, quiet, conceal, and respond as circumstances require.

• Blunt its sharpness: Human affairs have not departed from the Dao when one is centered in the Dao and responds to events. A single Qi gives rise to human beings, filling every limb and bone. If it is not nourished by calm and harmony, and harmonized through one’s nature, conflicts will arise. When it overflows outward, it becomes excessive rigidity, and excessive rigidity harms others. One who understands this, when faced with a forceful opponent, restrains oneself: to blunt one’s sharpness is to blunt one’s own forcefulness.

• Untangle its knots: The workings of events between Heaven and Earth are endless. When events come and disturb me, I must understand them. If I hold them together through the One, they quiet down and stop; if I follow their movement, they flow in harmony. When they quiet down and stop, there is clarity; when one follows them into restless flux, one is lost. To untangle the knots is to still them through the One and remain unconfused.

• Soften its glare: Light is the outward dispersal of clarity. When inner sincerity is undivided, outward plans take shape and shine forth. Light within oneself is like walking with the sun and moon held aloft. If one wishes to make one’s own clarity prevail over another’s, one should soften that glare.

• Mingle with its dust: The principle is the same as above. In human affairs, accord with the Dao rather than showing off one’s own brilliance.

Connecting the intentions of all under Heaven

Use the Dao to connect the intentions of all under Heaven, and wherever you go, you will be at ease. These four practices are expressed outwardly and applied inwardly; they all belong to one’s nature. The Imperial Commentary says: To govern the world through the Dao, one practices blunting, untangling, softening, and mingling from within one’s nature, rather than showing off one’s strength outwardly.

Plain-Language Interpretation

1. “Light” and sameness and difference

Someone once said, “The light of another person’s wisdom can also shine upon my own.” If so, why not let go of the distinction between you and me in cultivating the Dao (the Way)? On the Dao, why dwell on how we differ?

“Sharing the same dust” means that people living in the world naturally occupy different ranks and positions. If we keep clinging to “I have this, you don’t,” distinctions grow ever finer and clearer. If we are less attached to what is “mine alone,” we draw closer to being the same. Thus, “difference” often refers to differences in rank and role, while “sameness” refers to what is shared in virtue and nature.

In general, what exemplary people can share is only what accords with their nature and proper role. The ancients said, “The exemplary person is harmonious but not the same; the petty person is the same but not harmonious.” An exemplary person can hold a different position and still live in harmony with others. A petty person may agree outwardly while remaining inwardly at odds.

2. “Emptiness,” “deep stillness,” and the substance and function of the Dao

The substance of the Dao is empty, yet it can respond to events; it is deep and still, seeming at times to exist and at times to vanish. When things are too full, they go too far in their dealings; when a vessel is too full of water, it overflows. The Dao is neither excessive nor overflowing. It is simply deeply still and clear. Here, “deeply still” is used as a metaphor for the substance of the Dao. The Dao is neither an ordinary affair nor water. Its brightness is not ordinary brightness, and its hiddenness is not ordinary hiddenness. When it responds, it can reach through everything, as though it were faintly present.

The text goes on to speak of “before the beginning,” “the One appears, yet has no origin,” “I do not know whose child it is,” and “it came forth from the Great Void.” The Great Void has no name or form, so how could we say who its “father” is? This means that the Dao precedes all forms, emperors, and titles; it cannot be fully explained in terms of who gave birth to whom.

3. The structure of this chapter, as read by the author of Jiyi

This chapter—referring to a passage like chapter four of the Dao De Jing—speaks first of function, then of mystery: its wondrous principle becomes apparent through what it does. When the mystery is revealed, the text turns to “I do not know whose child it is” and “it was before the image of the emperors.” The imperial commentary explains that “image” refers to the first appearance of things, while “emperor” refers to the wondrous spirit responding to things. Once something has an image, it is already a thing; how could it be the Dao itself? The passage moves from function to “governing the heart,” then to “not being full” and “seeming to exist.” These all describe the Dao’s essential character directly. “Not being full” does not mean that something becomes full only when it reaches its limit. “Seeming to be the source of all things” does not mean imagining oneself as master of all affairs. “Deep and still, seeming to exist” means that neither existence nor nonexistence can fully describe it. Only then does the text speak of “being before the image of the emperors”: before the emperor and the image, one can no longer say whose child it is.

4. Shao Ruoyu: the Qi of Emptiness and the One Qi

In his explanation of “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is never filled” through “it was before the image of the emperors,” Shao Ruoyu says: The empty and formless Great Dao gives rise to one Qi (vital energy). One Qi divides into Yin-Yang, and Yin-Yang gives birth to the myriad things. All things receive one Qi as their foundation. Thus, one Qi is understood to lie between Yin and Yang, which is why it is called the Qi of Emptiness. The Great Dao acts through this Qi: the heavens cover and the earth supports; the sun and moon shine down; the seasons bring cold and heat; and things grow, gather, and lie dormant. All these are functions of the Qi of Emptiness. It is a state that is “present, yet without form; absent, yet substantial.”

The vital essence and Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth fill all things without overflowing, and are empty without being depleted. How deep and profound—they seem to be the source of all things.

Those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) and wish to perceive the Qi of harmony should blunt the sharpness within their hearts. When that sharpness subsides, the mind can become calm, and the disturbances of worldly affairs can be resolved. With a quiet mind and fewer desires, one can harmonize one’s radiance; by contending with nothing beyond oneself, one can live alongside the world. Neither inside nor out is there any contamination. How deep and profound—there is only this one mind. Though its traces cannot be seen, it seems to be there.

Buddhists liken it to a bright moon that is a lamp of wisdom; practitioners of the arts regard it as the great medicine, the Golden Elixir. Mencius called it “flood-like Qi,” saying it is supremely great and supremely strong, cultivated through uprightness without harm, until it fills the space between Heaven and Earth. This Qi is joined with righteousness and the Dao. What Laozi means by “How deep and profound—it seems to be there” is the single Qi transformed by the Great Dao. When he says, “I do not know whose child it is,” this symbolizes the sovereign of all things, who existed before Yin-Yang.

Wang Ziran says: “The Dao is empty, yet use it and it is never exhausted; it seems to precede the image of the sovereign.” Heaven and Earth are vast, and the myriad things are many, yet the single Qi runs throughout the world. Where is the Dao not present? Human beings live within this realm and receive the proper balance of Yin-Yang. Through harmony, humility, and compliance, they take the center as their human ground, living alongside Heaven and Earth and sharing one body with the myriad things. When one uses it and finds the proper balance, this is called the Middle Way; when one finds its constancy, this is called the Constant Way. “Empty” means centered: neither excessive nor deficient, but suited to the moment. It is harmonious and expansive, flowing everywhere without limit. Pour into it and it does not fill; draw from it and it does not run dry. It stands firm in the realm of benevolence and righteousness and penetrates the nature and life of things. Those who are unenlightened do not understand this, so Laozi speaks of it with such care, while students are often afraid of losing what is innate in their nature.

When cultivated with uprightness and stillness, one shares the virtue of Yin; when in motion, one moves with the currents of Yang. It may disperse or divide, gather or come to rest, extending even to speech and silence. Every matter has its ruler, and every teaching has its source: the source is what it takes as its foundation, and its use is what it puts into practice. The Dao gives birth to the myriad things, yet it has never been apart from them, just as things have never been apart from the Dao. It is like the many rivers: though they differ, they all flow to the sea. The many teachings, though different, all return to the Dao. As a thing, the Dao is only indistinct and elusive, always dwelling between being and nonbeing. It cannot be fixed in words that point to a definite form or appearance. Thus it is said, “How deep and profound—they seem to be the source of all things,” or, “How deep and profound—they seem to be there.”

The saying “used, it may never be exhausted” describes how the Great Dao works.

“Blunt its sharpness; untangle its knots.” Zhuangzi says that the sage lives among things without harming them, and things cannot harm him. As for “sharpness,” at this level there is no need to blunt it deliberately: its edge naturally subsides. What sharpness is left to display? The sage empties himself and wanders through the world, at ease and without limit. All that is fine gathers naturally around him. He does not collide head-on with things; he is like ice melting away. The same applies to “knots”: there is no need to untangle them deliberately. Disorder disperses on its own. What knots remain to entangle anyone?

Alas, there is a difference between the scholars of ancient times and those of today. The perfected people of old neither pursued gain nor avoided harm. They took no pride in success and no shame in hardship, and kept no judgments of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, hidden in their hearts. “Straight within,” they were companions of Heaven; “pliant without,” they were companions of other people. Full and radiant, they shone without dazzling others. They never drew divisive lines with extreme, severing opinions. What is called “radiance” has never been out of harmony; what is called “dust” has never been different from the rest. How could this mean rushing about to force things into harmony? It is like Liezi, who lived in the state of Zheng for forty years without anyone recognizing him. The ruler and high officials regarded him as no different from an ordinary subject. Laozi said that neighboring states could see one another and hear one another’s chickens and dogs, yet their people grew old and died without visiting each other. This is to dwell calmly in one’s time, follow what comes, and let each find its proper place. As for “There was something formed in chaos, born before Heaven and Earth, silent and vast, standing alone and unchanging,” Laozi himself said, “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the image of the divine sovereign.” “The shapeless shape, the image of no thing” shows that it came into being before Heaven and that its image preceded the sovereign. “Before there was ever a beginning, before there was ever a thing” shows that it began before the divine sovereign. The sovereign says, “I do not know myself”—then who is this “I” of which we speak? Could anything other than the source of the Great Dao be capable of this? Scholars should understand what comes before and after, and investigate deeply and earnestly.

Huang Maocai says: The Dao is empty, yet in its use it reaches what is “before the image of the divine sovereign.” “One Yin and one Yang: this is called the Dao.” “Empty” means the harmonious Qi of Yin and Yang; “used, it may never be exhausted” means that because it is empty, it can respond. “Deep and unfathomable, it seems the ancestor of all things”: stillness can be the source of all that exists. “Blunt its sharpness” means it does not compete with things; “untangle its knots” means each thing has its own order and is not thrown into confusion. “Soften its radiance” means keeping it within oneself; “mingle with its dust” means blending into the common world. “Hidden and deep, it seems to exist” means it endures and is never destroyed. “I do not know whose child it is”: all the meanings above—of the Dao as empty, active, deep, blunting, untangling, softening, mingling, and hidden—are brought together to explain its harmony with Yin-Yang and its existence before the image of the divine sovereign.

Plain-language interpretation

Some say that, before the “image of the Emperor,” the Dao was simply as it is. The Dao originally had no name. Some call it the master of creation, others the creator, and others that which came before the image of the Emperor. These are all names imposed on it out of necessity.

Cheng Taizhi says: “The Dao is empty and open, yet in its workings it can reach the source of all things.” “Empty” is the opposite of “full.” Humility, youthful innocence, “great fullness seems empty,” and “empty Qi brings harmony” all convey the sense of not going as far as fullness. Zhuangzi describes the Dao as “filling Heaven and Earth.” But if it fills them and is itself full, then it is full—and fullness is where the Dao is absent. Since the Dao values both fullness and emptiness, those who use it should naturally be this way. For example, “Know the masculine, but keep to the feminine; know the white, but keep to the black.” To possess the masculine yet willingly remain with the feminine, and to possess the white yet willingly remain with the black, is not to dwell in fullness but in diminution. This is why it is called “the use of emptiness.” Zhuangzi says: “After carving and polishing, return to the uncarved simplicity. Be without action and serve as the vessel for names; be without action and serve as the storehouse of plans; be without action and take responsibility for affairs; be without action and serve as the master of knowledge.” To fulfill what one has received from Heaven without thinking one has gained anything is simply to remain empty. One’s innate nature can fully possess its Virtue, yet seem to have gained nothing: this is to temper fullness with emptiness in order to approach the empty. Thus, as a storehouse for plans, a bearer of duties, or a master of knowledge, one may be capable of anything that involves outward traces and concrete substance, yet often refuse to carry matters through to their extreme. Is this not a dislike of fullness and a pursuit of emptiness?

“All things under Heaven are born from being; being is born from nonbeing.” Nonbeing is the source of all things. Once the Dao is put into practice, it emerges and transforms into Virtue; Virtue then branches into benevolence, righteousness, and ritual. How, then, can we still simply call the Dao “nonbeing”? Where being cannot be dispensed with, the closest we can come is to use emptiness to soften it. “Perhaps” expresses uncertainty; “seems” means not daring to state something absolutely. “Perhaps it is not full” does not mean that something is truly lacking; it merely expresses uncertainty. The source of all things is the state in which nonbeing has not yet transformed into being. As for “not full,” it means that one cannot immediately reach nonbeing, but can only “seem like it.” These ideas are all understood through the human person and used to describe the Dao by analogy.

“Blunt its sharpness and untangle its knots”: “Sharpness” means talent and intelligence displayed outwardly, with keen edges; “knots” means the many interwoven stages of affairs, tangled and intricate.

This passage explains the lines in the Dao De Jing about “blunting the sharpness, softening the glare, and mingling with the dust,” and develops their meaning through the ideas of Zhuangzi and Confucian thought.

Zhuangzi’s phrase “glue-like turmoil” describes a sticky, confused, and unsettled state. “Blunting the sharpness” means drawing in one’s edge, becoming deep and restrained, and not displaying oneself outwardly. “Untangling the knots” means resolving disorder so that one’s actions remain simple and do not fall into fragments. “Softening the glare” is like the Book of Changes’ saying that “when goodness and trust are full and substantial, they reach brilliance,” and that “when the inner space is calm and settled, the light of Heaven shines forth.” Only when the heart is at peace and firmly settled can brightness emerge from one’s nature. Light may vary in degree, but puffing oneself up inwardly and making a show outwardly amount to the same thing. If one truly embodies the Dao and lets it show through one’s actions, one’s radiance would be like that of the sun and moon, making others find one hard to approach. The point of “holding fast to the light” without flaunting it is to become one with all things.

Zhuangzi traces the episode of “the visitor leaving his seat and rising” to the exposure of outward signs that gives rise to radiance. This goes hand in hand with the warning to “soften the glare.” “Mingling with the dust” means that dust is neither earth on the ground nor air in the sky. Applied to worldly affairs, it refers to what drifts about in confusion and is mixed with impurity. If one can become one with it, then even what is white can enter the black, and even nakedness—being bare and exposed—cannot stain one. To use cleverness to startle the ignorant, or to cultivate oneself in order to make one’s own purity conspicuous, is the opposite of this.

“Deep and still, as though something were there” means that blunting sharpness and untangling knots allow one to respond to things without making one’s achievement visible; softening the glare and mingling with the dust let one move among ordinary people without displaying oneself. At first glance, the Dao may seem absent from such a person. Look closely, however, and in their deep, unmixed stillness, the Dao is always present. “Great fullness seems empty” takes the earth as its model. Later chapters discuss keeping to the feminine and keeping to the dark, saying in both cases that “constant De is never lost”; these passages illuminate one another. The words “seems” and “as though” also describe what people cannot fully perceive. If someone is astonished at a person’s quick and nimble debating, that is merely talent and intellect, not the Dao.

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord”: the Dao’s “nonbeing” is in truth the mother of Heaven and Earth. Zhuangzi expands this idea, saying that it “makes spirits and ghosts spiritual, makes the Lord divine, and gives birth to Heaven and Earth”; the Dao therefore precedes the Lord of Heaven. “The world has a beginning; this is taken as the mother of the world.” Once one has found the mother, one can know the children: all things that emerge from the Dao are its children. This chapter speaks of the Dao’s function and gathers together the “origin” and “nonbeing” discussed in the previous chapter, bringing them to bear on human life. For a person in relation to the Dao, if they can empty themselves so they do not become full, and darken themselves as though they were barely there, what they contain may approach nothingness. If such a person exists, I do not know whose “child” they could be.

Their attainment had nearly reached the time before the Celestial Emperor. These words speak of De (Virtue/Power) at great depth, moving together with the Dao (the Way)—so that naturally no one in the world could surpass them. If we consider its ultimate limit, perhaps it even lies before the Celestial Emperor.

When people who act in the world discuss their undertakings, they worry that their intelligence and drive are insufficient, and that they will fall behind events. Laozi’s teaching, by contrast, is to conceal and restrain oneself, for fear of being exposed. Thus he takes a stance of gentleness and weakness, yielding like the female, obscurity, lowliness, solitude, bearing disgrace, dwelling in the lower reaches, and not daring to be first. This is more than simply hoping, when faced with circumstances, that self and things will not clash. There is a deeper principle behind it.

The Dao has its root in “nonbeing,” while those who follow the Dao are involved in “being.” If one dwells in being and acts through being, it is like washing grease with grease: this only adds to the grime and cannot bring cleanliness. One must therefore use nonbeing to set being in motion, seeking to lessen being and draw near to nonbeing. Acting through gentleness and resting in emptiness may not immediately bring one to nonbeing, but it comes close.

The saying, “By attaining the mother, one can know the child; having known the child, one should still keep to the mother,” is indeed well founded. From nonbeing, one can observe being; through being, one can reach nonbeing. What is inside and outside in truth accord.

It is also said, “The weak are the Dao’s means of action.” All things under Heaven are born from being, and being is born from nonbeing. This means using weakness in place of strength, and knowing that being should return to nonbeing. The first chapter establishes the names “being” and “nonbeing” to gather the essentials of the Great Dao; this chapter sets “empty” against “full” to gather the character of the Dao’s workings. If a person can embody the Dao and reach this point, even Heaven and Earth cannot claim them as a child. Entering from nonbeing into the origin, and emerging from the origin into the subtle, nothing is beyond reach.

Zhan Qiupu says: “‘The Dao is empty, yet in use it is inexhaustible; it reaches back to before the image of the Emperor.’ The chapter ‘The Source Without Origin’ says that the Dao acts through emptiness and stillness, so that it does not overflow; it is deep and subtly encompassing, serving as the ancestor of all things. One must also blunt its sharpness and make it plain, untangle its disorder and bring it into order; only then can it harmonize with things, shine forth, and blend with the common dust. This Dao is vast, clear, and deep, with no visible bounds. It is the source without origin: I do not know what gave rise to it. Could it be that it stands before the sovereign who appears as the Emperor, and that when one goes to meet it, one cannot see its beginning?”

Zhang Chongying says: “‘The Dao is empty, yet in use it is inexhaustible; it reaches back to before the image of the Emperor.’ Earth takes the model of Heaven…”

Collected Meanings of the True Classic of the Dao and De (Part Two): A Plain-Language Interpretation

Heaven takes the Dao as its rule, and the Dao takes nature as its foundation. The Way of nature flows on without end, without gaps, form, or trace. The Dao is empty and open, yet its activity never ceases: in spring it is mild, in summer hot, in autumn cool, and in winter cold. Yin and Yang are distributed without bias or excess. People are confined within their flesh-and-blood bodies and receive the Qi of Yin and Yang. Their heads reach toward Heaven and their feet tread the Earth, and within them the Way of nature is already present. If they can empty themselves and let this Way move through them, perhaps they will avoid both excess and deviation. Then the Dao will be deep and subtle, and body and cosmos will become one. How could the myriad things fail to honor and revere it?

Therefore, when one’s ambition becomes too sharp, one should yield and blunt it. Do not be so bold as Jie Zitui, who went to his death in the flames, or Chu Ni, who courageously struck a tree and died. When one’s affairs become too tangled, one should simplify them and bring them to resolution. Do not stir up chaos as the six states did when they attacked Qin, or take on so many responsibilities, as Zhuge Liang did, that one dies from the burden. “Harmonize with its light”: do not rely on your own brightness to dim the brightness of others. Be like the sun and moon shining together, without the failing of darkness. “Become one with its dust”: do not rely on your own purity to disparage that of others. Be like pearls and jade fallen into mud, without the danger of attracting harmful attention. In this way, the heart remains clear and still, free of defilement and disturbance, and the Dao endures within it. Thus one shares the long life of Heaven and Earth. “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven”: the Dao was established before Heaven and Earth, so it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.

Zhang Lingying says: “Boldness and sharpness are the root of harm to Qi; tangled affairs are the source of loss of Jing. Self-display easily injures Shen, and arrogance easily damages the body. Those who wish to learn the Dao must take care in these matters: when they see sharpness, they blunt it; when they see entanglement, they resolve it. They harmonize with the light of all and become one with the dust of all. Then Qi is not harmed, Jing is not lost, Shen is not injured, and the body is not damaged, allowing them to fulfill their hope of long life. The ‘Mysterious De’ chapter of the Classic of De raises these same four points again. This is surely because one must heed them in order to reach the state in which the Dao is concealed and De is present.”

Bai Yuchan says: “‘The Dao is empty, yet in its use it is never exhausted’—it is deep within emptiness, seeming to be the source of the myriad things (the heart). Blunt its sharpness: gather Shen. Untangle its knots: still thoughts. Harmonize with its light: conceal the heart within the heart, so it cannot be seen. Become one with its dust: mingle the heart with things. Deep and still, it seems to be there: preserve Shen within the unmanifest. ‘I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.’”

Liao Cuiran says:

“Though the Dao is empty, it is always at work”: the Dao is like empty space, yet it functions everywhere. Its Qi is originally vast and abundant; it does not depend on “nothingness” in order to function. At times it is like a vessel that can never be filled: deep as an abyss, still as water, clear and bottomless, full yet never overflowing, as if it were the sovereign to which all things return.

In stillness, it is like the sea receiving a hundred rivers; in motion, a hundred rivers flow back into the sea.

“Blunt its sharpness”: as soon as a thought arises, cut it off with the wisdom sword. Though the sword is keen, it does no harm to what is right, and can sever the power of demons. “Untangle its knots”: banish a myriad worries at once, leave not a trace in the heart, and cleanse away distracting thoughts. Bathe in and cultivate the Golden Elixir through profound contemplation—quietly observing one’s original mind. “Soften its radiance”: turn the light inward and contemplate within. To return to its brightness, one must understand the source from which the elixir is produced—the inner refinement of Jing and Qi. The moonlike light of the toad, an illumination of the inner landscape, shines day and night toward the Western River, the region around the Dantian. “Become one with its dust”: make mind and body one, and bring form and Shen into accord with De. Reverse Kan and Li, the inner alchemical union of water and fire: the dragon emerges from fire, the Five Phases cease to follow their usual course, and the tiger is born within water.

“Vast and deep, it seems somehow to be there”: simplicity and stillness prevail, and one’s innate nature shines clear.

“I do not know whose child it is”: push away the old and so fail to recognize one’s own true face. What, then, is it called? Before the image-emperor, it is the Great One, natural of itself. Its roots are deep and unmoving; where is it not revered?

Chen Bixu says:

“Though the Dao is empty, it is put to use; it may never be filled”: “empty” means both void and centered; “may” expresses uncertainty, but also constancy. This means that the Dao functions through emptiness and openness. Its harmonious Qi is empty and open, and so it serves as the Dao’s function. When a ruler attains the function of emptiness and openness, he can leave behind the wealth of a kingdom; when an ordinary person attains it, he can forget the poverty of a tiny dwelling. One may dwell in the court yet have a heart like someone living in a mountain cave; one may personally take up the humble work of tending livestock and still be no different from one adorned in the splendor of official robes. Such a person has deeply attained the function of emptiness and openness and is never filled to excess.

Yan Junping says: “One who is empty does not strive to be empty; one who is harmonious does not strive to be harmonious. By not striving to be empty or harmonious, one attains emptiness and harmony.” Emptiness takes the void as its dwelling; harmony takes Wuwei (non-action) as its home. If one can be empty and without, one reaches a fullness of emptiness; if one can be without and empty, one is always joined with harmony. This is to truly attain the Dao’s function of emptiness and harmony without ever being filled to excess.

“Centered” means that what is put to use lies in harmony and in the Dao. “May” means one dares not speak lightly of the Dao.

“Deep as an abyss, it seems the source of all things”: “abyss” means deep and still; “ah” is an exclamation expressing deep praise of the Dao. This teaches that the Dao of emptiness and openness neither diminishes nor overflows. Its nature is settled and clear, so deep as to be unfathomable; hence it is called an abyss. The principle that cannot be fathomed is neither being nor nonbeing.

Collected Interpretations of the True Classic of the Dao and De: A Plain-Language Reading

The General Meaning of the Classic

The Dao (the Way) is difficult to explain by any fixed name, so it can only be described in approximate terms. It provides for the everyday needs of all beings, as if being poured into vessels. The Dao is still and deep, yet contains the myriad things. It can lessen harm and evil thoughts, and both plants and animals turn toward it. Thus, it is the ancestor of all things.

“Blunt its sharpness and untangle its knots”

• Blunt means to restrain or stop. Sharpness means keenness, and also refers to ambition and showing off one’s edge.
• Untangle means to loosen or dispel. Knots refers to turmoil and disorder.

The meaning is this: People who flaunt their brilliance and are eager for fame and achievement should reflect on the Dao’s emptiness and stillness, restrain greed and delusion, and avoid showing off. When the heart is resentful, caught up in frantic competition, and troubled within and without, embodying the Dao’s deep stillness can release entanglements and dispel turmoil, restoring one’s clear original nature.

Heshang Gong interprets “knots” as “resentment and hatred bound up in the field of anger”—hidden malice, hostility, and bitterness knotted together without release. When one keeps the Dao’s harmony and emptiness within, these feelings melt away like ice.

“Harmonize its light and join its dust”

The utmost depth of the Dao seems ever-present and undying. When its function is rooted in emptiness and harmony, nothing is beyond its reach:

• In the realm of “light,” it can harmonize its light: share in the light without competing to shine more brightly.
• In the realm of “dust,” it can join its dust: live among ordinary people without being sullied by worldly ways.

When responding to affairs, it mingles with light and dust; when returning to the root, it remains deep and unstained. Seek its wondrous source, and it is dim, obscure, empty, and still. Consider how it acts, and its presence is clear and real. Hence the saying, “Deep and still, it seems to exist.”

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have come before the Lord”

“I” is Laozi’s self-reference. “Seems” means “as if” or “apparently.” I observe that the utmost Dao is dim and obscure, its empty function unfathomable; it brings all things to completion and has endured through past and present. The Dao has no ancestor or lineage—who would dare say whose child it is? We can only say that it seems to have preceded the Lord of Heaven.

Xie Tunan’s Commentary

The Dao functions through emptiness: the fuller it becomes, the more it seems not to be full. Thus it does not appear to overflow. Its measure is like a deep abyss, able to contain everything. Things great and small, high and low, are all received within it. Hence it is the ancestor of all things, and all things revere the Dao.

• Blunt its sharpness: outwardly, have no sharp edges.
• Untangle its knots: inwardly, have no clinging or agitation.
• Harmonize its light: see through both the outer and inner.
• Join its dust: mingle with ordinary ways without departing from the Dao.

Deep and still, obscure and quiet—the Dao is there within. It cannot be seen when looked at or heard when listened for, so the text says, “It seems to exist.” We do not know whose child it is; it appears to have come before the Lord of Heaven.

1. The Dao Before Heaven and Earth

The Dao existed before Heaven and Earth; Heaven and Earth take the Dao as their guiding principle. The Dao is within all things, and all things take the Dao as their source.

Even if we searched the whole world and traced things back to the earliest beginnings, no one could say where the Dao ultimately came from. This lies beyond human understanding. If we had to describe it, we could only say that it existed before the Heavenly Emperor.

2. The Beginning, the Great Change, the Great Beginning, the Great Origin, and the Great Simplicity

When we speak of “the beginning,” there is still “before there was a beginning,” and beyond that, another layer: “before there was even that ‘before there was a beginning.’”

At the start, everything was undivided, dim, and silent. The sages reluctantly gave it names: the Great Change (Taoyi)—vast, dark, and flowing without end; the Great Beginning (Taichu)—a confused, womb-like state in which being and nonbeing came together; the Great Origin (Taishi)—sometimes stirred into view, seeming both present and absent; and the Great Simplicity (Taisu)—neither turbid nor clear, neither Yin nor Yang.

By the time of the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the three were held within the One, and nothing was lacking in the uncarved simplicity of all things. From then on, life continued without end. All things were born from the Dao, but the Dao itself was not something that people could “bring into being.”

People may honor the Dao as their father, but cannot regard themselves as its children; they may honor it as their ruler, but cannot regard themselves as its subjects. So does the Dao truly have no source? The answer is: the Dao follows what is natural. What could give rise to the Dao, if not the natural order? This is why we say, “before there was even that ‘before there was a beginning.’”

3. Lin Yanzhai’s Commentary (Explaining “the Dao is empty” and Related Ideas)

The Dao is empty, yet its function is inexhaustible; it stands before even the image of the Emperor. “Empty” means void. Though the Dao’s substance is void, its use never runs out. It may be full or not full, changing with the times. The text does not say “full or not full,” but “perhaps not full”; the meaning of that single word, “perhaps,” is clear.

“Deep” means profound and beautiful; “seems” is a word of praise framed as a doubt. The source of all things is what Zhuangzi calls the Great Ancestral Teacher. The Dao seems to exist and not exist; those who do not know it cannot understand it. Hence the phrase, “it seems to be the source of all things.”

“To blunt its sharpness” means to wear away its edges; “to untangle its knots” means to bring order amid confusion. “To soften its light” means to have radiance without showing it; “to become one with its dust” means to encounter dust without being tainted by it. The Dao is tranquil and faint, impossible to see; it seems both present and absent. This is what is meant by: “Misty and vague—within it there is something.”

Note: The first part draws together and explains the ideas that the Dao precedes Heaven and Earth, that there is a beginning and a time before any beginning, and the sequence from the Great Change to the Taiji. The final passage is Lin Yanzhai’s specific commentary on phrases from chapter four of the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Dao and De), including “the Dao is empty,” “deep,” “it seems to be the source of all things,” and “to blunt its sharpness.” It may be read alongside that chapter.

This passage explains such lines from the Dao De Jing as “The Dao is empty, yet in use it is inexhaustible” and “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven,” while bringing together the views of Fan Yingyuan, Xue Yongzhai, and Xiuxiu An.

Opening explanation of terms

“I do not know whose child it is” is also phrased as a question, in a tone of uncertainty, to express admiration for the Dao’s exalted nature. “Seems” means “appears” or “as if”; “the Lord of Heaven” refers to Heaven. The meaning is that the Dao stands at the beginning of creation, before the generation of the myriad things, and so is called “as if it existed before the Lord of Heaven.” Words such as “seems” and “appears” are used because the Dao can be sensed but not grasped, recognized but not fully explained; metaphor is the only way to describe its mystery.

Fan Yingyuan

The Dao is empty and open, yet its function extends everywhere; it is the root and source of the myriad things. “Empty” means void and harmonious. “Deep” means profound. “Seems” indicates that the Dao cannot be pointed to and explained clearly. The Dao is open and empty in its functioning, yet it never overflows, because it has no fixed form. It is also unfathomably deep, like the ancestor of the myriad things. From “dull its sharpness” through “serene, it seems to exist”: a person can use the Dao to dull the sharp edge of desires and resolve the turmoil of things, making the mind like a mirror that does not flaunt its cleverness, and blending with the world without staining one’s true nature. Then the Dao remains serenely present, as if right before one’s eyes. “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven”: Laozi says that he does not know who gave birth to the Dao; it seems to have existed even before the Lord of Heaven.

Xue Yongzhai

“The Dao is empty, yet in use it seems not to fill”: the Dao’s activity is like pouring water into a vessel without filling it, or drawing from it without exhausting it. “Deep, it seems the ancestor of the myriad things”: the Dao’s substance is deep and still. Though it is the ancestor of the myriad things, they do not know why it is their ancestor, and so the text says “seems.” From “dull its sharpness” through “blend with its dust”: one who embodies the Dao dulls the sharp edge and untangles confusion, harmonizes with the light without flaunting it, and blends with the dust without becoming obscured. “Serene, it seems to exist”: it remains serenely present beyond the myriad things and is not lost. Zhuangzi says, “It gives things their thingness, yet is not made into a thing by them.” “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven”: who could have given birth to it before the Five Primordials—Taiji, Taichu, Taishi, Taisu, and the others? This, too, is an expression of uncertainty and admiration.

Xiuxiu An

From “The Dao is empty, yet in use” through “it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven”: profound, vast, empty, and luminous—these are what is meant by “empty.” The cultivator first brings emptiness to its utmost and investigates the depths of mystery; then, when putting it into practice, encounters no obstruction from things and shows no sign of fullness. Profound and deep, it contains all without limit and is the ancestor of the myriad things. One must not be too rigid, for rigidity makes sharpness that harms things; nor too yielding, for excessive yielding leads to dullness and weakness, making it hard to decide when matters arise. One should dull the sharpness and untangle confusion, using the subtlety of the mean and harmony: blend with the sage without leaving a trace, and be one with ordinary people without leaving a mark. The wondrous substance is serene and still, empty and luminous beyond compare.

One cannot see it, yet it seems to exist. It acts in response to conditions and resonances, yet follows a principle; hence the word “seems.”

The Laozi praises it, saying: “I do not know whose son it is.” This simply explains the Dao…

It exists naturally, empty, bright, and wondrously potent, before the ruler of all phenomena. “Di” means ruler.

Chu Boxiu says: “The Dao is empty, yet its use is inexhaustible; sometimes it seems not to be full. As for ‘before the image of Di’: the Dao is wondrous and unfathomable. Di rules Heaven and Earth and gives birth to them, yet the Dao cannot be sought through images or pursued through words. It moves through emptiness and is everywhere, so it can guide all that exists in the world and respond to every resonance. It seems to fill the space between Heaven and Earth, yet has never truly been full. The Dao contains primordial Qi without showing its form, but its signs are already present within it, along with the principle by which Heaven and Earth come into being. The Dao is utterly empty at its root, yet its operation is realized through people, encompassing and weaving together the transformations of all things. Only when people reach a state of utmost emptiness can they use this Dao: emptiness accords with emptiness, so how could there be any question of fullness?”

Deep and still, it gives rise to spiritual awareness, from which all things are transformed and born. Things arise from being, and being arises from nonbeing; what is revered, then, is nonbeing. Once it emerges as a thing, it is only something like nonbeing. People cling to being and become constrained by appearances, meeting obstruction at every turn. Teach them to blunt their sharpness, and they will not harm things; to untangle their confusion, and they will preserve their own harmony; to temper their brightness, and they will not stand apart; to mingle with the dust, and they will not be swept along by it. Then one can glimpse what is calm and clear, seeming to exist. Though one sees it distinctly and believes in it firmly, one does not know what gave rise to it or whose child it is. The ruler of Heaven is called Di; this thing seems to stand even before Di. It is supremely revered, with nothing more worthy of reverence.

This chapter has ten sentences, five of them framed as doubts. Some may ask: if the sage sees the Dao clearly and understands its principles, why speak of the Dao so tentatively? A fixed form has a fixed name; what can be stated has a definite place, and what can be investigated has an end. Yet the Dao has been forcibly named “Dao” and given the designation “Great.” Since it cannot truly be named, how could one point to it and speak of it definitively? If things were confined to one corner, stuck without change, then they would be as Zhuangzi describes: “Obscure, as though absent yet present; flowing forth, without form yet numinous; nurturing the myriad things without their knowing it—this is what is called the root.” This is how sages and worthies speak of the Dao. They are not withholding words out of reluctance; at this point, words can no longer be spoken.

Harsh words stir up anger, and angry speech spills out in abundance—when resentment is bottled up inside and anger churns within, vicious words rush out. When both sides dig in their heels, conflict follows. That is why noble people often guard against anger and restrain selfish desires, so that they do not fall into contention.

“Blend your brightness”—“brightness” refers to intelligence and natural ability; “blend” means to keep them understated: to conceal one’s intelligence rather than flaunt it, and to hold back one’s talents rather than display them. Confucius was a great sage, yet among the villagers he seemed almost unable to speak. Yan Hui was a great worthy, yet all day long he seemed dull-witted. This is what “blending one’s brightness” means. The ancient sages said: If I am intelligent, what does that amount to? If I am capable, what does that amount to? To pride oneself on such things makes the heart small. Instead, lower one’s Qi (vital energy) into humility, bring the heart into accord with dignity, and let the spirit settle into solemn composure. Then one may seek counsel from Yao, discuss matters with common people, and show respect to the ministers on either side, without considering oneself noble and others base. The Yi Jing says that when a noble person governs the people, he “uses obscurity to illuminate.” This is the same idea.

“Mingle with the dust”—“dust” refers to obscurity and foolishness; “mingle” means to treat all people alike. One makes no distinction between “their obscurity and my brightness,” or between “their worthiness and this person’s dullness.” In the way of human conduct, the lowly are the root of the noble, and what is below is the foundation of what is high. Noble people often keep their brightness concealed, accommodate ordinary ways, and let their traces disappear among the dust. They know that no one can stand above all under Heaven, so they place themselves below; they know that people cannot all compete to be first, so they put themselves last. Their gentle respectfulness and care for De (Virtue/Power) earn admiration; by holding to the yielding and remaining low, they leave no one able to surpass them. They keep their wisdom within and do not show off their skills; though they are honored and exalted, people do them no harm. Rivers and seas surpass the hundred streams because they can place themselves below them. The Yi Jing says that lowering oneself from nobility to the lowly wins the people’s hearts in abundance. Is this not what “blending one’s brightness and mingling with the dust” means?

“Deep and still, as though something were there”—“deep” means profound stillness. It seems neither present nor absent, as though it exists and yet does not; hence the words, “Deep and still, as though something were there.” The wise sages of old embodied the Dao between being and nonbeing. Therefore, they would blunt their sharpness, untangle their knots, blend their brightness, and mingle with the dust.

Where, then, does “dust” come from? And what, exactly, does it mean to take embodying the Dao as one’s aim?

The Dao has no fixed form in its essence, and its activity is inexhaustible. In its nature, it is neither diminished nor incomplete. People receive it within themselves at birth, before they have been stirred by external things. Once they respond to those things, it appears in form. If one can nourish it before joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure arise, and hold neither to the idea of “self” nor to external things, one can become still and centered, deep and clear. One is then indistinct, like the vast emptiness without dust, and hazy as the ordered seasons, in which Wuwei (non-action) leaves nothing undone. This is the meaning of “Deep and still, it seems to exist.”

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord”—here, “I” is Laozi speaking of himself. The Dao has no name that can capture it; “child” therefore refers to the Dao. “Seems” means “as if” or “apparently,” and “Lord” means a ruler. The forms of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things each have their origins; one may speak of a mother and a child. But the Dao, as a name, is empty and natural, arising from nothing. That is why the Supreme One says, “I do not know whose child it is.” Pushed to its furthest reach, the Dao’s principle lies beyond hearing and seeing, where its subtlety cannot be described. Hidden in the Heaven beyond sound and scent, its utmost reaches cannot be measured. Look back, and its beginning cannot be found; follow it forward, and its end cannot be seen. How, then, could one know whose child it is? “It seems to precede the Lord” means that Laozi served as a teacher to emperors across the ages, and that ancient emperors once asked him, “Whose child is the Dao?” The Supreme One therefore said, “It seems to precede the Lord”—that is, what did things look like before a ruler took charge?

Yang Zhiren says: “The Dao is empty, yet in use it reaches as far as ‘it seems to precede the Lord.’” “The Dao is empty, yet in use” means that it is strong and pure, void yet never full. Thus the Dao is the deep source of all methods, and people can put it into practice: blunt its sharpness, untangle its disorder, be inwardly harmonious and outwardly compliant, and mingle with the waves, following their flow. Keep the mind focused inward, so that Original Qi (the vital energy at the source of life) rises and descends in harmony; subdue the “mind-monkey,” a metaphor for the restless mind, and do not let it wander away. Let one’s nature remain deep and still, true and constant, unmoving: as if present and yet absent, substantial and yet empty, clear through and through, standing forth in its full radiance. “I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord.” As the ancients said: “Do you recognize this? It has endured through past and present, and is plainly before your eyes.”

Yu Qingzhong

“Dao is empty, yet in use…” The passage goes on to say that it is “before the image of the emperor.” Dao is like the sea: its substance is empty, so it can receive the myriad things; the sea is vast, so it can contain a hundred rivers. Dao’s essential nature is empty. Those who put it to use need do no more than hold fast to this emptiness. The phrase “it may not be full” becomes clear when read with what follows. Nothing in the world is greater than the sea; Dao is truly like it. “Deep, oh, how deep!” praises its capacity to receive. The Yangtze, the Han, and the other rivers flow eastward to the sea; a hundred rivers pour into it day and night, yet the sea neither seems to grow smaller nor ever seems full. “It may not be full”—people often wonder how it can remain unfilled. What, then, is its function? To keep one’s sharpness concealed is to “blunt its edge”; to free oneself from disputes and leave worldly affairs behind is to “untangle its knots.” “Harmonize its light” means not displaying oneself with piercing brilliance; “be one with its dust” means not keeping oneself spotless and apart. Yanzhai, Master Lin, explains the words “deep and still” as faint and imperceptible. Dao has no form. Between the hazy and the indistinct, what is truly empty is pointed to as though it were something, hence the phrase “as if it were there.” Dao lies beyond form and substance. We do not know whose child it is, yet it can resemble its source so completely.

Liu Ji of Qingyuan

“Image” is the beginning of what has form; “emperor” is the ancestor from whom living things arise. The word “child” is needed to connect what follows to “image”: “image” means resemblance, as when a descendant resembles a worthy ancestor.

Xu Liuxu

“Dao is empty, yet in use…” The passage goes on to call it “the ancestor of the myriad things”: emptiness is the root and source. The highest Dao is empty, and everyone inherently possesses it. Once put to use, it fills all under Heaven, showing itself in everything from eating and drinking to daily routines. “It may not be full” refers to there being nothing that can take form or be seen. “In use” speaks of its movement; “deep, oh” speaks of its stillness. Like water at rest, it is still and profound; like a bright mirror reflecting things without end, it is the ancestor of the myriad things—and people, too, are among the myriad things. The scripture says “as if,” not “to be as if”: “to be” is already implicit, but the text does not wish to state it directly. From “blunt its edge” through “as if it were there,” the intent is to give a careful reminder: those who know Dao must not stop at knowing. They must wear down the sharp impulse to pursue and grasp, untangle the feelings that cause confusion, harmonize the light that dazzles, and become one with the dust of the world, remaining deep and still as they illuminate others.

(On the Four Faults of Those Who Claim to “Know”)

The four common habits of the world are faults easily committed by people who claim to “know.” They must be swept away with effort, until they are completely gone; only then can one speak of the “Empty and Unbounded Supreme Dao”—a state that is clear, still, and ever-present. The word “seems” in the text may also be understood as “constant,” meaning unchanging.

(On the phrase “before the image of the emperor”)

Laozi says: “The Empty and Unbounded Supreme Dao—I do not know from which lineage or family it arose. Yet, if we trace it to the utmost, it seems to have stood forth independently even before the Celestial Emperor.” (“The image of the emperor” refers to the Celestial Emperor as the embodiment of the highest sovereign on whom Heaven, Earth, and all things depend.)

Li Shiji says:

From “The Dao is empty, yet in use” through “before the image of the emperor”: The Dao lies deep within emptiness and works through it. “In use, it is never exhausted” means that its use never runs dry; nothing can lie beyond the Dao.

“Deep, it seems the ancestor of all things”: The heart is clear as a deep pool, reflecting the comings and goings of all things, their forms and shadows appearing within it. Whatever arises from karmic consciousness—the knowing mind shaped by past actions and habits—has its source in this “ancestor.”

“Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots”: Blunt the sharpness as it begins to stir; untangle the disorder of resentment and grievance.

“Harmonize its light, become one with its dust”: Harmonize with the radiance seen in the customs of the world; mingle with the dust and grime that those customs leave behind.

“Clear and still, it seems to remain”: Turn the heart inward and shine its light within. In this clear, still calm, one sees one’s true nature as never absent, ever-present, and settled.

Chai Yuangao says:

The Dao is like the Taiji: empty at its center, and never exhausted in its use. Because its substance is empty, its function never runs dry. It is like a well: empty within, never truly filled, yet drawn from all day long without being exhausted. How much more so the Dao! “Deep, it seems the ancestor of all things”: like all streams flowing eastward, its measure cannot be fathomed. Blunting sharpness and untangling knots means that when the Dao’s substance and function are so wondrously empty, it can blunt and untangle both the inner sharpness and strife within oneself and the sharpness and strife that come from outside. “Harmonize its light, become one with its dust”: when the body is empty within, one’s outward manner naturally harmonizes with changing circumstances. “Clear and still, it seems to remain”: because its substance is empty, its function is never darkened. “I do not know whose child it is”: what, then, is this undarkened reality? It is the responsive transformation of the Dao. “Before the image of the emperor”: the One that was before the Taiji, the undivided origin before Heaven and Earth were separated.

Su Jingjing says:

From “The Dao is empty, yet in use” through “before the image of the emperor”: The Dao is everywhere between Heaven and Earth; nothing is without it, and nothing is beyond it. It is inherently full, yet because the Dao has principle but no form, people who use it through emptiness may sometimes doubt that it is full. The word “perhaps” conveys this doubt. To use it through emptiness is the same idea expressed in a later chapter as “know the masculine, keep to the feminine”: understand the Dao’s strength, yet remain gentle and free of contention. Zhuangzi says, “Carve away and return to simplicity; practice Wuwei”—an idea in the same vein as emptiness and keeping to the feminine: remove ornamentation, return to natural simplicity, and do not impose artificial action.

Plain-Language Interpretation

The general meaning of the scripture (corresponding to Chapter Four of the Dao De Jing)

Treat “name” as a burden; take Wuwei (non-action) as a storehouse of plans, as a foundation for carrying out affairs, and as the master of knowing. This is the Dao (the Way): it is full, yet works through emptiness.

The Dao is the ancestor and source of all things. All things arise from nonbeing. It is profound beyond measure and is the root of all things. Unless one first achieves “not being full,” one cannot speak directly of profundity; one can only say “as if.” The words “perhaps” and “as if” are used because the Dao is not simply unfull. When it is used through emptiness, that emptiness is not truly empty, which is why the text again says “perhaps” and “as if.”

Blunt, untangle, harmonize, and become one

“Sharpness” means talent that sticks out, with edges and angles. It must be blunted, leaving no point of contention. “Confusion” means turmoil and entanglement; it must be untangled and allowed to disperse. “Harmonize its light” means bringing into balance an inner fullness that shines outward, so that it is in harmony without being displayed. “Become one with its dust” means sharing the nature of the drifting, polluted dust, being one with it without seeking to be different.

“Deep and still” means clear; it seems to exist and yet not to exist, seeming clear and yet not clear. All of this describes using the Dao through emptiness.

Whose child, and before the image of the emperor

I do not know whose child the Dao is, or what it resembles. “Emperor” means Heaven. The Dao’s image truly precedes the Celestial Emperor; that is Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate). Taiji is emptiness and nonbeing. The Dao has its basis in Taiji; it gives birth to Heaven and Earth, and then to all things. That all things arise from nonbeing and that the Dao works through emptiness are both only natural.

The chapter’s central meaning

The first chapter gathers the essentials of the Dao under the two names “being” and “nonbeing.” This chapter uses the opposition between “emptiness” and “fullness” to sum up how the Dao works: from nonbeing comes the mysterious; from the mysterious comes mystery upon mystery, a marvel beyond reach.

Supplement (Master Yuan)

Where there is light, be one with the light; where there is dust, be one with the dust. Master Yuan says: The chapter speaks of the Dao from beginning to end. The following chapter, “Those who know do not speak,” describes embodying the Dao and attaining mysterious unity beyond all opposition; this does not mean merely conforming to ordinary people.

Supporting evidence from other masters

Zhuangzi says: The Dao has feeling and reliability, yet is without action and form. It can be transmitted but not spoken, attained but not seen. It is its own source and root, and has existed since antiquity, before Heaven and Earth. It is the spirit, the ghostly powers, and the emperor. It gives birth to Heaven and Earth. Though it precedes Taiji, it is not considered high; though it lies below the six directions, it is not considered deep. Though it existed before Heaven and Earth, it is not considered old; though it is older than antiquity, it is not considered ancient.

Shitan

“The Dao is empty, yet in use it is perhaps never full”: emptiness means being void; what is void is not full. When it is void and not full, it does not show itself.

Collected Interpretations of the True Scripture of the Dao and De, Volume Nine (Excerpt): A Plain-Language Reading

It does not reveal itself, and so it is described as an “abyss.” An “abyss” is something deep. Although the Dao does not display itself, it is in fact the root of all things. “As if” signals that we should not describe the Dao as any one fixed object: the Dao cannot be put into words. “Ancestor” means forebear or root. All things arise from it, so things are said to come from the Dao.

“Blunt its sharpness, untangle its knots, soften its light, mingle with its dust, deep and clear, as though it were there”—all these phrases point to emptiness without fullness, depth without display. “Blunt its sharpness” means to wear away its edge, leaving no sharp corners. “Untangle its knots” means to resolve turmoil and remain undisturbed by external things. “Soften its light” means to restrain its radiance instead of shining it outward. “Mingle with its dust” means to blend with the everyday world, so that others cannot tell it is especially pure. All these express depth without display. “Deep and clear, as though it were there” means limpid and lucid, seeming to exist, yet as though it never truly “possessed a substantial form.”

“I do not know whose child it is; it seems to precede the Lord of Heaven”: The Dao is the source of all things, their ancestor; yet we do not know whose child the Dao itself is. This takes the idea of “ancestor” a step further, suggesting that the Dao itself has something from which it derives. The text then says, “it seems to precede the Lord of Heaven.” “Lord” refers to the Heavenly Lord, while “seems” means “appears to” or “as though.” It appears to come before the Heavenly Lord. The named Dao may be spoken of as the mother of all things, but the nameless Dao is in truth the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Since Heaven and Earth emerge from me—the Dao—the Dao precedes the Heavenly Lord. This says that the Dao is not only the ancestor of all things, but also the ancestor of Heaven and Earth.

The chapter as a whole discusses the Dao’s own nature, not the practice of someone who realizes the Dao or keeps to it.