《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 3

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) was asked by his student: "Master, why do you particularly value the state of 'emptiness'?" Liezi replied: "True 'emptiness' inherently transcends valuation. The human tendency to create hierarchies of noble and base arises from constantly negating one thing to affirm another, clinging to self while rejecting externals. When one neither clings to 'being' nor 'non-being,' allowing all distinctions to return to unity—this is true emptiness. Having attained genuine voidness, how could concepts of nobility or baseness arise?"

Fan Yingyuan (Song Dynasty Daoist) explained: Valleys produce echoes because of their hollowness, mirrors reflect because of their clarity, flutes sound because of their emptiness. Ears hear through their hollowness, eyes see through their clarity, noses smell through their openness. When filled with substance, obstruction occurs. Emptiness is indeed valuable, but if one still clings to distinctions of "this is noble, that is base" without transcending such dualities to merge with the Dao, how can this be called true emptiness?

Liezi continued: The ultimate state needs no labels. The essence of things exists inherently, not through naming. The highest attainment is stillness and emptiness—finding stillness and emptiness means discovering the fundamental home. Those preoccupied with taking and giving lose their authentic nature. The principle of emptiness and stillness resides neither in conceptual thought nor outside the body. By inwardly abiding in one's true nature, complete preservation occurs naturally. All things are preserved through emptiness and stillness, while destruction comes from agitation and grasping.

Lu Zhongxuan (Tang Dynasty Daoist) added: Some ask why we value emptiness, yet true emptiness isn't something to pursue. We cultivate emptiness not for reputation, just as an empty room naturally fills with light and blessings naturally arrive. Maintaining serenity and emptiness stabilizes the original mind—when craving arises, the spirit loses its peace, and then fame, profit, right and wrong come swarming in. How could anyone withstand this? Therefore, valuing emptiness isn't my personal choice.

Fan Yingyuan concluded: Undivided constancy is the ultimate stillness; absence of resistance is the ultimate emptiness. Those who truly reach supreme stillness and emptiness—how could they care for trivial matters like reputation? Within their nature lies the true home—where there's sovereignty, there are principles; where there's dwelling, there's support. Stillness responds to all changes; emptiness contains all things. Maintaining emptiness and stillness undisturbed by externals, the true self naturally resides at peace. Seeking creates desire; giving invites response—indulging thus, letting body and spirit drown in externals, is like straying from the heart's true abode.

This passage discusses Daoist concepts of "emptiness-quietude" (xujing) and "benevolence-righteousness" (renyi). The author suggests that when one has already lost their authentic nature, attempting to pursue conventional morality is as difficult as a wanderer trying to return home without knowing the path.

The text employs symbolic imagery: the "well" represents the source of original nature, while "Gen" (one of the Eight Trigrams [Bagua], symbolizing mountain) signifies the resting place of innate character. Only by guarding these fundamentals can one avoid losing their way. Advocating benevolence and righteousness after moral decay has occurred is likened to dancing upon collapsed ruins—no true restoration is possible. One should cultivate the Way of emptiness-quietude before disorder arises.

Laozi's teaching "reach utmost emptiness, maintain steadfast quietude" illustrates how only through emptiness-quietude can one contain all things and respond to changes. Zhuangzi similarly observed that discourses on benevolence-righteousness emerge only after the Great Dao (Dao) has been lost—their very appearance signals distance from the fundamental Way. Like the ceaseless turning of day and night where all things transform imperceptibly, people rarely notice these subtle transformations.

The author critiques those who champion moral virtues after ethical collapse, comparing them to dancers performing atop rubble—incapable of restoring human nature. Ancient Daoist adepts deliberately abandoned superficial moral preachings precisely because they recognized this truth.

All things in the world never remain static—how can one cling to old forms? The shapes formed in the past are not the same as today's. In the mere instant of lowering and raising one's head, myriad transformations have already occurred. The dissipation of Qi (vital energy) and the decay of form do not happen abruptly. Yet foolish people stubbornly cling to bodies destined for destruction, attaching themselves to the ceaseless wheel of creation, vainly attempting to escape natural law—is this not pitiable?

Fan Yingyuan (a Daoist master of the Song dynasty) explains: Yin and Yang mirror and constrain each other, while the four seasons alternate in mutual generation and conquest. The myriad things flow away in the blink of an eye, appearing and vanishing in an instant—their rise and fall shifts like the transformation of mountains into valleys. What we see today is no longer yesterday's form; what passes by our shoulders becomes the past. The workings of Heaven and Earth's creation operate subtly, yet the foolish fail to perceive them. Unless one comprehends the ultimate principle of Yin-Yang transformation, who can fathom such mysteries?

Thus what diminishes here must be replenished elsewhere; what is achieved in one place must be lost in another. When rivers dry up, valleys become empty; when hills are leveled, abysses are filled. The waxing and waning, life and death revolve like an endless chain whose subtle gaps escape ordinary perception. Those who think they've achieved something are actually diminishing; those who believe they're living are already dying.

Fan elaborates further: When hills are flattened, abysses naturally fill—what's lost here is gained there. When trees are fashioned into utensils, the original trees perish—what's achieved here is destroyed there. Gain and loss beget each other, success and failure follow one another, life and death cycle endlessly like the alternation of day and night without pause. Unless one is a sage who thoroughly comprehends the beginning and end of all things, who can discern this pattern of transformation?

In truth, the growth and decline of primordial Qi does not occur abruptly, nor do the waxing and waning of forms appear suddenly. These changes proceed subtly in hidden darkness, far beyond what ears and eyes can perceive. Fan Yingyuan observes: What declines will inevitably be renewed (Qi does not suddenly increase), what fills will inevitably empty (forms do not suddenly diminish). Growth accumulates new substance daily, while decline sheds old forms day by day. Even if one tries forcibly to retain them, all things will naturally dissolve into the unseen. Zhuangzi's metaphor of "hiding a boat in a ravine"—where a mighty force might carry away the entire valley by midnight—precisely illustrates this principle. It's like how humans transform from birth to old age: facial features, complexion, wisdom and spirit change imperceptibly each day, like a snake shedding its skin.

This scripture primarily discusses the transformations of human body and mind in relation to the workings of heaven and earth. A person's skin, nails, and hair continuously renew and shed over time—they are not fixed as they were in infancy. Even these visible bodily changes are difficult to perceive, let alone the more subtle transformations. These shifts are so minute that they go unnoticed, becoming apparent only in hindsight.

Lu Zhongxuan explains that the human consciousness operates in hidden ways, driven by the ceaseless interplay of Yin and Yang Qi, causing the physical form to constantly evolve. The transformations between heaven and earth unfold mysteriously—waxing and waning, filling and emptying—who can fully comprehend them? Therefore, those who value the Dao understand the root and do not fret over change and dissolution.

The Zhenghe-era commentary states that "Shen" (spirit) describes the wondrous workings of all things. Since such subtlety is difficult to grasp, anything bound by form, constrained by quantity, or limited within heaven and earth is subject to the unending movement of Yin and Yang Qi, with all things coming and going without cease. Seeking the force that governs this proves futile—how could one ever fully understand it? Only sages can penetrate the origin of all things, awaken to these principles, and merge with them indistinguishably.

Fan Yingyuan observes that humans born between heaven and earth, once taking form, are destined to perish. As the body changes, so does the mind—like a galloping horse, unnoticed in its speed—how then can one maintain the pure heart of an infant? The ancient masters who realized the great Dao used Shen to govern their forms, mastering transformation without being trapped by it. They regarded their bodies as dust, unshaken even by matters as significant as life and death. Though the myriad things transform endlessly, this could not trouble their hearts. Thus, those of profound De (virtue) return to the purity of an infant, roaming above with the Creator and befriending below those who transcend life and death.

The passage concludes with the parable of the man from Qi who feared the sky might collapse: A man from the state of Qi worried incessantly that heaven and earth would crumble, leaving him no place to stand, losing sleep over it. Someone enlightened him, saying: "The sky is nothing but accumulated Qi, present everywhere. We bend and stretch, breathe in and out—all day we move within heaven, so why fear its collapse?" That vast azure expanse is no solid mass; what we call heaven extends boundlessly far, yet from the ground upward, all is heaven. Thus whether bowing or lifting one's head, breathing in or out, one never leaves heaven's embrace.

Someone asked: "If heaven is truly formed by the accumulation of Qi, wouldn't the sun, moon, and stars fall down?" The enlightener replied: "The celestial bodies are merely luminous manifestations within the universal Qi, which permeates all existence. Though heaven and earth are vast, they rest peacefully within the void—how much more so these Qi-borne stars? Even if they fell, they couldn't harm anyone."

The questioner continued: "But what if the earth collapses?" The teacher explained: "The earth is but compacted soil extending in all directions—everywhere you step is solid ground. Why fear its collapse?" At this, the man laughed in relief (note: "舍" should be "释"), and the teacher joined his mirth. Here we see two perspectives—one fearing inevitable destruction, the other asserting absolute security—both equally unaware of what truly merits concern or joy. Their mutual consolation merely masks fundamental delusion.

Lu Zhongxuan (Tang Dynasty Daoist) commented: Heaven is Qi's condensation—where isn't Qi present? Earth is soil's accumulation—where isn't soil found? Earthly matter doesn't vanish, nor does celestial Qi suddenly crumble. The luminous bodies are simply radiant Qi—why dread cosmic collapse?

Fan Yingyuan (Song Dynasty Daoist) elaborated: What we call heaven—the revolving firmament above—is but gathered Qi, serene in its Wuwei (non-action). What we term earth—the stable ground below—is merely amassed soil, tranquil in stillness. Those who fear Mount Kunlun's collapse in the void are confused; those who worry about such worries compound their confusion. Claiming freedom from delusion is the greatest delusion of all.

Master Changlu, hearing these discussions, smiled and said: Rainbows, clouds, wind, rain—these are celestial phenomena formed by Qi's coalescence. Mountains, rivers, metals, plants—these are terrestrial forms shaped by material aggregation. Knowing heaven as Qi and earth as substance, why speak of indestructibility?

In primordial chaos, heaven and earth were undifferentiated Qi; all things shared singular unity. Their division into sky and soil, their dispersion into myriad beings, merely reflects different modes of convergence and separation, varying manifestations of solid and void. Within the infinite void, the cosmos is but a speck; within the phenomenal world, it appears supremely vast. That it transcends measurement is inevitable—to fret over its collapse is indeed "the man of Qi fearing the sky's fall."

This scripture explores the philosophical question of whether heaven and earth will perish through a dialogue between several Daoist scholars. Lu Zhongxuan ("Lu says") argues that heaven and earth are formed through the accumulation of Qi (vital energy) and matter—since they came into being, they must inevitably perish, though their vast scale makes it difficult for us to witness their end. Yet he also raises a question: If one were to encounter the destruction of heaven and earth, how could one not be troubled?

Fan Yingyuan ("Fan says") cites the classics, asking how we can know there isn't something greater beyond heaven and earth? From the perspective of emptiness, heaven and earth are but minute things; yet from the perspective of form, they are the most immense. Precisely because their end is unfathomable, they are difficult to comprehend. Those who excessively worry about their destruction or insist they are indestructible both appear laughable.

Liezi ("Master Liezi"), hearing this, laughs and says: To declare that heaven and earth will or will not perish is equally mistaken. Whether they perish or not is fundamentally beyond our certain knowledge. In either case, heaven and earth and humanity share the same fate—if they do not perish, we endure together; if they perish, we vanish together. Why then rejoice or grieve over it?

He then expands on the view of life and death: While alive, we do not know what comes after death; after death, we do not know what came before life. We know not our coming nor our going. As for whether heaven and earth perish, we need not dwell on it at all. Just as when life takes form, we do not know when it will be destroyed, and when destroyed, we do not know when it will form again—this is the natural principle of all things in their coming, going, formation, and dissolution. We should transcend such distinctions, observing them as calmly as we observe the changes in our own bodies.

Finally, the core teaching is revealed: Heaven and earth are the largest forms among the myriad things, while the human body is among the subtlest. Yet regardless of size, both are "things," and all things must eventually decay—why then argue endlessly? Humans cannot even fully understand their own birth and death, their coming and going, or the formation and dissolution of their bodies. Rather than debate, we should begin by contemplating this truth through knowing ourselves.

This passage explores the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and physical form through a dialogue between Shun and Zheng.

It begins by pointing out that obsessing over the external forms of heaven, earth, and all things is meaningless. From the perspective of material things, what takes form must inevitably perish; yet from the perspective of the Dao, there is neither formation nor destruction. Those confined by form only see that physical matter will eventually vanish, while those who comprehend the great Dao understand that the Dao itself neither falls nor perishes.

Fan Xi uses a metaphor to illustrate: Heaven and earth are like a bubble in water—the bubble is formed from water and ultimately returns to water. The bubble's birth and bursting are natural processes, just as the man of Qi fretting over the sky's collapse was unnecessary. A truly awakened person remains undisturbed by the existence or destruction of form; life and death, coming and going, cannot sway their understanding.

Shun asks Zheng, "Can the Dao be possessed?"—a question meant to show that all things are fundamentally empty. Zheng replies: Not even your own body truly belongs to you, so how could you possess the Dao? Guo Xiang comments: The body is not something you can truly own; it is merely a material existence formed naturally.

Lu Shi further explains: "You" and "I" are only relative concepts, not referring to the true spiritual essence. If one clings to the idea that this physical body is the "self," true attainment of the Dao becomes impossible.

Shun presses further: "If my body does not belong to me, then to whom does it belong?" Zheng answers: The body is merely a temporary form entrusted to you by heaven and earth (a temporary convergence of Yin and Yang Qi); life does not belong to you—it is the result of heaven and earth’s harmonizing of Yin and Yang; even your innate nature and destiny do not belong to you, for they are manifestations of heaven and earth’s cyclical movement. Guo Xiang adds: If the body truly belonged to you, then beauty, ugliness, life, and death should be under your control—yet in reality, it is merely the gathering and dispersing of Qi.

This dialogue reveals a core Daoist teaching: The human body and life are only temporarily bestowed by heaven and earth, and attachment to the concept of "self" is the primary obstacle to cultivation. A truly awakened person understands that the birth and destruction of form are merely natural processes and thus remains unmoved by sorrow or joy.

This scripture primarily discusses how human life and the existence of all things are not subject to individual control, but are determined by the natural laws of heaven and earth.

When a person's Qi (vital energy) dissipates and death comes, you cannot prevent it—this demonstrates that life is fundamentally a natural formation that doesn't truly belong to you. Like the shell shed by a cicada, even one's descendants are merely products of heaven and earth's natural transformations. If life truly belonged to you, then the gender of your children should also be yours to decide.

Human actions, dwellings, and dietary habits may appear autonomous, but in reality they all operate through natural laws rather than pure individual will. The cosmos brims with vigorous Yang Qi (referring to the universe's primordial energy) that propels the movement and transformation of all things, yet people often fail to comprehend its principles. Though this Yang Qi is robust and substantial, it ultimately returns to the original state of emptiness and harmonious stillness.

Lu Zhongxuan explains that people don't understand the operating principles of Shenming (the supreme cosmic law), hence using heaven and earth as metaphors: heaven governs the spiritual dimension while earth dominates physical forms. All existences have their physical manifestations, harmonious lives possess their intrinsic nature, following spontaneity means abiding by the law, and emotional reproduction is likewise part of natural transformation. People only recognize Yang Qi's role in moving all things, yet remain unaware that Shenming is the true sovereign.

Someone might ask: Didn't sages like Emperor Shun comprehend the Dao? The response is: This dialogue between host and guest illustrates the principle. Zhuangzi said some possess a sage's abilities without a sage's wisdom, while others have a sage's wisdom but lack governance skills. Thus, those in high positions may not truly understand the Dao, just as hermits might not excel at statecraft. Like the Yellow Emperor who only dreamed of Huaxu Kingdom after thirty years on the throne, or Emperor Yao who grasped the truth after meeting four sages—why then should we find it strange that Emperor Shun momentarily failed to attain realization?

Zhenghe Zhenren concludes: Emptiness leads to non-being, while substance gives rise to being. Anything that can be possessed can be taken away, but the Dao is mysteriously formless and unfathomably profound—it can never be truly owned.

The human body, form, and innate nature-life (xingming) are all temporarily bestowed by Heaven and Earth—suddenly taking shape only to abruptly perish. How can one truly possess form? The body is merely a skeletal vessel entrusted by Heaven and Earth; the vital breath (yuanqi) of life is the harmonious energy (heqi) granted by Heaven and Earth. All things grow according to the principles of innate nature and life, thus xingming represents the entrusted flow of cosmic transformation. The body is the physical legacy of parents, while descendants are the continuation entrusted by Heaven and Earth. Seen this way, nothing truly belongs to us. Therefore, in movement we know not where we go, in stillness we know not what we rely upon, in eating we perceive no flavors. All these are governed by a sovereign force and propelled by a driving power—they are but the movement of Heaven and Earth’s vigorous yang energy (the ceaseless generative force of nature). How then can one truly grasp the Dao (the Way)? Yet the Dao is what all must follow, hence the saying "the Dao will be with you"—can this ultimately remain unattainable? Deliberate pursuit leads to failure; only sages possess it through "not possessing."

Fan Yingyuan (a Song Dynasty Daoist) remarked: The Dao is fundamentally formless, and your body is illusory. If even this illusory body does not truly exist, where then can the Dao reside? Observe all things in the world—what you consider most your own is none other than your body. What sustains the body is none other than life; the root of life is none other than xingming; what is closest to you is none other than descendants. Yet none of these can you truly possess. Realize that your body is inherently insubstantial, and naturally you will move without knowing direction, dwell without reliance, eat without tasting flavors. These are all manifestations of Heaven and Earth’s vigorous yang energy. As for the so-called Dao—how could you ever claim ownership of it?

In the state of Qi, there was a wealthy man surnamed Guo, while in Song lived a poor man surnamed Xiang. Xiang traveled to Qi to seek Guo’s method for gaining wealth. Guo told him: "I excel at theft. When I first began stealing, within a year I had enough for food and clothing, in two years I achieved abundance, after three years I became exceedingly rich, and later even supported my entire village." Xiang was overjoyed but only grasped the literal meaning of "theft," failing to understand its true significance. Thereupon he scaled walls and drilled through barriers, stealing everything his hands could touch and eyes could see. Soon he was convicted for the stolen goods, losing even his original possessions. Believing Guo had deceived him, Xiang went to protest. Guo asked, "How exactly did you steal?" After Xiang recounted his methods, Guo sighed: "Alas! You’ve completely misunderstood the true meaning of theft, hence this misfortune."

This passage discusses the distinction between "taking" what nature provides versus appropriating man-made wealth. The natural products of heaven and earth—the cycle of seasons, resources produced by the land, nourishing rain and clouds, the bounty of mountains and marshes—are not considered true theft when utilized by humans. Activities like farming, raising livestock, building homes, fishing, and hunting all involve receiving nature's gifts. Since heaven and earth harbor no selfish motives, no calamities befall those who partake of these offerings.

However, accumulated human wealth—gold, silver, grain, and fabrics—is fundamentally different. These are not natural endowments from heaven and earth but privately owned possessions. Seizing such property by force constitutes genuine theft, inevitably incurring guilt and resentment.

The text contrasts two illustrative cases: the Guo family prospered by utilizing natural resources without consequence, while the Xiang family suffered retribution for stealing others' property. Master Dongguo further explains that human life itself is formed by "borrowing" the Yin and Yang energies (as Daoist philosophy holds that the human body arises from the harmonious blending of these two Qi). From this perspective, all things exist in mutual interdependence. Yet when we rigidly distinguish between "mine" and "yours," clinging to notions of ownership, we fall into confusion.

The core teaching asserts that utilizing nature's gifts aligns with the Dao (the Way), whereas forcibly seizing private wealth invites misfortune. At a deeper level, this reflects the Daoist philosophical view of "the unity of all things"—excessive emphasis on private possession inherently contradicts the natural order.

All things in heaven and earth are called "the myriad beings," yet "heaven and earth" is but another name for these beings. Though each being exists in its own distinct form, fundamentally they are interconnected and inseparable. To forcibly divide them, believing any thing belongs exclusively to oneself, is the delusion of the mind.

Thus, the form bestowed upon us by heaven and earth does not truly belong to the individual. Obsessing over appearance, boasting of intelligence, or clinging to the self are all manifestations of confusion. Even more severe are those who forcibly claim external things as their own—flaunting surnames to assert uniqueness, relying on family influence to secure status, wearing lavish robes to show off, wielding official positions to command others, amassing wealth to form factions—yet remain oblivious to their folly throughout life. Therefore, Laozi said, "My greatest affliction lies in having this body"; Zhuangzi likewise remarked, "Of the hundred bones, nine orifices, and six viscera, which part truly belongs to 'me'?" Understanding this principle allows the mind to return to the void of its origin, realizing the body and all things are fundamentally one.

Fan Yingyuan (a Song dynasty Daoist master) observed: Whether petty theft or grand robbery, both stem from losing one's original nature. A figure like Xiangshi (an allegorical character) understood only the act of stealing, not the greed behind it, and thus remained shackled by material possessions; Guoshi (another allegorical figure) recognized that theft arises from greed but failed to see greed itself as illusory. Those who truly attain the Dao do not even cling to their own bodies—how much less to external distractions? In life, though we possess a hundred bones, nine orifices, and six viscera, to claim any part as "mine" is profound delusion. Only by not burdening the form with profit nor confining the spirit with the body can one perceive the fundamental unity of all things and the self—when "no-self" is realized, what remains to worry about?

Guoshi represents "public justice" (acquiring in accord with cosmic principle), hence avoiding calamity; Ruoshi represents "private desire" in acquisition, thus inviting blame. The so-called "public" exists only in contrast to "private"—without private desire, the concept of public vanishes. To deem defiance of cosmic principle as "public" and encroachment on others as "private" is an incomplete understanding.

Lu Zhongxuan (a Tang dynasty Daoist) explained: Heaven and earth take from the myriad beings without private opposition, thus avoiding harm; the human heart, harboring selfish desires in acquisition, becomes theft. Using private intent to seize private possessions inevitably creates conflict, making blame unavoidable. The true law prohibits human selfishness—where there is no opposition, there is no prohibition.

(Final summation) All distinctions between public and private constitute theft, differing only in their targets; what transcends these concepts remains, in essence, a form of "taking" within the great transformation of heaven and earth.

In this world, people inevitably possess material goods and desire to accumulate wealth, yet simultaneously wish to be free from such attachments. Truly non-attached individuals are exceedingly rare.

Lu Chongxuan (a Tang Dynasty Daoist master) explains: When sages establish laws to educate people, any action that neither harms others nor encroaches upon public interests cannot be considered theft. Those who abide by the law follow the public way (gongdao), while violators pursue private ways (sidao). Even seemingly public-spirited actions, if motivated by hoarding wealth for private gain, still constitute theft—how much more so for openly unlawful acts of self-interest?

The Dao of Heaven and Earth inherently embraces both public and private dimensions. Human life originates from cosmic principles, and our physical forms exist within the cosmic framework. Excessive attachment to material goods ultimately reflects attachment to the cosmic life-force and bodily existence itself. At the fundamental level, there exists no true distinction between public and private, nor anything truly worth clinging to.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao of Heaven and Earth—who can definitively say what constitutes theft or non-theft? The cosmic order operates through Wuwei (non-action)—why forcibly impose labels of "public" or "private"? When such conceptual distinctions dissolve, the very notion of theft becomes meaningless.

Lu further elucidates: Understanding yet transcending the public-private dichotomy, treating all beings equally without discrimination—this embodies the De (Virtue) of Heaven and Earth. Like the cosmos that utilizes all things without greed—employing without preference, receiving without possession—how could this be called theft? Thus viewed, who is truly a thief? Only those awakened to the Dao can comprehend this profound truth.

During the Zhenghe era (Emperor Huizong of Song's reign), some argued that taking what doesn't belong to oneself constitutes theft. Yet we witness public-spirited individuals suffering misfortune while selfish actors prosper. The crux lies in attachment to possession. The moment public-private distinctions arise in consciousness, desire inevitably follows. Therefore, those obsessed with such distinctions are thieves, just as those who completely deny them remain unliberated. Only by following nature's flow—neither artificially dividing public from private nor embracing all things—can one embody the cosmic De.

Fan Yingyuan (a Southern Song Daoist) concludes: Pursuing personal gain is private; transcending self-interest is public. The public principle originally has no name—it manifests only in contrast to private interests. Aligning with heavenly principles constitutes supreme public-mindedness, like Guo's (in the parable) taking what nature freely provides. Indulging selfish desires represents petty private interest, like Xiang's (in the same parable) behavior which constitutes outright theft.

When people cling to "having" (concrete things), they develop selfishness. From the perspective of the great Dao, such selfishness is merely confined to partial understanding.

(This passage discusses the relationship between "public" and "private") Those who deliberately pursue "publicness" are actually forcing possession, just as those who flaunt "selflessness" are likewise forcing possession. True "publicness" should embrace "privateness," and genuine "privateness" should accord with "publicness"—this is the operating principle of heaven and earth. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) neither denies "publicness" nor denies "privateness."

If one can awaken to this principle and reach the state of "ming" (union with the Dao), then the distinction between "forcing possession" and "not forcing possession" will disappear. Like a bird flying across the sky leaving no trace—who can discern whether it truly flew or not?

(Note: The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing [Scripture of Perfect Virtue in Empty Nothingness] is an important Daoist text. This passage uses the "public/private" dialectic to expound the Daoist philosophy of transcending dualities and following nature. Here "dao" [forcing possession] refers to the state of compulsively grasping or clinging to certain concepts.)