《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 42

Does Heaven move in its course? Does Earth remain settled and still? Do the sun and moon contend for their places? Who governs and sustains all this? And who, at ease and doing nothing, sets the myriad things in motion? Might there be some precise mechanism that compels the myriad things to move in this way? Or, once they begin to move, might they be unable to stop on their own?

Do clouds form in order to bring rain? Does rain fall in order to become clouds? Who makes the clouds and rain rise and descend, and sends them forth? Who, at ease and doing nothing, allows all this to happen without end? The wind rises in the north, then turns west, then east, circling restlessly through the air. Who breathes in and out? Who, at ease and doing nothing, makes the wind blow across the myriad things? I venture to ask: why is this so?

Wu Xian Shao, a figure in ancient books, said: “Come, and I will tell you. Heaven has the Six Extremes and Five Constants”—here, six kinds of ill omen and five kinds of good fortune. “When rulers conform to them, their states can be governed; when they go against them, calamity follows. When matters recorded in the Nine Luo”—a title for ancient geographical or administrative texts—“are properly ordered and moral cultivation is complete, Heaven watches over the world below, and the people of the realm are protected. This was the governance of the August Sovereign, a title for an ancient sage ruler.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Heaven is moved by no one, yet moves of itself; Earth is placed by no one, yet naturally lies below. The sun and moon do not contend for their places; they alternate naturally. Who, then, governs and sustains all this? If there were a ruler directing things, the myriad things could not move on their own. If each thing had its own way of acting, there would be no need for another ruler. So who does nothing and yet sets the myriad things in motion? The myriad things simply move on their own; we cannot know how. Clouds and rain do not cause one another; each is simply as it is. If we ask why things are as they are, we may sometimes find an explanation for what is close at hand. But if we trace things to their root, there is no deeper cause: the myriad things are naturally so. Learning can bring change, but one cannot go against one’s inborn nature.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Heaven moves and Earth rests, but I do not know how they truly move and rest. The sun and moon seem to contend for their places, but I do not know how they truly alternate. Ask who makes the myriad things grow, governs and sustains them, and sets them in motion, and no answer can be found. Whether some precise mechanism compels them to act this way, or whether they cannot stop once they have begun to move, I cannot know. Water rises and becomes clouds; clouds disperse and fall as rain. Ask who makes them rise and descend, sends them forth, and causes all this to happen without end, and again no answer can be found. The wind turns west and east, circling restlessly. Ask who makes it breathe and blow, and that too cannot be known. This is where the Dao’s unfathomable nature reveals its mystery. If we knew the source of this mysterious activity, then governance and sustenance, the rising and falling of clouds and rain, and the blowing of the wind could all be attributed to the Dao. In the commentary, the “Five Constants” are the “Five Blessings,” while the “Six Extremes” refer to six kinds of calamity.

Heaven and Earth move according to their own patterns, each keeping to its place, while the sun and moon travel without pause. None of this is deliberately arranged. Who, then, governs the movements of Heaven and Earth, maintains the order of the land, and keeps the sun and moon in motion? These things happen naturally; no one knows of any human design behind them.

Heaven and Earth have physical form; the Dao is the pattern by which they operate. When Yin-Yang Qi gathers, clouds and rain take shape. Clouds can bring rain, though sometimes they do not. How clouds and rain change, when they arise or disperse—none of this can be known; it simply happens naturally. Water is born from the First of Heaven, so winds rise in the north and turn east or west, circling through the air. Who breathes or blows to make them move this way? No one can explain. The four directions above and below, as well as the Five Constants and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), all form naturally, and people do not know why they are as they are.

When rulers follow these natural patterns, the realm is at peace; when they go against them, danger follows. The Nine Luo refers to settlements throughout the nine regions. Here, it means that a ruler’s De (Virtue/Power) reaches far and wide, allowing the people to live in peace and contentment. The protection of good governance extends over the realm like the light of the sun and moon shining upon the earth. The people live securely, and their nature returns to simplicity, as if they were living in the age of the ancient rulers.

Heaven and Earth move, and the sun and moon travel: clouds rise from the land but have their source in Heaven; rain descends from Heaven but has its source in the land. The wind blows eastward, yet rises in the north. Heaven and Earth cover and support all things; the sun and moon illuminate the land; clouds and rain moisten the four directions. All these phenomena arise from the natural Dao, with no other force driving them. The winding, circling currents of Qi may seem to drift without direction, yet they too follow their own patterns. Whirlwinds can topple trees as large as mountains, but their movement, too, remains within the natural order.

Rivers race toward the sea, yet on the surface seem not to flow. The sun and moon travel each day, yet appear to have no fixed course. Do the movements and stillness of Heaven and Earth mean that they neither move nor stop? Do the comings and goings of the sun and moon mean that they neither come nor go? If someone truly presides over and sustains all this from behind the scenes, who can say who that ruler is? Is there really such a thing as a “True Ruler”—a being who governs all things?

Chen Bixu says: Clear, light Qi is in constant motion, while dense, turbid forms are never without stillness. The essences of water and fire rise and descend in relation to one another. If someone were there to preside over and sustain them, they would grow weary; if someone used mechanisms to set them in motion, they would grow exhausted.

Rain falls in accordance with clouds and brings forth growth, so it is said that rain comes from Earth. Clouds gather through Qi, so it is said that clouds come from Heaven. The clear and turbid Qi within the human body work in the same way. We can see from this that clouds do not form in order to become rain, nor does rain fall in order to become clouds. The way they work together accords unseen with the transformations of nature; who could be deliberately arranging it? Clouds gather and disperse of themselves, and rain falls of itself. If someone urged or forced them, that would be private intention; if someone tried to set them in motion by blowing, drawing in, shaking, or brushing them, that would instead disrupt natural transformation.

Cold, heat, dryness, dampness, wind, and fire are the six climatic Qi. When the six Qi reach their extremes, changes occur, so they are called the “Six Extremes.” Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth are the movements of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). When the Five Phases move in their proper order, they bring forth the myriad things, so they are called the “Five Norms.” When the six Qi are harmonious, instruction and transformation can be fulfilled; when the Five Phases move out of order, governance falls into decline.

The “Nine Luo” refers to the nine categories of principles in the Luo Writing, or the “Nine Domains” described in the Hongfan. When a ruler receives the Nine Domains, moral relations and social norms fall into order, and the Five Blessings descend upon the people: this is accord with nature. When the ruler loses the Nine Domains, those relations and norms fall into disorder, and the calamities of the Six Extremes afflict the people: this is going against nature. To neither deliberately accord with nor deliberately go against it, but simply let all things follow their own nature—is this not the way of the wise rulers of antiquity?

Lin Yanzhai says in his Kouyi: The heavenly body completes one circuit each day. Does that mean Heaven itself is turning? Earth has motions of rising, sinking, and drifting about; how, then, could it remain fixed in one place? The sun and moon take turns moving, like people pursuing one another and advancing in alternation; hence the text says that they “strive.” “Presiding over and sustaining the order” refers to exerting force to direct and maintain things. The movements of Heaven and Earth do not arise from necessity, nor are they driven by some external force.

The Qi of Heaven descends and the Qi of Earth rises, thereby forming clouds and rain. But which becomes which: does rain turn into clouds, or do clouds turn into rain? “隆施” means to extend and bring forth; “淫乐” means to indulge in play. The passage asks: who deliberately indulges in play to bring about clouds and rain? The heavenly body tilts toward the north, so wind blows from the north. Wind turns and circles between east and west, above and below, shaking and brushing all things. The original text’s final passage begins with “The question is not…” and its meaning is incomplete.

Someone then altered the style of the writing and discussed such matters as the Six Extremes, the Six Qi, the Five Constant Virtues, and the Five Phases. These, too, are principles of nature. The accounts of the Nine Luo, the Nine Provinces, and settlements are found in ancient writings.

A ruler who governs the Nine Provinces in accordance with the principles of nature, whose achievements are complete and whose De is perfected, shines across the world and is embraced by the people. Such a person is a sage ruler greater than the Three Sovereigns.

Chu Shi’s Gu Jian (“Observations at a Glance”) says: “That Heaven moves, Earth rests, and the sun and moon come and go—everyone knows these things. But no one knows why they move, rest, and come and go. Who, then, governs and sustains all this behind the scenes? Perhaps some mechanism is at work, keeping all things in constant motion. Heaven and Earth may themselves be things—just the largest things in the void. The motion of a thing must have some cause that sets it moving. Yet people live between Heaven and Earth without knowing this, like ants turning together on a millstone, unaware of what is happening.

“Do clouds form because of rain, or does rain fall because of clouds? As for the movement of wind and Qi between east and west, above and below, who makes it expand and contract, breathe out and draw in?” These are questions, but the identity of the person who posed them has been lost. Some believe this is Zhuangzi’s way of changing the style of his writing, which should not be confined by ordinary conventions.

Interpretations of the “Six Extremes” and “Five Constant Virtues” differ. Some explain them through the “Six Extremes” and “Five Blessings” in the Hongfan, saying that following them enables good government, while going against them brings calamity. This is the difference between putting the human bonds and guiding principles of conduct in order, and allowing them to fall into disorder. “Nine Luo” refers to ideas such as the Nine Domains of the Luoshu. If a ruler acts in accordance with these principles, he can govern successfully and perfect his De, shining in all directions. The people of the realm will embrace him, customs will become honest and generous, and goods will be plentiful; everyone will live happily in an age of peace. The governance of the Three Sovereigns in high antiquity was no more than this.

In Chu Shi’s view, the reply seems on the surface not to address the question. But if we examine its central meaning, it accords with the question: when governance reaches the level of the Three Sovereigns, ruler and people each rest in their natural place. Once human affairs have been carried out to the full, the principles of Heaven can be inferred. The mechanism by which Heaven and Earth move, rest, and come and go then becomes self-evident. This is the point of the reply. (The wording here is unclear in some editions. The Bixu Zhao Zhangshi jiaoben reads “above,” as does the edition with Chen Xiangdao’s commentary.)

Taizai Dang of Shang asked Zhuangzi what benevolence was. Zhuangzi said, “Tigers and wolves also have benevolence.” Taizai Dang asked, “What do you mean?” Zhuangzi said, “Fathers and sons love one another. How could that be called not benevolent?” Taizai Dang then asked, “May I ask what the highest benevolence is?” Zhuangzi said, “The highest benevolence makes no distinction between kin and strangers.” Taizai Dang said, “I have heard that…”

Then not to love one’s parents is to be unfilial. If so, can the highest benevolence be called unfilial? Zhuangzi says: No. The state of highest benevolence is so far beyond that the word “filial” is no longer enough to describe it. This does not mean that one has gone too far in practicing filial piety; it means that one has not yet reached beyond the bounds of filial piety.

A person traveling south arrives at Ying, the capital of Chu, and looks north but cannot see Mount Ming, the legendary mountain in the far north. Why? Because the traveler is too far from it. So it is said: It is easy to practice filial piety with reverence, but difficult to practice it with love; easy to practice it with love, but difficult to forget the distinction between oneself and one’s family; easy to forget that distinction, but difficult to make one’s family forget “I”; easy to make one’s family forget “I,” but difficult to make all under Heaven forget their distinctions from one another; easy to make all under Heaven forget those distinctions, but difficult to make all under Heaven forget “I” as well.

The person who has De allows the Virtue of Yao and Shun to endure, yet does not think of himself as having accomplished anything. His kindness reaches across ten thousand generations, but the people under Heaven do not know who did it. How could such a person sigh at length about benevolence and filial piety? Filial piety and brotherly respect, benevolence and righteousness, loyalty and trustworthiness, chastity and integrity—these are virtues people deliberately strive to practice in order to restrain themselves. They are nothing to boast about. Thus it is said: When one reaches the highest nobility, the state’s ranks become insignificant; when one reaches the highest wealth, the state’s riches become insignificant; when one reaches the highest fulfillment, fame becomes insignificant. In this way, the Dao remains unchanged.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary:

To be without family does not mean to slight or despise one’s family. A person’s body has no part that it particularly favors: the head is naturally above and the feet naturally below; the internal organs are housed inside the body, while hair and skin grow on the outside. Each part of the body, inside and out, above and below, has its proper place and function. None is favored. When a person deals with the five close family relationships and six kinship groups, with the worthy and the foolish, and with those near and far, he can likewise let each relationship find its proper place. This is simply the natural order. Why, then, make a point of affection?

Filial piety is not enough to describe the highest benevolence; one must speak of a state that has forgotten the labels “benevolence” and “filial piety.” All such labels arise when the state itself remains incomplete. Only by going beyond labels such as “benevolence” and “filial piety” and entering the nameless state can one reach the ultimate.

Mount Ming lies far to the north. A traveler heading south may see Ying, but moves ever farther from Mount Ming. Likewise, the highest benevolence lies in a state where distinctions between close and distant have fallen away. If one deliberately describes it as benevolent love, the more clearly that love is displayed, the farther it strays from the ultimate principle.

In the Perfected Person, all the body’s joints are in proper order, yet throughout the day he never feels he is deliberately adjusting them. When the sage occupies the highest position, he governs through Wuwei (non-action), allowing each person to act naturally. Thus everything finds its proper place, and all beings are self-sufficient. How could people then fail to forget their attachment to “I”? When everyone has forgotten “I,” what need is there for a ruler? This is what is meant by “forgetting both.”

When the names of Yao and Shun are set aside, their Virtue can be fully revealed. When people under Heaven do not know what they have accomplished, their Virtue disappears without a trace and becomes one with the Dao. To sigh at length about benevolence and filial piety is like living amid rivers and lakes while worrying only about moistening one another with spit. What is precious lies in oneself; if even oneself can be forgotten, then how much more so…

For someone who is truly noble, even a title granted by the state means nothing. Someone who is truly wealthy needs only enough to provide for themselves, and so no longer cares about the wealth of the world. Their greatest wish is simply to live with ease and contentment. Once that is fulfilled, even such labels as benevolence and filial piety can be set aside. This is because the Great Dao does not change: discard the glittering surface and take what is real.

Lü’s Commentary: People in the world all call affection “benevolence.” But if a tiger and a wolf care for their offspring, why should we not say they, too, have benevolence? Supreme benevolence—the highest form of benevolence—is the benevolence of Heaven and Earth and of the sage. It is one with the Dao, acting naturally and without contrivance. How could it set its mind on loving others? That is why supreme benevolence is called “without kinship”—not because it does not love, but because it does not cling to relationships of closeness.

Some say, “To be without kinship is not to love; not to love is to be unfilial.” This describes a state that has not yet reached filial piety. “Supreme benevolence is without kinship,” by contrast, describes a state that has gone beyond filial piety. Someone traveling south cannot see Dark Mountain, a legendary mountain far away, because it lies too distant. Likewise, those who embody supreme benevolence have gone far beyond the bounds of filial piety, so they cannot be described in terms of filial piety alone.

Respect belongs to ritual; love and filial piety belong to human feeling; forgetting one’s kin belongs to the Dao. When you yourself no longer cling to family ties, that is forgetting on your side. When your family members also forget you, that is forgetting on theirs. Go further, and you transcend the world. If the world, too, forgets you, then you can come and go among one another without being entangled in concern. Benevolence practiced to this degree surpasses the virtue of Yao and Shun, yet makes no claim to it; its benefits extend through countless generations, yet no one knows of them. This is called becoming one with the Dao and acting naturally. How could it amount merely to sighing over benevolence and filial piety?

From the standpoint of supreme benevolence, standards such as filial piety and fraternal duty, benevolence and righteousness, loyalty and trustworthiness, chastity and integrity all seem like things people force themselves to do in order to constrain their virtue. What is there in them to praise in particular? Thus, on reaching the highest nobility, one no longer cares about titles granted by the state; on reaching the greatest wealth, one no longer cares about the state’s riches. Such a person commands the wealth and status of the world without being ruled by titles or riches. On reaching the greatest fulfillment, one can also set aside fame and honor. Cultivate yourself until you reach supreme benevolence, and though the eight labels, including filial piety and fraternal duty, are cast aside, the honors they represent are already encompassed within it. “The Dao does not change” means that the Great Dao is everywhere.

Yidu’s Commentary: Wherever there is benevolence, there will be visible deeds, and therefore some form of closeness and care. If caring for one’s kin is taken as benevolence, then tigers and wolves care for their kin too; why say that they lack benevolence? When asked what supreme benevolence is, the answer “without kinship” means allowing one’s nature to unfold naturally. Even when drawing close to one’s family, one does not feel that one is deliberately cultivating closeness. Taizai holds that closeness gives rise to love, and love gives rise to filial piety. When Zhuangzi says that supreme benevolence is without kinship, and that having no kinship means being unfilial, he is speaking from the root: supreme benevolence transcends filial piety. Taizai, by contrast, is speaking from the standpoint of outward conduct: it has not yet reached filial piety. The original text that follows ends with the character “Dark.”

The Mountain—here a figure for one who has penetrated the Great Dao—offers an explanation of filial piety: if one merely follows its outward forms, one may move ever farther from the root of the Dao. Respect is shown outwardly; love arises from within. To forget one’s kin is to forget the person one favors, and so to love all without distinction. But if one forgets one’s kin while they still cannot forget oneself, one’s filial piety still bears the trace of deliberate action.

It is easy enough to forget one’s kin; it is difficult to move them so that they, too, forget oneself. Even if one can make one’s kin forget oneself, one remains bound if one cannot make all under Heaven forget oneself as well. If all under Heaven can forget oneself, then each person should be allowed to follow their own nature, unaware that this is kinship and unaware that it is love. To practice the Dao and reach the realm of De is to be able to set aside even the actions of Yao and Shun; then there is Wuwei (non-action) in governing. Its benevolence reaches across ten thousand generations, yet the people under Heaven do not know who bestowed it. Does this still amount merely to praising and proclaiming benevolence and filial piety? The point is that when benevolence and filial piety reach this realm, there is no need to proclaim them deliberately.

Filial piety, fraternal respect, benevolence, righteousness, and the other eight virtues are things people strive to practice in order to cultivate their character; they are not the natural expression of De. This is precisely how the Dao is lost. How can such conduct be called the most exalted, the most abundant, or the most precious? Even if he were given every rank in the state, he would not regard it as a promotion, but would continue to act naturally. Even if he were given all the state’s wealth, he would cast the world aside like a worn-out shoe. Even if all the fame in the world belonged to him, he would still choose to model himself on Confucius. To be this way is to follow the Great Dao without altering it.

Xiangdao’s commentary says: Fierce beasts do not harm those of their own kind to whom they are attached, and poisonous creatures do not harm what they love. People, too, draw close to one another, love one another, and call this benevolence—but it is no more than the same sort of thing. Heaven and Earth regard the myriad things as straw dogs—ritual offerings made of straw and discarded after the ceremony—yet the myriad things thereby grow on their own. The sage regards the people as straw dogs, and the people thereby find their own fulfillment. If people care for one another as small fish do, moistening one another with their breath and spittle, or please them only with fine food and music, they will care for one side and lose sight of the other; they will complete one task and neglect all the rest. Those who cling to the outward practice of benevolence fail to understand that the sage’s seeming lack of benevolence is precisely how he achieves the highest benevolence.

Benevolence arises from filial piety, and filial piety arises from love. When love reaches the height of filial piety, there is no need to speak of love deliberately; when filial piety reaches the height of benevolence, there is no need to speak of filial piety deliberately. Does the highest benevolence mean that it surpasses filial piety, or falls short of it? The Grand Steward insists on calling filial piety and love the highest benevolence; this is a misunderstanding.

Dark Mountain, at the farthest north, faces south and looks ahead. Even after traveling as far as Ying, the capital of Chu, Dark Mountain still seems distant. This is a metaphor: if one uses filial piety and love to measure the highest benevolence, the more fully filial piety and love are realized, the farther away the highest benevolence seems. A person of the highest benevolence...

Not only should one forget one’s own parents; one should also cause one’s parents to forget oneself. A person who has attained the highest De (Virtue) does not even keep sage kings such as Yao and Shun in mind.

Nor does such a person deliberately set out to benefit the world. Yet his kindness reaches across the ages, while people everywhere neither know they have received his kindness nor remember him. In this way, benevolence and De are always more than sufficient, and love does not arise from a sense of something lacking. What need is there to sigh and speak of benevolence and filial piety? A sigh comes from feeling, within oneself, that something is lacking.

Bixu’s Commentary: The person of utmost benevolence does not love only their own family, so they may seem almost to have no family. This does not mean they truly have no family. To make a point of speaking about filial piety is to act from self-interest; where there is self-interest, there is no utmost filial piety. Respect shows itself in one’s manner, while love comes from within. Acting with intention is easy; acting without intention is harder. When practicing filial piety, it is easy if one does not keep thinking about the fact that one is practicing it. When caring for one’s parents, it is hard if one keeps wondering whether they remember what one has done for them. It is easy for De to benefit one family; it is hard for its teaching to reach the whole world. To forget the one who bestows kindness, and to forget the act of teaching, is called “forgetting both.” To govern through forgetting both is the highest form of governance.

The ruler regards the De of sages as mere chaff, and treats the people like straw dogs—figures made of straw for ancient sacrifices, discarded once the rites were over. Yet acts of benevolence and filial piety have never ceased for even a moment. One simply cultivates De and urges oneself onward. Why would one do this to gain recognition from others?

“Utmost nobility” means that one’s De is complete, so high office and rank cannot sway one’s heart. Thus, one forgets even the state’s titles. “Utmost wealth” means knowing contentment, so gold and jade cannot alter one’s purpose. Thus, one forgets even the state’s possessions. “Utmost fulfillment” means finding satisfaction in what suits oneself, so right and wrong cannot alter one’s nature. Thus, one forgets even fame. This is what it means to hold to the Dao without changing.

Yanzhai’s Commentary: Even tigers and wolves have a sense of benevolence. This is like the saying, “Even a bandit has his code.” Such claims all reject and disparage Confucianism, yet they have a point. “Utmost benevolence has no kin” means that one draws close to one’s kin without thinking of oneself as doing so; this is benevolence at its highest. To say that filial piety is not worth praising does not mean being unfilial. It means that filial piety has become so natural that it need no longer be spoken of. Utmost benevolence surpasses filial piety, and so goes beyond what is ordinarily called filial piety. The view asked about by the Grand Steward, by contrast, does not even reach the standard of filial piety.

Filial piety practiced with reverence still leaves an outward trace; filial piety arising from love allows both sides to forget themselves. To forget one’s parents and to forget the world both mean that having no trace is better than leaving a trace, and acting without intention is better than acting deliberately. If one forgets even the De of Yao and Shun, and bestows kindness across the ages without knowing it, how could one sigh and speak of benevolence and filial piety, or boast about oneself? The world regards filial devotion to parents and elder siblings, integrity, and steadfastness as virtues. In truth, these are no more than people urging one another to endure hardship, and they are not worth excessive praise.

I am supremely noble—why should I care about the state’s titles? I am supremely wealthy—why should I care about the state’s possessions? I…

Was what they strove so hard to pursue fame and honor? They gave these up as well. In this way, the Dao does not change. This is what is meant by following things as they are.

The eight virtues mentioned earlier, such as filial devotion, brotherly respect, chastity, and integrity, are all things people actively strive to do, only to find themselves enslaved by their own efforts. I, by contrast, remain constant in Wuwei (non-action).

Tigers and wolves are fierce beasts, yet they love their young. In that sense, one could say they possess “benevolence.” This reflects the common view that love for one’s family is a sign of benevolence. The Realized Person follows the Grand Steward’s question and deliberately answers in an unexpected way to correct him. Suspecting that this cannot accord with benevolence, the Grand Steward asks what “supreme benevolence” is. The Realized Person replies, “Supreme benevolence has no affection.” This is a profound statement, but the Grand Steward fails to grasp it. In the end, he still takes love for one’s family as benevolence and reduces benevolence to filial devotion. He does not understand that supreme benevolence itself is what deserves reverence; compared with it, filial devotion still falls short.

The image of traveling south yet being unable to see Mount Ming is a way of saying that love for one’s family is still far from the realm of benevolence. Filial devotion expressed through respect for one’s parents focuses on outward courtesy; filial devotion expressed through love for them comes from the heart. If one can forget the thought “I am serving my parents,” caring for them will happen naturally and no longer feel difficult. If one’s parents also forget about oneself, they will not worry over one. If one can forget the whole world as well, one can change along with all things. And if the world also forgets one, that change will be deep and traceless.

This is like the spring breeze and summer rain nourishing all things without claiming credit for their kindness. This is the highest state of benevolence and filial devotion. Thus, the Realized Person’s De surpasses that of Yao and Shun: he does not regard their achievements as anything to boast of, yet his De is enough to shape and bring forth people like Yao and Shun. His kindness benefits all generations, yet he is unaware of having done good; his De extends across the world, yet he does not consider it his own accomplishment. At this point, what need is there for admiration and praise, or for making a special point of speaking about benevolence and filial devotion? The point is that when one grasps the root, there is no need to speak of its particular effects.

People in the world regard filial devotion, brotherly respect, chastity, and integrity among the eight virtues, but often only trap themselves by doing so. To study and attain the realm of virtue is already the greatest honor, wealth, and satisfaction. Looking back at titles, riches, fame, and honor, one can naturally give them all up. This is like the way De, through Wuwei, regards the things that enslave people through their own efforts.

From ancient times to the present, the Dao has never changed. This is precisely what makes it supremely honorable, abundant, and worthy of pursuit.