《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 66

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is the Dao that people talk about?”

Zhuangzi said, “It is everywhere.”

Dongguozi said, “Point to a specific place. That will do.”

Zhuangzi said, “It is in ants.”

Dongguozi asked, “How can it be in something so lowly?”

Zhuangzi said, “It is in weeds such as ti and bai.”

Dongguozi asked again, “Why do your examples grow lower and lower?”

Zhuangzi said, “It is in tiles and bricks.”

Dongguozi asked, “Why lower still?”

Zhuangzi said, “It is in excrement and urine.”

Dongguozi had no reply.

Zhuangzi said, “Your questions, sir, have still not got to the heart of the matter. A market inspector treads on pigs to judge whether they are fat or lean. The more he treads on places like their legs, where fat is harder to build up, the more clearly he can tell whether the pigs are fat overall. So do not insist that the Dao must be absent from certain things. The Dao is never separate from anything. The highest Dao is like this, and so are the grandest words. ‘Zhou,’ ‘bian,’ and ‘xian’ are different names, all meaning that something extends everywhere and includes everything; they point to the same thing.

“Let us roam together in the Palace of Nowhere, and discuss questions without end. Let us abide together in Wuwei (non-action), tranquil and serene, empty and clear, harmonious and at ease. Then my mind will be vacant and unimpeded. Wherever I go, I will not know where I have arrived; when I leave, I will not know where the journey ends. Moving back and forth within this realm, I will not know where I will finally reach. I drift freely through the vast, boundless expanse. The greatest wisdom enters it, yet does not know where it ends.

“What brings all things into being has no boundary with them, while each thing has its own boundary. This is what is called the ‘boundary between things.’ Even where there is no boundary, there is a boundary; where there is a boundary, one can also say there is none. As for fullness and emptiness, decline and extinction, these changes are not truly fullness or emptiness, nor truly decline or extinction. Beginning and end, gathering and dispersal, are all the same.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Zhuangzi first explains in general terms that the Dao is everywhere, but Dongguozi then presses him to say exactly where it is; this fails to reach the heart of the matter. A market inspector treads on a pig to judge whether it is fat or lean. The more he treads on places where fat is hard to build up, the better he can judge the pig’s overall condition. When Dongguozi asks where the Dao is, Zhuangzi therefore names things that are increasingly lowly, showing that the Dao is never separate from anything. If one insists that the Dao is absent from certain things, then it cannot extend everywhere. If one looks for the Dao only in things with form, one cannot attain the realm described by “zhou,” “bian,” and “xian.” Only by considering these principles together can one understand that the Dao is everywhere, open the mind so that nothing hinders it, and roam in the boundless realm.

This passage is all about Wuwei, stillness, and emptiness. If the mind can be empty and still, it will not cling to where it is going, and so it will not know where it has arrived. As soon as one sets out toward something, before the matter has even begun to unfold, the mind is already disturbed. As for coming and going, it is not because…

Knowing what the ear is for does not mean that it must engage in exchanges with anything. Such exchanges are simply part of nature’s ordinary order. Do they have an endpoint? In the vast, open expanse, true great knowledge roams freely, letting change unfold toward wherever it tends, and so it does not know where its endpoint lies.

The source that makes all things what they are is not itself any particular thing, yet it enables each thing to be what it is. Thus it is deep and hard to fathom. All things have their own limits and stand in relation to one another, so they cannot be conflated with the source of all things. This is what is meant by “the limits of things.” To say that there are no limits means that although we speak of “what makes all things what they are,” in the end we are only pointing out that each thing is what it is; the source that makes all things what they are has no definable boundary. Where, then, could its boundary lie? Once we understand that the source that makes all things what they are is not itself any particular thing, and that things cannot bring themselves into being, who, then, brings them into being? Everything simply comes about of itself, all at once and naturally.

Lü’s Commentary: Ants have awareness, though they are exceedingly small. Tī and bài grasses—both small grasses—have no awareness, yet they grow. Tiles and bricks have no life, yet they have form. Urine and dung have form, yet they rot and stink. If these things are the Dao, then the Dao is everywhere. If one insists that the Dao exists only in these four kinds of things, one is treating it as a fixed entity. To regard these things as lowly and keep asking where the Dao is only takes one further from grasping it. The Zhuangzi says, “When feeling a pig’s leg, the lower you go, the more you can tell how fat it is.” This means that the farther down one presses on a pig’s leg, the better one can judge its fatness. If one concludes from this that the Dao is easier to find in lowly places, would that not mistake the Dao for some particular thing? Thus, one should not turn away from the myriad things and then claim that the Dao is everywhere in them. The four kinds of things mentioned above are different from one another, yet all embody the substance of the Dao, just as the expressions “all around,” “everywhere,” and “throughout” point to the same thing.

Roam in the “Palace of Nowhere”—a realm containing no concrete things—and one can apprehend what all things have in common. In that case, which of the four kinds of things is not the Dao? Though all things grow together, they remain together in Wuwei (non-action). Whatever is tranquil, peaceful, and still returns to its source. The source is simply empty, silent, and without form. If my mind does not chase after external things, it goes nowhere and does not know where it has arrived. In coming and going, it does not know where to stop; even as it comes and goes, it does not know where it will finally end. This shows that the Dao has never become any particular thing, and that everything without exception is a manifestation of the Dao.

Thus, in the vast, open expanse, great knowledge enters and roams without knowing its end. From this we can see that the source that makes all things what they are has no limits, as do the myriad things; neither great nor small can measure it. “The limits of things” do not refer to the source that makes all things what they are. “Having limits and yet no limits; having no limits and yet limits” is like form that has not appeared, or form that appears and yet is formless. Increase and decrease belong to the myriad things; what brings about their changes is the Dao. Decline and growth, the turning of root into branch and branch into root, gathering and dispersal—all follow the same principle. So who makes tī and bài grasses what they are, ants what they are, and tiles, stones, urine, and dung what they are?

Things that are precious and occupy the highest rank are, paradoxically, furthest from the Dao. What is lowly and placed beneath is closer to the Dao. People often scorn what is low and humble, without realizing that they should seek the Dao there. Chan Buddhism has a saying, “The Buddha is at the head of the dung heap,” which expresses a similar idea.

The market supervisor, Zheng Ming, was asked how to tell whether a pig was fat. He replied that the harder it was to press down on a part of the pig’s body, the more clearly one could tell whether the animal was stout. When someone asks where the Dao is, yet insists on using something lowly as an example, the point is to show that the Dao does not shun any of the myriad things. If the Dao were said to avoid what is humble, it could not pervade all things.

When the highest Dao is dispersed throughout the myriad things, it appears as their underlying order, or li. When the Great Dao’s words are dispersed in people’s hearts, they become teachings that transform them. “All-encompassing” means leaving nothing out; “pervading” means showing no partiality; and “universal” means harboring no private interests. These expressions all convey that the Dao is present everywhere. Their names differ, but their substance is one and the same.

To speak of being “calm and still” describes the Dao’s original nature joining with the mind. To speak of being “vast and clear” describes the mind joining with Qi. To speak of being “harmonious and unimpeded” describes Qi joining with Shen. And to speak of “my intent becoming empty and boundless” describes Shen joining with emptiness. In this state, wherever one goes, one understands where one is; in coming and going, one does not know where one has come to rest. Even as I move back and forth without pause, I do not know where the journey ends. This is the way things happen naturally.

Thus, one wanders through a boundless expanse, and even great wisdom, upon entering it, does not know where it ends. This is what it means to be able to transform and nurture the myriad things. One who can transform and nurture them becomes one with them, with no boundary between self and other. A “boundary” is the limit that separates one thing from another. The Buddhist terms “the former limit” and “the latter limit,” meaning the edges of the past and the future, refer to the same idea. One who can transform and nurture the myriad things can go beyond such boundaries; to such a person, having boundaries and having none make no difference.

What has boundaries stands in relation to the myriad things; what has no boundaries rests in itself. Once we understand that the myriad things have no fixed boundaries, we must also understand that they cannot make themselves what they are. Who, then, makes them so? All of this arises suddenly and naturally. Fulness and emptiness, decline and extinction, beginnings and endings, gathering and dispersal—all result from the myriad things’ own transformations. What part could I have in them? I need only quiet and empty my mind, and observe the changes of Yin-Yang.

The Bixu Commentary explains that the preceding account did not address the root of the matter, and so it uses the example of “the market supervisor treading on a pig” to clarify it: by pressing the fleshy part below the pig’s leg, one can tell whether its upper body is stout. The Dao’s original nature is empty, yet it is present everywhere. Since emptiness does not shun the myriad things, the myriad things do not depart from emptiness. The Dao makes no distinction between purity and filth, and words can connect the crude with the subtle. Thus the Dao pervades the vast, clear realm, encompasses the myriad things, and nurtures them all.

“Vague,” “indistinct,” and “subtle” are all words describing the Dao (the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe) as profound and difficult to express. The Dao blends into oneness, and one cannot question it to the very end. People roam in the “Palace of Nowhere” (a realm of emptiness without dependence): if we say it has some boundary, it cannot extend everywhere; if we discuss all things as a whole, there is no endpoint. If the Dao had an end, it could not be everywhere.

One may try to abide with the Dao in a state of Wuwei (non-action, not acting willfully). Once one deliberately does something, one can no longer extend everywhere. Calm detachment, harmony, and stillness are all words describing the subtlety of Wuwei. In their daily practice, cultivators of the Dao do no more than let their minds become still and clear. As for where the Dao extends, where it stops, and where it ends, they do not know. Even when moving back and forth through a vast, boundless realm, they still do not know its limits. This state cannot be reached through knowledge and speculation.

The Dao’s essence has no boundaries, and its transformation and nurturing of all things has no boundaries either. Boundaries exist in particular things, not in the Dao. Because the Dao has no boundaries, it can contain everything that does; if the Dao itself had boundaries, it could not contain what is boundless. The Dao is said to be full or empty, but fullness and emptiness are not its true substance. All things show signs of decline and passing away, but there is no fixed principle of irreversible decay. The Dao transforms and nurtures all things, and one may speak of beginnings and ends, but the Dao itself has neither. The forms of things gather and disperse, but their nature does not. Thus we know that the Dao and all things have never been separate from one another, and its wondrous workings are everywhere.

Yanzhai says: “Root” means the fundamental principle. Your question has not touched the root, so I have answered in increasingly simple terms. If you hold no fixed assumptions about what must be, then none of the principles of the myriad things will be left out. The words “all around,” “everywhere,” and “entirely” are borrowed to show that the principle is the same in all things, whether fine or coarse. The “Palace of Nowhere” expresses where the mind finds its home, and also implies not fixing it on any one thing. When we consider all things together, there is no distinction between fine and coarse—so where could there be an endpoint or a limit?

“Calm,” “still,” “detached,” “clear,” “harmonious,” and “unconfined” all describe the subtlety of Wuwei. If I can explain matters to this degree and convey the guiding principle of empty stillness and single-mindedness, my wish will be fulfilled. That is why the text says “vast and still”: it means the mind has settled into quiet clarity. In the phrase “Vast and still—my mind is settled,” the word “settled” should be read as a particle meaning “indeed.”

Since there is no fixed destination, where could one arrive? Though things come and go, they have no fixed place of rest. I move back and forth among them without knowing their endpoint; I see them wandering through a vast realm, but do not know where its limits lie. Attaining great knowledge—the wisdom that penetrates the Great Dao—means having no boundaries along with the Dao and all things, and changing together with them. “Not being a thing” means not being confined to any particular thing, and thus being able to transform and move all things. If one has not yet changed together with all things, one still has boundaries and limits; this is what is called the “boundary of things,” the limits of particular things. To reach the end and then enter the boundless is to be free of the limits of things. Understanding this boundlessness makes it possible to penetrate the realm beyond bounded things.

The fullness of all things...

Emptiness and fullness, flourishing and decline, root and branch, gathering and dispersal all seem to follow discernible signs, yet they cannot be traced to their ultimate source. This is what is meant by “where there is no boundary, there is a boundary; where there is a boundary, there is no boundary.”

The Dao exists throughout the world as water exists within the earth; its substance and nature pervade the entire realm of things. The saying that “the Dao is in tiles and rubble, in weeds and grain” speaks of the humblest things. From this, we can infer that the Dao is everywhere: what thing does not possess it? People differ in their nature, and so they see differently. The sage sees the Dao without clinging to things; ordinary people see only things and not the Dao. This is because external things obscure human understanding, not because the Dao is sometimes present and sometimes absent.

The question just raised is shallow and cannot reach the Dao’s true nature. It is even less insightful than a pig keeper’s knowledge of how to fatten pigs. If you think the Dao avoids lowly things, you cannot understand how it pervades all things. Blend the three together and wander in the “land of nowhere”—a realm of nothingness and freedom from constraint. Where, then, could the Dao come to an end?

What are called serenity, stillness, clarity, emptiness, and ease all finally return to silence. My intention reaches everywhere, yet I do not know where I am going. To roam in spirit through the eight directions, arriving wherever a thought turns, and not knowing where to stop or when the journey will end: these are ways of describing the Dao’s inexhaustible workings. The Dao transforms and nurtures the myriad things, without any boundary between itself and them; it runs through life and brings all things into being. Each thing has its own boundary, meaning that every kind of thing has its own limits. This is what is called an “edge.” Where could the Dao have an edge? “Where there is no boundary, there is a boundary” means that the Dao disperses and becomes the myriad things. “Where there is a boundary, there is no boundary” means that the myriad things preserve themselves and ultimately return to the Dao.

The Dao disperses and becomes the myriad things by flowing downstream from its source, in accordance with nature. For things to return whole to the Dao is harder: they must swim upstream to return to their roots and leave behind the deviations brought about by human contrivance. If one can understand that fullness and emptiness are not caused by fullness and emptiness themselves, and gathering and dispersal are not caused by gathering and dispersal themselves, how can one know that the furthest reaches of human action might not turn back into nature?

Ehe Gan and Shennong studied under Lao Longji. One day, Shennong leaned on a table, shut the doors, and fell asleep in broad daylight. Ehe Gan pushed open the door and said, “Lao Long is dead!” Shennong leaned against the table, picked up his staff, and stood. Then he suddenly put the staff down and laughed. “Heaven knows how crude and neglectful I am, so it has abandoned me and let him die.” When Yangang Diao heard this, he said, “One who has realized the Great Dao…” The original text ends here.

This is the Dao on which the gentlemen of the world rely. Today, when people speak of the Dao, even if they have grasped one ten-thousandth of it at the tip of a fine autumn hair, they already know to put away their arrogant words and die. How much more so for one who has truly realized the Great Dao?

The Dao has no visible form and no audible sound. In human discussions, it is called obscure and profound; yet any Dao that can be discussed is already not the Dao itself.

Thus, Great Clarity asked Boundlessness, “Do you know the Dao?” Boundlessness said, “I do not know.” Great Clarity then asked Nonaction. Nonaction said, “I know the Dao.” Great Clarity asked, “Does the Dao you know have any definite principles?” Nonaction replied, “Yes.” Great Clarity asked again, “What are those principles?” Nonaction said, “I know that the Dao can make things exalted or humble, bring them together or scatter them. These are the principles of the Dao that I know.” After hearing this, Great Clarity went to ask Beginninglessness: “If that is so, Boundlessness does not know, while Nonaction does. Which of them is right?”

Beginninglessness said, “Not knowing is profound; knowing is shallow. Not knowing is to be within the Dao; knowing is to be outside it.” Hearing this, Great Clarity sighed and said, “Is not knowing what it means to know? Is knowing what it means not to know? Who can understand this ‘knowing through not knowing’?”

Beginninglessness said, “The Dao cannot be heard with the ears; what is heard is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be seen with the eyes; what is seen is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be spoken in words; what is spoken is not the Dao. To know that forms each take shape, yet have no fixed form, is to come close to the Dao. The Dao should not be confined by a name.”

Beginninglessness continued, “When someone asks about the Dao and receives an answer, the one who answers does not understand the Dao. Even the one who asks has not yet heard of the Great Dao. There is nothing to ask about the Dao, and nothing to answer when asked about it. To treat a question about the Dao as a genuine question is to press the Dao to its limits; to treat an answer as a genuine answer is to seal off the Dao within. A person who answers from within that sealed enclosure to a question that seeks to exhaust the Dao can neither see the cosmos outwardly nor understand the Great Beginning inwardly—the primal state before Heaven and Earth were divided. Such a person has not transcended the Kunlun Mountains, nor wandered through the Great Void.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: After hearing this, Jianwu awakened and understood that death was nothing to fear. He let go of his staff and laughed. Those from Jianwu onward regard the highest teachings as wild talk and refuse to believe them.

One who has truly realized the Great Dao is revered as the master of all people. Yet the Great Dao cannot be attained through words; it can only be realized for oneself. Even obscurity and profundity cannot stand for the Dao, which shows that the Dao has no fixed name. People attain the Dao not through knowledge, but through a tranquil state of mind. Only by silently entering a realm beyond hearing and sight can one approach the Dao.

Forms merely appear in their own forms. But if we ask what makes forms take shape, in the end we find no substance there. The Dao has the name “Dao,” yet no substance corresponds to that name. Because one does not know, then…

I asked, but there was no response. This is not something one can obtain by asking, and in the end, nothing can be heard. There was no question and no response.

This speaks of ending human learning and instruction and returning to nature. To force a question is like treating emptiness as something real and pretending there is a response; this has already strayed from the Dao (the Way). As for those who follow Heaven and Earth, roam through the void, travel without limit, and enter a state of deep, still obscurity, they simply do not respond.

Lü’s commentary: Those who realize the Great Dao are what the gentlemen of the world rely upon. Thus, whether a sage establishes a royal reign or brings the myriad things into being, neither is possible apart from the Great Dao. If one’s understanding of the Dao has not reached even one ten-thousandth of a hair’s breadth, then the Dao’s subtlety is so fine that it cannot be divided. This is what is meant by “undivided focus.” Even so, one must learn to rein in one’s wild words, and even die for doing so. How much more so for those who truly realize the Great Dao and undergo transformations without end?

Lao Longji, a figure from ancient legend, restrained his wild words and died precisely because the Dao cannot be perceived by the ears or eyes. People call it “the obscure and unseen,” meaning that it cannot be discussed in words. When one speaks about the Dao, what one speaks of is no longer the Dao itself.

Taiqing, a personal name, heard that “speaking about the Dao is not the same as being the Dao,” and concluded that it was enough simply to pursue the Dao without end. But the Dao’s boundlessness cannot be understood through knowledge. Wuwei (non-action) does not mean doing nothing. To understand that there is nothing worth deliberately doing, and so to practice Wuwei, is true understanding. Otherwise, one is merely lumping everything together.

If one thinks the Dao can be esteemed or despised, gathered or dispersed, one is still subject to the fixed order of change. “The beginningless” means tracing back to where all beginnings come from. Therefore, understand this: to think you know is to be shallow; not knowing is inner understanding, while thinking you know is merely outer knowledge.

Taiqing sighed and said, “Not knowing is to know the boundless; knowing is, in fact, not knowing Wuwei.” Who can understand this “understanding through not knowing”? It is a return to the beginningless.

The Dao cannot be grasped by hearing or seeing. When we speak of hearing, seeing, and speaking, we must ask: “What is heard in hearing? What is seen in seeing? Who is speaking in speech?” Only when there is form can there be a name; what gives form its shape is itself formless. The Dao should not be confined by a name. Thus, hearing what is heard is not true hearing; seeing what is seen is not true seeing; speaking what is spoken is not true speech. From this we know that asking a question and giving an answer do not amount to understanding the Dao. Even someone who asks about the Dao may never have heard of it: the Dao offers no point at which a question can be asked, so the questioner has no way to obtain an answer; nor does the Dao offer any point at which a response can be given, so the respondent has nothing to rely upon.

All this is simply because the Dao has never been an entity that can be grasped. Ask “nothing” a question, and even if you ask to the very end, you still will not understand its boundlessness; there will be nowhere left to direct a question. Respond to “nothing,” and if inwardly you have not yet understood it…

If the mind has never accepted that something exists, then there is no way to answer the endless questions about what lies within. Unless one observes the vastness of the cosmos and understands the Primordial Beginning—the start before Heaven and Earth were divided and before the myriad things came into being—one cannot grasp the extent of time and space. Unless one crosses the Kunlun Mountains and roams through the Great Void, the boundless sky, one cannot know how high the forms of things can rise, or understand that Heaven, Earth, and all things are contained within it.

The Commentary on Doubting the Solitary says: One who realizes the Dao and becomes one with it cannot be compared with someone who tries to understand the Dao through study. Calling what has neither form nor sound “Yi” and “Xi” means that it is difficult to see or hear. Even when people speak of the Dao as “dark and obscure,” they still have not spoken of the Dao itself. Whatever can be ranked as noble or lowly, gathered in or spread abroad, belongs to the Dao’s workings and manifestations. What cannot be defined as noble or lowly, gathered in or spread abroad, is the Dao’s original substance. Saying nothing and knowing nothing instead reveal the Dao’s true nature. Hence the question: “Who understands the wisdom that does not take knowing for knowledge?”

The Dao has no sound, color, or name, so it cannot be directly seen, heard, or spoken of. Anything that can make a sound, display a color, or be named is already something that can be known. Once one recognizes the formless basis on which formed things depend, the Dao should no longer be fixed with a name. The questioner, then, has not truly asked about the Dao, and the respondent may not have spoken of it either. If the one asking about the Dao does not yet truly understand it, how much less can the one who merely answers? Rather than pursue questions such as “endless” and “without inner boundaries,” it is better neither to ask nor to answer. To respond by not responding, and to answer by having no question, may be what accords with the Dao’s mystery. Without observing outwardly the vastness of the cosmos, understanding inwardly the mysteries of the Primordial Beginning, crossing the Kunlun Mountains, and roaming through the Great Void, one cannot transcend the limits of the earth and leave the bounds of the heavens behind. Who but someone who has attained the numinous realm could do this?

The Commentary of the Blue Void says: Gentlemen throughout the world regard the Dao as the teacher of emperors through the ages. What people receive from the Dao today is no more than something as tiny as a hair from an autumn animal, and they already know to keep it hidden and unrevealed. How much more so the Dao’s complete original substance! “Deep and dark” refers to a realm beyond the reach of the ears and eyes; yet it is still wrong to speak of “deep and dark” as though it were the Dao. Taiqing asked “Endlessness,” who replied, “I do not know.” The moment one claims to know, there is already an end. Taiqing then asked “Wuwei,” who replied: Understand the Dao, and you will value it; lose the Dao, and you will hold it in contempt. Keep hold of the Dao, and it gathers in; let it unfold, and it spreads abroad. These are all workings and manifestations of the Dao, not its profound inner substance. Knowing these outward appearances is shallow and external; the Dao’s nameless, constant course is the profound inner principle of its mystery. Once a question falls into specific words and traces, it is difficult to grasp the mystery. One who truly understands the Dao will ask no more questions; on hearing of the Dao, there is no need to ask. With neither question nor answer, it is like how the flavors of the Zi and Mian rivers are easy to discuss, while the tastes of sweetness and bitterness…

To ask because one does not know is called “no-question.” To ask by means of “no-question” leads to… To respond despite not knowing how to answer is called “no-response.” To respond by means of “no-response” is to have nothing to say.

If the heart has not truly perceived the Great Dao, yet one uses such a response to meet questions pursued to their very end, it is like asking a blind person to speak about beautiful patterns, or a deaf person to comment on the notes of court music. How could they know the vastness of the cosmos, the stillness of the primordial beginning, the towering heights of Kunlun, or the far reaches of the Great Void?

Yanzhai says: When someone has realized the Great Dao, the gentlemen of the world will turn to him. Shennong has not yet seen the Dao, yet he already knows that the Old Dragon—here, a recluse who embodied the Dao—died because he concealed his “greatness.” How much more, then, would those who have truly realized the Dao, and are like the Old Dragon, understand? Here, “mad” means “great.” The general point is that the Great Dao is not expressed through words; concealing one’s words is what accords with the Dao.

The Great Dao has neither form nor sound: it can neither be seen nor heard. To speak of the Dao by calling something hidden and profound “the Dao” is still not to speak of the Dao. This is what is meant by “one who speaks does not know.” Form and sound belong to “being”; what is hidden and profound belongs to “nonbeing.” To know that “being” can return to “nonbeing” is still inferior to forgetting even “nonbeing.” In other words, Shennong’s words still have not reached the Great Dao.

Nobility and lowliness, gathering and dispersal, are matters that can be listed one by one. True knowledge, however, is a subtle state that cannot be named or spoken of. What gives form to the myriad things is itself formless; by not becoming any particular thing, it enables each thing to become what it is. The Great Dao should not be named, nor treated as an object set in opposition to other things. Once a name is assigned to the Dao and set against it, one has departed from its original reality.

The Great Dao has no questions and answers. If I ask and answer, I have already departed from the Dao; the one who asks is likewise outside it. One who pursues a question to its end sees only the exchange of questions and answers itself. This is to cling to words and seek to know the Great Dao through knowledge and opinion. “No inner” means that the heart has not yet attained the Great Dao; once one has truly attained the Dao, one will not respond in this way.

This chapter explains that the Great Dao is so vast that questions and answers cannot fully express it. All that sages can do in a lifetime is realize the Great Dao. Among the myriad things, human beings are as small as a single hair; before the Great Dao, they are just as small. That is why, when the Old Dragon died, Shennong sighed. The one mourned by Yangang was the cultivator of the Dao, the Old Dragon. Though his Dao was hidden and unseen, it still existed.

People in the world think that the hidden realm, beyond the reach of sight and hearing, is what accords with the Dao. This is not truly understanding the Dao: they have seen “nonbeing,” but cannot yet forget even “nonbeing.” Taiqing asked about “the infinite” simply because he did not know. He then asked about “Wuwei (non-action),” but this was only a question about certain principles concerning Wuwei. Next, he asked about “the beginningless”…

The Yellow Emperor said, “Not knowing is true forgetting. Next comes knowing something. In the end, one is farther from the Dao.”

Then Taiqing, looking up, sighed: “Who can understand the true knowledge within ‘not knowing’?” The point is that there is no need to pursue knowledge deliberately; one naturally reaches a state in harmony with the Dao.

Only then did Wushi realize that the Dao cannot be explained through hearing, seeing, or words. The “formless” that gives shape to all things is like the “unborn” from which all things grow: the Dao cannot be grasped in this way or defined by a name. Thus neither the one who asks nor the one who answers has yet heard the Great Dao. If they had truly heard it, they would ask no more questions and give no answers. When someone asks despite the other person not having asked, they use the question to pursue the Dao; when someone answers despite the other person not having responded, it shows they have no settled view of their own. How, then, could they know the Dao in its greatest, most enduring, most profound, and most expansive form?

The phrase “looked within and sighed” does not make sense in context. It should be “looked up and sighed.” “Looked up” is the same as “raised one’s gaze”; the wording here was a copying error.