《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 71

The body of the Dao runs through the distinctions among all things, as well as their coming into being and their destruction. Why do people dislike distinctions? Because once they become attached to them, they feel that all things are separate from one another. Why do people dislike things being complete? Because when they seek perfection single-mindedly, they always feel that something still needs to be added.

To abandon one’s proper place in pursuit of completeness is instead to lose that place. Failing to remain where one belongs brings death close at hand. If one does not flaunt oneself recklessly or seek things outside, one may be said to have gained life. If one wears away one’s inborn nature completely, how is one any different from a ghost, even if still alive?

If beings with physical form can keep their minds open and remain untroubled by external things, their lives can be preserved and their bodies kept at peace. Things suddenly come into being without any fixed source; they suddenly die without any fixed cause. To say that something “appears” is simply to say that its real form has become visible. Where it appears from, however, has no identifiable foundation or opening.

“Yu” means space, encompassing above and below and the four directions; space has no bounds. “Zhou” means time, encompassing past and present; time has no end. Life and death, appearance and disappearance, occur naturally, without any visible form or ruler behind them.

The gateway through which things appear and disappear is called the “Heavenly Gate” (the source of their coming and going and transformation). The Heavenly Gate is originally without form or trace, and is called “nonbeing.” All things emerge from nonbeing. Being cannot create “something” from what already exists; it must emerge from a formless, traceless source. But this does not mean that “nothingness” itself can produce “something.” What the sage grasps and abides by is precisely this principle.

The gist of Guo Xiang’s commentary is this: coming into being and destruction have no fixed, unchanging boundary; the Dao runs through them. People become attached to their own distinctions, and only then seek completeness. When their proper place is not yet secure, they pursue perfection single-mindedly and come to dislike their own incompleteness. Life and death, coming forth and withdrawing, all happen naturally, and no fixed source can be sought for them. “Heavenly Gate” is simply a name for the changes through which things gather and disperse, appear and disappear. Since there is no actual gateway, “nothingness” cannot be treated as something that creates all things.

If “being” were to return to “nonbeing,” it would vanish completely. If “nonbeing” too were to vanish completely, then “being” would suddenly appear. This is why the sage lets all things unfold naturally, without deliberately bringing them into being.

Lü’s commentary says: All things embody the Dao, so there is no absolute coming into being or destruction. The boundaries of things are precisely what allow them to connect with one another; their coming into being is also what leads them toward destruction. Why do people cling to boundaries? Because they first assume that all things have complete forms of their own, and then distinguish them on that basis. Why do they assume that all things have complete forms of their own? Because they have already made distinctions. To distinguish things according to their complete forms is to compare one form with another and create differences between them. Once differences arise, things are no longer part of an interconnected whole. If the distinct completeness of each thing does not arise naturally, then coming into being and destruction become wholly separate. This is what causes the Dao to fragment.

Only when people distinguish things without knowing that they are complete in themselves, or see that they are complete without knowing what makes them so, do they feel blocked at every turn and unable to connect. The Dao makes no distinction between death and life. All things emerge from the Dao and come to life, but ultimately must return to a state in which they have never been alive. Only by understanding this can life be considered complete. If something appears and does not know how to return, then even while alive it already bears the signs of death. If, after appearing, it takes what it has gained to be life, then it is acting deliberately and clinging to what it has acquired. In that case, it is only natural that it should meet death. Even if its bodily form disappears, if something real remains, it cannot return to a state of nothingness. How is appearing without knowing how to return any different from appearing and then clinging to what one has gained? Both are ultimately the same: they end in the signs of death.

Only by using what has form to understand the formless Dao can the mind and spirit become settled. Once settled, they are no longer disturbed by life and death. The appearance of all things must have a source, but things that emerge from the Dao have no fixed source to begin with. Whatever enters a place must have a gateway, but when things return to the Dao, they have no fixed gateway. Anything with a real, tangible form must occupy a place; yet what appears from a source with no root may be real and tangible without having a fixed location. Anything that grows must have a source; yet what enters through a gateway with no opening may grow without having a fixed starting point. Thus, the scripture should logically say: “Things can appear from a source with no root and grow; things can enter through a gateway with no opening and take on tangible form.” This would make the passage complete in meaning.

“Yu” refers to the six directions—above, below, and the four cardinal directions—and thus to space and location. But I call what is above me “above,” while something higher than me can call where I am “below.” The same applies to what is below and to the four directions. How, then, can any location be fixed? “Zhou” refers to all time, past and present, which stretches on without end. We call ancient times the past, but those who come after us will also call our present the past. Where, then, are the fixed beginning and end? When you understand this, the universe can no longer confine you. You can pass through the six directions and move freely in all four quarters, present everywhere. Even amid death and life, coming forth and entering in, your form cannot be seen. This is called the “Heavenly Gate,” the gateway leading to the Dao. The Heavenly Gate is “nonbeing and being.” As for “being,” it cannot…

All things under heaven are born from “being,” and “being” is born from “nonbeing.” The “nonbeing” spoken of here does not mean simply “nothing exists.” It is true “nonbeing” only when the distinction between “being” and “not being” has dissolved as well. The sage dwells in this state and moves among all things. However they may change, they cannot make him flee from them or cause him to lose himself.

Yi Du’s Commentary: The Dao runs through all things. The limits Heaven assigns to each person ultimately arise from that person’s own nature, while the Dao runs through the formation and destruction of all things. If people are not content with their allotted limits and are always seeking completeness, they will come to resent those limits. If their limits are incomplete but they insist on pursuing completeness, they will also resent what they call completeness. If they could truly be complete and have nothing more to seek, what would there be to resent?

All things arise from the Dao. If they cannot return to the Dao, they take on a ghostlike state; if they can return, they do not depart from the realm of the numinous. To depart from one’s source and suffer loss is called “death”; the way of the numinous does not die. If the body is destroyed but one remains attached to material existence, one is like a ghost. Only when one has a body without being burdened by it, and often appears amid formlessness, can the spirit become settled.

All things appear suddenly, yet their root cannot be seen; they disappear just as suddenly, and where they go cannot be seen. “Emergence” refers to birth, and “entry” to death. Each thing has its own true nature, and wherever it may be, it does not depart from the state it occupies. The Dao runs through beginning and end and is the root of all things. Once things appear, they have their true nature; yet this nature is originally empty and still, so it is said to have no visible apertures.

All things with form exist within the cosmos, but their birth and death, their emergence and entry, are difficult to see. This is called the “Gate of Heaven.” The Gate of Heaven is the passage through which the spirit moves and changes, opening and closing, and through which all things emerge and enter. Yet its root is originally nonbeing. Being must arise from nonbeing; to reach the highest state, one must not cling even to “nonbeing.” The sage dwells in this state, so nothing can harm him.

Bixu’s Commentary: The Great Dao runs through everything and includes both being and nonbeing, yet each thing has its own limits, and they cannot all be treated alike. Fish, for example, can live when they find water, while ants die in it. Their natures were different from the outset; this is an inherent distinction among all things.

To speak of resenting “completeness” means that even if one resents it inwardly, one cannot escape the karma formed in the past. Therefore, if one’s true nature has entirely vanished and one cannot return to the source, Yin energy takes advantage of the opening, and a ghostlike state appears. “Opening the apertures to accomplish things” means revealing traces and relying on external things to get things done. To gain something is called “emergence”; to lose something is to suffer loss, and this is called “meeting death.” When Heaven-given brightness has gone out, even if material existence remains, it is no different from something shrouded in darkness.

Those who cultivate the Dao take emptiness as their own being and “nonbeing” as their inner state. How could they fail to be settled? Creation has no visible root, and the Great Void has no apertures. Though root and apertures cannot be seen, the principle is real.

People do not yet know where this subtle root lies. It neither withers prematurely nor comes to an end. This is called “that which endures forever yet cannot be seen.”

Consider the beginning and end of things: each changes distinctly and independently. This is “what has no aperture yet is real.” The four directions and the space above and below have no limit, and reality has no limit either. The past and present have no bounds, and reality has no bounds either. Though we speak of life and death, of coming forth and going away, no trace of life and death or coming and going can be found. Thus it is said that the “Heavenly Gate” is the portal of transformation. The creator is not any particular thing; all things with form come into being naturally, and the so-called “Heavenly Gate” is not an actual portal.

This means that “being” cannot bring forth the myriad things on its own; their source lies in “nonbeing.” “Movement” cannot change forms by itself; the source of change lies in “stillness.” Yet whether we speak of being or nonbeing, we can easily fall into traces that may be pursued. So “utter nonbeing” is used to explain the principle of “wondrous being,” and the two are brought together as one. The sage rests the heart in this state and moves in accord with transformation.

Yanzhai says: People divide completion and destruction into two separate things. From the perspective of the Dao, they are one; this is understanding the distinctions among things. To draw a line between self and others in the heart is to become partial, always seeking to secure one’s own advantage. All things ultimately return to nonbeing, but those who seek only private gain covet tangible things. For this reason, people of the Dao reject such conduct.

By responding to external things while returning to one’s original heart, one can come to understanding, and the mind can communicate with the spirit. Those who chase after external things without turning back sink into the realm of ghosts. If one does not judge all things by right and wrong, the heart retains its vitality. But if one clings to right and wrong and cannot change, the heart is as if dead. When the heart rushes outward, is governed by external things, and holds fast to its own views, it becomes a heart close to death; it cannot be brought back to life.

Being and nonbeing are truths of Heaven and Earth. If, out of selfishness, one denies nonbeing while craving all kinds of tangible things and treating them as real, one is no different from a ghost. Only by grasping the principle of the formless through the images of form can one see that principle with certainty. The Buddhist saying, “Empty everything that exists; do not treat what does not exist as though it were real,” expresses the same idea.

All things must have a beginning, yet the source of that beginning is unknowable. All things must have an end, yet one cannot see where they finally return. The principle of reality exists, but it has no fixed place where it can be sought. This has always been so, yet people cannot see its beginning or end. Here, the boundless expanse of the cosmos serves as a metaphor for the Dao’s vastness and enduring nature. The life and death, coming forth and going away, of all things each have their source, yet leave no visible trace. This is the subtlety of transformation.

The “Heavenly Gate” is natural transformation. All things come forth from it and return to it, so it is called a “gate.” Everything with form arises from the formless, but this so-called “nonbeing” is itself not an actual thing. The sage rests the heart in nonbeing, which is what is meant by “lodging in the hidden.”

Dao is grounded in “the One,” the fundamental whole. Its true substance is undivided, flowing through all things and giving rise to them; yet in doing so, its substance also differentiates. If so, is the formation of the myriad things not a diminishment of the Great Dao? Why, then, should we dislike differentiation? Because each thing receives the Dao’s Qi (vital energy), and there is nothing that does not possess the Dao. The sage worries that the great multitude of things will cause the Dao to become ever more dispersed. Once the original simplicity is lost, it is difficult to recover. Why, then, should we dislike the presence of all things? Because people cannot forget external things and thereby accord with the Dao. The more completely they equip themselves with what sustains them, the further they stray from the principles that nourish life. There are cases in which material goods abound while the body receives no nourishment.

The Dao flows through all things as water flows through the hundred rivers. The Dao does not intend to flow through all things, yet none fails to receive it. Water does not intend to flow through the hundred rivers, yet every river receives it. When the Dao flows through all things, the generative virtue by which things come into being becomes manifest; when the rivers join with water, water’s power to carry all things is fulfilled. If so, why dislike the differentiation of things? And why dislike the presence of all things?

This is the same idea expressed in “On the Equality of Things,” a chapter of the Zhuangzi: “Differentiation is completion, and completion is destruction.” The myriad things are neither completed nor destroyed; in the end, they can all flow together again as one. All things originate in the Dao, yet they do not know how to return to the Great Dao. This means that people forget the Dao and pursue external things, watching themselves move toward the place of death. “This” refers to the Dao. If being born is understood as attaining the Dao, then entering death is likewise following the Dao. To “attain death” is to arrive at the death that is one’s due. This is akin to treating one’s life well and, in doing so, treating one’s death well too.

People of the world damage their true nature and take external things to be real. Even while their bodies remain alive, they are no different from the dead; this is what is meant by “walking corpses.” Only by using what has form to illuminate what is formless can both body and mind become empty and clear. How could external things disturb such a person? Human life does not arise without a source; people simply do not know where it comes from. Nor does its return lack a gateway; people simply do not know where it goes. If body and mind were truly both empty, they would be vacant, still, and numinously clear, silently illuminating all things. When something external appeared, they would reflect it like a mirror, without missing the slightest detail. How much more, then, would they know the source of their own arising and the place of their return?

Here, “real” refers to true nature, and “source” means where true nature itself comes from. True nature manifests everywhere and has no fixed location: in the eyes it is called seeing, and in the ears it is called hearing. These are examples. The source of true nature means that it governs the body and differentiates the myriad things, yet no one knows its beginning or end. It has endured since remote antiquity without growing old.

Some things come into being, yet have no traceable source. Even when we say they have been born, we cannot pursue them back to their root; we can only say that they flow along with change. Some things enter, yet have no gateway…

Some have indeed said: enter death, and still you will not find its gate; all you need do is remain pure, true, and undeluded about the Dao. The words added by Lü make the meaning clear: “the place with nowhere to dwell” should be understood as “space,” where people live and therefore find stability; “without beginning or end” should be understood as “time,” through which people come and go and therefore find something to rely on. How could the cosmos fail to contain people and things? And how could people and things exist apart from the cosmos?

The life and death, coming forth and withdrawing, of the myriad things must have some governor and sustaining root, yet no one can see that root’s form. This is called the “Gate of Heaven.” Since the myriad things come forth and withdraw through it, we call it a “gate” for lack of a better word; in truth, there is no actual doorway. To cling to “nothingness” is still to fall into its opposition, “being.” Only when both “being” and “nothingness” are dispelled does one reach the wondrous realm of true emptiness, which contains all things and all principles. The sage dwells at ease in the realm beyond being and nonbeing, and so there is nothing he cannot possess. Here, “piao” is interchangeable with “biao,” meaning an extremity.

The people of antiquity attained a very high level of understanding. What counts as the highest level? Some held that at the beginning there were no things at all: this was the highest and most thorough understanding, beyond which nothing could go. Next came those who held that things truly exist, and that life is dispersal while death is return. Next came those who said that at first there was nothing, but later life came to be, and before long life turns to death: they took “nothingness” as the beginning, life as the substance, and death as the end. Who can understand that being and nothingness, life and death, are always one and the same, and hold fast to a single root? I would gladly be friends with such a person.

These three accounts differ, yet all arise from the same clan. The Zhao, Jing, Zhu, Dai, Jia, and other lineages, for example, each had their own fief, yet all belonged to one clan. Someone was born with a birthmark and suddenly cried out, “The mark has moved!” But this is not what is meant by “movement”; even so, the matter remains hard to understand. The sacrificial cured meat includes the innards and legs: some parts can be separated, while others cannot. A visitor walks through the bedrooms and ancestral shrine, then reaches a place where people rest. Someone concludes from this, “This is movement.” Let me explain: this claim takes life as its foundation and knowledge as its measure, then uses those standards to judge right and wrong. Can they really determine names and realities? It also takes oneself as the standard and makes oneself the boundary for others, even exacting death as payment for that boundary. If so, usefulness is taken for intelligence and uselessness for folly; ease of passage is taken for honor and hardship for disgrace. People today make these shifts in their judgments of right and wrong. Like the cicada and the little dove, they recognize “sameness” only at one and the same level.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Life is the reconvergence of what has dispersed; death is the change by which what remains melts away and disperses. Though one may wish to regard life and death as the same, distinctions are already present between them. Thus some take life and death as being and nothingness, some regard them as a unity, and others level out their distinctions. These three accounts differ, but whether or not they can exhaust the matter… (The original text ends here.)

They can all set aside right and wrong and keep them from settling in the heart. That is why the text compares them to branches of a noble clan: the Zhao and Jing families, and the four lineages Zhu, Dai, Jia, and Feng, all belong to the same clan, though some are more closely related than others.

What one first takes to be right may later seem to have gone astray. This is like a mottled mark growing on the body (the character yan 黬): as Qi gathers, distinctions appear, and what each person takes to be “right” is not fixed. Hence the saying, “What is right shifts with circumstances.” If one speaks only of what was first judged right and does not explain how that judgment later changes, people will not see the shift; that is why this example is given.

The animals used in the La sacrifice have parts that serve different purposes. A palace may be used for feasting and dwelling, or for sacrifice, but it also has places by the walls and areas used as latrines. As their uses differ, so too do judgments: a palace used for feasting, dwelling, and sacrifice takes on a different meaning when one comes to its walls or latrines. Right and wrong, this and that, depend on one another and turn into one another; there is no absolute distinction between them.

All things are changing at every moment; wherever there is life, each thing has its own place. People know different things, yet each takes their own understanding as the standard. If one follows the changes in right and wrong without clinging to either side, there is no fixed right or wrong. All things have their own names and realities, and each takes its own judgment to be enough to decide what is right and wrong. As a result, they cannot grasp the reasoning to which others hold. It is not enough simply to abandon one particular judgment; one must also be at ease with whatever circumstances one encounters. If, like people of remote antiquity, one does not cling to “right” and “wrong,” what could there be to shift? Even if people agree on some point of sameness, they are still like the cicada and the little dove, each confined to its own view.

Lü’s commentary says: “Though the three accounts differ, they ultimately return to the Dao, just as the Zhao and Jing families and the four lineages Zhu, Dai, Jia, and Feng all belong to the same noble clan, though some are more closely related than others. Before the myriad things appeared, life had already come into being, like a mottled mark growing on the skin: the mark is not the body itself. The two schools divide the Dao’s wholeness in their explanations. One says that when the myriad things came into being, life was lost; the other says that when there was originally nothing, life suddenly appeared. But how the whole transforms into the manifestation of life cannot be clearly seen. At the La sacrifice, various offerings are laid out. Though the parts of the sacrificial animal are also offerings, their low position makes them unsuitable for cutting up and taking; and though a latrine in a palace is part of the building, its lowly location makes it unsuitable for viewing. The Dao is present everywhere, so one cannot say that it truly shifts from place to place. The two schools each cling to one side; to debate right and wrong on this basis only shows that their understanding remains incomplete.”

This claim that “rightness” is a fixed standard began when people came to have life. Because they were alive, they took life as their foundation; life gave rise to perception, so they made perception their guide. People then used their perceptions to compete with one another, and disputes over right and wrong multiplied. Once their ideas of right and wrong shifted, they began to value status and material gain, and to regard themselves as the ones who were right. In time, the flaw deepened: people treated what they themselves judged to be “right” as a code of conduct and insisted on upholding it, even at the cost of their lives. They did not realize that the supposed “self” might not be a fixed, unchanging entity at all. Whether they were appointed or cast aside, whether their circumstances were difficult or favorable, none of it was under their control. Yet they arbitrarily divided people into clever and foolish, honored and disgraced. This is the failing of people today, who treat standards of right and wrong as fixed and unchanging. It is like a little dove that knows only the world among the mugwort bushes. How could it know of a vast world like the Celestial Lake?

Commentary by Yidu: “Before anything existed” means that before the primordial beginning, there were no things. The primordial beginning was the start of Qi (vital energy). Qi has Yin and Yang, and so things came to have life and death. Things arise from “being,” and “being” arises from “nonbeing.” Perception comes with life: when people acquire perception, they lose their original state of emptiness. After death, perception returns to its source. Yet the moment we speak of life and death, we have already distinguished the two.

Once things appeared, life began from “nonbeing”; after life came, death soon followed. “Nonbeing” is like the head, which is born first; “things that exist” are like the body; and death is like the buttocks. Though they come in sequence, all three belong to a single body. The four clans, including Zhao and Jing, originally shared one surname; only later did they branch off into separate families. A mole on the body is similar: it began as an appendage of life, then later appeared as a separate mark. These examples all show how difficult it is to know the transformations of things in full. If people assume they know and then argue on that basis, they only drive their judgments of right and wrong further off course.

The “la” used in ancient sacrifices was a grand ceremony; “pihai” refers to the cattle organs offered in sacrifice. During the rite, these offerings must remain whole; once the rite is over, they may be divided. When they must remain whole, people consider dividing them wrong; when they may be divided, people consider it right. This shows that what counts as “right” changes with circumstances. Just as a person in the ancestral temple considers feasting and making offerings appropriate, while in the latrine considers lying down and relieving oneself appropriate.

Bound to life, people cling to their own sense of what is “right.” If they could let go of their attachment to life, where else could they place “rightness”? Life brings perception, and perception in turn gives rise to disputes over right and wrong. These judgments are all illusory, yet people cling to them, treating them as status and reality, and taking themselves as the standard. Once that standard is fixed, they refuse to change it. They then make themselves arbiters of right and wrong, demanding that others respect their code of conduct, even at the cost of their lives. Such people take good fortune or misfortune as signs of cleverness or foolishness, and hardship or success as honor or disgrace. This is the common failing of people in the world: they let their sense of right shift with circumstances. How are they any different from the little dove that takes the mugwort bushes for the whole world?

Commentary by Bixu: “Before anything existed” is profound and difficult to express. Only through diligent practice and careful cultivation… (The original text ends here.)

Reflect quietly, and understanding will come. Next there appears “matter,” the state in which the embryo has just begun to form. The Perfected Person, one who has attained the Dao, regards birth as a loss and death as a return. Thus, although birth and death are distinct, both arise from the same harmonious Qi, the primordial energy in which Yin and Yang are balanced. It is like the Zhao and Jing lineages: though they bear different surnames, both belong to one branch of the Chu ruling clan.

“Distinguished through office” refers to becoming renowned because of a high official post; “the Jia clan” refers to becoming prominent through a prestigious fief. These circumstances differ, but none falls outside the Chu clan. When Qi gathers, life comes into being; in the blink of an eye, it disperses again and there is death. People do not know that all things between Heaven and Earth are quietly changing, yet they cling to distinctions between right and wrong. If they decide that life is right, they will regard dispersal as wrong; if they decide that harmonious Qi is right, they will regard its gathering into a formed body as wrong. But right and wrong have no fixed master, and so there is no lasting standard. The author uses this to show that those who study should examine these principles.

For example, the coarse, impure parts used in a sacrifice, such as animal flesh and organs, may be divided up, but the offerings required for a grand sacrifice cannot be taken apart at will. So it is, too, with the principles of life and death, gathering and dispersal. The examples of the ancestral hall and the latrine further show how people’s judgments of right and wrong can change. If people take life as the basis for distinguishing right from wrong, and their own understanding as the basis for judging right and wrong, they will be led along by these things as though there were no end to it. If they assume that things have fixed names and realities, then cling to their own standards on that basis and refuse to turn back even at death, they are merely convinced that their own views are right. How is that any different from the cicada and the dove, each clinging to its own limited view?

The Yanzhai Commentary explains: Before the myriad things appeared, birth and death, beginning and end, were not yet distinct. Then “matter” appeared, meaning that Yin and Yang had already differentiated. After that came life, and with it the “self.” Yet even once there is a “self,” life and death can still be regarded as one. These three stages follow one another, but none departs from the Dao.

This is like the Chu ruling clan dividing into three branches, taking Zhao and Jing as surnames, or Jia as a clan name. The Zhao and Jing lineages became prominent through official posts; the Jia clan became prominent through its fief. “Distinguished through office” means becoming eminent by holding a post. Though the three branches each had their own name, all came from the Chu ruling clan. Earlier, the text says that the three are different yet share one origin; beneath “the fourth,” it then introduces the word “not.” This carries the preceding passage forward while opening the next, keeping the meaning continuous. That is the skill of the writing.

“Yan” refers to the black grime on the bottom of a pot; it can also mean a flaw or an unhealthy condition. Here, the point is that when primordial Qi gathers, a human being takes shape. That gathering into form can itself be regarded as a kind of stagnation in the Qi. Though all people are born from the same Qi, they insist on forcing distinctions.

Everyone takes their own “right” to be something settled. Here, “right” means what each person considers correct. But this kind of “correctness” has no fixed standard, so it cannot be determined.

At the La sacrifice, the ancient year-end offering, sacrificial animals such as pi and gai were prepared. Pi and gai are parts of an animal’s body. During the rite, portions of the animal were placed in separate vessels; this was called “scattering.” The sacrificial animal began as a whole living being, yet could be divided. This serves as a metaphor for how what people consider “right” can shift and is never fixed.

Of the five viscera, only the baoye is named; of the hundred bodily parts, only the toes are named. This is a way of referring to the whole by naming one part. A house may contain bedrooms, ancestral halls, and places for rest. Each has a different use, yet all belong to the same house. In the same way, what people consider “right” shifts and cannot be fixed. So, looking at the La sacrifice and the house, we see that what is called “right” can shift and has no fixed standard. The scripture says “to cite shifting right”: it is pointing to this kind of “right,” which shifts.

People receive bodily form and become embodied beings. Once they are already at the level of the formed and material, is it not difficult to return to “before things existed,” when the myriad things had not yet appeared? All formed things are illusory: when the mind persists, the myriad things seem to exist; when the mind disappears, they disappear with it. When my thoughts do not stir and I am still, empty, clear, and self-contained, this can be called “before things existed.” One who reaches this state, even while experiencing life and death, merely dwells in them temporarily.

People of old who attained the Dao were able to do this. The next level is to acknowledge that the myriad things exist and that life and death are distinct, yet to regard life as a loss and death as a return. This differs from ordinary people, who are carried along by the current of life and death. The next level is to say that life and death are not distinct. The head, body, and buttocks differ, yet all come from the Dao. It is like the aristocratic clans of Chu: they belonged to one family, yet divided into the three surnames Zhao, Qu, and Jing. This refers to the branching of aristocratic lineages and the differing fiefs under the feudal system. It serves as a metaphor for how human knowledge grows while our tastes and desires spread ever wider.

“Yan” is the black grime that builds up on the bottom of a pot. It seems to have form, yet is not quite a true body; it arises from formed things. People depend on bodily form for life, just as grime forms on a pot’s bottom, but before long it disperses. Thus the so-called “I” shifts elsewhere, and it cannot be determined whether it exists or not.

Let us explain this with examples. When the sacrificial animals, including pi and gai, are prepared for the La sacrifice to the spirits, they must not be scattered. After the rite, the meat is distributed among the people, and it can then be divided. When one sees a bedroom or ancestral hall, one feels solemn respect; in a place for resting or relieving oneself, one’s manner inevitably becomes less respectful. These are all instances of shifting “right.”

The five characters in the scripture, “Let me try to speak of shifting right,” should, according to the meaning of the passage, follow the words above, “it cannot be determined.” Guo Xiang’s commentary supports this reading. People always take their own views to be correct...

As long as life continues to change, perception and discrimination will arise. When these ways of knowing are then taken as guides, each one prompting the next, the process has no end. If we cling to such knowledge, treating it as fixed names and realities, and come to believe it is our very nature, we become unable to change.

This happens because people cannot see through the illusory world of dust, but instead take illusion for reality. They even regard names and realities as their own integrity, and give up their lives for them. All these ills arise from assuming that one is right. People follow familiar customs without noticing their errors, like the cicada and the dove, content to fly only as far as the branches of an elm or a sandalwood tree, unaware that the great Peng can ride the whirlwind upward and soar ninety thousand li.