《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 83

Qu Bo-yu, a senior official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, lived to the age of sixty and underwent sixty changes. Each time, he began from what he then believed to be right, only later to overturn his earlier view and judge it wrong. How, then, could he know that what he considers right today is not what he considered wrong at fifty-nine?

Things grow, yet no one sees their source. Things appear, yet no one sees where they come from. People all value what they already know, but do not realize that they can also understand things further by relying on what they do not yet know. Is this not a great confusion? Enough, enough! Besides, no one can escape this condition. This so-called “suchness”—is it really so?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Change” means responding to the affairs of the world without clinging to distinctions between this and that, you and me; it means responding to the myriad things so that their inherent patterns can unfold freely. The circumstances of things change without end; they have no fixed source or gateway. They arise suddenly and naturally, so their sources and points of emergence cannot be seen. Only those who are not confined by birth and death, coming and going, can see their gateways and infer their sources.

Perhaps other things know what I do not. If we draw on the knowledge of each of the myriad things, nothing is unknowable. If we rely only on our own understanding, what we know will be very limited. Now, if we refuse to draw on the understanding of the myriad things and instead assume our own understanding is supreme, the myriad things will not agree. What else could this be but a great confusion? Unable to make use of the understanding of the myriad things, a person has nowhere to settle. What one takes to be right is not necessarily what the world takes to be right.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Bo-yu lived to the age of sixty and underwent sixty changes. Each time, he began from what he then believed to be right, only to overturn it in the end and judge it wrong. This is in keeping with what Confucius said: unless one’s understanding reaches what one does not yet know, what is called “right” is inherently uncertain. How, then, can one know that what one considers right today is not what one considered wrong at fifty-nine?

Things grow, yet their source cannot be seen; things appear, yet their gateway cannot be seen. What people do not know is precisely the source from which the myriad things grow and appear. People all value what they already know. As for what they do not know, they often fear it is empty and refuse to rely on it to understand things. Whenever they reach the limits of their understanding, they stop and turn back. Is this not a great confusion?

“Enough, enough” means that carrying on a debate like this will ultimately neither lead people to deeper understanding nor bring repose to one’s own body and mind. Even if what is said now seems right, one cannot know whether it truly is right. One should forget words and grasp the meaning in the heart.

Yidu’s commentary: From childhood to old age, new and old things replace one another without cease, as one dwells amid the transformations of creation (the natural process of generation and change)… [The original text ends here unfinished.]

We do not notice inwardly that things are changing. Qu Boyu was able to adapt to change, renewing himself day after day and always beginning anew. What we consider right today may eventually prove wrong. Who knows whether what is called “right” today is precisely what was called “wrong” fifty-nine years ago?

The source from which all things grow is the source of Heaven and Earth. The gateway through which all things emerge is the “Gate of the Mysterious Female”—the deep, life-giving portal from which all things are born. Both have their roots in the “Valley Spirit”—the empty, ceaselessly generative Dao—and in truth they share a single source.

Knowing what one knows is the mark of the wise; knowing what one does not know is the mark of a sage. To esteem one’s own wisdom but not the sage’s realm of understanding—is that not a profound confusion? “Enough, enough!” These words mean that it is better to stop than to argue. All things unfold within the process of creation, and nothing can escape its workings. I consider this right; others may consider it wrong. This is how right and wrong arise. Let each person follow their own judgment, and that will do.

Bixu’s Commentary: Change never ceases. As people and things pass one another, in the blink of an eye they are already different. When people pursue what is “right,” they are not pursuing reason but seeking others’ agreement. When they reject what is “wrong,” it is not necessarily because the other person is perverse, but simply because that person goes against their wishes. Others’ agreement does not necessarily make us right, and what displeases us is not necessarily wrong. Hence the lament: “At first I thought it right, but later I saw that it was wrong.” What one thought fifty-nine years ago is, after all, a view of the past. If we now recognize its error, we know it was never truly right. Once we understand that what is called “right” may also be wrong, we see that by refusing to insist on any fixed judgment, we avoid becoming entangled in right and wrong. At the point of greatest right, there is no right or wrong; at the point of greatest wrong, there is no so-called right.

Emptiness and obscurity are the foundation of the “Supreme Dao”; calm detachment and stillness are the gateway to its many mysteries. This is the source from which all things grow and emerge. What people know comes from a realm they originally did not know. Only by first acknowledging that we do not know can we come to know. To fail to understand this—is that not a profound confusion? The affairs of the world are tangled, and change with each passing day. When faced with knowing and not knowing, it is better to stop clinging to either. What we know belongs to human affairs; what we do not know belongs to the principles of Heaven. Human affairs involve action, and so give rise to right and wrong, which cannot be avoided. The principles of Heaven are Wuwei (non-action)—how could they be escaped? If we take what we know to be necessarily right and insist that “it is so,” many people will still consider it wrong. What is said to be “so” may not truly be so.

Yanzhai’s Oral Commentary: By the age of sixty, what a person sees and knows has changed with the passing years, becoming different year by year. How, then, can one know that what one judges right at sixty is truly right? All things must have a source from which they grow and a gateway through which they emerge, though people cannot see them. This is what people do not know. Ordinary people know only what they know, not what they do not know, yet they think this is enough. That is great confusion. Nothing can escape the laws of nature.

This “knowledge that does not know” can reach through past and present and see clearly above and below. How could such a principle not exist?

In “How could one escape?”, the words “how” and “and” are both particles that express a question.

A change that is plainly visible is called “change”; one that takes place unseen is called “transformation.” By the age of sixty, a person has undergone sixty transformations. As people live in the world, their appearance, knowledge, and ability to handle affairs are subtly altered by external things, though they themselves do not know it. People remain in this state of change: at first they think something is right, then later they think it is wrong. By the age of sixty, when one’s ears are attuned, a lifetime of experience may make it possible to judge right and wrong and understand how things work. Yet one still does not know whether the judgments one now accepts as right and wrong are precisely the mistakes of the previous fifty-nine years.

This means that change in things has no end, change in affairs has no end, and change in the human heart has no end. These three change through their mutual interaction, and in this way past and present take shape, while gain and loss come to light. Only when affairs are brought together and understood, and their underlying principles settled, can right and wrong be judged clearly. Yet one still does not know what judgment posterity will reach. People experience the affairs of the world, and through this the world takes shape; affairs change without cease, and through this change itself takes shape. What passes before our eyes is like mosquitoes and wandering vapors: who knows how many there are? Yet the most lucid and constant reality within us—our true nature—has never changed.

Once people understand this, life and death can no longer unsettle their hearts. The coming and going, the life and death of the myriad things all have their source and gateway. People cannot see them because they honor only what they already know, taking it to be their own ability, without realizing that further understanding is possible precisely by relying on what they do not yet know. If one can truly recognize what one does not know, the source and gateway of the myriad things can be seen. The coming and going, the life and death of the myriad things are simply the constant order of things. Whether things change or remain unchanged, they change together with the myriad things—so what is there to be confused about?

What people know and can do amounts to only one ten-thousandth of what they do not know and cannot do. Even sages cannot exhaust all knowledge and ability, so how could they escape the transformations of the myriad things? Even if I now say that these things are right, I still do not know whether they are truly so. When sages speak of transformation, they often avoid making absolute claims. The subtle principles within it cannot be pursued to their very end; this is precisely what “transformation” means.

Zhongni (Confucius) asked the Grand Historians Daotiao, Bo Changqian, and Xiwei: “Duke Ling of Wei indulged in drinking and music and neglected the affairs of state. He went hunting and shooting birds, and did not respond to dealings among the feudal lords. Why, then, was he called ‘Ling’?”

Daotiao said, “The name followed from what had already taken place.”

Bo Changqian said, “Duke Ling had three wives, and they shared a bath…”

Shi Qiu, a senior official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, was renowned for his integrity and virtue. He served Duke Ling of Wei. When the duke handed him a gift, Shi Qiu supported him and guided him through the ritual. Such was the extent of Duke Ling’s disrespect toward Shi Qiu; yet when he met a worthy person, he showed such reverence. That is why he was called “Duke Ling.”

Xi Wei said, “After Duke Ling died, diviners were asked whether he should be buried in the old tomb. The result was inauspicious. They then divined whether he should be buried at Shaqiu, and the result was auspicious. They dug several yards down and found a stone coffin. After washing it clean, they examined it and found an inscription carved on it: ‘Do not rely on your son.’ Duke Ling took the coffin and buried it. The fact that Duke Ling was called ‘Ling’ had been determined long ago. How could those three men have understood the principle behind it?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Ling” is a posthumous title for a ruler who has failed to follow the Way. Bathing together as men and women do is improper conduct. Duke Ling considered Shi Qiu worthy, so he attended to him and gave him a gift, then supported him as he performed the rites, preventing him from completing them properly. This is what is meant by “honoring the worthy.” “Gift” here means an offering presented to someone. There are two senses to Duke Ling’s title “Ling”; one could also say that he did well, which is why Confucius asked people about him. “Your son” refers to Kuai Kui, Duke Ling’s son. The inscription’s words, “Do not rely on your son,” mean that Duke Ling would take Kuai Kui’s residence.

All things have their destinies fixed in advance, so what is about to happen can be foreknown. People must do whatever they are meant to do, and cannot do what they are not meant to do. Yet fools think that everything is decided by themselves. Is that not absurd? They see only how events have already unfolded, without realizing that their unfolding comes from nature itself.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Da Tao and Bo Changqian explain matters from the human point of view, while Xi Wei explains them from the point of view of the Way of Heaven. From Heaven’s perspective, names and posthumous titles are ultimately not something people can decide.

Yidu’s commentary: All three men were court historians, which is why Confucius asked them. Duke Ling indulged in drinking and revelry, so he was described as “lost”; he also took to hunting and neglected government, so he was described as “reckless.” Why, then, did he receive the posthumous title “Ling”? Da Tao said, “It was because of these things”—that is, “Ling” is a posthumous title for a ruler who has failed to follow the Way. According to the rules for posthumous titles, someone whose speech is faulty and who does not know how to restrain it is called “Ling.”

Bo Changqian said, “Duke Ling bathed together with his three consorts. Shi Qiu attended him, presented a gift, and helped him perform the rites. Because he was still able to honor the worthy, he was given the posthumous title ‘Ling.’”

Xi Wei said, “After Duke Ling died, diviners determined that he should be buried at Shaqiu. While digging, they found a stone coffin bearing the inscription, ‘Do not rely on your son.’ Duke Ling took the coffin and buried it. This shows that the principles of Heaven cannot be relied upon: the burial ground had originally belonged to Duke Ling’s father, yet the son took possession of it. Thus, it had been determined by Heaven long ago that Duke Ling would be called ‘Ling.’ How could the first two men have understood the principle behind it?”

Bixu’s commentary says, “When conduct is disordered but harms no one, this is called ‘numinous’; when virtue is pure and discerning, this too is called ‘numinous.’” Duke Ling’s posthumous title seems to have been ordained long ago in the unseen, as though it accorded with Heaven’s will. If we try to judge it only by ordinary worldly reasoning, how could we understand such a profound and obscure principle?

Yanzhai’s oral commentary says: “Duke Ling of Wei acted in this way, so why was he given the posthumous title ‘Ling’? This shows that words alone cannot sum up the full measure of his wrongdoing. ‘Fengyu’ was roughly equivalent to an official summoned to attend and respond to the ruler. Duke Ling went to see him bearing gifts, and had his attendants help him leave. This shows that he still treated Fengyu with courtesy. ‘Shaqiu’ was an ancient burial ground. The words ‘Duke Ling’ had already been carved on the stone outer coffin, which suggests that his posthumous title had somehow been settled while he was still alive. What could anyone else do about it? The story borrows the words of his descendants to make the point that one cannot say Duke Ling chose the place himself and thereby gave it its name.”

The posthumous title “Ling” can be either praise or blame, which is why Confucius once asked three people about it. Dazhuo replied, “Since he was this kind of person, this was the outcome he received.” He was plainly interpreting “Ling” as the title of a ruler who lacked the Way. Bo Changqian said that Duke Ling bathing with three of his wives and concubines was already deeply improper. Yet later he received the worthy official Fengyu, gave him gifts, and had attendants help him on his way. Here, “gifts” refers to clothing and other things Fengyu received. It seems that even though Duke Ling’s desires were intense, the trace of goodness in his nature had not been completely extinguished. Thus, “Ling” might also be understood in a favorable sense.

Xiwei said that Duke Ling divined the site of his burial and found an inscription on the stone outer coffin, clearly carved with the words “Duke Ling.” It was as if this had been arranged long ago in the unseen, and the name still matched a thousand years later. The title “Ling” had a long history; how could Dazhuo and Bo Changqian fully understand it? This resembles the stone outer coffin of Chufu and the fine burial ground of Duke Teng: none of these seems accidental, but rather ordained long beforehand.

Even so, though a person’s title and final resting place may be thought to have been fixed in advance, one should still do one’s utmost to fulfill one’s duties and accord with Heaven’s order. Whether a posthumous title is favorable or unfavorable ultimately reflects what a person did in life, so one must act with care. The system for assigning posthumous titles, which judges the deceased by their deeds in life, began with the Duke of Zhou. To praise or condemn someone with a single character is a grave matter.

“Diligent and bringing fame” is called “Ling.” Ancient rulers who met an unhappy end were also given the titles “Ling” or “Li.” As for those who have attained understanding, they view worldly affairs from a broad perspective and do not cling to good or evil; past, future, and present place no burden on them. They hold no rank and seek no posthumous title. They accept change in peace and depart, leaving others with no grounds to debate their goodness or wickedness. Is this not a state of complete wholeness? Each of the three answers emphasizes something different: the first says Duke Ling lacked the Way, the second that he respected a worthy official, and the third that Heaven’s order had long been determined. Judged by his deeds, the three accounts are not without differences in merit. Yet in the end, none escapes the idea that Heaven’s order is fixed.

Shao Zhi asked Taigong Diao, “What is meant by ‘the sayings of the hills and villages’?”

Taigong Diao replied, “The ‘sayings of the hills and villages’ bring together people of ten surnames and a hundred names, forming shared customs. They regard different things as the same, and distinguish things that are the same. If you point out a horse’s hundred bodily parts one by one, you still will not thereby obtain a horse; yet the horse is right there before you. Bringing those parts together and calling them ‘horse’ is the same principle.

“So hills become high because small amounts of earth and stone accumulate; rivers become broad because many waters flow together. A person of De (Virtue/Power) becomes recognized throughout the world as impartial by embracing and accommodating all things. Thus, what influences things from outside has a guiding force, but does not insist on controlling them; what arises naturally from within has its proper ground, but is not resisted.

“The seasons have different climates, and Heaven does not deliberately bestow anything, yet the year still takes shape. The five organs each perform their functions, and the ruler shows no favoritism, so the state is governed. Civil and military officials each have their strengths; these are not deliberately bestowed by a great person, and so De can be complete. The myriad things each have their own principles, and the Dao is impartial, so there are no fixed names. Without fixed names, nothing is done, yet nothing remains unaccomplished.

“Time has its endings and beginnings, and affairs in the world keep changing. Misfortune and good fortune follow one another in succession; sometimes there are obstacles, and sometimes arrangements suited to the circumstances. Each thing follows its own nature and takes on a different appearance. Some aspects are right, while others are partial or off course. Consider the materials found in a great marsh: each has its own use. Look at the trees and stones on a great mountain: though they differ, they all exist beneath the same Heaven. This is what is meant by ‘the sayings of the hills and villages.’”

Shao Zhi asked, “Then is saying this enough to explain the Dao?”

Taigong Diao replied, “No. If you count the number of things, there are far more than ten thousand. ‘The myriad things’ is simply a name chosen to indicate a great multitude. Heaven and Earth are the greatest among physical forms; Yin-Yang is the greatest among forms of Qi (vital energy); and the Dao is what all things follow together. One may use the name ‘great’ to refer to them in this way. But once you have named them as particular things, how can you say you have truly grasped them? Using these things as comparisons is like comparing dogs and horses: it remains far removed from the Dao.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When a great person has no private interests in relation to the world, the customs of the world can become unified. What influences things from outside is the great person’s teaching; what arises naturally from within is the nature of the people and of all things. When their innate nature is kept upright, the people do not go against their true disposition; when teaching is impartial, the guiding force need not insist on control. Only then can the villages be brought together and the world made one, with all things and their differences regarded equally.

“Different climates exist naturally, and so they can continue in their regular course. If Heaven deliberately bestowed them, they might sometimes be lost. Different roles likewise reflect different abilities, and people are appointed accordingly; they are not granted through the ruler’s favoritism. Civil officials naturally have civil talent, and military officers naturally have military skill; these are not bestowed on them by a great person. If their abilities depended on rewards, they might sometimes be lost. And is this true only of civil and military officials? Whatever is innate…” [The original text ends here.]

A name or designation need only correspond to what is actually the case. Each thing should act according to its own circumstances. This is Wuwei (non-action): following the nature of things without imposing one’s will. Then nothing is beyond accomplishment.

The times are always changing. Those who do not cling to fixed ideas act in step with change. The same course of action may go against reason in one place and be exactly right in another. Someone may act correctly here and wrongly elsewhere. People each trust and follow their own way, but in the end no one can escape the circumstances at hand.

Consider a great marsh: every kind of plant and tree has its use, and no material should be discarded. When different things are considered together, their common ground can also be seen. By speaking of what happens in a single village or district, one can infer what is true of the world. There are far more than ten thousand countable things, not to mention those beyond counting. If we say that the Dao is some “number beyond number” outside these countable things, have we then said all there is to say about the Dao? The Dao runs through the myriad things without favoring any of them. To force a name upon it and call it “the Dao” is what is meant by “the Dao that can be spoken of”: once it has a name, it is already bounded. How, then, could it be compared with other things? Discussions of the Dao have ranged everywhere and reached every corner. But calling the Dao “the Dao” is still not enough. Only by entering the realm beyond names and words can one truly arrive.

Lü’s commentary says: To bring surnames and given names together is to treat them as one kind; to bring what is different together as the same is likewise to treat them as one. Conversely, to separate the surnames and given names within a hill or district is to divide what is the same into different things. This is unlike the claim of a single school of thought that what is different cannot be joined, and what is the same cannot be separated.

None of a person’s hundred bodily parts, taken alone, can be called a “horse”: point to any one part, and it cannot be said to be the horse. Only when the hundred parts are joined together can the whole be called a horse. In the same way, if a great person does not view things as a whole, then what is called “great” cannot be used as a basis for comparison. Hills and mountains, rivers and streams, display the utmost of greatness precisely when viewed as a whole. Thus, from the standpoint of the myriad things themselves, their principles are all present in me: external things enter into me, and my inner mind provides a guiding center, yet I do not cling to the idea that “there are myriad things,” so I can accommodate everything. From the standpoint of my own person, my mind opens broadly toward the myriad things: it has an inner standard that extends outward, yet excludes nothing, and so reaches everywhere without omission.

Heaven moves through the four seasons without keeping for itself the powers of generation and transformation that it inherently possesses; instead, it lets each season play its part. Otherwise, the workings of Heaven and Earth would be incomplete, and the year could not take shape. When a ruler governs the five offices—the general term for the ancient system of official posts—if he does not entrust responsibilities to the officials and instead controls everything himself, his understanding will be limited and the state cannot be governed. People differ in their civil and military abilities, and the patterns of the myriad things differ as well. To follow these differences without claiming them for oneself or showing partiality: that, too, is the principle.

Without selfishness, there is no clinging to the self; without self-centeredness, no one can assign it a fixed name. Without a fixed name, there is Wuwei; with Wuwei, nothing is beyond accomplishment. Circumstances keep changing, and fortune and misfortune have no fixed course. Sometimes things run against what is usual; sometimes they happen to suit the moment. Good deeds can sometimes bring disaster. The circumstances of the myriad things differ, and their forms of expression are not alike. Some seem upright, others seem partial; what is called upright may at times appear abnormal. The principles of things are not uniform. The reason the Dao can extend impartially through the myriad things is precisely that it holds no preference or aversion among them. It is like standing before a vast lake and a multitude of trees, and observing without overlooking a single kind.

The trees and stones on a great mountain differ from one another, yet each can serve a purpose. It is like different materials gathered in a vast marsh, each put to use, or different plants growing on a great mountain and together forming a forest. Bringing different things under one category is what is called “the speech of hamlets and villages”—ways of speaking formed among local people according to custom. Yet such categorization remains limited by form and number.

Things are without end, so they cannot all be counted by the number “ten thousand.” “Ten thousand” is simply a way of referring to a great many things. The forms of Heaven and Earth are vast, as is the Qi of Yin-Yang. The Dao is called “public” because it does not belong to any particular form and is not the same as the Qi of Yin-Yang; for this reason, it has no fixed name. Names cannot exhaust the Dao. People provisionally call it the “Dao,” borrowing a word that means “great” to describe it. The Dao is originally nameless; as soon as it is named, the name points to something in particular. How could that be compared with the nameless Dao? To mistake the name “Dao” for the Dao itself is like mistaking a dog for a horse.

The Commentary on Doubts about the Dao says: ten households make a hamlet, and twenty make a village. “The speech of hamlets and villages” brings together ten surnames and a hundred kinds of names as expressions of local custom. Yet people do not realize that what should be called “public” is to bring all things under Heaven together and see them as a whole: to recognize what is different as sharing common ground, and what is the same as differing in its own way. If one clings only to distinctions between sameness and difference, the Dao grows more distant, and the myriad things fail to accord with one another. It is like pointing to the separate parts of a horse and being unable to say which part is the horse, then dividing the horse into parts and still calling it a horse. This is to divide what is the same into differences, then join what is different into sameness.

Hills and mountains take shape through the accumulation of what lies low; rivers form through the joining of many streams. These are metaphors for the great person who brings all under Heaven together in the public interest. Because there is no selfishness, things entering the heart from outside may meet a settled understanding without making it rigid. Without rigidity, one can be open and responsive. Actions arising from within follow outward principles without rejecting other things. Without rejection, they can be carried out. Thus, without partiality, all under Heaven can be brought into unity; without giving favors in expectation of a return, the myriad things can each grow in their own way.

The seasons and their climates differ, yet Heaven does not bestow its favors selectively, and the yearly cycle still runs its course. The different offices have different duties; when the ruler is impartial, the state can be governed. Civil officials and military officers have different responsibilities, and the myriad things each follow their own patterns. When the ruler’s way is impartial, Virtue is complete without seeking a reputation. Heaven does not deliberately bestow its gifts, so the myriad things grow naturally, receiving its nourishment without needing to give thanks. The ruler is impartial, so things naturally fall into order; once their work is done, they seek no reward.

The Great Dao shows no partiality toward the myriad things, and so it has no fixed name and does not act deliberately. When it does not act deliberately, the myriad things each fulfill their functions, and nothing is left unaccomplished. The times change without cease, and misfortune and good fortune depend on one another; what seems contrary may sometimes prove fitting. People hold different positions and follow different paths, often each insisting on their own view. To compare these principles to different materials in a vast marsh, each useful in its own way, or different plants on a great mountain joining to form a forest, is to treat differences as sameness. Yet this remains within the bounds of form and number, and so is called “the speech of hamlets and villages.” Heaven and Earth, along with Yin-Yang, also belong to the realm of form and Qi.

The Great Dao gathers the myriad things into a whole, and so is called “the common.” It is also called “great” because its expanse has no bounds. If the Dao has thus become manifest, how could size or rank be compared with it?

Bixu, the commentator, says: The Rites of Zhou records that four wells make a hamlet, and four hamlets make a district; five households make a group, and five groups make a village. Within a district or village there may be ten surnames and a hundred different people, each distinct, yet together they can be called one district or one village. Conversely, if we take apart the customs of a district or village, we can distinguish ten surnames and a hundred people, each with their own differences. It is like speaking of a horse in separate parts—its head, tail, eyes, ears, and countless other features. Only when those parts are brought together do we call the whole thing a “horse.” This is precisely what Gongsun Long meant in discussing “separating hardness and whiteness, and combining sameness and difference”: considered separately, hardness and whiteness, sameness and difference are distinct; considered together, they can be brought into one.

A mountain is made up of many stones, and a river is formed by the joining of countless streams. When a great ruler brings commanderies and kingdoms together under one authority, this is called “the common.” If they are divided, Chu and Yue each have their own customs; when united, their customs and teachings tend toward uniformity. This is no different from the way a district or village can be gathered together or divided apart.

When external affairs enter the mind, if the mind has a governing principle, those affairs will not be left unresolved. When inner principles are expressed outwardly, and outward conduct does not go astray, those principles can be passed down through the generations. The changes of cold and heat are not the same, but Heaven gives rise to them without favoring one over another; thus the four seasons run their course and the work of the year is completed. Artisans and officials in charge of mountains, forests, rivers, and marshes each have their own duties, assigned by the ruler without partiality; thus the realm is well governed. Civil ministers and military officers have different abilities, and the great ruler appoints them without favoritism; thus virtuous rule and achievement are brought to completion. Animals and plants each have their own physical nature. The Dao brings them forth without partiality, and so it has no fixed name.

The myriad things each have their own names; the Dao does not impose names on them. Each thing has its own way of acting; the Dao does not compel it to act. The Dao acts without contrivance, and so nothing is left unaccomplished. The change from winter to spring, and the shift in a ruler’s government and teachings from simplicity to decay, may seem here to be calamities and failings, while elsewhere they may be seen as blessings and fitting circumstances. For example, in a great marsh, trees of different sizes are all suited to their respective uses; on a great mountain, wood and stone of varying quality are gathered together in the same place. The saying about “the district and village” refers to just such a situation.

The Great Dao has no bounds, and the myriad things have no end. We call them “the myriad things” simply because they are so numerous. If they truly stopped at ten thousand, the Dao too would have an end. How could it then be called “that which precedes the image of the emperor,” the source that precedes the ruler of all things? The Great Dao unites physical forms and transformations of Qi, bringing the myriad things into a whole. We therefore call it “great” as a makeshift name, and give it the name “Dao.” Once it has been called the “Great Dao,” it already has a name. How, then, can it be compared with “the state before it first emerged from its source”?

Yanzhai’s Oral Commentary says: Wells gather to make a district, and districts gather to make a village. Though a village contains ten surnames and a hundred different kinds of people, its customs can still be the same. The example of “the district and village” shows how differences are brought together into one. “The saying of the district and village” means what is commonly said throughout a village: different things are brought together and thereby become the same.

All things originally arise from one principle. They only appear different when they are separated; each has its own principle, yet when considered together, they can be brought back to unity. The human body consists of many parts. Look at any one part alone, and none of them is called a “horse”; only when the parts are joined together is it called a horse. To regard the differences among all things as sameness is to view them with an impartial mind.

Though the mind has its own convictions, it should not be stubborn; once it becomes stubborn, it no longer follows nature. The proper principle is that the principles of all things arise from the mind, while the principles within the mind do not conflict with things outside it. Seen this way, there is no absolute sameness or difference among things. Do not claim what you have gained as your own, and do not treat your deeds as your personal merit. Though each thing has its own principle, the Great Dao can bring them together and return them to the common good. The Dao itself, therefore, cannot be confined by any fixed name.

“Chunchun” describes the Dao’s natural flow. Good fortune and misfortune follow no unchanging pattern: a setback one faces now may turn out to be a blessing, as in the story of the old man who lost his horse at the frontier. Those who blindly follow their own preconceptions are like people with different faces: each insists on its own standard, becomes attached to it, and ends up seeing things wrongly. The timber and stone found in high mountains and great marshes may differ, but if they meet the required measure, they can all be put to use. This is how differences are brought together so that each thing can serve its purpose.

The quantities of all things are collectively called “the myriad”; when forms and Qi are gathered together, they are called “Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang”; and the principle that runs through all things is called the “Dao.” These expressions speak in broad terms. Even once the name “Dao” has been given, it cannot be treated as a name for an ordinary thing.

In every hill, town, and village, there are usually elders of virtue who are respected by others. They consider people’s views and then offer their assessments, much like the monthly appraisals of character known as the “Yuedan evaluations.” Each place also has its own local sayings, and histories of the Han dynasty recorded the customs and features of different regions. All these belong to “the words of hills and villages.” Different opinions come together in one place to form a shared understanding. Yet even people from the same village differ: some are young, others old; some are worthy, others mediocre; some are poor, others rich; some prosper, others fall on hard times. The vastness of the world is made up of its villages and communities, while the breadth of the Dao runs through all things and affairs. Separate what is alike, and differences emerge; bring differences together, and a common principle becomes visible. This is like pointing out the separate parts of a horse’s body, or joining them together and calling the whole a horse.

When we use words to explain things, we distinguish between what is joined and what is separate. When the mind accords with the Dao, however, everything returns to an undivided whole. When principle reaches its utmost, words can no longer contain it. Mountains are built from layers of low-lying earth, and rivers from the meeting of many waters. A great person can bring together the common good shared by many people; the principle is the same. If someone can handle the affairs of one village or community appropriately, they can likewise handle the myriad things and human affairs of the world. The key is the single word “impartiality.”

The Daoist scripture says, “Impartiality makes one a king.” One who acts with an impartial mind can become someone to whom all people turn. How could such a person refuse? What is learned from outside is study; a noble person grounds study in the Dao. With the Dao as its foundation, nothing is beyond understanding. What arises from within the mind is reflection; a noble person takes principle as the standard for reflection. When things accord with principle, none of them conflicts with oneself.

Just as the seasons have different climates yet together make a year, and the sense organs have different functions yet together maintain good governance, all ultimately return to the Virtue of the “Great Person.” This Virtue is complete and reveals that the Great Dao shows no partiality.

How could the Great Dao be fully expressed by any single name? It has no fixed name, and so it acts through Wuwei (non-action). Precisely because it acts through Wuwei, there is nothing it cannot accomplish. This is the inevitable course of how things develop. Yet circumstances change, and things change through their supports and mutual transformations. At times, going against the usual course proves fitting; at times, correcting a deviation creates an error. These different tendencies all arise because people cling to their own feelings and opinions, and so are bound to take separate paths.

For example, the various kinds of timber gathered in a great marsh become material for the craftsman Shi, a legendary master artisan. Though different in kind, they can all be put to use together. Wood and stone scattered throughout a great mountain are available for people everywhere to use; though they come from one place, their uses differ. If one can grasp the hidden principles and return to the Dao, why argue over sameness and difference?

The name “Dao” cannot fully express the Dao; the collective term “the myriad things” cannot fully express the myriad things. People simply name them by selecting what seems greatest among them. Of all forms, the greatest are encompassed by Heaven and Earth; of all Qi (vital energy), the greatest are encompassed by Yin-Yang. The Dao encompasses Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang. How could the vastness of the Dao be measured? Yet once a name is attached to the Dao, it cannot be compared with the nameless Dao. The Perfected Person, one who has realized the Great Dao, moves within the nameless Dao, and so no one under Heaven can pass judgment on them.

This chapter’s argument resembles the discussion of being and nonbeing, life and death in “On Making All Things Equal,” but here it deals more with the art of governance. The author also draws on sayings from village life to develop a separate argument, with a rather unusual design. “Using names to convey meaning” means expressing an idea through labels: if one can live in harmony with all under Heaven through an utterly impartial heart, even people of shallow understanding should seek that person’s guidance.