《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 84

Shaozhi asked about the Dao: "Within heaven, earth, and the four directions, where do the myriad things come from?" Taigong Diao replied: "Yin-Yang (阴阳) illuminate one another, obscure one another, and restrain one another; the four seasons replace one another, giving birth to and overcoming one another. From this, liking and disliking, rejecting and pursuing arise in profusion; the union of female and male likewise comes to be constant. Safety and danger turn into each other, calamity and fortune produce each other, slowness and urgency rub against each other, and gathering and scattering take shape. All of these are things whose names and realities can be recorded and whose subtle traces can be discerned. Things govern one another in due order and drive one another in cyclical motion; when they reach their end they return, and when they conclude they begin anew. This is the condition of the myriad things. What words can fully express and what wisdom can reach is, at its limit, still only the level of things. One who truly sees the Dao (道, the Way) does not follow things into their decline, nor does he inquire into their origin. Discussion stops here."

Shaozhi asked again: "Jizhen holds that 'nothing does it' (莫为), while Jiezi holds that 'something causes it' (或使). Which of these two accounts better accords with the facts, and which departs from the principle?" Taigong Diao said: "The crowing of the rooster and the barking of the dog are known to everyone. Yet even those of great wisdom cannot explain in words why they change as they do, nor can they predict by thought what they will become. If one follows this line of reasoning and analyzes further, at its most subtle it becomes so fine that nothing can be compared to it, and at its greatest it becomes so vast that it cannot be measured. To say 'something causes it' or 'nothing does it' does not go beyond the realm of things, and both end in error. 'Something causes it' treats the matter as real existence; 'nothing does it' treats it as empty nothingness. What has name and reality belongs to the level of things; what lacks name and reality is merely the empty space of things. It can be spoken of and grasped by the mind, yet the more one speaks, the further one drifts. What has not yet been born cannot be welcomed in advance; what has died cannot be stopped. Life and death are not far apart, yet the principle within them cannot be clearly seen. 'Something causes it' and 'nothing does it' are no more than borrowed explanations for our doubts.

"When I observe from the root, its past has no end; when I seek from the tip, its future has no stopping point. That it has no end and no stopping point shows that it surpasses language and comes close to 'non-being.' And 'something causes it' and 'nothing does it' are merely the starting point of speech, beginning and ending together with things. The Dao cannot be held to be 'being,' nor can it be held to be 'non-being.' The name 'Dao' is only a borrowed term for the sake of discussion; 'something causes it' and 'nothing does it' are only partial views from one corner of the world of things. How could they explain the great Dao? If words were sufficient to express it, then speaking all day long would exhaust the Dao; if words are insufficient, then speaking all day long would exhaust only things. The Dao and things are the supreme limit, and neither speech nor silence is adequate to contain them. Relying neither on speech nor on silence, discussion arrives at its end."

Guo Xiang's commentary begins by saying that, in inquiring into the origin of the myriad things, some hold that the Dao is able to produce them, and that such claims all come from each person's own... opinion.

The birth, death, and transformation of the myriad things are not brought about by some external force. People’s actions, inclinations, and choices arise from the mutual interaction of Yin-Yang and the succession of the four seasons. If we trace things further back, in the end we can only attribute them to nature.

The myriad things regulate and act upon one another; these relationships belong to the things themselves. Nothing exists beyond them that can create them out of nothing. Therefore, what is called “knowing” cannot go beyond the limits of change in things. The myriad things flourish and decline, yet there is no source to which they can be traced. Pursue this line of inquiry, and it can go no further.

Some say, “The Dao does nothing”; others say, “The Dao makes the myriad things be as they are.” To say that the Dao makes things be as they are seems to imply that the Dao has the power to set them in motion. Yet the myriad things are naturally as they are; they do not necessarily require some force to bring them about. From this perspective, Jizhen’s view is apt. The Dao, subtle to the utmost and vast without limit, does not act deliberately, yet the myriad things are naturally as they are. Their interactions with one another are natural in the same way.

“Doing nothing” does not mean that the myriad things undergo no change. All sorts of things change ceaselessly, seeming to be driven by some force, but in truth it is the things themselves that act; there is no external “agent” at work. This principle can only be discerned by observing the existence and changes of the myriad things themselves. Their true condition is utterly empty and still. To understand it, one must experience it beyond words and concepts; only then can one draw near to it.

The myriad things suddenly come into being, and I cannot stop them; they suddenly die, and I cannot resist it. These changes take place within us, yet we cannot see why they occur naturally, and still we worry about them. Life and death are what people find perplexing, and where inquiry into the principles of things reaches its limit. Only by understanding that speech has limits can one accord with the principles of the myriad things. The Dao itself cannot become some concrete thing out of nothing; things exist because they are naturally as they are. The myriad things follow it in their course, so we provisionally call it “Dao.” To point out one aspect is enough to infer the rest.

To seek the Dao, one must go beyond the limits of words and concepts. Clinging to words and holding fast to concepts are not enough to grasp it. When the changes of the myriad things reach their utmost, they are always uncontrived and naturally so. This principle does not depend on whether it is spoken of; it comes down to things being naturally as they are, which neither speech nor silence can adequately express.

Lü’s commentary (by Lü Huiqing) says: Those who know a little of the principles hear the words “This is the Dao” and take the Dao to be some ready-made thing. They are then unable to compare it with the true Dao and instead doubt whether the Dao exists. If one asks where the myriad things come from, the phrase “they arise from nothingness” means precisely this.

The sun and moon come and go, rise and set, wax and wane; they shine upon, cover, and harmonize with one another. Cold and heat alternate, contraction and extension transform; flourishing and decline succeed one another, while what generates and what overcomes follow their respective courses. The myriad things are born between Heaven and Earth and move with Yin-Yang and the four seasons. Thus desires and aversions, departures and approaches, and other such actions arise in turn. Male and female unite, while movement and stillness each follow their usual patterns; hence the many phenomena of safety and danger, good fortune and misfortune, gathering and dispersal. These are facts that can be recorded and examined, not matters that are wholly beyond inquiry. One thing follows another… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

This is what is called “order”: the forms and patterns of the myriad things each have their proper sequence, yet never fall into confusion. A bridge lets people travel across it in carts; a flowing stream lets them cross by following its current. The myriad things act upon one another, yet their arrangements are never fixed. What is exhausted returns; what ends begins again. Yin-Yang and the four seasons are inherent in the myriad things; they are not absent from the Great Dao.

What people call “knowledge” reaches no further than this. These are merely the phenomena through which the myriad things emerge and flourish, not the source that makes them emerge and flourish. “The named” is the mother of the myriad things: that is what this means. As for one who truly sees the Great Dao, they know that the myriad things have never been absent, and so do not follow after what perishes. They also know that the myriad things have never truly existed, and so do not ask where they first arose. At ease and without a name, they stand beyond the four directions of Heaven and Earth. How could knowledge reach them?

Ji Zhen held that one should “not follow after what perishes.” Jiezi, by contrast, proposed that “perhaps something makes the myriad things as they are,” or sought the source from which they arose. The crowing of a rooster and the barking of a dog are forms they have taken after changing; their capacity to crow and bark is the cause of their own transformation, as well as the form they are about to take. When subtlety reaches a point beyond comparison, it has no inner boundary; when vastness becomes impossible to enclose, it has no outer limit. So where, exactly, are “something makes it so” and “nothing makes it so”? These claims still remain within the myriad things: they abandon what is real yet attach themselves to emptiness.

If we take what is named and substantial to be the place where the myriad things dwell, we fail to understand that they have not always existed. If we take what is nameless and insubstantial to be the emptiness in which they dwell, we fail to understand that they have not always been nonexistent. The more tightly we cling to words, then, the farther we move from the Dao. Life and death cannot be rejected or brought to a halt; they lie beyond the reach of words and thought. Though close at hand within oneself, they cannot be seen. “Something makes it so” and “nothing makes it so” are both suppositions born of doubt, not the truth of how things are. The past stretches back without end; even if we meet it head-on, we cannot see its beginning. The future has no limit; even if we follow it onward, we cannot see its end. This is the principle by which the myriad things move, not the particular forms they take.

If we take “something makes it so” or “nothing makes it so” as the root, we can grasp them only through words and thought. In the end, we merely experience beginnings and endings along with the myriad things. How, then, could we see a realm without end or limit? The Great Dao cannot be called “something,” because it is not any particular existence. Nor can we call what exists “nothing,” because the myriad things are naturally as they are; I do not cause them to become nothing. Since this is so, “Dao” is merely a name we borrow. How could we mistake the name for the Dao itself? “Nothing makes it so” and “something makes it so” each touch only one aspect of the myriad things. How could either accord with the Great Dao?

If words could exhaust the Great Dao, there would be no need to speak again. If words could exhaust the myriad things, the more we said, the deeper our confusion would become. From the perspective of the myriad things, the Dao is not any particular thing; from the perspective of the Dao, there is nothing that is outside it. Neither words nor silence can express the utmost truth of the Dao and things. To speak throughout one’s life and yet never truly speak: this is not to cling to speech. To remain silent throughout one’s life and yet never fail to express: this is not to cling to silence. Only when the discussion reaches this point can it be called...

Yi Du’s commentary says: Yin and Yang reflect one another, like the sun and moon shining on each other; they complement one another, like Heaven and Earth joining together; they regulate one another, like wind and rain bringing the seasons into harmony; they alternate, like cold and heat; they nourish one another, as growth comes in spring and summer; and they destroy one another, as autumn and winter bring decline. From these arise, in great profusion, Yin and Yang, the four seasons, desire and aversion, and the union of male and female. Safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, also come from them.

As for things governing and driving one another, and such phenomena as reaching an end and returning, or ending and beginning, these are all principles inherent in the myriad things themselves. Such accounts, even when they reach the limits of what people can know, amount to no more than seeing the myriad things clearly. One who truly sees the Dao can perceive principles beyond form and the transformation of Qi. Why would such a person keep their mind fixed on the myriad things and investigate why they arise and decline? This is the limit of what this discussion can reach.

When nothing is imposed through human action, things follow their own nature: this is “Heaven.” When action is imposed and things are driven along, this is human contrivance. To bring harmony to all under Heaven, one cannot be confined to a single point of view. Everyone knows that roosters crow and dogs bark. Yet even the wisest person cannot fully discover, through words and thought, why they make those sounds or what they will do next. Extending this reasoning to things of the greatest and smallest scale, none can be brought about by human effort.

To impose no action is to understand the Way of Heaven but not human affairs; to act by driving things along is to understand human affairs but not the Way of Heaven. Fixing on one aspect of the myriad things ultimately leads to error. Names such as “empty” and “full,” “being” and “nonbeing,” arise through mutual dependence. The more one tries to explain them through words and thought, the further one moves from the principle. Better to seek beyond words and thought.

Human life and death follow the nature and course of life. Who can obstruct this principle? It is not remote from us. The seasons cycle without end, yet their movement cannot be seen directly. Thus, talk of “driving things along” or “following their own nature” may invite the suspicion that these are merely contrived theories, rather than the fundamental principle of life. I observe the process of returning to life’s source: its destination has no end. Life emerges from its source, and its point of origin has no end either. If the Dao is said to be “nonbeing,” it shares one principle with the myriad things; if it is said to be “being,” it passes through beginning and end along with the myriad things. The Dao is neither being nor nonbeing; these are merely names imposed on it. Therefore, talk of “driving things along” and “following their own nature” argues only from one aspect of the myriad things. It has not yet reached a broad and all encompassing understanding—how much less can it speak of the Dao, which is everywhere and connects with everything?

If words are enough to express something, then nothing is lacking in the mind; if words are not enough to express it, the opposite is true. Better, then, to cling neither to speech nor to silence, so that the Dao and the myriad things may both be understood appropriately.

Bixu’s commentary says: “Little Knowledge” asks where the myriad things in the world come from. “Grand Duke” replies that Yin and Yang and the four seasons reflect, regulate, nourish, and destroy one another; people’s desires and aversions, choices and rejections, and the union of male and female among birds and beasts all arise from this. “Rising Bridge” describes something standing high and upright. The matter… (the original text ends here unfinished)

Safety and danger, disaster and good fortune, urgency and delay, gathering and dispersal differ from one another, yet they transform into and give rise to one another. The ways in which things interact and bring one another to fruition also differ. External things have names and can be recorded; subtle changes within can likewise be perceived. From Heaven and Earth down to the myriad things, all coordinate and interact with one another according to a certain order. When things reach their limit, they turn in another direction; whatever begins will eventually end. When words are exhausted and knowledge reaches its limit, things have reached their boundary. Even if one exhausts every description of what is superficial, one still cannot glimpse the bounds of the Dao (the Way).

Only those who perceive the Dao do not change with the rise and fall of the myriad things. They simply let all things transform in their countless ways, while gathering themselves inward, guarding life, and preserving their inborn nature.

Someone asked again, “If the Dao does nothing, how can any undertaking be accomplished? If the Dao drives things, how can the myriad things be said to arise naturally?” When faced with the ways things are, which explanation, in the end, is correct?

The reply was: “Everyone knows that chickens crow and dogs bark, but no one knows why they do. If they do nothing, why do they suddenly crow? If some force drives them, why can other things remain quietly at rest and change of their own accord? Who understands the principle by which things transform naturally? And who can discern what is about to happen?”

Only by regarding things as acting through Wuwei (non-action) can one perceive how they are also driven to act. Only by letting things be driven to act can one examine the principle of Wuwei within them. From this we may infer that things, whether great or small, cannot avoid being entangled by other things; nothing can escape such entanglement entirely.

Things depend on names and realities. Once these are lost, what basis is there for speaking of things at all? Only the subtle Dao and ultimate principle are beyond the limits of thought and speech. When Qi (vital energy) gathers, there is life; when it disperses, there is death. One has scarcely been born before moving toward death, and scarcely died before suddenly being born anew. These transformations are right before our eyes, yet the principle behind them remains unseen; it can only be approached through subtle insight.

To speak of things as driven to act can bring people benefit; to speak of Wuwei can help them preserve themselves. The awakened can begin from either side and respond appropriately to whatever arises. The bewildered, still unable to resolve their doubts, can only provisionally rely on the Dao as they go about their affairs.

I regard the source and unfolding of the Dao as empty, still, obscure, and unfathomable: it cannot be approached or pursued. In its boundlessness, it is no different from plants and animals. People take “usefulness” and “Wuwei” as the foundations of their teachings, but once these teachings are put into words, they still cannot stand apart from the myriad things. Like all things, they too have a beginning and an end.

Both the principles of “being” and “nonbeing” arise through a subtle source. The teachings of Jizhen, who advocated “nonbeing,” and Jiezi, who advocated “being,” are each only one-sided views, mocked by those who understand the Great Dao. Only when “being” and “nonbeing” are both understood, and both sides of a matter are considered, can speech be complete. When speech is complete, nothing in the principle is left out. If one clings to “being” or “nonbeing” and speaks of a matter from only one side, one’s words are incomplete, and the myriad things cannot escape this partial view.

The ultimate Dao cannot be expressed even through silence; the ultimate nature of the myriad things cannot be fully conveyed even in words.

If one can go beyond speech and cling neither to words nor to silence, one can then grasp the Dao in the unseen depths, forget the art of verbal expression, and personally witness the utmost subtlety of the transformations of all things.

The Yanzhai Commentary says, “‘Illuminating’ is like responding; ‘covering’ is like joining together.” Yin and Yang adjust one another, waxing and waning: spring brings forth life, autumn brings decline, and as the seasons turn, all things change with them. Desire and aversion, choosing and rejecting, safety and danger, misfortune and good fortune—all are differences that emerge within what is alike. They rise gradually, like the arch of a bridge, and subtle distinctions appear in their wake.

The various names and actual conditions described from “desire and aversion” onward can each be clearly seen and stated. Observe in order the principles by which things interact, and you will see Yin and Yang adjust one another and wax and wane, setting all things in motion. Thus the difficulties and fulfillment of things, their endings and beginnings, are all inevitable. To understand this is to reach the limit of what can be known. Only those who understand the Dao attribute the causes of all things’ arising and passing away to nature. The discussion should therefore end here.

To say “nothing governs” is to say that everything happens by chance; to say “something governs” is to suppose that events are arranged by some force behind them. The examples of a cock crowing and a dog barking show that people do not all know the same things. Even the highest wisdom cannot exhaust the sources of words and ideas, much less fully describe how things transform of themselves or what they will become.

If one follows this line of reasoning and continues analyzing “great” and “small,” it will go on without end. In the end, one becomes entangled in particular things and may even stray into error. To think that some force directs all things is to treat it as something real; to think that things have no governor is to treat them as nothing. If one insists that a real governor exists, one is ensnared by “names.” If one insists that everything is nonexistent and erases both name and reality, this supposed “nothing” is still treated as something that exists, and one remains entangled in things. Whether one speaks of “being” or “nonbeing,” one is merely conveying ideas through words and speculating with the mind, far from the Dao.

Before things are born, in the end they cannot avoid being born; when death comes, how could one defy or halt this pattern? The principle of the Dao is right before us, yet it cannot be seen directly. Some therefore conclude that everything happens because “something makes it so,” while others conclude that “nothing governs.” Thus the world’s doubts arise. If we look at the original state before things began to change, we find that the past has no end; if we look at things after they have changed and are nearing stillness, we find that the future has no limit. Only by dispelling these distinctions can we join with all things and see them as one.

Neither the claim that “something governs” nor the claim that “nothing governs” escapes the realm of particular things. Both endure along with things from beginning to end, and so remain caught within “being.” How, then, could they truly attain “nonbeing”? Seen from what is real, even the word “Dao” is only a provisional name. How could clinging to either of these two claims bring one into accord with the Great Dao?

If I have truly realized this, it does no harm to speak throughout the day; if I have not, then no matter how much I say, I remain at the level of outward appearances. The Dao is subtle; the myriad things are coarse and manifest. At the furthest reach, neither speech nor silence can fully express it.

To explore fully the realm that cannot be explained in words or expressed through silence requires the most profound of discussions. The Buddhist saying, “When I press a finger, the ocean seal shines forth; when you stir a thought, worldly turmoil arises first,” conveys the same meaning: with a touch of the finger, the ocean seal—a metaphor for a clear and still state of mind that reflects all things—radiates light; when a thought stirs, afflictions and disturbances follow.

Heaven has Yin-Yang and the four seasons; people have desire and aversion, departure and approach. All things have male and female, which come together and give rise to change. Some things arise spontaneously, while others arise from particular causes. All of this comes from the mutual transformation of Heaven, humanity, and the myriad things; at its root, it is only the lingering trace of the Dao. The eight conditions of safety and danger, gathering and dispersal, and their counterparts arise from the changes just described, and are more clearly marked. People in successive generations recorded the principles of events and arranged them point by point, thereby clarifying the duties between ruler and minister, and parent and child. They also revealed how things operate through emptiness and interact with one another, as well as the patterns of culmination and transformation, and of cyclical beginnings and endings. Their discussions therefore make clear that when things reach an extreme, they should come to a halt. This is a theory of governing the world, concerned with matters within the secular realm.

Those who transcend the secular and perceive the Great Dao do not shift along with the rise and decline of the myriad things, nor do they investigate what gave rise to them. They forget both beginning and end, and no longer establish a position at the center. If so, what could they use to judge and debate?

Ji Zhen and Jiezi each had their own doctrine in their time, and both clung to one side, like Yang Zhu and Mozi, each insisting on his own view. Because these doctrines did not accord with the Dao, some people disparaged them by comparing them to the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs: everyone can hear roosters crow and dogs bark, but no one knows why they crow or bark. So how could I know what transformations gave rise to the arguments of Ji Zhen and Jiezi?

By this reasoning, whether one describes the scope of things as extremely small or extremely vast, or says that nothing has a ruler, one cannot escape concrete things or the harms they bring. If one says that things arise from some cause, then they do indeed exist. If one says they are not arranged by human agency, that may be an empty claim, but the claim itself still exists, so it cannot be said to be wholly absent. When the ancients spoke of the Dao, they necessarily went beyond four propositions: existence, nonexistence, neither existence nor nonexistence, and both existence and nonexistence. Only by going beyond these four propositions can one speak of the Dao. It is like setting aside the four directions—east, west, south, and north—after which there can be no such thing as a “center.”

Consider the turning of the four seasons, the movements of the sun, moon, and stars, the ceaseless vigor of the heavenly bodies, and the regular ebb and flow of the sea, like breathing. Is no one directing all this, or is some force setting it in motion? If there is a ruler, that means there is an agent who acts and one who gives commands. Roosters crow and dogs bark because of the forces of nature; life and death, coming and going, are wrought by the transformations of the earth. The seasons, the sun, moon, and stars, Heaven, and the sea also seem to be governed by a true ruler—one who acts through Wuwei (non-action) and exerts influence without issuing commands. The comings and goings of human life and death cannot be stopped; this principle is right here before us.

The principle is the same: look to its roots, and past events have no end; look to its farthest reaches, and future events have no limit. From this we can see that all things under the sway of creation continue without pause, from antiquity to the present. It is not only so with me—how could it be put into words? Humans and all things follow the same principle.

If one clings to either the claim that “something causes all things to be as they are” or the claim that “all things arise naturally, without a ruler,” one becomes entangled in endless arguments about the origins of words and names, and about the beginnings and endings of all things. The Dao cannot be treated as an existing thing. Once it is taken to be something that exists, it becomes blocked and fixed, unable to flow freely. How, then, could it give rise to the Dao’s empty, subtle, and far-reaching mystery—to abide calmly between being and nonbeing without clinging to either? It operates through being and nonbeing, and wherever it reaches, there is nothing but the Dao.

Those like Jizhen and Jiezi each held fast to one side. How could they grasp the vast Dao? To speak with just the right measure is to have grasped the essence of the Dao; to speak incompletely is to have grasped only its rough outline. Words may be of one kind, yet some accord with the Dao and others do not. Taken to the furthest point, the empty nature of all things is the Dao. Neither speech nor silence can contain it; only what transcends the bounds of speech and silence is the Dao in its ultimate form. This is perhaps the highest state of discourse on the Dao.

The commentator Chu gives an overall discussion of this chapter, beginning with Wang Guo’s remarks in the “Zeyang” chapter. He praises Shan Fan for living in seclusion and preserving De, thereby quieting the atmosphere of competing for fame and profit in marketplaces and courts. This shows how a perfected person can understand the tangled complexity of things and lead people back to calm and ease. This is called nourishing people’s hearts with harmony, so that they are transformed naturally; it greatly benefits the governance of the state.

Shan Fan loved the people without limit, so the people, in turn, loved him without end and lived peacefully by his side. He aided all things through the Dao, acting from his true nature. How could the people fail to be transformed? People in the world often pursue external things and lose themselves, straying ever farther from their original nature. When they see their former capital, their spirits lift. This shows that they have not entirely lost their nature: they still hope to recover their original selves. How joyful they would be if they could once again see what they had originally seen and hear what they had originally heard!

Cultivating oneself is like governing a state: the heart is like the ruler. When the heart is upright, the five senses can each fulfill their proper roles. When the ruler is upright, the ministers who assist him can be worthy. This benefits not only the present but also helps shape the instruction of future generations. For example, King Tang received the support of three worthy ministers, and Confucius carried on their teaching; together they were like the four seasons, bringing the work of the year to completion. How could those from beyond the rivers and the heavens be compared with them?

The text then turns to the states of Qi and Wei, which broke their alliance and sent their armies into battle. It cites the parable of the “struggle between Chu and Man” as an analogy, mocking the bellicose rulers of the time and showing that their understanding was narrow and their vision shallow: what they were fighting over was not worth fighting over at all. Confucius…

The parable of Zi (a figure in the text) uses “living beside an anthill” to mock conspicuous behavior that invites disgust. The border guard speaks of seedlings, pointing out that treating them as taboo and therefore despising them brings misfortune. Both examples explain the essentials of adapting to the ways of the world and cultivating oneself.

Boju (a personal name) laments wrongdoing, recognizing that the fault lies with himself; he corrects himself in order to set external things right. Qu Yuan (a personal name) changes how he conducts himself as he grows older, relying on the knowledge that there are things he does not know and making good use of what he understands about things. This passage discusses ways to govern the people and transform the myriad things.

The story of Duke Ling of Wei, along with the saying that one should arrange a funeral before the event has even occurred, illustrates that worldly events follow their own allotted course: people simply act in accordance with the workings of creation and transformation.

The village sayings about gathering and dispersal, sameness and difference; the horse, which is made up of many parts yet called a single whole; and the great person of lofty De, who views the myriad things together and treats them with impartiality—all illustrate that although things differ, the Dao is present throughout them. This is like the varied materials in a great marsh or the wood and stones on a high mountain: some come from the same source but serve different purposes, while others have different origins yet converge in one place. They all remain within the bounds of form and the transformation of Qi. Follow their changes to their conclusions, and the principles of things are fully revealed.

The passage ends with Jizhen and Jiezi (two figures), showing that although what they say may seem to set emptiness against substance, it remains confined by distinctions and attachments, and cannot help following the cycles of change in external things. One must therefore go beyond the boundary between speech and silence, allowing the mind to move freely and grasping the underlying principle. Here the discussion concerns the ultimate relation between the Dao and things. From this we can see clearly that anything that can be spoken or named is not the constant, unchanging true Dao; the Dao cannot be conveyed through speech or silence alone.