《南華真經循本》Vol. 23

Xu Wugui (a recluse of the Warring States period) was introduced to Marquis Wu of Wei through the courtier Nü Shang. The Marquis greeted him saying: "Master, you must have suffered greatly living in mountain forests—is that why you've come to see me?" Xu Wugui replied: "It is I who should be offering condolences to Your Lordship. If you indulge your desires and amplify preferences, you harm the fundamental nature of life; yet if you suppress desires and reject preferences, you torment your senses. I came to console you, yet you console me first." The Marquis was left speechless.

Later, Xu Wugui spoke of judging dogs: "An inferior dog stops eating when full, shallow as a wildcat. A middling dog lifts its head to gaze afar as if observing the sun. But a superior dog becomes completely self-forgetful." He explained: Dogs are born to hunt—the inferior is content with small prey; the middling aspires higher; but the superior transcends hunting itself, attaining extraordinary states.

Then he discussed judging horses: "Those conforming to measurements are merely state horses. Truly exceptional steeds appear absent-minded, as if forgetting they're horses. Such horses run without touching dust, vanishing in an instant." Here horses symbolize people—true sages resemble these steeds, transcending worldly constraints.

The Marquis laughed heartily. After Xu Wugui departed, Nü Shang asked in puzzlement: "What method did the master actually use...". Through these analogies of dogs and horses, the dialogue subtly satirizes rulers trapped by desires compared to Daoist practitioners' transcendent freedom, embodying the Daoist cultivation states of "sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang) and "losing the self" (sangwo).

This passage recounts a conversation between Xu Wugui (a Daoist hermit) and Marquis Wu of Wei. When Xu Wugui met the Marquis, the ruler asked him: "Master, having long dwelt in mountain forests eating acorns and wild fruits, have you come in your old age to savor fine wines and meats? Or perhaps to bring blessings for governing my state?" Xu Wugui replied that as a man of humble origins, he dared not covet the ruler's delicacies—he had come instead to "comfort both the spirit (Shen) and form of the Marquis."

Puzzled by this response, Xu Wugui explained: Heaven and earth nurture all things equally—those who stand high are not inherently superior, nor are those in low positions inferior. Yet as ruler of ten thousand chariots, the Marquis made his people suffer to indulge his sensory pleasures. The human spirit's true nature delights in harmony and abhors perversity (meaning actions contrary to the Dao), and such perversity becomes the root of illness. Thus his purpose in "comforting" the Marquis was actually to subtly point out how the ruler's indulgence had strayed from the natural way—a condition requiring adjustment like an ailment needing treatment.

The text employs two vivid analogies: exiled Yue countrymen rejoicing at sights reminiscent of their homeland, and the classic image of a solitary dweller delighting at hearing footsteps in a deserted valley. These illustrate how the Marquis, having gone too long without hearing the admonitions of genuine Daoist sages (truthful words of the Dao), could find pleasure even in trivial discussions about judging dogs and horses. This subtly reveals the ruler's prolonged deprivation of authentic Daoist wisdom.

Marquis Wu of Wei fell ill due to excessive contemplation. Xu Wugui asked what troubled him. The Marquis replied: "For a long time I've wished to consult you. I desire to cherish the people, practice humaneness and righteousness, and cease warfare. Would this be acceptable?"

Xu Wugui directly refuted: "No. What you call cherishing the people would become the beginning of harming them; proclaiming humaneness and ceasing warfare would become the root cause of war. If you proceed this way, success would be difficult. All deliberate pursuit of reputation becomes an instrument for inviting calamity. Though you wish to practice humaneness, you may end up with hypocrisy. Once action is taken, more actions must follow; when achievements are made, slander inevitably comes; when thoughts arise in the mind, conflict with external things emerges."

He further cautioned the Marquis: "Don't display military formations (the 'Crane Array' refers to battle tactics, while Liqiao is a tower name) on city towers, nor deploy infantry and cavalry (foot soldiers and warhorses) around ancestral temples (Zitan being sacrificial grounds). For the struggle of inner desires is as dangerous as brandishing weapons indoors. Don't crave gains, for within favorable circumstances already lie adversity. Don't use cleverness, schemes, or warfare to surpass others. Killing soldiers and civilians of other states to seize lands for personal desires—such warfare cannot determine who is more righteous."

Xu Wugui advised: "If you truly cannot stop these thoughts, better cultivate inner sincerity, follow the Dao (the Way) of nature, and avoid harassing the people. Then you'll naturally attain liberation—why deliberately pursue cessation of war?"

The subsequent passage recounts the Yellow Emperor's quest for the Dao: Leading six sages (Fangming, Changyu and others), the Yellow Emperor sought the Daoist sage Dawei at Mount Jucí, but got lost near Xiangcheng. There he met a horse-tending youth who knew not only the mountain's location but also Dawei's dwelling. Amazed by the child's wisdom, the Emperor asked about governing All Under Heaven. The youth replied: "Governing is as simple as herding horses—why complicate it? Since childhood I've wandered freely between heaven and earth." This implies that statecraft should follow nature's course without forced action.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Zhuangzi and the Yellow Emperor, along with Zhuangzi's observations on various types of people.

Zhuangzi reflects that in his youth, though appearing childlike in demeanor, he was no ordinary child. He once suffered from vertigo (called "mou disease"), until an elder taught him to ride the "solar chariot" (symbolizing wisdom that follows the sun's natural movement) through the outskirts of Xiangcheng. By moving with the sunlight, he could perceive things clearly. Now that his condition has improved, he intends to continue wandering beyond the confines of heaven and earth. He considers governing the world to be just as simple—why should he trouble himself with it?

The Yellow Emperor acknowledges that statecraft shouldn't be Zhuangzi's concern, yet still seeks his counsel. Zhuangzi responds with a herding metaphor: governing is like tending horses—simply remove those that disrupt the herd. Deeply impressed, the Yellow Emperor bows respectfully, addressing him as "Celestial Master" (Tianshi).

Zhuangzi then analyzes various human dispositions:

• Strategists find no joy without problems to solve
• Debaters feel unfulfilled without arguments to pursue
• Overseers remain discontent without cases to investigate

All these remain shackled by mundane affairs.

He further categorizes others:

• Statesmen take pride in courtly service
• Warriors glory in overcoming adversity
• Soldiers delight in battlefield exploits
• Hermits chase reclusive fame
• Legalists zealously promote laws
• Confucianists emphasize ritual propriety
• Moralists prioritize human relationships

His concluding insight reveals:

Farmers scatter without fields, merchants languish without markets, commoners grow idle without daily work, artisans struggle without tools. The greedy fret over lost wealth, the power-hungry despair when influence wanes. All these types rise and fall with circumstance, anchoring their entire being to external things—pitiful souls who never transcend worldly attachments in their lifetime.

(Note: The "solar chariot" symbolizes Daoist wisdom of following natural patterns; "Celestial Master" honors realized adepts; "beyond the six directions" denotes transcendental realms.)

This passage speaks of how one should maintain a state of wuxin (no-mind, free from forced intention), acting naturally when the time comes to fulfill one's function. True wuwei (non-action) is not the deliberate posturing of greedy or ostentatious people. Those who understand this principle flow as naturally as the changing seasons, never altering their true nature because of external things. Yet sadly, modern people indulge their physical forms and innate nature, drowning in material pursuits without self-awareness, remaining unenlightened throughout their entire lives—a truly pitiable state.

Zhuangzi employs archery as a metaphor: If an archer hits the target without consciously aiming, can this be called skillful shooting? Hui Shi replies affirmatively. Zhuangzi counters: Then wouldn't everyone in the world become as skilled as the legendary archer Yi? The discussion then shifts to standards of right and wrong: If the world lacks universally recognized truth, with each person considering themselves correct, wouldn't everyone then become as sage-like as the legendary ruler Yao? Again Hui Shi agrees. Through this, Zhuangzi points out that the doctrines of Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu, and Gongsun Long—along with Hui Shi's own views—are all as one-sided as the disciples of Lu Ju (an ancient music master).

The disciples claimed mastery of their teacher's art, boasting they could cook in winter without fire and make ice in summer. Lu Ju exposed this as merely applying the simple principle of "summoning yang with yang and yin with yin" (the natural heating effect when yang qi arises at winter solstice, or cooling when yin qi emerges at summer solstice), which hardly constitutes the true Dao. He then demonstrated authentic mastery: placing two zithers in the main hall and an inner chamber, plucking the gong note (do) on one caused the other's gong string to resonate; changing to the jue note (mi) produced similar sympathetic vibration. This illustrates how the true Dao operates through holistic harmony—like adjusting one string that affects the entire musical system—rather than pursuing isolated miraculous effects.

This passage explains the principle of acoustic resonance, which is actually not mysterious at all. It's like the incident involving Cao Shaokui, a Tang Dynasty expert in musical temperament: A Buddhist monk in Luoyang had a qing (a percussion instrument) in his room that would sound without being struck. The monk thought it was haunted and became ill from fright. When Cao went to visit, he happened to hear the temple bell ring, and the qing resonated in response. With a laugh, he asked the monk to prepare a feast. The next day, Cao filed the qing slightly with a rasp, and the strange sounds ceased—it turned out the qing and the bell shared the same pitch, causing resonance. The monk suddenly understood and recovered from his illness. Similarly, Li Sizhen discovered that when a carriage bell rang, there was an echo underground; upon digging, they found a bell—the same principle at work.

The Xueji (Records of Learning) states that drumbeats themselves don't belong to the Five Notes (of the pentatonic scale), yet they can command them. When plucking one string on a qin (zither), the other twenty-five strings resonate because that string is the tonic. All sixty-four musical modes originate from the Huangzhong Gong (the ancient pitch standard), just as the Gong note (the tonic) governs the other notes—this is a natural law, nothing strange about it.

Later, Zhuangzi uses a metaphor to mock Hui Shi: It's like a man from Qi who sent his son to Song to work as a gatekeeper but deliberately crippled him; or someone who wants to find a xingzhong (a type of bell) but keeps it tightly bound; or someone who wants to command people in the courtyard but never steps outside—such self-righteous methods are doomed to fail. Hui Shi was always debating with Confucians, Mohists, and Yang Zhu's school, convinced everyone else was wrong and only he was right. Zhuangzi saw this as just as absurd as that man from Qi.

This passage contains three parables, each conveying principles for navigating human relationships.

The first story draws from the Rites of Zhou, mentioning how gatekeepers were commonly called "hall attendants." The Tian Zifang chapter records: A man went to a horse market (Tangsi) to find a horse, since markets had passages for horses to enter. In Qi, a man sent his lame son to serve as a gatekeeper in Song, showing disdain for his physical impairment. Yet how could one bear to abandon their own flesh and blood? In contrast, this same person would carefully wrap ritual vessels to prevent damage and only put horses to work in pastures—both better than abandoning his son. This illustrates how people often confuse priorities regarding intimacy and social status, much like how the philosopher Huizi could spot flaws in others' arguments but remained blind to his own.

The second parable tells of a Chu man working as a gatekeeper in another state who fought with a boatman at midnight when no one was around. Starting conflicts before even reaching shore (cen meaning riverbank) only invites resentment. This further demonstrates how quarreling not only clouds one's judgment but invites calamity.

The third famous story occurs when Zhuangzi passes Huizi's tomb: In Ying (Chu's capital), a man with white lime on his nose had the master craftsman Shi chop it off with an axe. Shi swung with such precision that he removed the lime without harming the nose. Later, when Duke Yuan of Song asked Shi to demonstrate, the craftsman replied, "My partner (zhi referring to his collaborator) has long been dead." Zhuangzi used this to lament: "Since Huizi's passing, I've had no one left to truly converse with."

Finally, the passage recounts how when Guan Zhong fell gravely ill, Duke Huan of Qi asked: "Your illness is severe—do you have final instructions? If it worsens, to whom should I entrust state affairs?" This exchange reveals the profound trust between ruler and minister.

Guan Zhong (a renowned statesman of the Qi state during the Spring and Autumn period) said to Duke Huan of Qi: "Whom do you wish to appoint as your assistant?" The Duke replied: "What about Bao Shuya?" Guan Zhong responded: "No. Bao Shuya is too upright and incorruptible—a man of high moral character—but he refuses to associate with those he deems inferior. Moreover, once he becomes aware of someone's faults, he never forgets them. If he were to govern the state, he would antagonize the ruler above and offend the common people below. He would soon incur the ruler's wrath."

The Duke asked: "Then who would be suitable?" Guan Zhong said: "If we must choose, Xi Peng would do. This man neither boasts of his merits before superiors nor harshly criticizes the common people. Though he feels ashamed of not measuring up to the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sage king), he treats those inferior to himself with kindness. To transform others through virtue is called sagely wisdom; to aid others with material resources is called worthy ability. Those who pride themselves on their worthiness find it hard to gain others' allegiance, while those who humbly serve others with their worthiness will surely win hearts. In governing the state, he knows how to focus on major issues while letting minor ones slide; in managing his household, he understands when to turn a blind eye. If we must choose, Xi Peng is the most suitable."

The King of Wu was crossing the river by boat and climbed Monkey Mountain. All the monkeys fled in panic at the sight of him, hiding deep in the thick grass. Only one monkey remained calm, swinging leisurely from branch to branch, showing off its skills before the king. The king shot an arrow at it, but the monkey deftly caught it midair. The king then ordered his attendants to shoot together, and the monkey was finally struck down. The king said to his friend Yan Buyi: "This monkey flaunted its skill and relied on its cleverness to look down on me—that’s why it met its death. Take this as a warning! Never treat others with arrogance." Yan Buyi returned home and became a disciple of Dong Wu, shedding his proud demeanor, abandoning indulgence, and resigning from office. Three years later, the entire populace praised him.

Nanbo Ziqi (a Daoist figure) sat quietly leaning against a table, sighing as he gazed at the sky. His disciple Yan Chengzi entered and said: "Master, you are truly extraordinary! Can the body be as still as withered wood, and the mind as silent as dead ashes?" Nanbo Ziqi replied: "I once lived in a mountain cave. At that time, whenever Tian He (the ruler of Qi) saw me, the people of Qi would congratulate him three times (for gaining a worthy scholar). It must have been because I first revealed my uniqueness that they came to know me; it must have been because I boasted of myself that they spread word of me. If I hadn’t considered myself special, how would they have known? If I hadn’t promoted myself, how would they have publicized me? Alas! I lament how people lose their true nature."

This passage presents a profound allegory about "Wuwei" (non-action) and "wordless teaching." It begins by lamenting the endless cycle of mutual pity among people, then recounts how Confucius (Zhongni), while visiting the state of Chu, was hosted by the Chu king at a banquet. During the gathering, the virtuous minister Sunshu Ao (son of Wei Jia, who served as prime minister under King Zhuang of Chu) stood holding a wine cup, while another wise scholar, Shi'nan Yiliao, received the wine to offer libation to ancient sages. Praising Confucius as different from contemporary men, he sought his counsel.

Confucius responded: "I have heard of the principle of 'wordless teaching,' yet here I must speak." He then cited two examples: Shi'nan Yiliao, skilled at juggling balls and bells, once used this performance art to avert a war between two states; Sunshu Ao, simply reclining with a feather fan, made the Chu people lay down their weapons. Confucius sighed that if words were truly effective, he would wish for a three-foot-long mouth to debate eloquently—but since words prove futile, such an endowment would be meaningless.

Through these historical figures, the passage illustrates how Shi'nan Yiliao resolved conflict through performance art and Sunshu Ao pacified strife through Wuwei—both achieving solutions via "non-action." Confucius suggests true wisdom lies not in eloquence ("wordless debate"), and the highest truths often transcend verbal expression ("the Way that cannot be spoken").

The text then unfolds deeper philosophy: Genuine De (Virtue) belongs to the wholeness of Dao, while words halt at the frontier where wisdom cannot penetrate. The sea becomes great by never rejecting eastern-flowing waters; the sage embraces heaven-earth and blesses all creatures without claiming fame. Just as good dogs need not bark to prove their worth, worthy men need not display talent through speech—how much more so for those pursuing greatness? True "greatness" requires no forced pursuit, being complete like the self-so perfection of heaven-earth. Those who understand this seek nothing, never alter their nature for external things, return to original authenticity without exhaustion, and follow the ancient Way without affectation—this constitutes the true realm of the "Great Man" (one who has attained Dao).

Nanguo Ziqi had eight sons. One day, he summoned them all and invited the physiognomist Jiufang Yin (an ancient expert in face-reading) to examine their fortunes. Ziqi asked, "Which of my sons do you predict will have the most auspicious destiny?" Jiufang Yin pointed to a boy named Kun and declared, "This child will enjoy the greatest blessings—he shall dine at the king's table and live in lifelong prosperity."

Upon hearing this, Ziqi suddenly turned pale and wept, exclaiming, "How could my son come to such a fate!" Puzzled, Jiufang Yin replied, "To share meals with the ruler means blessings extending to three generations of kin—father's clan, mother's lineage, and wife's family—let alone his own parents. Yet you weep at good news? This is rejecting fortune itself. A son's prosperity should bring his father joy."

Ziqi explained: "Ah, Jiufang Yin, you understand nothing of true blessing. What you call Kun's fortune merely means meat and wine upon his table. But do you know whence such feasts come? It's as if ewes appeared in my home though I never kept sheep, or quails materialized though I never hunted—like the verse in the Book of Songs that asks, 'How came the quail to the non-hunter's house?' When unearned gains arrive mysteriously, should we not be wary?"

"The way I raise my children is to let them dwell with Heaven and Earth. Together we partake of celestial joy and terrestrial nourishment, but I teach them no worldly stratagems, no schemes for fame. We follow the Dao's flow, untethered by external things, accepting each circumstance. Now this so-called 'fortune' appears—but extraordinary omens always precede extraordinary calamities. This is no fault of ours, but Heaven's jest! Hence my tears."

Later events proved Ziqi right. Before long, Kun was sent to Yan territory, only to be captured by bandits en route. Finding a whole man troublesome to sell, they amputated his feet (a penal mutilation) and sold him to Qi. There, by ironic fortune, Kun became a market supervisor for Duke Qu of Qi—thus literally fulfilling the prediction of "lifelong meat-eating."

The record continues with another parable: The hermit Nie Que once met Xu You (the renowned recluse from Emperor Yao's era) and asked his destination. Xu You replied, "I flee from Emperor Yao." When Nie Que asked why, Xu You explained: "Yao spreads benevolent governance everywhere. I fear this will make fools of the world, and later ages may witness men devouring each other. The people are easily governed—treat them simply with kindness."

This passage employs vivid metaphors to reveal the illusory nature of worldly pursuits such as forced benevolence, fame, and reputation for virtue, pointing out that true wisdom lies in transcending these external constraints.

The text describes three types of people who have lost their original authenticity:

The first are the "self-satisfied" (暖姝者), like those who study a single school of thought and become complacent, akin to a frog at the bottom of a well, believing it has grasped the entirety of truth.

The second are the "complacent parasites" (濡需者), much like lice living on a pig, thinking they have found a safe haven, unaware that they may be burned alive along with the pig at any moment.

The third are the "exhausted seekers" (卷娄者), exemplified by the sage-king Shun. Though revered by the people for his virtue, he spent his life in ceaseless toil, never finding rest—like ants drawn to the smell of mutton, unable to break free from their obsession.

The author particularly criticizes those who exploit the name of benevolence and righteousness for personal gain, emphasizing that true virtue must arise from the heart. To impose one person’s standards on the entire world is as unreliable as judging something from a fleeting glance. Yao, for instance, knew that virtuous men could benefit the world but failed to recognize how they could also bring harm.

Those who have truly attained the Dao (神人, divine person) despise being pursued by crowds, for where there are many people, conflict inevitably arises. They neither deliberately seek closeness nor enforce distance, but simply abide in their natural essence, harmonizing with Heaven and Earth. Such individuals are called "authentic persons" (真人). Like ants relinquishing their obsessions, fish finding ease in water, or sheep shedding their desires, they see only what their eyes naturally perceive, hear only what their ears naturally receive, allowing the mind to return to its original purity.

In life, they move with the straightness of an inked line, yet when facing change, they adapt effortlessly in accordance with nature.

This passage elucidates the way of being practiced by ancient Perfected Persons (zhenren) through multiple metaphors that reveal the profound philosophy of "following natural spontaneity."

The text begins by recounting how Emperor Shun, despite being widely revered, found no peace—illustrating how gatherings of people inevitably give rise to preferences and aversions, leading to contention. The truly Dao-attained Perfected Person neither seeks excessive intimacy nor creates distance with others, but instead upholds the Great Dao (Da Dao), gently accommodating all under heaven. Just as ants are drawn to mutton while sheep inevitably carry their own scent, the Perfected Person transcends such states of mutual attraction.

The passage employs the phrase "using eyes to see eyes, ears to hear ears, and heart/mind to return to heart/mind" to describe the Perfected Person's return to primordial simplicity. In stillness, this state is as pure as a straight plumb line; in movement, it flows with the myriad things without becoming disordered. Ancient Perfected Persons treated all matters according to the Dao of natural spontaneity, never imposing human will upon nature.

Medicinal herbs then serve as another metaphor: plants like violetwort, platycodon root, foxnut, and polyporus can each become the sovereign herb (dizhe, "emperor medicine") depending on circumstances, demonstrating that gain and loss follow no fixed pattern. The example of Wen Zhong, a minister of Yue State who understood the principles of national survival yet failed to preserve himself, further illustrates the unpredictability of fortune.

Finally, the text compares the physiological traits of owls and cranes: an owl's eyes are adapted for night vision, while a crane's long legs have their natural limits—attempting to alter these would only cause suffering. These examples collectively demonstrate that all things possess their inherent natural tendencies, and forced changes inevitably bring misfortune. The Perfected Person, profoundly understanding this principle, thus follows the natural course effortlessly.

This scripture uses natural phenomena to illustrate the principles of cultivating mind and nature.

First, it employs the examples of wind and sunlight: When wind blows over a river, it carries away moisture; when sunlight shines upon the water, it causes evaporation. Yet the river, replenished by its living source, does not feel disturbed. This mirrors how a practitioner must have an inner foundation to remain steady amid external disruptions.

Next, it draws analogies with water and land, shadow and person, object and self: Water naturally adheres to the earth, shadows naturally follow people, and all things naturally maintain their intrinsic nature. Such natural interdependence is unshakable—cultivation should likewise achieve this state of unity between inner and outer.

Then it points out three dangers: The eyes excessively seeking brightness, the ears excessively seeking sharpness, and the mind excessively chasing external things—all bring harm. Any overuse of sensory faculties damages the inner "treasuries" (referring to the body's Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit)). Calamity forms swiftly, yet reversing it requires gradual effort; only perseverance yields results. Sadly, people often indulge in sensory pleasures, ultimately leading to ruin—even the downfall of nations.

Finally, it uses the metaphor of stepping on the ground: Though the foot touches only a small patch, it relies on the vast untrodden earth to move freely. Similarly, human knowledge is limited, yet it is through the unknown that one comprehends the Dao (the Way). To recognize the highest truth (Taiji, the Supreme Ultimate), understand the deepest mysteries (Taiyin, the Great Yin), grasp the fundamental laws (Taijun, the Great Balance), and attain the most complete state (Taiding, the Great Stillness)—"Taiji" is the root Dao that permeates all things.

This passage elucidates the dialectical thinking in Daoist epistemology. Seeing too clearly with the eyes can paradoxically create limitations, measuring things with rigid standards (taijun) leads to inflexibility, and excessive fixation on form (taixin) causes one to lose the essence. True profound understanding appears as if one doesn't comprehend, and genuine knowing seems like not knowing—only by first relinquishing preconceived knowledge can one attain true wisdom.

The ground beneath our feet is limited, but it's the unexplored territory that demands investigation; what we know is meager, while exploring the unknown constitutes great wisdom. Concepts like "Taiyi" (cosmic origin), "Taiyin" (hidden essence), and "Taimu" (excessive observation) should never be taken at face value. We may believe we've exhausted all truth, yet the Dao (the Way) is boundless; we may think following rules suffices, yet higher laws oversee all; we may assume we've entered the mysterious darkness of profound states, yet pivotal mechanisms still govern; we may imagine we've found the source, yet deeper origins always exist.

The text employs the metaphor of "xiehua" (debating techniques): the true Dao has neither boundaries nor the absence of boundaries, much like how contradictions in debate may conceal profound truths. All things undergo transformation, yet only the great Dao remains unchanging. The term "yangque" (originally meaning gesturing with hands) refers to the vivid demonstrations of Chan masters—when speaking of the Dao, apparent contradictions reveal undeniable truth. Why seek liberation from confusion? True liberation lies in transcending confusion itself.

The passage concludes by noting: inquiries about the Dao inherently lack fixed answers, just as ancient philosophers debated "jianbai" (the School of Names' paradox of hardness and whiteness). The key lies in apprehending the unchanging reality within. This mode of cognition is precisely the path to supreme wisdom.

This passage speaks of how Dao cultivators should use their own awakening to help others overcome confusion. It conveys that when someone who has attained a state of clarity uses this understanding to assist those still lost in delusion, guiding them back to clarity, then perhaps all may become free from confusion. Even when no one actively seeks guidance, the Dao practitioner still maintains hope, ever ready to enlighten and instruct others. Those who have truly attained the Dao—the realized immortals (referring to accomplished adepts)—often embody this very intention: they constantly carry within them the compassionate heart to deliver all beings.