《南華真經註疏》Vol. 24

Zhi traveled north and, upon reaching the banks of the Dark Water (xuan shui, deep and obscure water), climbed Hidden-Flourishing Hill (yin fen zhi qiu, a remote hill thick with vegetation), where he happened to meet Wuweiwei (a figure in the allegory who stands for the principle of wuwei, non-action).

The commentary explains that this chapter uses personal names to carry its teaching. “North” points to the dark and unfathomable; “water” likewise images a realm that is obscure and hard to discern. “Hidden” means far beyond ordinary knowing; “flourishing” (fen) describes lush growth that seems almost visible. The point is that the ultimate Dao is deep and subtle: showing and hiding have no fixed pattern, so these place-names and characters are used to express that.

Zhi asked Wuweiwei: “I wish to learn from you: what should I think about and worry over if I am to understand the Dao? In what place and by what manner should I dwell so as to be at peace with the Dao? By relying on what and following what path can I obtain the Dao?”

The commentary says that “ruo” (若) here means “you.” Zhi strained his mind to the utmost in asking about the Way. If one hopes to find it through thinking, one must ask what to hold in mind and what to fret over in order to know the ultimate Dao; if one hopes to attain it through practice, one must ask where to be and in what mode to settle the heart in accord with the Dao; and one must also ask what to depend on and what road to walk in order truly to gain the Dao.

Zhi asked three times in succession, yet Wuweiwei never answered. This was not because he refused to speak, nor because he did not know what to say, but because the Way itself admits no division or discrimination, so there was nothing from which to frame a reply.

The commentary notes that “zhi” (知) here carries the sense of distinguishing and analyzing. The story imagines Zhi putting three questions and receiving not one answer. It is not that Wuweiwei begrudged a response; rather, the Way was never something that could be carved into separate points, and therefore no concrete answer was possible.

Getting no clarification, Zhi went to the south bank of the White Water (bai shui, water imaged as pure and plain) and climbed Fox-Gap Hill (hu que zhi qiu), where he met Kuangqu (another allegorical figure). He repeated his earlier questions and asked Kuangqu as well.

The commentary says “white” symbolizes purity and simplicity, and “south” symbolizes clarity and openness. “Fox” suggests wavering doubt; “gap” (que) suggests emptiness and absence of things. Having failed to obtain a definite answer, Zhi turned to seek on the south side of the White Water. He tried to let go of the tangible and turn awareness back toward nothingness, yet doubt still remained and he did not see through completely. Later he released his mind and moved wildly, like withered wood in utter non-doing—hence the name “Kuangqu” (Mad-Bent).

Kuangqu said: “Ah! I know. But when I was about to tell you, I suddenly forgot what I meant to say.”

The commentary treats “ai” (唉) as a sound of assent. He intended to explain, yet halfway through he forgot his own words. That forgetting is precisely the way of turning inward and tasting the Dao.

Still without an answer, Zhi went to the palace of the sovereign and met the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi), to whom he put the same questions. The Yellow Emperor said: “Without thinking and without calculating, one only then begins to understand the Dao; not tied to any one place, not fixed in any one method, one only then begins to be at peace with the Dao; not leaning on any fixed thing, not walking any fixed road…”

Xuanyuan (the Yellow Emperor) grasped the subtlety of the Dao and was versed in profound discourse, and so used “non-being” (wu) to clarify the distinctions involved in the“Three Questions.”

Three Questions

Zhi (a personal name) asked the Yellow Emperor: “You and I both know about this matter, yet one of us does not know—so who is actually right?”

The Yellow Emperor said: “Bi (a personal name) does nothing at all, and that alone is truly right; Kuangqu’s (a personal name) view comes close to being correct. You and I, in the end, have still not come close to it. Those who understand do not speak; those who speak do not truly understand. Therefore the sage carries out teaching through not speaking.”

Note: Letting all things develop according to their own nature—this is the “teaching that does not rely on words.”

Commentary: What is called “truly right” means not striving deliberately to know; what is called “coming close” means being able to forget distinctions. Saying “you and I have still not come close” is because we are still talking and judging. Here the text cites the Laozi’s “teaching that does not rely on words” as proof.

The Dao Cannot Be Reached

Note: The Dao dwells in what is natural; it is not something that can be spoken out or obtained by seeking.

Commentary: “Reach” means to obtain. The profound Dao cannot be obtained through words; to claim one can clarify the Dao in speech is already to fall short of the Dao.

De Cannot Be Reached

Note: Not deliberately displaying De is what counts as De; once De is displayed, one has not yet attained De.

Commentary: The highest De does not think of itself as having De; if De is treated as something deliberately pursued and shown, it is not supreme De.

Benevolence (Ren) Can Be Deliberately Practiced

Commentary: Ultimate benevolence has no partiality of near and far. If one favors certain people and extends kindness to them, that is only intentional action.

Righteousness (Yi) Can Suffer Loss

Commentary: Deciding right and wrong and making choices inevitably involves cutting and harm, so it cannot be whole and complete. What is truly complete is complying with the growth of all things.

Ritual (Li) Gives Rise to Mutual Pretense

Commentary: Ritual stresses mutual exchange and response, which easily leads people to ornament and affectation toward one another; surface refinement disturbs De and is not genuine and natural.

Therefore it is said: when the Dao is lost, people speak of De; when De is lost, they speak of benevolence; when benevolence is lost, they speak of righteousness; when righteousness is lost, they speak of ritual. Ritual is the outward adornment of the Dao and also the beginning of disorder.

Note: Ritual has fixed norms, and so it also invites pretense and imitation.

Commentary: Abandoning the root and chasing the branches makes simplicity thin and superficial; as the pure thickness of the Dao disperses, matters develop to the point of emphasizing ritual propriety. Here words from the Laozi are cited to demonstrate this principle.

Therefore it is said that those who cultivate the Dao must each day undergo reduction.

Note: What is reduced is ornament and falsity.

Reduce again and again until there is Wuwei (non-action). When Wuwei is reached, nothing is impossible.

Note: After ornament is stripped away and simplicity is preserved, even when there is action, it carries no deliberate artifice.

Commentary: Those who cultivate the Dao day by day subtract ornament and falsity; first they subtract “having,” then they subtract “not having,” and let go of both kinds of distinction between having and not-having, arriving at the Wuwei realm that is neither being nor non-being. The mind is still and does not stir rashly—this is Wuwei; precisely because there is no contrived doing, nothing fails to be accomplished. The Laozi is cited again here to elaborate this meaning.

To treat the Dao as something external is already to have gone astray.

Note: Only when one loses the original root of things does one regard the Dao as an external object.

To want to return again to the root—is that not very hard? In fact it is not hard; those who can do it are probably only the great persons (daren, attained sages).

Note: Those who can easily return to the root are only the great persons. The mind of the great person accords with the Way of transformation, so following the changes of the myriad things is not difficult for them.

Commentary: People who invert root and branch have restless, false minds; they chase twigs and forget the root and treat the Dao as something outside themselves. How could such people return to the root and recover their mandate even if they wished to? Looking back to the source is not difficult in itself—only the great sage can do it.

Life is of the same kind as death.

Note: Those who understand the Way of transformation do not treat life and death as different affairs.

Death is the beginning of life. Who can know where their boundary lies?

Note: Life and death transform into each other and take turns as beginning; therefore one cannot finally say which is death and which is life.

Commentary: When qi gathers there is life—this still belongs to the part of change that is “death”; when qi disperses there is death—this is again the fundamental beginning of life. Beginning and end, life and death, alternate with each other; who can clarify their principle? Qi’s gathering and dispersing, coming and going—transformation has no fixed rule.

Human life is qi gathered into form; when qi gathers, that is life; when qi disperses, that is death.

Note: Both life and death are nothing but the gathering and dispersing of qi.

If life and death are both companions in the same process of change, what is there for me to worry about?

Note: Worry arises from treating life and death as different things.

Commentary: Qi gathering is life; qi dispersing is death. Gathering and dispersing differ in form, but what transforms is always qi; therefore life and death, gathering and dispersing, can be seen as paired phases. Since there is no fundamental difference, what is there to worry about?

Therefore the myriad things were originally one body.

Commentary: Since life and death have no essential distinction, the principle of the myriad things naturally returns to oneness.

People take what they love as wondrous and strange, and what they hate as foul and rotten; yet what is foul and rotten can change into what is wondrous and strange, and what is wondrous and strange can change into what is foul and rotten. Thus it is said: take the whole world in view—the myriad things are nothing but one qi.

Note: Each person takes what they like as miraculous and what they dislike as stinking and corrupt—that is all. Yet what others love may be exactly what I detest; what I love, others may detest. Therefore the miraculous and the foul are relative. What difference is there between life and death, or between self and other?

Commentary: Things in themselves have no fixed beauty or ugliness; human feelings have likes and dislikes. What feeling likes, one calls wondrous and strange; what feeling hates, one calls foul and rotten—root and branch are inverted to that extent. Yet the natures of things differ and preferences differ: what others find beautiful I may detest; what I detest others may find beautiful. Maoqiang and Liji are women people regard as beautiful, yet fish…

When some things are regarded as profound and others as base, some as lofty and wondrous, then even what is rotten can become wondrous, and what is wondrous can become rotten. Right and wrong, beautiful and ugly—where is there any fixed standard? From this we can see that all things under Heaven arise together from a single Qi.

Therefore, the sage values “oneness.”

Commentary: The sage embodies the Great Dao, and wisdom is in accord with all things. Thus the sage values this true “oneness” and can merge as one with every realm.

Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor, “I asked Wuweiwei, and he did not answer me. I do not mean that he deliberately ignored me; he simply did not know how to respond. I asked Kuangqu. He was about to tell me, but did not; it was not that he was unwilling to speak, but that when he wanted to tell me, he forgot what he meant to say. Now I ask you: do you understand this? Why do you not draw near to the Dao?”

The Yellow Emperor said, “Wuweiwei truly accords with the Dao, because he does not cling to knowing. Kuangqu also seems close to the Dao, because he forgot what he meant to say. You and I, in the end, are not close enough to the Dao, because we believe that we know.”

When Kuangqu heard this, he thought the Yellow Emperor had spoken well.

Note: The natural Dao cannot be grasped through words and knowledge, so one must enter a state beyond speech and knowing. The passage first presents examples of those beyond speech and knowing, then explains the point through the Yellow Emperor’s words, showing how the natural Dao merges with all things.

Commentary: Wuweiwei understands the mysterious and holds no clinging knowledge in his mind, so he truly accords with the Dao. Kuangqu turns inward, lets go of speech, and even forgets what he meant to tell others. He seems close to the Great Dao, but does not truly accord with it. Zhi and the Yellow Emperor both use their minds to explain the principle, so they are not yet close to the Great Dao. After hearing this assessment, Kuangqu thought that although the Yellow Emperor was not truly close to the Great Dao, at most he understood the words used to discuss mysterious principles.

Heaven and Earth possess the greatest beauty, yet do not speak of it. The seasons follow clear patterns, yet make no comment. The myriad things grow and change according to their own principles, yet offer no explanation.

Note: This is the reason behind Confucius’s saying, “You wish to say nothing.”

Commentary: Heaven and Earth sustain all things, and their effects are supremely beautiful. The seasons alternate, each following clear patterns. The myriad things grow according to their principles, yet no one speaks to explain or comment on them.

The sage explores the beauty of Heaven and Earth and understands the principles of the myriad things. Therefore, the perfected person practices Wuwei (non-action).

Note: One simply follows the myriad things and lets them grow and change naturally.

Commentary: The sage sustains the myriad things together with Heaven and Earth and grows and changes alongside them. Thus there is nothing to say and no deliberate action in the mind.

The great sage does not act deliberately.

Note: The sage simply follows the natural character of the myriad things.

This is the principle revealed by observing Heaven and Earth.

Observing the form and aspect of heaven and earth, and emulating the manner in which each thing finds what suits it—these are no different from the way heaven and earth themselves operate.

The great sage and the perfected person—one who has realized the Great Dao—neither act with deliberate effort nor engage in artificial contrivance. They observe how heaven and earth cover and support all things, and they emulate the process by which the Dao gives rise to the myriad beings: Wuwei (non-action) and wordlessness mean precisely this.

Today, the divine efficacy (shenming)—the subtle, spirit-like working of nature—is exquisitely fine and follows the transformations of the myriad things. Each thing transforms on its own; this efficacy does not command or constrain them.

That which is sacred, luminous, and refined to the utmost merges with all things and turns with their changes. At times it gathers, at times it disperses, yet it is never gladdened or grieved on that account. When the text speaks of the “hundred transformations,” it is summing up the countless modes of change.

The myriad things have birth and death; some are square, some round—and people do not know where their root lies. What dies dies of itself; what is born is born of itself; what is round takes a round form, what is square a square one. No force stands behind them manipulating their root, so there is no way to know it. Things now live, now die; their shapes shift between square and round. Change proceeds on its own, and no one can say from what source they come.

Things teem and flourish in every direction; they have been so from the beginning of time. Why should we suppose they only came to be after someone fashioned them? “Fluttering abundance” describes how they spread and multiply everywhere. At every moment they grow and propagate; they have each been present since antiquity—they did not appear because someone deliberately set them in place.

The six directions of heaven and earth may be vast, yet they do not extend beyond the compass of the Great Dao. To think that heaven, earth, and the four quarters are already boundless is to take too narrow a view. The tip of an autumn down may be minutely small, yet it too relies on the Great Dao to take on its form. Though fine as the new hair on beasts in autumn, it is not nothing; without the Great Dao there would be no basis on which its substance could be held. “The six directions” means heaven, earth, and the four quarters; “autumn down” is the exceedingly fine new hair on animals in autumn.

Nothing under heaven fails to sink, float, and change; through a whole lifetime none remain frozen in their former state. The myriad things renew themselves day by day. The blending of Yin and Yang and the cycling of the four seasons each follow a fixed order—and this requires no human arrangement. Yin and Yang intermingle; the seasons turn; spring, autumn, cold, and heat succeed one another in turn. All of this is simply how things are, not something that begins only after someone has laid out a plan.

It is dim and hard to distinguish; it seems to vanish, yet it truly is. Were it displayed clearly for all to see, it would no longer be genuine being. It operates of itself, shows no bodily form, yet possesses marvelous efficacy.

Note: Once a definite form appears, it is no longer mysterious.

Commentary: The “spirit” (Shen) spoken of here is what enables the myriad things to manifest their subtle efficacy. It is so of itself, without constraint; though no image can be seen, its operation is nowhere absent.

The myriad things receive nurture yet cannot grasp the root of their own nature, so they do not know why they are nurtured. This is called “ben gen” (the root source).

Note: Though the myriad things are nurtured, they cannot grasp the root of their own nature, and therefore do not know why they receive nurture.

Commentary: The Great Dao nurtures the living and stores and nourishes the myriad things; its profound efficacy lies hidden within. People draw on it every day yet do not know that this is true power. This is the root of the ultimate Dao.

From this one may observe the Dao of Heaven.

Note: Observe it in the way one observes the Dao of Heaven.

Commentary: “Observe” means to behold; “Heaven” means Nature. Only one who penetrates principle, grasps the subtle, knows the source, and understands the root can be said to have observed natural, ultimate Dao.

Queque asked Beiyi about the Dao. Beiyi said: “Straighten your body and fix your gaze in one place; the harmony of Heaven (natural harmonious qi) will come.”

Commentary: Queque was a disciple of Wang Ni; Beiyi was Wang Ni’s teacher. Make your bearing upright, not askew; make seeing and hearing single, not grasping at many objects. The principle of natural harmony will then return to you.

Gather in your thoughts and make them single; adjust your bearing and do not let it run loose—then spirit (Shen) will come and dwell in you.

Commentary: Restrain private intent and make the inner mind level and single; curb the will and do not let it wander—the spirit will naturally come and stay.

De (Virtue/Power) will become your beauty; the Dao will dwell in your heart.

Commentary: Profound, mysterious higher De will show boundless beauty upon you, and the Great Dao will reside in your heart.

Your eyes will be clear and direct like a newborn calf’s, not pressing to ask where things come from.

Commentary: “Tong yan” describes a look of unknowing straight gaze; “gu” means the reason or origin of affairs. When the inner mind is empty, still, and level, the gaze is likewise straight—hence like a newborn calf, with no pursuit regarding events.

Before the words were finished, Queque had fallen asleep. Beiyi was greatly pleased, sang a song, and went away.

Commentary: The discussion of the profound had not ended when Queque had already understood, entered “zuo wang” (sitting in forgetfulness—the cultivation of forgetting self and outer things), and united with the Dao, as if asleep. Beiyi rejoiced at his swift awakening, sang, and walked the Great Dao as he left.

The body like withered bones, the mind like extinguished ashes—this is true knowing (shi zhi), not binding oneself with old preconceptions.

Note: This is running together with the transformations of the myriad things.

Commentary: Body like dead wood, mind like cold ashes—no clinging to emotion, only following nature, keeping pure knowing, not priding oneself on account of affairs.

Dim and dark, without heart and without deliberate action—one cannot scheme with it; what sort of being is that in the end?

Note: This is what generates and transforms alone.

The mind and spirit are dim and obscure; cease scrutinizing and cast aside cleverness, and no longer cling to thoughts and knowledge. These principles are not what ordinary people can grasp, so it is said: “What sort of person is that?” His form is withered, like dried bones.

The following passages are all song lyrics sung by Beiyi.

Shun asked Cheng: “Can the Dao be obtained and possessed as one’s own?”

Commentary: Cheng was an ancient person who had attained the Dao and was also Shun’s teacher. The supreme Dao is empty and pervading; it generates and moves all things, and both animals and plants arise from it. Shun did not know whether the Dao was also in himself; when he met his teacher, he asked him about it.

Cheng replied: “Your body is not something you own—how then can you possess the Dao?”

Note: The body is not something you can control or claim as your own; it simply exists by natural course. If even the body is not yours, how much less the Dao?

Commentary: The Dao cannot be exhausted in a few words, nor clarified through various arguments. You cannot even be master of your own body—how could you possess the Dao?

Shun said: “If my body is not mine, who owns it?”

Commentary: Shun had not yet realized that life comes from nature and the form is shaped by creation and transformation, so he asked: “If the body is not mine, who owns it?”

Cheng answered: “Your form is given and entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth; life is not yours—it is formed from the harmonizing Qi of Heaven and Earth’s Yin and Yang; your nature, feelings, and lifespan are also not yours—they are the outcome of Heaven and Earth’s natural operation.”

Note: If the body truly belonged to you, then beauty and ugliness, life and death would be yours to decide. Yet when Qi gathers, life arises and you cannot forbid it; when Qi disperses, death comes and you cannot stop it. This shows the body is formed by the natural aggregation of Qi—it is not yours.

Commentary: “Wei” (委) means aggregation. The Qi of Heaven and Earth’s Yin and Yang gathers, hard and soft harmonize, and your body, nature, feelings, and lifespan take shape. When Qi gathers there is life; when Qi disperses there is death. Gathering and scattering, life and death are not up to you—hence how can the body be said to be yours?

“Your children and descendants are also not yours—they are the outcome of Heaven and Earth’s creative transformation.”

Note: Qi naturally aggregates and forms life; life in turn changes like the cicada shedding its shell.

Commentary: When Yin and Yang Qi aggregate, offspring are naturally produced, like a cicada emerging from its cast shell.

Therefore when you walk, you do not know where you are going; when you stay, you do not know what supports you; when you eat, you do not know where the taste of food comes from.

Note: All these arise from natural operation, so people do not know the reasons within them.

Commentary: Whether walking, staying, or tasting food, all happens in accord with nature. If you press for a root cause, no starting point can be found: who walks, who stays, who eats, who tastes? People do not know where these activities come from—they simply occur of themselves.

The vigorous yang qi of Heaven and Earth is only the appearance of movement and activity—how could anyone claim to possess it independently?

Note: What is called “gang yang” (vigorous yang) is movement and activity. Once this is understood, one may perhaps transcend the physical form and cease clinging to life.

Commentary: Gang yang is movement. “Hu” means “how” or “why.” The human body, temperament, and descendants all come from the gathering and circulation of Heaven and Earth’s yin-yang qi—how could this body be said to belong to oneself alone?

Confucius asked Old Dan (Laozi), “This evening I wish to ask you about the ultimate Dao.”

Commentary: “Yan” means at ease. Confucius took Laozi as his teacher, so in a quiet moment he asked about the profound Dao.

Laozi said, “You must fast and purify yourself, clear and cleanse the mind; wash the heart-mind and spirit until they are bright; break through habitual cleverness and fixed views. The Dao is deep and hard to put into words—I will sketch its bounds for you.”

Commentary: “Shuyue” means to wash and rinse; “zaoxue” means to cleanse the heart-mind and spirit; “pouji” means to break through; “ya” means boundary. To ask about the Dao, you must first straighten the mind and be careful and single-minded, cleanse body and mind until the heart-mind is still; you must also set aside self-assured cleverness and let the inner state be empty, bright, and calm. The subtle Dao is deep and unfathomable, hard to distinguish in words—I can only outline it in broad strokes.

What is bright and manifest is born from what is dark and deep; what is ordered is born from the formless; spirit (shen) is born from the Dao.

Note: All of this shows that the Dao alone gives rise to the myriad things and does not rely on anything else.

Physical form in the first place is generated from refined, subtle qi.

Note: Everything develops step by step from the refined into coarse, visible form.

Commentary: “Lun” means pattern or order. Bright, manifest things arise in the depths; the various activities of human society arise within the formless; refined mind and spiritual awareness arise from the far-reaching, subtle Dao. Things with form and substance, composed of qi, have their root in what is refined and subtle.

The myriad things all propagate through bodily form, so creatures with nine openings are born from the womb and those with eight openings from the egg.

Note: Although the myriad things propagate by means of form, all of this takes shape naturally. Womb birth and egg birth cannot change species into one another—this shows that the arising and transformation of spirit and qi are not under human control.

Commentary: The formless Dao can generate things with form; things with form then propagate among those of the same bodily type, material nature, and qi kind. Therefore humans and beasts have nine openings and egg-born creatures have eight—these are received from nature and cannot be swapped.

When the Dao arrives there is no trace; when it departs there is no outer limit. It has no gate and no chamber, yet it reaches everywhere and is vast without bound.

To follow one’s natural nature and wander along a path without trace is to let the body stretch out freely, live between Heaven and Earth, and entrust the spirit to the realms beyond the eight directions. One then has no fixed gate or dwelling: all four directions lie open, broad and unobstructed. One roams freely between Heaven and Earth, moving in step with the transformations of all things.

“Vast” means broad and boundless. To take “not coming” as coming means that even when one arrives, one leaves no trace; to take “not going” as going means that even when one departs, there is no boundary. Thus entering and leaving have no gate, and coming and going have no limit. One can therefore pass freely in all four directions and connect with all things.

Those who encounter this state have strong limbs, clear thoughts, and keen hearing and sight. Yet their minds are not wearied, and they respond to all things without any fixed manner.

“Encounter” means to meet, and “open” means to be unobstructed. When someone is fortunate enough to encounter the Great Dao and grasp the truth, every part of the body becomes settled and sound: the limbs are strong, thoughts flow freely, and hearing and sight are keen. They use the mind without attachment, so it is not wearied. Though they seem to make no deliberate response, they can respond to all things without any fixed manner.

Heaven is naturally high and far-reaching, Earth naturally broad, the sun and moon naturally move, and all things naturally flourish—is this the working of the Dao?

The point is that all these things happen naturally, as they must; the Dao does not deliberately drive them to do so. Heaven and Earth appear lofty and broad through the mysterious Great Dao; the sun and moon move through the Dao; and all things flourish through it. This is precisely the working of the Great Dao. The Laozi says, “Heaven, having attained the One, is clear; Earth, having attained the One, is at peace; all things, having attained the One, are born.” This is the principle being expressed.

Wide reading does not necessarily mean true understanding, and skill in argument does not necessarily mean wisdom. The sage has already seen this.

The meaning is that reading widely in the scriptures does not necessarily lead to an understanding of truth, and ornate speech or skill in debate does not necessarily amount to wisdom. Thus the Laozi says, “Those who are good do not argue; those who argue are not good. Those who know are not widely learned; those who are widely learned do not know.” The sage sets aside the deliberate pursuit of extensive learning and clever argument, and entrusts everything to nature.

As for increasing something without making it greater, or reducing it without making it less, this is what the sage holds to.

The sage simply lets all things retain their original nature, without relying on clever knowledge or intellect. Extensive learning and eloquent debate cannot increase one’s clarity; silence, as if facing a wall, does not cause one to lose anything. This is the state of neither increase nor decrease, neither loss nor gain, which the sage understands deeply and holds to.

He guards and cherries it.

In depth and breadth it is like the great sea.

[Note] Its capacity is vast and inexhaustible.

[Commentary] Though the weilü (the place where the sea’s waters drain away) constantly releases water, the sea does not thereby diminish; though a hundred rivers pour in, the sea does not thereby increase. It is deep, clear, and vast—hence it is used to liken the mysterious Dao.

In loftiness it seems that where ending ends, beginning begins again.

[Note] It moves together with the transformations of all things, accumulating endless ages—one may call it towering and great.

[Commentary] “Lofty and majestic” (weiwei) describes a grand and imposing appearance. The Dao, afar, surpasses Taiyi (the primordial unity); near at hand it exceeds the two principles (Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang). It embraces the boundless—hence the sigh that it is weiwei and great. “Ending only to begin again” means the Dao has no true terminus or starting point; transformation renews itself day by day, so that people cannot catch up with it or await it.

It operates and measures all things yet is never depleted.

[Note] It employs all things without being made servant to them—therefore it is not exhausted.

Then, is the noble person’s Dao perhaps outside the self?

[Note] Each person draws from within—and that is already enough.

[Commentary] What runs, bears, measures, and secretly bestows without end, yet is never depleted, is precisely the Dao of the sage and the noble person. It is not far off; whether near or far, it is within the heart-mind. When the inner mind does not rely on external things for supply, how could it be outside the self?

All things take what they need from it, yet it is not depleted. This is probably the Dao, is it not?

[Note] All things in turn are used for my sake—therefore I am not depleted. This explains that the Dao nourishes all things by not exhausting itself; because it does not wear itself away, all things can each obtain their place. Thus it says “This is probably the Dao, is it not?”—meaning that the ultimate Dao does not claim merit; precisely because it is without merit, it suffices to be called the Dao.

[Commentary] Sentient beings and insentient things alike receive this mysterious Dao; the Dao’s function subtly reaches through all things and is never exhausted. Yet the Dao and all things are neither wholly identical nor utterly separate; without the Dao, there would be no all things. Hence “This is probably the Dao, is it not?”

Within China (in antiquity, the lands within the Nine Provinces) there is such a person: he does not lean wholly toward Yin, nor wholly toward Yang.

[Note] He is not fixed by the name of either side.

He stands between Heaven and Earth, simply being human in a natural way.

[Note] He follows his nature freely, accepts what comes, and does not chase fame or gain.

[Commentary] Here “China” means the Nine Provinces. The Dao that a person receives is not classed as Yin or Yang, nor as soft or hard, short or long—that is, it cannot be pinned down by such paired labels. Standing between Heaven and Earth, he simply is human in a natural way, without partiality. Another reading takes “直” as “值” (worth): situated in the cosmos, he happens to be born human and is not tied by anything.

He will return to the root.

[Note] This is leaving the branch for the tip, then coming back to the root.

[Commentary] Because he is without partiality and simply is human in a natural way, he can return to the origin and revert to the ultimate pole (the root of all things).

Seen from the root, the living are only breath (qi) gathered and condensed.

[Note] “Yin’ai” (喑醷) refers to the state in which breath is condensed.

[Commentary] (The passage continues the theme of return: life at the root is not something else but the gathering of qi—a standard Daoist physiological and cosmological point tying vitality to breath and to the return to root.)

From the perspective of the Dao’s logic, human life is merely something formed by the aggregation of qi—what is there to cherish in particular? Even if lifespans differ in length, how much can they really differ? It is only a matter of a moment; why should one use that to judge Yao as right and Jie as wrong?

If death and life have no essential difference, how much more so for the gap between long and short life? In the course of a lifetime, even comparing long life with short life, the difference is no more than the blink of an eye. So brief—why praise Yao and condemn Jie, or cling to judging right and wrong between them?

Fruits and melons each follow their own laws of growth; nothing in the world lacks its own principle, and people need only accord with them. Human relations are complex, and wisdom and change bring difficulties, yet among people there is naturally an order of superior and inferior, elder and younger; one should likewise follow nature and let each thing take its course.

Fruit that grows on trees is called “fruit” (guo); that which grows on the ground is called “gourd fruit” (luo), referring to melons and the like that grow on the earth. Whether peach and plum on one hand or melon and gourd on the other, whether on tree or vine, each follows its own law of growth. People in the world also meet hardship and danger; noble and base, high and low, are arranged in sequence. Simply follow nature, and you will accord with the way of Heaven—just as fruits each follow their own growth patterns.

Whatever situation the sage meets, they accord with it without going against it; when something should pass, they let it pass without clinging or lingering. When they encounter the carriages and regalia of the eminent, the sage does not go against the present situation; once the matter is past, they do not keep it in mind.

Harmonizing with the situation of things as one meets them is De (Virtue/Power); responding naturally to the opportunities before one’s eyes is the Dao (the Way). The “harmonizing” (diao) and “responding” (ou) spoken of here both mean joining and matching. Harmonizing all things and responding in accord with the trend is supreme De; meeting the situation at hand, grasping the right moment, and responding to things—that is the sage’s Dao.

The rise of emperors and kings is no more than this: responding to the needs of living beings and, with the times and opportunities, answering and supporting all things.

Human life between Heaven and Earth is like a white horse flashing past a crack in the wall—it is gone in an instant. “White horse” here means a swift steed and can also stand for the sun; “crack” is a gap in the wall. Human life is so brief, like a fine horse vanishing in a flash—there is no real grounds for excessive regret.

Things surge forth and appear—nothing fails to emerge; then they naturally disperse—nothing fails to return. What is called “going out and entering” is change: nothing in the world is outside change.

Suddenly bursting forth is how life emerges; flowing smoothly away is how life moves toward extinction. Among all things in the world there is no fixed, unchanging relation between them—nothing fails to be born through change or to die as change runs its course. What has already been born through change will in turn die through change.

Note: All of this is change alone.

Living creatures mourn for it.

Note: What is dead does not mourn.

Human beings grieve over it.

Note: What is dead as a human being does not grieve.

Commentary: Life and death alternate without end; it is all nothing but change. Hand it over to zaohua—the natural process of transformation—and what is there to brood over? So when a person dies, living creatures and people mourn together; what is neither creature nor human does not grieve.

Release the natural tao (hood) and zhi (sash)—the bag and the cord that bind it—and slip free on your own.

Note: Tao and zhi stand for bondage.

Commentary: People cling to arguing right and wrong, crave life and dread death, and so are bound by birth and death. Now, no longer clinging to right and wrong and having forgotten birth and death, one has undone the natural bonds.

In profusion, turning and flowing.

Note: Change blends together without separation.

The hun and po souls are about to leave, and the body goes with them—that is complete return.

Note: Do not impose your will rashly in the midst of this changing process.

Commentary: “Profusion” and “turning” describe how form and breath gradually scatter and part. The hun and po return to Heaven, flesh and bone to earth; spirit and qi disperse, each following change on its way, until at last they return to nothingness—that is complete return.

From the formless a body takes shape; the body in turn returns to the formless.

Note: Formless qi gathers and only then does a body appear; cling to the body and you spoil it.

Commentary: Before birth a person had no such body; when qi gathers, the body appears; when qi scatters, the body returns to the formless.

This is something everyone knows.

Note: Though they know it, they cannot let the body change naturally and instead force change upon it, so they often harm themselves.

This is not what those who pursue the great Dao set their hearts on.

Note: Aim at it deliberately and you miss it.

Commentary: The formless giving rise to form and form dying back into the formless is ordinary knowledge everyone shares. But that is only shallow teaching in the human world—not the level that sages who grasp ultimate principle strive to reach.

This is what everyone talks about together.

Note: Though everyone talks about it, they still want something, so in the end they never get there.

Commentary: Whether the body is or is not, and the back-and-forth of life and death, are topics ordinary people all discuss.

Those who have reached that state no longer discuss it.

Note: To be merged and unaware is to have reached it.

Speak of it, and you have not reached it.

The sage forgets words and grasps the principle, so there is nothing left to say. If one insists on talking, one has not yet reached the Dao. Seeking it in what seems clear and obvious only makes one miss it.

Note: Dwelling in obscurity, one can encounter the Dao.

Commentary: Here “值” means to encounter. By shutting away cleverness and sealing ears and eyes, the spirit can silently align with profound principle; if one insistently seeks in the glare of what is obvious, one cannot unite with the true Dao.

Being eloquent is inferior to silence; the Great Dao cannot be heard with the ears—rather than listen, better to stop the ears. This is called “great attainment.”

Note: In silence, without chasing externals, one does not run about in pursuit, and thus can gain greatly.

Commentary: Ornate language is far from what is real; forgetting words and keeping silent brings one closer to the mysterious Dao. Therefore the Dao cannot be sought by hearing much; hearing much is inferior to reining in ears and eyes. Whoever deeply grasps this meaning may be said truly to understand the Great Dao.

Dongguo Zi asked Zhuangzi: “Where people speak of the Dao—where exactly is it?”

Commentary: Dongguo Zi lived in Dongguo, hence the name. He asked Zhuangzi where the utterly unimpeded supreme Dao exists.

Zhuangzi said: “It is everywhere.”

Commentary: The Dao pervades every place; there is nowhere it is not.

Dongguo Zi said: “Please be more specific.”

Note: He wanted Zhuangzi to point to where the Dao actually is.

Commentary: Guo Xiang’s note says he wanted Zhuangzi to indicate the Dao’s concrete location.

Zhuangzi said: “It is in the ants.” Dongguo Zi asked: “How can it be so low?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in the wild barnyard grass.” Dongguo Zi asked: “How can it be lower still?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in tiles and bricks.” Dongguo Zi asked: “How can it be still more base?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in excrement and urine.” Dongguo Zi made no further reply.

Commentary: The Dao is everywhere, so it is in every place; it does not pick and choose between pure and base. Dongguo Zi did not grasp this—he assumed the Dao should be lofty and noble. When he heard it was in tiles and bricks he already found that too low; when he heard excrement and urine, he was offended into silence.

Zhuangzi said: “What you asked, sir, never touched the root.”

Note: Zhuangzi points out that the Dao is everywhere; yet the master still asked where it is—showing he had not reached the root.

Commentary: “质” means substance. The Dao is everywhere—how could it be only in barnyard grass? Answering the master this way still falls short of the real principle.

Zheng Huo asked how a market inspector judges a pig’s fatness by stepping on it with his foot. The answer: the lower he steps, the more clearly the situation is shown.

Note: 狶 is a large pig. The inspector steps on the pig to see if it is fat; the more he steps on parts that do not easily grow fat, the more clearly he can tell whether the pig is plump and strong.

Dao is spoken of in ever more lowly things precisely to show that Dao truly does not avoid any being.

The commentary says: “Zheng” is an official title, comparable to a market superintendent today; “Huo” is a personal name. “Overseer of the market” is like a butcher today. “Xi” means pig. When one asks a butcher how to buy a pig, one often hears: feel the hind legs and the groin—places where fat is hard to accumulate—and you can tell whether the pig is fat. Why? Because if even these lower, harder-to-fatten parts have flesh, you know the places where flesh grows easily must be well marbled. From this we see: if even excrement and urine, the most base things, have Dao, then surely the clear, empty, and tranquil realms are everywhere pervaded by Dao. You need only not fix on the idea that Dao is absent from certain things.

The note explains: If one insists that Dao avoids certain things, then Dao cannot pervade everything; if Dao cannot pervade everything, it is unworthy of the name Dao.

The commentary says: “Wu” refers to the way of Wuwei (non-action). The Great Dao is vast without bound; nothing lies outside it. Do not say that the utmost Dao flees or abandons the myriad beings; if it had to avoid the myriad beings, how could it pervade all?

Since the utmost Dao is thus, “great speech” is likewise.

The note explains: This shows that Dao does not avoid the myriad beings.

The commentary says: “Utmost Dao” means the principle; “great speech” means teaching and discourse. Since the principle does not avoid the myriad beings, teaching should also circulate widely and not lean to one place alone.

The three words Zhou, Bian, and Xian—different in name, the same in meaning, pointing to one reality.

The commentary says: Zhou, Bian, and Xian all mean reaching everywhere, Dao present in every place. This again explains that the utmost Dao does not avoid the myriad beings. Though the three names differ, the principle they point to is the same.

Let us wander together in the “palace of nowhere-at-all” (where nothing exists) and gather to discuss principle that has no beginning or end, no limit or exhaustion.

The note explains: If one only roams among formed things, one cannot achieve thorough pervasion. Therefore one must gather and discuss together to understand that Dao is nowhere absent. Only after knowing Dao is everywhere absent can the mind expand and roam without obstruction in the boundless.

The commentary says: The “palace of nowhere-at-all” is the realm where the subtle Dao abides. There is not a single thing there, hence the name “nowhere-at-all.” Zhou, Bian, and Xian wander together in the realm of the utmost Dao; their intent is originally the same, and when discussed together they accord with subtle principle—hence no beginning or end, no limit or exhaustion.

Let us abide together in Wuwei (non-action), so that the mind is plain and still, empty and clear, peaceful and at ease.

The note explains: These are all realms of Wuwei.

The commentary says: Here the efficacy and great virtue of Zhou, Bian, and Xian are praised in sum. Having wandered in the utmost Dao…

Those who have attained the Dao dwell in the realm of wuwei (non-action, aligning with nature without forced effort), and so they can be tranquil and still, solitary and clear, gentle and unimpeded, spacious and at ease. That realm is vast and empty, and the mind and intent likewise settle into that same ethereal emptiness.

Note: Here, “liao” means empty and still.

Commentary: The mysterious sage who has attained the Dao accords with the deep and genuine Dao; mind-nature and intent are still and luminous—nothing more than this.

There is no place to which he does not go, yet he does not know where he is going.

Note: When mind and intent are ethereally empty, there is no predetermined destination. Because there is no set place to go, even when he moves, he does not know where he will end up. If the heart fixes on a goal first, before the principle has even stirred, the intent has already arrived there.

He comes and goes without knowing where he stops.

Note: This is aligning with nature.

Commentary: Since speech and intent are still and luminous, he accords with the comings and goings of the myriad things. Even when it seems there is no going yet there is going, no coming yet there is coming, in the end there is no definite place of arrival and no fixed place of rest.

He has already moved within transformation, yet does not know its end.

Note: This only means that coming and going in change are not arranged by the mind—it does not mean there is no coming and going. Coming and going are the constant pattern of nature; how could there be a fixed endpoint?

Commentary: Even as he follows creation and return, passing through coming and going and the shifts of life and death, he yields to change and does not know where it begins or where it ends.

He wanders freely in the boundless vastness; even great knowing that enters there does not know its limit.

Note: “Feng hong” describes openness and breadth. “Great knowing” here is the wisdom that penetrates the Dao. Great knowing arises from vast clarity and is deployed along with change, so there is no fixed boundary.

Commentary: “Pang huang” is the manner of letting go and being at ease; “feng hong” is open and far-reaching. “Enter” means to enter and merge with it. This says that the sage of great wisdom can grasp the principle of stillness and emptiness, and therefore roams freely, following change without end.

The one who lets each thing be what it is has no boundary with the myriad things.

Note: “Letting each thing be what it is” means that he does not deliberately fashion the myriad things—they are simply so of themselves. Since each thing is thus on its own, he can merge with them in silent union.

Commentary: “Ji” means boundary. The one who can let the myriad things each rest in their own nature is the sage. The sage merges with all realms, and so with the myriad things there is no boundary of self and other.

If the myriad things had boundaries, that would be what is ordinarily called the “boundary of things.”

Note: If things had boundaries among themselves, they could not merge in union—that would be what is truly called a boundary.

Commentary: People discriminate according to the forms of things, giving rise to grasping and rejecting, and thus there appear borders and distinctions between things and self.

What is called “the boundary that is no boundary” means that within boundary there is no real boundary.

Note: “No boundary” means that although we speak of “letting things be what they are,” that only indicates that things are each so of themselves; as for “letting things be what they are,” in the end there is no external agent fashioning the myriad things. Since that is so, where would a boundary be?

“Interwoven yet not interwoven” is the sage’s penetrating view; treating “not interwoven” as a kind of interweaving is the ordinary person’s view, trapped in emotional fixation.

What we call fullness and lack, decline and extinction—in things they appear as fullness or lack, but they are not true fullness or lack; what we call decline or extinction is not true decline or extinction either. What we call beginning and end, gathering and scattering, are likewise not fixed beginnings, ends, gatherings, or scatterings.

Commentary: Once one understands that the root of all things is not any particular “thing,” and that things cannot create themselves by their own power, then who creates the myriad things? They all manifest spontaneously of themselves.

Exegesis: Wealth and honor are taken as fullness, poverty and low status as lack; old age and illness as decline and extinction; start and finish as root and tip; birth as gathering, death as scattering. Yet what creates the myriad things is not some concrete entity—so who creates them? This passage shows that neither creator nor created can be treated as fixed, substantial things. Since the myriad things are not fixed entities, how can fullness and lack, decline and extinction, birth and death be spoken of as absolutely unchanging facts? Therefore, what is called fullness and lack is not fixed fullness and lack. The Xisheng jing says: “If one can understand this point, what one thought was correct will turn out not to be so.”

E He Gan and Shennong both studied under Lao Longji.

Exegesis: E is the surname, He Gan the courtesy name. The Shennong here is not Shennong the Divine Farmer of the Three Sovereigns of high antiquity, but a later figure. E He Gan and Shennong studied together under Lao Longji; “Lao Longji” was also his style name.

One day Shennong leaned on his armrest, shut the door, and rested with eyes closed in broad daylight. At noon E He Gan pushed the door open and entered, saying: “Old Long is dead!”

Exegesis: “Yin” means to lean on; “he” means to close; “zha” means to open, also to push open. A person cultivating the Way concentrates the mind and keeps still, closes the door and leans on the armrest, resting in silence. E He Gan heard their teacher had died and pushed the door open to report it.

Shennong leaned on the armrest, grasped his staff, and stood up; then suddenly he set the staff down with a thud and laughed.

Commentary: When he rose, he realized that death was nothing to dread, so he put down his staff and laughed.

Exegesis: “Bo ran” is the sound of setting down the staff. When Shennong heard Lao Longji had died, at first he gripped his staff in surprise; then, reflecting that death was not worth grief, he set the staff down and laughed.

He said: “Heaven knew my nature was narrow and shallow, and that I was negligent and slack—so it cast me off and left the world.”

Commentary: From Jian Wu downward, people took supreme words for mad talk and would not believe. Therefore, apart from Lao Longji, Lian Shu, and those of that kind, the rest were not worth talking with.

Exegesis: “The master” here means Lao Longji. Shennong called Lao Longji “Heaven” to praise his virtue of accord with nature. “Mad words” means teachings that transcend worldly opinion—hard for people to grasp.

Therefore the most earnest words sound like wild talk. The master knew my nature was eccentric and crude, proud and self-willed, so he left our circle of disciples and passed away.

Yan Kun the recluse heard of this and said: “One who embodies the Dao is someone the gentlemen of the world jointly revere and turn toward.”

The note says: One who embodies the Dao is the leader of the multitude.

Today Long Ji’s grasp of the Dao does not reach one ten-thousandth of the tip of an autumn beast’s hair, yet he still knew to withdraw those rash words and die in accord with nature; how much more so one who truly embodies the Dao?

The note says: This shows that the utmost Dao is not something words can obtain; one can only realize it in person.

The commentary explains: Yan Kun—surname Yan, given name Kun—was a recluse. “Xi” means to attach oneself and belong. Yan Kun heard Long Ji had died and remarked: One who embodies the Dao is the worthy gentleman the world jointly honors; all attach themselves and return to such a person. Now Old Long Ji’s comprehension of the subtle Dao does not reach one ten-thousandth of a hair’s tip, yet he already knew to restrain his coarse speech and die in accord with nature; how much less would those who truly awaken to the subtle Dao display words? Hence we know that embodying the Dao is profound and subtle, and those who can forget words and accord with principle are extremely rare.

Look at it—no form; listen to it—no sound. Those who discuss it call it “mingming” (dark and beyond sight and hearing). Yet once you call the Dao “mingming,” what is said is already not the Dao.

The note says: Even if you name it “mingming,” it is still not the Dao itself. This shows the Dao has no fixed name.

The commentary explains: The subtle Dao is empty and still, subtle and hard to grasp; it is neither form nor color nor sound; it cannot be seen with the eyes or heard with the ears. Therefore learners discussing it can only call it “mingming”; but even calling it “mingming” is still not the true Dao.

Then Ta Qing (great and clear and empty) asked Wuqiong (without boundary): “Do you know the Dao?” Wuqiong answered: “I do not know.”

The commentary explains: “Tai” has the sense of vast. The utmost Dao is vast without bound, plain and clear and empty, containing the infinite; hence the names Ta Qing and Wuqiong. Ta Qing asked Wuqiong whether he knew the Dao; Wuqiong answered he did not know, to show the Dao transcends form and sound and cannot be sought through words and knowledge.

Ta Qing again asked Wuwei (non-action): “Wuwei, do you know the Dao?” Wuwei answered: “I know.” Ta Qing asked: “Does your knowledge of the Dao have a certain order or scope?” Wuwei answered: “It does.” Ta Qing asked: “What kind of order? Please speak of it in outline.”

Wuwei said: “I know that the Dao can occupy a position of honor or one of humbleness; it can gather together or scatter apart. This is the transformation of the Dao as I understand it.”

Commentary: The Dao can appear as the dignity of an emperor or as the lowliness of a servant; it can gather and form life, or scatter and return to death. These transformations have no end. These words are only a brief indication, meant to show that the Dao is not a fixed name, yet can be spoken of through names; it is not a fixed number, yet can be described through numbers.

Taiqing (a figure in the text) took this occasion to ask Wushi (another figure): “If that is so, then between the boundless ‘not knowing’ and the wuwei-style ‘knowing,’ which is right and which is wrong?”

Commentary: The great Dao is profound and penetrating, still and without deliberate action; its comings and goings and transformations cannot be measured—it has no end and no beginning—so for the moment we call it “boundless” and “without beginning.” Taiqing asks: between boundless ignorance and the knowing of wuwei, which is superior and which inferior? Please judge their relative worth.

Wushi said: “Not knowing is understanding at depth; knowing is understanding at shallowness. Not knowing is inward; knowing is outward.”

Commentary: Not knowing, on the contrary, accords with the Dao, and is therefore profound and mysterious, dwelling within. Clinging to knowing strays from the Dao, and is therefore coarse and distant, dwelling outside.

Then Taiqing grasped the middle way in this and sighed: “Is not knowing the real knowing? Is knowing in fact not knowing? And who can understand this ‘knowing that does not know’?”

Note: To truly grasp the Dao does not rely on ordinary knowledge and thought, but on merging with the Dao in silent union.

Commentary: After Taiqing understood the middle way, he marveled: not knowing is true knowing. Yet who can understand this “knowing that does not know”? This shows how rare genuine knowing is.

Wushi said: “The Dao cannot be heard with the ears; what is heard is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be seen with the eyes; what is seen is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be spoken in words; what is spoken is not the Dao.”

Note: Therefore one must silently apprehend it in a realm where there is neither hearing nor seeing, and only then can one approach the Dao.

Commentary: The Dao has no sound and cannot be grasped by the ear; the sound one hears is not the Dao. The Dao has no form or color and cannot be grasped by the eye; the image one sees is not the Dao. The Dao has no fixed name and cannot be fully expressed in speech; what words say is not the Dao.

“Do you understand that which gives form to all things yet is itself without form?”

Note: Things each take shape on their own; that which gives all things their form ultimately has no fixed shape of its own.

Commentary: What enables all things to show form and color is not itself something with form and color. This is called “giving form to things while being itself formless.”

“The Dao is not suited to being fixed by a name.”

Note: Although we attach to it the name “Dao,” it ultimately has no fixed form, so the name cannot fully match it.

Commentary: Names cannot truly grasp the Dao, and the Dao has no fixed substance that corresponds to a name. Therefore to call it “Dao” is only a provisional label—it is not the Dao itself.

Wushi said: “Someone asks about the Dao, and the one who answers does not understand the Dao; even the one who asks has not yet heard the true Dao.”

Dao cannot be expressed in words or through names and forms, so it cannot be grasped by question and answer. If someone answers after being asked, that answer is not the Dao; if there is no answer, it is not something the questioner can obtain. Therefore, even when one asks, in the end one never hears an answer.

The Dao has nothing that can be questioned; questioning has nothing that can respond.

This means cutting off artificial learning and teaching and returning to what is natural. Once one has realized the Dao and left words behind, what is there left to ask or to answer? Here the text is explaining the preceding passage further.

To take “non-being” (wu) as something to question is to treat emptiness and nothingness as an object one can pursue.

In principle there is nothing to ask about, yet one insists on questioning—that is treating emptiness as something worth pursuing.

To take “no response” as a response is to be empty within. Outwardly it may look like a response, but inwardly there is nothing; that becomes mere outward coping.

In principle there is nothing to respond with, yet one forces an answer—and that turns into responding only on the surface.

If one waits for questions that have no answer with a mind that is empty, then such a person outwardly does not understand the cosmos, and inwardly does not understand Taiji (the primordial origin of the Dao).

The four directions of heaven and earth are called yu (cosmic space); past and future are called zhou (cosmic time). “Taiji” refers to the primordial origin of the Dao. If one waits for the wisdom of emptiness with a mind that turns away from the Dao, one can say that outwardly one does not know the four quarters of heaven and earth, and inwardly one does not understand one’s own subtle origin.

Therefore, such a person has not truly crossed Kunlun (the lofty mountain), nor has he roamed in Taixu (the vast, abstruse void).

If someone is lost in the myriad things of heaven and earth, roams the void, goes into what is remote and dark, even entering the depths of obscurity, that is still only “no response” after all.

Kunlun is a far-reaching mountain; Taixu is profound and abstruse principle. If one still clings to names and words and keeps a mind of question and answer, that shows one has not truly passed through the lofty realm, nor traveled the deep and mysterious ground.

Guangyao (Brightness) questioned Wuyou (Non-being/Nothingness): “Sir, do you exist, or do you not exist?”

Guangyao stands for the wisdom that can observe; Wuyou stands for the realm that is observed. Because wisdom can illuminate, the name “Guangyao” is used; because the substance of the realm is empty and still, the name “Wuyou” is used. Wisdom has degrees of light and dark, but the realm has no depth or shallowness—so Guangyao asked the realm: Do you exist, or do you not?

Guangyao could get no answer, so he looked closely at Wuyou’s form: it was deep and utterly still. He looked at it all day and could not see it; listened and could not hear it; wanted to touch it and could not grasp it.

The abstruse realm is hard to perceive by sight or hearing, so when he examined its form closely, he saw only silence and emptiness.

Guangyao said: “Wonderful! Who can reach such a state? Although I can apprehend being and non-being, yet …”

One has not yet reached the realm of “non-non-being,” yet already treats “being” as if it were nothing. How can one attain such a state?

Note: These words all explain that to reach the Great Dao one must cut off the heart of seeking to learn. After cutting off seeking the Great Dao, the learner can instead grasp the Dao from its root. Thus those who are good at learning may be precisely those who no longer cling to learning.

Commentary: The “being-and-non-being” (you-wu) spoken of here means neither clinging to being (you) nor clinging to non-being (wu). Those whose wisdom is still shallow can only manage not to lose hold of “being”; they cannot yet release both being and non-being together. Therefore the author laments: the state of “non-being-and-non-being” (wu-you) is profound—who can reach such a subtle realm? What is called “non-being-and-non-being” is not merely having no “being”; it is also not clinging even to “non-being.” All distinctions and discourses return to non-being-and-non-being. The single word “non-being” (wu) almost embraces everything; the wording is spare yet the meaning is vast—hence it is called “non-being.” “How can one attain” means that the realm of non-being-and-non-being exhausts principle and penetrates nature; unless one is a superior person (shangshi) of mysterious virtue, who can personally realize it? Therefore shallow learning and petty wisdom cannot reach it.

Under the Grand Marshal (Da Sima) there was a harness-maker who, at eighty years old, still made belt hooks without the slightest error.

Note: When he grasped, forged, and shaped the hooks, weight and measure were exactly right, without the least deviation.

Commentary: Grand Marshal was an office in the state of Chu. “Hammering” (chui) means forging; “hook” (gou) is the belt hook on a girdle. The Grand Marshal’s household had a craftsman who from youth was skilled at forging belt hooks; at eighty his craft was even more refined. He concentrated his spirit and focused his mind, hence there was no error at all. The “hook” mentioned here also refers to hook and hammer; the point is that by feel alone he could judge weight when forging, without the slightest mistake.

The Grand Marshal asked, “Is your skill truly so ingenious, or is there some other Dao-art?”

Commentary: Seeing him so old yet forging ever more finely, the Grand Marshal thought he must have some other technique or secret.

The craftsman replied, “There is one thing I have always held to. From twenty I loved forging belt hooks; I did not look at or attend to anything else—apart from hooks, nothing could draw my gaze.”

Commentary: He had no other secret; he simply stayed devoted to this one thing. From youth, aside from forging belt hooks, he paid no mind to other matters. Long practice made this focus habitual, and that produced such mastery.

Precisely because he did not attend to other things, he could long preserve this craft; how much more so for reaching the state in which nothing is not put to use? What thing among the myriad beings does not thereby gain its support?

Note: With no fixed bias in the mind, when any thing comes before one, one can respond in accord with it.

Commentary: The reason he could still wield his skill in forging belt hooks in old age is that he did not divide his attention to observe other things. Relying on “not minding other matters” to perfect his craft, he could keep that ability for a lifetime; how much more the sage who has realized the Dao, who neither clings to deliberate action nor is bound by non-action—how could the myriad beings fail to gain their support from him?

All things between heaven and earth can each fulfill their own function, and every thing likewise receives its allotment from them—is this not entirely fitting?

Ran Qiu asked Confucius: “When heaven and earth had not yet appeared, could one know what things were like then?” Confucius said: “One could. Antiquity and the present are the same.”

The commentary explains that heaven and earth have always existed; therefore there was never a time when heaven and earth had not yet appeared.

The subcommentary explains that Ran Qiu, whose given name was Qiu, was a disciple of Confucius. He asked whether one could know the situation before heaven and earth had taken shape. Heaven and earth operate and transform, renewing themselves day by day, yet there is no past wholly cut off from the present; antiquity and the present are continuous, so Confucius answered that one could know.

Ran Qiu did not grasp the point of the question and withdrew. The next day he came again to see Confucius and said: “Yesterday I asked whether one could know when heaven and earth had not yet appeared, and the Master answered, ‘One could—antiquity and the present are the same.’”

The subcommentary explains that Ran Qiu had not understood Confucius’s reply and went away. Later he asked again along the original lines, and Confucius still answered in the same sense as before.

Ran Qiu went on: “Yesterday when I heard you, my mind was clear; today I am confused again. May I ask why?”

The subcommentary explains that when Ran Qiu first asked, his mind was clear and bright; after some time his thinking grew dim again, so he asked why he had been clear before and confused afterward.

Confucius said: “Yesterday you felt clear because your spirit-mind had first received the principle.”

The commentary says that with an empty mind awaiting reception, the spirit-mind can thereby be affected and understand.

“Today you feel confused—is it because you want to obtain clarity by deliberate thinking? Pursuing clarity through thinking will only make you less able to grasp it.”

The subcommentary explains that at first Ran Qiu had not yet understood, so he concentrated his spirit and received with the mind—hence he felt clear. Later he had already understood, but no longer employed his spirit to experience it; he simply let things be and no longer pressed the question, and so he felt dim. “Seek” means that he was in fact no longer continuing to seek.

Heaven and earth have no division into antiquity and the present, and no beginning or end.

The commentary says: it is not only that “non-being” cannot transform into “being”; “being” also cannot transform into “non-being.” Thus, even when being undergoes endless change, it never becomes utterly non-being. Since it never vanishes completely, from antiquity there has never been a time when heaven and earth did not exist—heaven and earth have always been.

The subcommentary explains that all things renew themselves daily and change without cease, so there is no absolute beginning or end and no antiquity wholly separate from the present. From this we know there was no time when heaven and earth had not yet appeared.

“Before one has descendants, will one already have descendants?”

The commentary says this means that generation after generation continues without end.

The subcommentary explains that descendants multiply line after line, world without end. Heaven and earth and all things likewise have no absolute starting point; there is no time when things altogether did not exist. “Could one?” is a rhetorical question meaning “one could not.”

Before Ran Qiu could answer, Confucius said: “Enough—no need to answer further. Do not [treat as separable] the unceasing birth and the return through transformation…”

Those who die only change independently in death; death is not produced by birth. Those who live only change independently in birth; birth is not what brings about death.

Is there any before-and-after between death and birth? Commentators hold that birth and death are both independent changes, each forming a whole on its own, and neither depends on the other. Gathering and dispersing, growing and dying—all are ongoing changes; we need not treat one kind of change as the cause of another.

Is there anything that exists before Heaven and Earth, before the myriad things? If something could make the myriad things what they are, it would not be one thing among them; yet once we call it “something,” it is still a “thing,” so we cannot say it precedes the myriad things. Yin-Yang too are part of the myriad things; we cannot say something precedes Yin-Yang. Even if we speak of “nature” (ziran) or the Supreme Dao (zhidao) as the root of the myriad things, we cannot treat them as an entity that existed before the myriad things. From this we know that the existence of the myriad things is simply how they are in themselves—not that some other power makes them so. Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things have from ancient times been changing and existing; there is no beginning when they “had not yet existed.”

The sage cherishes all people, and his grace knows no end, precisely because he accords with how things naturally are. Commentators say the sage bestows benefit by following the natural state of the myriad things, and that grace can flow through a hundred generations without fading. The commentary adds that the sage who has attained the Dao loves and nurtures all people and whose grace endures does so because his virtue aligns with Heaven and Earth and embodies the way of nature.

The sage forgets all things and holds no deliberate intent in the heart, yet can nourish all things and allow each to attain its own life; in dealing with the people, he is like one who treats the straw dogs used in sacrifice—once the rite is done, they are cast aside—with no partiality stored in the mind. This is roughly what is meant.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: “I once heard the teacher say that in the mind one should neither send anything forth nor welcome anything in. I do not understand this saying—how can the spirit-mind be at ease?”

The commentary explains: “Jiang” means to send forth. The sage is like a mirror: he neither sends anything away nor welcomes anything in. Yan Hui still did not grasp the principle, so he asked Confucius.

Confucius said: “The ancients outwardly followed change, yet inwardly were not shaken by it.”

The annotation says: The inner mind follows the outer form; the form naturally shifts with things.

The commentary says: The ancients were simple and in harmony with the Dao, so they could let the outer body change with events while the inner mind stayed gathered and still.

“People today let the inner mind be pulled by outer things, while the outer form cannot follow change.”

The annotation says: They use the inner mind to drive the body.

The commentary says: The mind is tugged by outer things and shifts with them, without understanding the principle; outward conduct often goes against how things are and cannot accord with events.

“One who can change together with all things, yet whose inner mind never changes—only one whose inner mind does not change can change together with all things.”

The annotation says: Because one is constantly without deliberate intent, the inner mind can stay unchanged; precisely because the inner mind is unchanged, one can change together with all things.

“Peacefully accepting change, and peacefully accepting non-change.”

The annotation says: Whether change or non-change, one lets it be as it is. This is wuwei (non-action) in the sense of no contrived mind.

The commentary says: “An” means to allow. The sage has no fixed views; he acts along with how things change, so whether things change or do not change, he can accept them in peace. Since he does not make distinctions, nothing is held in the heart.

“Peacefully in mutual accord with all things.”

The annotation says: One only lets all things change naturally without contrived mind—not deliberately welcoming and sending, not forcing compliance.

The commentary says: “Mi” means to accord. What is meant by peacefully accepting both change and non-change is not going against the people but being in mutual accord with them.

“Accord with all things, yet not to excess.”

The annotation says: Without deliberate welcoming and sending, one stops when it is just right.

The commentary says: Though in mutual accord with all things, one does not go too far; in bestowing kindness and favor, each has its measure, without harming one another.

“The park of Shi Wei, the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Lord Yu of Shun, the dwellings of King Tang of Shang and the martial kings of Zhou.”

The annotation says: Being without deliberate mind while following change is precisely the realm in which successive sage kings wandered at ease.

The commentary says: Shi Wei, Xuanyuan (the Yellow Emperor), You Yu (Shun), King Tang of Yin, and the martial kings of Zhou were all enlightened rulers. The way of following all things without contrived mind is precisely the park where Shi Wei lingered, the garden the Yellow Emperor roamed, the inner court where Yu of Shun cultivated virtue, and the dwellings where Tang of Shang and the Zhou martial kings found rest. This is the realm in which sage kings of successive ages wandered at ease.

As for the Ru (Confucian), Mo (Mohist), and other schools among gentlemen, their masters’ teachings often argue back and forth over right and wrong…

As for human virtue—does Heaven not know what one has lost and what one has gained? The point is that ordinary people only know how to rejoice when they encounter such things, yet they do not see that there are just as many things they have never encountered. How much more so when people are born under heaven’s mandate: who can fully know what they have received and what they have not?

What people can know is what their understanding can reach; what understanding cannot reach is what they do not know. What they can do, they do; what they cannot do, they admit they cannot do—they do not force themselves.

Note: Things one cannot do were never something one could demand of oneself. Seen this way, knowing and not knowing, being able and unable, are not entirely under one’s control; one should let nature take its course.

Commentary: Human wisdom has its bright and dim sides; ability has its skillful and clumsy sides—these reflect innate endowment and cannot be forced to change. Therefore what one’s understanding can reach, one can know; what it cannot reach, one cannot know. What one’s capacity can accomplish, one can accomplish; what one’s nature and capacity cannot do, one cannot do. Birds fly, fish swim, spiders weave webs, dung beetles roll balls—all follow nature; are these not each creature’s own nature?

Everyone has things they do not know and cannot do; this cannot be avoided.

Note: From birth each person has their own endowment and limits.

Commentary: Unless one is a sage, one cannot know all things through wisdom alone. Thus people’s knowledge and abilities differ, and innate endowment and mind differ as well. Ordinary people stubbornly try to escape limits they cannot avoid.

Those who set their hearts on escaping what everyone cannot escape—how is that not pitiable?

Commentary: What no one can escape are the bounds of wisdom and ability beyond one’s own endowment. Shallow people cannot rest within their limits; they urgently stir mind and feeling, insisting on escaping these bounds alone—their folly and confusion run deep; it is truly pitiable.

The words most in accord with the great Dao need not be spoken; the conduct most in accord with the great Dao need not be done deliberately.

Note: In this way all can naturally arrive there.

Commentary: The deepest principle leaves nothing left to say, so there is no need to speak; conduct most aligned with the Dao is originally wuwei (non-action), with nothing that must be done on purpose, so there is no need to act.

If one takes only what one knows as the standard of uniformity, one’s insight is shallow.

Note: Understanding gained only through study is borrowed knowledge after all, hence shallow.

Commentary: Seeing the worthy and wanting to catch up, abandoning oneself to imitate others, seeking the Way through learning and visiting sages with knowledge—these are still shallow approaches; how can they count as deep insight?