Being Bent, Whole, and One
The lecture opens at Yixin Lecture Center with a brief good-evening greeting.
The speaker is still finishing an earlier discussion about the old social label of the “lower nine classes.” He says older classifications are no longer suitable for a modern age. In the old list, many trades were unfairly grouped together, even though some people within them were honorable. So instead of repeating the old Qing-era social ranking, he proposes a *new* “lower nine” defined morally rather than by occupation.
He begins listing them one by one. First is theft: taking what one should not take, including cheating in workmanship. Then he turns to violent crime: a “fierce” person is one who injures or kills, including a hired killer.
Next is corruption. Drawing on dictionary wording, he explains that corruption means using one’s office for personal gain: embezzling public or organizational property, taking bribes, and using public causes as a cover for private profit.
He continues the moral list with fraud: those who deceive, cheat, or swindle others.
Then he speaks of sexual misconduct, glossed in old moral language as improper relations between men and women outside rightful bounds.
Next comes gambling. He describes gamblers as people who treat wagering as if it were their life, even making it their trade. Anything centered on staking gain or loss on uncertain outcomes falls under this category.
After that he explains the figure of the *棍* — the rogue or scoundrel. In his examples this includes people who exploit religion, litigation, or social disorder in order to make money. In plain language, he says, these are shameless opportunists and bullies.
He adds another category: hypocrisy or false goodness. He links this to the Confucian idea of the *xiangyuan* — the “village worthy,” a person praised by everyone as upright, while inwardly false. Such people look moral on the surface but steal the substance of virtue. That is why Confucius called them “thieves of virtue.”
His point is that these *new lower nine* are not ordinary occupations but moral and legal failings: theft, violence, corruption, fraud, sexual misconduct, gambling, roguery, and hypocrisy, along with the other items he has just grouped together. In contrast, the old “lower nine” based on social trades was unfair, because many people in those occupations were respectable.
He closes that section by saying the old social ranking is not suitable as a modern standard, and ends that evening’s portion with “Good night.”
The lecture then returns to the *Dao De Jing*, turning back to the previous chapter’s line, “Less brings gain; much brings confusion.”
Citing Lü Chunyang, he explains “less” as having less selfishness and fewer desires. If a person does not know how to lessen private motives and still tries to “get” the Dao, that very striving makes him lose it. But if he reduces selfishness and does not grasp after attainment, then attainment comes of itself. Thus, “less brings gain.”
By contrast, “much” means greed, possessiveness, and emotional excess. Human beings are greedy and rarely know contentment. Just as too much food cannot be chewed well, too much craving confuses one’s original nature and disturbs the pure mind of the Dao. That is why “much brings confusion.”
He reinforces the point with a religious saying: when one tries too hard to “obtain,” one cannot obtain; when one stops grasping and simply practices, things settle naturally.
He compares greed to stuffing the mouth with too much food. If the mouth is crammed full, one cannot chew properly or taste properly. The image is simple: excess ruins what should have been nourishing.
So, for people cultivating the Dao, desire must be watched carefully. “Not seeing what can be desired” keeps the heart from becoming disordered. He mocks the obsession people have with rare treasures, antiques, and prized possessions — things so precious that their owners cannot even enjoy them, since they are always afraid of losing them and lock them away.
By contrast, he says the greatest “antiques” are already before us: sun, moon, stars, heaven and earth. These oldest wonders can be enjoyed freely, without fear of theft. The lesson is that when the mind chases desirable things, it loses its own clear nature. That is exactly what Laozi means by “much leads to confusion.”
He develops the theme of contentment at length. If a beggar gains food, he then wants a house. If he gets a house, he wants greater business. If business grows, he wants beauty, status, office, power, and still more. Even if one became president, one would still die and then wish to become an immortal. Human desire simply escalates.
To illustrate this, he cites old examples of dissatisfaction: Emperor Wu of Han sought immortality; the fabulously wealthy Shi Chong was still not content; even Xi Shi, famed as a great beauty, could be imagined as discontent with her own face; Peng Zu, though associated with long life, still wished to prolong it further. The details are partly obscured by OCR, but the argument is clear: wealth, beauty, fame, and longevity do not end craving.
His conclusion is simple: people must learn *contentment*. Only then is there enduring happiness.
He now bridges from the previous chapter into the line “the sage embraces the One and becomes a model for the world.”
Before explaining it, he again contrasts Zhang Liang and Han Xin. Zhang Liang knew contentment: when honors were offered, he declined further reward and turned toward cultivation. Han Xin, by contrast, was not satisfied even with kingship and came to a disastrous end. So again, “less brings gain; much brings confusion.”
Turning to the text, he cites Lü Chunyang: the Dao in itself is nameless. From “nonbeing” comes “being,” and at the beginning of being there is “One.” This One is the root of the myriad things and also points to the human original mind or nature.
To “embrace the One” means to hold fast to that original center. The sage preserves this and thereby becomes a standard or model for all under heaven in the practice of the Dao.
He pauses to unpack key terms.
“Model” or *shi* means a pattern, standard, or exemplar — something others can follow. Thus the sage, by embracing the One, becomes a living model for the world.
He also explains *yuan* through examples like “New Year’s Day” and the “first month,” using them to stress the meaning of origin or beginning. In this lecture’s interpretive language, “embracing the origin” and “embracing the One” come to the same thing.
So “embrace the One” means guarding the One within — preserving the original center. Because the sage does this, he serves as a model for all.
He then moves to the next phrase, explaining that the character 自見 here should be read in the sense of “showing oneself” or “displaying oneself.”
Following Lü Chunyang, he interprets “not self-displaying, therefore bright” as follows: to “see” here means to put oneself on display. A truly wise person does not parade his abilities outwardly.
He explains *mingzhe* — brightness and wisdom — as clear intelligence, even the ability to understand beforehand. Yet the sage does not shine by advertising himself. Instead, he holds to the One and lets his insight remain unshowy.
The spirit of the line is that real clarity does not come from self-promotion. It comes from inward steadiness. Great wisdom often appears simple or even foolish on the surface.
He stops there for the evening and says the rest will continue next time.
In the next session he continues with the line usually rendered “not self-affirming, therefore manifest.”
He notes that local pronunciation may blur the wording, but the sense is clear. To be *self-right* means insisting, “I am the one who is correct,” refusing to admit one’s own errors and blaming others instead. Such a person does not truly win people over.
The sage is different. He does not cling to being right. Because he is not self-assertive, his virtue naturally becomes evident. In other words, not insisting on one’s own correctness is precisely what allows true moral force to appear.
He turns to the next line: “not boasting of his achievements, therefore his merit endures.”
To “self-praise” or “self-boast” is to parade one’s own accomplishments. The sage transforms the world through virtue but does not claim the credit. Because he does not seize merit for himself, his merit remains.
Again he uses Zhang Liang and Han Xin as contrasts. Zhang Liang achieved success and then withdrew; his name endured. Han Xin boasted of his ability and achievements, and his end was ruinous. Thus, “not self-boasting, therefore merit remains.”
He spends a long stretch filling in the historical example.
First he explains Zhang Liang’s title, Marquis of Liu, and briefly notes the classical hierarchy of noble ranks. Then he recounts the tradition that Zhang Liang wished to leave worldly affairs behind and follow Chisongzi, an immortal adept, in order to study the Dao.
He summarizes the historical record: Liu Bang had already rewarded Zhang Liang richly. Zhang Liang considered that enough and declined further advancement, saying he was satisfied and wished to withdraw from worldly affairs. Even when later honors were pressed on him, he himself did not take them; eventually the title passed to his son. The point is that Zhang Liang knew where to stop. He succeeded, then stepped back.
He contrasts this with Han Xin. He quotes the historical judgment that if Han Xin had been humble, had not boasted of his merit or flaunted his abilities, he might have stood beside the greatest loyal ministers of antiquity and received lasting honor after death. Instead, once the empire had largely been settled, Han Xin still wanted more power, even seeking kingship beyond proper measure. His ambition led to suspicion, downfall, and the extermination of his clan.
The lecturer repeatedly returns to the moral: humility preserves merit; boasting destroys it. “Modesty receives benefit” — that old saying, he says, is absolutely right.
In the following session he resumes the same point and gives a more detailed story from the *Records of the Grand Historian*.
The central incident is Han Xin’s request to be made king in Qi while Liu Bang was still under pressure from Xiang Yu. Advisers around Liu Bang recognized that Han Xin now held enough military power that refusal would be dangerous. So Liu Bang publicly acted as if he were angrily granting Han Xin not a “temporary” kingship but a full kingship, because in practice he had little choice.
The lecturer’s reading is moral rather than merely political: Han Xin had begun to rely on his own merit and to display it. He saw himself as indispensable. That is precisely the danger Laozi warns against.
The result, he says, is well known. Later, Han Xin was seized under Empress Lü’s orders and executed, and his three clans were exterminated. Even Gaozu’s mixed reaction — pleased yet mournful — shows the tragic end of a man whose ability was great but whose humility failed.
He briefly explains what “exterminating three clans” meant in traditional law: punishment extending to the father’s line, the mother’s line, and the wife’s line. This is how terrible Han Xin’s end became.
He then returns to the text: after “not self-boasting, therefore merit remains” comes the line about not being self-conceited and therefore growing. He explains the key word as meaning increase, advance, or growth.
A person of poor cultivation likes to show off and rely on his own ability. But precisely because he is self-conceited, his Dao does not grow. A superior person with the Dao does not glorify himself; therefore his way continues to increase. That is the sense of “not self-conceited, therefore he grows.”
He ends that evening there.
He now gathers the whole chapter together.
Not displaying oneself, not insisting on one’s own rightness, not boasting of achievement, and not being self-conceited — all these, he says, are forms of *non-contention*. A person who reaches this state has in effect reached “no-self.” Once self-interest stirs, desire arises; once desire arises, conscience is buried, and a person begins harming others for personal advantage. But where there is genuine selflessness, one naturally accords with the Dao.
That is why Laozi says: because the sage does not contend, no one in the world can contend with him.
He then gives the chapter’s conclusion: “What the ancients called ‘crooked, therefore preserved’ — was it empty talk?” No, he says. It means that one who can bend, yield, and make room does not lose wholeness. Through sincerity and the absence of double-mindedness, wholeness returns by itself.
Only here does he formally enter Chapter 23, beginning with the line: “Sparse words — natural.”
Following Lü Chunyang, he explains *xiyan* as rare or precious speech, and *ziran* here as freedom, naturalness, and unobstructed spontaneity. The innate great Dao is not bound or constrained. It neither increases nor decreases, and no heterodox path can compare with it. Therefore the saying is “sparse words, natural.”
He then supports this with dictionary-style explanations: what is “rare” is something seldom found in the world; what is “free and at ease” is a heart released from the bonds of affliction and unblocked in all directions.
In short, naturalness means genuine freedom from inner obstruction.
He continues explaining “freedom” through the language of no obstruction. If the body is not constrained and the mind is not blocked, one is at ease. Obstruction means being hemmed in on every side — unable to advance or retreat, as though front, back, left, right, above, and below were all blocked.
That is why he cites the *Heart Sutra*: relying on prajñā, the mind has no hindrance. He then links this back to Laozi’s “Dao models itself on nature.” True nature is originally natural, open, and unobstructed. To follow naturalness is to recover one’s own original nature.
So his reading of “希言自然” is this: the rare and precious teaching is the teaching of naturalness, freedom, and unobstructed original nature. What truly accords with the Dao cannot be matched by dependent, externally driven paths.
He stops there for the night before moving on to the next line.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.