Dying Without Perishing
The speaker begins by apologizing that he has only just been discharged from the hospital, then resumes the lecture with the closing line of Chapter 33: *“To die but not perish—this is longevity.”*
Before explaining the sentence, he says two key terms must be distinguished clearly. The destruction of the physical body is called *death*. But the disappearance of one’s moral force, virtue, and living influence is what is meant by *perishing* or *being lost*.
For ordinary people, when the body dies, nothing of their virtue remains in public memory. Body and reputation vanish together, so one may speak of them as both dead and gone. But for those who establish real virtue in the world, the body may die while their moral presence remains. They are still remembered by later generations.
That is the meaning of “the body dies, but the name does not perish.” So Laozi’s phrase does not mean merely living to an advanced age in years. It means that one’s spirit, teaching, and influence continue after bodily death.
The lecturer illustrates this with famous figures such as Śākyamuni Buddha, Confucius, and Laozi. Their bodies disappeared long ago, yet thousands of years later people still know their names and remember what they taught.
He also says that this is why someone like Yan Hui, though he died young, can still be counted as truly “long-lived” in a deeper sense: ordinary lifespan is not the real standard. What matters is whether one’s virtue endures.
Drawing on dictionary-style notes and Lü Chunyang’s commentary, he concludes: the body is visible and therefore subject to decay; once visible form decays, that is called death. But when a sage establishes virtue and good name, that reputation flows through later ages, as though the person’s spirit were still alive. This, he says, is the true meaning of “to die without perishing is longevity.”
The lecture then turns to the next page and the opening of Chapter 34: *“The great Dao flows everywhere; it may go left or right.”*
Citing Hanshan Deqing and Heshang Gong, the speaker explains that the greatness of the Dao has no fixed direction and no fixed boundary. It is not confined to east, west, south, or north, and its functioning reaches everywhere.
He discusses the character translated here as “flows” or “floods,” saying it suggests something like floating, spreading, or moving without fixed form—at one moment visible, at another hidden. The point is that the Dao is universally operative and suitable everywhere.
“Left and right,” he says, should not be understood narrowly. The Dao can be spoken of from either side, under any condition, because nothing lies outside its range.
The session then pauses at this point.
Resuming the next portion, the lecturer explains that according to the *Laozi yishu*, the function of the Dao is like water in broad circulation: it spreads, nourishes, and makes itself available for the use of all things.
He pauses over several glossary notes, especially on “function,” “effect,” and the sense of “flowing everywhere.” The image is of something vast and continuously moving.
The central comparison is to water. Water does not insist on one fixed place; it follows conditions and goes wherever there is openness, especially toward lower ground. In the same way, the Dao benefits all things without partiality and reaches wherever it is needed.
The speaker expands this into a broader religious point. Different traditions—Daoism, Buddhism, Christianity, Islam, and others—may speak from different angles, but they are still trying to address the same fundamental truth. The forms differ, yet the underlying principle can still be one.
“Left and right,” in this explanation, means that the Dao can be articulated from many sides. It is not limited to one method, one vocabulary, or one level of teaching. It can speak to high and low, refined and ordinary, subtle and practical alike.
He then cites further commentary saying the Dao circulates universally and arrives everywhere. This is the main force of the opening line: the great Dao overflows all boundaries and is never absent.
In this section the speaker works through a dense set of notes on phrases describing the Dao’s impartial beneficence and vast inclusiveness. Much of the OCR is badly damaged, but the intended meaning is still fairly clear.
He explains that terms like *ze* (“beneficence,” “grace,” “nourishing influence”) refer to a universal goodness that is public, not private. The Dao does not favor one group while excluding another.
He also pauses over a graph that in this context does not mean “killing,” but rather “reducing” or “diminishing.” Thus, when a commentary says the Dao is vast and does not “reduce,” the meaning is that its broad beneficence does not shrink or become narrow.
From there he emphasizes that true greatness is *public* and *selfless*. The Dao covers all beings without private agenda. This is what he means by calling it impartial and universally extending.
“Containing vastness” means embracing widely and generously. The Dao includes what is high and low, near and far, positive and negative. Nothing has to be excluded from its scope.
He then compares several commentators—including Lü Chunyang, Heshang Gong, and later readers—saying that while their wording differs, they are all pointing toward the same idea: the Dao is empty of attachment, free of fixation, and universally present.
The lecturer admits that if one chased every textual variation in detail, the discussion could continue at great length. His practical conclusion is simpler: the commentaries differ in phrasing, but converge in meaning.
The lecturer now takes up the next line: the myriad things depend on the Dao for life, yet the Dao does not cast them aside.
Using the *Qingjing jing*, he explains: “The great Dao is formless, yet it gives birth to heaven and earth. The great Dao is nameless, yet it nourishes and raises the myriad things.” Since all beings rely on it for birth and sustenance, the Dao is their unseen basis.
He notes that one phrase here means “it never declines the labor.” In other words, although the Dao gives rise to heaven and earth and nourishes all beings, it never complains, withdraws, or refuses the burden.
This, he says, is also how a sage acts. The sage teaches, guides, and accomplishes things for others without making a display of personal merit. Even when the work is completed, the sage does not claim the credit.
So the line about “accomplishing merit without naming it as one’s own” means: heaven and earth are produced through the Dao, the myriad things are nourished through the Dao, but the Dao never advertises its achievement. Likewise, a true teacher completes his work but does not dwell on reputation.
The speaker then digresses into the meaning of “name,” “fame,” and “teaching,” explaining that true instruction is a form of guidance and correction, not self-promotion. The core point remains that the Dao gives life and support without boasting.
The next line is: *“It clothes and nourishes the myriad things and does not act as their master. It is ever without desire; it may be named small.”*
Drawing on Lü Chunyang, the speaker says that the Dao raises and nourishes all things, yet never claims ownership over them. It gives life, support, and growth, but does not stand over beings like a controlling lord.
Because it does not insist on possession, authority, or self-display, it remains without desire. It hides its virtue and conceals its name. To ordinary eyes it may therefore seem slight, obscure, or of little use.
He spends some time explaining phrases like “each gets its proper place” and “each follows its own aspiration.” His point is that under the Dao, things are allowed to develop according to their own nature. Human attempts to force everyone into one mold often fail.
To illustrate this, he tells a long anecdotal story about parents trying to force children into careers they do not truly want. The moral is that coercion is ineffective; each person should be cultivated according to his natural bent. This is presented as an example of allowing things to find their proper place.
He then contrasts the quiet Dao with what people usually prefer. People are attracted to what is grand, showy, powerful, richly decorated, and visibly impressive. They like big temples, large statues, spectacle, noise, and signs of worldly success.
By contrast, the Dao is “plain and tasteless” in the sense that it does not flatter worldly craving. The speaker humorously illustrates this with his own medical diet of bland rice porridge and boiled vegetables, contrasting plain nourishment with rich, flavorful food. What is simple and health-giving often seems unattractive compared with what excites desire.
That, he says, is exactly why the Dao is called “small.” It appears hidden, unprofitable, and lacking in worldly appeal. It does not promise quick gain, supernatural display, or obvious advantage.
He also laments that teachings of moral cultivation draw fewer and fewer people, while excitement, spectacle, and superstition attract crowds. The Dao seems “small” only because people prefer what stimulates greed, vanity, and sensation.
So the line does not belittle the Dao. Rather, it shows the paradox: because the Dao is desireless, non-possessive, and unobtrusive, common people underestimate it. In truth, its hidden nourishment is immeasurably great.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.