Chapter 1
1. The Tâo that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tâo. The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.
2. (Conceived of as) having no name, it is the Originator of heaven and earth; (conceived of as) having a name, it is the Mother of all things.
3. Always without desire we must be found,
If its deep mystery we would sound;
But if desire always within us be,
Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.
4. Under these two aspects, it is really the same; but as development takes place, it receives the different names. Together we call them the Mystery. Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that is subtle and wonderful.
Read the companion to Chapter 1
Context In the book as it has come down, this is the opening chapter, and commentators have long treated it as a key to everything that follows. It sets out the difficulty the book keeps coming back to: the Tâo is the source of everything, yet no word can hold it. In the first line dào also appears as a verb. It is usually read as to speak or tell; Legge’s “trodden” takes it as walking the road the word also names. Either way the first line plays on its own key word. The round brackets in “(Conceived of as)” are Legge’s own. They make no name and a name into two ways of regarding one Tâo, a reading that paragraph 4 supports. In the Mawangdui silk manuscripts, sealed in a tomb in 168 BCE and found in 1973, the Te half comes first, so there this chapter opens the second half.
In plain words (our paraphrase, not the text) The Way that can be walked is not the Way that lasts and never changes. The name that can be spoken is not the name that lasts. Thought of as having no name, the Way is where heaven and earth begin. Thought of as having a name, it is the mother who gives birth to every single thing. To reach its depths we have to stay free of wanting; as long as wanting lives in us, we will see only its outer edge, though some commentators divide these lines differently and read them as being about non-being and being rather than about desire. The nameless and the named are really one and the same. They come to have different names only as things unfold. Together they are called the Mystery, dark and deep, and at the Mystery’s deepest point is the gateway through which everything subtle and wonderful comes.
Key terms dào (DOW), “Tâo”: The Way, a road or path. In the first line it is also the verb: most readers take it as speaking, Legge as treading. míng (MING), “name”: A name, or the act of naming. The chapter says the name that can be named is not the lasting one, and then names the Tâo anyway. cháng (CHAHNG), “enduring and unchanging”: Constant, always so. Legge uses two English words for this one Chinese word, which marks the Tâo and the name that do not pass away. yù (YOO), “desire”: Wanting. In this chapter it decides how much of the Tâo we see: its depths without desire, only its fringe with it. xuán (SHWEN), “Mystery”: Dark, deep, hidden, like the night sky. Legge capitalizes it as the name for the nameless and the named taken together. miào (mee-OW), “subtle and wonderful”: Fine, subtle, wondrous. The Mystery is the gate through which such things come; the same word lies behind the deep mystery of paragraph 3.
To reflect on Think of something you care about that no word quite fits: a person, a place, a feeling. When you do give it a name, what does the name leave out?







