One who knows does not speak; one who speaks does not know.
Block the openings;
Shut the doors.
Blunt the sharpness;
Untangle the knots;
Soften the glare;
Let your wheels move only along old ruts.
This is known as mysterious sameness.
Hence you cannot get close to it, nor can you keep it at arm’s length; you cannot bestow benefit upon it, nor can you do it harm; you cannot ennoble it, nor can you debase it.
Therefore it is valued by the empire.
“It” is an odd word.
What is it we are talking about, but it? One it upon the other. What is it? What is it? That stirs within me? That makes a pensive shadow or loosens every muscle in my face? What is it that makes me smile or frown? The substance of the unconscious-memory, a thought? What is it; what’s its movement?