Before the Cup Overflows
Pour tea into a cup, and keep pouring.
There is a moment, just before it spills, when the surface trembles above the rim.
That is the moment this chapter is about.
持而盈之，不如其已；
chí ér yíng zhī, bù rú qí yǐ;
Holding a cup and filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping;
揣而梲之，不可長保。
chuǎi ér ruì zhī, bù kě cháng bǎo.
hammer a blade and sharpen it, and its edge cannot be kept for long.
金玉滿堂，莫之能守；
jīn yù mǎn táng, mò zhī néng shǒu;
Gold and jade fill the hall, and no one can guard them;
富貴而驕，自遺其咎。
fù guì ér jiāo, zì yí qí jiù.
rich, honoured and proud, you leave yourself your own ruin.
功遂身退，天之道。
gōng suì shēn tuì, tiān zhī dào.
The work done, step back: this is the Way of heaven.
The words
full, filled to the brim
At the bottom of the character is a vessel (皿), a bowl or cup. 盈 is not just "full" but full right up, nothing more can go in. The book always prefers the cup with room left in it.
here read as 銳, to make sharp
An unusual character in this line. Wang Bi, whose text this course reads, explains it as 銳, sharpening: first you hammer the point thin, then you sharpen it keen, and so it is sure to blunt and break.1 Other old copies write the line in other ways, but the picture is the same: an edge made too fine to last.
to step back, to withdraw
The walking foot again (辶), the same one inside 道. The Way of heaven is not to stop walking, but to know when to walk backwards.
Sitting with it
Four pictures, each of something pushed one step too far.
A cup filled to the brim. You can't carry it. You can't drink from it without spilling. It has stopped being useful at the exact moment it became full.
A blade sharpened too fine. For a day it cuts beautifully. Then the thin edge rolls, or chips, and you are back at the whetstone. A little less sharp would have lasted years.
A hall full of gold and jade. Now you need locks, and guards, and you lie awake. What you own begins to own you.
Rich, honoured, and proud. The first two are not the problem; the third is. Pride is the last drop that makes the cup spill, and the book says plainly who poured it: you leave yourself your own ruin.
None of this says don't fill the cup, or don't sharpen the blade, or don't do well. It says: notice the moment before the brim. You have seen it in yourself. One more task added to a full day. One more point made in an argument already won. One more thing bought for a house already full.
The last line is the turn. The work done, step back. You met this in chapter 2: the sage finishes and does not dwell. Here the book adds that this isn't only wise, it is how the world itself moves. The sun does not stay at noon. The tide, at its highest, turns. In chapter 25, going far meant coming back. Stepping back is not losing. It is moving with heaven.
A practice
Today, when you are pouring something, a drink, a bowl of rice, stop a little before the top. Leave a finger's width of room.
Then find one other place in the day to do the same: a task you end a little early, a sentence you don't add.
To carry
功遂身退，天之道。
gōng suì shēn tuì, tiān zhī dào.
The work done, step back: this is the Way of heaven.
Sources
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Wang Bi's commentary on chapter 9: 既揣末令尖，又銳之令利，勢必摧衂 ("having hammered the tip to a point, and sharpened it keen, it is bound to break"). 道德經 (王弼本) on Wikisource. ↩