Knowing When to Stop
Someone asks how you are, and you tell them what you do.
Someone asks what you have, and you count it.
Almost no one asks which of these is you.
名與身孰親？
míng yǔ shēn shú qīn?
Your name or your self: which is dearer?
身與貨孰多？
shēn yǔ huò shú duō?
Your self or your goods: which is worth more?
得與亡孰病？
dé yǔ wáng shú bìng?
Gaining or losing: which does more harm?
是故甚愛必大費，
shì gù shèn ài bì dà fèi,
So, loving too much is sure to cost a great deal;
多藏必厚亡。
duō cáng bì hòu wáng.
storing up much is sure to lose heavily.
知足不辱，
zhī zú bù rǔ,
Know what is enough, and you will not be shamed;
知止不殆，
zhī zhǐ bù dài,
know when to stop, and you will not be in danger;
可以長久。
kě yǐ cháng jiǔ.
and you can last long.
The words
the body; one's own self, one's life
In old Chinese the same word means the body and the self: the life you actually live in, not the picture of it. The first two questions set it against what we hang on it, our name and our things.
to stop; at first, a foot
The oldest forms of this character are a drawing of a foot. A foot is what carries you forward, and it is also what plants itself and stays. You saw it inside 企, the person on tiptoe, in the last lesson. Here the foot comes down.
danger; near to ruin
The same word as in chapter 25, where the Way "goes round everywhere and is never in danger". Knowing when to stop is a small share in that safety.
Sitting with it
The chapter opens with three questions and doesn't answer them. It doesn't need to. Asked straight out, the answers are obvious.
Your name or your self? Your self, of course. Your reputation, what people say about you, your title: none of it would matter at all if you weren't alive to have it.
Your self or your things? Your self. No one would trade their life for a house.
And yet, look at how a week is spent. How much of it goes to guarding a name: worrying what someone thought, polishing how we look. How much of it goes to getting and keeping things, and how much of our body and our sleep we pay for them. The answers are obvious, and we live as if they were the other way round.
The third question is the hardest. Gaining or losing: which does more harm? We assume losing. The book is not so sure. Gaining something can harm you too: you now have to keep it, you are afraid to lose it, you want the next one. Every gain comes with its loss already folded inside it, as you saw in chapter 2.
Then the plain rule. Loving too much costs. Storing up much loses much. It isn't a punishment. It's arithmetic: the more you hold, the more there is to lose.
And so the two short lines, which have long been everyday sayings in Chinese. Know what is enough. Know when to stop. Not "want nothing". Not "never begin". Just know where the edge is, and come down off your toes before you reach it.
A practice
Ask yourself the three questions today, one at a time, as if a friend were asking.
My name or my self? My self or my things? Gaining or losing?
Then pick one thing, a small one, that you are holding on to for your name or for having more, and let it go this week.
To carry
知足不辱，知止不殆。
zhī zú bù rǔ, zhī zhǐ bù dài.
Know what is enough, and you will not be shamed; know when to stop, and you will not be in danger.