Imagine a vast library neatly sorted into three shelves: that’s the Daozang’s genius. First up, the jing 經—what might be called “scriptures.” These lay out core teachings, from metaphysical treatises on the Dao’s cosmic ebb and flow to alchemical recipes aiming at inner transformation. Think of them as the doctrinal backbone, a bit like classics on a philosopher’s syllabus.

Next comes the zhi 志, the ritual manuals. Here’s where things get hands-on: instructions for ceremonies, exorcisms, talisman drawing, liturgies and even mudras. A recent digitization drive at Harvard’s Yenching Library unlocked dozens of these dusty volumes, revealing step-by-step rites that practitioners still use in temples from Sichuan to San Francisco. The zhi leave no stone unturned—ceremonial order, chant notation, incense blends—everything needed to perform Taoist magic with precision.

Rounding out the trio is the zhuan 傳, hagiography. Picture biographies of legendary immortals, founding masters and folk deities, chronicled with equal parts mythic flair and historical nods. At last year’s Taoism Conference in Chengdu, scholars pointed out how these life-stories fueled local cults during the pandemic, offering communities a reassuring sense of continuity.

This three-genre layout is wrapped up in the famous “Three Caverns” framework—Mystery, Perfection and Divinity—each cavern housing its own mix of jing, zhi and zhuan, plus four supplementary collections. Such organization keeps the entire canon from feeling like a scattered jumble, guiding seekers from lofty theory through ritual practice to inspirational role models. In a world craving depth and ceremony, the Daozang’s structure still feels like a well-oiled compass, pointing toward both inner discovery and communal celebration.