Confucian Analects

Wisdom often strikes us in brilliant flashes like bolts of lighting suddenly connecting the heavens and the earth. So too strikes the wisdom of the Confucian Analects. They are the collected passages of Confucius and his students in dialogue; and amidst their abundant, thunderously presumptuous assertions shine great, crackling arcs, each illuminating its own sliver of Truth—an irony, how uncultivated and uncurated the Confucian Analects seem to be.

But like any good Confucian scholar, in the course of this Meditation, we shall read the Analects with an attitude of benevolence. We shall take the responsibility onto ourselves to parse through what no longer applies or that which does not apply to us of a significantly different culture. We shall do as Confucius describes Emperor Shun in The Doctrine of the Mean:

‘. . . Shun loved to question others, and to study their words, though they might be shallow. He concealed what was bad in them, and displayed what was good. He took hold of their two extremes, determined the Mean, and employed it in his government of the people.’ (Confucius, The Doctrine of the Mean, Chap VI)

The Analects echo this principle:

The Master said, ‘Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous.’ . . .

‘The study of strange doctrines is injurious indeed!’ (Confucian Analects, Book II, Chap XV-XVI)

It is another irony and hypocrisy—a forewarning by Confucius himself against falling prey to the authority of doctrines, aside from his own, of course. Nonetheless, the advice is good, for it is indeed perilous to fall under possession of some ideological ghost. Critical thinking, in the Socratic sense, that is, the critique of one’s own thoughts and feelings, is a necessary skill for anyone who cares to come close to acting in accordance with the Truth—that is, in accord with reality itself, with that-is-which-is, what a religious westerner would call God, and what the Taoists referred to as the Great Course, the Way.

The first step to attaining such skills is the same with Confucius as it is with Socrates. “Know thyself,” or more specifically, acknowledge the limitations of your knowledge and the vastness of your ignorance:

The Master said, ‘Yu, shall I teach you what knowledge is? When you know a thing, to hold that you know it; and when you do not know a thing, to allow that you do not know it:—this is knowledge.’ (Book II, Chap XVII)

Once one recognizes the limits of his own knowledge, he can then and only then begin from a position of sincerity. Sincerity is the root of the tree of Confucian philosophy, and one could argue that it is ostensibly the root of all philosophy throughout most of time—though Nietzsche would take contention with such a claim, as would the mid-to-late twentieth century pseudo-intellectuals, albeit for different reasons.

Contentions aside, it stands to reason that recognizing one’s limits also opens one’s mind to the truth that there is still more to learn. Humility thereby is the prerequisite to knowledge, but that leaves a questioned unanswered, “How does one then begin to know?”

Confucius answers by describing the consequences of falling short of this next step:

If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things. If language be not in accordance with the truth of things, affairs cannot be carried to success.

When affairs cannot be carried on to success, proprieties and music will not flourish. When proprieties and music do not flourish, punishments will not be properly awarded. When punishments are not properly awarded, the people do not know how to move hand or foot. (Book XIII, Chap III, para 5-6)

This is likely the source of the commonly cited Confucian quote, “The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their proper names.” Once one has opened himself to new information and new understanding by admitting the fallibility of his prior preconceptions, he can begin to question his conceptions themselves. The names people give to things are just such conceptual categories, and indeed, they are a wise place to start. As discussed in the Meditation on The Doctrine of the Mean, sincerity is being in accord with reality—the Truth. Being in sincere, dubious and dishonest, even—especially—with oneself is the rotting of the root of a great tree. After all, any false conclusion can be coherently reached by the presumption of just one false premise. That is to say that calling things by improper names is the beginning of all Towers of Babyl, structures doomed to collapse and to destroy the harmony of all those who live in its shadow.

If insincerity causes discord, the degradation of culture and thereby art and morality, what is it that fosters harmony? Confucius explains that though:

Those who are without virtue cannot abide long either in a condition of poverty and hardship, or in a condition of enjoyment. The virtuous rest in virtue, the wise desire virtue. (Book IV, Chap II)

So it is the practice and cultivation of virtue which follows the initial virtue of character that is sincerity. In other words, the first of the Confucian virtues is sincerity, and from this is born the virtues in accord with propriety: prudence, temperance, and justice. Once again Confucian ethics align with the ethics of Aristotle. In fact, it is not obvious that the following descriptions of a man of virtue were written in ancient China as opposed to ancient Greece:

If a man in the morning hear the right way, he may die in the evening without regret. . . .

The superior man, in the world, does not set his mind either for anything, or against anything; what is right he will follow. . . .

The superior man thinks of virtue; the small man thinks of comfort. The superior man thinks of the sanctions of the law; the small man thinks of favors which he may receive. (Book IV, Chap VIII, X-XI)

What the superior man seeks is in himself. What the mean man seeks, is in others. (Book XV, Chap XX)

They who know the truth are not equal to those who love it, and they who love it are not equal to those who delight in it.

The man of virtue makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business, and success only a subsequent consideration:—this may be called perfect virtue. (Book VI, Chap XVIII, XX)

As do the Taoist texts the Tao Te Ching and the Zhuangzi, the Analects reach similar conclusions and give very similar prescriptions to stoic philosophical works such as Epictetus’s Enchiridion and his Discourses. Virtue ultimately becomes a disposition of the will, a placement of desires and aversions in accordance with the contextual mean. The cultivation of one’s character, therefore, is in all of these cases an internal process. Even in Confucianism, in which hierarchy, order, and discipline are lauded, responsible conduct and benevolence are not things which can be forced onto another. They must be developed voluntarily through the transmutation of envy and disdain into an acceptance of Fate:

The Master said, “When we see men of worth, we should think of equaling them; when we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.” (Book VI, Chap XVII)

To have faults and not reform them,—this, indeed, should be pronounced having faults. (Book XV, Chap XXIX)

Furthermore, voluntarism is only one of the requisites to the cultivation of virtue; a second necessity is the innate capacity and disposition. Here, Confucius and Zhuangzi agree about the pathological futility of trying to turn everyone into Confucian scholars. It cannot be done with success, only wasted labor and failure:

To those whose talents are above mediocrity, the highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity, the highest subjects may not be announced. (Book VI, Chap XIX)

Those whose courses are different cannot lay plans for one another. (Book XV, Chap XXXIX)

The Analects pursue this point even further in a discourse about a man stuck in a well:

Tsai Wo asked, saying, “A benevolent man, though it be told him,—‘there is a man in the well,’ will go in after him. I suppose.”

Confucius said, “Why should he do so?” A superior man may be made to go to the well, but he cannot be made to go down into it. He may be imposed upon, but he cannot be befooled.” (Book VI, Chap XXIV)

It is a message reminiscent of Nietzsche’s warning in Beyond Good and Evil. “He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.” Also, it is a message of humility. Though the elitism of such notions is readily apparent, within that acknowledgement of nature inequity among men, there is a limiting factor imposed by nature. There is something which even the elites are beholden too—that they are not themselves gods and orderers of the universe. Even the superior man possesses no power of the will of those beneath him, only that power over himself which he has cultivated from that which he inherited:

A transmitter and not a maker, believing in and loving the ancients, I venture to compare myself with our old P’ang.”

The silent treasuring up of knowledge; learning without satiety; and instructing others without being wearied:—which one of these things belongs to me? (Book VII, Chap I-II)

The philosopher Tsang said, “The superior man, in his thoughts, does not go out of his place.” (Book XIV, Chap XXVIII)

A man can enlarge the principles which he follows; those principles do not enlarge the man. (Book XV, Chap XXVIII)

The subordination of oneself to his higher potential is the very comparison Confucius draws between his intended life and that of the cosmogonic phoenix, P’ang (spelled, “Peng” in the Meditations on the Zhuangzi). By doing so, he recognizes his virtues as borrowed elements of his personality. He is not glorified by them but by pursuing to live up to the standards set by his inherited dispositions and resources. It is in the living out an example that he, Confucius, or any other “superior” man lays claim to the title superior. The utmost person is one who lives and learns by example. He becomes a teacher to others by first making them teachers of his own:

The Master said, “When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them, their bad qualities and avoid them.” (Book VII, Chap XXI)

For one to become a good teacher by example, he must gravitate toward good examples and away from bad ones. This is in accord with the metaphor of the well. One might be forced to confront the man who has gotten himself stuck in a rut, but one cannot be made to join him in it. In practice, this means identifying the types of men one can garner virtue from associating with:

There are three friendships which are advantageous and three which are injurious. Friendship with the upright; friendship with the sincere; and friendship with the man of much observation—these are advantageous. Friendship with the man of specious airs; friendship with the insinuatingly soft; and friendship with the glibtongued:—these are injurious. (Book XVI, Chap IV)

This is a task easier said than done, especially when one possesses a naturally benevolent disposition. One might even reason that stooping down to help those beneath himself is exactly the leading by example which is prescribed. However, the dangers of such a venture are as multitudinous as they are clandestine. That is why the Analects advise that one:

Learn as if you could not reach your object, and were always fearing also lest you should lose it. (Book VIII, Chap XVII)

The emphasis here is on the fear of losing the cultivated virtue one has gained. It is easy to backslide, to fall into old habits or into new temptations. The man stuck in his well may very well pull his helper in with him if he can manage to become a cause of resentment; and that is just as easily said as done. For if the following is true, that—

He who requires much from himself and little from others, will keep himself from being the object of resentment. (Book XV, Chap XIV)

—then one can reason from the inverse that a man who makes himself dependent on others will ensure that he does become an object of resentment, namely the resentment of the superior man who has now lowered himself beneath his own bitterness. Human kindness will fly from even a sage if he allows himself to continually associate with those who would injure him out of envy, jealousy, or their own self-loathing. Even a sage will be brought to wrath out of necessity to protect himself:

Some one said, “What do you say concerning the principle that injury should be recompensed with kindness?”

The Master said, “With what then will you recompense kindness?”

“Recompense injury with justice, and recompense kindness with kindness.” (Book XIV, Chap XXXVI, para 1-3)

If it comes to this, the necessary conflict in order to preserve one’s virtues, it is as the Tao Te Ching suggests: it is a tragedy each time a man must draw his sword—despite the fact that he ought to draw it—it is a mournful occurrence, for better his he could live by the principle of reciprocity.

Tsze-kung asked, saying, “is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?”

The Master said, “Is not RECIPROCITY such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.” (Book XV, Chap XXIII)

And so one knows what to seek, where to seek it, and what to avoid. The beginning is sincerity by which one obtains propriety, which in turn fosters benevolence and responsible conduct. One cultivates these in himself and continuously looks to himself as the causes of his own errors. In that continual practice of learning, one understands that just as he must look inward, so too must those with the potential to learn. Virtue cannot be forced on another, only taught by example. And so, one also learns to avoid bad examples, for the cultivation of one’s character is a dynamic process. One can learn bad habits just as if not more readily than one can learn good ones.

Furthermore, one keeps in mind that learning is not just continual, but slow. The cultivation of one’s character requires an eye which sees beyond the present self and through to the potential self of the future:

Tsze-hsia said, “He, who from day to day recognizes what he has not yet, and from month to month does not forget what he has attained to may be said indeed to love to learn.” (Book XIX, Chap V)

The procession of learning may be compared to what may happen is raising a mound. If there was but one basket of earth to complete the work, and I stop, the stopping is my own work. It may be compared to throwing down the earth on the level ground. Though but one basketful is thrown at a time, the advancing with it is my own going forward. (Book IX, Chap XVIII)

These are just some of the branches which grasp toward the sky, borne on the root of wisdom contained within the Confucian Analects. By no means are these all the branches, nor have the leaves and flowers been considered in anything like their full depth of beauty. The hope is that this Meditation has imparted the core of Confucian philosophy as it applies to the individual, as it accords with the lives of an audience far and apart from its source.

 

Confucius and Mencius. The Four Books; The Great Learning, The Doctrine of the Mean, Confucian Analects, and The Works of Mencius, translated by James Legge, Andesite Press, an imprint of Creative Media Partners.