The Analects

by Confucius

  Zigong said, “The Master has just given a description of himself.”

  Confucius gave the humane, the wise, and the brave the same descriptions in 9.29. Here, he says that the characteristics of such men make up “the way of a gentleman.” But he claims that he is unable to accomplish any one of the three. Most traditional scholars say that Confucius was being modest when he spoke about himself. Qian Mu, however, offers a different perspective. He says that only when a person perceives himself in this way will he keep on going, “keep on making progress,” and never become complacent. Zigong’s comment is, therefore, important: it relates what the observer sees. And in Zigong’s view, Confucius has already arrived at the goal.

  14.29 Zigong was given to assessing people [fangren]. The Master said, “Si [Zigong] must be a man of worth! I am afraid I haven’t got the time for such things.”

  The Han scholar Kong Anguo understands fangren to mean bifangren, “to assess people,” “to compare one person against another.” But most scholars follow another Han scholar, Zheng Xuan, who thinks that fang was a phonetic loan word for bang, “to criticize others,” “to point out the mistakes of others.” If Zigong was merely prone to assessing the strengths and weaknesses of others, they argue, Confucius would not have said “I’m afraid I haven’t got time for such things,” because he had a tendency to do the same. Thus these scholars conclude that fangren must have referred to a negative trait, to Zigong’s fondness for “passing judgment on others.” Qian Mu, however, is on the side of Kong Anguo. He says that even though Confucius himself liked to gauge other people’s character, he still could be critical of Zigong for wasting too much time doing it. And I would add that there is no record in the Analects that suggests Zigong was quick in forming an opinion or was given to seeing the faults of others, but there is plenty of evidence that shows him to be interested in “assessing others” and also in the process of considering the many sides of a situation and then giving his best guess as to the outcome.

  14.30 The Master said, “Do not worry that other people do not know you. Be concerned about your own lack of ability.”

  This is slightly different from 1.16, but in both comments Confucius emphasizes that what should worry a person is not why others do not take notice of him—of his knowledge or talent—but what is wanting in him.

  14.31 The Master said, “Not to anticipate deception and not to expect bad faith and yet to be the first to be aware of such behavior—this is proof of one’s worthiness.”

  Here Confucius describes the workings of subtle intelligence in a man of worth. This man does not anticipate deception or bad faith in others, but he is the first to know should it occur. This means that he holds no preconception about anyone but is alert to any attempt at chicanery. This resonates with what Confucius tells Zai Wo in 6.26 about the gentleman—if he “is told that someone is stuck in a well,” he “can go and take a look but he is not going to hurl himself into a trap.”

  14.32 Weisheng Mu said to Confucius, “Qiu, why are you always hopping around? Could it be that you are practicing the glibness [of a persuader]?”

  Confucius said, “I would not dare to be glib [ning]. It is just that I worry about getting stuck in one place and with just a single point of view [gu].”

  This conversation must have taken place during Confucius’ peripatetic years, when he was wandering from place to place in search of a position. Weisheng Mu’s question was reasonable because to an outsider Confucius could appear to be no different from a traveling persuader, someone who relied on his glib tongue to land himself a job. Weisheng Mu was also older than Confucius, most scholars say, and so he addressed Confucius by his given name and asked him a question that verged on being disrespectful. Still, Confucius took it seriously. He said that he could not find rest in any one place because he worried about “getting stuck in one place and with just a single point of view [gu].” Gu could also mean gulou, “moral decline,” some scholars note, and so it is possible also to understand Confucius to say that he felt compelled to move around because he wanted to alert the world about its “moral decline” (gulou).

  14.33 The Master said, “A fine [chariot] horse is praised for her inner integrity [de], not for her strength.”

  A fine horse is “gentle and tame,” and her integrity reflects that of the driver, who guides her with deft hands, and so the two are essentially one as they race across the open plains or around the twists of riverbanks. Thus, Confucius said, she is not praised for her strength.

  14.34 Someone said, “What do you think of the expression ‘Repay a wrong with kindness’?”

  The Master said, “How, then, would you repay kindness? Repay a wrong with uprightness. Repay kindness with kindness.”

  The ideas here are amplified in the Book of Rites, and again they are attributed to Confucius: “Those who repay a wrong with kindness must be men who make excessive demands on themselves to be generous [toward others]. Those who repay others’ kindness by doing them wrong are men who should be treated as criminals of a capital offense.” The Qing scholar Wu Jiabin offers further insight. He says:

  A person who deals a wrong [yuan] with uprightness [zhi] simply does not want to put his grievance [yuan] under covers. It is human nature to rejoice in seeing justice [zhi] being done. . . . In the case of a grievance, one hopes to forget it. In the case of kindness, one hopes never to forget it. Thus he who repays a wrong with uprightness does so with the wish that there will be no trace of grievance left in his mind, and he who repays kindness with kindness does so with the wish that the kindness of others will never disappear from his mind. The mind cannot forget a grievance, but one can use an open and upright response to overcome that feeling. The opposite of openness and uprightness is pretense. To teach people to respond to a wrong with kindness is to teach them to engage in pretense. How could that be right?

  14.35 The Master said, “No one understands me.” Zigong said, “Why is it that no one understands you?” The Master said, “I blame neither Heaven nor men [for my not being understood]. I begin my learning on the ground and travel up to reach a higher knowledge. It is, I believe, only Heaven that understands me.”

  “Learning on the ground” (xiaxue) could refer either to learning how to handle practical problems in the human world or to learning that gives one a moral footing. In either case, Qian Mu says, if you start from the ground, “the further you reach, the less blameful you will become until you arrive at a point where only heaven understands you.” Your virtue will be a match for heaven’s. Xunzi describes this state as follows: “Though silent, others understand him; though he bestows not favor, others gravitate toward him; though he is not angry, he possesses an awe-inspiring dignity.”

  14.36 Gongbo Liao spoke ill of Zilu to the head of the Jisuns. Zifu Jingbo reported to Confucius, saying, “There is no doubt that my master harbors suspicion [about Zilu], but I still have enough sway [with him] to see that Gongbo Liao gets executed and his corpse gets exposed in the marketplace.”

  The Master said, “It is destiny whether the moral way prevails or whether it is cast aside. What effect could Gongbo Liao have on the course of destiny [ming]?”

  Just from what Zifu Jingbo says to Confucius, we know that he, Gongbo Liao, and Zilu were in the service of the Jisun family at around the same time. But just what kind of ill words could Gongbo Liao have spoken about Zilu, and why did Zifu Jingbo think that they were so damaging that it was necessary for him to act first, to have Gongbo Liao done away with before any harm could come to Zilu? It was the Song scholar Zhu Xi who placed this conversation at a particular moment in the history of Lu. He thinks that it must have taken place around 498 BC, during the twelfth year of Duke Ding’s reign, when Zilu, as the chief retainer of the Jisuns, managed to convince the head of the family, Ji Huanzi, that he should have the family base destroyed and start anew. Zilu’s secret plan was “to restore the office of the duke,” who was the legitimate ruler of Lu, and “to deal a serious blow to the heredit
ary families.” If Zhu Xi is right about the time and place of this conversation, it is understandable that Zifu Jingbo came to Confucius with an urgent call to action: Zilu’s head could roll if Gongbo Liao revealed Zilu’s plot to the Jisuns, and Confucius, as Zilu’s teacher, would be implicated.

  Now comes the question of destiny, ming (命). This is a difficult idea to grasp, and much has been written about it, but the one essay that makes a cogent point about what Confucius was trying to say here is found in the works of the seventeenth-century scholar Zhang Erqi. He writes:

  Rightness is what it ought to be and cannot be violated, and it refers to the way of being human. Destiny is what is and cannot be contested, and it refers to the way of Heaven. . . . The gentleman knows destiny through [his understanding of] rightness. When rightness is obstructed, he realizes that it does not have a place in destiny. Thus, when he finds himself unable to advance because of destiny, he will not lose his sense of rightness as he retreats. A petty man knows destiny through the use of cleverness and force. If force proves unequal to the challenge, he tries cleverness, and if both should fail, he calls it destiny. The gentleman makes peace with destiny by way of rightness, and so his mind is large and generous. The petty man challenges destiny with cleverness and force, and so his mind is filled with resentment. The common people also have their way of making peace with destiny. They do so when they realize that they are left with no alternatives.

  In the context of these words, one could say that Confucius was someone who understood well just how difficult it was to carry out what was right in the world he lived in, and because he had been frustrated in his effort he was able to look at destiny with clear eyes. But as Zhang Erqi says, even when one has to retreat, the negatives destiny deals out can never take away the sense of rightness that is already in one’s possession.

  14.37 The Master said, “Worthy men steer clear of the world. Next are those who steer clear of a particular place. After them are those who steer clear of [people with] hostile looks. And finally there are those who steer clear of [people with] hostile words.” The Master said, “There were seven such men who did exactly that.”

  Here Confucius states the different reasons for avoidance: when the world has given up any attempt at moral rule; when a place has become dangerous to reside in; when people show animosity toward you in their looks and in their words. There have been conjectures about who were the seven men who shunned the world, or a certain place, or a certain kind of men, and some scholars think this statement should stand on its own as a separate entry.

  14.38 Zilu spent the night at the Stone Gate. The gatekeeper asked him, “Where did you come from?” Zilu said, “From the Kong family.”

  “Is that the person who knows that what he is working toward simply cannot be realized?”

  What is revealed here is quite astonishing. Even a gatekeeper, the record says, knew that Confucius was working toward something that could not be fulfilled. Perhaps the gatekeeper was no ordinary gatekeeper. Perhaps he was someone who sought his reclusion in the guise of a gatekeeper, in which case he would have been a kindred spirit of the man “carrying a bamboo basket” in 14.39.

  14.39 The Master was playing the stone chimes in Wei when a man, carrying a bamboo basket, went past his door. This man said, “This playing is fraught with a heavy and careworn heart.” He continued, “How squalid this kengkeng sound! If no one understands him, then he should just keep what he believes to himself and that is all: ‘If the water is deep, just wade across it. If the water is shallow, lift your hem and cross it.’”

  The Master said in response, “[This man sounds like he knows what he wants.] If he is so resolute, he should not have any difficulties.”

  The man carrying a bamboo basket was a recluse, “a worthy man,” Confucius would say, someone who steered clear of the world. A few like him appear in the Analects, and they all seem resolute. Of these men, I wrote in The Authentic Confucius: “They all know to adjust the length of their garment to the depth of the water—letting themselves steep in the world when virtue is high and plenty, and lifting themselves up when virtue is shallow and scarce. Confucius sees their point and commends their decision, but he also thinks that if these men are so clear-eyed about what to do and how to act, then they ‘should not have any difficulties’ at all. He, however, is different. His love for the human race is born out of the squalid, and his relation to the world does not change because of the moral climate.”

  14.40 Zizhang said, “The Book of Documents says, ‘Gaozong stayed in his mourning hut, and for three years he did not speak.’ What does that mean?”

  The Master replied, “It was not just Gaozong; all the ancients followed the same ritual practice. After their ruler died, for three years the hundred officials would attend to their responsibilities, and they would look to the prime minister for guidance.”

  The Book of Rites explains why it was right for a son to observe a three-year mourning period after the death of a parent. It reads: “The greater the wound, the longer it will last. The more unbearable the pain, the more slowly it will heal. The ritual rules were decided in accordance with human feelings, and so the three-year mourning period was intended for those who suffered the deepest pain.” It also says that “the mourning of three years would actually come to an end with the close of the twenty-fifth month.” “The sorrow and pain have not diminished altogether, and the longing for the deceased has not been forgotten, . . . but it is time to resume the normal rhythm of life.” The same source also gives a description of a mourning hut, which was a “slanting shed, unplastered,” in which the son would stay before the deceased was buried: “He would sleep on a rush mat with a clod of earth as his pillow, and he would not speak unless it was related to the funeral.” “After the burial,” the Rites says, “the inclined posts were set up on lintels, and the hut was plastered with mud but not anywhere that could be seen.” Gaozong stayed in such a hut during the mourning period, the Book of Documents says; during that time, “he did not speak,” and it is this statement that Zizhang cannot quite understand. For Gaozong was King Wu Ding, the fortieth ruler of the Shang dynasty, and if he sequestered himself in a hut to mourn the death of his father, who, then, would be in charge of his government, and who would be looking after his people? In response, Confucius says that it was not just Gaozong, but that “all the ancients followed the same ritual practice.” And during that time, the officials knew to fulfill their responsibilities, he explains, and there was always a prime minister to give them guidance. Moreover, to say that Gaozong did not speak did not mean that he was silent throughout the mourning period: either Gaozong “did not speak about government affairs,” the Han scholars say, or “he was reluctant to speak.”

  The recently discovered bamboo manuscript Yueming, also known as Fuyue zhi ming (“The Command of Fuyue”), from 300 BC, has sparked an interest among scholars in Gaozong and his chief counselor Fuyue. Accounts of their meeting and of their joint rule are found in several early sources from the received tradition. There are important variants among these records, but the storyline remains essentially the same: Gaozong had been silent for three years, and his officials were worried about the day-to-day governing of his empire; finally a man with a sagely stature appeared to him in a dream; Gaozong had the likeness of this man drawn, and with this in hand, his officals found such a person among the laborers sent to repair the walls on the distant frontier; Gaozong made this man, Fuyue, his prime minister, and from that point on, the empire was well governed. A critical disagreement among these accounts hinges on the question of why Gaozong had been silent for three years. The Analects, quoting the Book of Documents, says that Gaozong was in mourning, but other sources say that Gaozong “had been reflecting on a moral way” of ruling and on “how to revive the Shang dynasty,” which explains why he was looking for a capable man to assist him. The excavated version agrees with the latter—a version that adds more weight to Gaozong’s silence.

  14.41 The
Master said, “If those at the top love the rites, then it will be easy to govern the people.”

  This follows what Confucius says in 2.3. If a ruler lets his ritual conduct be an example to his people and the ritual rules be the guide to their conduct, then the people “will have a sense of shame and will know to reform themselves.” People who know how to reform themselves will be easy to govern.

  14.42 Zilu asked about the gentleman [junzi]. The Master said, “He cultivates himself in order to acquire a respectful attitude.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He cultivates himself in order to give ease to those around him.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He cultivates himself in order to give ease to the people. To cultivate oneself in order to give ease to the people—even the sage rulers Yao and Shun found it difficult to do.”

  Both Liu Baonan and Qian Mu believe that junzi here refers to the ruler, not to the morally superior man, which means that Zilu’s question is about where a ruler should begin if he wants to bring peace to the world. In either case, Confucius’ response resonates with the last chapter of the Doctrine of the Mean, which says, “When the gentleman [or the ruler] is sincere and respectful, the world is at peace.”

  14.43 Yuan Rang sat, squatting, while waiting [for Confucius to arrive]. The Master said, “To be neither deferential nor respectful as a youth, to have nothing exceptional to pass on as a grown man, and to keep hanging on to life and not die when old—this is what I call a pest.” He then tapped on Yuan Rang’s shin with his stick.

  The last two entries in this chapter are about Confucius on his own turf, in his home village and with people like Yuan Rang, whom he had known nearly all his life, which might be the reason why he could speak to him so bluntly. Yuan Rang would not have minded, I believe: he knew that Confucius meant no harm even though the words were harsh, and he probably had heard them before. His appearance in other sources, particularly the Book of Rites, show him to be unbridled and irreverent—the opposite of Confucius. This led some scholars to believe that Yuan Rang was an early precursor of the Daoist tradition; without historical support, this is likely to have been mere speculation. Still, just from the description here—of how he sat as he greeted Confucius—one could well imagine him to be a man with few inhibitions. And scholars want to know why Confucius tapped him on the shin. Most agree that the gesture was meant to remind Yuan Rang to kneel instead of squatting. Squatting with one’s legs spread apart and a slumped back was considered unseemly. It lacked the alertness that the body could project if it was in the kneeling position with legs close together and a straight back, which, in the context of ritual practice, was regarded as the correct way to greet a guest.