On Ethics and History

by Zhang Xuecheng

  “The Principles of Literature” is another Taiping essay. It engages and analyzes a cluster of issues that often occupied neo-Confucian thinkers. As the title suggests, the main theme is the nature of great literature; of equal importance, though, are four related questions: how one can develop an appreciation for such literature, how one can teach such appreciation to others, how one can become a great writer, and how one can teach the ability to write well to others.35 Zhang’s primary aim is to argue against any formulaic or mechanical method for learning to appreciate or produce great literature or for teaching such appreciation or literary artistry to one’s students.

  The essay begins with Zhang recounting an occasion when he noticed a copy of a highlighted edition of the Records of the Grand Historian in the study of a friend. The purpose of such editions, which often were used to learn and instruct others how to write well, was to guide students through a text and draw their attention to particular points of style, usage, allusion, or structure. The idea was that such pointers could help cultivate an appreciation for great writing and aid in developing the ability to write well. However, Zhang notes that such an approach tends to lead the aspiring student astray, for it offers the impression that great writing is something that can be reduced to a set of principles, techniques, and the like. It inclines one to focus on imitating rather than appreciating or creating great literature.

  While reading great literature can nourish one’s appreciation of literature and one’s ability to write well, the focus of one’s study must always be to attain a personal understanding of what one is reading. Zhang illustrates this point with the examples of tasting fine food or feeling the warmth and comfort of a well-made coat; one cannot appreciate the value of either without experiencing them for oneself. Creative writing presents the obverse side of this coin. Any attempt to become a great writer or teach others the craft of writing that relies on imitation of the classics or seeks to draw upon a list of techniques or principles is doomed, for all great writing expresses something unique about the writer. Great literature manifests the authentic insights and emotions of an author, and in order to join the ranks of such writers, one must find one’s own voice and have something of one’s own to say.

  As we see in other of Zhang’s writings, “The Principles of Literature” manifests the deep influence of thinkers like Wang Yangming, the Chan school of Buddhism, and ultimately Zhuangzi. Alluding to the famous character Wheelwright Pian in the Zhuangzi, who could not adequately explain his skill at carving wheels or even teach it to his own son, Zhang thinks that writing well involves a kind of knack or know-how that renders it beyond the grasp of more ordinary ways of understanding.36 As is the case with his ethical particularism, discussed in the first part of this introduction, Zhang does not go quite so far as Zhuangzi, Chan Buddhists, or Wang in advocating the elimination of all writing and study, but he insists that such efforts are only like fingers pointing to the moon; they can help one see but are not themselves either the ability to see or part of what one eventually comes to see.

  In this essay, Zhang also defends literature against the more strident criticisms of certain Song-dynasty Confucians. Here we see him taking part in a long-standing debate about the relative value of literary pursuits. On the more “conservative” side were thinkers like Cheng Yi (1033—1107) who saw literary pursuits as a waste of time and energy and a potential danger to moral self-cultivation. Somewhere in the middle were thinkers like Zhu Xi, who saw a place for literary pursuits but insisted on keeping them in their place relative to the philosophical study of the classics. On the more “radical” side were thinkers like Su Shi (1036—1101), Yuan Mei (1716—98), and Li Zhi (1527—1602) who thought that the appreciation and writing of literature offered the best way to understand the dao.37 In characteristic fashion, Zhang struck an independent note within this most disharmonious chorus. While vehemently criticizing his contemporary Yuan Mei as a debauched and dangerous threat to the Confucian tradition, he also criticized thinkers like Cheng Yi for failing to see the profound moral potential of literature.38 Indeed, in this essay Zhang makes clear that he regarded writing well as an ethical imperative for all. There is considerable sense and value in such a view, for if studying and practicing the Confucian Way ultimately is directed at the betterment of society, then moving other people toward the Way must be an ability that every good Confucian should cultivate. Just as teaching in general is central to the Confucian Way, writing well is required to effectively move and inspire others to take up and support the dao. Zhang insisted that the literary path is not just one possible course for pursuing moral self-cultivation; it is part of every true Confucian’s calling.39

  Our last essay, “Distinguishing What Only Seems to Be,”40 also was written in Taiping during May of 1789, and in it we hear not only a subtle account of a widely condemned human failing but also echoes of Zhang’s personal disappointment in the intellectuals of his own age. The central theme of the essay originally was addressed by Kongzi, who lamented that the conduct of one of his disciples made him abandon his original trust that people would reliably do as they say. After several bad episodes involving [his follower] Zai Wo, Kongzi adopted a new attitude and policy toward others: “to listen to their words and then observe their actions.”41 Kongzi also expressed a strong dislike for things that seem to be good but in fact are not;42 this idea appears in the title of Zhang’s essay, and variations of this refrain are heard throughout its course. Another less evident but clearly present influence on Zhang’s thought in this essay is Mengzi’s warnings about the effects that subtle but pernicious doctrines can have upon the unsuspecting mind. Zhang clearly thought that, like Mengzi, he was someone who “understood words” and had a mission to awaken a slumbering world to the dangers of false virtue.43

  One thing that is wrong and even nefarious about things that seem to be good but are not is that they borrow the power and prestige of goodness and employ them toward inappropriate ends. One finds an enduring concern within the Confucian tradition with such semblances and counterfeits of virtue. People who put on the airs of the good in order to achieve some nonmoral or immoral end are said to be the “thieves of virtue.”44 But Zhang is equally concerned with another aspect of what seems to be good: the ways in which it can lead astray those starting out on the path of learning.

  Zhang begins his analysis of the problem by arguing that it arises, at least in part, from the very nature of language. Since there are only a finite number of ways to talk about things, even people with radically different intentions will inevitably employ similar words. The problem then is to discern the underlying motives and aims beneath what people are saying. This is a problem that everyone faces to some degree. In most cases, it presents no real threat, because bad motives or insincerity often are clumsy and fairly easy to detect. But when the speaker with bad intentions has developed an advanced facility in employing the words and imitating the style of the good, things become more difficult, even dire.

  In focusing less upon what bad agents are able to accomplish—though he worries about that, too—and more on the effects that their examples have upon unsuspecting but naïve students, Zhang points the traditional Confucian concern with semblances and counterfeits of virtue in a new and intriguing direction. Those who have set their hearts upon the Way are easily led to mistake things like breadth of learning or excellence in literary style to be the true goals of learning. By focusing on such parts as the whole of learning, they then can come to use these intellectual abilities to vie with each other for fortune, fame, and power and in the process often eclipse and harm sincere students of the Way. Such goals and behavior of course are anathema to the Way, but Zhang insists that the origin of such misbegotten thought and conduct is found in failing to distinguish what only seems to be.

  Zhang wrote his “Letter on Learning to Zhu Canmei” sometime around 1783, and in it we find not only descriptions of Zhang’s own course of learning and specific advice to his young proté
gé but also an analysis of how people in general should pursue an understanding of the dao. Zhang selfconsciously modeled his composition on a justly famous letter from Han Yu to his student Li Yi. (A complete English translation of Han Yu’s letter can be found in the Appendix to this volume). But Zhang uses the occasion to review and apply some of the central claims of his general philosophical view.

  Zhang notes that while many aspiring students are led astray by mundane desires for fame, fortune, or power, others simply are swept up in the particular intellectual fashion of their age. Doing so can be disastrous, because contemporary students must pursue the particular intellectual discipline for which they are best suited by nature, and one’s natural inclination may be at odds with the particular intellectual fashion of one’s time. Recalling arguments that he presented in “On Breath and Economy,” Zhang points out that unlike students in the Golden Age, who could master every intellectual discipline in the course of everyday activities, contemporary students must home in and focus on some particular specialty, knowing that all the various, more local avenues of learning eventually will lead them to the great Way. And so, Zhang advises Zhu to follow his heart’s true calling with sincerity and with confidence that his particular vocation will bring him to an understanding of the dao.

  Zhang also addresses Zhu’s worry that studying for the examinations will prove to be an obstacle to his pursuit of the dao. He reassures his young charge that there is no fundamental incompatibility between studying for or success in the examinations and the attainment of true learning. Drawing upon ideas that are characteristic of the thought of Wang Yangming, Zhang insists that the important thing is one’s underlying intention. If one studies simply to realize worldly success and renown, this of course will lead one farther and farther from the Way. But one can use one’s preparation for the examinations as a vehicle to cultivate oneself, and one must realize that only such concrete projects offer real opportunities for moral self-cultivation.45 One cannot cultivate oneself in a vacuum of inactivity; one can only hone and sharpen one’s moral edge against the challenges of actual, concrete projects.

  Zhang wrote his “Letter on Learning to My Clansman Runan” in 1766, the same year in which he met the brilliant and famous scholar Dai Zhen.46 Dai obviously made a strong impression on Zhang, and the letter contains a lengthy quote attributed to Dai. The central point of the quote, which Zhang endorsed heartily, is that students need to know a great deal of technical, background information in order to read the different classics with any degree of comprehension; to study the classics without such knowledge is a waste of time.

  Zhang goes into considerable detail recounting and lamenting his own, mostly misguided, early efforts at learning, but then he uses these pieces of autobiography, as well as the quote from Dai Zhen, to emphasize several of his own most cherished and original insights. For example, Zhang uses these resources to provide a sketch of his idea that contemporary students must focus upon and devote themselves to some particular specialization. In this letter, he highlights how such effort requires a kind of heroic independence and fortitude. One must simply bear down and press on, ignoring what the world says, in the confidence that eventually one will begin to master one’s vocation and discern the deep truths of the dao. Zhang takes every opportunity to weave this more theoretical account of learning back into his own personal intellectual odyssey, at times in rather obviously self-serving ways. He ends the letter discussing several family genealogies that he had been working on, partly in concert with other family members, and promising to send Runan a copy of a local history that Zhang had helped his own father to compose a number of years earlier and recently had revised.

  Zhang’s “Reply to Shen Zaiting Discussing Learning” was written sometime toward the end of 1789. One of Zhang’s central themes in this essay is that learning must be aimed at personal understanding; its true goal is moral improvement. The aspiring student of the dao must be on guard so as not to be seduced by promises of worldly renown or reward or led astray by the popularity of intellectual fashions. Different intellectual fashions come and go, and every one has its underlying merits, but one must realize that each is but one facet of the dao. Students must keep their eyes on the true prize: a personal understanding of the Way, and the first step in this process is grasping what the dao is and what it is not; this, of course, is the focus of Zhang’s “On the Dao.”

  Zhang then presents a summary of his view of the dao. It is what makes things the way they are. It has no fixed expression, and this has important repercussions for learning. Since there is no single, definitive expression of the Way, there is no exclusive path to it. One is free to follow one’s own way. The best course, though, is to follow the particular intellectual specialty in which one shows the greatest natural facility and ease. Here we see another argument—in addition to what we have discussed earlier—for finding and following one’s own particular specialty. Zhang bemoaned the fact that most students of his day simply followed whatever fashion was in vogue and let their spirits rise or fall with the popular praise or criticism they might receive but hardly warranted.

  Zhang goes on to argue that each of the three dominant intellectual fashions reflects a nascent intellectual ability or power and a corresponding mature excellence. Philology is based upon the fundamental power of memory and when properly developed leads to learning. Literature is based upon our innate power of creativity and can lead to skill. Philosophy is based upon analytical power and when properly cultivated leads to insight. In the remaining course of the essay, Zhang continues to meditate upon the theme of the three dominant intellectual fashions, at times even suggesting that they can to some degree be reduced to one another. Since Shen has decided to focus on literature, some of Zhang’s most interesting and creative ideas concern this particular aspect of the dao. For example, at one point Zhang argues that the different forms of writing associated with the three primary intellectual disciplines offer different avenues to the three forms of this-worldly immortality described in the Commentary of Zuo.47

  Philosophical writing can establish one’s immortal fame through the development of Virtue; philological writing can establish one’s immortality through the performance of (scholarly) achievements; literary writing can establish one’s immortal fame through the production of words. Zhang concludes the essay by encouraging Shen to pursue his own chosen path while warning him not to fall prey to the reigning intellectual fashion or a desire for fame. He repeats his earlier advice about not neglecting the other two primary intellectual disciplines and recommends that Shen study and emulate those—such as Dai Zhen—who manage to combine more than one of them. At the same time, Zhang cautions his young charge to avoid overreaching, for even the greatest of scholars cannot do it all.

  Zhang wrote his “Letter on Learning to Chen Jianting” in 1789, and it is of particular value for understanding the motivation and intention behind what is arguably Zhang’s most important essay, “On the Dao.” The letter begins with Zhang’s noting some of the criticisms his essay had received and responding that at least these critics did not really understand the central argument of the essay or the larger project, the General Principles of Literature and History, of which it is a part.48 He suggests that the likely source of their misunderstanding is the fact that his essay shares its title with several famous predecessors—essays by Liu An, Liu Xie, and Han Yu—but notes that the point of his essay is fundamentally different from any of them.49 Zhang goes on to explain that “On the Dao” was written to show the historical origins of the dao in a way that would make clear what the dao essentially is. He further points out that “On the Dao” plays a vital role within his larger work, the General Principles of Literature and History, which is why it is the lead essay in this collection of writings. The General Principles of Literature and History offers an historical review and analysis of the achievements and failings of writing. Zhang argues that writing, in turn, depends upon learning, but contemporary people n
o longer understand what learning really is. They mistake one of the various intellectual fashions of the day as learning and fail to see that true learning is the search for an understanding of the dao. This argument makes clear that the first step one must take in pursuing one’s own learning or correcting the misunderstandings of one’s age—these being the primary normative points of the General Principles of Literature and History—is to understand the dao.

  Zhang goes on to describe different aspects of his essay that strongly support the need for a work like “On the Dao.” He reviews, for example, his theory about the three primary intellectual fashions that dominate succeeding ages and shows the connection between this view and his historically context-sensitive account of ethics. On Zhang’s model, one ought to work in ways that resist the particular fashion of one’s time and help to bring the dao back into a state where all three of the intellectual disciplines that underlie these fashions—philosophy, philology, and literature—are equally valued, advocated, and studied. He goes on to draw out the further implication that modeling oneself on some past age or figure will almost certainly lead one to act poorly; from an ethical perspective, to do what Kongzi did is to fail to act as Kongzi did. That is to say, to perform in one’s own age the types of work that were called for in Kongzi’s age is to practice a kind of fetish and to forsake one’s moral duty to understand and correct the deficiencies of one’s own place and time.

  Zhang also highlights his account of the relationship and difference between the Duke of Zhou and Kongzi. He notes how on his account the Duke of Zhou and not Kongzi is really the person who “summed up the complete orchestra”—that is, the person who brought together all the pieces of the dao.50 This is so because the former was the one who happened to appear at that historical moment when the evolution of the dao reached its full and perfect form. The dao comes from Heaven and is manifested in actual things and affairs; on such a view, the Duke of Zhou had the particular task of being the one who fully realized the Way in the world. Kongzi’s destiny and mission were different. He appeared on the historical stage at a moment when the dao had crested and begun to decline. He saw, as any sage in this situation would, that for him the most pressing imperative was to preserve and transmit the essentials of the Way. And so, Kongzi was someone who learned everything he knew by studying the Duke of Zhou.